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Allura 32

I had barely been home for 10 minutes before my phone started ringing. “God dammit...” I breathed out. It had been a long day at work. I'm sure most people can relate. I fished for my phone in my pocket for a few agitated seconds before I withdrew it to see who could possibly want something from me now that I was outside of work hours. “Oh..” I said sadly and almost apologetically as I saw the name “Nate” blinking on my phone screen. He was a good friend. And he always answered my call. I was obligated to answer. “Hey.” I said more enthusiastically than I felt. “What's up?” “Hey brotha” He said in a smooth drawn out voice. “What are you up to?” “Just got home from work. Was about to sit down for the first time today.” I said trying to imply that I was not up for anything adventurous. “You down for an ass whooping in smash?” he asked almost condescendingly. Now, while I do love time to myself and to disconnect from the world, I always appreciated a challenge. When Nate refers to “Smash” he means super smash bros. We both love to play and I’ve never once considered myself a superior player to him. Which is why he irritated the hell out of me sometimes. I love to win. I love to improve. And I love the fight it takes to become better than other people. I love facing them down especially when the odds are against you and coming out on top. If you know what I’m talking about, then you also know how maddening it is when someone is talking smack. The simple question Nate had asked me made something stir in my belly. I felt simple defiance and hunger for competition rile up inside me. The longing thoughts I had for my bed started to fade into the background and different priorities had started to set in. “When you gonna be here?” Is all I asked, a little too tired to put much effort into my retort. We hung up a minute later after a little more bantering and he was over in less than 20 minutes. Barely enough time for me to shower and get out of my work clothes. But when he arrived I was ready and the fight was on. Nate and I might have been pretty closely matched but he was just a head better than me. A step faster. A move ahead. Always just a little better. It infuriated me. But it was also exhilarating. While I couldn't recall a single detail of those games, I remember reveling in the challenge of fighting my friend again and again. Each time seemingly doing better than the last but as I stepped up my game, he matched me. Always. By the end of the night I was seeing him out the door frustrated as hell with barely a game or two under my belt after the dozens that we played. But regardless, I was still smiling as I waved to him while he left my driveway. I walked to my room and laid down in my bed staring at the ceiling. I thought back on the games and how much fun I had. I tried to think of the previous games I had with him and how I could improve on my playing. But all I could think about was the stupid trash talking between matches. The stupid jokes we made and the small talk we had to pass the time in between. I could remember nothing about the matches except the good time I was having with my friend. Maybe it wasn’t the competition I was living for. I looked at the time and decided it was time to go to sleep. I closed my eyes still mad as hell about losing, but I couldn't wipe the smile off of my face for the life of me.

I spent two years in my early twenties obsessing over a single story, one that I must have written countless times and hundreds of pages for, only to throw away each attempt once completed. With each attempt, the story changed length. Sometimes it was several pages long, other times hundreds; nevertheless, the story which I wanted to capture elusively remained the same. I left the story unfinished as a failure, and had nothing to show for two years of work until now: this story is what I ended up with instead. It was originally about a boy; I imagined him between the ages of nineteen and twenty-one; a quiet type, maybe an intellectual had it not been for his grades in school. An uncertain type, maybe even bland to those who didn’t know him well enough. He was the single feature of my story that remained constant. I wanted my story to capture what it felt like to fight depression, and the boy was my outlet to do so, and yet I was so ill-equipped to write the story I wanted. I never even managed to give him a name. The desire to capture a story I knew too well was life-consuming. I was so caught up with writing that with each iteration, story and reality began to mesh together. The boy’s thoughts became indistinguishable from my own. The writing became too personal. I inadvertently ended up laying out my insides on paper. And I realized: I never gave him a name because to do so would be to give up my own. With that realization, I forced myself to stop, and I wrote what I thought would be my last line two years ago. And it was as if by turning away from my story, my life began to move again. I stopped writing for some time, and rediscovered the friends and family who had always been there for me. I started to grow again. The story came back to haunt me though, on a winter morning, years later. I was looking at the desk that I had spent so many hours at, and I remembered. There was a story about a boy--about myself--that I had tried to write. I was no longer that same person, and while a part of me was relieved to have forgotten the worst of it, in giving up on his story, I had suggested an end. It wasn’t the end that he deserved: only because of him could I write the sentence: *I am still alive*. I had forgotten about him. I decided I would give him an ending, one that would celebrate the past, that would celebrate growth, celebrate the continuity of life, so I sat down at my desk. I drew a blank page. He drifted down the sidewalk back to his apartment in a haze. The frost collected on his boots and chilled his toes. Nothing had happened that day, just like nothing happened the day before, and the day before that. He had been left behind, and there was nothing left to feel. Maybe if he hadn’t been so lonely, he’d feel something other than tiredness. Except he felt nothing except tiredness. He hadn’t slept in weeks. What was it like to not be tired? The boy couldn’t remember. His vision swayed as he reached the front of his apartment building. The blood rushed to his head and he felt as if he were going to pass out. He sat down on the steps and a thought interrupted his mind. It took over and filled him with fear and disgust and also longing. It was a thought that hung from the ceiling, and he tried to look away. He got up from the steps and moved on towards his front door. As I continued to write at my desk, I heard the thud of my own front door closing. My chance to finish the story was suddenly threatened by some unknown housemate, who could burst in at any moment. I wanted to yell out, “Please don’t disturb me! I’m writing,” but I knew it would be futile: someone who should not be in my story would find his way in. I began to write faster, and my handwriting became sloppy and illegible--all the while spilling words onto the page--and somewhere in the rush, I ripped the page I was writing on. Ripping a page feels like spilling a drink. The medium is violated. The unbroken page is a barrier that protects a story, unadulterated, from the outside. To rip a page, then, reminds a story of its physical nature: it brings the story into physical being. When I ripped my writing, I panicked. The story rushed to an end, and I tried to patch together a conclusion from the confusion of broken pages and memories and stories. I heard the seal burst with the squeak of my bedroom door knob. I swiveled around in my chair prepared to confront whichever intruding housemate stood in the door, frustrated and confused, only to be taken aback. The boy stood in the doorway. He had a surprised look on his face, but he was without a doubt my own creation. He didn’t look like me; I had imagined him as looking better than me; being better than me. He was beautiful but he didn’t know it. “Oh, I... I must’ve walked into the wrong apartment without thinking... mine must be the one next door... I’m sorry.” He stammered. I wanted him to stay, so I said, “No, no, please stay for a moment. I could use someone to talk to for a few minutes.” “Oh... okay.” He said. I sat there shivering in my boxers, my body twisted in an awkward fashion towards him. The chair squeaked when I shifted my bodyweight. Across the room, he stood, expecting me to speak, then he made an uncomfortable shuffle as if he were afraid of what I had to say, and at that moment, all I wanted to do was hold him and stroke his head. I wanted him to know how much I loved him--to know how much he was loved--so much so that I let my emotions overwhelm me, and blustered out what I knew he needed to hear: “You’re not a waste to anybody.” He looked confused but thanked me nonetheless. Too embarrassed to make eye contact, I looked down at my feet, frustrated at myself for making such a strained and bumbling attempt to comfort him. He did not know who I was. I tried to calm myself, and repositioned my chair to face him fully. He must have seen the writing materials because after a moment, he gestured to the space behind me and asked tentatively: “What are you writing about?” “It’s a story about a boy, and his attempts to deal with the life he has. I’m in the middle of my story, but I haven’t really thought of an ending to it yet,” I replied. “How long have you been writing it?” “I started years ago, but I destroyed most of what I had written for it, so I’m starting again.” “You weren’t satisfied with your work?” “No, I wasn’t, but the more important thing to me is that I keep writing.” “That’s good. I recently picked up writing myself, but every time I try to write, I also end up unhappy with my work. I must have written a hundred pages by now.” “What do you write about?” I asked. “I keep trying to write about my own life. Trying to get these feelings I have onto paper. I’ve been having these thoughts, and I’ve made some mistakes, so I guess I’ve been having kind of a tough time and I’d like to put it into words.” “I tried writing about myself for some time, but I didn’t realize how harmful it would be to my own health.” “What do you mean by that?” he asked. “It treated it as a way out of the worst part of my life, but eventually, it was what kept me from moving on. I kept coming back to it because it was what defined me. Writing about it felt like I was reliving it.” “I’m sure it hurt.” I smiled sadly. “Like you wouldn’t believe.” “It helped you though, right? When you needed it most?” “Writing saved me. The boy in my story saved my life. I’m trying to move on though. My work reminded me of *that* period of my life, but I want to feel whole again. I’m finally about to finish what I started years ago.” I said. Then I pointed to the story on my desk. “This story is going to be the end.” “I see. I’m hoping that writing might save me too.” He paused for a moment, afflicted with a feeling I knew too well: the fragile hope of someone nearly resigned. On the verge of tears, I leaned forward and tried to study his face, to commit it to memory. I knew this encounter would be the last time I would ever see him: it felt as if the space between us, the space between my desk and the door, the space between the lines of writing, was expanding. Traversing the space of memory with words and sentences seemed to take an increasing amount of energy. Eventually, we would pass a critical moment when our words would never reach the other side, and the story would come to an end. It took me a few more moments to say the line I had been waiting to say to him: “It’ll be alright.” When he spoke, his voice came from a distance: “Thank you.” He paused again and shifted his weight a little bit before he spoke again. ”Listen, I’ve got to get back to my apartment. Thanks for talking to me for a bit, and thanks for the advice; if that’s what you would call it.” I sat up straight again. “No problem, and... could you close the door when you leave, would you?” “Sure. And thanks, again.” I watched my door shut and heard the latch click and lock. Struck with shock, I turned around to face my desk again. Looking down at the page I had been writing, I recognized that my story, the one that I began writing both years ago and earlier that morning, was nearly complete, except it needed a final line; one to acknowledge the end to all those years I spent so long ago too afraid to move. It had to be a line I could shout from rooftops. So I sat very still for another moment, thinking, and afflicted by the bittersweet swells that seem to accompany the endless growing pains of my life, it came to me. Suddenly, I whirled around. “This is the last story I will ever write about you!” I yelled through the closed door, but he was already gone.

This was originally intended as an r/WritingPrompts post but ended up being a bit too long. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ I’m known as many things among the mortals of earth: wish-granter, djinn, even demon. But at the end of the day, I’m just a guy who makes sales and has to meet quotas. The currency I most often work in are the souls of such mortals. Too often are they willing to trade theirs for the things they most often covet or desire. Usually these are such cliche things as power, wealth and sometimes even someone to fuck. Other times though, I get unusual requests from memorable clients. The last man on earth was no exception. I remember the day his ticket came in. It didn’t say much. The only information I got was a name, a location, and a note saying he was the only remaining customer on the whole damn planet. I figured it would be an interesting experience and jumped on the opportunity. Humans tended to be my favorite clients anyways. I didn’t want to miss an opportunity to make a sale to literally the last one. I readied up, putting on my nicest suit and a sporting tie to match. I grabbed my leather bound attache case, my hat, and my coat. I then turned to face destiny. A door to another dimension manifested before me. I opened the portal and was a little surprised by what I saw. Before me laid the home of the last man on earth, Mr. Edom. I didn’t know what to expect, but a cozy little log cabin nestled in an idyllic forest wasn’t on the list of things that crossed my mind. I was thinking more of a festering hovel in a war-torn city. *I guess I’m not getting this man’s soul for a can of beans,* I joked to myself as I stepped through. I crossed a little clearing containing a simple garden, and a stump with an ax lodged in it. I approached the door of the cabin and knocked three times. I waited for a response, but nothing came. Out of some degree of frustration, I peered through a window to try and see if anyone was home. The cabin seemed lived in but no one appear to be around. However, in my examination I spied a little shrine on the mantel of an earthen fireplace. Various photos of friends and family adorned it. But at the center of them all, placed with a sense of reverence, was the picture of a beautiful young girl. In that moment, I sensed I came across something deeply sacred to the man who I was trying to make a sale to. I even felt a tinge of sympathy for the mortal as I began to realize the gravity of his situation. The thought that I should perhaps leave entered my mind. *Maybe another time then,* I mused to myself. As I turned around, I was greeted by an arrow whizzing past my head and lodging itself in the door frame. I was a little shocked, even though I knew I couldn’t be harmed by such mortal weapons. I then noticed the man who fired off that arrow. In front of me was Mr. Edom. He was a grizzled, middle aged man with a flowing beard and a weathered face. His eyes were fierce though and his body seemed strong from enduring hardship. He was carrying some freshly killed game and held a crude bow in one hand. Despite his hostile demeanor, my opportunity finally arrived. I decided to introduce myself to this survivalist, tipping my hat toward him. “Ah. You must be Mr. Edom?” I asked. He didn’t respond but instead approached me. I continued with the pitch anyways. “I am The Salesman. Now, I don’t necessarily deal in trinkets and objects, but rather dreams, wishes and fantasies. For a small price, I can give you the things you most desire.” He still said nothing and was now face to face with me. His eyes were piercing and stared deeply into my being. “Can you please move?” he asked in a gentle tone. “You’re standing in front of my door.” His voice was hoarse and authoritative. Truly this was a man of immense will. But I could also tell he carried a burden of immense despair. “Now, hold on Mr. Edom,” I said. “I am a being of impressive power. I don’t come out for just anybody. You are literally the last of your kind. As such, you have been deemed of interest by a higher cosmic order. May I at least *show* you what I have to offer?” He gave pause. I pulled up my attache case and opened it. An immense light poured forth in front of the man. In it he saw many dancing possibilities where desires for lust, power, and comfort were all fulfilled. He could have been king of another world or even blessed with bountiful harvests for the rest of his life. Hell, he could have even been immortal. The potential for his happiness was nearly endless. Still somehow, he saw nothing that he wanted. He reached out abruptly and shut my case, much to my utter disbelief. “I don’t know who or *what* you are, but I’m not interested in whatever you are offering,” he said. He then pushed past me and went into his home, slamming the door behind him. I was flabbergasted. Never had something like this happened before. “Mr...Mr. Edom, surely there must be *something* I can offer you!” I hollered through the door. “Go away!” he hollered straight back. Now I was the one feeling despair. I was saddened not only by the fact that I was about to lose my first client, but a client who endured so much hardship. Didn’t he want to be happy after all he must have edured? It made no sense. At that point I just wanted to know *why.* I then remembered the pictures on his mantel. “Mr. Edom?” I asked again. There was only silence. “Mr. Edom, I’m not going to lie. I came down here to acquire your soul, as crazy as that sounds,” I said. He didn’t respond, but I decided to continue. “It’s nothing personal. I’m just doing my job. But sometimes I come across people who make me really stop and think about what I do. And I’m thinking that I had nothing to offer you because it’s not really about ***you*** in the first place, is it?” He still remained silent. “The girl in the photo? Was she your daughter?” I asked This time, there was a muffled sigh. “She was beautiful,” I continued. “I’m...I’m sorry for your loss.” Mr. Edom finally spoke. “She didn’t deserve to go. None of them deserved to go. None of the people who I lost; who I *loved* deserved to go,” he said in anguish. They’re the ones who deserve to be alive right now, especially my daughter. Instead fate chose me to continue on. But honestly? I really don’t understand why.” “Why do you say that?” I asked. He sighed a deep sigh that shook me to my core. “Because I...I wasn’t strong enough to save them,” he said. “I wasn’t strong enough to save my own daughter in a time of calamity. I don’t get why that makes me worthy of life in the first place.” A profound silence overtook the conversation. “Salesman?” beckoned Mr. Edom’s voice through the wood. I raised my head again. “Is it possible that you can give them a chance? Can you give my friends, my family and my daughter the chance at life they deserve? If you take souls can I exchange mine for theirs?” I was moved. Most mortal humans only think of themselves when given the opportunity to use my powers. “Mr. Edom, I’m truly impressed by your noble desires. I really wish I could fulfill your request but I can’t. A soul passed is a soul passed. They can’t return from the ether unless...” I paused to mull over what I was about to offer. Not only could such a deal land me in considerable trouble, it would also likely result in the complete **unmaking** of my client: a destruction so complete that the atoms making him up would cease to exist. Mr. Edom opened the door, interrupting my thoughts. “Unless what?” he asked. I stared into Mr. Edom’s piercing gaze. “Unless I grant you the powers of divinity and make you a god.” Mr. Edom was stoic as always. “But there’s a caveat or two,” I said. Simple mortals, even ones as strong and selfless as you, cannot easily handle the powers of divinity. You will more than likely be completely torn and shredded from reality; your soul will likely burn up in the energy of such divine powers, and the only person who would remember you is me. Not even your daughter will recall who you are.” I raised a finger. “***BUT,*** you will get an opportunity to give your loved ones a chance at life. Mr. Edom’s eyes burned with a frightening intensity. I put my hand out to shake on the deal. “Is this a sacrifice you are willing to make?” I asked. He clasped my hand firmly. “Absolutely,” he said. Touched, I again I brought up my attache case and opened it. I reached into the swirling energies of infinity and produced a small, glowing egg. “Swallow this whole. It’ll grant you the powers to bend the universe to your whim.” I said. “But once you do so, there’s no going back.” “I’m ready,” he declared. He took the egg from my hand and examined it. He noticed it was surprisingly weighty. He the breathed deeply and consumed it whole. Time stopped in that moment and the fabric of reality began to tear away. A kaleidoscope of colors transported us to some sort of blank realm. Then the stars, nebulae and other rich colors of the cosmos came flooding back in. Mr. Edom was transcending from his from his lesser form as glowing energies began flowing from and into him. He was struggling against a thousand instances of raw power over a thousand life-times. I was worried that he would lose control, but he remained true. He began to focus his powers, screaming a scream that could shatter a universe. He began to shape reality not for himself, but for those who he loved. He rebuilt their bodies, minds and souls and even rebuilt the ones of those who he did not know. Through sheer force of will, he undid the calamity that took everything from him. He was remaking all of his kind in that instance. But I noticed the toll it was taking. Chunks of his essence were being stripped away, disappearing in streams of colorful, super-heated vapor that in turn disappeared into nothingness. Then in a blinding flash, he then faded from all realities, having finished his work. As everything settled, I caught a glimpse of his magus opus. I saw, his daughter, his wife, and his friends, continuing to live their lives as before the calamity. They seemed content. What a shame that they would never know the sacrifice he made.

# Happy Saturday, serialists! Welcome to Serial Saturday! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ ***New here?*** If you’re brand new to and thinking about participating in Serial Saturday, welcome! Feel free to dip your toes in by writing for this challenge or any others we have listed on the handy dandy ! We appreciate all contributions made to this thread, and all submissions are of course welcomed, whether it addresses a previous challenge or the current one. We hope you enjoy your time in the community! Take a look at our inaugural Serial Saturday post for some helpful tips. You don’t need to catch up by writing for each of the previous assignments, feel free to jump right in wherever fits for you, with whatever assignment or theme fits for you, and post it on the current thread with a link to whichever previously posted challenge you chose to start with. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ # This week it’s all about: People, we’ve made it. We’re in the eye of the storm and all around us . We’ve talked about . We’ve talked about setting up for the moments that will appear in your story’s “”. If you’ve been holding out for this week to really test our edge-of-our-seat tolerance, this is the week for you to bust those moves. In the next couple weeks we’ll be hitting the Finale-- but we’re not there yet. This week we’re going to see things double down for our protagonists. Friends and allies are meeting back up for a showdown. Enemies are finding new and inventive ways to be . Metaphorically, our characters have been learning to juggle, and last week they learned how to walk the tightrope while juggling. This week they’re juggling on the tightrope while on their tippie toes , and... *oh snap,* someone is sending random electrical currents through it and turns out that’s ... *bad.* Y’know, . Metaphorically. Remember our friend Bill, from the Event that Changes Everything, and Raised Stakes? In Raised Stakes he discovered he was on the new regional manager, Frank’s chopping block. This week Bill can choose to try to get upper-management to intervene and get Frank to slow his roll on new layoffs, or Bill can . For the ones among us *not* writing life-and-death, this is still a story of when bad-leads-to-worse. In Pride and Prejudice this is when Jane’s letter to Elizabeth reveals that their younger sister Lydia just eloped with the rogue Wickham. In the 2011 movie *Bridesmaids* this ‘storm’ moment happens when the main character, Kristen, accidentally gets the entire bridesmaid crew kicked off the plane while headed to Vegas, forcing them to make the rest of the trip via bus and the protagonist gets replaced as the maid of honor. The Storm doesn’t always have to be a big battle or argument-- this installment *should* make us worried for the health/safety/security/stability/sanity of your main character. This is a moment that takes up the focus of our heroes, and requires all their concentration. Next week’s theme is the Darkest Moment, so make sure that this current week reflects how we end up there. **\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*** **You have until \*next\* Saturday, 10/10, to submit and comment on everyone else's stories here. Make sure to check back on this thread periodically to lay some sweet, sweet crit down on those who don't have any yet!** \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* # Top picks from last week’s assignment, Raised Stakes: **Fan favorite with the most votes:** /u/Lynx_Elia, with a story that pulls two threads together with all kinds of spy-tastic fun. This week the **Smoking Hot Challenge Sash** goes to an author that nailed the spirit of the assignment: /u/Xacktar, for raising the stakes on a story that has kept us on the edge of our seats. And honorable mentions: /u/Mobaisle_Writing, with a story that flows beautifully week after week, fitting the challenges and moving the story into deeper waters with every raised stake. And /u/ATIWTK, for an episode that is kicking into high gear with some *earth shattering* developments. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ **The Rules:** * In the comments below submit a story that is between **500 - 750** words in your own original universe. * Submissions are limited to ***one*** serial submission from each author per week. * **Each author should comment on at least 2 other stories** during the course of the week. * That comment must include ***at least one*** **detail** about what the author has done well. * Authors who successfully finish a serial lasting longer than 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the sub. * Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule. *Yes, we will check*. * While content rules are more lax here at /r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of "vaguely ***family friendly***" being the rule of thumb for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, feel free to modmail! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Reminders: * Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday post or to your own subreddit/profile. * Authors that complete a serial with 8 or more installments get a fancy banner and modpost to highlight their stories. * Saturdays we will be hosting a Serials Campfire on the main voice lounge. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start on Saturdays at 9AM CST. **Don’t worry about being late, just join!** There’s a *Super Serial* role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Saturday related news! **Join the** **to chat with prompters, authors, and readers!** Previous constraint: **Raised Stakes** Have you seen the? No? Oh boy! Here's the current cycle's challenge schedule.

I can see it now. The fire rated glass doors to the emergency room slide open. Swirling red lights flash in the black night sky. Rattly wheels of a gurney roll onto white linoleum tiles, white sheets are tinged red, pink and black, doused with blood and caked with ash. Melted skin mixed with coagulated blood drips from the patient and leaves a sticky trail down the hallway. Screams curdle my blood. I am not a psychic. I couldn’t predict what you’ll have for breakfast, or who will win the lottery or how many kids you and your husband might have. I’m just a night nurse. A “miracle worker” with a shitty track record of miracles performed. I wipe asses and administer medications and take blood pressures and draw blood. I am nobody special. In fact, I am the opposite. I am cursed. I am cursed by Déjà vu. Everyone knows present moments exist in a continuum with the past. But, sometimes the past completes the present moment instead of the other way around. I am convinced this is the way time and space is actually configured, it’s just no one else knows the past before it completes the present...no one except me, apparently. And only sometimes. Déjà vu never tells me anything that could help make the present better. My visions are vivid, yet vague; visceral, yet vacant. Basically, I get to experience the horrors of the past before they become the horrors of the present and then again when the past officially completes the present, a moment I can’t predict and don’t know is coming until it happens. I live a life of double horrors. I just don’t know why. Two weeks have passed, just enough time for my vision to begin to slither away into the recesses of my memory and fall asleep. It’s a game of cat and mouse Déjà vu makes my brain play. I am charting the elevated blood pressure of the patient who came in with a broken tibia when the bay doors slide open. A gurney with rattly wheels, draped in blood-tinged sheets atop a body, burned from head to toe, crashes through the doorway. The patient’s wife, I’m assuming it’s his wife, rushes in behind. She slips on a flap of her husband’s sloughed off skin that has dropped to the floor and grabs hold of the nurses station countertop. She looks down at her shoe and screams. Then sobs. Then her sobs and screams mix to form bone-chilling scream-sobs. My blood curdles. What can I say? Oh hey, lady, I knew this was going to happen to your husband two weeks ago, but I had no idea who you guys were, so there was nothing I could do? I learned long ago to keep my complicated relationship with Déjà vu under wraps. No one believes me. Most think I am mentally unwell when I try to talk about it. So, I let the visions simmer in my brain until they happen to boil over and splash onto the burning ground of the present. The good news is, relief is here. The relief that comes when the past finally completes the present and I get a break. I get to live like a normal person: oblivious. Oblivion is underrated. Sure, bad things still happen in oblivion, but their weight feels lighter, two-dimensional. Tonight I am going to watch Netflix and chill, while eating Ben and Jerry’s Netflix & Chill. It is the alignment in the stars my soul needs. Peanut butter ice cream will join his friends salted pretzel and fudge brownie and have a dance party on my non-boiling brain (as long as they promise no strobe lights). My night shift ends and I walk outside for the first time in twelve hours. The sunrise is creeping up over the horizon. Beams of light illuminate the city-scape. A chilled gust of wind whips my pony tail in front of my eyes. I feel like I am a needle in a haystack, peering through wisps of hay at the day shift staff passing by. I dig in my bag for my car keys, and it strikes. Lightning catches the bale of hay atop my head on fire. I can see it now. My hands cup a white porcelain tea cup that hovers just above its matching saucer, on a white linen table cloth. The tablecloth is dotted with crumbs. I set the cup down on the saucer to swipe a cluster of crumbs onto the floor, except they land inside my bag instead. I reach down into my bag. I think the shadow underneath the table of my legs makes them look like a pair of cheap unbroken chopsticks from a take-out joint. My mouth tastes like sour lemons. An ear-piercing screech. A crash. A thump. Glass breaking. A child’s voice, “Mommy!” I look up. Just outside the café, a little boy peers into the road at what looks like a woman’s head poking out beneath a black off-roading tire. The head is squashed. Strawberry blonde hair is matted in oily ooze, and bits of brain splatter the mudflap of a dark green Land Rover. I gasp. Oh shit. The child turns around and sees me through the window. Wait, I know that child. He is my five-year old nephew, Ryan, only he seems taller somehow. Must be the distortion from the café’s thick glass window. “RYAN!” I jump up, knock over the table and make my way to the entrance of the café to the soundtrack of breaking porcelain and disgruntled murmurings. I exit the café and run toward Ryan. I look up. Another vehicle is speeding down the street, unaware of the crash ahead. I make it just a few steps from Ryan when the black Ford Focus veers to the left and rams over the curb, which hurdles it in the air. I look down at Ryan, who is now covered in a tidal wave of darkness from its shadow. I reach for him, then everything goes black. I open my eyes, no. No, no, no, no. Please, god, no. Not this, please. I am still standing outside the hospital, my hand is shaking inside my bag, and my knees begin to buckle. It’s not real. Visions never come the same day the present completes the past. I usually have a few weeks, at least! What the fuck! I run to my car as tears fly off my face in the wind. I text my sister with my adrenaline-fueled fingers. Me: Hey, are you and Ryan okay? Em: Hey, yeah we are fine, what’s up? Me: Nothing, just checking - let’s get together soon. Em: Come by later, we will be at the house. Me: Will do. I don’t know what to do. I try to sleep, but every time I close my eyes I see Em’s brains on that mudflap and Ryan’s lanky arms reaching for his auntie while a sky-high shadow-monster envelopes his body. Perhaps this is just another one of Déjà vu’s sick games, like the cat and mouse one. Yeah, that’s it. Only, now I have to guess which vision is real and which one isn’t and this is the first unreal one. I’m not a psychic, I am not special. I am just cursed, remember. A cursed, non-miracle worker night nurse. Still...I need to talk to Em--on the off-chance, the extremely unlikely off-chance, that. Well, you know. “Hey, Em,” I say, then give her a massive hug when she opens her freshly painted red front door to greet me. She said she hopes it makes the white picket fence stand out more, and it does, but in a creepy way. Ryan comes running in from his play room. He is holding a plastic tyrannosaurus rex and a handful of multi-colored Legos, including one dismembered yellow head with no hair. It winks at me from his palm, which makes my stomach flip. “Kate, you look exhausted, what’s wrong?” Em says as she ushers me in and takes my bag and coat. “Oh I just worked last night, that’s all. It was a long one. Burn victim. Pretty gruesome.” “What does gruesome mean?” Ryan pipes up from behind. “Oh, shit, sorry,” I say, then look at Em. “Shit,” parrots Ryan. This is not going well so far. Em makes us a cup of tea and we sit in her living room. “So, um, this is going to sound crazy, but, I had a pretty vivid dream, and it scared me. I feel like I need to tell you about it. To...well, to warn you.” Em let out a slight chuckle, then looked at me. My look was not so light-hearted. “Oh, um, okay...you’re being creepy. But, okay. What was this dream about?” I had decided I would spare Em from the gory details, but still impress upon her the urgency of the situation. I told her I had a dream where she and Ryan were killed in a car accident, and I was nearby in a café, and tried to help but I couldn’t. “So, Em. Promise me you will never just, like...be outside of a café, ever. Just cross the street. I will also avoid all café’s, especially with white linen tablecloths. I mean, who do I think I am anyway, that’s way too fancy for my taste. So, it’s no big deal. Right?” “Kate, it was just a dream. Everything is going to be okay...I’m just worried about you, are you feeling okay? Like, mentally?” “I’m fine!” I snapped back. Of course, my agitation gave her more reason to doubt that I was. “I’m fine,” I said and forced myself to sound laid-back. “It’s all good, I’m sure you’re right, just,” I leaned forward and took her hands into mine, “promise me you won’t loiter in front of café’s?” Em smiled and squeezed my hands. “Don’t loiter? Okay, policewoman Kate, I promise to lead a loiterless-in-front-of-cafés existence.” “Good.” “Great.” Two years pass. No crash, no café’s with white linen tablecloths and white porcelain China. No disasters. I am convinced I beat Déjà vu in her silly new game. In the meantime, I start dating this resident, Kirk. Kirk and Kate, cute, right? He is dreamier than dreamy. Curly brown hair, deep, hazel eyes, freckles, tan even when he hasn’t seen the sun in months due to his grueling residency. Between you and me, and the dementia patient who came in to the ER early this morning, to whom I overshared a little, I think Kirk might propose tonight. He is taking me out to dinner. He didn’t tell me where, just to wear a dress. I can’t wait. A girl can’t go wrong with a classic black dress. At least that’s what I heard, so that’s what I am wearing. It’s a little short, but only when I sit. Kirk ends up blindfolding me. He takes my hand and leads me out of the car to the front of the restaurant. It is none other than Bianca’s, the Italian restaurant I have wanted to try for years, but could never afford. We hold hands, walk inside and are seated. I am too fixated on a potential proposal to take in much of my surroundings. We have focaccia pomodoro for our antipasti. Kirk orders trofie al pesto, and I order linguine al frutti del mar. It is the best food I have ever eaten, hands down. Kirk insists we split a lemon semifreddo and a pot of tea for dessert. I don’t argue. I am still hopeful a proposal is coming my way. As we are waiting for our dessert a thought comes to my mind. It is like a drop in the ocean that ripples, then disappears. A tiny drop with a familiar sensation. I have been here before. I shake it off. We delight in our lemon semifreddo, feed each other spoonful’s and giggle when whipped cream gets on Kirk’s mustache. Only one bite left. We both agree we are too stuffed to eat it and instead, sit back and sip our cups of tea. Kirk looks nervous, then reaches into his pocket. This is it . I cup my white porcelain tea cup, hover it just above the saucer, afraid to move until I see what he is going to do. I hold my breath. He pulls his hand out of his pocket to reveal...his wallet. Oh, come on Kirk. Despondent, I take the last bite of lemon semifreddo. I set down my tea cup and notice a cluster of focaccia crumbs on the white tablecloth. I swipe them off in angst. Of course they fall straight into my bag on the ground. I reach into my bag and catch sight of my legs in my simple black dress. I think they look like a pair of cheap, unbroken chopsti.... shit. An ear-piercing screech. A crash. A thump. Glass breaking. A child’s voice, “Mommy!” “No!” I look outside to see a green Land Rover and my nephew, Ryan calling out to my dead sister. On the other side of the road is a tiny café. I realize they were crossing the street to avoid it, as I made Em promise to do. “RYAN!” I knock over the table and make my way outside. Porcelain plates, bowls and cups crash everywhere around me as people yell out in disbelief. I don’t even look up, I run to Ryan. I can get to him, I can save him, it’s not too late. The black Ford Focus veers to the left to avoid the Land Rover and rams over the curb which hurdles it in the air. I look at the tidal wave of dark shadow and... it’s a miracle . The shadow monster is no longer coming for Ryan. It is coming for me. I reach out to him, then everything goes black. Past completes present.

My life started like a fairytale--and by that, I mean I was fucked over by fairies. Apparently, a long-lost ancestor did something helpful to some fairy sometime ago, and the fairies chose my birth as the moment to pay my family back for my ancestor’s kindness. The fairy chose a gift to supposedly bless me with, no matter how much my parents begged them to reconsider. I can see the conversation happening in my head like it was only yesterday. “I, a great and completely superior fairy being, have decided to bless your newborn child with a gift that is so undeniably wonderful that you all will be singing my praises for the rest of your small, mortal lives,” the fairy probably said at some point. “Your daughter will have the gift of being completely and totally irresistible. Everyone and everything will find her to be the most interesting and appealing creature they ever saw and this in no way will totally screw up her sad, little life!” If my life was a movie, the narrator would chime in with “What could possibly go wrong?!” My parents, bless them, did not know how to handle everything that came with a daughter who was irresistible. They tried, for sure. When I was picked on and kissed by literally every child in my preschool class and the teacher aid tried to kidnap me, my parents realized this was going to be a problem. I was homeschooled, and I wasn’t allowed to leave the house. I grew up without friends or seeing other family members because we couldn’t trust them to not fall under my spell. To save everyone some grief, I left home as soon as I was able to go and live in the middle of nowhere, Location Redacted. I wish I could say moving away from people fixed all my problems, but it didn’t. While I was successful in getting away from other people, my new location brought forth a new audience to avoid. \-- “I can see you,” I rolled my eyes and tossed some salt over my shoulder. The telltale human-shaped outline flashed before disappearing completely. I didn’t look up from my book. “Eden,” a tentative voice pipped. The air shimmered and a tall, lanky boy sat a heavy stare where the specter had once been. “That ghost has been getting closer and closer to you over the last few weeks. I think we should take another look at the runes on the fence.” “What’s a ghost gonna do, Mael?” I glanced up from my book and rolled my eyes. “Possess me? Jokes on him, then he would have to deal with all this shit.” Mael pursed his lips and reappeared on the other side of my armchair. “You and both know ghosts aren’t a big deal.” I was far more unnerved at the thought of not being able to finish my book in peace. “Come on, please? You know I can’t leave the cabin. Can you please check the runes are still intact? I can try to fix them if the sigils have worn off. It’s been, what, ten years since I was alive and placed them there?’ “Probably closer to twenty. You looked super dead when I got here.” I added as I turned back to my book. “Come on, Eden, this is serious. That ghost got too close for comfort.” I rolled my eyes. For the spirit of a witch bound to his former home, Mael was more overprotective than my own mother. “Fine, I will go get some food from the garden and I will check the runes while I do that, okay? It’s not a big deal though, ghosts are easy enough to get rid of.” I appreciated Mael letting me use his home now that he was dead. When I stumbled upon the small cabin in the woods, I knew it had to be cursed. Despite that, it was my only option, so I pressed on. I was surprised to find the spirit of the former owner still in the house, but Mael was pretty useful. He knew all sorts of stuff about the supernatural creatures that wandered around the woods and he was pretty handy at making runes and creating poisons and medicines. It was the first time I was grateful for my curse--instead of horrendously murdering me for disturbing his eternal slumber, Mael now acted like my bodyguard, or like an annoying big brother. And, best yet, he couldn’t follow me when I left the cabin, so I could easily escape his nagging by going into the garden that surrounded the cabin within the fence. I pulled on my oversized gardening boots and grabbed my basket of gardening supplies and walked out the door. The sun was starting its descent from the sky. I fingered the iron nail I wore around my neck, it wasn’t nightfall just yet, but things did get a bit more restless around here when the sun went down. I set to work on picking dinner for the evening. I didn’t often leave the confines of the small fence surrounding the cabin, so I relied on the fruits and vegetables Mael had planted during his life. Sometimes, a few of the werewolves who roamed the woods would bring me some of their smaller game or the occasional grocery store essentials but I tried to dissuade that kind of behavior as much as possible. “Good evening,” a smooth voice called from the treeline a stone’s throw away. I stopped in the middle of picking a carrot and sighed. Here we go again. I didn’t bother standing up from the dirt as the umbrella-wielding man approached the fence. His pale skin and dim glowing eyes gave him away immediately. “Let me guess, you aren’t a vampire and are totally just lost in the woods and need to come inside for some reason. Or, better yet, you have been creepily watching me for who-knows-how-long while I slept and now you are here because you are in love with me and *totally* won’t eat me.*”* I rolled my eyes and went back to the carrots. “Why I am wounded!” he feigned. I could feel his piercing eyes burrowing into my back as he watched me. “It sounds like my brothers have been unkind to you, sweet darling.” One thing I learned about vampires is they always blame each other for their bad reputation, and, for some reason, they always call their victims by nauseating pet names. I looked up at him and blinked my eyelashes. I stood from the dirt, content with what I picked from the night, and sauntered slowly toward the fence. He audibly gulped. “Oh, you have no idea. Some of those mean, ol’ vampires came here not long ago. They--they said they just needed some help and I couldn’t just turn them all away.” His eyes were even brighter up close, and they are carefully watching my throat as I spoke. “But, wouldn’t you know it, they tricked me. As soon as my back was turned--” I bit down dramatically on my own teeth and he jumped. “They took a big bite right out of me.” To prove my point, I pulled the collar of my tee-shirt down to reveal a mess of scarred flesh on my shoulder. The vampire stilled, his glowing orange eyes were transfixed on the newly exposed flesh. He was so easy to read. I held by the urge to roll my eyes. “You know,” he jumped when I spoke again and smoothed out my collar. “You should really be more concerned with what happened to the guy who took a chomp out of me. As I’m sure you have noticed, my blood smells--and tastes--irresistible. Do you really think they would have stopped by choice?” He was leaning in so far, his hands were propped up by the invisible barrier that bound him outside my fence line. I thought I even saw some drool pooling out from his lips. They never did listen. I also didn’t tell him the other vampire got garlic poisoning because I had just eaten a whole loaf of garlic bread. “Hey!” a voice suddenly shouted. “Get away from her!” In a flash, the vampire was gone, his umbrella was abandoned on the ground assuming so it wouldn’t slow him down in his retreat. A second later, a flash of brown and black barreled past my fence and howled. The creature stopped in his run and trotted back to my fence, transforming from his lycanthrope form to his human one. His yellow eyes lit up when he got closer and he started to run his hands through his messy black hair. “Hello, Garret.” I returned to my basket, now full of carrots and a small potato for my supper, and finished brushing the dirt from my knees. “Man, that was close! I am glad I caught a whiff of that guy when I did! I don’t even want to imagine what could have happened to you if I wasn’t here to help, Eden!” I tried to smile at the young werewolf as he beamed at me from my fence, but I am sure it resembled more of an exhausted snarl. “You are so right, I would have obviously been eaten alive if it wasn’t for you.” “Right? You are so lucky I am so close by. I sometimes swing by this way, you know, just to check on you, and I am so glad I did today.” Garret couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen. He was a kid so I tried to not hold his behavior against him too much. Besides, Garret was one of the wolves who brought me fresh meat when there were leftovers, so he wasn’t all bad. He was, however, a talker. I didn’t want to stand there as he monologued at me so I quickly wished him a good evening and retreated back inside. Mael was nowhere to be seen when I walked back inside. It wasn’t unusual for him to disappear for a while, so I set to work on cooking my dinner. When I sat down and finally picked my book back up, I remembered why I had gone outside in the first place--I didn’t check the runes on the fence. It was already dark outside by the time I realized, so I frowned and shrugged it off. One more day would be fine--I had just salted the peeping-tom ghost anyways. I had to fight to keep my eyes open as I read on in my book. I had just gotten to the part of the story where the protagonist ignored her instincts to run when she had the chance, the antagonist was sure to make an appearance... I woke up to a pounding headache. My hand reached up to touch my forehead, but I couldn’t move it. Slowly, the world came back into focus. I wasn’t in my living room anymore. I was outside, surrounded by trees and darkness sitting alone my own table covered in sugary sweets. One of my hands was tied to my seat. I swore loudly as I tried to remove the rope from around my wrist with my non-dominant hand and failed. “Good morning!” a voice chirped. I stopped struggling with the rope and let my head fall to the table. This couldn’t be happening, it was laughable. A young specter materialized, his face full of mirth as he spirited around me. “You’re finally awake! It’s very rude to fall asleep at the table, you know!” His grin was unnerving. It was too wide for his thin face. The ghost couldn’t have been more than a young adult when he died, but his clothes gave away his age. No one wore suits styled like his for the last several decades, at least. “Okay, you caught me. What do you want? To have a tea party? How did you get all of this from my cabin?” I paused, my eyes raking over the small cakes on the table. This son-of-a-bitch used up all my flour and sugar to make this shit, didn’t he?! I turned furious eyes on him. “Well, it wasn’t easy!” he laughed, then his eyes narrowed and his voice rumbled cooly, “You know, you aren’t very strong.” His countenance returned to his sickenly sweet smile and she pushed his ghostly hands through some of the cakes on the table. “I just want to have a little party with you! You see, I think it’s about time for my birthday and I don’t have anyone to celebrate with. You aren’t an easy girl to get ahold of, you know.” I frowned. I didn’t want to ask it, but I did: “Why do you want me to celebrate your birthday with you? I have salted you out of my life more times than I can count.” Take the hint, seriously. “Let me guess...” “You are so beautiful, you are captivating!” he finished for me. “Your skin looks so soft and those freckles are just adorable.” Of course, people who don’t have freckles always think they are so interesting. “And your hair is so thick and luscious.” I wash it, like, maybe once every three weeks. “And your eyes. Your eyes are the most beautiful. They are bright and the color is just so strange and captivating.” My eyes are hazel. Just hazel. It was always interesting to hear how others saw me as a glamorized version of what I actually was. “Thanks.” I reached unceremoniously for the iron nail on my necklace and pulled it off. “But, you should probably go back to Hell or whatever you spawned from and leave me alone. I am not interested in playing house with you.” His eyes fixed onto the iron in my hand. Surprise flashed across his eyes for just a moment before he disappeared and immediately reappeared behind me. He placed his hands on my temples and pushed them inside my skull. My skin didn’t offer him any resistance. My body involuntarily convulsed, my tied wrist twisted and thrashed against the bindings and the nail fell from my hand only to be kicked away by my own traitorous feet. I gasped for breath when my body finally started to still and the ghost was once again in front of me, looking with renewed interest at the table. “Which cake should you eat first?” He didn’t acknowledge the pain he inflicted on me. The sparkle in his eyes said he probably enjoyed it. “If I celebrate your birthday with you, you’ll leave me alone, right?” I said. He smiled and got far too close to my face. “Yes! In fact, just try a piece of cake! It has been so long since I have eaten anything and cake was always my favorite when I was alive. If you eat just a bite, I promise to let you untie yourself so you can go.” I glared. This was obviously a trap, but I was out of options. Mael couldn’t help me and I couldn’t rely on Garret to come bounding up this time either. Did ghosts even have a scent? It seemed unlikely. “Fine. I will have a bite of your cake and then I am going to go home. We have a deal.” It was fine. I was always fine. The god of luck also seemed to find me irresistible. I picked up the fork set in front of me and the ghost’s eyes watched my every move. Slowly, I reached for the cake closest to me and took the smallest bite I could manage. The cake wasn’t very sweet and it was certainly burned, but I continued to chew. When I swallowed, I made a big show of it and then reached with the fork to the rope around my wrist. The ghost watched me, remaining eerily silent as I finally broke through the rope and flexed my sore wrist. I coughed as soon as I stood, and the ghost burst into laughter. I coughed again, this time doubling over and retching on the ground. I stumbled and tried to stand, but I instead fell to my knees grasping my stomach as a stabbing pain shot through me. Of course, he fucking poisoned the cake. Jackass. “Oh, sweet girl, don’t move so much. It will be over soon.” the ghost was grinning down at me like a madman. I guess ghosts were more dangerous than I had originally given them credit for. “I was hoping you would pick that one--it looked like the most fun according to all those scribbles that witch boy left.” I coughed again, this time blood splurted out and fell from my chin to the ground. “We are going to have so much fun, honestly. You and me, together for all eternity. It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?” There was no way I was gonna let myself die at the hands of a motherfucking ghost and some shitty, poisoned cake. I crawled, one arm still firmly grasping my stomach that felt like hot lead. “It’s no use,” he smiled, getting too close to my face again. “You’re already dying.” I coughed again, this time hacking up blood in his ghostly face. He jumped backward, probably a habit from his life, and glared. It was then I saw the iron nail on the ground. I could just barely reach it when he realized what I was doing, but it was too late. I turned with all my might and slashed through his spectral form. While salt was effective at banishing ghosts for a short while, iron was like a lock to keep them from coming back to our side. It would be a good long while before he would be able to come back. Not that it would do me much good. I couched again. More blood. “I thought that bastard would never leave.” A familiar, smooth voice said from the darkness. I tried to scramble to my feet but faceplanted in my own blood instead. “You smell...” he paused and took a deep, satisfying breath. “Delicious.” I hate vampires so much. The vampire from earlier blurred towards me as I coughed again, he stopped just short of running into me. He regarded me with his reflective eyes as his smile slowly fell. “What did he do to you? I can’t drink this. It’s ruined.” He wrinkled his nose as though my wasted blood was the most offensive joke he had ever heard. “No. Stop it.” I wanted to quip back that I was in no way able to cure myself from whatever afflicted me, but all that came out was the taste of iron on my tongue. Next thing I knew, I was being lifted from the ground and thrown over a shoulder before being sped away. I was suddenly thrown hard to the ground, in my weariness I could just make out the light from my cabin’s windows. Shakily, I turned and saw Garett snarling at the vampire who was looking from me to my cabin to Garett and then back again. After another bout of coughing up my own blood, I crawled into the dirt and pulled myself forward as best I could. “You idiot!” I heard vaguely behind me. I didn’t bother trying to identify the voice. “I am saving her!” “No!” The other growled. “I am saving her!” I tuned them out completely after that and focused my efforts and pathetically crawling my way to the front door. Everything was spinning and I felt just so cold and tired, but I kept on as my entrails tried to work their way to the outside. A sudden, knife-sharp pain bit into me--it felt like I was drowning in my own lungs. Something crashed into my fence behind me, but the world had already gone black. I woke up gasping and thrashing with horrible pressure pushing down on my chest. I was inside the cabin and Mael was leaning over me with misty eyes. “She’s awake!” He bellowed suddenly and disappeared. Somewhere behind me bottles started to rumble and clatter together. Garett was over me, his hands were pressing down on my chest and his face was dripping in blood, my blood I suddenly realized. I twisted to my side and pushed his hands away from me just as Mael reappeared with a vial of something bubbling. Garret instantly forced my head back and stuck the glass vial between my lips as Mael paced beside us. I spluttered out some of the liquid when I was overwhelmed by it, but Garret only forced me to drink until it was gone. “If you hold her head like that, you are going to rip it off! Gentle!” A voice called from beyond my garden fence. The whole gang was here to watch me pathetically almost die because of a pathetic ghost. Fuck my life. I tried to push Garett off of me again, but he held steady. “I am going to put you in your bed now,” he stated and he moved to pick me up. “Don’t do that, idiot. She is covered in her own blood and dirt! Clean her off first!” Mael materialized at my side and growled, “You won’t be touching her like that.” “Well, you can’t touch her at all!” Garett spat back. “I’ll touch her!” “No!” Mael and Garett both roared. I just wanted some peace and quiet. They were too loud. I pushed myself up and shakily attempted to stand. When I almost fell, I held tight to my armchair for balance, ignoring Garett has he reached for me. “I can fucking clean myself up. Everybody, get the fuck out of my house.” Garett frowned but nodded his assent before walking to the door and shutting it behind him. I didn’t hear footsteps leading away, so I guessed he was still outside on the step. I turned to Mael. “Help me pack a bag. Tonight.” “What? But you aren’t in any condition to leave. Where would you even go?!” “Honestly? I need to punch a fucking fairy in her stupid, fucking face.

Go to bed at a reasonable hour. Wake up earlier. Frankie woke up with the afternoon sunlight in her eyes. The room smelled of dust and sweat and old fried chicken. It was one thirty in the afternoon on January first. Frankie had gone to bed at half-past three. Not because she’d gone out. She was new in the city and had no friends here yet, and hated parties and wouldn’t have gone to a New Year’s party even if she had been invited to one - which she hadn’t been. No, she’d spent New Year’s Eve alone in her half-furnished studio eating spicy Korean chicken from the take-out place across the street and watching episode after episode of Indian Matchmaking. Then, for something completely different, she’d watched all three Die Hard movies in a row. The new year had arrived unnoticed sometime between the second and third Die Hard. At half-past two, Frankie had stood on shaky legs and arched her stiff spine. She reached her arms above her head and clasped her greasy fingers together, and then stretched her whole body by swaying left, then right. She’d left her apartment and pounded down the stairs to the ground floor, pushing outside, inhaling a lungful of cold air. Frankie found her new neighbourhood drenched in wet shadows and deserted. Her sneakers slipped on the frozen sidewalks. It was drizzling in December, the sleet shocking on her hot face, a welcome contrast to her too-hot apartment. She’d forgotten her coat and it was cold, but it was nice to feel cold, to feel something jarring after hours and hours of sitting in a hot, dry room with grease on her fingertips, bathed in the hollow white light of the television. She veered left and walked aimlessly, her mind energized, spinning plans for 2024. Get a pet . Like a dog (a small dog) or a cat (a calm one). Something living to share the apartment with, to breathe the same air as her; a warm body to touch when her mood dipped into moroseness. Frankie was used to being alone; she was an introvert, but something about being in a brand new city with nothing and no one familiar made her feel exposed. She’d moved to Calgary late last summer, just as the Winnipeg mosquitoes were getting fat and lazy. She’d left her mom back in Winnipeg, and her dad lived in Germany and called her once a year on her birthday. Her parents were both old, in their late sixties. They’d had her late in their marriage, almost like an after-thought that they later regretted, like they’d looked around and said, “Hey everyone else has a kid, why not us, eh?” And later realized they were too old and set in their ways to tolerate the scuttle of new life in their orderly home. Frankie grew up odd, without siblings or pets or many close friends. She chose a reliable-sounding major in university and dated Brian Liu for three years until he came out as gay and, last she heard, was married to his college roommate, Julian. That was all years ago. Three years and four months ago. Water under the bridge. Frankie reached a crosswalk and stopped to stare at the dark suburban street ahead. She heard car tires crunching on snow somewhere in the distance, but here on Frankie’s street, the traffic lights changed uselessly for an empty intersection. She frowned, turning back towards home. Frankie resolved to get a cat. From the shelter. She fumbled in the dark to take out her phone, planning to search up shelters in Calgary right then, but the falling sleet fogged up the screen and she hid the phone back in her jean pocket. It was getting too cold now, no longer a pleasant shock but a jittery painful one. She made her way back to her building, back up the concrete steps to the third floor, a trail of wet footprints in her wake. She stepped out of her shoes and kicked off her damp jeans and fell on the mattress that was the focal point of her apartment. She stared up at the ceiling. Buy a real bed. She’d already looked online, but all the beds were overpriced and hard to assemble, and it had seemed easier to just keep sleeping on the mattress. She did need a sofa, maybe a dining table. The studio was small, but even so, it looked sad and bare with nothing to fill it. Decorate. Get a plant. Buy a painting. She did own a proper desk that she’d bought off Kijiji for thirty five dollars. She worked remotely, so she’d needed a desk right away. Frankie worked for the same company she’d worked for in Winnipeg, writing and proofreading copy for technical manuals. Speaking of which: Find a better job. It was the main reason behind the move. She felt like Winnipeg held no jobs for her; none that she was qualified for, anyway. Winnipeg was a city she knew, a city with old disappointments. Calgary was something with promise, more people, mountains. She’d browsed Indeed a few times since she made the move, but everything she could realistically apply for paid less than the current job that she was sick to death of. She’d be a fool to quit one easy, work-from-home gig that paid well to work in a department store or wait tables. Not that anyone would hire her as a waitress. Frankie had an awkward air around her that made people uncomfortable and disqualified her from most jobs in customer service. So scratch that last resolution. She’d keep her old job, but do better outside of work . Be a better human being. She just needed...more energy. She needed to wake up, shake herself off. Exercise more (or start exercising). Go for brisk walks. Join a gym. Get moving. Frankie had fallen asleep with that thought pulsing at the forefront of her mind, a resolution to be active. She saw herself running and running and running, her blood thrumming in her body and her breath burning and something just a few feet away. If she could just run a little faster, a little harder, and there it would it be...

There’s a fine line between caring and being invested. It’s a difference similar to the line between compassion and empathy. In both cases, the former brings emotions that can be examined, dealt with, and set aside as the feeler sees fit. But the latter, the being invested and empathizing, those emotions become a part of you. They stay with you longer, until you can deal with them or set them aside. Seeing her mother, curled on the couch, eyes flicking between the television screen and her phone, receiving ping after ping of messages from friends reacting to the same news program, the child couldn’t help but wonder if she herself had ever really been empathetic. “Protestors stormed the capital,” the mother said when the child emerged from her room for only the second time that day. “Oh?” Was all she could respond. How could a protest even make it to the capital, she thought. One look at the tv screen filled with MAGA hats and Confederate flags provided her the answer. She’d just wanted a snack, maybe some coffee, and to go back to her room. She’d been learning a pop song on her violin, a challenge because the layers of modern tones in pop songs don’t always translate well to the classic wooden instrument. She was stuck on the bridge and couldn’t quite figure out how to blend the layers of tones with the right notes. She couldn’t practice well with people in the house, her violin was too loud and the child herself too shy. Instead she sat on the edge of the couch. “He gave his big speech then just went inside! I mean, he got them all riled up and now...” the mother’s voice trailed, gripped by fear and disbelief. I should be more afraid or worried, the child thought. Instead she wondered how the US representatives didn’t know the proper methods for sheltering in place. The thought pulled her to an old memory of her sitting in the computer lab with her class and second-grade teacher, backs against the wall as their teacher tried to impress on them the importance of being quiet without ever saying the words ‘active’ or ‘shooter.’ Then another memory, only a year later, when the child’s whole school had been placed on lockdown for a bomb threat. The whole thing had lasted maybe an hour and was ultimately just a middle schooler playing a prank they didn’t fully understand the repercussions of. It hadn’t been a traumatizing event, in fact, she couldn’t help but remember them with some fondness. Active shooter drills or drills like them were always presented in a form of a game. Like high stakes hide-and-seek, or some sick team-building exercise. How else do you teach kids to survive something adults could so easily prevent? “Why are they calling it a protest?” The child asked, as the same footage of windows being shattered, and offices being broken into played across the screen again and again. She was growing more frustrated with the news anchors than she had been with the protestors. It seemed like only one of the groups really knew what they were doing, and she couldn’t decide which was worse. Hours passed this way, with the mother feeling and the child wondering if it was so wrong that she was hoping some gun control laws would come out of this. Occasionally her fingers would twitch as the melody of the pop song played again through her head. It was a love song, slow and melodic and filled with emotions much happier and much more hopeful than anything the news had to offer. Still, she watched the screen with her mother and saw, for what felt like the hundredth time, a security guard push and redirect a mob giving the chamber time to lock up. Neither could deny the impressive and valuable feat, but it was the cut to the news anchor, her proclamation of, “sometimes all it takes is one good man,” that broke them. The child burst into laughter, “I think they could have used a few more a lot earlier.” Even her mother, muscles still tense, couldn’t help but smile. Humor and games and laughter, that was how she grew up. And what else could the child offer to the situation? Her fingers twitched again. She was growing tired of the same footage, of no new news, and what felt like no real progress. The child knew her mother loved to hear her play the violin, she’d told her so nearly every time she’d caught her sitting on the floor of her room silently plucking the strings and fingering through a piece. But it had been so long since the child had really played, bow on the string, music filling every square inch of her room while another person was in the house. She loved playing but hated performing. Just the thought of it filled her with a fear the tv screen could never hope to give her. She looked again at her mother, still curled on her seat and scrolling through her phone searching for something new. Before the child could stop herself, she asked, “Would it bother you if I practiced?” The child’s mother looked up at her and smiled, “I’d love to hear you play.” The mother meant it, but in that moment of eye contact the child could see how drained her mother was, how tired the events of the day had made her. All the child had was energy that needed an outlet. So she went to her room and closed the door. Not that the door would make any real difference, the walls were so thin the child could always hear when the tv was playing. She knew her mother would hear every note she made, but the door helped her at least feel like she was alone. Like she could make a mistake without being heard. The child tuned her instrument first. Warm-up notes that meant nothing, shared nothing. Then, she practiced the part of the song she had already figured out. Her bow arm wouldn’t quite cooperate, it was putting too much space between notes that needed to bleed into one another. She moved on to the next part, then the next. There was nothing she could do to help with the images on the tv screen, but she could figure out these notes. She listened to the bridge again, toyed with the strings, listened, made notes, listened. She wondered if anyone in the riot, anyone with any real kind of power over the situation, would listen after this. If any of them had listened before it all started. She finished the first half of the bridge. She listened again to the second half and let her fingers ghost over the strings in an attempt to catch the sounds. She made notes and played again, but it wasn’t right. She listened again while ghosting her notes, trying to play spot the difference between what the song was saying and what she was playing. She wanted the notes to go a little higher, sing a little longer than what the original bridge was playing. She tried to adjust again and again, but it still wasn’t quite right. Her notes didn’t match the song, but the tone was close. The child’s music still held the love and hope the artist sung of, and the child decided that was as close as she could get for the day. Arm tired and fingers slightly numb, she loosened her bow and placed both it and her violin back in its case, taking care to fasten the Velcro strap and lay the felt cover over the delicate wooden instrument. Then with a swift flourish she zipped the case shut and pushed it back to its safe place against the wall. The child walked back into the living room where her mother was still curled on her seat, television still on, but this time her eyes were on her phone. The mother looked up to her daughter and smiled again. “Thank you, that was beautiful.” The child returned the smile but could tell her mother had still only grown more tired. “Any updates?” “There’s supposedly a curfew,” the mother laughed. The child giggled in return, “Oh?” She looked back at her mother and was filled with a sudden wash of gratitude. In that moment, she realized her mother was feeling everything, so the child didn’t have to, whether the mother realized it or not. She wished she could take some of it, but there was nothing on the screen she hadn’t decided to let go of long ago. The child walked over and sat next to her mother, a woman who lived for hugs, and wrapped her arms around her. “I love you, mom.” “I love you too,” the mother replied, kissing her daughter’s head.

You know what's funny? Time. Well its more ironic than funny, but I've learned to laugh at it because it slips by you in what seems like the blink of an eye. I smile at my reflection, my reflection shows me that time, has caught up to me. The days have passed since I've been able to run up to my father and have him swoop me up in his arms and twirl me and dance with me as if there were music playing and and audience that cheered with admiration and awe. My smile becomes a laugh at the memory, however my gaze grows sad as the realization of that never happening again sinks in heavily. Besides the fact that I am a 27 year old woman, today is the day we lay my father's body to rest. He leaves the world full of memories, but his presence will never leave my heart. His service was beautiful. Despite the sad occasion that bought us here, daddy would be happy that everyone was able to come together to say one last goodbye. Uncle Rick, started sniffling and hiccupping, probably from trying to hold in his cry. I remember when I was about seven years old, I saw him cry over my aunt Felicia dumping him for a mechanic, though I was too young to fully understand what was happening, I do remember aunt Felicia rolling her neck so hard I thought it would fall off and pointing her finger this way and that way as if it were a wand. This cry was nothing like that. I scan the room to see who else is here. I notice my mom hugging herself in a chair, gently rocking herself as if she is coddling a small child in her arms. When my dad was sick in the hospital and had to stay for weeks because he collapsed more than a couple times at his office and sometimes even at the dinner table, mom had the same reaction, only I now this is a thousand times worse. Dad was a strong man. Strong willed and wise, his heart, however was a ticking time bomb, doctors couldn't figure it out, so they couldn't give us how long he would have which gave me great relief. Hearing my dad would only have 6 months to live or something would have made everyone a wreck. I was 5 when Daddy got the news that his heart was a time bomb, I'm glad he got to spend 22 years of his life raising me and loving us. I still feel like that helpless little girl right now however. I feel lost and confused. Hurt. I walk up to my mom and plant a soft kiss on her head. She gives a weak smile in my direction. "would you like some air mama?" I ask her kindly. She nods, I lend my arm to her and as she links, I can feel her knees buckle, not from old age, but because loosing my father has taken a lot out of her. I end up taking her home and to my surprise I was more tired than I thought. My bed felt like a warm soft marshmallow that allowed me to sink in it and float my troubles away. I looked up at the ceiling, gave out the loudest exhale of my life, my eyes feel too heavy to keep them open, so I surrender to their will and close them. Darkness. *Screams* I jolt out of bed and run into my mom and dads room. I get a quick glance at myself who looks about 10. I can feel it in my chest, I'm terrified. I push forward in my mothers direction who is screaming hysterically. I'm too afraid to lean over and see what she's screaming about. My shaky little hands reach for the covers and as I do my mother, with such force grabs my arm. My heart thumps so loud it's the only thing I hear, I look to her and she looks monstrous. Her eyes are wide and her face terrifyingly old and damaged. She says something but all I hear is my heart. She shrieks even louder, but this time she sounds like my alarm. I forced myself up, body and sheets drenched in sweat, if my bed was a marshmallow it would have melted from the intense heat pouring from my body. My breathing was still heavy from the dream, but thank goodness it was only a dream. After my shower, I decide to take a walk down 15th street, the joyous feeling of blissful childhood churns my stomach when I hear the school bell. My dad would pick me up after school everyday. I loved that. Mom was a teacher at the school, so every morning we went in together. Dad worked as a journalist for 'Dekota Bay Dispatch' it might sound boring and displeasing but it was the best. When I was 12, he took me downtown with him to do a story on the owner of the 'Castle nova hotel', we discovered all kinds of horrible things, the owner was a racist, "against any 'kind' but his own," he was a creep too. Had minors working in the kitchen almost naked. Daddy got all kinds of hate on that story, but to me he was a pure hero of the people. **BEEEEEEP!!!** the blaring of a horn snatched me back to reality just in time, I almost walked in the road. Focus! I think to myself. I hadn't even noticed the tears that have been dripping down my face at the memory I was just caught up in. A few months and more than a few breakdowns later, my family and friends held an intervention so I, well they on my behalf decided a therapist would offer better assistance. They tell me that they're worried, concerned, and even fearful of my behavior and attitude over these past months. It's only been 2 months since my dad's passing. You'd think that things would mend somehow, like those families who can continue strong and bold when they lose someone. I was waiting for that moment but it never showed, with every memory I cry and miss my father, other people continue on and I started to get upset, " do they not care I mean truly care enough about my father to stop time, not even for a moment. " I hear replay in my ear the argument I had at the dinner table. I agreed to see a therapist, no-less because apart of me did know I got out of control, emotionally withdrawn, careless and shut down. My father wouldn't want this of me and so here I stand in front of a door that reads "Dr. Patricia Dean, psych therapist, hypno-therapist, inner-child/adult therapist". in my mind I take off but I knock instead. On my sixth visit with Patricia, she came at me with a new idea. "I'd like for us to connect with your inner child." She smiled sweetly at my raised eyebrow slightly dropped mouth reaction when I responded, "my whaa?" She continued to explain what she meant. "The child-like aspect of yourself, doing this will allow us to understand why you are responding in this way, and the best possible way to make you feel safe again." For some reason when she said those words, a hard lump filled my throat, like I wanted to cry. I could feel my eyes flood intensely with tears. When Patricia notices, she swiftly pulled out some soft tissues and patted my shoulder in a comforting manner. I laid back on the couch in her office, allowed myself to relax as much as I could, which still may not have been enough going off the number of times Patricia gently whispered "relaaaaax, you're in a safe environment, you're okay" After awhile my body did begin to settle and flashes of my life quickly flicked in and out of my closed eyes view. "Now focus on my voice." muffled at first then the words of Patricia filled my ears and head. "I want you to try and remember a moment in time where you felt unsafe." I really had to think, with dad around I always felt safe, secure, whole. Then I remember, when dad got threatened several times doing an interview for his story about the secret rape tapes involving all-star coach Denis Mclane. My body begins to twitch and fidget at the memory, Patricia's reassurance puts me back at ease. I explained to her what is happening to the best of my ability. "What did you do to feel safe again, what happened?" The images that were laid out in my mind changed again and in front of me is the memory of my dad hugging me, but not just dad, mom is there and my family. They surrounded me and told me, that I would always have them, "even if we left we would always be there." someone says. I was 13, they gathered around me and placed a hand over my heart and said simultaneously; "right here, we will be." My dad kissed my forehead and said, "as long as you're here, we are here." What feels like a force begins pushing me and I feel like I am thrown in my body, though I never left. Patricia is right beside me, where she has been the entire time, I jump into her arms almost and can do nothing but cry. Happy tears, sad tears, then happy again. I tell her everything that transpired and although I feel amazing afterwards, I still have sessions with her every now and then. Through time I think she will still be a great friend to me. I write a letter, that includes the date, time and my current age. In the letter I keep it short and sweet. "If you ever feel sad or alone, as long as you're here, we are here."-27

We had often heard tell of warm and welcoming climes in the lands south of the English channel. Many amongst us had known those lands for their eternal sunshine, for their beaches of soft, white sand and for the magnificent cities which lay beyond. Yet, our venture into French territory that dreaded summer’s day, was anything but welcoming. On that very day, the sun did not emerge. It hid behind a sky of pale grey. What little sunlight did seep through, conversely, quickly succumbed to an emerging cloud of black smoke which swelled from the beach head. We were welcomed by a sound of unrelenting machinegun fire, of which rained down upon us from every conceivable angle. It struck our Higgin’s boat more times than I could have counted, particularly in that flustered state of mind. If that wasn’t bad enough, we also had to contend with Gerry’s mortar fire, each of us standing helplessly as shells splashed disconcertingly beside the LCVP en route to the beachhead. My superiors had sent us all into a living hell - and we were none the wiser for thinking this call to arms would make make us all heroes. They sent us all to our deaths, crammed within vessels of iron, just like sardines in a tin can. As if suddenly awakening from a deep reverie, I had just become aware of the man to my left owing to the repetitive metallic clanking noises his flask made as he attempted to take a swig from it. The bespectacled youth’s hand were trembling so violently that it begged the question as to how much of it he actually drank. It wasn’t until a stern voice called unto him that he decided to abandon all hopes entirely. “Get a grip son,” said a man to my right, who was taking a drag out of his cigarette. This man carried himself in the same manner most veteran American soldiers had, with an air of confidence which was almost tangible. As he spoke, he stared ahead towards the shoreline, wide-armed and square-jawed; and his undying gaze did not waver even as he addressed the boy who trembled. “If we’re to die today, we’ll die as men, y’hear?” Perturbed, the boy cast his flask aside, instead opting to re-align the round glasses sliding off the edge of his nose. Not that it mattered, the thick black smoke around us was enough to leave us in complete darkness until our eventual touchdown in shallow waters. “If this ain’t FUBAR, I don’t know what is, Mason”, he said. “FUBAR?” I said, dumbfounded. These Americans had such a way with words. “Relax son, air support should’a demolished these bastards long before our coming”, said Mason. He then turned to face me, “and just where the hell are you from, anyway? That accent sure as hell ain’t American,” he added, gruffly. “I’m... I’m from Malta,” I stuttered, not that I expected him to know where Malta was actually located. “Holy dog shit!” he said with a tone of assent. “Ain’t you boys the farmin’ type? The hell y’all doin here?” I hadn’t taken offense. In truth, amid the increasing sounds of machine gun fire and death taking place around me, any attempt at an insult towards my heritage was rather laughable. Mason chuckled, even amid the darkness and the odd whizzing of bullets. I could not help laugh with him. In my mind, the prospect of death beyond the tall iron doors of the LCVP was a sure thing - no sense being grim about it. He simply held out his arm. “Mason,” he said sharply, “and the maverick beside you is Johnson. For the last time son... get a grip!” The boy with the round glasses did not answer. He merely gulped, hugging his M1 carbine as if it were an enlarged, metallic teddy bear. “Carmelo,” I said, addressing Mason. As I turned to him, I noticed him staring at the iron crucifix dangling from my neck. “Car-melo?” Mason twisted his face. He had obviously never heard such a name before. “Look more like a holy boy if you ask me. Think I’ll call you... ‘Bible’. You a believer, son?” “We’ll see.” I replied. The barge’s rise and fall had begun to die down in the moments which followed. That, coupled with the now-deafening sounds of mortar-fire had only meant one thing. We had finally arrived. In that moment, another American, a Captain, called out to us from the front. His hand remained clasped around the lever of the front door as the landing craft came to a slow and steady halt. He shouted instructions towards us, all-the-while signaling which direction we had to sprint towards with his free hand. I nodded in understanding. Though like many others, there wasn’t much else I could gleam from his orders other than ‘get to safety’ and ‘rendezvous’. Yet, if the unyielding gunfire was of any indication, ‘getting to safety’ was by no means, a plan to object to. Once the sound of gunfire had reached a deafening threshold in our ears, our landing craft had come to an abrupt halt. It lodged itself across the sand of the shallow waters - it was the sign we had all been dreading. To make matters worse, the already malodorous black smoke now brought forth the additional rancid smell of death. With our Higgin’s finally at a standstill, the captain’s hand rose up high. He folded his fingers into a number ‘three...’ Then into a ‘two...’ Then into a ‘one...’ But before we could make our way out, a large bang reverberated from the base of the barge, with it, a powerful explosion launched the entire vessel upwards amid a chorus of panicked screams from the men alongside me. It cast us all out of the boat and into the cold sea of ‘La Manche’. Rifle, pistol, grenades... I watched helplessly as each item I could have used to increase my chances of survival had suddenly scattered into the sea. With them, gone were any lingering hopes I may have had of surviving the ordeal ahead. For a fleeting moment I had wondered whether I was in fact, dead, succumbed to German artillery in the same quick fashion as many before me. Yet, once my body found its way out of the air and into the ice cold water below, I knew that it was all just wishful thinking. It wasn’t until a hand had taken me by the scruff of my neck, that I was able to regain my footing once more. “On your feet, Bible!” Mason’s voice bellowed as he dragged me to a sandy shoreline. “Get your ass behind some cover! Now!” He needn’t have told me twice. With as much haste as I could muster, I dived behind the first thing I could find - one of the many rusted hedgehogs lining the beachhead. I ducked under it, without so much as a second thought, all-the-while attempting to shrink myself down to the size of a mouse in hopes that no bullet would make its way through one of the many openings. In my attempt, I caught sight of a familiar object sitting neatly beside the hedgehog - a pair of round spectacles, broken and drenched in blood. I was shortly joined by Mason, who simply jogged to my position whilst callously firing his weapon in the direction of the enemy. “Where’s Johnson?” I shouted. Mason did not answer. Instead he inclined his head, nodding to my left. Johnson, or what was left of him at least, was indeed lying there. “We gotta make our way there!” Mason yelled, as more men convened to our position, each among them returning fire with the same tenacity as that of the enemy. Mason pointed towards a low, grassy ridge to the west of the beach. Many of our boys had already established a foothold there. That, it would seem, was the rendezvous. I wanted to agree, though try as I might, words could not escape me. Between the whizzing of bullets, the sound of explosions, the smell of death and Johnson... it was all too much for what Mason correctly termed ‘a farmer’. Thought it wasn’t until he caught me by the throat once again, this time staring at me with a look of pure rage, that I began to understand that there was hope yet. “Get the fuck up there!” He cried, “Move!” Taking Johnson’s bloodstained rifle, I turned on my heels and fled, hurtling through mazes of barbed wire and running as fast as I could towards the grassy platform Mason had previously indicated. He remained close behind me, taking shots with his heavy machine gun. Sure enough, we had come by a sward of tall, green grass which stretched out as far as the eye could see. In better days, one could easily admire the beauty of the open plain, though in that moment, the beauty of the beach was overshadowed with scenes of violence emanating from a network of trenches which lay just below. Regardless, by reaching that position, it had suddenly dawned upon me that we were clear of the black smoke which occluded our view of the German defenses. Our boys, of which were mostly American, had already flooded the trenches in great-a-number. They were shortly joined by myself and the gruff American who had callously pushed me over the parapet and into the trench. He followed, discarding his weapon in place of his handgun. As he took point, I followed too. I followed behind him through a dense network of passages and towards the sound of gunfire, taking my first shots at what seemed like a fleeing German guard. It had all seemed to be going well, almost uncomfortably well. From well beyond our position, Mason and I could even hear American soldiers breaking into song. Had it been over already, I wondered? As we swept through the trench, I was distracted by an ominous glint which shone from the sandbags behind the parados. Rifle in hand, I attempted to take aim, but I was too late. A German sentry emerged from behind the wall, aiming his pistol towards me. There was a loud ‘bang’. The last thing I could remember, was falling into complete darkness amid a sensation of excruciating pain in my chest. It had to be it, I thought. Death, such as it were, had found me at last. Though if I were truly dead, then how was I still able to hear the exchange of gunfire around me? How was I still able to hear the sound of song emerge from the west? How was I able to hear Mason muttering curses as he exchanged fire with the man who shot me? My eyes had opened once again. This time, to the blurred sight of what seemed like Mason wrestling with a man in a grey coat. As my vision slowly restored, I was able to see that they were fighting over a Luger, presumably the last remaining loaded gun they could get their hands on. I blinked, repetitively, until the image of their tussle came into full view. Then, in silence, I drew Johnson’s rifle, aimed and fired. Gerry was dead before he hit the ground. I half expected Mason to turn around and thank me. Hell... I had just saved his life. Instead, he just stood there... grinning. “Sun’s out,” he said, looking towards the now-clear sky, a sardonic smile gracing his blood-stained face. He was right, the Sun had indeed emerged. It illuminated the green fields behind the Utah beachhead in a manner which I had yearned to see ever since learning of my involvement in operation ‘Overlord’. I couldn’t help but heave a heavy sigh, turning to face the tumultuous chorus of song breaking out as the American’s sang victory at the beach head. Soldiers carrying the star spangled banner drifted past me, carrying their rifles on their shoulders as if mere faggots of wood. “Think it’s about time I ask again, Bible,” said Mason, “you a believer, son? But before I could realize what he was on about, Mason gestured towards the iron crucifix around my neck - the one which now had a bullet lodged within it.

There is a girl who lives in two worlds. The first is the real world. Half of her lives there. In this world, she is known as the woman who hardly says anything at all. That’s a lie. She is not known in this world at all. Instead, she is a woman who apologizes to people who bump into her. She is a woman who takes the coffee orders and accepts that her name is not Jessica, but Jennifer to most people. She is a woman who goes home at night alone, knowing that she hasn’t said anything important in over six months. But the other half of her? The other half of her lives in a world that she’s designed. In it, she is not Jennifer, but Jessica. She’s the woman who runs around and saves the day. She’s basically Superman, except she’s Lois Lane because Lois Lane puts in the work and what does Superman have except being the only Kryptonian on Earth? Superman might have superpowers, but he’s alone. Lois Lane has a successful career and she’s happy with the way her life is. But, Jessica always says what she means to people. When somebody bumps into her, she graciously accepts their apologies. She can imagine it in exquisite detail, how somebody will bump into her and then they’ll apologize. They won’t spill her coffee and rush off without so much as a by-your-leave. They’ll even give her a smile, and she’ll go about her day happily as if things couldn’t be better. But, she knows that things can be better. There is some part of her, the one that lives in reality, that understands that this is not what life is meant to be. She understands that life is meant to be celebrated with friends and family. It’s not meant to be lived in her mind, where everything works out exactly as she wants it to. She thinks about the This is Us character, Randall Pearson, and how he constantly imagines a life where both of his dad’s lived. She related to him more than she liked to admit during that episode. As he imagined a life where he got his happily ever after, she could recognize her own happily ever after between the lines. It’s all that she wants, when she thinks about it. A life where everything is happy and she is surrounded by people who know exactly what she means, because she never stutters or misdirects. She’s honest about how she feels, possibly for the first time in her life. This is a fantasy in of itself, and as she drafts this new healthy reality surrounded by remnants of the grim truth, she knows that it isn’t right. But, how do you escape the fantasy without creating a new one? Isn’t that what life is? A hope for better days, ones that you might never see but you cling to with all of your might? She doesn’t consider this for long. Instead, she lives her life, and day after day, she spends it walking to an office that doesn’t know her. She’s not an imposter in her own life. Instead, she is a shadow in her own mind, thinking about all the what if’s and what could’ve been’s, wasting all of her today’s on them. She knows that she’ll wake up one morning full of regrets and knowing that life could’ve been better. Life could’ve been the dream that she’d always pictured it to be, filled with more than just sad fantasies of the idea that somebody who bumps into her will one day apologize instead of her apologizing to them. On one particular day, one particularly gloomy day, she awakens to the idea that it is a brave new world. She steps out onto her doorstep, a brave new world in mind and words that she’ll say strapped to her back. She starts at the coffee shop that she always frequents, the barista named Joe standing behind the counter as he always is. “Hey, Jennifer!” He says. “The usual?” Jessica, she chants in her mind. It’s Jessica, it’s Jessica, it’s- “Yes, please.” The words spill out of her mouth, but she doesn’t let herself get discouraged. It’s just one greeting. It’s one word. Things’ll change. They’ll change. By the time she’s gotten to the end of her day, they haven’t. She throws her purse down at a bar stool in her kitchen, thinking of all the missed opportunities, the Jennifer’s that were passed around instead of the Jessica’s, the times that she wanted to have a coherent conversation with Lily instead of just mumbling her way through like she always does. Nothing’s changed, she thinks, and perhaps nothing will. Years pass by this way. Jessica spends a lifetime trying to correct people, trying to get the words out of herself like a lump in her throat that won’t dislodge itself, and maybe that’s what’s blocking the words or maybe it’s another excuse, like all the excuses she’s so great at making It happens unexpectedly. She’s walking down the busy street she always takes to get to work. Somebody bumps into her, spilling her coffee, and she lets out a shout of surprise. “Sorry!” They shout to her as they run past. “It’s fine,” she says, smiling at them. It doesn’t even occur to her until she’s back in the coffee shop that she’d done such a thing, finally said it’s fine instead of apologizing for something they’d done. “Jennifer, hey!” Joe says, as per usual. “Back again already?” “It’s actually Jessica,” she says, the words flying from her mouth without any thought from her. An axis shifts as she realizes what has happened. She stares at Joe. He stares back, though the confusion on his face reads clear as day. “Sorry, what?” “Jess-Jessica, that’s-that’s my name,” she tells him. She’s surprised by his reaction, smiling at her. “Well,” he says. “Better late than never, right?” She smiles once more, the world suddenly a much brighter place.

To my darling, nameless girl - you won't remain nameless for long, I promise. I had planned to name you Harper, but after holding you, I knew it was wrong. I thought about Camille, or Diana, or Lyla, but none of them seemed right either. Give me a bit more time. I'll find something very soon. Happy birthday, sweet one. With love, Mom Eleanor stares at the computer screen. The letter is the first of nine hundred and thirty-six emails. This is the first time she has opened any of them. It is daunting - reading through these one at a time. She's tempted to skip to the most recent - or shut the laptop altogether - but instead, she moves her mouse up and clicks the next one. To my sweet firstborn - you may be wondering what this is. Well, this is your eighteenth birthday present! I made this email address specifically for you and plan to write to it whenever I can. It's like an electronic scrapbook! Look, I even put photos in! The first one is right after you were born. The second is you with grandpa, and the third is you just being cute. I have yet to pick out your name. Soon, though. It'll be perfect. With love, Mom The photos adorning the bottom of the screen are truly horrendous quality. Despite the pixelated and unfocused mess of colors, Eleanor still smiles, making out a young woman grinning deliriously into the camera with a tiny baby in her arms. The second one was a little clearer, an old man staring down at the baby with absolute wonder as he sat in a plastic hospital chair. And the third... The third is the clearest. The one clearly taken with the most care now that the chaos of afterbirth had been settled and all that was left was this tiny human studying its new world for the first time. Eleanor moves back out of the email, hovering over the third before scrolling up a bit higher. She isn't sure which this is - perhaps the ninetieth email written? Ninety-first? Eleanor clicks it, and is greeted by a photo of a toddler covered in green cake. I do not understand the fascination with frogs, was the first thing written, and Eleanor bursts into laughter. She had forgotten that the frogs were such a long phase of her life. I'm not sure I can ever fully forgive you for 'ribbet' being your first word instead of 'mama,' but I suppose watching you smash your face into a green cake as you screamed it repeatedly does soften the sting. We've set up an aquarium for your birthday and filled it with three frogs. You've stared at it for three hours now. Your grandfather says it isn't normal to stare at something so long, but I've been watching you watch the frogs for three hours now, and it doesn't feel odd. I guess that's just what happens when you love something. Happy birthday, little frog. With love, Mom There are more. So many more. Eleanor reads one after another, torn between savoring each word and gluttonously stuffing every letter into her mind. She reads just one more - then two. Then eight. And suddenly, time zips by, and she is no longer in the toddler section but reading about a nine-year-old who wore superhero costumes and got stuck in trees. I won't lie to you, little frog. Things are getting harder around here. You don't seem to notice. I'm glad. You're always so ready to see the best in everything. You don't ask why we have less food. You just say it's yummy. You don't cry about not getting more toys. You just make your own out of paper and crayons. I wish I could give you so much more. I thought I could handle this by myself - but maybe I should give you to your grandfather for a little while. Just until I get back on my feet. I need a job, and you need someone who smiles at you more. If you don't understand now... please understand as you read this. I don't want to be away from you. I don't. It's just for a little while. I promise. The next letter is sent a month later. No job yet! But soon. Your grandfather sends me pictures of you every day. I miss you. And then a week later. Nothing. Weren't they saying there was a worker shortage? It certainly doesn't feel like it... And then a day. Nothing. Another day. Nothing. One more. Nothing . And then... nothing. No letters came for weeks. Eleanor kneads a hand over her forehead, coaxing away the rising tension in her temples. By her feet, there is a low whimper, and she looks down to see a pair of labrador eyes peering up at her with a pitiful look. Smiling, she bends down and kisses his nose, grabbing a treat from a container and watching in wry amusement as the dog snatches it away - the sad moaning and groaning gone. Shaking her head, Eleanor opens the next email. I've done something awful, little frog. I only write you this because you'll be eighteen when you read it, and you should know what kind of person your mother is. I was interviewing for a job - yes, another - and a woman came into the waiting room... Interviewing for the same job. I realized it was between her and me. She was a nice woman. She has a son. He's around your age and likes racecars, apparently. She said she would take him to a race down in Florida if she got the job. She didn't get the job. I told her I was interviewing for something else and that she was in the wrong room - and when I went to interview, I told them she ran out. It was a terrible thing to do. I won't do something that awful again. I promise. But what matters is you get to come home now. I'll see you soon, little frog. With love, Mom From outside the window Eleanor is next to, there's laughter. Children are racing down the street, and a man yells at them to slow down as he chases after them. Eleanor grabs the curtain - thinking she might close it - before letting her hand fall away. The next letter is dated a few months later. I stole something today. You would think a job would pay you enough for both rent and food, but it feels like we have to choose every week. It was just some frozen peas. I'm sure nobody noticed... but I've decided not to tell you that stealing is wrong. Sometimes, little frog, we need to do things to survive. It is only wrong if we take out of greed. Not out of need. And a few months later. You said you hated me today. It's normal, I think. You're angry I left you and then took you away from your grandfather into an ugly apartment with stale food and one bed. I still kept your aquarium. There are four frogs in it now, but you never seem to look anymore. I still watch you, at least. I hate how fast you're growing up. I hate how it isn't fast enough for you. It'll get better. Soon. I'm going to try and get you something nice for your birthday. With love, Mom It gets harder to read. More stealing. More fighting. The letters get shorter. Angrier. Eleanor flinches when she opens the next one. I broke your aquarium today. I'm not entirely sure what happened. They say thirteen-year-olds are hard, but I never expected a hard life on top of it. I was just... angry. Angry that you forgot about that school project, and it was so late, and that we didn't have the money to get what you needed, and then you got upset, and I got upset, and I am so, so, so sorry. I tried apologizing, but all you did was pick up the broken glass. I tried to help. You just got more upset, so I made dinner instead. It hurts, a little, seeing you cry as you try to put leaves and rocks into a shoebox for your frogs. I hadn't realized you still liked them. I'm sorry, Davina. We'll get this figured out. With love, Mom A knock thuds through the house. Eleanor jumps, swearing loudly as she closes the laptop and gets up. Another knock comes - nudging the melancholy into irritation as she marches down the stairs, passing a large aquarium and framed photos to get to the front door. The dog barks belatedly but makes no move to get to the front door. Eleanor glances out the window and sighs. "Dad," she says once she pulls open the door. The man turns, having been waving at some neighbors, before smiling at her. "What are you doing here?" "And hello to you too, Eleanor," he says, tipping an imaginary hat. Eleanor scowls, and the wry attempt at humor fades. "It's Davina's eighteenth birthday," her father says, voice softening. "I didn't think you should be alone." She had half a mind to slam the door in his face. Unfortunately, her father had already walked by her into the house. Eleanor closed the front door, letting her forehead rest against the wood for a moment before taking a deep breath and glancing over her shoulder to where her father was waiting for her. His hair had gotten whiter since she'd last seen him. The wrinkles on his face were deepening, but his health seemed strong, and his mind sound as he slipped into the kitchen. "I was hoping to be alone today," Eleanor admits, running a finger over the granite countertops. Her father ignores the comment, flipping on the espresso machine and grabbing two mugs. "Dad." "To do what? Read emails?" Eleanor didn't answer. Someone had to read them, she thought. "You shouldn't do that to yourself." "They're memories." Her voice grows a little distant as she says the words, sitting on one of the counter stools. She stares at the frog mug her father had taken out and then pinches the bridge of her nose. "Two years," she says, a little numbly. There is a whirring from the espresso machine. "I just needed two more years, and she could have had all of this." "...an espresso machine?" her father asks dryly, but Eleanor is positive he knows what she means. "I live in a two-story house with three televisions, wood flooring, and a backyard that I don't know what to do with." Her father hands her a mug, steam rising from the cup. Eleanor just stares at it. "And I still can't seem to burn through this money." "You should be proud of yourself, El. You pulled yourself up-" "I wasn't able to give her any of this," Eleanor says. She's holding the espresso but not drinking it, instead using the mug to keep her hands warm, praying the glass burns her as she clenches it tighter. "I think every day of things I wanted her to have. Food, her own bed, private school, nice clothes..." she trails off and forces herself to try and at least taste the drink her father had made her. "You were a good mother, Eleanor." Her father places his own mug to the side to look at her. "Davina loved you very much." Outliving your child leaves one contemplative of the what-ifs. So often, you wonder what kind of person they would have turned into if they had lived long enough. Then there were other times when you dared to wonder what they might think of you if they lived long enough to see how you've changed. "I told her in those emails that I wanted to be honest with her about who I was... but I didn't put even half of the truth in there," Eleanor admits. There's a clink as she puts her cup down. "I mugged a woman in the park once to get her a birthday present. When she was living with you, I got arrested. Twice. I never even mentioned her father," she breathes out and places her thumbs to her forehead. A silence settles over them. It was strange - to read a version of herself that only Davina knew and that time had altered. It felt so far removed from who and what she was now... Like her daughter had perhaps not even known her at all. Her father reached over, lightly pulling her hand away from her face. Eleanor blinks back the tears, taking a slow breath. "I could have gotten her a car with all the money I have now," she murmurs, and her father sighs, squeezing her hand tightly. "A safe one. Then she wouldn't have ridden with Carly that day, or-" Her eyes drift to three sealed bottles of wine. They were gifted to her over the holidays from work or as a housewarming gift from strangers who were unaware of her distaste for drinking. A newer development, spurred by the drunk driver who had hit her daughter and her friend. He was alive somewhere. In some jail Eleanor didn't bother to look up even though she had been told several times. She didn't care. "I'm going to read," she decides, slipping from her father's grasp. She got up, leaving the coffee to grow cold on the counter as she grabbed her laptop from upstairs. This time, she takes it to the living room, curling up on the couch. She can hear her father still in the kitchen but ignores him as she clicks the next email. Davina - We tried pecan pie today. It's bizarre to live your entire life not realizing you've missed out on something. I sometimes get stressed, thinking that you might miss out on things. I thought the pie was delicious. You spat it right out. I don't know what about this makes me so happy, but it feels important to tell you about it. With love, Mom If Eleanor still drank, she would have cracked open the wine at that one. How was this her? It had been strange to start reading the first couple of emails - the voice of a teenage girl excited to be a mother. Someone bright and loving and warm. Eleanor doesn't feel like any of those things now... but she also doesn't feel like a desperate, angry adult scraping by each day. She wasn't sure what this era was. Change was peculiar in that if it was slow enough, then you never got to mourn what once was. Hello again, little frog! Happy birthday! I can't believe you're sixteen already - which sounds cliché, but I mean that. You're spending the day with Carly, but we're going to the movies when you get back. I have some exciting news that I'll tell you tomorrow... I got a new job! Something fancy and corporate. I'll tell you more about it later, but I'm thinking we celebrate with a nice dinner. With love, Mom This was where the notes changed. Again. This is when Eleanor changed. Again. The mouse hovered over the remaining fifty emails. She remembers each of them - she had broken her computer once after pressing send. There's no use reading them now. Eleanor doesn't want to read her grief - the begging and apologies and mourning to a cave with no echo. Shaking her head, she pulled the mouse away, figuring she's had enough for today. Then her eye caught something to the left of the inbox. The number of remaining unread emails sat bolded near the top, but underneath was the word 'Drafts' with a 'one' beside it. Eleanor frowns, trying to remember if she has ever logged into this account before. She clicks it twice, so the email pops up in a new window. Surprise, the first line read. Tis I! Allow me to explain. I was looking for my birth certificate to sign up for driver's ed in your desk, and I found this super old-looking sticky note in a plastic bag with login information. I decided to bring out my detective skills - and I found this! Please don't be mad. I know this is supposed to be for my eighteenth birthday, but I've already read through most of these. I couldn't help it. I miss you sometimes. I get why you have to work all the time, but it feels like we can go for days without talking. Maybe I'll get a job now that I'm sixteen, so we won't have to worry about bills so much. Either way, I marked all of these as unread again. That way, when I open this up in front of you, you won't suspect a thing (we both know you'll be looking over my shoulder as I log in). But when the time is right, I'll send this, and you'll be like, 'wow, Davina's so smart and like a super secret spy.' Or maybe at eighteen, I'll be super mature and serious and delete this because I'll be an 'adult.' Who knows? I hope I'm not too different from how I am now. You once told me that sometimes it's hard to like yourself, and it takes work for everyone to get there. There are time it feels like you have to start that work over when you change. I hope you know I loved you the entire time we grew up together. I know I haven't always been an easy child. I did my best, and I know you did too. Hopefully, we'll help each other work out how to love ourselves for whoever we are in the future too. Thank you for the birthday present, mom. And the eighteen years. With love, Davina

We were there for the interview. *The* interview. The one at Vectorien that everyone wanted. Most didn’t get the invite. I did. No job title or position was specified. The invite said: Vectorien Tower / 190 / 0900 Photos don’t do it justice. It looms over San Francisco like a monument. You need to experience it personally. I was there early. We all were: sitting in the lobby. Anxiety is weakness, Emon Nakamori says. Rumor was that he would be there. I flirted with a receptionist and noted her number. Her name was Andi. Displays of confidence are one way of asserting dominance. People in low places can be useful. At 0850, we were told to enter the elevators. There were seventeen of us. The elevator took us to the 190th floor, which is the roof of Vectorien Tower. The ride was quick. The doors opened and we saw the executives waiting. Emon Nakamori was among them. The sun was blinding and the wind was powerful. We proceeded to the edge, where Emon Nakamori and the executives had gathered. The view was magnificent. “This could be yours,” Emon Nakamori said. He introduced us to everyone in turn, including Bill Rabic, the senior public relations manager. “You may be wondering for which position you are interviewing,” Emon Nakamori said. “Unfortunately we have no position,” he said. Then he laughed and pushed Bill Rabic off the building-- Bill Rabic fell. We heard his screams fade. “Now we have a position,” Emon Nakamori said. Bill Rabic smashed against the ground. Someone vomited. Emon Nakamori said: “There is a file marked File-A in the lobby. Whoever brings me File-A becomes senior public relations manager. Everyone else will die. You may not take the elevator down, but you may take it up. There are no other rules. Good luck.” We scrambled for the stairwell. On the stairs we began our mad descent. A man fisted a woman’s hair and bashed her face against a railing. A woman pushed the frontrunner so that he fell and broke his neck against a wall. Soon she was dead too. Fifty floors down and it was safer to stay in the pack. Then one of them tripped me. I lost my balance. I hit another-- Together we tumbled. He punched me and leapt down the stairs. I knew I could not win the race. But I had a notion. I called Andi. “There’s a file. File-A,” I told her. “Emon Nakamori needs it on the top floor. Bring it now!” I ran up the stairs. I made it just as Andi was exiting the elevator. I was out of breath. Andi neared Emon Nakamori. The pack was somewhere down below. Andi had File-A. As she handed it to Emon Nakamori, I basked in triumph. “Congratulations,” said Emon Nakamori-- But not to me. “It was me,” I pleaded. “The rules were straightforward," Emon Nakamori said. Andi is the senior public relations manager. And I am dead. *We all are dead*.

After a long week that was filled with meetings, conferences, kids’ homework, and staying alive while commuting to work with the fellow crazy American drivers, we are home. Not just home, but home for a weekend. The bra is in our purse since we quickly took it off on the way out of the building and getting into our car. Shoes next and after kicking them off they fly across the room, hitting the wall and landing amongst the tower of shoes in the corner of the living room. We open the fridge and see a bottle of white wine chilling and know that this could be the peak of our day. But before we get to pop that cork, we grab some oversized sweats and sweatshirt to put on and get out of these restrictive business clothes from our day. Why are these clothes so uncomfortable? We grab the wine from the fridge, grab the cork screw and then pop it and clug clug clug into a nice glass. This glass happens to be from our best friend inscribed 'I like to wrap both hands around and swallow'. Our favorite! How could it not be? These glasses offer humor and talking points during a party or gathering. Tonight, though, we are gathered alone, and the humor is just being able drink in silence. With the kids at grandma's house for the weekend, our plan for dinner is easy. Just throw some food in the oven and relax. Which frozen concoction shall be our dinner? How about a quick freezer pizza. Takes no time at all to cook and makes us feel like we are 16 again. Well, one glass of delicious wine turned into two and then three. Our face is starting to get flushed, our body temperature is increasing, and our head is a little fuzzy. The sweatshirt gets swapped for a tank top, a tighter one as we do not want the ladies to escape. We need to show off our very un-shaved legs and pull up our sweatpants, so they turn into a mix between shorts and capris. It has been a long winter and why do we need to shave when no one is seeing our bare legs anyways? As we relax even further, we start to doze off. The stress of the week falls from our shoulders as the quiet and the slightly drunkenness overcomes us. Feet propped up. Dozed turns to sleep. Deep sleep. BEEP BEEP BEEP... Jolts you awake! BEEP BEEP BEEP! Repeats. The room is filled with smoke, and you begin coughing. How long were you asleep? Long enough for someone to break in and start a fire, that's how long! Who could do that? Why? As we stumble around the house, opening windows and doors, flashing the neighborhood our headlights since it is still February and the tank top is thin. We then remember that the yummy food choice we decided to put in the oven must be the culprit. Grabbing the oven door and whipping it open, you see the baking dish covered in blackness with what was once edible food. Not anymore! It is the thought that counts, right? Perhaps bed should be next? Naw.. we have waited 5 days to relax, 50 hours working for a paycheck, 120 hours being a single mom, 10 hours cleaning a house that the kids ultimately destroy, and 8 hours stuck in traffic going to and from work. We have earned this relaxation and must enjoy to the fullest! POP! Another bottle gets opened. Why cut us short? After we rummage through the pantry, we find some girl scout cookies which would go great with this wine and provide the subsistence to our body, so we don’t wake up hungover. There is so much sugar in wine, which makes it taste so good, there is always a hangover. Something about the sweetness and alcohol that just causes this dreaded consequence to brighten our Saturday morning. Cookies while drinking are free calories, or they should be. We would have to remember how many we ate but if we completely devour the box and then put it in the trash, were they consumed without evidence? Lounging on the couch, we are still smelling the burnt food in the air, the windows are still open, but will that smell ever leave? It’s like the decomposing corpse smell that we’ve only heard about it in our favorite crime shows. It just lingers. Since we have started thinking about our odd obsession with death and crime shows, we turn on the TV and put on the latest scary movie. Not just any scary movie though. We need to choose one that is gory, suspenseful, thrilling but not jumping out at us scary. We don’t need to spill our wine now do we. We decide on an older suspenseful movie, Bone Collector, which is quite the classic. Even though we know every part of the movie and who the killer is, we still enjoy the deep plot and amazing detective work by none other than Angelina and Denzel. Years before they were established as the actors they are today, we can reminisce. The wine starts to work its magic again, but the burned food smell is still in our nose. Will it ever go away? Do we just need to burn down the house and start new tomorrow? No, that is not a great decision. Let us just put our movie on and drink our wine and enjoy the predictable thriller. Maybe we can watch Saw next? That movie always made us squirm. Goodness that’s an oldie but it’s a good one. Why else would there be like 6 sequels? No, the Fast and Furious franchise does not count! We can only watch people drive fast cars so many times before it gets annoying, to say the least. Saturday we will wake up with a pep in our step and a loud bang in our head but we’ll get things done. We need to be productive on the mom-less day. Or not? Is it even necessary? Who would ever know if we weren’t? Perhaps we will take all the expectations and must-dos off the table and let the day take control. Pamela Fitch

  Describe yourself. “I live in the moment”. Not in some kind of puffed up display of bravado, like, ‘watch me base jump off this cliff!’, or any kind of new-age-yoga-zen sense of ‘onefullness’. No, I literally live in ‘the moment’. The moment when time froze.   Like a flash mob gone horribly wrong, everyone and everything around me is frozen in an instance. Mid way through walking, talking, cooking, cleaning, eating, showering, and all other expected forms of human behaviour. Whatever they’d been doing the moment that time froze, that’s how they’re stuck now. As does inanimate matter. Water which once flowed was now fixed in the air. Once flickering flames now stand static.   It’s as if someone has hit pause on the movie of ‘the universe’, except, I’m some kind of exception. I can still move around. I can still interact with things. But not in the manner you’re hoping for, I’m sorry. The best way I can think to describe the way I exist is that I’m something of a ghost in whatever world this is. I’ve no idea how or why I’m trapped here, or how long I will remain here. I don’t even know if I’m alive or not. In a perfect instance, a single frame of time, what differentiates ‘alive’ from ‘dead’?   This realm has been a collision of science and philosophy of sorts for me.     **THE MOMENT OF OBSERVATION**   I was mid argument with my girlfriend at the time, when she just froze. Actually, I was staring at the cracked linoleum floor in the kitchen and avoiding eye contact at the time. I had a habit of drifting off during confrontation. I wondered “How old was our floor? Who was the first person to notice the cracks in what would eventually become my life?”. And that’s when I noticed the silence.   Do you remember that childhood saying, “Don’t pull that face. What if the wind changes and you’re stuck like that forever?”. Well, the wind changed, and my girlfriend was stuck in the midst of spitting vitriol at me. I thought she’d done it on purpose for dramatic flair, but after a few seconds I grew impatient and tried to cut her off. Muffled vibrations of words rippled in my throat and body, but as they exited my mouth, they became silence.   Worried that we might be having simultaneous strokes, I grabbed her, and shook her. No response. Literally, she didn’t even move. Which was odd, because I could feel her moving in my hands, but visibly she was completely still. That’s when I realised that I couldn’t even see my own arms. I couldn’t see my own body. Turning around, I came face to face with myself. Like my girlfriend, I too was frozen in place. Staring at the cracked linoleum floor, looking pathetic.   Was this an out of body experience? Was I dead? I could feel my limbs, but I couldn’t see them. Instinct commanded me to grab myself, to try and wake myself up. But unlike my girlfriend, there was no body behind the apparition that was me. I fell through myself, straight out the other side. This image of me was empty like a hologram of myself.   I’ve read and watched my fair share of sci-fi. We’ve seen portrayals of the frozen time world plenty of times before. They always look like so much fun. The perfect platform for mischief. This is not fun, though. The rules of this... experience? They aren’t particularly clear. I’ve had to figure a lot of it out as I go, based on what I can experience, because that’s my only avenue for learning. I’m no scientist, so I could never figure this world out, but even if I could, it would be impossible. I can’t use the internet, because computers and electricity are frozen. I can’t read books, because light is frozen. That’s right, the one major element of frozen time which is always overlooked is the properties of light, and that it, too, can freeze. That’s why I could see the ghost of myself, but couldn’t see myself.   When time froze, light froze with it, holding only the information of what it had just reflected off. If you pulled a blind down in a well lit room it made no difference, because light was already in there, projecting the images of the outside world into what should be a now dark space. Crazier still, you wouldn’t even see that the blind had been pulled down, because light would need to be able to move again to bounce off the drawn blind to show its new position. That’s why I could only read pages of books and screens that were already open. If I pulled a book off the shelf and opened it, I wouldn’t be able to see it. The phantom of where it had been would continue burn on the lightwaves filling the space around it, whilst the book disappeared behind the projection screen. Like the next frame in the reel of a projector, waiting for the projector to tick over to be revealed.   So despite being able to see, there is also an element of living blind. I have to be careful with what I move. If I grab a bottle of water to drink, it would appear as if the bottle hadn’t moved, so I always made the effort to put things back where I found them. Even something as mundane as a bottle of water can scare the shit out of you if it’s invisible and you bump into it. Moved objects are the spiderwebs of this time-frozen-ghost-world, that send you into a fit of panic not knowing what you’ve just walked into, and if it’s still on you. No, I had to be neat and tidy in this world, to save myself the stained underwear of dealing with invisible land mines and unintentional booby traps.   Regardless of the limitations of sight, to stay sane in a limbo like this requires a bit of creative exploration. I began to experiment with things, relying solely on my sense of touch to try to unfurl as many more rules of this realm as possible. From what I could tell, everything was frozen except for me, and except for things I interacted with. Breathing was laboured, as I sucked in static oxygen from around me. Breathing out was like blowing bubbles underwater. That slight pressure of resistance as liquid parted to make way for bubbles of air. Sound was a painful experience. Trapped as crests and troughs of frequency, the world was mostly a cacophony of single notes which would bend slightly as I moved around and my ear shifted from space to space. One day, I was absent-mindedly walking towards on of those hands-free, loud-talking mobile phone types, and I noticed that I could start to make out some of his words. It was like listening to a recording that had been slowed down hundreds of times, but the cadence of conversation became clear. If I ran full pelt at the loud-talker from 20 meters away, I could actually get a comprehensible full word. It was faint at the start, being so far away from him, and still in an incredibly slow motion pitch because I can’t run at the speed of sound, but I was finally able to hear my first word in this world. “Fffffffaaaaaarrrrrrkkkkkiiinn...”.   “Fuckin...”. It was incredibly underwhelming. After that, I took to wearing a pair of noise cancelling ear muffs to block out the noise. My experiments continued. I played with objects being held in suspended animation. Gravity was frozen, so everything could actually be lifted up and left floating in the air. I couldn’t see that, but I could feel it. A squeezed bottle of water became a stream of water bubbles. Invisible patches of wetness in the air. Floating in the air until my fingers collided with them, kick starting them back to life as they broke free of their suspended membrane and trickled down the pores of my skin.     **THE OBSERVER EFFECT**   I remember once, back in the real time, I lost myself in an internet spiral. Looking at memes, as you do, I stumbled on to the Nyan Cat meme. Trawling the internet for different incarnations of the cat, I found Schrodinger’s Nyan Cat. Which lead to me investigating who or what Schrodinger was. Which lead to me poring over Wikipedia pages and watching terribly low-fi YouTube explainer videos about quantum physics, wave-particle duality, the observer effect, and other concepts which blew my mind.   For those who don’t know, there’s a cat in a box, with poison in it which is set to be released at some random point in time. Whilst the box is closed, there’s no way for us to know whether the cat is alive or dead, until we open the box and confirm it with our own eyes (aka, observing). So, as long as the box is closed, the cat is both alive and dead at the same time.   Trapped in this world, surrounded by objects that are there but aren’t, this felt like the strongest piece of scientific knowledge I was armed with. Am I alive, or dead? Am I still in the kitchen arguing with my girlfriend, or am I in a restaurant eating the invisible remains of someone’s meal? Am I, presently, living in a superposition? I feel alive. “I think, therefore I am” and all that. But doesn’t being alive require a transition of time? Time was passing for me, but not for anything else.   To an external party who’s able to oversee this whole experience in real time, I think I’d be a textbook example of something existing in a superposition. In this single moment of frozen time, which would have been less than a nanosecond in real time, I would have; been in the kitchen being yelled at, been in most other places in my kitchen, been running at a man on a phone out in the street, been shoplifting noise cancelling ear muffs, been eating someone else’s meal in a restaurant, and been in many other states and places over the course of however long I’d been here. A textbook example of something existing in a superposition. But, I’ve never read a textbook on superposition, so that claim itself will remain in a superposition until I can actually open a textbook to confirm it.     **WHO OBSERVES THE OBSERVERS?** Which brings me to a more philosophical quandary I’ve stumbled upon. Morals. It would be remiss of me not to admit that as an only child who didn’t have an abundance of toys or friends, I had to conjure amazing fantasies to keep myself entertained. One of them involved this very kind of situation. A world where I could do anything that I liked. Enemies I could smite without fear of retribution. Beautiful women whom I could claim simply by my own will. Exciting adventures of building floating cities. Well, here’s the twisted adult version of that fantasy, and the naive ignorance of youth has long since left me, and I’m paralysed by my awareness of the moral injustice of doing anything untoward. Which has me wondering...   Morals essentially exist in a superposition, don’t they? The cat isn’t alive or dead until an observer opens the box, observes the cat, and projects their interpretation of what they see onto the body of the cat. Equally, a moral isn’t actually a moral until an action is observed by an observer, who then projects they’re own moral code on to that action. In real time, if I slap a complete stranger, the moral judgement of that will come down to who’s observing. If I slapped someone’s mother, they’re likely to condemn the action as a ‘bad’ action. If that someone’s mother had a knife and was about to attack them, my intervening slap might be seen as a moral act of defending them. To a third party, witnessing this from across the street where their view of the knife is obscured, they might just see this action as a man attacking a woman. But even after these initial observations and judgements have collapsed the moral wave, interpretation is still open to change. Perhaps a second later the mother stumbles aside and drops the knife, allowing the Third Party to see this and change their moral projection.   So, in this perfect instance, I can be both good and bad at the same time. That’s bizarre. I’m actively restraining myself from doing things that could be considered ‘bad’, which by my observation makes me ‘good’.

A young woman named Lily lived in a quaint coastal town. With her long chestnut hair flowing freely in the wind, she walked along the shoreline, capturing the essence of a genuine, free spirit. As if reflecting the calm ocean, her deep blue eyes shimmered with a captivating curiosity, luring everyone in. Lily couldn’t resist whispering her heartfelt wishes to the gentle ocean waves as she strolled along the shore, her heart brimming with dreams. “My greatest desire is to find a lover, a man who can match and return my deep passion, and most importantly, a man who will always remain by my side, never leaving me.” The very idea of him evoked an intense desire that consumed her every moment. Immersed within the depths of her imagination, he transcended mere mortality. By being her lover, he would also serve as her protector and eternal companion. Believing the ocean listened, some thought that the God of the sea ruled over all creatures in its vast depths. Starting with this wish, the tale of her heart’s desire unfolded. Those who called out to the god of the sea from above were the ones the deity aimed to increase the population from. Lily’s pleas echoed through the vast depths of the sea and caught the attention of the God who ruled over it. The sound of the wind passing through the palms gave off an eerie vibe, almost as if it was whispering, “Be careful what you ask for.” While Lily was strolling along the shoreline one day, she came across a tall, mysterious man. His eyes, a striking shade of green, seemed to conceal a hidden mystery. With a hint of a sea breeze in his voice, Jack revealed his recent arrival as a sailor in town when he introduced himself. When their eyes met, Lily couldn’t ignore the instant and undeniable connection between her and him. Jack’s charming personality, both delightful and witty, matched her adventurous spirit. He embodied everything she had ever dreamed of. Deepening their bond, Lily’s and Jack’s connection only grew stronger as time passed. While under the enchanting moonlit sky, they shared passionate kisses that kindled a deep connection, binding them together. The rest of the town, consumed by envy, whispered countless tales of their nightly escapades, unable to resist being captivated by their love. Lily was happier than she had ever been, but a small voice in her head kept nagging, “Be careful what you wish for.” Without a second thought, she ignored the warning, being infatuated with her newfound love. Jack mysteriously disappeared, leaving no evidence, all the while being surrounded by the gleaming silver glow of the full moon. Lily’s heart ached with longing for his touch, causing her to wonder where he had gone. She found herself unable to resist the mesmerizing allure of the sea as the first rays of sunlight broke through the horizon, casting a stunning golden hue upon the ocean’s surface. His disappearance became a powerful symbol, a constant reminder of how ephemeral their love truly was, a love that flourished solely in the captivating illumination of the moon. With the breaking of dawn, his silhouette emerged, resembling a ghostly figure from the depths of the ocean. The scales on his tail shimmered with a mesmerizing iridescence, reflecting a kaleidoscope of colors, while his eyes gleamed with a radiance that seemed to belong to another realm. Much to Lily’s surprise, Jack turned out to be quite different from the man she had envisioned. After seeing him, a peculiar being with the characteristics of both man and fish, Lily experienced an inexplicable shiver coursing down her spine, evoking a mixture of both fear and desire. The pull of the ocean, with its irresistible force, was inescapable as it drew her heart closer and closer to the captivating Merman who had seized her imagination and soul. Lily became entangled in the snare as soon as the spell was cast. Upon seeing the merman’s silhouette, Lily felt a sense of tranquility instead of alarm. Her heart ached with a deep longing as if she had been waiting for his touch for an eternity. The sight of him was a haunting reminder, a bittersweet symbol of the love they had once shared - a love that surpassed the boundaries of ordinary life. The mighty ocean waves had granted her wish, but she soon realized the weight of the consequences she had unleashed. Ensnared in a love affair gone wrong, Lily’s life took a dark and unexpected turn. She was so captivated by the intense magic from below that she couldn’t perceive the danger as anything other than a sign of love. Lily found herself under the enchantment of the God of the sea, who had cast a spell that forever intertwined her heart with his, deep within the ocean’s vastness. For their love to thrive, she would have to let go of something truly meaningful. The something would be so precious that she couldn’t even bear to imagine it. Despite the danger and the sacrifices that would change her life forever, her passion for him burned brightly. Her mind was filled with thoughts of him, drowning out her worries about the potential risks and dangers ahead. Sharing was a concept that had never crossed Lily’s mind before. The Mer people’s ways were as different from those of the land dwellers’ as the ocean’s depths are from the peaks of mountains. The sailors who escaped the deathly claws of the sirens were aware of this fact. On that fateful night of the last full moon of the month, the moon rose, its pale light reflecting off the dark waters like a ghostly apparition. Jack motioned for her to follow him, and she hesitated for a moment before diving into the tumultuous sea. Like his father’s magic, his spell had an irresistible allure that pulled her in like a siren’s song. She took a deep breath, feeling her heart race as she descended into the unknown, her body trembling with a mix of nerves and determination, ready to do whatever it took for the man she loved. Lily’s naivety sealed her fate, transforming her into a captivating mermaid. She sat upon the rocks, her haunting melodies harmonizing with the others, drawing lost sailors to their doom. In his quest to expand his unsettling collection of wives, Jack persisted. Jack’s father had an impressive collection of thousands of wives luring sailors into the breakers worldwide. Jack had only just begun and had a very modest count of twenty. With Lily among them, Jack’s tally increased to twenty-one. If you’re walking the ocean shore at night and are lonely for the love of your life, be careful what you ask for. You might get much more than you bargained for.

As faint light washes over the beach, I begin to see the sun blooming from its deep sleep under the horizon. With just the slight top of it showing through the slightly colored clouds i think, even the sun takes time to be complete again. I lift the elbows that were supporting me, and lay my back down in the sand. As my mold takes place, I close my eyes. when i open them again, it must of been a little while because the warmth almost shocks me. I had forgotten the unfamiliar kindness of the sun. My skin and body open and exposed, I take in every ray I am given. The sun is holding me, hugging me, keeping me. "I have you" It tells me. We let go of ourselves when we begin to believe that trapping our minds in our rooms, away from the outside and people and light, is safety and love. This is emptiness, coldness. This is pain disguising itself as comfort so it can keep us longer. * After a while, I make my way home to my parents house. I push through the screen door, kick off my sandy flip flops and put my bag down as the door closes behind me. Ahead of me at the kitchen table turns my mom looking at me wide-eyed. " Honey... you were ou- out?" She manages to say with her jaw practically on the floor. "Yes, mom... i was out." I say bluntly with a smile as though it was normal. However her and I are both well aware this is not normal and i had not been going out for almost 3 1/2 months now. I kiss her cheek and sit next to her while she tries to find the next thing to say. " Honeyyy! where is my surf board? And where the heck is julia?" My dad says while he passes my room coming into the kitchen. "Ohhh never mind found her!" He says jokingly while kissing my forehead. I see him turn to mom and examine the still shocked and confused expression on her face. "Okay guys. Mom, Dad, i did in fact go out this morning... to watch sunrise. Yes it was very nice, yes i know this is a big turn from keeping myself locked away. No i do not really want to continue this conversation." This finishes our conversation on the topic. I see my mom turn to look at my dad with the normal "from one parent to another" confused look. He mouths to her, just move on darling we will talk about it later. " So, who wants eggs! I know you do pumpkin!" I love him for changing the subject. As for an explanation, here it is. Im 22 and for the past year i've been home from college. I was engaged, yes i know it's early but we didn't care. We were everything, and thats the only way i can put it. Everything. Then he was gone... more like taken. And suddenly it felt as though everything was gone. So i came home. I came home to find the non- existing way to accept it. People say, "Some day you will accept it and move on." In hopes to make feel better. However, in reality, in my reality, there is no accepting it there is no moving on . There is just living on. Living on. Live. * I decide to take myself to the beach again for sunset. I want to visit the sun again and say goodnight. I don't pack anything with me accept a blanket. I go to my mom sitting on the couch and say, "Bye mom. Im just gonna go watch the sun go down. I'll eat when I get home so you and dad have dinner dont wait up for me" I kiss her on the cheek as she says okay and start walking to the beach. She worries a lot about me. I don't want her too. I get to the beach and find my spot again. I feel the sand under my feet, and the breeze blowing through my hair. I take a seat on my blanket facing the ocean and the pink and purple sky. I first say hello to my pretty friend who is waiting for me within the clouds just above the horizon. Hi my sun. Then i close my eyes just for a moment. * When i open them something is different, and I cant put my finger quite on it... maybe it's the way the wind is blowing, or the crashing of the waves, but something has changed . Then I look just down the beach a little bit and there stands a young man. I make my way over to him because something was drawing me to him. Of course i'm drawn. I stand just over 5 feet away i'm guessing. I stand there and stare at him (because how could anyone not) until he notices. "It's beautiful isn't it?" He speaks. I realize he's referring to the sun and respond. "I find it complicated." "Therefor not beautiful?" He questions what i say. "Therefor incredibly." There's his smile. That smile. His smile shows everything. His perfectly bright teeth that were simply made to be seen. The way his eyes scrunch just slightly when he laughs, his smile lines that shows his past smiles paths. His smile is my way into his soul, so I can see and learn all of him. His smile makes me smile. "So, what brings you here? are you just visiting?" Im now noticing what he's wearing. That shirt. My favorite shirt. Then just some swim trunks Where do they come from? I want to know every thing. "Hellooo..." He brings me back from my lost thoughts. He's now standing directly in front of me. I look at him straight in the eyes. "Sorry!" I start giggling. Oh god here we go, "I- yes i'm just visiting my parents. And you?" I feel my cheeks turning red. He's just an nose away from my face now. "Ahh, interesting. Just moved here myself. Just for a little while though. Change it up." Change it up. That's my favorite thing he always says, said. I accidentally laugh out loud when he says this. He's practically a foot taller than me so i look back up at him, smile, and tuck my hair behind my ear. "That sounds-" I start. "Ohhhh my god!" He stops me. He brings his hands too his head and spins around in a circle to land right back a nose away from me. He's laughing now. That SMILE! "What!" His laughing makes me laugh. "Your just so adorable! Like i just can NOT believe it!" He has always been so upfront and i simply adore it. "You can't just say that!" My smile is bigger than i'd like to admit. "why not?" "I just met you!" "What, we just met so that doesn't allow for you to be adorable?" "No it simply doesn't allow for you to tell me. Not yet anyway." "Well i am and i did. Life is too short!" If only he knew. "Fine... i'll let it pass," I wink at him, "Sit with me..." I wait for him to tell me his name. I'm waiting to hear it roll off his lips. That beautiful name. "-Joshua. I'm Joshua. And you are?" There it is. "Julia." My smile still bigger than my face. "Yes julia. I will sit with you!" I love him saying my name. He smiles big, and leads the way to my blanket. We sit. Out of instinct I lay my head on his shoulder and surprisingly he lets me. We "just met" but we didn't. I look back up at my friend above the horizon. My sun. Now i am watching the very top of it's head rest back into its sleep under the clouds. The pink coloring of the sky fading. I keep my head under his ear. I want to be here for forever. In some way, I know I always will be. "you know, i disagree with what you said earlier." Joshua starts. "Hm? Go on." "About the sun- it being complicated. I think it's simple. It's just the sun. And yet we are it and it is us. But we see it all right there. Us human complicate everything. But the sun is just itself and yet so beautiful. It's complex, yet not complicated. It's full and yet not overwhelming. The sun is our everything. All right there. In my head that is more simple than complicated. Maybe it's the simplest thing there is." My adoration is overwhelming. Even if he is way to smart for me sometimes and I often can't understand what he says. Joshua lifts his head and turns to me. 'This is...this is-"He starts. " Everything" I say. I take his hand in mine. There our sun goes. As I watch the very last of it go down, I take a deep breath in and close my eyes. * I open them, I have a few minutes before my sun goes. I rub my eyes. I know i'm alone. I know he was never here. I know that he visited me in my dreams. But he is here. Right here. I hold my hand to my chest and wrap my fingers around my locket. Engraved on the outisde, it reads Joshua my Everything Sun, 1998-2021 . I smile, or maybe i cried. Looking up to my sun, I feel her (yes the sun) winking at me. Today I gave the sun a little bit of myself, and in return, she gave me a little bit of him. Thank you for holding him for my my sun.

“Will you have another cuppa? ... Emma?” My Mum’s voice snapped me from my daydream, and I looked up at her. “Sorry, I was miles away. No, I thank ye. I was actually in a mind to take a wee stroll up the village,” I said, and so she’d let me go I quickly added, “I want to see who’s coming tonight.” I knew my Mum was wild for any gossip of who was attending tonight’s “American wake,” proudly hosted by our family, but really for all eleven of us emigrating from our tiny village of Killyderg, in Derry, Ireland. They were called American wakes because once you emigrated to America, you’d be lucky to set foot on Irish soil again. I shook the thought of homesickness off, and thought to myself, this is real progress we live in! I lived in modern times! It was March 1917, and change was starting to trickle in, even in our remote spot north of Derry City. The big ships were readying for the season, and I was leaving for America from Belfast with my Uncle Dermot and my fiancé, John. For New York City, even! “Right, off ye go then, but hurry back and bring any news. Tell Mrs. Duffy that I have her good green shawl mended if ye see her.” Mum stared at me for a pause, as if she’d something to say, then shook her head and with that she was clearing up the tea and moving on to the next item on her busy list. I stole a glance at her while she was saving the cakes. I looked so like her, I thought, with our identical blue eyes and thick black hair. But we were so different in every aspect. She was content just to be... content, and I wanted so much more. And I would find it in America with John! I knew it. Still, there was a deep pain in my ribcage at the thought of leaving my mother. Thinking about a long ship voyage made my scalp crawl and my armpits prickle with anticipation, and I wiped my sweaty palms on my skirts as I walked out of my family’s cottage and into the mid-afternoon light. I could hear the crank and bellow of Mr. Hanlon’s motorcar trying to start up. Good luck to him . It hadn’t run since the week after he came chugging into the village, scaring up every chicken in sight, half the women, and Mr. McShea. Modern times really were everywhere, I thought. On 7 March, Prime Minister George had declared parts of Ireland could self-govern if they were so inclined, except of course the Protestant (loyalist, most economically secure) northern part of Ireland. We were in that northern part, so it put speed on our plans to leave. Our entire village were Nationalists all, and proud to be. So there was political pressure to emigrate, especially because my John had fought in the Easter Rebellion last year. “Alongside Michael Collins himself,” he always liked to boast, but secretly I knew he’d fought in the rear of the GPO, reloading weapons, and bringing supplies with the other young lads who wanted a taste of freeing Ireland but had never fired a weapon in the heat of battle. It saved him from the firing squad though, only getting six months in gaol. When he got out, the decision was made to emigrate along with the rest of the group, with my uncle as chaperone. Will America have many motorcars? Probably thousands, I thought, daydreaming of skyscrapers and opportunity everywhere! Why, I could even become a woman of commerce! Laughing at the thought, I wondered if we’d have servants to mind our future children. John was going to be a solicitor in America, then maybe even a judge someday. I listened for Mr. Hanlon’s car, now a lost cause, and paused to take off my shoes so I could save them through the boggy bit of ground that mucked up after a rain. It led around a bend, under the shade of swaying willows, to the center of the village, and I could smell the peat fires all burning mingled with the smells of different feasts as everyone cooked for the wake and their suppers. The loamy soil, cool and springy between my toes, felt nice, and I decided to stay barefoot. I’d be taking a bath before tonight anyway. I had a new dress for my trip, which I would wear to the American wake. A deep blue skirt to match my eyes, with a ruffled white blouse that we’d had sent special from London! It was a real treat to own, and I almost felt guilty, then thought of John seeing me in my outfit and my heart pounded. I stopped for a minute at Mrs. Duffy’s cottage, to give her Mum’s message about her shawl. She gave me a dozen eggs and a bit of cheese and told me not to be dawdling when there was work to be done. Typical Mrs. Duffy, then. That seemed like my cue to turn back towards our place, but just to be contrary I decided I would dawdle a wee bit. I stopped and sat down under the willow trees after the mucky bit, and decided to watch my village just be... content. Was that so bad, after all? I pondered. In the distance I could hear Mr. McElroy yell at his wife and then she yelled back louder and shoved him off to the pub and I sighed. Just then the wind changed, bringing the smell of fresh baked pies. Mrs. McCarthy’s place, will she still sell them when half the village has gone? I could also smell deep, rich earth and sunshine and played with a blade of grass as I observed a skylark land on a willow branch opposite me. It quickly flew away again, and I let my attention wander as far down the lane as I could see towards my home. After a long moment of peaceful silence, I spied young Seamus Devlin running my way. Sighing, I knew that Seamus had no end to his energy and therefore was the village’s messenger for bits of string or a pretty rock, so he was likely on his way to escort me home to help. Feeling only slightly guilty at being caught out resting, I gathered my shoes and the eggs and cheese and met Seamus on the path. Grinning up at me with one missing front tooth and one half-grown in, he reached for my hand. “Your Ma’s after sending me to fetch you home and says I’m to take ye by the hand if I must.” His little hand was hot and sticky in mine, and I wondered whose cakes he’d got into. We were silent after that, Seamus happy to skip along, and with a start I realized I was perfectly... content. Perhaps it wasn’t as bad as I thought, I concluded. But in America...I could be both content and much, much more. I smiled and headed home, barefoot and the sun at my back, daydreaming towards home and my own American wake.

Some time ago I was not much older than a boy, living deep enough in the countryside near the Kent Sussex border. It was a magical place for a child to be back then. My memories are all of the land, or mostly, it feels like. People and places on the land, if you understand me. Standing still or moving, but never vivid as the fields and forests and rivers in the background. Of course, the land wasn’t still either! The trees budded when the winter, and we never had such hard winters, passed and the clods of earth soften in the fields, it was a magical time. The naybellish time, as the old folks would say it, when the clods of earth, frozen up like a pebble beach would soften up like clay and the trees would be budding brightly from their dark winter bark, was like nothing else. The may bells, I think I remember the little girls would sing in some rhyme. The silly sorts of things that stay with you. Spring was a cruel too. Winter, you knew its hard sides and its soft. Biting, itching, cold or excitement of snow. You never know with Springtime. The low hot sun in your eyes and the ice crunching under your feet. Golden green seedlings treaded into mud or swallowed in the freezing mists. You could wake up and see a whole field turn brown one day to the next. But that was it. The yeartimes went by well enough and there was always some fate or festival to be had. When we were small, we, my mother and my older sisters, would go from village to village for them. Vicars and churchyards, tables of teas and sickly-sweet cakes that would make your face feel sticky. The young ones, especially the boys, would always sneak off behind the chapels, squeezing between walls and hedgerows, getting into scraps. Often enough, my poor mum would drag me home with a fat lip and mud caked into my jumper. That’s how boy were. There was no helping it. It must have been summer, with the earth hardened and the grass all dried and sharp. I was playing cricket or knocking a ball about and a boy I never much liked came walking up behind me with his head in the clouds. Well I smacked him as I drew back the bat. My lord. It was like walking up the stairs at night and reaching the top on step too early. Where there should have been resistance, there wasn’t. It felt like a twig breaking under your feet in soft mud. Well of course, after he bled all he was able, all the fingers pointed my way. Not seriously, mind you, but you can hardly say the boy who lost an eye and had his nose wiped across his face was at fault. No one held me to it, no one that didn’t mind me anyway at least. That was the way, you said the right things when you ought to say them. It was a beautiful place and a hard place too sometimes but you were part of it. It felt like we were spiralling through forward, getting older one summer at a time, telling the same stories, trying different things. That’s what eternity meant to me, not what the chaplain told us on a Sunday. These stories though, I don’t know where we even heard then from in particular, you always just knew. I loved them all. The twin sisters, the black dogs, the black cats. You don’t know what’s until you get talking to people from elsewhere. The tooth fairy always felt ridiculous to me, for instance, but the dragons in the wells, the hooded folk, the three deaths... Well the well dragons, Wyrms really, you need to imagine it like this: you’re a child in the summer and the sun is blazing on a sleepy day. You disappear into the fields. Its like hypnotism, with the swaying golden wheat and the dancing pools of shadows by the treeline. You come across a hillside, crumbled away showing a deep dark entrance. In the brightness of the day or the darkness of the night, you couldn’t see a thing. All of a sudden as you feel yourself being drawn near, something like the breath of cold stagnant air groans out over you and in that darkness, there are coal black eyes looking back at you. And yes, sure enough, the Romans mined this area for tin, as I suppose the Celts did before and the Jutes did after and whatever we called ourselves later on did too. And yes, the soil here is full of dark smooth stones, and in the ground water, in a shaft opened up by summer storm on a bright day would... dazzle. Yes. You don’t need to know something isn’t or probably isn’t true to feel it deep down. There was a young girl that crawled into one of these shafts, an old train tunnel, and she was found smashed to bits, presumably by the fall. That was before my time. I’m sure lots of the children that went missing or ran away across in the south, ended up like her but with no basset hound to sniff out the corpse. I swear I’ve seen some thing too sometimes. Felt sometimes for sure. It sounds daft to say but once, older than I should’ve been for a story like this, I was walking home from the pub. It was one of those long summer nights when the sun sets late so I went through the woods instead of the road up the hill. Well, I had maybe a bit more than I should have and it took longer than I thought. The sun started setting. It went so still when the wood doves stopped their cooing and it was just me then. I was maybe 17 or so and, whatever I felt, I wasn’t going show it even to myself! As it got darker, I slowed down minding out for roots and such on the path until eventually, it was black. I could hear sounds, little scraping sounds, rustling in the leaves and passed it off as an owl on the hunt. I kept walking with my hands out in front of me, feeling for the saplings. Saplings everywhere in that part. I became aware that the rustling was matching my own steps. I’d put my foot forwards and sometimes the leaves would make a sound a few feet back. Nonsense, I told myself, but kept ever so quiet. Then I started heard a twig snap, crisp and loud. I bolted upright not knowing what to do. I was like a statue on the outside but, inside, well... I had a bright idea all of a sudden and took out my cigarettes and a book of matches, I put on the show for no one of putting one in my mouth and drunkenly fumbling the match into the perfect position and then, strike. In front of me were eyes then a face, just a face it seemed in the darkness, level with my own. Fox like, somehow, its eyes like solid emerald. I jolted back and the match went out. I went back against the trunk of a tree and smacked the back of my head decently with the hands. I was there for what seemed like... I don’t know. Then I lit another match, this time getting my cigarette too, and nothing. Well, I laid off it for a while after that. It wasn’t that we were believers... it was just what we heard on Sunday was so abstract, you see. Then there was what we all knew by and by. When a fox catches a rabbit, it dies three times. When its caught, when its eaten, when its... passed out, as it were. And there’s life at every stage too. When its living, when its gives life to the fox, and when it gives life to the earth. I don’t mean to sound crude but there is something to it when you see a seedling popping out of shit in the brush. Then there were the stories about when the Celts used to do. Combeston, a place nearby, was one of them. Sacrifice. They, the druids, would take you by the neck, and garrotte you with a rope. When your eyes were bulging, they would force you on your knees with your head back and slice into you. A crowd would be there below this old stone where it happened, and they would be showered in the spray. Then another would take a hammer, or I heard sword too, and finish it. I don’t totally understand why they did it. Sacrifice. It’s such a Christian idea. I think its more of a demonstration or the spiral turning on. There was no here and hereafter... just a doorway you stand between. You spend most of your life facing one way, catching glimpses out of the corner of your eye but sometimes you can turn and, just for a moment, see what’s looking back at you.

Lucas groaned, rolling over under his massive pile of blankets to muffle his sister’s loud voice. After a few moments of silence, a loud stomping could be heard approaching his room. Then, his door swung open. “Lucas get up! She’s going to be here in 5 minutes, and I don’t want her to think my brother’s a slob,” urged Ariel. “But I am,” he yawned. She shot him an exasperated glare. “Fine,” Lucas sighed as he reluctantly rolled out of bed. Why did he have to make a good impression on Ariel’s girlfriend? Her relationships never lasted very long anyway. The ringing of the doorbell sent Ariel sprinting downstairs excitedly as Lucas haphazardly threw on a t-shirt and sweats. He shuffled down the stairs, introducing himself along the way. “Hey Taylor, I’m Lucas, Ariel’s brother. She’s told me almost nothing about you. It’s nice to meet-” his eyes widened in recognition when he looked up. “Oh.” As they locked eyes, Taylor’s expression shifted from confusion to dread. Ariel turned around quizzically, “Do you guys know each other?” “No we haven’t met,” Taylor sent Lucas a desperate look. “Are you sure?” “Yeah she just kind of looks like this girl in my class, but I haven’t met her before,” Lucas stiffly scratched his head. How was he supposed to tell his sister that this was the girl he hit with his moped a week ago? Meanwhile, Taylor’s mind was racing. She had thought she could vent about her worries and complaints about Ariel to a stranger, but with her luck it turned out to be Ariel’s brother. Ariel's eyes flicked back and forth between Lucas and Taylor suspiciously, but then she just shrugged it off and left to take out the lunch she’d prepared. In her absence, Lucas and Taylor awkwardly acknowledged each other. “You’re moped guy right?” “Yeah...” Lucas raised his eyebrows, amused. “And that girl you were complaining about was Ariel?” Taylor ran her hands through her hair, “Please don’t tell her about that.” Lucas laughed, “I mean you were pretty accurate, and she probably should know about that stuff.” “If you tell her what I said, I’ll tell her you ran me over with your moped,” she threatened. Lucas’ brow furrowed, “You wouldn’t.” She grinned, “You don’t know me.” “Why are you guys just standing there?” Lucas and Taylor flinched as Ariel popped out from the doorway to the kitchen. “Hurry up, I’m hungry.” They followed her to the kitchen, stealing threatening glances at each other. Awkwardness permeated through the air as the three of them ate their food in silence. “So, how did the two of you meet?” Ariel beamed, “I saw her around at the cafe I go to all the time, and I thought she was cute so I asked her out. Turns out she felt the same way, and here we are now!” “Yeah, I thought she was pretty cute, but I also thought she was taken. Otherwise, I would’ve been the one asking her out,” Taylor chuckled. “She’s pretty good at sending out mixed signals isn’t she?” Lucas snickered as Taylor glared at him. “No, I don’t really think so,” Taylor raised an eyebrow. “Although I was a bit confused at her relationship status in the beginning.” “I’m surprised you even found her cute, with how much she talks. Doesn’t it get kind of annoying sometimes?” “Lucas!” Ariel slapped his shoulder. “Stop being a jerk.” She turned to Taylor, “Do I talk too much?” “Yes, but I enjoy it because I’m not much of a talker myself,” reassured Taylor. “It’s a good thing.” Lucas snorted. Ariel shot him a skeptical look, “Are you sure you’ve never met her before?” “Nope,” he shook his head. “Never seen her before in my life... Until now, that is.” She rolled her eyes, “Lucas you’re a terrible liar.” He gasped in mock offense, “I’m not lying!” “You totally are,” She turned to Taylor. “Do you guys know each other?” Taylor shook her head in denial. “Enough about us,” said Taylor. “What are your opinions on traffic safety?” Lucas coughed, choking on his gyoza. “What about traffic safety?” “Well, I saw the moped out in the front. Those are hard to control aren’t they?” “Yeah, I always tell him to get a car, but he insists on driving that dingy old thing,” complained Ariel. “Something about it being convenient or whatever. Watch, you’re going to get into an accident, and I’m going to have to say I told you so.” “To be fair, that thing does look like it’s going to fall apart any second,” Taylor smiled. “You think he’s the type of person who’s more likely to get hit or hit someone else. I’d say he’d hit someone else.” Lucas’ eyes widened desperately, begging Taylor not to continue, but she only smirked at him. Ariel bit her lip, contemplating as she looked Lucas up and down. “Yeah he does kind of seem more likely to hit someone with the moped than get hit.” Lucas stole a gyoza from Ariel’s plate, “That’s tax for how lowly you think of me,” maneuvering his plate so she couldn’t steal one back. “You are so immature Lucas,” Ariel scowled at him. “I’m sorry Lucas, but I agree,” Taylor laughed. “You guys are perfect for each other. You both suck.” Their lunch continued as Taylor and Lucas threw jabs at each other, neither side yielding. The only cooperation they showed was in dodging Ariel’s suspicion at them having met before, which only caused her frustration to grow. When the time came for Taylor to leave, she kissed Ariel goodbye and waved at Lucas. “Be careful on your moped next time,” she grinned. She closed the front door, shutting off any chance at Lucas returning that comment with a clever response. He didn’t have one anyway, so perhaps it was better off that way. After her exit, Ariel angrily turned to Lucas. “You guys are hiding something from me, and I hate it. I finally have a great relationship with a girl I really like, and I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t go behind my back to meet up with her,” she ranted. Lucas’ expression shifted to concern. “Whoa, what do you mean by that.” “I mean that you two clearly have a thing, and she’s cheating on me with you!” she yelled. Lucas internally face palmed. He knew that Ariel had issues with trust, but he didn’t know that she would be this angry. “Look, it’s not like that,” he grabbed her balled fists in his hands reassuringly. “I promise you it’s not like that.” “Then what are you guys hiding from me?” she sniffed. “I hate not knowing.” “It’s nothing, we’ve never even met before,” Lucas said softly. “I’m being honest. Also, she’s definitely not my type. Way too strong-willed for me.” “Hey,” she punched his shoulder playfully. “I like that about her.” “Whatever floats your boat man,” Lucas shrugged. “Are you sure you guys don’t know each other?” “Yep, one hundred percent.”

The day my daddy lost his laugh Wordcount: 2835 Written by Johan van Rensburg It’s a stare-off. Little Steward stares at the man in the doorway -and the man stares back. It’s kind of funny, the seven year old braveboy in front of the dirty somewhere-around-thirty fellow. More awkward than funny, though. Little Steward beholds the torn and muddy shoes, from which the big toe clearly gasps for fresh air, to the two sizes big jacket that clearly dated at least three centuries ago which stinks and clearly cries out for Nenna’s wash, to the long bushy brown beard. His gaze lingersin the cautious eyes, which seems so humiliated, eyes that are the brightest blue he has ever seen on a man. Where have he seen such eyes? A vague memory dissappears in his mind as he remembers his eticet. “Good day, sir. Can we help you?” The wonder of the moment disappears like a shooting star when daddy flung the wooden front door wide open. It was a peculiar sight. Little Steward cautiously seeks the safety of his father’s legs and creeps in behind them. When his father pulls his blue eyes like that, there is trouble on the horison. His fathers stares at the man, maybe just a little too long for comfort’s sake. Then, as he clears his throat in a clumsy effort to break the awkward silence, little Steward can feel his daddy shaking the sight off of him. “You are on the wrong side of town buddy. “ He lowers his voice to a bare whisper. Little Steward leans forward to hear his following words. It snaps through the fresh Sunday morning:“This suburb is no place for beggers and bums...what do you think?” Daddy didn’t even linger to hear what the filthy man was about to utter. Little steward is sure that he saw the man opening his mouth to say something when the big wooden front door closed with a sure bang and shuts him out of their sight. Little Steward comes out from behind his daddy’s legs. “Who was that man, daddy?” “It was a bum.” Just that. Daddy’s face predicts that nothing good will happen if little Steward persist with more questions about the matter. “Go get dressed boy, I hate beingtlate for church.” With his heart still overflowing with questions, little Steward turns around and strolls off to his bedroom. Mommy laid his clothes neatly on his bed. He looks at his red spiderman socks. He looks at his shiny black shoes, his white collared shirt, and his neatly pressed trousers. His shoes have no holes and smiles brightly up to him. Nenna polishes them every week. His shirt is just the right size and the aroma of stasoft still hangs around it. It smells like wild flowers. The poor bum. He clearly have no Nenna to help him with his clothes. Little Steward dresses himself. He is old enough. He can do many things for himself now, he is seven years old! And he’s been in school for a whole two years now! He looks at himself in the mirror. Wow, he is getting big! He is a handsome guy. Smiling at himself the vision of the dirty bum jumps forward again. The man’s teeth were yellow, not pearly white like his. Do the man have a toothbrush? Here comes mommy. She’s beautiful too! She always smells so nice! She always does the final check on little Steward’s “look”. She stretches out a loving hand and brushes her fingers through his neatly shaved hair. “Come on, daddy’s waiting.” Little steward hears the loud footsteps of his daddy as he is making his way towards their car. By the sound of it, daddy is not in a good mood. Is he ever, these days? Little Steward runs out of his room. He do not want to get on his father’s wrong side if he feels like that! The car pulls out of the driveway with screeching tyres. The silence insid the car bangs against little Steward’s eardrums.. Little steward sits in the back of the car next to the window, eyes looking to and fro, as he searches... for any trace of the bum. At last. Little Steward found him. He stands quietly in the shade of an old oak tree a few blocks from their house. He looks at the car, and for a brief moment, locked eyes with little Steward. Little Steward sees the man lifts a hand in a greet, but is too scared to greet back. Daddy might see. His curiosity gets the best of him. “Mommy?” Mommy tries to put on her lipstick in the little mirror on top. She smiles at him and catches his eyes from the mirror. “Yes, sweety-pie?” “What is a bum?” Mommy lowers the hand that holds her lipstiffy. Little Steward sees her peeking at daddy through the corners of her eyes, Little Steward notices how his daddy’s knuckles turns white as he clenches the steering wheel as he tries to remain calm. Little Steward wonders what he said wrong now. Then daddy breaks the silence. “Its got nothing to do with small boys.” Mommy looks at little Steward through the mirror and puts her forefinger agains her lips. Little Steward understands. He should not say anything more. Church is full, like always. Little Steward walks silently next to his parents. His father smiles as if he is having the best day ever. He is even holding mommy’s hand as they are walking through the people, greeting them heartily , making all kinds of smalltalk. Little Steward wonders about the bum. What if they brought him with to church? Little Steward shakes his head.No. That will wil not work at all! Look how neatly dressed these people are, all look beautiful and they are so loud! Bum is dirty and quiet, the church people will scare him to death! They will never accept him the way he is... They enter the church and walks right to the back, where their seats are. Now he should be very quiet. As he sits down, daddy hands him his tablet to play games with. Their seats is so far at the back of the curch, he can hardly see the reverant on his pulpit. Daddy lets him play games on his tablet to quiet him down for the hour of church. He doesn’t want to be embarresed by a little boy not able to sit still in church. Little Steward shakes his head again. Daddy obviously do not know that he is big now! He can sit still for hours and hours... Clever fingers direct his questionss towards aunty Google. Little Steward smiles. She will tell him the truth. She will not quiet him down. She will satisfy his curiosity. The ...meaning...of...the...word...bum...enter...wait... Google is ready with her answer: a bum is a poor person, from the very bottom class of the society, a person that has no job,a person which have no home to go to and and lives in the streets and sometimes turns out to be a bully, fighting for his survival on the streets It takes little Steward quite some time to read through these difficult words. Some of the words have to be spelled out almost loudly, and mommy pokes him once or twice as he forgets to be super quiet in church. Little steward doesn’t fully understand the meaning of most of these difficult words. Two words that he does understand, is “poor”, and “bully”. He knows that the bum is very poor. He could see that in the way he looks. But being a bully? It doesn’t fit. This bum was very friendly. After the hour of church the family rushes to the safety of their home. Daddy is tired of people now. Little Steward knows. Their lives follows the same routine, Sunday after Sunday. Mommy would disappear into the kitchen to prepare Sundaly lunch, and daddy would go to their bedroom and hide behind the Sunday newspaper for hours. Little Steward goes to the kitchen to help mommy cut the veggies for the day. Mommy is quiet today. On other Sundays she would humm a happy tune, but not today. She is deeply thinking about something, something tat makes furrows on her forehead, and makes her biting her lower lip. Little Steward jumps on the table and starts chewing on a raw carrot. Mommy sees him, and weighs her words for a split second. Then she starts telling little Steward the heartbreaking story of daddy’s brother that chose to live his life as a bum.... Little Steward listens attentively. Bum has a name...it is Herman. Uncle Herman. Uncle Herman didn’t know that they were living at this address when he decided to knock on the door earlier this mornng, begging for bread to eat... Apparently daddy immediately recognised him. It was a great shock. Daddy tries hard not to think back of his past, there are things that he tries to forget. Now uncle Herman came and opened old wounds... Mommy asks little Steward nicely not to ever mention the episode again...and little Steward nodds. He is a big boy. He understands. What he doesn’t understand is why daddy closed the door in his own brother’s face? How can he be so rude? Why didn’t he invite him for breakfast, let him have bath and borrowed him some of his clothes? Why can’t he live with them in the spare room? Why didn’t daddy invite his brother to go with them to church? Why? Little Steward has to get out of the house. He needs to feel the wind in his face to clear the cobwebs that is starting to blur his vision. He has so many questions, but he dare not ask any! Not even aunty Google has an answer to these questions! He needs to go to the park. He takes his bicycle and rides off, as swift as the wind. Mommy thinks he went playing with friend a few blocks from the house. Let her think that. The public park is not really a place for small boys to hang out. Bigger children hangs out here: they play soccer on the lushes green grass, or sit under the shade of the trees and smoke cigarettes and other stuff, and some hangs out here to have a good time with their girlfriends. It is also the place where bums sleep and faggotsspend their days... Little Steward is on a secret mission. His eyes are frantically searching the trees for the blue eyed man that he now knows shares his blood.Little Steward needs answers. Suddenly he notices the man. Little Steward brakes. His throat is dry and his hands are sweaty. For a moment he just stands next to his bicycle, looking at he man in silence, wondering what to do now that he is so near. Uncle Herman is sitting under a big old oak tree on a rock. In front of him is a fire, and on the fire little Steward notices some sort of tin in which something cooks. Uncle Herman stirs the tin’s insides with a stick. Little Steward forgets to whisper. “I shouldv’e brought uncle Herman a cooked lunch!”The words echoesthrough the quiet park. Some birds rise disturbed from their nests in the tree above uncle Herman and take flight. Oom Herman looks up and sees him standing besides the bicycle.. Little Steward is scared. Oom Herman stirs for a last time and stands up from the rock. He walks toward little Steward. “Can I help you, boy?” Little Steward looks at oom Herman. The voice is the same as daddy’s, but without the angry pitch that always creeps in his daddy’s. Their eyes are exactly the same, clear blue sparkiling eyes! It is the truth, this is his father’s brother. Little Steward stretches his hand forward, the way mommy taught him. He is not scared anymore. He offers a friendly smile. “Good day, uncle Herman, my name is Steward.” The man’s eyes dimmed for a moment. He looks at little Steward. He shakes the outstretched hand . “How do you know my name, Steward?” “My mommy told me. She says that you are my daddy’s brother. You were at our house earlier this morning.” There it is. Little Steward blurted it all out in one gasp. He feels mcsh lighter now as he looks up in the frienly blue eyes and the load he carried disappears behind the moving leaves, in the lush summer air. “Oh.” Oom Herman just smiles and then turns around and make his way to the fire again. Little Steward wanders if he should follow him or flee home. He decides to stay. He parks his bicycle and follows the man into the trees. Little Steward find his seat on a nearby rock in front of the fire and watches silently how oom Herman stirs his soup. Oom Herman has great peace. He can feel it. Little Steward feels safe with the man. “I wasn’t aware that my brother lived at that house. I would have never knocked on the door if I knew. I am sorry for the embarresment I caused.” He talks while he tries to take the tin off the fire without burning his fingers. Little Steward wonders what the leafy soup would taste like. He shouldv’e brought the man of their Sunday lunch. Will he be having desert? Little Steward also feels how his tummy rumbles and realises that he is hungry. He remembered that mommy said that he shouldn’t play long, he should be in time for lunch. He definitly will not eat of oom Herman’s soup. Maybe oom Herman is a vegetarian. His friend Marble’s mom is a vegetarian too... He stands up from his rock. “I have to go now, oom Herman. Mommy said I shouldn’t be late for lunch...” He left the sentence hanging after uttering the word “lunch”...knowing that this leafy broth will never measure up to the lunch that he will get at his house.... Oom Herman also knows it. He looks at the tin’s insides andignores little Steward’s final greet. He is so hungry... Little Steward fights the urge to invite uncle Herman to lunch with them. Therefore he rides away like the wind, so that the wind can dry the desperate tears on his cheeks. Daddy sits on the bench on the stoep as little Steward enters. Little Steward swallows dry. He will have to lie to daddy today. “And why the hurry? You are kicking up dust!” Little Steward thinks. “I won the race, daddy! For the first time! Marble got second place!” Daddy laughs. When he laughs he looks just like oom Herman. His eyes wrinkles on the sides and he looks friendly, just like oom Herman looks...when will daddy get his laugh back? While he helps mommy with the dishes later in the afternoon, he prompts her again. “Mommy why is daddy’s brother a bum?” Mommy doesn’t know. Daddy never speaks about his past. Little Steward realises something. Daddy lost his laugh when oom Herman became a bum. He have to get daddy’s laughback. The answer lies with oom Herman. He visits oom Herman again the following day. And the day thereafter. On the third day the answers came. Daddy and oom Herman stayed in the same house on the big family ranch, some twenty years ago. They were farming with wild, and they loved working so closely together, building a beautiful place for their families to come. The unforgivable happened. Oom Herman smoked cigarettes. One day, when the grassfields were very dry and the rains stayed away, he caused a field fire, by the flick of the cigarette in his hand... It was all over in a few minutes. They lost their inheritance and the work of their hands turned to ashes right in front of their eyes. Nothing coud bring it back. Overcome by shame and guilt, oom Herman disappeared for good. He made a choice to never own land again- and become a bum. Daddy lost his laugh and chose a life of wearing a suit and working behind a computer. And this is how it is. Little Steward doesn’t understand. With a heavy heart he rode his bicycle back home. Daddy sits in his chair on the stoep. His daddy - without the laugh. And he so wishes he could help his daddy find his laugh back. Little Steward realizes the fact that he is not big enough to understand all of these things. But he knows of someone that is big enough. God is big enough. He will pray. God will give his daddy his laugh back. And God will give oom Herman a forgiveness for what he did. The next day oom Herman is nowhere to be found. And the next day. And the next. Little Steward keeps on praying. Although little, he is a man of big faith.

Deft hands riffled through the filing cabinet. She always hated this part - it was never where she needed it to be. Margaret slammed a drawer shut to search another. She grimaced at the bare decor and studied the vanilla blinds. The chairs were cheap and worn, and the walls wore bland art. Dirt eroded the low-pile carpet in a maze-like pattern. She hated the place. Disgust renewed her motivation to get the hell out. She’d been in too long already. “Mrs. Sanford, please sit down.” It was barely a whisper, but it was enough to break her mental barrier. The scene flooded in. Lights flickered on and a man in a white coat appeared. He waited. Margaret struggled against the memory. It was fruitless - the chair met her backside before she realized she was complying. “Your results have come in and I’m afraid it isn’t looking good. I’ve consulted with a colleague and they agree with me. You need to get the treatment or this cancer is going to kill you.” The doctor’s voice was calm and level despite the sweat on his brow. “I’ve survived this long without it, doc. I don’t want the treatment. I don’t want to raise my daughter while weak and sick.” Margaret raised her hand to her throat. She no longer had control. “Marge. Please. You could live a long and happy life with James and your daughter. I know you don’t want to seem weak, but this is not something that makes you weak. It takes great strength to decide to get treatment. It’s not easy. Do it for them.” Her jaw clenched, teeth grinding hard on one another. Still, the words spilled out. “They are the very reason I’m *not* doing it. Trust me, doc, they don’t want me like that either.” She tried to resist. “And you don’t understand what I’d be giving up.” It was quiet, but he heard. “*Ma’am,* no disrespect to you, but I recognize exactly what you would be giving up. I see this every day. I see people die from this almost as frequently. I don’t want you to be one of them. I like you, Marge, please. Maybe just think about it? Talk it over with your husband again.” Mentally crossing her fingers, she lied. “Okay. Sure, doc.” The pressure that held her to the chair released and the lights flickered off again. She was finally free to resume her hunt. She popped up from the chair to search the desk. “Junk, junk, *junk.*” she grumbled. “Where *is* it?!” She toppled the clutter on Doctor Franklin’s desk with a sweeping motion. A clinking sound, metal against ceramic, caught her attention and she dove for the pile of knick-knacks on the floor. On her knees, she shuffled through the man’s belongings. “*Aha!*” The golden key was only one part of the equation, but she was *so close* to escaping. Whispers began anew. She fought to put her walls up, but she was growing weary. The memories sizzled at her barriers like mosquitoes on a bug zapper. Each hit made her more vulnerable. She shuffled toward the main door. “The most obvious solution, but why not try it?” She fumbled with the key in the office's entryway door lock. It didn’t fit. “Shit.” She turned toward the back door. “Lovely to see you, Marge!” the voice of a receptionist chirped at her. *Zap.* The door nearly met her face as she plowed into it, extending the key to the lock. “*Shit.*” “This way, Margie. I’ll get your gown,” a distant nurse echoed. *Zap.* “Guess we’re gonna have to do this the hard way.” Margaret set her stride at a brisk pace, key at the ready. She plugged it into each door she passed, hissing a curse at every failure. It was never where she needed it to be. Her eyes widened with realization. She made her way to the ladies’ restroom near the back of the office, pushed open the door, and grinned. Her eyes raised. *A window of opportunity, indeed.* She chuckled at her own joke as she tried the lock. *Click.* She used the sink to boost herself up and pushed through the window. “Oof.” The bedroom floor knocked the wind out of her as she landed. The sound of urgent footsteps echoed through the floorboards against her ear. Her husband appeared. Without a word, he weaved his arms through hers to lift her back to her bed. Once settled, he brushed her hair out of her face, hiding the clump that fell out. “Are you alright?” He looked her over. “Mmh.” “What happened? Was it another dream? Was it bad?” Margaret averted her eyes. They landed on the snow globe. “Mmh.” “My love, I know this is awful. I can see that you’re in so much pain, but...” he took her hand in his. “But I need you to talk to me.” She turned toward the window. *If only there was a key to that one, too.

I yawn. Somewhere between the boisterous music and the haze in my brain, I realize we’ve been here way too late. How did that happen? Eh. It’s fine. It can’t be that late really, can it? I’ve been waiting a long time to get one more song in on karaoke before we head home for the night. But the outdoor patio of the bar has become super crowded with people. Some are so inebriated they can’t walk out on their own. I had hoped to hear that young lady sing again, too. She’s a pretty girl with a pretty voice, but no self confidence. She’s overweight. Poor thing probably has all the mental health issues that go along with that. I’m not going to get another song in any way. And, I doubt she will either. What was her name? Oh, heck if I know. She only sang once. That’s all I’ve gotten to sing, too, come to think of it. Saturday karaoke is for the wild drunken fools. Where’s Bob now? Oh, right. He went to shoot a game of pool. I weed my way through the crowd to the other side of the bar, ignoring the drunken leers. Little black dress. Sorry, not sorry, penises. Not here for that. Plus, out of here. Bob stands at the opposite end of the pool table from me, so he sees me walk up and smiles. My heart warms. He’s examining the balls on the table when I reach him. He stops as I wrap my arms around his waste from behind. “I’m ready to go,” I exclaim toward his ear, hoping he can hear me. “I’ll be out in the car.” “Okay babe,” he shouts, and kisses me. Out in the car, I crawl into the backseat. Shoving everything off the seat, I’m wishing I had a pillow. I spy my fuzzy pink hoodie with the ears. Wadding it up for a pillow, I curl up on the seat. As an afterthought, I tug my skirt down in case someone strolls by the car. They aren’t going to like getting flashed with my granny underwear. Lying there in a drunken stupor, I sorta grasp that I shouldn’t have had that last whiskey. Ginger whiskey. Who invented that? It goes down too easily, kind of like that vanilla one. That goes down way too quick, too. I can’t drink it because I end up sick to my stomach and having a sugar headache before I even lay down to sleep. I already have a sugar headache from the three I had tonight. Four? My mind’s wandering over the day’s events, and the evening they’ve had out, and what they're going to do tomorrow. I hear yelling. It sifts through the fog in my brain, slowly. People are making some much of a raucous, and the music is concert level loud. Not concert level good at the moment “What’d ya do with our s***?!” “What the hell are you talking about?” Thud, grunt. “Don’t get mouthy, s*** head.” I peek my head over the door and gazes groggily out of the car window A young kid, must be about twenty-five because he looks no older than Jeff, is backed against the patio fence. He’s very confused and dazed. Drunk, I’m sure. He has the appearance of a college boy headed for a career in an office somewhere. Probably, his family has a cottage on the lake and he's there for the summer. The crew of three older hoodlums have him pinned. They’re screaming at him, but I can’t understand what they’re saying. And not because I’m drunk. They’re just screaming nonsense with profanity thrown in. The one older man has his shirt front gripped in his fist and keeps slamming him against the fence. I’m surprised nobody’s reacting inside the fence, but the music is blaring. Somebody's screech karaoking. Too bad one of those young lady’s aren’t up singing. They actually can sing. “I don't know what you're talkin about,” the kid is saying. “Don't play dumb with us. We know you have it. Julio done told us he gave it to you.” Julio? I feel sorry for anybody named Julio that’s gotten himself tangled up with this riff raff. Dumb, cumbersome white guys who think they’re bad ass and always trying to prove it. They probably don’t even know a Julio. They’re just using a Mexican name to sound tough. The kid notices me and makes eye contact. The goons turn around to see who he's looking at. I drop down below the window, quick. That’s the last thing we need, is to get involved in an altercation. “Hey, hey, hey,” the kid stutters, panic creeping into his voice. “You don't have to do that. you got the wrong guy!” “We ain’t got the wrong guy!” I peep over the door again. The ring leader has a knife to the kid’s throat. The young man is pleading with his eyes, begging me to help him. This time the punk turns his head quick. I’m too slow and he spots me. Damn! Are the doors locked? No. Why didn’t I lock the damn doors sleeping in a car outside a damn bar. Stupid, stupid, stupid! I gotta lock the doors. I can’t even figure out how to do that. No more ginger whiskey. I’m done with that poison. I can’t lock the doors from the back seat. I scramble up to through the front bucket seats, thumping and bumping like a pinball. When I keep flopping into everything, I grab a hold of the steering wheel to pull myself toward the door handle. The back door squeaks open. I can hear the other two guys shouting in the distance, feet hitting stones, and a car door slam. The kid broke free and ran to his car. Good. Maybe he made it. I slam my hand on the lock repeatedly, but it's too late. He yanks me by my feet. The fingers of my right hand nearly pull loose. The left hand fingers scrape free of the wheel, scratching grime and gripping at air. That hand automatically clamps back onto the wheel. I didn’t tell it to. I almost stop to contemplate that, but he’s yanking again. I grab on and pull. So does he. My back cracks multiple places down my spine. Ahhh... Focus! A car squeals it's tires, kicking up dirt. Some of the stones patter on Bob’s car. The other two, frustrated at losing their prey, crunch through gravel heading my way. Now I’ve got all three of them on me. I’m dead. I’ll never survive this. At least the kid lived. He’s got his whole life ahead of him. I’ve had a tumultuous, but full one. So far. My heart hurts at not ever seeing the boys again. At them having to lose me. The door to the bar opens. “Someone’s coming, Frank. We gotta get!” Frank growls. And swears. At least he’s got the language of profanity right, even if he can’t speak human. He drops my feet, and I plop awkwardly in the gap. I don’t fit in the gap and am instantly wedged. I can hear them running down the road. My heart is thumping, hard. “Baby! What ya doing?” I hear Bob exclaim, jovially. I gag. A bit of that ginger whiskey comes back up into my throat, and I force it back down. After all this, I’m gonna worry about not puking on his seat? He's trying to open the door, but it’s locked. He reaches for his keys on his pants, but I fumble with the button first. “What's going on? What was the noise out here about?” He stares at me, strewn between the front and back seat. I’m fighting down the whiskey and the chicken strips. “Get me out!!” I manage. I don’t think I can hold the contents in my stomach much longer. Bob clutches my arm. We both pull. It hurts as he pulls me loose and out of the car. I scramble to the bushes by the building. And vomit. He rubs my back. I keep vomiting. I cry. Ugly tears. Hyperventalating. “It’s okay, relax, you're okay. What happened?” A group of drunk people come out, moving to another car and cavorting. “Bob! They were going to kill him and he was just a kid. They were going to kill him. He looked like Jeff. Baby, he was just a kid!” “What are you talkin’ about? You drank too much.” For the first time in twenty years of being together, I slap him. Hard across the face. Shock registers in his eyes, and my hands shoot to cover my mouth. As calmly and as sternly as I can I say, “I am not being a hysterical female, Bob. These guys, they had a kid out here and they were going to kill him. And they’re getting away. They left on foot, they can’t have gone far!” “Okay, okay. Do you want me to go after them?” “No!! They had a knife. They were trying to pull me out of the car.” His face takes on a whole different expression and he pulls out his cell. “I’m calling the cops. Which way did they go?”

Hello and welcome everyone. This is the story of my life. A story of how a little boy became one of the greatest leaders in the multiverses. Get ready to read a legendary story with a lot of plot holes. To understand this story better you need to know an important thing. This story holds seven major power pillars called the seven realms. First is the power realm, second is love, third is desire, fourth is human, fifth is hell, sixth is heaven, and the final realm is the shadow realm. I am from the shadow realm. I was born into the royal family of this realm and I am the youngest. My father is the king of darkness dark Seigh. My big brother is Seigh junior or as we like to call him junior. I have a sister Nour and finally, there is me Shin. We are known as the dark family in the seven realms. An important background about the realms, they comprise infinite numbers of multiverses, not a universe multiverse. You see the multiverse is a very confusing topic even for us, we don’t know why they are there but they just are. A thing we have noticed is that in a multiverse the events are all similar. Meaning one universe is similar to the other in a multiverse. You probably got confused. To make you understand, imagine yourself in a universe from a multiverse, now every event that happened to you is similar to everything that happens inside that multiverse. I hope you understood because the story is going to start. ​ Well, this story begins with the announcement of the seven-realm contest. For a proper explanation, it is a battle between the seven realms prince and princesses. The worst thing is it was my turn to participate. Why is it worst you may ask, it is due to me being lazy to fight? I mean why I would have to fight? I am the fucking prince. But yet I involved myself in the battle. Looking around there were royals everywhere. Arya the princess of humans, Amy the princess of love, Arther the prince of heaven, Linlin the princess of desire, Diablo the prince of power, Clover the prince of hell and finally me the prince of shadow. This fight is going to be interesting. You might be thinking despite us being the most advanced civilization in the seven realms why do we fight? The answer is simple for peace. You see we fight to demonstrate our powers so other royals think we are strong and don’t engage in the fight. The first matchup we got was me vs. Diablo. “This will be over soon”, I thought to myself. I was wrong. Diablo was giving a decent fight. He lost at the end when I aged him a million times. That was very funny. The second and third battles were pretty smooth. I, Arya, Linlin, and clover got into finals. Linlin vs. Clover started the second phase. The fight was amazing. Both of them were displaying pretty amazing magic and powers. But Clover got the upper hand and won the battle. Me and Arya well it ended with me going to the hospital to see Arya after I obiblatrated her. For the finals, I had to fight with Clover and I won. Ya, I am not going to go into details about how I defeated him. Now the real fun begins. I had an idea of forming a crew for a long time so after the tournament ended, I announced I was forming a crew. I already had the first and second commanders. My butler Ace and Ean my shape-shifting pet. After I announced my crew, I started recruiting people. I made a base in the human realm and started taking down other crews. Before the next part of the story starts you will need a background. There are seven realms and in these realms, rulers have formed a council for justice. They command a force called CF. which stands for council force. There are two more forces in the realm led by the two most powerful rulers. First, is the RPF led by Nickalous don Earnes aka Fury. And the second is the Shadow Force led by my father. Now the crew I was talking about is not under any of these forces and therefore recognized as threats. So now I wanted to recruit some strong members for my crew. I had recruited some small fries and I think the council didn’t feel threatened by my crew because none of us had a bounty on us. I planned to break free Jack and Joker. Two of the most dangerous criminals and my friends. They were held in a secured prison. I being me just walked in there and took both of them out. How? You may ask. I simply teleported. The prison could stop teleportation but mine was different. Normal teleportation connects two points that the system can detect but I destroy my atoms and reform them in the place I want to go. Hence no one knew when I came and went. This way my crew was formed.

“Tonight’s the night”. Sergeant Muller said to himself as he was staring over the entrenchments across the field. Tonight he would embark on a daring raid across the battlefield from his own trenches to the enemies. It was not his first raid and by this point in the war he was a profesional in the regard of wreaking havoc upon the enemy trenches when the moon is full and night falls on the land. What was once a daunting task when he was a private was nothing to him now as a Sergeant. Even the prospect of death did not scare him. His thoughts were broken when his good friend Corporal Webb approached him from behind “It’s almost time, are you ready?” He asked. Muller used the moonlight shining above them and checked his pocket watch and nodded. “Of course”. Muller then followed Webb towards the firing line of the trenches and they spoke as they passed by soldiers getting on or getting off shifts of mending wire, digging more trenches, or simply going about their own business. “Why do you think the Bluecoats have been so quiet lately anyways? Today I stood straight up after coming out of my dugout and none of them dared even shoot me”. Webber asked. Muller simply shook his head “Hopefully they’ve lost their stomach for this war and went home. Any sane man would have at this point anyways. We’ve been fighting over this stretch of dirt for months now without the battle lines changing”. Webb nodded “Not us of course, we’re perfectly sane aren’t we?” Muller chuckled slightly “As sane as we can be”. As they continued to walk towards the firing line Muller thought about Webb’s question. “Surely we’ll find out soon enough what’s happening over there”. He said to himself. Once they finally reached the firing line they hailed the sentry and they recognized him as Henderson from his broad mustache “Another night on the job then?” He asked earnestly as Webb and Muller past him. “There’s nothing quite like it Henderson. Keep them all safe back here won’t you?” Muller said as he rubbed some dirt on his face. “Will do”. Henderson said in reply. With that, they then made their way across no man’s land. The area between the Ticonderoga and Ulsterian trenches was a mess of shell holes, stumps, and dead carcasses scattered about the land. Every feature Muller and Webb knew like the back of their hands and they constantly used them for cover and concealment as they crawled across the field. No lantern was necessary for the moon was full that night and shined like a candle upon them and lit their way. They then came upon the outskirts of the Ulsterian lines when Webb reached to Muller and whispered. “Blue coat straight ahead”. Muller then looked over and saw a sentry at his post leaning against his rifle. “He’s asleep”. Muller said. “His head is facing the dirt anyways”. Webb then took a more stern look and drew his dagger from his scabbard and whispered “It's best not to take the chance.” They then crawled to an empty section of the trench and Muller cut the wire and they crawled into the ditch. Their boots made a splash in what they assumed was a mud puddle and they made their way along the firing line until they spotted the sentry. Webb then made quick work of him and carefully stretched his hand over the sentry's mouth and drove his dagger deep into the man’s back. The blow would have been fatal if he was still alive. When Webb threw him into the mud he realized he was dead and his throat slit. Muller then gave a confused look “What the Hell is this?” Webb shrugged in reply. They then made their way carefully along the trench but their subtly was unnecessary. It became apparent the trenches were guarded by dead men. Every soldier they came across was ripped apart with cuts and stabs covering their uniforms and Muller became puzzled. “My God what happened here”. The trail of bodies ended at a dugout where a lantern was burning bright from inside. “Lower enlisted first”. Muller jested at his seniority while Webb growled. Webb then carefully went into the dugout with dagger and pistol drawn while Muller waited outside. When Webb came into the dugout he discovered an officer’s quarters along with a hole freshly dug into the ground and a silver coffin with the lid fully pushed open from the inside. “What the fuck is this?” Were the last words Webb said before his throat was slit open and he fell to the ground with a thud. From up top Muller nearly shouted “Webb?! Webb! What’s happening down there?!” Muller didn’t wait for a response when he heard movement coming from down the trenchline and looked to see Webb laying dead on the ground with a red eyed beast looking back at him from within the dugout. Muller’s instinct to survive overcame his need to enact revenge and he ran for his life. By now he cared nothing for crawling on the ground or stealth at all as he ran past the dead sentry and bodies and onto the field. He could feel whatever had murderer Webb chasing him. He sprinted past the shell craters, stumps and dead corpses he had come to memorize and every step of the way he could feel the beast come near him at an inhuman speed. He then tripped and fell into a shell crater and knew it was too late. Muller then drew his pistol in a panicked frenzy and turned to face the beast. However it was gone. He then peered across the field to find whatever was chasing him was gone and wondered if he had gone mad. Muller waited a few moments more before he holstered his pistol again and ran towards his own trench line and hailed Henderson as he came near “Henderson! Henderson! Awake the commander! somethings terribly wrong!” However, Henderson did not respond and Muller did not understand why until he came near and realized his neck had been slit ear to ear and he was only propped up by the rifle he was leaning on. He then came into the trenches to find all his comrades were slain just the same as his enemies were and the culprit of it all standing at the end of the trench with claws extended and eyes as red as blood. Muller however was out of breath and had nowhere to run even if he wanted to. He then drew his pistol again and faced the beast who had murdered Webb. Either he would kill this beast, or join his friend in death.

Liza laid awake next to her sleeping husband, James. She stared at the ceiling. All she could think of was the day she got married. "The happiest day of her life," or so she thought at the time. She remembered the tears of joy that ran down her smiling face as James said the words that meant he would love and care for Liza always. "What a load of crap," she whispered to herself as she glanced at the bright red numbers on her alarm clock. 6:28. In two minutes she would go back to her crummy excuse for a life, but now she would just lay in bed next to the monster that she married not one year ago and hate him. So that's what she did for the next two minutes. "BEEP, BEEP, BEEP," yelled her alarm clock. She quickly squeezed tears from her eyes and climbed out of bed. Grumbling and kicking off blankets, The Monster climbed out of bed and sluggishly walked over to Liza, who was choosing an outfit from her dresser. He gently grabbed her chin in his hand and turned her face to his. "Good morning," he said in that terrifyingly gentle tone that a mother uses to a child who keeps putting sugar cereal in the cart at the supermarket. A glint of fear escaped from the defiant stare she gave him. She wanted to ignore him. Well... no. She wanted to punch him in the nose, but, alas she was so afraid of what he would do to her. "Good morning," she mumbled. "What was that?" he said with a warning eyebrow raise. "Good morning!" She said, a bit louder, not looking him in the eye. As he leaned in to kiss her, she turned her head away. He harshly grabbed her small, delicate face, in his large, terrifying hands, squeezing so hard his knuckles went white. "I'm in no mood today, Elizabeth. Don't test me!" he spat with the blazing eyes of a dangerous snake. He looked into her fearful green eyes for one more second before shoving her away with such force, she stumbled back against the dresser. "Get up and make breakfast, brat," he growled, walking out of the room, not a hint of mercy in his voice. She did not get up. She sat, eyes wide, palms sweaty, her mind traveling to dark places. Darker and darker it got as she sat on the floor by the dresser, stunned. Finally, she snapped out of it. "Stand," she told herself. "Stand and make breakfast or you know what he'll do to you." She did as she was told and walked to the kitchen. James glared at her. "Don't bother with breakfast now. You were in our room feeling sorry for yourself too long! I have to leave for work!" He yelled, annoyed. Liza looked at the ground. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "That bruise on your eye makes you look horrible. I hope you have enough makeup to cover it," he added, his lips curled into a cruel smile. Liza felt her chest fill with anger. She began to raise her voice. "Well, that bruise wouldn't be there if you hadn't-" she began before James smacked her so hard she fell to the ground. "NO LIZA! THAT UGLY BRUISE WOULDN'T BE THERE IF YOU WOULD DO AS I SAY! THIS IS YOUR FAULT, ELIZABETH! YOUR'S!" he yelled, turning and stomping out the door. After he was gone Liza stood up, her eyes filled with tears, and walked to the medicine cabinet. She grabbed a bottle of pain meds she was prescribed a few years back when she tore her ACL. Between sobs, she dumbed the entire contents of the bottle into her sweaty palm. Her heart began to beat faster and faster, and her head began to spin. She stared at the pills, thinking of everything he had done to her from the time they got married. She walked over to the bathroom sink and filled a glass of water, closed her eyes, then sighed as she dumped it back out again. She lifted the toilet seat and dropped each pill into the toilet bowl. She sobbed on the bathroom floor for quite a while before wiping her tears and walking down the stairs to find her cellphone. She dialed the number of her sister, Jen, whom James had not allowed Liza to speak to since they got married. "Hello?" came her sister's familiar voice from the phone. "Hi, Jenny," Squeaked Liza in a shaky voice. Jen gasped. "Liza? Is that you? I haven't talked to you since the wedding! You never pick up when I call. I've been so hurt, El!" Jenny said in a desperate tone. "Jen... I need help," Liza breathed as the sobs began to return. She told Jenny everything. "Oh El! Why didn't you tell me sooner? Why haven't you gone to the police or filed a restraining order?" Jenny asked. "I...I...I was just scared! He would have found me no matter what," Liza sobbed harder. Jenny explained her plan. "Listen, Liza. I'm booking tickets for you to come to stay with me in Utah until we get this figured out. Get on the city bus and head to the airport. I'll handle everything else." Liza didn't know what to say. "El? Can you do that?" Jen insisted. "Yes. Yes! And Jen? Thank you. I've missed you so much." Liza hung up the phone as she slid to the floor. She beamed and closed her eyes as the tears of joy spilled over her eyelids, filled with gratitude, love, and hope.

I woke up agitated. My heart was pounding fast. The image from the dream stayed intact, refusing to fade away. A barefoot girl stood in the middle of a completely dark path, raising her hand and telling me, _ STOP, DON'T GO FURTHER! I approached her slowly and saw her little face bathed in tears. To my surprise, I recognized her. It was me! It was my little girl... I ran to hug her and held her tightly against my chest... When I tried to lift her, the image faded, and I woke up with a scream. I sat in bed, my mind circling around the image of my little girl and the questions that troubled me. _ Why did she say STOP, DON’T GO FURTHER ? What are you trying to tell me, my inner child? What danger are you warning me about?' I looked at the clock; it was half-past five in the morning, and I had to get up because I was traveling that day to the Wichí Mataco community of Chustaj lokwé - the Owl’s Lair. It was the year 2000, and I was working as an anthropologist in a social aid program for indigenous communities located along Route 86, which crossed the rugged Chaco forest. It started in Tartagal and stretched to Misión la Paz, on the border with Paraguay, covering just over a hundred kilometers. It appeared as a 'Route' on national road maps, but in reality, it was just a dirt road, only passable during the dry season, and in the rainy season, it turned into a swamp that only the most experienced locals dared to traverse. Fausto, my assistant, was sick with the flu and couldn’t accompany me. He was a member of the Wichi Mataco community 'Lapacho,' a great knower of these forests where he was born and raised. Traveling with him made me feel confident and secure, not only because he knew the area well but also because speaking his native language made it easier for me to communicate with the people. I could have chosen not to go, but I decided to travel anyway because I didn't want to delay my work since there were many communities I had to attend to. _Don't go alone, wait a few days and we'll go together! _ Fausto had told me, but I decided to travel alone. I admit that I am impatient and sometimes a little impulsive, which in the past got me into more than one problem. _What could happen? I worked in so many communities and never had any problems, why would this time be different? Of course, I would miss the company of Fausto who was not only my assistant but also a lifelong friend. Traveling with him made the trips short and pleasant. In the harsh and gloomy reality that the aborigines lived, being able to laugh at his stories and anecdotes was a relief. A few kilometers away, one entered a landscape of magical realism in the Chaco of Salta. A world where goblins played hide and seek during tropical siestas, healers and witches cured fright, made love spells and for good luck, hunters asked permission with coca and cigarettes from Madremonte. It was the territory of the adventures of the fox and the jaguar, of the escapades of the armadillos, quimileros and the bored iguanas. There were indigenous communities of Wichis, Matacos, Chorotes, Tobas, Chulupies, Chiriguanos, Tapietes and others in the most absolute helplessness and abandonment, just as at the beginning of the 20th century when the colonization of the Chaco began. My work consisted of formulating projects in the vain hope of achieving some solution for their historical and multiple needs. It was November, referred to as “ Yachup” in the Wichí calendar, our springtime, a dry season of intense heat in this region. I set out at dawn, having prepared everything the night before: my battered Peugeot 504, worn down by the dusty and bogged paths of the impenetrable chaco, and my backpack with water the canteen, lighter, flashlight, pocketknife, and a small bag of coca leaves, mate equipment, cookies, some oranges and work elements: notebook, recorder, camera. The clear, fresh morning smelled of tusca breezes, and the uproar of doves and parrots crossing the sky in flocks signaled a day that would get very hot. There I was, kicking up dust in my car and Wichis-matacos hitchhiked along the road. They were pleasant company, telling me news, anecdotes, stories of animals and apparitions, the history behind the names of the places, and even giving me advice on what to do if I encountered Tahyi Wuk, the Owner of the Jungle. In mid-morning, I arrived at Holotaj -Tonono-. I went directly to the house of my friends, the Palomos, a family of criollos from the Chaco region. They pointed me in the right direction, saying, “It’s just right there.” It was my first time heading to the community of Chustaj lokwé -Guarida de la Lechuza-, which was in a highly critical situation. At from that place, I couldn’t continue in my vehicle as I had to cross the sandy banks of the Tonono River. I accepted the horse they offered me, a beautiful bay, large but gentle. They helped me mount it by stepping onto a log, and I headed north, carrying my backpack. I was happy, as riding the horse allowed me to experience the forest more closely, a place that always drew my soul like a goat to the forrest. Without a doubt, some ancestral memory of the wild woman that I once was remained in my genes. I let the horse carry me at its steady, unhurried pace as I filled my lungs with the thick scents of the forest and let the noise of the birds fill my ears. My eyes followed the flight of flocks of parrots and doves in the sky. Nearby was the lagoon Inaj pitaj -Water Long-, where the ruckus of chuñas, charatas, ducks, and other animals echoed, all coming to quench their thirst in this harsh, forgotten land, scorched by torrid summers and once home to tigers and jaguars, and mythological serpents. I arrived at Tonono River and crossed the large sandy area. On the other side I looked for the path that they had told me was “right there” and that would take me “straight to the community”. But, surprise! Before my eyes there was not “one path”, but several _ What now? _ I asked myself, observing the three paths that opened up before me. _ Which one would Fausto take? The one on the left, the right, or perhaps the middle?' I remembered a friend who in similar circumstances, consulted coca leaves to help him decide, but I lacked that ancient wisdom. So, to avoid making a mistake, I steered the horse down the middle path. I must have traveled for an hour, entering a forest that became denser with carob trees, thorny bushes, and ancoches, but there was no sign of Chustaj Lokwé. I had no idea where I was, and in my anxiety, I made the biggest mistake one could make in such circumstances. I left the path and went into the woods, thinking that perhaps I could find the community that way. I continued on with the poor horse, which struggled to dodge the thick branches of the trees and the prickly chaguar plants. I had no notion of the time that had passed and I continued walking without finding the path that would take me to the community. The sweat was running down my feverish forehead, and I realized from the trees that I kept passing the same spot over and over again. Was I going in circles? Everything seemed to indicate that I was. I tried to stay calm, but I was breathing heavily, exhausted, dead tired, hungry, and with a burning thirst consuming me from within. The forest, which had always been a welcoming home, my green refuge, now felt suffocating, threatening, like a wild animal with branches clawing at me with every step. _ 'This can't be happening to me! Where did I go wrong? They told me that once I crossed the river, there would be a path leading straight to the community just a few meters ahead. Why can't I find it? They must have given me the wrong directions, no doubt!' _ I repeated to myself angrily and kept riding the poor horse, who seemed even more lost than I was. _ 'Calm down! Calm down! Breathe... breathe... everything is fine!' _ I kept telling myself, but calm was like a delicate butterfly that landed on my fingers and flew away just as quickly. Then I would hear Fausto’s words again: 'Don’t go alone...' Now, trembling with fear, surrounded by forest spirits and goblins, I recognized my mistake. I should have listened to Fausto’s warning and the message from my dream, my Niña, telling me: _ STOP, DON’T GO ON! _ Overwhelmed and desperate, I finally accepted that I was lost, trapped in that green labyrinth. Terror took hold of me, I trembled with fear, but the worst was the mental suffering. I saw myself arriving at the village, chatting and laughing with the people, drinking cool water from the jar that was under the shade of a carob tree and suddenly I was overwhelmed by negative thoughts. I remembered what Fausto told me about people lost in the woods, how the heat makes them sweat, attracting hundreds of bees and wasps that pounce on their bodies, stabbing them with their stingers, causing painful swellings, and how little by little their minds become lost and their sense of direction becomes unbalanced, and they start running madly, torn by thorns. I dismounted under a leafy guayacán tree. I was completely soaked in sweat and thirsty. I sat down on a log, took out my canteen and, thirsty, took several sips of water. I took an orange out of my backpack and ate it. Becoming aware that I was lost and alone in that wild forest terrified me. I felt totally vulnerable, completely orphaned, and I let out all that fear in a scream that echoed in the forest like a mournful lament. For a long time I screamed for help until my throat hurt. I stopped, I felt dizzy, I was floating in the air as if I were levitating. I thought that the screams had taken all my energy, then my mind began to play tricks on me. Suddenly all the spirits and goblins of the forest that I knew through the stories of the Matacos appeared before me. There were the Wooden Goblins, their bodies were like dry branches, they liked to chase the lost and they watched them camouflaged with the trees and the foliage. Chamin, the “Skeleton of the Mountain” goblin, was the one who impressed me the most. They said he was a terrible entity that the Matacos themselves feared. Sometimes he allowed himself to be seen, but he preferred to be heard by making a noise similar to two branches colliding or the sound of footsteps dragging on dry leaves. I recognized him because he had a white head, large, round, protruding eyes, and terrible fangs protruding from his mouth like those of a jaguar, elongated and pointed. He had no muscles, he was pure bone and his neck was as thin as a finger. He was always wandering through the forest. Suddenly a hoarse song like that of a bird arose from the group. I looked carefully to see who the singer was and to my surprise I discovered Suweletaj, the gardener goblin of the carnations of the air. He lived in them, hanging from them like a nest. In that delirium I saw Etek, the goblin with the head of a sajasta, appear from among the bushes. He had once appeared to me during my siesta when I was playing under a blackberry plant in the yard of my house. He was a short, chubby goblin, with dark skin and boar's nails. He wore a chiripa and was bare-chested and bare-footed. He appeared suddenly and made signs with his hands for me to come closer. But the fear had paralyzed me, and I couldn't move and I was speechless. When my mother found me, I was as pale as a corpse and couldn't speak. They took me to the doctor, but he couldn't tell me what was wrong. I was like that without a voice for a long time, until one day my mother took me to a cuña ipayé, a shaman who had been recommended to her and who lived in the Guaraní community of Yacui. When I grew up, they told me that she cured me of my fright for seven days. At seven in the evening, they say that he called my name loudly three times. That was how he called my soul to return to the body, since it had escaped in fear. Apparently the healing worked because he gave me back my voice and little by little the confidence to play in the yard again. Now an adult woman, I looked at Etek with curiosity. I looked at him straight on, not defiantly but with respect. He looked at me too and smiled. I understood, that time when he appeared to me during my nap, he just wanted to play with me. The others continued to look at me strangely, as if to say: _ And this Sulú, who is she? Sulú in the Wichi Mataco language means, white woman. Luckily, fear paralyzed me so much that I did not run away, which would have been fatal. My heart was beating rapidly, the palpitations were a drum resonating in those lonely places in the woods, I felt that fear was a hairy worm crawling all over my body, so I closed my eyes tightly and repeated out loud: _ This is not true!... It is not true!... It is not true!... When I opened my eyes, the group had disappeared. I began to breathe deeply and calmed down and thought: _ How stupid I was for not listening to my inner child warning in the dream! Why didn't I listen to Faust? How many more times would I have to hit myself in life to learn to see the signs? _ With effort I regained control of the runaway horse in my mind. The heat was pressing hard and thirst dried my mouth, bitter from the taste of fear in my skin. I lit the fire hoping that someone would see the smoke from afar and locate me because I thought that surely at that time they were already looking for me. The Doves, seeing that I didn't return, would realize that I was lost. I waited by the fire for a long time, but I was heartbroken when I realized that no one would come. Every moment I looked at the sky in search of the sun to locate me along its path, but it was completely covered in clouds. I thought it best to get back on my horse and find the way. I tried to get on the horse but it was too tall. I tried swinging one leg, but with such bad luck I fell backwards and hit my head against the ground. I stayed there for I don't know how long. I woke up, slowly opened my eyes and then I saw that the clouds were parting and the sun was visible. I was able to locate myself there, and I realized that instead of going back I was moving away. Then, like in a dream, wrapped in the dust of a whirlwind, a human figure appeared. It was an old Mataco man walking towards me. He was very old, like an ancient carob tree. He was wearing a large, wide-brimmed palm hat, a machete hanging from his waist and a coil of rope across his chest. His large feet caught my attention, with toes sticking out of worn leather flip-flops. The old man came to me and without saying a word he brought the horse to me and helped me mount it, he took the reins and we started walking, I on horseback, he on foot. We made the whole journey in silence without saying a word. We reached the main road from where I saw the Palomos' house. I gave a shout of joy, and I was laughing and crying at the same time and when I turned around to thank the old man I saw him disappear into the woods. That night, already in the safety of my house, I felt a deep joy that invaded me completely. I understood that I had passed another test in my life, a transforming experience that demanded the deepest part of my being. I had faced fear in its purest form, alone in the middle of a threatening I never knew which road we took, I do remember that we never crossed the sandbank of the river, nor did I ever know who the old man was. I investigated, I asked Creoles and Aborigines but no one knew him. mountain, surrounded by spirits and memories, but I had managed to overcome it. I had emerged from the green labyrinth, not only physically, but also emotionally intact. I felt infinite gratitude. I was alive, safe and at peace with my soul, enriched by that powerful experience, because not only had I managed to get out of the mountain, but with me I had taken my Little Girl out of the dark path of loneliness and fear in which she was lost and in which she lived for so many years.

Last night Anna dreamt she was secured in a large rose bud. Every petal of the flower was strategically placed to protect her from the outside world. Thick and thorny vines snap on the ground, threatening anything or anyone that might come close. In that moment she felt nothing in the real world could give her as much comfort as the flower and constantly moving vines did in that dream. The roses she examines in front of her now at her local garden fresh flower shop are more delicate. That’s part of the beauty of them. You have to take care of them in order to keep their dainty looks and vibrant colors. Freeze them, put them in ice, put them in water, press them, preserve them, even dry them and keep the petals. We’ll do all sorts of things to keep flowers around for as long as possible. Moving away from the roses, she sees a basket of mixed bouquets that are on sale because they’re a couple days old. She’s always had an interest in older items. Lockets gone brass. Chipped tea pots. Jammed typewriters. Flowers are just one of the many things in this life that start to lose their splendor as time passes. Anna feels that way, like a fading beauty in an unromantic world. She knows she can adorn her hair with ribbon, rub cherry colored tint on her lips, and wear frilly skirts for now. However, as her appearance ages and changes, everything else will change with it. All of her efforts to beautify herself will be seen as futile. Some of the bundles have many different types of flowers, mixed carnations and roses embellished with pieces of baby’s breath and wildflower. Some are rose bouquets, in an array of different colors. Suddenly, one stray bouquet of tulips, colored a deep scarlet red, catches her wandering eyes. Roses are delicate and fresh, representing a dream of security. Then, there are tulips, the flower of spring. The bulbs blossom into cups fit for a fairy. The stem is free of thorns and leaves, as if to say that they don’t need anything to prove their beauty. Flowers in hand, Anna moves towards the check out, but not before her eyes can catch a bumble bee flying out of a rose bud. She thinks back on her dream last night, wondering if bugs ever take a second to hide in a flower just for a few seconds of safety. She thinks that if she was a bee that she would do that. The person in front of her in the ever growing line has another bouquet of tulips. His frame is tall and boxy. He turns his head from side to side, observing the world around him. He lets out a playful chuckle as a child waddles past. There is an aura about him that makes him seem just as fresh and vivacious as the season. With spring awakening an effervescent and talkative energy within her, Anna feels the need to approach him. She composes herself, pushing her hair away from her face, and pulling at her sweater nervously. Before she can tap his shoulder, he turns his head in her direction, stopping her in her tracks. She sees his narrow brown eyes, peering through wire glasses at the red tulips in her hands. She can’t move, stuck with her free hand glued to the bottom of her sweater and her other hand still holding the tulips. Just tighter than before. “You’re lucky I didn’t grab those,” he teases, as he turns around with a bright and sprightly smile. His glasses look too big for his face. He has raspberry colored lips that look shiny and hydrated. His skin is the color of golden beach sand in the summer sun. He has a glowing smile so big, it could light up the sky on the night of a new moon. Something about seeing him face to face sparks something inside her. The light that flitters through the trees is brighter. The flowers in their hands take on a richer, more vivid color. The cashier smiles bigger, and her voice raises in pitch. The birds chirp in harmonies. The butterflies thump against the walls of her stomach. The world comes to life around her. “I suppose I am,” Anna laughs, feeling relieved she didn’t have to start the conversation. However, in just one second she feels the need to say something else. She gestures to the ‘For Sale’ basket that she found her tulips in. “I meant to ask you if you found those in the basket right there? I really love tulips, but I didn’t see any other ones around.” “Yeah,” he answers, longingly. “The only two bouquets of tulips they have, I think. I’m glad I left one. No matter how tempting it was to take the last one... I knew there was someone out there who loved them just as much as me, and they deserve their tulips too.” “Thank you very much.” Anna doesn’t know if she’s thanking him for leaving the tulips or taking the time to talk to her. Even so he accepts her gratitude with a nod and a grin. “You know what tulips symbolize?” She furrowed her eyebrows in curiosity. The only thing tulips have ever symbolized to Anna is her hometown. On her way to visit her mom every few months, she passes the local farm, where they grow in neatly arranged rows over the hills. Anna wonders if that same farm is supplying the tulips that are in their arms right now. “No, I’m not familiar.” “I used to read about the language of flowers,” he leans in, as if he’s telling a great secret, so close that she can smell remnants of cloves and cinnamon on his breath. “Tulips, red tulips specifically, represent true love. Passionate love.” Her face burns, and her body shivers. Her heart races, and her mind slows. She wants to say more, but her tongue is stuck to the roof of her mouth. All of Anna’s feelings are conflicting with one another. It keeps her still, standing there stupidly smiling until they’re interrupted. “Excuse me, sir,” the cashier prompts him to move forward. “You’re next.” “So sorry,” He says sincerely, walking forward in line. Even the way he apologizes to strangers is pleasant. As he steps up the counter, turning away from her, the reality of the situation dawns on Anna. The smile falls off of her face. Her shoulders slump forward. She drops her head and stares at her ruffled socks peeking out of her black Mary Janes. She just knows that the conversation is over this very second. Meet cutes only exist in movies, she thinks to herself. She stares at the flower of true love, feeling bad that so many red tulips are bought by people who may never experience such a thing. She feels bad for herself too. Anna has always been a hopeless romantic, though she will never call it that. The phrase seems so comfortless. The word hopeless burrows itself under her skin. Is it really so pathetic to want to find love? “I’d like to buy her flowers too please,” he says, cutting off the rampage in her mind at once. Anna hesitantly looks up and passes her flowers over to the cashier with unsure hands. She looks up at the side of his face the whole time he’s paying, examining everything about him. His unruly facial hair. His golden earring that she didn’t even notice before. The way his smile looks charming, even from the side. She looks away as he shoves his wallet back into his pocket, silently hoping he didn’t catch her staring. He hands her back the bundle of tulips with steady, calloused hands. Her fingertips feel his warmth for just a moment, immediately wanting more. She can barely mumble a thank you while accepting them, shyness finally taking its hold on her. He seems more confident than when she first walked up. “I forgot to ask your name.” Still stunned from the reality of the whole situation, Anna takes time to breathe before answering. She worries somehow it would all come out wrong if she speaks without thinking. “I’m Susanna. My friends call me Anna.” “My name is Asher, and I’d love to see you again, Anna.” He pulls a red tulip out of his bouquet and hands it to her. She keeps her eyes locked on his brilliant honey colored ones, as she accepts the flower in her hand. “Until then.” Anna stands there unmoving, watching him as he walks away. Finally, she looks down at the tulip, planning to place it carefully in her hair. Unexpectedly, she sees a small piece of paper tucked into the flower bulb. Of course, he wouldn’t just leave without giving her a way to get in contact. The small piece of paper is the ticket to communicating with him again: a ten digit number in flowery writing. She sits on the sidewalk, tucking the flower into her hair and the number into the pocket of her vintage sailor shorts. She watches as families and couples flit from one store to the next. Birds fly from tree to tree, singing out beautiful tunes. Teenagers walk through the streets in groups, laughing and talking amongst themselves lightheartedly. As she sits, allowing the world to rush by her, the blue sky fades into various shades of purples and pinks. Puffs of cotton drift across the ever changing heavens and out of her vision. In her mind, she compares them to her doubts and fears. Fading away so she can focus on the beauty of her life. Anna thinks back on her experience meeting Asher, and the dream she had just the night before. His rough hands are reminiscent of the thorny vines that protected her in the dream. His warm laugh and melodic voice is comforting like the petals. His considerate and gentle outlook on life brings a similar feeling of calm to her. It makes her think if her dream was really that comforting? She woke up feeling more relaxed than she had been in a long time, but meeting someone like Asher has brought her to a new level of euphoria that she didn’t know existed. She feels herself vibrating on a whole new frequency, feeling things she never felt before. Her soul is filled with the colors of spring. Spring may be a season that brings life, opportunity, rebirth, and joy into the world around her. But in this moment, Anna is convinced Asher is her spring, birthing new opportunities for connection into her life. The birds are the messengers of his presence. The flowers are the symbols that he uses to convey his love to the world around him. Just like the spring is thawing out the ground below her, Anna could feel that Asher’s company began to thaw her heart. She can’t help, but ask the question circulating in her mind. Was her true comfort waiting here for her the whole time?

“... she said, surprisingly. ‘What of all our love before? Did that mean nothing? ’ He looked at her apologetically. ‘It did at the time ,’ he said firmly. ‘ But not anymore .’ ‘Oh ,’ she sighed sorrowfully-” “Stop, stop, STOP,” Rob exclaimed and waved with his hands. One of them looked like it was going to fall off again. “I can’t take this anymore! What is this, Sally? Are you trying to poison me? I’m dead already!” A gasp traveled through the room. The rest of the writing circle participants looked at Rob with surprise. “That’s a bit harsh, man,” said Joe, a rotting old farmer. “I’m sure she’s doing her best.” The old lady up front clenched to her little writing pad and nodded fervently. “See? She’s nodding and all...” Rob shook his head. “What, are you all deaf? I’m just asking because that would explain how you could stand and listen to this crap!” “Rob!” exclaimed Denise, a woman that still acted from habit and put make-up on her face. “We do not talk like that here! Only positive encouragement!” Rob snorted. “It’s best she hears the truth sooner, rather than later.” He turned to poor Sally, who’d probably be turning all red, had she not lost all her blood already. He placed both palms around his mouth, to make his next words even more clear. “You suck!” “Rob,” Bill said and stood up. Of all of them, he still looked the most human. “I’m gonna have to ask you to leave. This group is for supporters only.” Rob stood up. “I was just about to. You sorry lot make me rot faster than normal.” He deliberately bumped Bill’s shoulder as he walked past him and out on the street. What a bunch of losers , he thought. Thinking they can write just because they can hold a pen- “Rob!” He turned around. It was Bill. He was waving an extra hand in his hand at him. “You forgot something.” Rob looked at his hands. The right one was missing. He sighed. Even with a faulty hand, I can still write better than Sally. He stomped up to Bill and snatched his hand. “Thanks.” “Why are you such a dick, Rob?” “I don’t know, maybe it’s the weather.” The heat was getting to him. Or perhaps it was maggots, eating at his flesh that caused all these frustrations. Constantly chewing and biting. It itched and he couldn’t really scratch because they were somewhere deep in his flesh. He could hear them feasting on him at night. “If you keep acting like this no one is going to want to read your book, should you actually finish it,” Bill called after him. “Good,” Rob replied. “Wouldn’t want their simple minds to twist an ankle on my fast, clean pacing!” He limped down the street, readjusting his hand as he went along. In his mind, all those disgusting adverbs screamed to him in Sally’s high-pitched, nervous voice. Surprisingly, apologetically, sorrowfully... He snorted. “She’s right though,” he said to himself. “First I was surprised, then I was sorry for coming and now I’m full of sorrow for the slaughtered prose.” Being dead is no excuse for writing dead weight. Rob limped all the way from Bill’s street to his own house. Quite a feat for a broken-legged, maggot-infested, irritated to hell by bad narration zombie. All he needed now was some idiot with a 12-gauge shotgun to spray his brains all over the street. That kind of stuff happened rarely these days, the apocalypse settled and all, but there were still human survivors roaming around. One couldn’t do wrong by being careful. Eventually, Rob arrived at his home, hand readjusted and brains still slushing in his skull. He noticed his neighbor watering the grass with a garden hose. Poor fool. Didn't he know there was no water? “Hey, Ned.” The man snapped up straight. “Huh? Oh, hey there, Rob!” “Sprinkling, I see?” “Yeah, man’s gotta do what the misses tells him to, you know.” “How’s the wife?” “Still dead, thank heavens!” “That’s great!” Dear God, the pinnacle of conversation, right there! Still, better than surprisingly, apologetically and sorrowfully... “Hey Rob,” Ned said before Rob would disappear inside his house and not be seen for days again. “Would you like to come to our house and have dinner tonight?” Rob sighed. “Ned, we’re zombies, we don’t eat dinner. Unless you've got a fresh human in the fridge, then perhaps you can persuade me.” “Oh, right.” Ned seemed confused. “Forgot about that.” “Not surprisingly ,” Rob said and grimaced. “Your brain is rotting. Cheers.” He slammed the door and cursed when he saw Mittens, his pet dead cat, chewing on her paw in the hallway. “How many times have I told you, stop eating yourself!” Mittens looked up, her black tongue sticking out. “I know you’re too slow and lazy to catch mice, but geez! Your own foot? Seems kind of desperate, if you ask me.” He shooed the cat away and walked to the kitchen. Then again, what did he eat? Nothing. The maggots were the ones eating him . And it was the damnedest thing. By all laws of physics and nature and the holy bible, he should have been dead the moment his heart stopped beating, yet here he was, still walking, talking and insulting other should-be-dead-too people. Ain’t this a hell , he thought. Well, at least I can still write. For some reason, perhaps the same one Ned was still ‘watering’ the grass, he checked the fridge. Of course, beer was long gone. So was everything else. Not that he needed any of it, but it just seemed right to stuff things in his mouth. Perhaps I should munch on my hand, like Mittens . He shuffled his feet to the living room where a desk awaited him. On it was an old antique typewriter and a work in progress manuscript of a novel. Computers were out of the question as they were out of electricity as the power plant workers were out of life. Such is the nature of apocalypse , Rob guessed, planted his butt on a chair, and threw his hands on the desk. He sighed loud and deep. Not that he needed to breathe or anything. It just helped calm his nerves. He listened to the silence for a moment. The lack of that thumping in his chest didn’t bother him anymore and neither did the lack of hearing himself breathe. The noise from the maggots in his flesh did, though. God, they’re as annoying as those adverbs! He placed his hands on the steel keys and began typing. The stamping of metal on paper helped to distract him from the maggot-chewing sounds and his mind soon fell in sync with the story. The words flew out like piss used to. It took a little effort, but when it came, it came in a torrent. Rob sat there, in the zone, writing and in his mind telling Sally ‘Look here, meat bag. This is how it’s done!’ A grin crept upon his face, pulling the dried up and shriveled skin of his cheeks closer. Then, his right hand fell off. Again. “Son of a-” “Meow!” “Mittens, NO!” The cat jumped on the desk with a sudden spring of energy from her saggy legs and snatched Rob’s right hand. “No, you devil! Leave that!” He tried to catch her with his left hand, but the lack of hair on the cat’s body and her rotting skin made her slippery to grab. She jumped down and ran away with the hand dangling from her mouth. Rob cursed and sprang after her. If she eats my hand... Nah, it was probably too big for her. But she could tear it apart. “Give back my stupid hand or I’ll gut you!” He heard a crash coming from the kitchen. He rounded the corner as fast as his broken leg would allow him and caught a glimpse of the cat’s back legs as she jumped out the open kitchen window. Out went the hand. Rob sighed. Why did you leave the window open, stupid? Oh yeah, to air the house from your decaying smell... It was hot outside and Rob didn’t have the nerve or the will to go Mittens-hunting. But he did need his hand to write. I guess I could type with just one. It would take him longer, though. But it’s not like he was in a hurry anyway. He was dead, he had all the time in the world. Or at least before the maggots ate him whole. And so, Rob shuffled his zombie feet back to the living room, slumped behind the desk, and continued punching the keys, this time like a granny, using only the index finger of his left hand. I bet this is how old Sally writes... Day turned into night, and night into day, and so it went for weeks. Rob did not need to sleep, though he did occasionally lie down and pretend he was still a human. Old habits die hard, they used to say. For Rob, he died before his habits did. As Rob continued to work on his debut novel, Mittens came to check up on him from time to time. He didn’t let himself be fooled by the sweet purr, he knew the beast was just waiting to see if anything else fell off from him. On occasion, she would jump in his lap, but he’d shoo her away. “My wiener was the first thing to go, so scram!” Typing with one hand proved to be slow and awkward, not only because he was right-handed, but because he was dead as well and therefore inherently clumsy. He’d press the wrong keys from time to time and fuss about it. There was no delete button on the typewriter. All your typos and grammatical mistakes were forever imprinted on the page. Stupid cat, snatching my hand... As he continued to write, determined to get the book done, Ned would come knocking on his door once a week. When Rob wouldn’t answer, the man would walk around the house and come knock on the living room window. “Rob!” his voice would come muffled from outside. “Not unless it’s a human, Ned!” Rob would answer every time and Ned would walk away, bewildered at his forgetfulness. From time to time, a fat white maggot would fall from a hole in Rob’s body and land between the keys of the typewriter, or on the floor or desk. “Ha!” Rob would smile, and pick up the maggot. “Payback time!” Then he’d eat it. Not because he was hungry, but because he was angry. And so it went. Until three weeks later, when the last words were finally put down on maggot-stained paper, and Rob found himself finishing the book he began writing when he was still alive. “There you have it, folks,” he announced to the empty living room. “I’ve done it! To all the critics, doubters and nay-sayers, you were right. I did die before I finished the book. But I finished it nonetheless! Ha!” He stood up from the chair - which he didn’t move from for the whole last week - and noticed a pool of maggots where his butt used to sit. He felt much lighter. It was ironic, having suffered from extra weight all his life, even though he went to the gym regularly, to find himself losing weight by sitting and punching keys on a typewriter. The bloody bastards are omitting me like I omit those accursed adverbs! Rob collected all the papers of his novel and bounded them together into a neat-looking manuscript. He felt immensely proud. He couldn’t wait to show his masterpiece to the blokes at Bill’s, who were probably still writing only a page a week. “Hey Rob,” Ned said as Rob left the house with the manuscript under his arm. “Wanna have some- Ooh, what you got there?” “A book,” Rob said with pride. “You finished it?” “I did.” “What's it about?” “It’s about the attitudes we take towards life and death,” Rob explained. “It follows the story of a mortician who discovered joy and passion in corpses. Its title is Dying Alive or Living Dead, a story of a mortician’s way to happiness. ” Ned nodded with approval. “Sounds very profound and interesting. Are you going to publish it?” “Sure am,” said Rob and felt an immense sense of pride. “But first, I’m going to rub it in some people’s faces.” “Have fun, neighborino ! When you come back, me and my wife are having dinner tonight...” “Sure Ned, sure.” Rob walked down the street, pride and confidence making up for the slouched neck and broken leg. His mind was soaring high up in the clouds, thinking of how people would react to his book. Oh my god, they would say. Brilliant! Just brilliant! You're a real prodigy, Rob, a natural! Oh, I wish I’d written that! He chuckled to himself. The thing he was looking forward to the most was to see the expression on Sally’s face when he smashes her silly prose with his gripping narration. Surprisingly, non-apologetically and triumphantly indeed. Then a sound of screeching tires ripped him from his daydreaming. Rob turned. He stood in the middle of the road, crossing the street at a crosswalk. Another stupid old habit. There was a car, a pickup, racing up the street. A bunch of humans were sitting tight in the back and they held guns in their hands. They were shooting innocent zombies that walked the street. No way in hell , Rob thought. Now?! He just finished a book. He was not going to become a brain splatter, not until Sally gets her ass whooped! Rob quickened up the pace. He couldn’t run because his leg was broken and he was dead, energy was not that high, but he could limp faster. And so he did. The pickup was coming closer, the gunshots sounding louder. He could hear the thuds of bodies falling to the ground, his fellow zombies dropped dead again. The humans cheered and whistled. God damn sons of- “Hey look, Cleetus!” a voice shouted from the pickup. “We’ve got a runner!” “Whoo-wee! Look at ‘im go!” “Speed up, speed up, I wanna get ‘im in mid-run!” “What’s that he’s carrying?” “I bet it’s some zombie-invasion plans! He’s a messenger! Shoot him!” “It’s a book, you bloody halfwits!” Rob shouted over his shoulders, but all the humans could understand was growling and grunting. They were dumb like that, didn't speak the language of the dead. Rob heard gunshots echo behind him and bullets flew over his head. He doubled down on his limping, nearly ripping off his rotten feet. He reached the sidewalk. There was a store nearby where he could hide. “Dang-nabbit! Don’t let him escape!” Something hit him in the back, hard. Probably bullets. But Rob kept going. So far as they didn’t get his brain it didn’t matter what happened to his body. Don’t hit the book, don’t hit the book... “Davis, ram the sumbitch! We can’t hit his head!” Rob didn’t dare look behind him. He heard an engine revving up. Car tires hit the sidewalk and the humans grunted. He opened the door to the store and noticed they were locked. What idiot locked- Then something big and heavy slammed into his back, plowing him through the door and through the front of the store, smashing wood and glass. The pickup crashed into the building. Rob found himself pinched between the hood and the store’s wooden counter, unable to move, but still alive. Or dead, rather. Undead. There was some coughing and some moaning, the humans complaining about hitting their heads in the crash. An argument erupted between them. But Rob didn’t pay attention to them, all he was concerned about was his book. He glanced down and noticed he still held it in his hand. He relaxed a little. Then he smelled smoke. “Look what you’ve done! The car’s a wreck!” “At least we got the messenger zombie! He ain’t gonna-” “You idiot! Them Z’s ain’t smart enough to have messengers! It’s probably a newspaper it’s holding!” The gas leaking from the pickup ignited. The humans began taking salvageable stuff out and away from the car. “No!” Rob growled. He tried to break free, but couldn’t. The fire was starting to lick his legs. It didn’t hurt. But his book would burn. “NO!” he shouted and raised the manuscript as high as he could. “Take this! You bloody idiots take this!” He waved the manuscript at them. “What in tarnation...” One human stepped closer. “Careful, Cleetus! Don’t get bitten! And the fire-” The human reached and took the manuscript from Rob. “Yes, take it! Take it and show it to the world! Show everyone my legacy! My masterpiece-” A shot from a 12-gauge shotgun splattered Rob’s brains all over the wooden counter in the back. “Why did you do that for?” Cleetus asked. Davis shrugged. “I didn’t like how it growled. What did it give you?” Cleetus looked down. “Dunno,” he shrugged. “Looks like a manuscript, but I can’t read a word of it. Total gibberish.” Davis snorted. “The poor bastard probably used to be a writer. You reckon he wrote that?” “Nah, look at him,” Cleetus said. “He’s got one hand. And he’s a zombie . They’re dumb as f-” The fire reached the pickup’s bed where a heap of C4 rested in a gym bag. The explosion that ensued incinerated the car, the men, Rob, his manuscript, and a good part of the building. A few blocks away, at Bill’s house, the writing circle was in session and they heard the explosion. “Oh my,” Sally exclaimed. “I dearly hope no one is hurt badly.” At that remark, the fires consuming Rob’s flesh hissed and sputtered violently .

Every day I paint a mask. The features shift and change with the tide of my own self-confidence but it’s always my face. The different masks of me, which I wear to avoid scaring my loved ones. I have a mask for strangers, a mask for friends, a mask for acquaintances, and one for family. I have masks for myself, depending on my mood, and sometimes they fight while I’m driving to work. These masks are not lies, merely a fraction of the truth. Every day I paint these fractions and every day I see the same face. It’s not until I show the canvas to someone that the image shifts into the fraction they find familiar. I’ve seen a carefully painted smile droop down into a stoic stare. I’ve seen an impotent scream blur into a smile so bright I don’t recognize it. I stare for hours at that smile and wonder how a painting of my own face could hold more joy than I’ve ever felt. Occasionally, I paint to try and grasp that joy. My friends ooh and ahh and compliment my smile. They go on and on about how impressed they are with my ability to pull such joy from myself. They bemoan how they are "forever tortured artists" and “full of emotion and anxiety”. I suppress the urge to tell them how I hope every day for anxiety, for anything. I say my polite goodbyes and take the painting home to inspect every line and crease in my face. I stare deep into the eyes, windows to an empty house. I try to find something that would send their impression of me into my heart but all I find is the same dying ember, an ember too dull to feel alive but still too scared of going out to extinguish itself. I hold onto it just to fill the space. I plummet into a dark abyss of existential dread. And just when I think it’s all for nothing I realize that it’s just another mask. A mask that protects me from failure. A mask that makes everything easier. And if it’s just a mask then it must be a lie. The portrait I paint returns to a smile. It’s not as brilliant but it’s real and the ember grows to a small flame. I take that flame and use the energy to explore. I leave my home and go out into the world. I see strangers helping strangers. I see families. I see lovers and friends. The beautiful coexistence that makes up life. I take it all in and acknowledge my unimportance. My problems are nothing in the grand scheme of the world. All around me are swarms of stories, big and small. People with their own masks that they just never put to canvas. I see a car rip down the road with no regard for others. I see a woman stop in the middle of the sidewalk to blabber some nonsense and block my path. The scream of a spoiled child. The barking of an untrained dog. None of them understand how small they are. They don’t realize that their petty problems are so very unimportant. My flame burns hot with annoyance and anger and the portrait I paint when I return is one of rage. I put it on my wall in the backroom so that only I can see it. I hold it for myself. I need it to be pure, unspoiled by the gaze of someone I know who could transform it back to that vapid grin. But even as I put it up on my wall the face turns back to an even stare. My flame has burned too bright and used up its fuel. I can now barely remember the rage that was there. My painting continues and the faces stay the same. I’ve added one for the frustration that was born from my efforts. My walls are covered in half-remembered paintings. I stopped inviting friends over as the number of canvases has worried them. I played it off as a joke and told them that I’ve just been inspired lately. They think I’m getting rid of them all in a week or so. I don’t intend to. I keep hoping that one of them sticks but they never do. All I get is flashes of feeling, little sparks of something that gets lost in the void. I once threw a can of paint on the canvas in a desperate attempt to see something new but the paint just slid down the front. I ripped another canvas to shreds and it reformed in an instant. Every night I walk to bed through a hallway of blank faces. I can barely remember the spark I once had. There’s no energy for rage. My pursuit is now an addiction, a madness. I thought I had a breakthrough several days ago. The face that appeared when I pulled back from the canvas was unfamiliar to me. It had a look of contentment, of satisfaction. It also wasn’t me. I had hoped to paint a new mask for myself but a new face was at least a change from the endless blank stares. Perhaps I could learn more about my own spark by painting others? I took the painting to my hallway, emboldened by my success, and put it up next to the others. I stood back and something in my head emptied out onto the floor. The painting was me. It had always been me. I just couldn’t recognize my own face anymore. I felt my consciousness float to the ceiling. I was looking down on myself from above. I’m still me, but I don’t know what me is. I watch my body go back to the canvas. I watch it pick up the paints and continue with another self-portrait. The quality is better than ever before. The strands of the shirt, the individual hairs on my head, and the pores of my skin are painted in vivid detail. The work is incredible but I notice that the portrait has no face. I wait for my body to finish but it just picks up the faceless painting and hangs it on the wall. Then it hangs another. And another. The blank stares and old emotions are replaced by an endless line of faceless nothings. And that’s where I am now. Watching from above as my body paints faceless self-portraits. I no longer want to find a new mask. I have no more masks. These are who I truly am. Nothing. An empty sack waiting to be filled. Eventually, my body requires food and so it leaves the apartment. My body talks to friends and it mimics their laughs. It hugs my family and tells them it loves them only after they say it first. I float above it and watch. Not happy. Not sad. Not scared. Not joyful. Not anything.

#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 As writers, our internet search histories can be quite interesting (to say the least) and it’s a running joke that if any government agencies got a hold of them they would have some serious questions for us. This week, I thought it would be fun for everyone to answer the following questions about their **search history as a writer**. I’m looking forward to all of your answers. * What search would these “government agencies” have the most questions about? * What is the most ridiculous thing in your search history as a writer? * Have you ever fallen down any rabbit holes while researching? * Which topic have you enjoyed researching the most? ***Please keep all answers within the rules of the subreddit*** *** * 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.

It was a warm August afternoon, a gentle sun blessed the immaculate fairways of the Long Island Country Club, an oasis of tranquility and temporary shelter from the violent storm raging on Wall Street. Lehman Brothers was in trouble. Four elderly men, dressed in polos, colorful slacks, were ambling toward the club house, heads down, pensive. “My God, Bernie, your chip shot on 17 was a doozy”, said Danny Solomon the suave Gold Coast realtor. It had been an unusually subdued round of golf, opportunities for small talk few and far between. Bernie Madoff was visibly anxious and spent much of the morning off by himself on his cellphone, missing the action on a couple of holes. His three companions gave him space, they knew he had a lot on his mind, but Danny needed guidance, the man’s wisdom. Things were getting serious. Should he sell his stocks and take a loss? “Thank you, Danny. The more I work at my stroke, the luckier I get,” said Bernie, smiling wryly, enigmatic as ever. His three companions - friends of Bernie - were in thrall of the great investor, and chortled at the remark; a combination of brilliance and self-effacement that they’d grown used to over the years. Bernie stopped at the threshold to the club house, on the patio, where they might not be overheard by the staff or other members. His three companions, alert to his every word, attentive to his every gesture, stopped and gathered in a polite huddle. “Gentlemen, I know you are worried about the market,” said Bernie, slight frown, hands clasped, the look of a sympathetic priest. Larry Folsom, a jumpy guy, owner of a local metal fabrication firm, allowed his agitation to show, “Oh, Bernie, please tell us that we are not in trouble.” The exclamation was a lapse, a social misstep, born of anxiety; Larry’s business was struggling owing to cheap knock-off products from China, so he relied heavily on his Madoff portfolio to sustain his North Shore lifestyle. “Larry, for goodness’ sake, calm down,” said Bernie. It was a gentle admonishment that shifted Larry’s status ever so slightly to the periphery of the inner circle. “The reason I wanted to speak to you - in private - is to tell you that my traders are hedged against this volatility and are riding a handsome profit from the market crash”. “Options?” said Jimmy DiNapoli, who liked to think he knew a thing or two about investing, “Out of the money puts? I heard on the radio that they’re the only game in town right now”. “Yes, options, put-options, and some naked shorts,” said Bernie momentarily surprised at Jimmy the Pizza Parlor operator - from the mouths of idiots - “two, three standard deviations, we’ve got it covered”. Jimmy was honored by the answer - so receptive to his input, so clever - and huffed with approval. Indeed, all three clients nodded knowingly, though not one of them understood a thing about trading and investing. All they really cared about was the Madoff & Co portfolio statements, up-and-to-the-right, every month, regular as clockwork. They were fat and happy, and obviously super smart. It’s all about choosing the right horse for the race, having the right friends. “Genius” said Danny Solomon, a big handsome man with swept-back silver hair and a winning smile. Danny’s portfolio was over $10 million, and he was months into his third marriage, each bride younger and more beautiful than the prior - all thanks to Bernie. Bernie dismissed the praise as unnecessary, but it felt good to be in the company of his close friends, his rich friends, his grateful friends. He’d built Madoff’s investment firm from nothing, and now it was worth billions, and he’d taken his friends along for the ride. They’d all started with nothing - scrappy boys from Queens - and now they were rich men, living the dream. “We have an opportunity to double our money in the next six months. The Fed is throwing money at Lehmans, and I know for absolute certain that the liquidity crisis will be resolved by next Tuesday,” he tapped his nose. The other men understood that he was close with top men in the business - moguls, bankers and politicians - and something very big, very hush-hush, was obviously in the works. “Big guns?” said Jimmy, the Pizza guy. “Massive market intervention,” confirmed Bernie. “Opportunity?” said Danny the realtor, nudging Larry Folsom playfully. “Yes, massive opportunity,” said Bernie. “Are you interested?” “How much?” said Larry, a bit skeptically. He really was on a tight budget, and Bernie would not let him dip into his portfolio. He was grateful of course - the value kept going up - but his wife needed a new car, his daughter’s college fees were due, dental implants cost a fortune. “As much as you can afford,” said Bernie. “Count me in!” said Jimmy, “I’m good for a million or two, Ginny too”. “Me too!” said Danny, who had Madoff money squirreled away in some offshore accounts. “Why don’t you guys go in and get lunch? I just need to take care of business. I’ll join you in a moment,” said Bernie. A couple of million was small potatoes. His friends wandered into the clubhouse, relieved that their nest-eggs were in such good hands. CNBC was playing on the TV monitor. The news was very bad, things were getting worse, but not for them. +++ “What the fuck” shouted Bernie into the cellphone, “you’re supposed to handle this shit”. Bernie was reaming Brian, the Madoff head trader, a second asshole. “I’m trying to dump the Lehman position, but Goldman and Morgan are both selling stock faster than green grass through a goose. We’re stuck holding the bag”. “Aren’t we protected?” Bernie paused - what was it that fucking Jimmy-the-idiot said? Options! “What about put options?” said Bernie. It was the first time Bernie had ever mentioned options. Brian was shocked. “You’re fucking kidding me, right? When did we ever hedge our positions?”. Bernie conceded the point with a grunt. Things were bad. He hung up on Brian, and called Janice, his back-office manager. “When do the statements go out?” asked Bernie. “Tomorrow” said Janice. “Do me a favor, send out the Friends and Family statements asap, but wait up on the rest of the clients. See if we can buy some time. Make sure everything is priced appropriately”. “Appropriately?” said Janice in response to the code word. “Use your discretion,” replied Bernie. He trusted her to massage the numbers. “Lots of inbound calls today, Bernie,” said Janice. He detected a note of terror in her voice. She was the ballast in his ship, and had worked with him for over 30 years. They’d been through tough times before, they’d get through this one too, somehow. “Anything I should know?” said Bernie, pulling at his soaking polo shirt, he was sweating profusely. “JPMorgan is making margin calls,” she said. This was bad. JP could make or break Madoff & Co with a single phone call to the Fed or the SEC. “Take cash out of the F&F accounts and wire the funds to JPMorgan so that they’re off our back for a while”. The Friends and Family accounts were like a big slush fund. The trick was to never ever let it run dry. “Will do”. “Don’t tell Brian, don’t tell anybody”. “How are we going to get out if this situation, Bernie?” “The same way we always do. Just keep a record of the transactions in your book, the special book. Call me if things get worse”. Bernie walked into the club house. His friends were seated near the TV monitor, each ignoring a tall glass of iced tea sitting in front of them. They were transfixed by the screen. “Gentlemen” said Bernie, taking his seat at the table. He glanced up at the screen. The Dow was down 17% and Lehman stock was trading down more than 80%, trading under $5.00 a share. “We’re not in Lehman stock, right, Bernie?” said Danny, worried. “Right, we sold out of the bank positions weeks ago”. Danny and Jimmy looked relieved; Larry was still troubled, twitchy. “Bernie, they say that there’s margin calls, some of the smaller hedge funds are struggling. That guy up in Boston thinks Madoff is in trouble”. Bernie laughed and took a sip of the iced tea, laced with Captain Morgan rum. “Hey Larry, relax,” it was Danny speaking. He placed a reassuring hand on Larry’s tense shoulder, “Bernie’s got this covered”. Larry was not easily reassured. “The Boston guy says he’s simulated your portfolio, and the returns are statistically impossible”. Larry was beginning to irritate Bernie. “Gah! Such nonsense” said Bernie, “An outsider cannot understand our risk-management methods”. He took a deep draft of the Iced Tea. His phone was ringing. He glanced at the screen - Janice - and denied the call. “How’s my God Daughter doing at Rutgers?” said Bernie, looking at Larry. Larry’s face lit up, “she’s doing great Bernie”. “Tell her I’ve got a job for her at the firm, next summer”. Bernie’s phone was ringing again. Janice again. He turned off the ringer. It was buzzing in his pocket. “Do you have to get going?” said Danny. “Yeah, I should probably check in with the team. Remember to wire Janice the funds if you want to buy at the bottom. Fortune favors the bold”. “You got it Bernie!” said Jimmy the pizza guy, two thumbs up. +++ A couple of million from his friends wouldn’t cut it. Bernie gave the valet a $50 bill - word of his generosity would get around the club - and slipped into the driver’s seat of the sleek black BMW. He idled the car on the forecourt, a lazy breeze brushed the dogwood trees. Bernie’s hands were shaking. The situation was dire, but it could change in an instant and get better. The phone was buzzing again. It was Janice again. Things could get worse. Bernie threw the phone onto the passenger seat, shifted the transmission and the automobile screeched off the hot forecourt.. Best to stay out of the office and away from the sharks in Manhattan. He headed for the Expressway, east bound, toward Montauk; he’d lie low for a while at the beach house, with his wife, Ruth. +++ The maid opened the door and looked worried. Bernie could hear the TV playing somewhere in the living room. He handed the car keys to the maid, and joined Ruth in the living room. She was twisted up like a pretzel on the white sofa, watching the financial news. “Oh Bernie!” she said, tears streaking mascara down her face, her neat, trimmed hair was mussed up. She was the most put-together woman he knew, his rock, so the tears were upsetting. His rock was crumbling. “I’ve got to sit down,” he stumbled, fell wearily into his reading chair. “Lehman’s going under”, she said, “and it’s going to take us down with it”. Angry, she hit her thighs with her hands, “you should never have listened to Jan”. Jan was the CFO at Lehman, a family friend. He’d reassured them, not once, but twice, late night phone calls. They’d bought more stock. “We’re ruined, aren’t we?” said Ruth. Bernie reached across to grab her trembling hand, to reassure her, but she spurned his advance. “No, we’re not ruined,” said Bernie, “our money is ring-fenced. If the firm goes under, we’ll be fine. The boys too.” It was a small relief. He was still the smartest man in the room... that funny looking kid from Queens with the big ambition. “But won’t we be liable for our clients’ funds?” she said. It was a good question; Madoff the firm would be liable criminally, but Madoff the man, maybe not. He needed to make sure that the paper-trail stopped with Brian and Janice, stopped with the Special Book. It was a good plan. They signed the books. They dealt with the regulators. They would take the fall. “Don’t worry, they’ll have a hell of a job pinning the blame on us”. “We’ll never be able to show our faces in public again,” said Ruth. Her calendar was jammed solid with galas and charity events, the opera and trips to Europe. And the neighbors, the cousins and in-laws, their closest friends - the Friends and Family - they were all clients of the firm. How could she ever face them? The maid came into the room, “Mr. Madoff, Sir, there are men at the door, with cameras. It looks like a TV crew”. “Tell them to go away”. +++ Bernie was hunched over the bathroom sink, wearing his striped pajamas. He could end it now with razor cuts across the wrists, or a bullet in the head; he had firearms in the safe downstairs. He knew it was the easy way out, maybe the right thing to do because it would make things easier on the boys, on Ruth. He could take the whole damn mess with him to the grave, but who was he kidding? He didn’t have that kind of courage. He’d always imagined a graceful decline, the best managed care money could buy, he’d die in his sleep surrounded by paid help, eased into the night with medications. He pulled an amber vial of sleeping pills from the bathroom cabinet and examined the label. Fifty years and counting since he’d taken the big leap, the one act of courage, using money saved from summer jobs and a loan from his father-in-law. It started off well enough - the big scheme - he was the boy genius, king of the heap, but a setback here, a bad bet there, an unlucky one-in-a-million streak, and suddenly Madoff was in a hole, and the hole just kept getting deeper and deeper. Sleight of hand, cooked books, spinning dreams, he kept everybody happy. When Peter demanded payment, he borrowed from Paul. When Paul needed money, he borrowed it from Mary. Just for a little bit, for a little while... temporary measures... until the market came back, till he’d dug his way out of the hole. But the market never came back, and he kept digging, digging, digging that hole. He took three sleeping tablets. +++ “It’s a fucking miracle, Bernie”. It was Brian the trader on the phone, first thing in the morning. Bernie was staring at the TV screen in disbelief. “Lehman Brothers Bailed Out, Market Rebounds” said the banner headline beneath the talking head. LEH stock was up four-fold. The Saudis took a stake in the company, Buffett too; it was a fucking miracle. “I told you not to worry”, said Bernie, trying the words out for size. He was quick to understand the new reality. It needed a narrative that cast him in the best possible light. “Bernie, you are the fucking man!” Brian was gushing, but then went quiet, conspiratorial. “Last night I was so scared that I nearly did something very stupid,” he almost choked on his words, and seemed about to start crying. . Bernie let the confession pass. It wasn’t his job to provide comfort to this man. This man that nearly blew up his company. If Brian wanted to dwell upon his own failings... that was his narrative, not Bernie’s. “Well thank goodness you didn’t!” said Bernie, jovially, no hint of sympathy. The news was coming at them thick and fast. The S&P500 marked up more than 20% in the pre-market, animal spirits were at work. Lehman was saved, Madoff’s was saved. Yesterday’s blood bath seemed like a bad dream. “We might even make a profit on the Lehman trade,” said Brian. “Tell Janice that I’ll take client calls after the open”. Bernie ended the call. Ruth looked tired but relieved. “Do you think we’re going to be OK?” she asked. “Of course we’ll be OK” said Bernie, snapping his gold cufflinks into place. It was safe to go back to the office. He might even charter a copter to take him to Manhattan from the Hamptons. +++ Danny Solomon was grinning like an idiot; he just could not contain his happiness nor his gratitude. “A toast to our good friend, Bernie Madoff!”, he said, raising a glass, clinking it merrily. Bernie’s golf buddies were in ebullient mood. They were the center of attention in the club house. “I nearly shat my pants, Bernie”, said Danny, “but the Lehman trade worked out, just like you said it would”. Bernie acknowledge his friend. “It was a smart move, Danny. You have to keep your head, when others are losing theirs”. “So true, so true,” said Jimmy the pizza owner, “when do you think Janice will send the statements through? I can’t wait to see this month’s numbers. Up-and-to-the- right, I’ll betcha!” “Soon enough” said Bernie, enigmatic again, wry, smiling. It was Larry Folsom’s turn; he was happy enough, but not as cheerful as Danny or Jimmy, “Yeah Bernie, you’ve still got that magic touch”. A touch of jealousy. Bernie had scanned the F&F accounts, like Santa, tallying the naughties on his list. “I’m sorry that you couldn’t get in at the bottom, Larry. These opportunities don’t come around so often,” said Bernie. It wasn’t just gratitude that Bernie needed, he required compliance too, a key element of the big scheme. “I’m sorry Bernie but I was scared shitless,” admitted Larry, twitch-twitch. Bernie the forgiving, the magnificent, the beneficent, “That’s OK Larry, there’s more important things than money... like family and friends”. There was nothing more important than the slush fund. “I’ll drink to that!” said Danny, “up-and-to-the-right” “Up-and-to-the-right, regular as clockwork”

Would the meek and mild ever triumph, so love could find its way? Fabio drove to his day job as vet, wondering. That morning, he had awoken in the usual way, surrounded by the smother love of his Zia Gabriella, or Gabby as she was affectionately known in his little 'hood. Long ago and far away now, Fabio had become an orphan, so his father's older sister had brought him up, family first. Fabio brushed off his trousers, covered with cat fur again.He did love all creatures great and small, hence his vocation. Zia Gabby had taken to feeding a vast array of stray felines in the suburbs, in his little corner of the world. The cats understood Italian quite well, and dined on pasta Bolognaise in different formats. "Let's face it," Fabio told himself, "we're all in a good paddock! Not exactly malnourished. No dumb arguments from me." He patted his developing pot belly, and started his day of healing fur and feather, with a compassionate smile for all his pet owners. At the age of 35, every Sunday, Fabio dutifully drove Zia Gabby to Mass, still feeling like the oldest altar boy in the Church. He walked before the parish priest, a good shepherd, as he held the bible of the Holy Word. It was what it was, the days of an ageing male, devoted to his vocation. Brushing off more pet fur when he arrived home, Fabio commenced upgrading a website for his voluntary job. You guessed it, he spent his spare time at a homeless pet refuge. It desperately needed more funds for pet food, more foster owners, more volunteers for pet walking and socializing, to feed the fur pals, and to clean their pens. "This is a sign of the times," Fabio reflected, as Zia Gabby was cooking up a storm in her kitchen, surrounded by her adoring cats, waiting for their pet bowls to magically fill up with food again. Other people in the community were having to confront the emotional chore of surrendering their beloved fur to the refuge in their suburb. The local Food Donation Center was trying to collect tins of pet food, but this was a battle for all pet lovers. On Saturday afternoon, Fabio was there, at the homeless pet refuge, as a new volunteer breezed in, with a smile for everyone. She, too, was slightly vertically challenged, and soon commenced walking dog duties with Fabio. Lucinda was her name, a really lively chatterbox. Bemused, meek and mild Fabio was soon fascinated by her entertaining company. He did not quite know how to respond, when Lucinda shared that she was an atheist, modelling her personal philosophies on Bertrand Russell, hoping to be a humanitarian. She kept on chattering away, sharing her opinions of living in the universe. Strangely, after one walk with the fur boys together, for want of anything romantic to say, Fabio showed Lucinda all his phone photos of Zia Gabby's cats. He did not think any more of that, so he went home, no dumb arguments planned at home or anywhere. Maybe he was a star-crossed lover wannabe. Realistically and practically, he could just envisage his voluble Zia meeting an atheist. Zia Gabby was not exactly inclusive. But by six pm, there was the front door bell. At the door stood Lucinda, smiles aglow. "Who is this?" Zia Gabby asked, "A disgrazia?' Lucinda entered, saying, "No, Zia Gabby, I'm a good girl. Look, photos of my kittens. I've come to meet you and your cats. You are a legend!" Soon, coffee and almond biscotti were flowing. Fabio had no dumb arguments, as the chatterboxes really got on so well, bonding over tales of their love for furry friends. Lucinda finally drove off, honking her car horn, after half an hour of goodbyes with much embracing. "You come back soon!" Zia said, glad for this new friendship. "Bella, bella!" Zia Gabby sent their surprise visitor home laden with plastic containers of pasta and home-cooked biscotti, and a crochet cat jacket. Fabio stood amazed by this by this turn of events in his otherwise devout mild day. Zia Gabby went indoors, and made several signs of the cross in front of her array of plaster saints. "Grazie, dio, now I can have a brag book of babies, real ones!" Really, Zia Gabby had been quietly praying that Fabio would end his days as a permanent bachelor. She had been losing face with no cute baby photos among her peer group of coffee gals, the gossip clutch of their neighborhood. Fortunately for all concerned, Lucinda soon regarded Fabio as walking sex on legs. No, Fabio was so meek and mild, he had no dumb arguments. The reader might say he never took one step back from his love finding its path. Better late than never. Holy nuptials followed, with a beautiful bride, a very proud and happy bridegroom, and more photos for Zia Gabby. Love had found its way, so Fabio kept on praying for Lucinda to have some belief. It was the true magic of the universe, star-crossed lovers meeting in some chance coincidence. Fabio could imagine a rosy future ahead, surrounded by love and permanently covered in cat fur. Acceptance at last. Amusing really, the happy couple's kitties were bilingual, understanding Italian and English. Zia Gabby never arrived empty handed, soon Lucinda's cats had matured to eat both pasta and best chicken mince. The felines were even known to enjoy Chinese takeaway. Malnutrition was definitely not a problem in this version of the family circle magazine. Cultural competence had somehow made it in the 'hood. This little family soon had a thousand reasons to smile, despite Fabio being the oldest altar boy in Christendom. Crochet cat boleros and bandanas soon gave way to hand-made layettes, kept away from cat fur. It was all so humanitarian, of course. Zia Gabriella held her own in the entire 'hood, so thankful that she could hand over Fabio and his pizza and pasta bar to Lucinda. Perfect, they all agreed that they would not discuss religion. But the kids were all baptized anyway, each way bet. They were all animal lovers too. There were never going to be any dumb arguments from Fabio, always so meek and mild.

She began on the floor. Unfeeling tiles. Cold. Sharp smelling dust. Numb. No, that was not the tiles, that was her cheek, blue and swollen, resting on the tiles. The most comforting caress she had felt in this home was the frigid embrace of the cold tile floor doing what it could to numb the throbbing. Arms, hip, leg, hands, they felt the cold too. They would not respond. They weren’t hurt, she just did not believe moving them would help. He stood there. Fuming. Screaming. Hot, ragged, animalistic in his movements. A contrast so stark she was always surprised to not see fog forming in between them. Though the fog did come. She would find herself in the bath. In pajamas. Under his touch. Under him. Never really remembering how she got there. Always being told he could fix it, she could learn, it was her fault, but he forgave her. How he forgave her. She remembered she was in an office. Paper crinkling underneath. Cold. White walls that almost hurt the eyes. Gaudy posters of children and parents that did. A gloved, purple hand appeared in her peripheral, mimicking and floating toward the bruise on her cheek. She flinched so hard she almost fell off the table. Her bag clattered to the floor. Her heart was beating against her ribs. A heat raced through her veins, so sudden and intense she felt dizzy. The doctor held their hands up. She clenched, wrenched and wove her clammy hands into her sweater. Rubbing and itching her way into her skin, trying to remember what she was doing, what she was supposed to do. She began crying. She returned to that office often. Making excuses to get out of the house. The kids have an appointment. There’s a half day at school. My boss needs me to pick up a shift. Weekly lies building her courage. She began to say she had her own appointments. He fought back. He threw his tantrums. She began to realize that those were his problems. She would cry until her lungs hurt, but her headaches stopped, and she could remember every moment of every day. Taking notes. Filling out reports. Waiting in lines and keeping all of the receipts. She would walk until her feet hurt, but she could feel the blood in her legs and arms. The tension was gone, and she believed it was doing her good. She spoke until her throat was raw. Oh how she spoke. With fury, with purpose. She began to practice. Breathing deeply, control over her core, feeling her lungs. Tensing her fists, stretching her jaw, clenching her toes and rolling her shoulders. She was not in control of everything, but she remembered how to learn. It was never easy. She could not remember getting a good night’s sleep, but they were better. Her heart still beat against her chest when she heard the sound of keys jingling or floorboards shifting, but was able to rock it back to rest. She began to treat herself with the same care she would show a child. It was new to her. Every baby step was beautiful and awkward. She would fall, but she began to get back up. She began by tensing her fist, inhaling deeply, thanking the full feeling in her lungs. She exhaled, her breath mixing in the crisp morning air, as free as the new wind blowing in from the bay. The taste of the air was a little sour; the feeling in her back was a little sore. Though, her arms, hip, legs, hands, felt alive. She knew what she wanted to feel, and chose to begin walking toward the sun.

Escape Short fictional story - set in London 2012. I flung my shoes down the stairs instinctively, like a target that I had to reach, a bullseye, and my body an arrow, right to base where the front door was. The flat was small and confined as it was, and while inside, we were always within a few easy steps of each other. I was suddenly aware of the small space between us and that every second of hesitation on my part would fatally reduce my chances of escape. He would humiliate me, he would trap me, and another part of me would be taken and kept there, perhaps forever. All I had to do was make it to my shoes at the base of the stairs, to the front door, and on to the safe street, filled with couples, mums and dads with their infant children, happily enjoying the weekend, and unseasonably good weather, still young enough to have complete faith that nothing bad could happen to me in front of adults, they would stop him if they had to, I just had to get myself there. I half ran and half threw my self down the stairs, every step unsteady, filled with adrenaline, focused on retrieving my shoes and getting out of there. I nearly really did trip over my legs, nearly betraying myself with those impossibly large strides that my body was taking. I reached the base of the stairs, my brown hands, as if in a natural transformation, turned into eagle-like golden talons, cleanly sweeping through the air, ready to scoop up the shoes, swooping in low to claim the prize catch. I faltered as I stood there, in wonder that I had done it, this time it had worked. I had passed, unscathed, as I thought at the time. Only a few minutes ago I had thought the window was my only escape. This simple victory spread a wickedly delicious sensation through my body. But not a moment to waste. The prize was mine and in that second of brief victory I inadvertently and dreadfully turned my head to him, my hand on the latch now, no longer the triumphant eagle but a hunted and terrified girl. He had reached the middle of the staircase, for a brief second we made eye contact and he bellowed at me in a deep snarling voice, sending volts of fear through me “Come back here”, eyes bulging in rage at the thought of me attempting to make an escape, willing me with his complete and pure rage to paralyse me on the spot. I almost froze. But - I tore my eyes away from that unrelenting dark passage and opened the front door, letting the cold crisp air intoxicate me and fill me with a simple and fresh joy - I had made it! I won! I slipped into my shoes and bolted down the street, passing artisanal bakeries, a restaurant offering delicately roasted free range meats, an assortment of quirky cafes where middle class white people seemed to congregate on weekends, a respite from the usual offerings and busy high streets of inner London. Not for a moment, did I take in the possibly startled expressions of the passerby’s at my sudden bursting out and departure on that relatively quiet early afternoon. Freedom. For now.

My mom is old. Her vibrance gone. Bones brittle. Hair gray. Eyes glazed over from cataracts. Her skin patchworked with blood spots. And it is not cliché to say it happened overnight. Just three years ago she was getting a monthly pedicure and keeping hair appointments to cut and color her once brown hair. With her five children grown and gone, she never stayed home. From the time she woke until dinner time, she was outside roaming in her car visiting friends and shopping. She was alive and loving every minute of her new freedom that was formerly restricted from being a full-time nurse, a housewife, and a mother. Then the accident changed everything. Three years ago she stepped off a sidewalk curb and lost her balance. Her right shoulder completely shattered, and it was how she discovered she had osteoporosis. The entire shoulder had to be replaced. The surgeon picked out pieces of splintered bones and put in a round metal ball to give her about sixty percent use of her shoulder again. She suffered through the year long process and fell again, this time breaking a bone in her back and knee. For the last few years, her car has been supplanted with a recliner. The last few Christmas holidays have obviously not been the same. This one, however, will probably be the last. A few months ago I started to notice the memory problems. I visit her weekly and since the Breaking of Bones I have been spending every Saturday morning and night with her by sleeping in my old childhood room. The severity of the memory problems became more noticeable every week I returned. For the first time since I was born, my mom forgot my birthday. Birthdays are more important to no one other than a mother--at least, my mother. Birthdays were an event celebrated in my parents’ home more than Christmas. My birthday, my brother’s birthday, and my father’s birthday are all in December. My mom forgot all three. No phone calls. No cards. No cake. No celebrations. We did not remind her. We only spoke of it amongst ourselves briefly to mention that we noticed. Maybe it did not need to be broached. More than likely, we were so saddened about the Great Forgetting that none of us could bring ourselves to discuss it. Last Thursday, just four days before Christmas, my mother told me when she was a teenager that she would eat the honeycombs from real bee honey. She said it was her favorite thing to eat as a child. She and her two sisters would sit on the porch and put the comb on an English muffin or biscuits. She said she would not eat oatmeal unless she had honeycomb pieces to put in it. Sometimes she would just suck on the honeycomb before finally eating it by itself. She and her two sisters felt rich if they had it. “Honeycomb was not easy to come by in those days,” she said. “I can’t remember what it tasted like but it was the best kind of candy. I wish I could taste it again.” It is said that men have trouble listening to women. I had no trouble listening to my mom. I knew what her Christmas gift was going to be this year. I got Mom six separate quarts of honey with combs in them. I had to go to three different bee apiaries in two different states to get them. I spent no fewer than two days tracking down and purchasing honeycomb. (Apparently it is not a popular request with bee farmers.) The price was costly but would be worth it. It would be the best gift I have ever given my mom. This year will be doubly special for me because I know this will be my mom’s last Christmas. Her memory problem is exacerbating too quickly. The differences are noticeable now almost daily. But I had a secret I could not tell her for two more days until Christmas morning. Why can it not be Christmas Day right now so I can give her this gift right now! This is going to be her best Christmas. I am certain of it. I am going to drop a hint about her gift like she used to do with me as a child a few days before Christmas. Yesterday, while I was sitting on Mom’s couch with her across me in her recliner, I asked, “Mom, do you remember when you used to eat honeycombs on the porch with Pat and Dina?” She turned her head to face me with a blank stare. “Honeycombs?” She asked. “Who told you that? No, I never ate honeycombs. Those things were gross.

On Antarctica, a man was listening to his radio before the daughter was yelling. He was frustrated with no place of quiet to himself. The place was a chamber and his entire family lived there. Sure, it was cold out there, and it became very boring for his wife and the kids on some days but his job paid well. He was getting five-hundreds thousand for a year in Antarctica on research. “Dad, look at this!” Andalusia said, wiping the frost off the window. Outside, they saw the snowland, and the penguins sliding down some plains. “Yeah, I see it. They’re having fun out there.” “No, no not that. Look here, to your right.” She said. “The melting ice?” She went past him and pulled up the thermistor. “Look at this! It’s thirteen degrees warmer than before. So, it’s real. All of this global warming thing is! Please, dad.” She wouldn’t quit. “Kid, listen to me. I know it is real, okay? It’s not what I’m here for, though. I’m just the penguin guy. You know that.” She widened her eyes, “Dad, why can’t you listen to me? We got to do something. There’s so much carbon emission that the levels are rising. Fast.” “Sweetie, stop. It’s enough. I know this is bad, but what can we do, really?” She leaned forward, “Are you serious? We can plant trees, cut the economy on factories, and try to convert most of the electronics used to solar energy. This solar energy could make some big differences in how we live.” “I love that you care about the environment, but I really have to work, okay?” “Forget it. Enjoy your papers.” She scoffed and went to her bed, picking up a hardback. Dad slumped in his desk and went through some files. The one on the penguin's tag was missing... He pushed the chair apart, looked under the desk. Dad tried the drawers, and another drawer on the bottom that was stuck out jammed. He fiddled with it, pushing it shut. Something glowed caught his eyes. What was that? He knelt down and lowered his head. There was a small circle of swirling colors. It is loose, taking a little space as possible on the floor. “What the heck?” He murmured quietly to himself. His hands trembled, and he slowly reached for it. His index finger felt the cool air whooshed before it touched the thing. Immediately, all of his life forms vanished, leaving the pen that was behind his ear on the floor. He felt the sweats dripping on his forehead, becoming dizzy and dizzier. His hands couldn’t take grasp of anything, losing himself unbalanced, in this- A gray room? Dad took a deep breath, nervously beating his heart rapidly. He looked at the glass wall that looked like a movie was playing. Some kind of space film. He pushed himself off the ground, leveled with the movie. “Wow. Is this high definition? Amazing.” The movie showed the Moon insight, along with millions of stars. It didn’t play anything else, just this clip. The door clicked, and a little boy came in. He gasped, “Who are you? What are you doing in my room?” He looked scared, but his face scrunched up, “What are you using?” “I- 'm Dave. I really don’t know what happened... I was at my desk but then now I’m here. I really don’t know. Could I talk to someone, your dad, maybe?” “They all are gone. Where have you been all along! I thought there was no one left.” “What do you mean, gone?” “Gone, that’s what I mean. It’s only me here. It was three of us for seven years. Before that, there were about three hundred of us.” “Please, kid, can you take me to your mom?” He pleaded. “You’re not listening to me. They’re gone.” Dave sighed, and shuffled his way past the kid, out of the room. “What the hell? Where are we? Those look a lot like a spaceship hallway in the movies, all gray and beeping lights, and all that stuff.” He addressed the kid, “Wait, is that your window in the room? Are we in space?” He stammered. “Yes, why?” “So we are in space? Oh God, I must be dreaming. How is this possible?” “I want to know where you hid. Why didn’t you come to me? I was tired of making food myself! Mom said nobody would.” “How old are you?” “I’m twelve. Thirteen three months from now!” “Oh, I thought you were like nine.” He observed the kid, in his tight suit who seemed to be thin to the bone. “Twelve. Now tell me who you are.” Dave ignored him, running away in the hall. “Where are everyone!!” He screamed. “Tell me now, please! I can’t be here. I can’t... this is crazy.” “Calm down, I got food that can last us a lifetime. Then there would be nothing left. It’s all right. Mom said she’s proud of me. I’m the last boy there is. Maybe not, if you’re here.” Dave rubbed his eyes, “Last boy... Jesus, I don’t understand... What- Could you explain it to me? All of this?” He teared up a little. “How do you not know? Did they not teach this to you in history class?” “The space stuff? I knew Neil Armstrong was the first one to Moon.” “Who’s Neil? No. I’m talking about the place called Earth? You have heard of it before, right?” Dave chuckled, “Yes, I live there.” The boy frowned, “Haha you can’t fool me with that joke! Earth has been gone for almost eight hundred years. Something like that, I think.” “Don’t play with me.” Dave was pissed off. “Tell me the truth. Not this nonsense.” “I can’t tell you if you don’t listen! Stop yelling! Come on, here.” The boy went back to his room and showed Dave the stack of papers. “This is today.” There were tallies, the number of days he assumed. “And what is today?” The boy was quiet, looking at the paper then replied, “2109.” “What month? Day?” “No use of that here. We do it yearly because time goes by slowly. But if you want to know... three.. Five, it’s July Fourth.” “No, no. 2109? That’s like nine hundred years in the future!” “Are you dumb? No, it’s today.” Dave realized, the boy might be serious and all of this was real. He never felt more scared than at this moment than ever. “Okay, could you explain?” “Alright. People said Earth died because people didn’t take care of it very well. That’s why all of us went into space. Then some ships broke down. Some were destroyed, and some others... I don’t know where. This is the last ship still running. My mom taught me everything I had to know. There’s a little garden here, and I check the engines daily. Mostly, it’s automatic stuff but mom said to check every day.” “So, have been you here for a while? Alone?” “Yes. I asked my mom why she was explaining all of this to me- she didn’t say. I just found her dead one day. It’s me now. Why don’t you know all this?” “I know this might be hard to believe but I’m from the year 2020. I don’t know what happened.” “That’s okay.” The kid gave Dave his hand and brought him to the long window. “That” he pointed, “Is the Planet Earth.” Earth he knew through the satellite photos, through NASA websites doesn’t look like this. It was brown, and there was barely any water to be seen. Most of it was just dirt. “This is Earth?” Dave asked, speechless. “Yes. Was this your home?” “Yes. My home. Andalusia was right.” The kid looked up, “Who’s that?” “My daughter. She said we got to do something about this... I didn’t listen.” He turned around, pressed himself against the wall, and sat down. “Oh god, what have we done? God help us all.”

“Hey honey,” Chris said through the phone. “I was just calling to let you know I’m gonna be home late tonight, I’m really sorry. We are just absolutely slammed here, but I should be home by 6:30 at the latest. Do you mind making dinner tonight?” I opened the fridge, holding the phone between my shoulder and my ear. “Of course, baby,” I said, forcing sweetness into my voice. I opened the freezer and noticed a couple unopened packages of ground meat. “How does beef stew sound?” “Sounds great,” Chris said. “I love you.” I bit back a laugh. “Love you too,” I said. I took the phone in my hand and hung up. The great thing about beef stew was that you could just throw a bunch of ingredients in a pot and it would taste amazing. Sometimes, if you threw enough food in, you wouldn’t be able to taste some of the less flavourful ingredients. I began by turning on the oven and setting up a cookie sheet. I took my anger out on the potatoes, slicing them furiously and nearly cutting myself in the process. I placed them on the cookie sheet on top of some tin foil, then into the oven. Next, I took my favourite meat out of the freezer. I smiled as I unwrapped it. Chris was going to love this. I turned the stove on and started cooking the meat in the pan. I seasoned it heavily, with all of Chris’s favourite spices. Garlic, paprika, onion powder... On a separate pan, I started cooking all of Chris’s favourite vegetables. I threw in carrots, peppers and peas and cooked them so that they were warm and soft. The crock-pot was already on, I’d turned it on minutes before Chris had called me. I’d been expecting this. I threw the vegetables and meat into the crock-pot, then took the potatoes in the oven and tossed them in as well. I knew I would be making dinner tonight. I always made dinner on Thursdays. Not because Chris was always held up at work, but because he was always with his mistress. Claire was her name. Even thinking about that blond bimbo made my blood boil. I found out about a month ago, when I’d started getting suspicious about why Chris always seemed to be home late on Thursdays. One night, I drove to his work and waited for him to leave. I watched him get into his car and followed him to a rundown apartment a few blocks away from his work. A woman, Claire, had met him outside. She was young, younger than me at least. I’d later learned that she was 19, eight years younger than I was and ten years younger than Chris. She was perfect in every way. Short and slim, with perfect tanned skin, long luscious blond hair and sparkling blue eyes. With my curvier form, pale skin and dark hair, there was no contest. She was ten times more attractive than I would ever be. She’d stood on her tiptoes to kiss Chris, then led him inside. I was filled with rage. That was my boyfriend. And she thought that she could just snatch him away from me? Absolutely not. Chris and I had been together for five years, we were planning on getting married! I’d been dropping hints to him about it constantly for the past year, and I knew that it would happen. I sped home and waited for Chris patiently. But I hadn’t said anything. Not yet. The timing wasn’t right and I didn’t have enough information. So, I acted completely normal. I smiled and kissed him and made him a hot meal. And afterward, when he went to bed, I looked at his phone. It was the most logical next step. I scrolled through dirty texts between him and Claire, that’s where I learned her name and her age. It turned out that this relationship had been going on for about a month and a half, and from what I gathered, it was pretty much just sex. I couldn’t decide if that made me feel better, since they clearly didn’t have an emotional connection, or worse, because he obviously found her more physically attractive than me. Over the course of the next month, I drove to Claire’s apartment a couple times to learn more about her. I waited for her to leave and come back, then I followed her inside and learned which apartment she lived in. I then found out her daily routine, watching to learn what she did every day. She normally left first around eight o’clock and drove to a nearby gym. She’d workout there for about an hour then head back home, probably for some healthy protein shake. No wonder she was so skinny. Then, when she didn’t have class at the local University, she’d head off to her job at Starbucks, where she made coffee and laughed with coworkers her whole shift. Most nights she stayed in, probably doing homework. The only times she left at night were to greet Chris and occasionally go out and party with her friends. She seemed like a pretty normal college student. If I’d seen her walking down the street, I wouldn’t have thought much. Unfortunately though, she was sleeping with my future husband. That caused a lot of problems. Last night I’d taken a little field trip to Claire’s apartment, the last one I would ever take. I smiled now as I watched the stew boil in the crock-pot. I couldn’t wait for Chris to eat it. After he did, all of this would be over. Both Chris and Claire would no longer be in my life. I would never have to worry about either of them ever again. I sat peacefully on the couch, watching mindless sitcoms on TV while I waited for Chris to get home. I stayed planted on the couch when I heard the door open. I kept my eyes on the TV. “Hey Rach,” Chris said. “I’m so sorry, things got so crazy at work.” I smiled. “Things always seem to get crazy on Thursdays.” I lifted my eyes to meet Chris’s. He laughed nervously. “Yeah,” he said. “Busy day for the office I guess.” He turned his attention to the crock-pot. “This looks delicious, babe.” I turned the TV off and got up, getting bowls and spoons out of the cabinets. I scooped a couple spoonfuls of stew into a bowl and handed it to Chris, grinning ear to ear. I couldn’t help but feel joyful right now. “Thanks,” he said, sitting down at the table. I scooped some stew into a bowl for myself and sat across from him. He dug in immediately, barely even slowing down for air. “This is incredible,” he said with a mouthful of stew. “Well, there’s a secret ingredient,” I said mysteriously. “Whatever it is, it’s amazing,” Chris said, continuing to devour his stew. “Don’t you want to know what it is?” I asked. I hadn’t touched my stew yet. I wanted to see the look on Chris’s face when I told him what the secret ingredient was. “Sure,” he said. “Wait, is it red wine?” I shook my head and laughed. “No silly,” I said. “It’s this weird type of meat I found. It’s called Claire.” Chris suddenly stopped eating his stew. He stared at me, his cheeks full with the remains of his mistress. “What?” he asked. “Claire,” I repeated, as if it should be obvious. “It’s her. In the stew.” I took a small spoonful of the stew and slurped it down. “Doesn’t she give it an extra kick?” Chris spit out his stew into the bowl and ran over to the sink to rinse his mouth out. I smiled. As if rinsing his mouth out would change the fact that he’d ingested his mistress. “Are you crazy?” he asked. “What- how?” I got up and walked over to the drawers with the cutlery, just like I’d rehearsed. I opened the top drawer and calmly pulled out the biggest knife we owned. “Rachel,” Chris said, eyeing the knife. “Please put down the knife. It didn’t mean anything, it was just sex! I swear to god she means nothing to me, you mean everything to me. I love you, Rachel.” I rested the tip of the knife against my chin and pondered Chris’s words. “You see, I want to believe you,” I said, stepping closer toward him. “But you’ve already lied so much. I just don’t think you should get any more chances.” I took the knife away from my chin and pressed the point into Chris’s neck. He swallowed. “Rachel, please,” he said. “Don’t do this. I’ll leave, and I’ll never talk to you again and I won’t tell anyone about what you did to Claire. Please, just let me go.” I pressed the knife deeper into Chris’s neck so that it drew blood. He gasped. “I don’t think that’s gonna work,” I said. “I mean, how am I supposed to trust you after everything you’ve lied about? No, I think I’m going to have to kill you.” “Rachel, ple-” I cut him off, literally. I took the knife and I sliced violently into Chris’s neck. His head toppled to the floor with a loud thud . I smirked down at it. Finally, the world was free of the biggest liar and the biggest whore it had ever produced. Order had been restored. *** “Hi Daniel,” I said, holding out my hand. “I’m Rachel.” He was much better looking than Chris. He was taller, with a more chiseled jawline and silkier hair. And, if what the pictures on his dating profile showed were true, he had some serious abs. “I hope you don’t think it’s a little weird that I asked you to come over on the first date.” “It’s nice to meet you Rachel,” Daniel said, shaking my hand. “And it’s not weird at all. I’m honoured to have been invited to your apartment so soon.” I smiled. “Of course,” I said. “Would you like to have a seat? I’ve made a very special recipe of mine just for you.” “I can’t wait,” he said, seating himself at the kitchen table. I made my way over to the counter, grabbed a bowl from the cabinet, and scooped a couple spoonfuls of stew into it. I handed the bowl to Daniel, then proceeded to get a bowl for myself. Once I was seated across from him, we dug in. “Mm,” Daniel said. “This is delicious. What’s in it?” “Oh, you know,” I said. “Peppers, peas, carrots, potatoes, all the normal stew things.” “This meat is amazing,” Daniel said, shoveling spoonful after spoonful into his mouth. “It’s so juicy. Is it just regular beef?” “Yeah,” I said. “Something like that.”

Choices, I choose, do I? Moving things from one place to another, trying to create order from chaos. That’s what existence is, in a way, moving from place to place and making choices. I need to get out of my room, interact, create connections. Walking is automatic and effortless, All these people, where are they going? Everyone has something to do, an objective, a mission to accomplish. That’s what gives life meaning, at least for humans. That dog looks weird, no it doesn’t, but why does it walk like humans. Wow, now it's walking on four legs, it's like it heard my thoughts, weird. Oh yeah, I am in a simulation, right, I forget. I need to get out more. Playing retro games on drugs all week definitely felt home. Home, I shouldn’t forget home, when am I gonna get back to earth? "Soon" sign instead of "Stop" sign, you guys should stop listening to my thoughts. It's creepy, why did I agree to this. If they can make it this realistic, they could easily send me home with their technology, they must have something else on their mind. Shit, everyone is looking at me now, it's all connected. I shouldn’t doubt their intentions, I wish there is a way to hide my thoughts. It seems like a riot situation going on, what is happening, why are they doing this. These people seem to need my help, how could I be useful. Why are they treating me like, a leader, I was just passing by? They are trying to overload the simulation, what is the point of doing this. We can't live in their environment, ahh, my head hurts. These riots are out of control, they are exploding everything. It seems like a war situation, aliens are responding, ahh, I am losing control. What, what key?, my room key?, I don’t know what you guys are talking about. I don’t understand you people, I need to get out of here, let me go. You guys should stop doing this, it is of no use. Shit, aliens are going to laser blast this place, these people still have a chance to escape. Yes, I found an opening, I can get out of this alone. Whose side am I on, what should I do? I can get out, using this narrow tunnel or I can help these people escape. Make a choice damn it, choose. \ Aliens in my fantasy, you can't take anything from me UFOs and flying saucers, don’t think you can frighten me I don’t scare from abductions, I don’t care for seductions. Don’t you dare to find me, don’t ever try to touch me. And remember always, I'm your fucking enemy. Enemy, enemy, enemy, I'm your fucking enemy. Enemy... , I love this song, been a long time since I heard this single. I'm gonna buy this CD, I should try talking to others. I might not be the only one here. Surely, there must be other passengers they rescued from the ship. I don’t understand what these people are saying, gibberish, I feel like I am the one who is talking gibberish. Oh finally, someone who doesn’t know where he is going. Why is he running away from me, are we not supposed to meet or something. He must know something about this place. I still don’t understand why they would go this far to simulate our environment for us. Reminds me of aquariums, this is probably an entertainment for them. Now I understand how those fish felt like being monitored all the time. What the fuck, a whale, dropped from the sky, in the middle of the road. Why whale, either a glitch or a hidden message. Oh yeah, we had whales on our ship, I am remembering things now. I didn’t even feel like I missed some memories. They are surely hiding something from us, why are they keeping us here. I need some dope, this is getting too much, I should go back to my room. Those people are eating that whale. Bunch of fucking whaleaters, they are probably aliens masquerading as humans. I miss going to the beach, the waves bring tranquil to my heart. The vastness of the ocean is overwhelming for my mind to contemplate. Sometimes I fear one of the tides rise up to be a tsunami, that must be hard to simulate. I am almost near, What the..., what is wrong with that dog. Why am I having a Deja Vu about this? Oh, that’s him, that person, did he just follow me all the way. I thought he ran away. He knows where I live now. He is still standing outside, I wanted to talk to him, but this is creepy. Someone is knocking on the door, it's not him, I can still see him from here above. He is gesturing something, fuck, the door is going to break. What should I do, I can jump out the window, no, I am going to die if I do that. Should I open the door, I think he is telling me to jump, he probably has a net. Make a choice damn it, open or jump. \ How many of them have I killed by now, this is certainly terrifying to think. I don’t know if they are my fellow humans or are they, aliens. Death is unavoidable anywhere in the universe, even if it’s a simulation. I seem to be the leader for this revolution, I don’t remember becoming a leader. I don’t know who I am anymore, am I a human or maybe I am an alien. I can't afford this crisis right now, it seems to me, this is eternal war. Death with purpose and the illusion of free will. Dying for a cause sure must give them comfort. I wonder if I am the only one who is capable of thought in this simulation. I need to get away from this war zone, what is the purpose of this simulation. Give me my memories back, even if I hate them, I know you can listen. There must be some answer to this perpetual nightmare. I need to break out of this illusion. I need to show my will. I need to show them that I can make a choice. How can I make a choice without any driving memories? I can't believe what I am seeing right now, An army of Bipedal Dogs. Why do I feel like I know that dog? Does this mean I still have some memories, are they hidden from me? I met their commander, I was the commander of my ship. This was my choice. They are killing, no, obliterating, their minds, no, our minds. I chose this nightmare for all my people. I was never alone in this place. It was the only choice I could make. What good are you planning to get out of this massacre, why choose the beloved form of dogs, Is this a mockery of mankind. I led all our hope into this abyss. Where is the cat army when we need it the most, they never really cared for us? It wasn’t really a choice. The cats never cared for humanity, they just seduced us with their cuteness. I made this deal, so those aliens would take us back home, they showed us our future. I was never really capable of making that choice. Is this the future they promised us. I don’t want to remember, enslave me, rid me of my consciousness. I choose to live in Illusion.

I am from a large and loving family that is a bit well weird in most people’s eyes but weird is fun. As a quick example, when a photographer asks for us to pull a ‘silly face’ we have to clarify “marshall silly face or normal silly face?”. We all enjoy making each other laugh and goofing off. We are all each other’s best friend. As the second generation of twelve cousins becomes older there are marriages every year and babies every other. My father is one of four and is the second oldest. First it was Aunty Jenny followed by my father Steve, then uncle bill and lastly Uncle Keith, the craziest out of them all. It was his younger brother Williams (better known as Uncle Bill) middle child Caris who was getting married. This story is from Caris’s wedding in 2010, the first wedding of the second generation and ultimately the most memorable. A Marshall wedding is not your usual wedding. Things are a bit crazier and kookier than most others. As it was Caris’s wedding all the girl cousins were asked to be bridesmaids. Having us all together we all knew it is was going to be the most unforgettable and unique wedding. There were five bridesmaids in total. Caris’s sister Lauren was maid of honour followed by Kailee and Katrina. Amy and I being the youngest were ‘junior’ bridesmaids. We have no important jobs to do but Caris did not want to exclude us. The ceremony was in the grandparent’s large backyard garden. There was a big grassy area surrounded by many trees, flowers, shrubs and a pond. Uncle Bill had been pruning and trimming the whole area for weeks and it had definitely paid off. Caris and Toms wedding reception filled a whole ball room as Tom is Italian and the Marshalls side is extensive and large. The rooms roof was decorated with floating white sheets and fairy lights. There were lights and flowers on every table and a large flower arrangement across the bridal table, which was stationed at the head of the dance floor. The pillars in the room were spiralled with flowers, lights and matching white material as the roof raising as high as the ceiling. The dance floor was at the centre at the room and large enough for all to join. To the side stood the tired white cake. There were the usual proceedings of a regular wedding. The bridal party was introduced as we all danced to our seats. After some dancing, speeches and the Italian seven course feast it was time for the bouquet toss. The MC called all the ladies out onto the dance floor. All five of us bridesmaids gathered, arms around shoulders, ready for the toss and began talking tactics. It was Tully (Kailee) who said “Lets lift someone up”. “Like a rugby lift?” ask Trina (aka Katrina) “Yeah! Like a rugby lift” Tully replied “Okay so who is getting married next?” asked Rat (aka Lauren). “Ahhhhh... bub?! (aka Amy)” I explained. There was a quick unanimous yes despite Amy being in a very new relationship. Now this was all worked out in under sixty seconds. We talked fast and in hushed tones. All five girls in matching purple dressed positioned themselves close behind Caris for the toss and a meter or two in front of the other girls. We widened our stance and yanked up our dressed. This is where everything went in slow motion. The rest of the ladies behind us immediately discounted us because of our position. We all circled Bub, the aunties and uncles were yelling at us that we were too far forward but we waved them off, we had a plan. We turned our focus to Caris who was oblivious to where we were standing and what we were planning. Caris bent slightly to build up the throw, we all grabbed what ever we could of Bub and began to push her up. Caris launched the bouquet. It was sailing through the air much higher than any of us anticipated. We had to dig deep. Amy grew higher and higher. This is when all the Marshalls in the room smiled and everyone else’s mouths dropped. No one could believe what was happening, no one had seen it before, the MC was speechless. The bouquet crashed into Bubs outstretched hands causing the frangipani petals to cascade down on the four of us. All the ladies behind us let out a gasp or a sigh. We lowered Bub thinking she had the bouquet but she had hit it down across the dance floor! She scurried for it and easily grabbed the now flowerless bouquet. With an extremely triumphant fist she thrusted it in the air as well all yelled in celebration. Everyone behind didn’t even stand a chance. Everyone was left stunned and silent for only a few moments before the room was lit up with laughter and exclamations like “oh my gosh!” and “did you see that?”. The MC just didn’t know what to say and fumbled with his words for a minute or two before continuing with the next item. To this day we still talk about the bouquet throw from Caris’s wedding. Anyone new to the family will be told by all the Aunties and Uncles at once followed by Uncle Bill proudly showing off the perfectly timed photo, he took of it. It perfectly depicts the amazement on everyone’s faces. The people in the background included the MC and most of Toms family who were not use to this sort of thing. All their eyes are wide and mouths open. The rest of the ladies in the back look much more defeated in comparison. However, we feel no remorse for are perfectly executed and impromptu plan. This photo hangs in centre stage in Caris’s house and will never be removed. The absolute best part of this story was that Bub was indeed the next one to get married. By Brianna Marshall (AKA Buzz)

Depth: 3.3 kilometers. Distance from New Alcatraz: 900 meters. Time since loss of contact: 27 hours, 43 minutes. I squeeze the grip on my M4 carbine. The on-board submarine computer sounds deeper than Barry White. I try to ignore it. All I can think about is the safety of my platoon. This is unlike any mission we’ve ever been on. Technically, the place we’re going to doesn’t exist. The US government set it up in international waters, outside of official jurisdiction. It was touted as the world’s first functional underwater prison, designed for the most hardened criminals. Completely off-the-grid with its own nuclear power source and 3D fabricators for food, clothing, weapons, and other supplies. Once you’re there, you never have to leave. And good luck trying to. Distance: 500 meters. New Alcatraz comes up on the monitors. The glass dome covering the facility looks rather beautiful. The wipers used to clean the algae are operating, so the place must still have some electricity. No sunlight penetrates this far down into the ocean. The only lights I see come from inside the prison. “What do you think happened, Commander Park?” Dax asks. He spins around in the pilot’s seat. A sheen of sweat covers his forehead, and he’s not even wearing full body armor like the rest of us. It must take a toll piloting a sub like this one. “Your guess is as good as mine,” I say. Distance: 100 meters. There’s another submarine docked in the moon pool. That must have been the last prisoner transport before contact was lost. Something got in there that shouldn’t have. Docking sequence initiated... When I started out as a private, all I could think about was being the one that yelled out the orders. But now that I’m the one in charge, I wish I could turn the clock back. Because now I’m the one that has to go into New Alcatraz first. I inhale a deep breath and exhale slowly. Docked in Bay 2. “Let’s go,” I say. The bulkhead door opens. We enter the processing center. There’s an enclosed space in the middle of the room with windows where the guards would sit. We’re the only ones here. One of the doorways out of the room is locked. Another has been left ajar. My heart almost jumps out of my chest as we creep across the room... Nothing is waiting for us around the corner. We walk into a wide-open space. The circular tables make me think that this is the mess hall. Most of the chairs are set on top of the tables, but some of them have been knocked to the floor. The place looks like it should on any normal day. Except for the puddle of red on the floor. “Son of a bitch.” The acids in my stomach churn. There was a struggle of some sort, but there aren’t any remains or body parts on the ground. Just the blood. “Stick together,” I say. We cross the room and head to the staircase on the side of the panopticon-shaped prison. I feel like I’m walking on egg shells with each step that I take. The moment that we reach the second floor, an alert from the submarine AI comes through on our com link. Bacteriological agent detected. Exercise caution. My insides sink to the bottom of my chest. That would explain quite a bit. One of the prisoners must have come down with something and infected everybody else. But apart from rabies, I can’t think of any disease that would cause somebody to go berserk and take over the facility. And wouldn’t the officers screen all the prisoners before putting them on the transport sub and bringing them down here? Levels Two through Six house the prison cells. There are streaks of blood scattered on the ground without any remains to speak of. It’s as if the corpses disappeared or something. The further we go inside the facility, the sicker I feel. I’m not even behind bars, and I feel like I’m a prisoner in here. Commander, this is Dax. Do you read? “What is it?” I say into the com. Sir... there are... well... fish in the moon pool. They jumped out of the water and now they’re just sitting on the dock. My mouth falls open. That is not something that I need to know about right now. Dax does not have the best timing. “Is that all?” No, sir. I’ve also been picking up something on the sonar. Something big is circling the outside of the facility. You might want to hurry it up in there. Don’t want to stay any longer than we have to. “Roger that. One more floor to check.” The last place to explore is the confinement level at the top of the facility. We go up a final flight of stairs, moving at a snail’s pace. I can hear the breathing before we exit the stairwell. It doesn’t sound like a noise that a human is capable of emitting. It sounds guttural. Animalistic. Depraved. The prisoners are all standing in place with their hands at their sides. In this prison, the inmates wear white jumpsuits. Most of them are covered in blood. For some reason, it makes me think of a red and white candy cane. “FREEZE! HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!” None of the inmates move. Their heads are slumped forward. They stand as still as statues. “PUT YOUR HANDS UP!” One of the prisoners turns around to face me. His black eyes lock on to mine. His mouth droops open. “You! What happened here?” I ask. He points to one of the solitary confinement units. Blood is caked into his hand. “The guards were annoying us... we took over... gave them a taste of their own medicine... now we own the place.” That’s when I notice a thumping noise coming from the unit. Somebody’s pounding on the door, trying to get out. “Put your hands behind your-” I can’t even finish the command before the inmate leaps forward and tackles me to the ground. The impact knocks the breath out of my lungs. My gun clatters away. Boy , he is stronger than he looks. I feel every ounce of his weight on me. He bares his teeth like some wild animal. Red spittle shoots out of his mouth and sticks to my helmet. Instinct takes over. I headbutt him and push him off. The other inmates snap out of their trance. They surge towards us. Guns discharge. The popping sound hammers against my eardrums. Some of the inmates collapse to the ground. The others don’t seem to notice that they’ve been riddled with bullets. They run into us like a football team executing a play. I sidestep one of them and plant a bullet into the face of another. Still, they keep coming like a pack of wolves. A scream rips the air apart. I almost jump out of my combat boots. One of my brothers lies sprawled on the ground. His black helmet rolls across the floor. An inmate has his face planted in his neck. A puddle of blood flows out from his body. “GET OFF HIM!” I barrel across the confinement area. Using the heel of my boot, I kick the inmate onto his back before emptying a mag into him. “SPLINTER! ARE YOU OKAY?” His face is as white as a sheet. A chunk of his neck is missing, body armor and all. He’s not going to make it. My breath catches in my throat. Everything seems to happen on fast-forward. Another scream, more bullets, a horrendous chomping sound. In less than thirty seconds, half of my platoon is dead. Only four of us remain. “FALL BACK!” We scamper back down the stairs. I never leave any of my teammates behind, dead or alive. But this is beyond hope. At this rate, we’ll all get infected. We’re outnumbered ten to one. The only thing we can do now is escape. I almost trip over my feet as we sprint past the cells on Level Six. The inmates pound their fists on the white cell doors as they chase us down the hall. A blanket of sweat covers my body. It’s hotter than hell in the body armor. My lungs scream in protest. “HERE! TAKE THIS!” K-9 throws a grenade at the inmates. I shoot forward and cover my head with my hands. Seconds later, an explosion rocks the entire facility. I feel myself lifted into the air. Pieces of shrapnel shoot out in all directions. The prison cells sway in front of me. I definitely have a concussion. “Well... fuck that ...” I say. “Quick thinking, K-9.” “That was insane,” K-9 says. “What’s wrong with them? Those prisoners went crazy...” “I don’t know. Some kind of sickness or something...” I say. A big chunk of the staircase is missing, cutting us off from the horde of infected. They growl at us from their perch on the floor above. I collapse to the ground in exhaustion. I wrench my helmet off and toss it aside. “You know, the guards are still stuck up there in the confinement cells,” K-9 says. “How do you think we’re supposed to get them out?” Before I can answer, I notice a crack on the glass dome overhead. It looks like a spiderweb. “Oh shit...” A trickle of water breaks through the glass. The trickle turns into a gusher. Water flows down through the opening in the center of the floor and falls straight down to the ground level. Soon, the whole fucking dome is going to be flooded. “RUN!” I shout. It sounds like we’re next to Niagara Falls. Water splashes around with each step we take. I hear a shattering noise above us. The hole in the glass widens. Soon, the whole fucking thing will cave in. I look over the balcony down to the ground level. The water looks taller than me now. There’s no way we’ll make it in time. “Guys! We have to jump! The water should be deep enough now!” I throw my rifle away and step onto the railing in front of the balcony. It seems like I’m on top of Mt. Everest looking down. My head swims. “You sure we can make that?” K-9 says. “Come on!” I force myself to take a step. For a moment, I feel weightless. Then I fall into the abyss. The floors of the facility rush past me. I keep my body as straight as a pencil. The water rises up to greet me. I close my eyes... SHOOM! The moment I hit the water, I kick my feet in front of me so that my body levels out and stays parallel with the floor. Fortunately, our body armor works underwater. I’m still able to breathe. I swim back up to the surface and see the rest of the platoon jump in after me. The water is almost up to the second floor now. “Everybody okay?” I ask. “I think I broke my butt bone,” K-9 says. “Good. Let’s go.” We go back under and swim through the processing center towards the entrance to the facility. The double doors prevent the moon pool from filling up with water. I gasp in relief at the sight of the submarine waiting for us. Commander... do... a... on... when... My com starts to crackle. It must have gotten damaged in the fall. I can barely make out what Dax is saying. “Dax, can you hear me? Come in... do you copy?” That’s when I notice the colony of fish swimming around the sub. At first, I think that they’re barracudas, except for two things. The first is that they have wings at their sides. Some of the fish jump out of the water and soar over the dock before going back in. My jaw detaches from my mouth as I watch them fly through the moon pool. The second thing is that barracudas don’t have razor-sharp teeth. These fish do. “What the hell...” I have no time to react as one of the fish jumps out of the water and shoots toward K-9. It latches right onto his chest and hangs erect off of him. “Holy shit! Get this thing off!” He tries swatting at the fish. It keeps its death-grip on him. I unsheathe my army knife, grab the fish by the tail, and slice it in half. Finally, it comes loose. Then two more fish jump out of the water and take its place. One of them bites into K-9’s neck. A stream of blood shoots through the air. Soon, the fish shoot out of the water at us like bullets. It’s a deluge. K-9 is literally knocked off his feet and sent flying backwards. I slice through as many as I can, but each one I kill is replaced fivefold. COMMANDER! GET OUT OF THERE! WE’VE GOT INCOMING! Now the com decides to work. I ignore Dax and try to find K-9. I can’t even see him under the horde of fish. I make a move towards him only to have the rest of the platoon wrestle me back to the submarine and in through the bulkhead door. “NO! STOP IT! WE HAVE TO DO SOMETHING! LET ME GO!” Everybody else knows that it’s too late. I want to scream as loudly as I can but my voice escapes me. Crimson blood covers the dock. The fish continue to enter the moon pool. Some are even stuck to the submarine now. “Strap yourselves in!” Dax says. “We’re leaving!” The nuclear engine hums to life. A blanket of monitors flickers on in front of us, showing feeds from different cameras attached to the ship. All systems operational... proximity alert... switching to stealth mode... The lights dim throughout the submarine and are replaced by a red glow. I hold my breath. Nobody says a word. We’re going to have to be dead silent if we want to slip by whatever’s waiting for us... Suddenly, there’s a pounding noise from outside. It sounds like somebody’s banging on the bulkhead door. I take off my seatbelt, bolt out of my chair, and look through the glass dome on the door. “Oh no... no no no no...” It’s K-9. He’s just like the inmates now. Infected. Blood drips from his mouth. He bangs his head against the door over and over again. My stomach feels like it’s about to expel its contents. He must have contracted the disease from the fish in the moon pool. The sub starts to descend. We leave K-9 and the rest of the infected behind. Darkness covers the camera feeds. Outside of New Alcatraz, there are no other sources of light nearby. “How far away are we from the nearest port?” I whisper. “19 km,” Dax says. “Have them get a medical team ready for when we arrive,” I say. “Because we’re going right back in there and-” The submarine lurches to the right. Something pushes against it from outside. My seatbelt digs into my chest. A siren blares. WARNING! PROXIMITY ALERT! “Dax! What the hell is going on?” I needn’t have asked him. I can see them on the camera next to the radio antenna. The infected fish. Thousands and thousands of them. Acting together as a single predator. The submarine is their prey. “Get us out of this!” I say. “Can’t... there’s too many of them,” Dax says. “I can’t steer this fucking thing!” We’re doing donuts underwater. It’s almost impossible to believe that something so small could have so much power. None of our weapons work against a threat like this. We’ve got to do something. If we crash into the seafloor or a cliff, we won’t make it. One of the cameras shows a plume of smoke erupting from a crevice in the ground. There must be some sort of volcanic activity nearby. There’s no way the fish could survive that heat. An idea takes shape in my mind... “Dax! Head to that subduction zone over there!” “Sir, we’ll be killed! The submarine can’t withstand those temperatures!” “It’s our only shot! We’ve got to get them off! Do it!” Dax shoves the joystick forward. I almost fall backwards as the sub shoots ahead. Fire belches out of the fissure in the seafloor. Time to use our surroundings to our advantage. WARNING! EXCESSIVE HEAT! TEMPERATURE CRITICAL! STRUCTURAL FAILURE IMMINENT! The alert falls on deaf ears. We’re going too fast. It’s impossible to change course. The dot on the sonar follows us right into hell. The fish won’t let us go. It’s as if they know that there are healthy hosts inside of the submarine for them to transmit their disease. We go right over the subduction zone. Fire shoots up around us. I feel the rumble of the Earth below. The submarine rattles like a child playing with a toy. Every single camera feed turns white. It seems like the fire goes on for hours. TEMPERATURE CRITICAL! ABANDON SHIP! There’s nowhere else for us to go. This is a real trial by fire. I send a pray up to whatever God may be there in the sky. “Commander! I think I’m getting control back!” Dax says. “The fish are dying!” The fire diminishes from one of the cameras. Then another. Eventually, we make it out of the subduction zone. The submarine holds up. The fish float in the water behind us. None of them are moving. They’ve been charred to a crisp. I collapse back into my seat. It actually worked. We made it out in one piece. “Holy shit,” I say. “That was insane. I don’t think we’ll be seeing them around again.” “Maybe next time they should stick with an aboveground prison,” Dax says.

I drummed my fingers lightly on the table. The guard standing next to me shifted uncomfortably. The interview was set to start in two minutes. "Are you gonna be here the whole time?" I asked looking up at him. ​ "If that is what you wish, but he will be handcuffed. He will not be able to hurt you." He said without looking down at me. I looked forward towards the door that leads to the interworkings of the prison. ​ "Actually, I think it would be best if it was just me and him. He might be more comfortable that way." I said without taking my eyes off the door, looking for movement behind it. He gave me no response. I looked down at my watch. One minute until show time. I fiddled with my notes again, checked the tape recorder once again to make sure it was in working order. I didn't want to miss a single second of this. ​ "Keep it movin'," I heard a surly voice say from beyond the door. The guard glanced at me then shifted again. Keys jingling, then the knob turning, and then there he was. The most prolific serial killer in the history of the state of Arizona, looking right at me. ​ He was neat, clean-cut, freshly shaven. He's been in solitary for the past three weeks, he must have cleaned up special for this. He must be able to feel my repulse and excitement rolling off of me in waves. He gave me a small smile. I turned to the guard next to me, gave him a nod as his cue to leave, he hit me with a looked that asked me "Are you sure? Really sure?", but my gaze didn't waver. ​ Once he was secured, and the doors were shut, it was time to begin. They had cleared out the visitor room just for this, we were seated at a small table near a window that overlooked the yard. I knew they would be watching us. He cocked his head at me, shot me that grin again. The smile never reached his eyes. I cleared my throat, reached for the recorder, and started the recording. ​ He glanced at the recorder, then back at me. "Hello Ms.Ward, it's nice to meet you. My name is John Doe", he made the motion of going in for a handshake, but fell short due to the restrictions. I tried to smile. ​ "They told you my name?" I asked with genuine interest. I hadn't exactly agreed to be the interviewer until yesterday. He seemed delighted with this. ​ "Well yes, I know everything about you, Ms. Ward. It truly is a pleasure to meet you." He stared at me as he said this, his cold eyes never leaving my face. I laughed lightly despite the panic rising within me. "What exactly do you know about me?" I said trying my best to keep eye contact. He drops his eyes, then slowly pulled them back to meet mine, that grin never leaving his face. "I know that you are originally from Portland, left when you were 18 and then hopped from state to state until you found a place that stuck. I believe you lived in California, Washington, Montana, Idaho, Nevada, and Utah. Ah, yes, with a brief stay in New Mexico. You work for the East Valley Tribune, and I know that you're the new kid on the block there, don't exactly fit in. Haven't made any friends despite being here since January. Stick to yourself, don't you? I imagine you living in a small, neat apartment, short lease. You never know when you might want to pack up and leave again. No boyfriend, I suppose no romance has entered your life in the past decade. From the divorce I suspect." He spoke with a calm tone to his voice. It felt like I was talking to one of my teachers in elementary school. ​ "I've read everything you've written. Talented writer I must say. This doesn't really fit with the rest of your work, does it? You've stayed away from crime. I think you got stuck with me because no one else had the balls to sit across the table from me. Is that close? " Silence fell for a moment. His face never moved. "Right on the money," I replied. I looked down at my notes, lost for a moment. "Let's start, shall we?" I said. His expression didn't change. He eased back in his chair. ​ "Fire away.

A reflection of the azure-blue sky must have been the last thing the ring-necked pheasant saw before he flew into my floor-to-ceiling panorama window. I heard the house rattling thud and rushed to my balcony where I found the stately bird looking like a pile of pretty feathers. Sadly, the angle of his neck, and his half-opened vacant eyes told me he was a goner. It was a distressing moment, for sure, but the home chef inside me soon pictured a steaming, crispy-skinned entree stuffed with apples and brown rice. The living and dying were done. Only plucking, cleaning, stuffing, baking, and eating remained to provide a proper denouement for the handsome bird's life story. At least, that’s the way I saw it at the time. Eating, no matter how scrumptious the meal, can’t be called dining if you’re eating alone. My gourmet meal had to include last-minute company. My dream companion was any woman who looked ravishing in candle glow. However, keeping it real, I settled for my next-door neighbors, the Van Winkles-Al, and his wife Val. I’d sensed that the neighborhood thought of me as an oddball, and I could see how a fifty-year-old bachelor moving into a big house, in a gated community could come across that way. This sad occasion was my chance to show them what I really am: a gracious, congenial, humorous, gourmet chef. I got Al on the phone and after a long hesitation and a whispered exchange with Val, he accepted my invitation for dinner. He offered to bring wine, but I told him I had two bottles of Petite Syrah, which goes well with pheasant. “Just bring yourselves and a hearty appetite.” We ended the call on that cheerful note, but I must have been unclear about the time. Al and Val showed up much too early, as we shall see. I carried the carcass to the backyard, where I’d covered the picnic table with newspapers then sat down and began ripping the feathers off the drumsticks, rump, belly, and back. The downy feathers from these parts come off easily, provided the bird is still warm. I never scald fowl before plucking because hot water pre-cooks the skin, making it tear and lose moisture; spoiling the presentation. With the feathers plucked, except for the head, wingtips, and tail, I went to the kitchen to set the oven and get a sharp knife, to open the torso, and a cleaver, to chop off the head and lower legs. I checked to make sure I wouldn’t need a trip to the store and found I had plenty of bacon to wrap the bird which is a tasty way to keep it nice and juicy during roasting. I also grabbed a plastic container for the giblets. The heart, gizzard, liver, and sweetbreads, dusted in white flour and pan-fried in garlicky olive oil would be tomorrow’s delectable luncheon ─ big plans. On my way back I heard the doorbell. When I opened the door, I was stunned to see my guests standing on the porch wearing obligatory smiles. They could probably tell that something was wrong by my startled expression, but I gathered my composure and extended a welcoming hello. “Come on in. We’ll hang out on the patio while I do some final prep. We can talk and get acquainted while the bird is in the oven.” Trying to think of what we could talk about for the next two hours made me nervous, especially when Val offered to help with the cooking. I hadn’t mentioned that the main course was window kill and that I’d be removing its bloody innards and chopping off its legs as we chatted and joked. Before I had a chance to respond to her, we’d stepped onto the brick patio. I was startled − transfixed − not able to process and react to what I was seeing. The pheasant was standing in a pile of its own plucked feathers; looking at us. However, “looking at us” does not begin to put across what the naked bird was doing. He was communicating − speaking volumes with facial expressions and body language. With his half-opened beak, a slight cocking of his head, his brow knitted (not furled), and a subtle hunching of what passes for shoulders, he was asking a question as old as life itself: “What the fuck happened?” He could not have made himself any clearer - even if he had mastered human speech. I turned and watched the color drain from my guest’s horrified faces. Gathering my wits, I moved quickly. That’s when the confused bird spotted the knife and cleaver. Putting two and two together, he let out an infuriated squawk and flapped his bare wings, ready and willing for a fight to the death. Val and Al disappeared, scurrying home sometime during the ensuing violence. The pheasant got in one painful peck to my nose before the table upended and the plucked feathers and newsprint scattered across the patio with the goose-pimpled bird screaming screeches that could be heard for blocks. I finally subdued him using my greater weight and wingspread. I tied his legs together and hung him upside down until he mellowed out. My cheeks were badly scratched and my favorite white chef’s jacket was ripped to shreds. Holding a bloody dishtowel to my nose, I called the Van Winkles, but I have not yet had any response to my nasal, muffled explanation on voice mail. I should have made up a story instead of trying to make sense of what really happened. On the other hand, I doubt if even J.K. Rowling could come up with a story that could put me in good graces with the Van Winkles, or anyone else who lives within squawking distance. The Wildlife Rehabilitation Hospital assures me that re-fledging has begun and that the pheasant is well on his way to a complete recovery. Lucky him. He’ll soon be released back into the wild and I’ll still be cooped up in this gated community where everyone still thinks I’m an oddball. The End

Lily sits at her desk, her office is bright with the afternoon sunlight, the south exposure extends Lily a warm embrace. Lily is distracted by her thoughts, “what made me think this was a good idea?” as she stares at a blank screen in front of her, she suddenly realized that the dream of telling her story just became her nightmare. “No turning back now”, she says, and proceeds to type the words she’s been holding on to for the past 25 years. “To my dearest family, with all my love I write to each of you personally, sharing my most personal and deepest thoughts, with love and forgiveness, always yours, Sister and Daughter” Lily could feel a lump in her throat, “how am I going to do this?” She asks herself, “dig deep girl, you know you can” and begins to type again. “I am strong, I am worthy” she repeats quietly to herself. Soon the words just starting pouring out of her, “Dear Dad”, she takes in a deep breath, and releases it, “I know you fought hard against the demons in your head, you fought against the emotions you couldn’t express. There were many nights I cried when I found you had left us, again and again, my days were filled with sadness, but I held on knowing you would always come home, and you did. Dad, that version of you has long since passed, and now here you are with little time left on your clock, I want you to know how proud I am of you for coming out of the darkness and for being part of my life. I will always love you, now and forever.” Lily stopped typing for a moment, taking in the words she wrote, knowing how many more of these letters she has to write and all the emotions that are surfacing. Lily wanted this so badly, but had no idea of the cost that would come with it. Lily took a sip of water, and proceeded to type once again. “Dear Mom, So many years have gone by, I miss you with each passing day, your smile and your laugh are always with me. I want you to know how sorry I am for never really hearing your words, or understanding what you needed from me, I had no idea of the battle you fought each day, alone with your emotions, alone in your fight. It’s too late now, you have left us, but I promise you this, I will share your story and make sure that those who are lost are heard. I’m so sorry Mom, you are and always will be part of my soul.” Lily stops and smiles, she knows her mom is there with her as a light breeze comes through the window, goose-bumps run up her arms. Lily had buried all these feelings, emotions for so long, and as she thinks back, she realizes that everything she accomplished was based on a fabrication of her life, she hasn’t faced these emotions and now here she is taking them on, to what end? “I need to do this, someone out there needs to read this.” She says matter of fact, and proceeds with her next letter. ”Dear Jackson, My dearest brother, although we are of the same blood, we are from different fathers. What I do remember is how we were as siblings, we fought a lot, but I do remember as we got older we started to develop a bond. Sadly, with the interference of religion, we never really had a chance to get to know each other as grown adults. To this day, I only know you by name, you care so deeply for your congregation, and I forgive you for not understanding my choice to leave the religion, but my life is sound, my life is mine and I am happy. I love you and I forgive you.” Lily pauses, “i lost my family because I chose a path to a more fulfilling life.” She gives her head a good shake, “they lost me.” She quietly whispers. Lily looks around her cozy office space, it’s furnished with a rustic white desk, light grey bookshelves, a white lounging chair accessorized with hints of yellow splashed throughout. Lily came from very humble beginnings, and worked hard to get here. She was proud of her accomplishments, yes at a cost, but she knows that her emotional luggage is what was packed years ago to get her here. Lily had one more letter to write, and this one was to her sister. Lily, looks at her computer knowing she has to finish strong. “Dear Sis (Rachel), Growing up we were inseparable, we were practically attached at the hips, right up until I graduated. We were best of friends, with so pinky swears, secrets to take to our own graves. When I chose my path, our bond began to fray, slowly, day by day, i knew you weren’t allowed to be in my life any longer. I cherish each moment, the walks to school, the kick in the shins you give me for walking too fast, sharing lockers, even going to the same classes. These moments I hold dear to me, as they made me who I am today. I only wish you happiness in your life, please know that I will always be in yours, always in your heart.” Lily sat back, letting a tear roll down her cheek, “I really needed to do this.” In saying this, she also felt like a weight had been lifted from her, it was as though the clouds had cleared, and the sun was brighter, her senses were so heightened, she could feel the flow of freedom run through her body. Lily stepped away from her desk, feeling wonderfully satisfied, but a sadness overshadows her moment, she keeps thinking “did I really sacrifice my family, for my happiness?” It was in that moment, Lily looked in the mirror and looked into her own eyes, and exclaimed “this is exactly where you are meant to be right here, right now!”

I highly recommend checking out the video version here - But if you're more of a reader than a watcher, then read on: In the middle of 2013, Adobe went through a huge security breach in their systems with huge bits of their software code stolen and posted online. The hack was inevitable as Adobe had been criticized for its pricing practices among its user base for a very long time. My very first memory of using an Adobe product is a bit vague, but the feeling it gave me, is still very vivid in my mind. I was confused, amazed, inspired, jaw-dropped, all at the same time. Photoshop was the first Adobe product that I used and I didn’t know what to think of it except that now I can manipulate digital memories however I want. Photoshop was then of course just the beginning of what would lead me into a never ending curiosity of exploring other Adobe products like Premiere Pro and After Effects which then led me into digging deep into the past of two businessmen, John Warnock and Charles Geschke, the guys who found Adobe in the December of 1982. Initially being a math failure in his ninth grade, Warnock went on to grab a Bachelor’s degree in mathematics followed by a PhD in computer science. Warnock’s genius in mathematics was at full on display in the form of his 1964 master’s thesis where he solved the Jacobson radical row-finite matrices which was originally theorized by a leading algebraist in 1956. Warnock took his understanding of math and computer science to the next level when he wrote the Warnock Algorithm designed to render a complicated image of a scene. If the image is simple, it’s immediately rendered, but if it’s a complicated piece of pixels, then it’s divided into smaller parts and the rendering process repeats itself. On the other hand, although he never came up with a unique invention, Charles Geschke, Adobe’s co-founder was on a parallel level to John Warnock with his MS in mathematics and a PhD in computer science. He went on from a teaching job to working at Xerox where he formed and headed an image science laboratory, directing research activities notably in image processing. This is where the two masterminds crossed paths when Charles hired Warnock at his lab and the two came up with the idea to commercialize InterPress graphics language for controlling printing. But Xerox remained unconvinced and the two along with a third collaborator, Dan Putman left their jobs at Xerox to build Adobe. The company found in Warnock’s garage, went on to the level where Steve Jobs once negotiated to buy it for five million dollars, but to Warnock and Charles’ credit, they refused and instead sold him 19 percent of the shares for five times more of what the company was evaluated at the time. Reaching the mid-1980s, the company launched Adobe Illustrator that would change the face of how people would draw in the future to come followed by Photoshop nine years later that would become its flagship product. Two years later down the road, the world was introduced to Premiere Pro and After Effects that would redefine how movies would be made. Fast forward to the Summer of 1993 and the company finally came up with the PDF format that would allow us to send electronic documents anywhere, view and print them on any machine. In Warnock’s own words “Imagine a digital document viewer equipped with text searching capabilities. You can find all documents that contain a certain word or phrase, then view that word in context within the document. Entire libraries could be archived in electronic form.” Being incredibly successful with all of its products, it’s quite astonishing that Adobe flash was met with a lot of backlash most notably from Steve Jobs who opted not to support Adobe Flash on iPhones claiming unreliability and security flaws with the software. Jobs even posted an article online expressing his thoughts on Flash and the rise of HTML 5. Adobe eventually went on to discontinue Flash in the December of 2011 and refocusing all efforts on HTML 5 for mobile devices. With its share of success, Adobe has faced continuous criticism due to its security designs. Hackers have been successfully able to breach it to gain access to computers worldwide. The vulnerabilities became so bad that the company itself revealed in 2013 that about 2.9million customer data had been stolen including encrypted credit card information along with bits and pieces of Photoshop’s source code that allowed programmers to duplicate its engineering techniques and making it incredibly easy to pirate Adobe’s product. Back in 1994, Adobe bought Aldus Corp., the manufacturer of Free Hand that was a direct competitor to Adobe Illustrator. But Adobe was forced by the Federal Trade Commission to sell the software to Altsys, the company which was then bought by Macromedia, the organization which was then bought by Adobe in 2005. Adobe bounced over and took back control of the only two leading illustration programs in the world. What’s more mind twisting is that Adobe is now diving into the AI industry collaborating with NVIDIA to speed up its Adobe Sensei AI which is going to deliver some very powerful features like auto lip sync in Adobe Animator CC and face aware editing in Photoshop CC. I’m an Adobe user and I’ll always be an Adobe user, because I can never really be sure what amazing new mind twisting direction Adobe’s going to be moving in, but whenever I finally see the end results, I’m confused, amazed, inspired, jaw-dropped, all at the same time. I definitely haven’t used all of the Adobe products, but the softwares that support the process of filmmaking definitely keep me enticed to be an Adobe user as I go on. All of this made me think as to what crossed the founders mind to take this garage based company to worldwide domination and that was the inspiration for the video version of this story. Everything you see in the video has been done very frugally and with very limited means.

HOME HELP Ann Martin Trigger Warning: Self-harm By the time Ellie went to make them a cup of tea, Marian knew she would get the job. Interview? Hardly. Two strangers talking through tears. It was hardly a job either. Ssix hours a week light housework. But it would serve its purpose, which was to give her something to think about, something to pour into the emptiness. A quick scan of the room while Ellie Roberts was in the kitchen told Marian a lot. Furniture good, but shabby. Carpet ditto and with the kind of indelible stains that come with small children. A plastic crate in the corner filled with a colourful jumble of toys. A Sesame Street book half under the couch. That hurt. A wedding photograph in a frame on the coffee table that she gazed at for longer. Ellie younger, but with the same soft, dark hair and eyes under a pearl coronet and a billow of white tulle. She was gazing up at her new husband not just with love, but sheer, raw adoration. And why not? Hugh Grant boyish, with his hair slightly rumpled and a grin on his face as though he’d won first prize in a lottery. Nice couple. Happy couple. Ellie came in and set down a tray on the small table before sitting herself back down to face Marian. Tea-party niceties were observed, tentative attempts were made at connection “Milk? Sugar? I’m sorry, I thought we had biscuits, but the children seem to have finished them.” Ellie’s voice, too, was soft. A gentle, slightly nervous woman with shy, searching eyes. Searching for what?? Searching for something she might just have found? “That’s fine. I try not to nibble between meals. I have serious issues with the size of my hips, these days.” Marian smiled, much easier at seeming at ease, but possibly only because she was some thirty years older. She gave Ellie her cue to begin. “So, you want someone to come in three mornings a week?” Ellie nodded. “Yes, I don’t get a lot of spare time during the week and the little I do have, I want to give to my children.” Her eyes went to the wedding photograph. “Chris died just over a year ago. Cancer. So it’s important that...” Tears pooled, her voice thickened, wobbled and stopped. “Of course,” said Marian. It was a long time since she had needed to speak to anyone this tenderly. “I know what you mean. My husband died twenty eight years ago, when our daughter was six. She became everything. I had to love her enough for both of us.” Ellie picked up the incongruously cheerful red teapot and began to pour, her fingers gripping firmly and an equal grip on her voice, but the tears got away. “I don’t know what I’d do without my mother. She’s my one true angel. My lifeline” She paused and groped at a box of tissues, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose. “Sorry, sorry. I do try not to do this.” A gulp of air and she went on rapidly. “I drop the children off to her at the unearthly hour of seven am, so that I can be at work by eight. That way I can finish at four. My boss is very kind. Mum takes Layla to kindergarten and then looks after Joey for the day. She picks Layla up at three and I’m at her place by five. It’s not perfect, but we do our best.” “We always do our best, don’t we?” said Marian. “It’s all we can do.” As tentative as it had seemed when she applied, she now really wanted this little job. “Tell me about your children.” “Layla is five and Joey’s two,” said Ellie. “I would have had them here today, but Mum has taken them to a puppet show in the Botanical Gardens. I told her she didn’t need to, with it being Saturday and she’s had them all week. But she wanted to. Well, you know what grandmothers are.” Oh yes, Marian knows. Grandmothers are women who get bruised in the heart. Women who give those hearts completely and unconditionally to children who are theirs, but not theirs. Then comes the karate chop to that heart when their only daughter gets a job in some world away city and takes the grandchild with her. It could be forever and the pain in the wounded heart never seems to grow less. Now the tear-mist was her own. “Can you start tomorrow?” That was sudden. . Ellie was brisk now, taking charge, spelling out the arrangement. “I can give you a key right away. I’m afraid our paths won’t cross very often, but just come in at about nine and do whatever you think needs to be done. You don’t have to worry about the children’s laundry, I take that to Mum. There’s a Chinese ginger jar on the hall table, I’ll leave your money in there on a Friday. Cash is ok, isn’t it?” It was all so simple arrangement and so right. Just a few hours a week when she wasn’t alone at home, yearning for the child that she’d cared for every day for three years. When Jessica had found herself pregnant and then kicked the father out of her life, Marian had struggled with it all. But not for long. With Jessica keen to get her Masters, who else but her mother to give the devotion and support she’d always given? Who else but Grandma to look after baby Bryn? It had been so beautiful, so good. Just the three of them. It had filled Marian up in a way she hadn’t been filled since Jessica was born. It had been so good and she was missing it so desperately now it was gone. Incey Wincey Spider and blown kisses on Zoom could never be the same. Even though she so readily took on working for Ellie Roberts, she wasn’t prepared for the blows that would bruise her heart afresh. The primitive, love-filled drawings fixed with magnets to the fridge. Mummy and Layla and Joey. Love you Mummy, Granny in the park, each one labelled in an adult hand, Layla K1. The Beatrix Potter decorated bedroom with baby animal mobiles. The cot stripped down to the waterproof under-sheet after an accident in the night (she would gladly have washed the sheets). A small, balled up, inside-out sock under a single bed. Sticky finger marks on the wall beside a high chair. Pooh Bear and Piglet tableware in the dishwasher. A blue tortoise stool to help short legs reach the toilet seat. The unmistakeable smell of baby talc. Photos by Ellie’s bed. The husband, alive, still rumpled, still grinning. Two small painted faces; a fairy princess and a pirate. It hurt, but it was somehow a healing hurt. Therapy to cure an addiction. By the time she’d been cleaning that house for three weeks, she knew that she needed to keep on coming. She knew, in fact, that she needed more. She needed to meet those children, to hold them in her arms, bury her face in their hair and soak herself through and through with the very feel and sound and smell of them. She hadn’t seen Ellie in person since her interview, but there had been notes - sometimes even smiley-face notes - and her money had always been in an envelope in the ginger jar. That wasn’t enough, so Marian devised a plan. It was a simple plan, just a tin of home-baked cupcakes iced with kitten faces. A little gift delivered on a Saturday. I knew you wouldn’t mind. Another cup of tea together and then the offer. “I do know you have your mother, but if for any reason you ever need someone else ... a sitter....” After all, she and Ellie had already connected, bonded even, over tea and tears. It would be ok. It would be good. So why an ambulance? But there it was outside Ellie’s gate, one medic closing the doors, another starting up the engine. By the time she had parked, they were speeding down the street. Marian struggled with her seatbelt. Fumbled with the door of her car. Finally made it to the gate. She wasn’t the only one. Greedily inquisitive spectators were already gathered to mull and murmur and stare. Marian grasped the arm of a woman with fuchsia pink hair, leopard-skin pants, tattooed breasts and a cigarette poised between fingernails that matched the hair. “What happened?” Marian could hear her own voice, thin and cracked. “What? The woman looked at her with eyes black-rimmed and turquoise lidded but not unkind. “Tablets, love,” she said with a smoker’s rasp. “Sleeping pills. She’ll be ok. But only because I saw her bedroom light still on at ten this morning. Gut feeling, you know. Then she wouldn’t answer her door.’ She gave a half grimace, half grin. “Pays sometimes to have nosy neighbours!” Blowing smoke sideways, to miss Marian’s face, “I’ve seen you, haven’t I, coming and going? She wasn’t expecting you today, that’s for sure! ” The woman went on, happy to tell her story anew. “I did keep half an eye on her after her husband buggered off with that woman from his office. He was an arsehole, that one. I knew that the first time I met him. You can always tell. But she thought his arsehole was the sole source of the world’s solar energy. I tried to be a friend after he left her, but it wasn’t what she wanted. He’d tried to hit onto me once when I asked them round to my place for Christmas drinks and I think she picked it up. Anyway, she wouldn’t have a bar of me.” She waved her cigarette towards the bunch of neighbours who now felt free to comment as loudly and speculatively as they liked about the woman whose gate they were gathered around. “Wouldn’t have anything to do with any of us. She had her mum though, and they were very close. I think with her mum still there, she might have pulled through. But when her mom died a couple of months ago, well, I worried something like this might happen.” Marian felt her legs trembling, her face go white and cold. Stiff and clumsy mouth didn’t want to form the words. “B.but... the children.... What about the children?” The woman spluttered on her cigarette, then dropped it to the ground and stomped on it as though it was a venomous insect. She stared at Marian “Children?” she wheezed. “What do 'ya mean? Ellie doesn’t have any children.” Marian got back into her car. She sat for a long time and gazed down the street. Then she began to weep. On and on she loudly wept and wailed, for all the hurts she knew about and for those she did not, for things that happen and things that don’t, for things that are stolen and things that are lost. For everything. When there were no more tears, when her eyes were stinging, puffed and raw and she couldn’t breathe through her nose, she wound down her window and called out to anyone who would answer. “Where have they taken her? Do you know where she’s gone?”

The Pope betrayed me. Hey everyone, sorry that I haven't given an update on the grease war recently, I have had some minor setbacks which have forced me to rethink my existence. The most recent one being that the Pope has betrayed me which is something that I expected, but something that I never could have foreseen. Anyway he suddenly disappeared and left only this note: [Dear fleabag, I have four things which no other human has... they are all fingers. Yes, I have four extra fingers. I spoke to my doctor several decades ago about having them removed so that I would have just 12 fingers like a normal person but he said that that would involve effort and so he will not preform the surgery. I am fine with this because I do not trust doctors. Besides, it's just like my mother used to always say, "having four extra fingers is like having four extra toes, just on your hand instead of your foot." Now if you are reading this then you may be wondering what the point of this letter is, and, well, I regret to inform you that the point of this letter is not my extra fingers. Have you heard of the black plague? It happened a long time ago. It also is not the point of this letter. No, the point of this letter is the matter of my sudden disappearance. Sorry Ronald, but I had to leave. I have mysterious Pope stuff to do, you wouldn't understand. Also, I took the shovel with me in case I have to dig a hole or hunt a large army of tobacco farmers. I also took your lawnmower, I think that it was your neighbor's but it's ok, I took it anyway. Actually there are a couple reasons that I took the lawnmower which I feel that you deserve to know, first of all I needed a speedy mode of transportation and that thing can go like eight miles an hour, second of all it is my hope that you will think that I am doing mysterious landscaping stuff and not mysterious Pope stuff because that is a secret. So if you are watching the news and the headline is "Pope mows the grass in the Vatican City with stolen push mower" that is not me, that is a different Pope, he is probably Mexican or something. Finally I must conclude this letter, but before I do, I have a favor to ask of you. Please inspect the back of this page and see if there is a small man taped to it. He would be about 3 feet tall, with a 17 inch nose and six foreheads stacked on top of each other, it would be his belief that he has a double chin which he does not, but he is very self conscious about his chin so don't mention it. His name would be Yeewee Bastard but don't call him that as that would get him on the topic of endangered species of unnamed plants, something which he is rather passionate about. If he is there, he is not real, he is a hallucination, ignore his hatred of fossilized fruits, do not let him persuade you. Now for the favor, please go find one of those Vietnam veterans who hold the cardboard signs that say "anything helps" and donate this letter to them, it should help, the sign says so. With unmatched hatred, farewell crusty, we shall meet again soon.] So there it is, now I have been left shovel-less, Popeless, and with my neighbor's lawn mower no longer hidden in my chimney. I am actually so upset right now that I literally went outside and paved my neighbor's garden for him. At least those pesky plants won't be bothering him anymore.

Samantha was behind the counter, as usual, stocking the counter with coffee take-out containers and straws. The window behind her was slightly open and a sudden gust of wind that came out of nowhere, shut it with a speed that startled Samantha. “What did you drop this time?” asked her manager from the store room. “Nothing, it was the wind,” said Samantha, in a faint voice, just above a whisper. “Ok, get done fast. We open in ten.” Her boss disappeared and closed into the warm little room again. Samantha, in her mind, was in that room, looking at all the boxes strewn around the place. The old neon sign stating ‘Cups and Brews’ lay on the ground. Cleaning the now useless sign was her boss. She did not care if it was in use anymore or not, she just wanted it clean, and her boss had to be servile about it. She stood there, mighty and tall, watching her scrub the old sign clean, though it had been replaced with a new one. The first thing that caught a person’s attention was the new sign. She clutched a Styrofoam cup tightly in her palm and it was crushed beyond repair. She saw the damaged cup before her boss could see it and find another reason to yell at her. If only she didn’t have to pay for her own gas. Her parents had told her that if she wanted to own a car, she also had to take care of it. She had taken up dog walking until one day she needed a new shot after the smallest of the lot bit her. She had then taken up a job at the library. But the constant sound of her munching crackers at the table had made sure that she was a blacklist at the place. The only other place she could think of was the coffee shop. There were tips involved and after all, how hard could it be to make a cup of coffee? Apparently, a lot harder than Samantha had imagined. The first day of her job, she had broken a mug, a plate and the coffee container. After a lot of begging, pleading and apologizing, her boss had let her keep her job. She had broken another mug the following week, but had paid for the broken mug. On the fourth week, of her job, new autumn drinks were introduced. She now stood behind the counter, dreaming about being her boss’s boss when there was a knock on the glass door. She snapped back to reality to notice a young man pointing at his watch. She turned the sign to open before unlocking the door for the first customer of the day. The young man, accompanied by a pretty young woman, walked into the store, probably for an early cup of coffee before going on a leisurely weekend hike. They were dressed for it and carried a large enough bag to fit a bonsai. There were many different types of coffee seeds, bottled and kept on the counter, all for aesthetics. Behind the big jar of arabica seeds, Samantha tightened her pony tail and wished to her stars that they didn’t order the new autumn drinks. She had been tutored and given the recipe for each drink but she was still under confident. She did not want to mess up anything else for herself. Before she had unlocked the door, she had seen the woman staring at the board that had been set up outside, informing the customers about the new arrivals. The couple walked up to the counter. “I’ll have a large cappuccino,” said the man. Samantha quickly smiled to herself and typed in the order. She could make that. “And I’ll have the pink punch. The new one that has been advertised outside,” said the woman. Samantha stared at the woman for a long time then typed in her order. The couple settled on a couch that was set up on one corner of the coffee shop. Who orders punch at a coffee shop, Samantha cursed under her breath. She started to make the cappuccino. She noticed that the two of them would be there till the end of their drinks and would probably tell the manager how bad the punch was. She was certain, she was losing her job that day. She snatched the ingredients for the punch, from the closet above her head and started to put in the ice cubes into the large glass cup. She pulled out a fine straw and set it next to the glass. She took out a bottle of lemon squash from the refrigerator and poured a little into the glass. She put in all the other ingredients, in the order that the tissue paper, where she had copied the recipe mentioned. She finally added the pink colouring and set the drinks on the tray for the two of her first customers for the day, to pick up. She noticed that they had been reading the menu and hoped that they didn’t want anything else. Just to tip her and tip her big. She turned to the tissue paper and stopped in her tracks. She saw the slight blue colour, that must have made its way onto the paper during her trial session, stare back at her from the corner of the paper, which was now upside down. She could not believe what she had just done. She had made the blue drink instead of the pink one and had just added the colour pink instead. The pink one was not made of lemon and was certainly not a citrus drink. She knew she had messed up big time, but how will that woman ever know. She had after all, merely mentioned the colour of the drink. She had been given what she wanted, just not exactly. She saw the man taking small sips of the drink while the lady stared at her drink. Samantha’s heart started to beat fast. She had been reading the new menu and had figured that her drink did not contain what it had promised to. She was certainly going to lose her job. The lady stood up and walked over to the counter. At the same time, the store room door opened and her boss walked out. Samantha wanted to cry. She could not hold a single job. “Can I have an extra tissue paper?” asked the lady. “What?” asked Samantha, a little too astonished. “An extra tissue paper,” said the lady, looking at Samantha like she needed to get help soon. “Sure,” said Samantha and turned around, picked two and handed them over to the lady. She sat back down but still drank her drink in slow sips. She offered the drink to the man and he tried it too. This time she had definitely found out. I know, I messed up, I’m sorry, Samantha wanted to scream out. But they didn’t budge from the seat. Finally, after finishing their drinks, the two of them got up. The man made his way to the door. The lady made her way to the counter and pulled out her purse from the back pack she had on. She pulled out some notes and handed them over to Samantha. “Keep the change, you deserve it. That drink you prepared for me, really made my morning. Now I am truly energized for my hike. Thanks,” she said. “Thank you,” said Samantha staring at the notes in her hand. Her boss watched her from a distance. Once the couple left the shop, she walked over to Samantha and said, “Good job kid. You are finally learning the tricks of the game. Keep doing work like that.” She patted her on the back and headed back to the store room. Samantha stared idly at the tissue paper that was flying away from the counter. She could not believe what had just happened. She didn’t even know if it had been a joke and the lady had been sarcastic. But the notes, she still clutched in her hand, led her to the right conclusion.

It was so terribly cold. Snow was falling, and it was almost dark. *** Two ghostly men walked side by side, the powdery flakes passing through their luminous heads and shoulders before settling on the path. Their feet left no prints as they went. “I like the cold and snow,” one man, whose name was Jack, said to the other, “makes a good setting, but I hate the word ‘terribly.’ We’ve got to change that.” “Fine, fine Mr. London,” the other man, Hans, said with a thick Danish accent, “then what would you suggest?” *** Day had broken cold and gray, exceedingly cold and gray, when the man turned aside from the main Yukon trail and climbed the high earth- bank, where a dim and little-traveled trail led eastward through the fat spruce timberland. *** “My goodness,” Hans exclaimed, “all of that in one opening sentence? And how is the word ‘exceedingly’ any better than ‘terribly?’ I also notice you have decided for us already that we are in the forest and our character is a man. I did not agree to that.” “Alright,” Jack said, “Fair enough, I guess we should determine where this is going to happen and who we are going to do it too before we really get started.” “And what do you mean by ‘do it?’” “We both know that at the end of our cold and snowy story we are gonna have to kill somebody.” Hans paused in the snow and gave Jack a scandalized look, “I will not kill anyone.” “Don’t give me that. We both know you killed the little matchstick girl. Sure you might have made it look nice the way she went to be with grandma and God, but you’re the storyteller, so it’s still your fault she died.” “‘Killed’ seems like an indelicate way of saying it, but your point is taken.” Hans cleared his throat abruptly and continued walking. “As for character, I would, of course, prefer a young girl, but it seems you would prefer a man. Shall we compromise and make it a boy, not too young, but not too old either?” “Sure. But he’s got to have some proper cold weather gear. I don’t want anything to do with barefoot nonsense. No one is going anywhere in the snow barefooted.” “I seem to remember your yukon man had issues with freezing feet.” “Getting your feet soaked is entirely different then running around with nothing on them.” “Very well then.” Hans cleared his throat again. On the path in front of them a boy appeared. He looked to be about 12 years old. The snow settled in the curly brown locks on his head. An oversized coat hung heavily on his shoulders, and his feet were wrapped in rags bound with strips of leather. He stood shivering while both men inspected him, though it was clear the boy could not see or hear them. “I think he could be a very sympathetic creature,” Hans said, nodding in approval. Jack bent down and looked into the boy’s eyes. “There’s some foolishness in there too. And see how he tied those leather thongs?” Jack pointed, “Those knots will be hard to undo. We can make something out of that, can’t we?” “Yes, yes, if you like. Now, where should we put him?” “You know I’m partial to the wilderness; somewhere we can really get this kid alone and find out what he is made of before we do him in.” “But wouldn’t it be that much more compelling if he felt alone even though he was surrounded by a city full of people?” “Another compromise then,” Jack sighed, “How about we put him in a country village?” Hans nodded in agreement and a village sprung up around the boy. The path became a cobbled street lined by thatched roofs piled with thick snow. Long jagged icicles hung in front of warm glowing windows and wind gusted down the alleyways. The boy shrugged the coat up around his face to protect it from the stinging flakes. “Now we are getting somewhere,” Jack said, rubbing his hands together. *** The boy was a new-comer in the village, just as he had been a new-comer in the last village and in the village before that. The trouble with him was that he was without imagination. He was quick and alert in the things of life, but only in the things and not in the significances. The villages were only places for taking what food he could find and what shelter he was allowed before being run off. That there should be anything more to it than that was a thought that never entered his head-- *** “No, no, no,” Hans said as the boy skulked up to a shop window and peered in with pilfering intent, “a boy this unpleasant will deserve anything we do to him. No one will care. We need more sympathy.” Jack grunted and motioned that Hans should go to work. *** No one had spared anything for the boy to eat the whole day, nor had any one given him even a penny. Shivering with cold and hunger, he crept along; poor little child, he looked the picture of misery. In a corner, between two houses, one of which projected beyond the other, he sank down and huddled himself together. He was so cold, he thought for a moment about returning to his father’s house so many villages back. At least there the walls had blocked the wind. But no, even the winter's blast was better than the beatings. *** Jack rolled his eyes and trudged over to the corner where the boy sat with his arms wrapped around his knees. “I’m all for a little foolishness, but sitting here like this is just pathetic. What are we supposed to do with him now? Might as well just let his fairy godmother show up and carry him away.” Hans cleared his throat, “I think we should see what happens if we let him try and warm himself. There’s a bundle of matches in his pocket.” “Alright, but I’m not going to make it easy.” “Of course not.” Hans agreed. *** The boy knew he wouldn’t last long sitting down, not in cold like this. The old tramp a few towns back had told him that so long as he walked four miles an hour, his blood would pump, willy-nilly, to the surface; but now he felt it ebbing away and sinking down into the recesses of his body. His nose and cheeks were already freezing, while the skin of all his body chilled as it lost its blood-- *** “Eh hem,” Hans cleared his throat, “I think we already understand he is cold.” “But we’ve got to make it clear just how cold. I haven’t even got to how many degrees of frost it is yet.” “We ought to get to the fire. The striking of matches has a nice sensory impact that I think will help our story here. Everyone enjoys imagining the satisfying ‘ schlick ’ of the dragging match head and the mesmerizing life-like quality of a dancing little flame, don’t you think?” “Ok. Have at it if you think you can do it better. But don’t make it easy. None of these ‘one-match-feels-like-a-whole-pot-bellied-stove’ gimmicks.” *** He pulled his bare hands from the sleeves of his coat-- *** “I thought we agreed he would have sensible winter gear.” “Well, he has his shoes doesn’t he? He lost his mittens when being chased by--” “Alright, alright, just get to the fire.” *** His little hands were almost frozen with the cold. Ah! Perhaps a burning match might be some good, if he could draw it from the bundle and strike it against the wall, just to warm his fingers. He drew one out--scratch!--how it sputtered as it burnt! It gave a warm, bright light, and he held it to the little stack of twigs he made--” *** “Pfffffft.” “Excuse me?” “A little stack of twigs? I thought we were going to make this difficult, and here you go just throwing in an easy stack of twigs. How did he get the twigs? How did he grab them with freezing hands? How did he prepare the bed for his fire in the snow? If this kid is gonna die, we’ve got to make a good strong case for it.” “Well, how is he going to die?” “I think it should have something to do with the way he tied his foot gear. It will show his death was his own fault you know? Like, if he had done it the way the old tramp had told him, then he would have been alright.” Hans cleared his throat, “That’s interesting I suppose.” “You suppose?” “It's just that I don’t think his death should be his fault. It should be tragic, but also peaceful and a little bit magical.” “No, absolutely not. I draw the line there. We can’t be having magic in a story about someone dying from hypothermia, and it especially can’t be the magic’s fault he died. If anything (and that would be a big if) the only thing resembling magic would be his dog somehow figuring out how to get the fire going.” “There is no dog in this story.” “There isn’t? Shoot. We have to start all over.” Hans cleared his throat. “Very well. But if we do, can we try it with a little girl instead?” “Fine. But she’ll have to have mittens and boots and a dog that is actually smarter than her.” “You know, I don’t have a problem with talking animals at all.” “Knock it off. You don’t have to talk to be smart. Instinct. That's real intelligence.” The two ghostly men argued as they continued down the path. Around them the village began to disappear. In a dematerializing corner where two houses met, the outline of a little boy with frozen fingers slowly faded--first his heavy coat, then his ragged boots, then his brown curly hair--till there was nothing left but snow as white as empty paper.

X marks the spot. He threw the knife at the red inked cross on the map where it sank in with a dull thud. Bullseye. Thirty years he’d searched. Thirty years of ridicule and obsessive need, and he had found it. The Iris was within reach. That elusive treasure hidden by the best of the best during the golden age of pirates. Bracken retrieved the locket from the pocket at his breast and opened it. The words inside were words to live by. ‘Calm as a gentle breeze.’ They reminded him of a past long gone but not forgotten, and of the family he had given up in favour of his fruitless quest. Sharp pain lanced through him. He put the locket away. A knock came at the door, rousing him from his seat at his desk. The lad, a tiny creature whose name he had forgotten, beckoned him on deck. The smell of salt and the sourness of the vast ocean hit him first. Then came the icy spray of the turbulent sea across his face. The stench of human density wafted across the deck. A sickly concoction of sweat, shit and piss so pungent he could taste it at the back of his tongue. He walked deliberately to his quartermaster and watched the waters while the man spoke. Food stores were dwindling, and his men were dwindling faster. If something wasn’t done soon, they’d all die painful deaths. This was it, then. His final sail. If the treasure wasn’t there, then he’d die the delusional fool everyone said he was. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. His legacy would not end here. Though his heart drummed a frantic beat in his chest, he felt calm. Calm as a gentle breeze. The mist cool against his face and the gentle calming sway of his ship beneath his feet. The mists passed soon after. There was no sound in the dawn as he stood at the helm, but for the muffled creaks of wood against wood as the ship made about a particularly hard turn. He supposed it mattered little. If the island had the treasure, then he would leave the richest man across the seven seas. If it didn’t he’d be deader than dead. “Ahoy,” came the cry from the mast. Land in sight. Captain Bracken braced his stomach and licked the grease off his bearded lip. It was time. Calm as a gentle breeze. The ship anchored some distance from shore. Boats were loosed into the blood-warm waters. His men, excited, boarded the shabby vessels in droves. Captain Bracken took his time. There was no need to rush. Best to savor the moment. Even through his boots, the sand scorched his feet. He knew now why people called this island the Devil’s Land. Surely only the Devil would know welcome here. The sun, as though furious at his arrival, beat down harsh light and severe heat that turned the air into a shimmering haze. Sweat beaded on his brow and his throat soon turned raspy and pained with each breath. But there it was. The crypt, larger than he’d imagined, stood as the sole owner of the hellish land. Black walls and faded blue marbled traceries crawling across in patterns that, perhaps, looked beautiful once. He felt the stone, warm to touch and relished in it. The first of his men stormed through the doors like the careless idiot he was. He was the first to die. No great loss. Many and more booby traps came and went. Only two more died. One a deckhand and the other a cook. No great loss. They soon came upon a room, empty, save for the short pillar at its head upon which something gold glinted in the light of their torches. He knew in his heart, this was it. From a distance, the Iris was hard to make out, small as it was. Bracken knew better than to approach it without care. He sent his men first and promised larger shares of the spoils to the first who laid his on the treasure. These were greedy men. They scrambled and pushed each other, abandoning all pretense of caution. As expected the traps were triggered and sprung. His men did well but died all the same. Once he was sure no traps were left, he walked in, taking care to follow only the paths his men had already taken. In the shape of an eye, the thing on the pillar shone with the golden light of his torch in his hand. Its body, translucent, beamed and glittered like stars. Something swirled within it in sharp spirals, and he knew it was the world. Above it, etched as stone into the wall, was another eye. Bracken raised his arm towards it, slowly--very carefully, blood pounding in his ears to drown out everything else. The eye above groaned as though angered by his motions. It wheeled in place, the scrape of stone on stone echoing into the empty silence. Then everything went to hell. Blood coloured roots sprouted out of the grounds in the blackness behind him and in momentary bursts and spasms splintered the room to pieces. The floor beneath him shuddered and split itself from the pillar where the Iris sat. Even still, excitement pulsed in his bones and his fingers seemed to tingle. He reached out, grasping. The pillar looked to be fleeing from him. Running as though it knew nothing of his suffering! He couldn’t reach. It was too far. He stepped closer towards the platform, teetering on the very edge of the island on which he stood. He needed only a touch. To leave this life knowing he had achieved the world. The stone eye on the wall turned and turned, and the floor beneath his feet quivered and wrenched itself apart. Bracken felt the vibrations shake through him. Dust fell into his eyes and mouth. Blinded, he scrambled, flailing. He wasn’t far. The Iris was close at hand. If only he could just-- reach! He leaned too hard against the crumbling floor. It turned to dust and rubble and the gaping chasm between hi and his purpose yawned wider, beckoning. Desperate, he leapt. He missed. He fell.

Everything in my body is burning. Every limb is feeble, my legs are shaking. I drop to my knees. Is this death? It's not even my death. But as I peer at the marble stone in the ground before me, every piece of me feels twisted and rotten. "Ashley Cardowa, beloved daughter and friend," is carved into the headstone, the "A" written with a swooping stroke that underlines the name. As my eyes scan over it, my heart is punctured, each letter strips the nerves from my body, knotting my blood vessels. This pain, it rips and tears and shreds in a way so potent, I can't breathe. Ashley Cardowa is dead in the ground, right under my breaking legs. The fresh dirt is flooded by my tears as they flow hot from my cheeks, pouring into the ground drops of anguished fire. I clutch my breast, heaving sobs as I cling desperately to my blouse and bra, trying to pull it away as if it will free the monster within me, the monster that crushes my heart and shatters my bones. Breathless, I start mumbling to Ashley, whether or not she can hear me from above. Every word is broken as I speak, so silent that the breeze spins each word away before it can leave my lips. Nonetheless, I need to say something, so I narrate to my invisible audience: I met Ashley Cardowa in first grade. It must have been around December, because the first time I went over to her house, her mother had given us each a snowman cookie. The cookies had been formed with a simple cookie cutter, I saw it laying in the sink, covered with flour. Ashley's mom had topped them with a sweet buttercream, dazzling them with mini chocolate chips for the face and buttons. Ashley and I bonded in our first grade classroom, sitting at the reading rug. Ashley was reading a book out loud, stumbling over the harder words like "cookie" and "oven". She was incredible to me, each word hitting my ears snapping my attention to her. I wobbled over to her, sitting near as she read the book. Something about making cookies and sharing with friends, if my memory holds. She read to me for a decent amount of time, and we continued our ritual each day since. I sucked at reading, but Ashley was two levels ahead. Though, just spending time with her improved my skills, and we started reading the books together. By second grade, we were both reading simple chapter books to each other, and we even wrote a story about two princesses. The princesses each got a magic penguin, and went to the sun to play a restaurant game. The last of my simple words fades away, and the monster inside feels lulled. It is still raking his claws against my chest, but it is slower, and has spared me the strength to stand. I'm the last person here, the rest of the funeral party left an hour ago. I knew I wouldn't be able to compose myself, so I delayed seeing her actual grave until everyone else had paid their respects. I think it almost doesn't matter though, I shed more fiery tears than her own parents at the service. I reach a hand out to the head stone, running my fingers across the marble as I shakily turn away. I shudder, Ashley never felt so cold. Then again, she wasn't a slab of marble. The Ashley I knew never left my side when I needed her, and I walk towards the parking lot as my mind torments me with old joys. I open my car and get into the backseat, stretching out across the stained seats. My mind is conjuring so many memories, I stare at the roof of my car and speak: When I was a freshman, I slipped down the stairs at the high school. Ashley walked next to me, even sticking out her hand as I tripped, though her fingers only brushed my shirt. I fell down fourteen feet of stairs, finally hitting the ground with such an impact that I fractured my spine. Ashley called my name as she ran dow, pushing people away as they crowded around me. Another student ran for a teacher, and Ashley plunked her backpack on the ground and sat next to me. I mumbled something to her about my back, though the waves of pain that pounded through my body probably distorted my words. But Ashley understood everything, brushing loose hairs from my face as a teacher found us in the staircase. Ashley refused to leave until the ambulance arrived, even telling the paramedics about my injuries. She saw me again the moment they let her, and told me how relieved she was. I was too high on painkillers to properly thank her, but she was too saintly to have accepted it anyways. My spine is healed now. It wasn't a smooth recovery, but I had Ashley. As I lay on my back, I focus my eyes on the roof of my car. My chest is throbbing, like my heart has leaked out inside my body, beating all the same. My chest feels deep too, a weight is being pressed between my ribs, leaving everything hollow and sore. I send my arms behind my head, folding them for support. I cross my legs, and press my eyes shut. I'm beyond the stage of just seeing black, they're tight enough for all kinds of hypnotic colors to squirm in my vision. I don't even open my mouth to speak this time, but I can hear the voice in my head all the same: We couldn't have been more than ten. Fourth, fifth grade maybe. Ashley's family went camping with mine over spring break. We went to a state park, and booked two campsites. When we pulled up, Ashley's family was already there, and I popped out of the car to hug her. We practically burst with laughter as we played with sticks and leaves, shoving them in our hair and building fairy homes. We played until our parents had pitched the tents, and they told us about a special surprise. They guided us past the two family tents, leading us to a third, slightly smaller tent. Our tent, they told us. Ashley and I shrieked with joy, thanking our parents a thousand times over before setting up shop. We crawled inside our tent, marveling at the way the light shone through the thin blue material, zipping and unzipping every window at least three times. We chose spots for our sleeping bags, and introduced our favorite stuffed animals. Ashley had a small, blue rabbit named Pickles, who I swiftly introduced to my purple squirrel, Peanut Butter. It took us all of three seconds to realize that Peanut Butter had enough room on his back for Pickles to sit on, and we must have spent hours parading them around our tent. We made s'mores together, sneaking around the picnic table and snatching marshmallows with our little hands. Our parents definitely knew we were doing it, but they played their part in our fantasy, leaving us to sneak off and consume our treasures out of sight. When we were finally ushered to bed, we stayed awake for hours, jumping from one sleeping bag to the other, playing clapping games, and tossing our stuffed animals back and forth. We stayed for three nights, each day passing as gleeful as the first. We blew bubbles into each others faces, made dandelion wishes, and hunted through the fields for four-leaf clovers. Every night, every day was teeming with joy, the kind that rushes through your body and won't let you stop smiling, the joy that makes everything funny and your body feel weightless. I open my eyes again, blinking the stars away. I try to sit up, but I feel lightheaded, as if my body will crumble away with the slightest tap. I can't stay in this parking lot forever. I only live a ten minute walk away, and I almost want to abandon my car. Something inside me feels so weak, and even driving here I knew I wasn't in the right head space to drive safely. I should have walked. I sit up again, this time succeeding, clambering out of the backseat and towards the passenger side door. I open it, staring for a moment at the driver's seat, at the wheel. My stomach turns at the sight, a new wave of sick washes over me. Ashley died in her car's driver seat. Ashley, a twenty-four year old girl, died in that accident. She's gone, and as I grab the cardboard box from the seat, I want to fold in on myself. I close the door and lock my car, I'll get it tomorrow morning. I'm taking a sick day from work anyways, and the cemetery won't fine me for leaving it tonight. On shaking legs, I stumble half a mile home. When I finally fall into my apartment, I drag my body and the box to my bedroom, letting myself crumple on my unmade bed. I pull my comforter tightly around my body, reaching towards my pillow for Peanut Butter. My purple squirrel friend has seen some rough times, but he's resilient, bearing the scars of my childhood on his matted and missing fur. I hold him tight to my chest as my body begins to sting, every internal wound reopening. I open the box, a gift from Ashley's mother. She'd said it was a collection of her things they thought I should have. The top is lined with framed pictures of us, cushioned by loose photos and cards. Ashley'd framed a picture of us at the beach in middle school, our high school graduation, and even one from that camping trip so long ago. My body burns as I touch each picture, spiraling into each memory. I shake my blanket off, quickly pulling it back over myself as chills ravage my body instead. I pull all the pictures onto my bed, and turn a shaky hand back to the box. I close my eyes and grab something soft, and I gasp as I reveal it to myself. It's Pickles. The little blue bunny is floppy in my hands, the stuffing worn down and his fur sparse and worn. But it's Pickles. Something in me explodes, and I cry out in a way I didn't know I could. It's not ringing loud in my ears, but every part of it feels animal. I feel animal, savage and desperate, a wounded beast alone in the woods. I clutch Pickles to my body, holding him close to my squirrel as my eyes stream with hot tears. Pickles is my proof. Ashley is gone. My friend, my oldest and dearest friend, is lost. The biggest piece of my childhood, no, my childhood is dead. Those days of glee are buried in the ground, their life ensnared only in my memory. I set Peanut Butter down, and place Pickles on his back. Pickles is riding Peanut Butter. I sob.

I took off my shoes and rested them against the yellowed wall. The howling wind tried to keep the door handle away from me- and almost won -but I stretched out and caught it, swinging it closed in a sharp motion. It had just started to pour outside and I merely escaped while the rain was still a soft sprinkle. Oh, the stormy summer days . Kathy was waiting by the sink humming something and admiring the weather and the smells and such. “Let’s go eat,” she said as a strike of lighting-or maybe just the booming sound of thunder-rattled the rickety brown windows of her homely little farmhouse kitchen. “C’mon, it’s a Saturday!” The joy that was always brought to Kathy’s fine-wrinkled face whenever she came up with an idea she fancied gave me a sort of youthful inspiration. One I couldn’t help but smile at and wonder. I usually didn’t like going out on weekend nights. I’d just smashed my thumb and was feeling quite pitiful of myself. I hesitated, staring at her big light bulb eyes and frozen smile like a fried earthworm on a summer sidewalk. She went to throw away some trash while my clogged brain worked meticulously, but a corner ticked the bin’s rim and bounced to the ground in a few flat sounds. Another crash of sky as she struggled to pick it up, holding her back and shaking violently. “I... don’t know ,” I forced out before the silence threatened. “I don’t usually like going out on weekend nights.” Copy-pasted straight from the mind of the madman. She was just coming up to meet my eyes again, and with a huff and a puff made out, “Well- my mind is made-you’re coming with me-or you’re rotting here-with the storm and all-” The kitchen lights buzzed their horrible antique orange-yellow and flickered against the rain. The cold seeping through the cracks in the window cill seemed to trigger a headache. Fresh air would help. And we would be out in the air if I decided my mind. It was all a headrush. Moments like these made me realize that there was no possible way I could just “ride along” or “go with the flow” like I’d tell certain people whenever asked what I was gonna do out of high school. “Get a job,” I’d say. “Then what?” “Then work.” “Well of course, ‘then work,’ but what about when that’s all been set and done with? You gonna go to college? Get a degree? Meet a nice girl? Go to Italy and dance with the people and the pizza? I’ve lost myself a great many times in the wild drive-ins of the city! I’ve been to California and I got myself a job in Nevada once! All straight from Texas, how ‘bout that? My family all started when I...” and blah, blah, blah. That only seemed an invitation for them to go on about how proud they were of life-or particular moments of life-or maybe trying to convince the world and god and themselves, most of all, they lived the life they thought they did. I was proud of life too, y’know. When it didn’t stick me with questions or choices, and I didn’t have to make up my mind with answers and decisions. “ Go with the flow, ” I blurted to Kathy aloud. It just came straight out, rolled off my tongue so smooth, like a stock car steering off the raceway. I didn’t know what was the matter. And I don’t think she did either. Maybe she did. I can’t really comprehend lived people- truly lived people, anyway. I just got my sniffer in the rat race last summer. “Go with the huh? ” Her face twisted. “There’s a nice place off the highway with nothing around for miles if that’s what you’re so worried about? Or even food at the station court, where you can sit and study people...in that little book,” she motioned writing with her hands, “ya know the one. I always see you carrying around.” “Hmm,” the diner off the road was cozy; the station lively. “But what about all this rain?” I unfaithfully rationalized. “We’re getting soaked for a few bites and a great loss in money! The lights are going out and the bathroom floors a dripping from a leak somewhere under the sink! And this and that and we’re almost out of coffee! And you know how that coffee stuff keeps me sane from things! Great wraths of bedridden sick days take over when my mind draws a blank!” “Oh, child,” she waved her long boney fingers with a scoff. “All those things happen anyway. You know that! ” “But when the day is done we will be left with the nothings we started with. We will crumble under the pressure of the big sun and fall beneath the waves of endless stillness; like the polos on the sidewalk, or the burnings of the folded fans! And going with the flow will not matter much at all when I’m dead-or if I die early. And life is just water drip-dropping in cycles with no beginning or end in sight until one day it just stops; or it goes dry with the passing days...months...years! You can understand that, can’t you?!” “And where does the water go, son? Just splashes dead against the loneliness of the cold kitchen tiles? Spills out over the sleeping body like blood from a knife of the devil stuck underneath your ribs? The water drips to blackhole days until God herself wipes it all away with a washcloth? Does that-any of that-make sense to you?” “As I see it, or have seen it: Yes...a little. Just going and going and going and going...” “Well, listen here-looky here, at my visions, child-you may be right about one thing. You may be right about the drippings and the water’s endless supply of days and months. You may be right about the sudden halts in its production and the many blank and bedridden days. But all these pins and needles and bullets that are found in such waters you speak of, belong in there! They come with the solution packet that God has ripped open and mixed with the lives we live! And the waters-yes, the waters-they are not as endless as they seem. They go into our own little cups, son! Our cups are filled with the great big waves and projections and the common craziness of a wild life well-lived!” Kathy got feral, breaking into a wild monkey dance as she went deeper into her explanation. It was truly exciting. “This is the reason!” She continued. “This is why the days thunder and we get soaking wet! This is why you cannot just flow amply with the ever-turning world, with all the years going by! This is why dinners on Saturday nights are such a treat, boy! This is why! This is why!” “But I don’t get it,” I had fallen to the same old conclusions with the talk’s lull. “Why do I want to lay in my bed and get swallowed up by the linen sheets? Like a great whale to cover me in its protective shade so I can sit and think and weep forever? Why has this lasted longer than the wounds of bullets and needles, or the heavy wetness of getting soaked in the wild thunders? Why do I sit grey with the gear in neutral and the days just rolling along? Where has all that water gone?” Kathy sat back a moment, leaning on the creaking wooden counter, still covered in flour and sugar from the afternoon’s baking of goddess creations. The dull light glistened off her glasses and hid her eyes with a black shade. Branches and other fine tree debris were smacking the walls and windows in soft slaps. I could see her mouth and nose contort to the side with thoughts conflicted or running. I hope I didn’t just make a mockery of myself. Or enrage a sleeping beast beneath her heavy-hearted chest. Sometimes my strange thoughts overflowed and toppled over onto dead evenings, or quiet afternoons. I assume I was looking for an answer, otherwise a reflection. “Your thoughts run wild, boy,” she spoke softly. “And to think yourself a burden is to think a lie. You are just curious is all. Like a curious little monkey.” “My friends all call me a curious little monkey.” “That’s because you still got something in ya, boy. Some little tadpole that’s squirming around. Waiting to be left off the leash and explode into the daises with the great downtown of the city.” “I believe that tadpole is stuck in frozen ice, Kathy. I don’t know why.” I also don’t know why I said that. But it fell off my tongue as if I dropped a heavy bucket that crashed and spilled along the ground with great satisfaction. “Stuck in the ice but not dead yet. Is that right?” “I’m not sure. Right now I’m not sure.” Who is reading my thoughts on this violent night? Slipping hidden notes under Kathy’s old canvas shoe and confronting me with truths I claim to be bogus? Somewhere outside an argument broke out. It was only a chilling echo against the sounds of the no-mans-land front yard. But the strained, angry voices were just as potent. “Where are you going!?” We both heard; then a wild scream; then, “I’m gonna kill you!” Kathy and I flinched. The voices swirled into one messy blurb of untamed angry nonsense and soon became a dull noise to us like the buzzing lights and fallen branches. “You hear them, child? Their tadpoles ‘gon wild and sporadic! But they ain’t dead and they ain’t bad. They’re just living! They’re living those ruffian lives because that’s all they know. And you can’t hate them for that, can ya? Now look at you”-her red fingernail went into my chest-“you know where you stand on life and things-I mean in the setting and morals around you-you just need to realize you are in there! You are the whale and the water and the sheets and the voices and the storms and the weather and the lights and the breath! You are the waves! You are the sun! You are the lighthouse!” In the middle of all this conversation, I’d pulled out my little black book and began writing in it. Just like Kathy had recalled, I clicked my pen and went about on all the things around me. The things I knew and the stuff that was said. Life and weather and crazies across the street. Inside, my tadpole squirmed a little but was still ultimately stuck. And I think that was okay. “I can’t pinpoint a reason why,” I admitted, “but I smashed my thumb on my bedroom door earlier, and I think that might be the cause of all this. All this talking and indecisiveness.” A soft smile grew on her lips, “And I stubbed my toe the other day, child. It is all in accordance with the water drip-dropping. It is all why I am old and aged like fine wine. It is the law that makes up all the laws that all the different people follow: The ultimate law.” I had to agree. And I also had to agree with dinner that night. At the diner, where I got myself a coffee and could be half-alone with Kathy, and hear her talk. Tonight I would put on my shoes; tomorrow I would walk down the street; soon I would reach the world.

Once upon a time, there was a man that smelled like candy cane. He hated it. He doesn’t know why he smelled like candy cane. He doesn’t even like candy cane. When he was a young child, he remembered his father smelling like chocolate all the time. His father hated chocolate. He would never go near one. Maybe he had the same candy-smelling body odor problem. Some people may ask what’s wrong with smelling like candy cane. There are perks to smelling like candy cane. Everywhere the man went, people were nice to him since his scent brightened their mood. Sometimes women would flirt with him. The downside is everything else. Everything he touched magically smelled like candy cane. His entire house reeked of it. Old ladies would walk by his house and always asked him if he was baking something. He would tell them with a disgruntled look on his face, “No. I hate baking.” Another downside was every time he walked home, animals followed him. He couldn’t go into the woods without wearing his uncomfortable scent-proof clothing. He also smeared his face with a thick, dark, slimy substance that he bought from some shady website online. The website claimed that the yucky substance was animal-proof by being odor-proof. It’s the only way he can keep the animals from following him. Every time he wiped the substance off his face, it left a residue that looked like he went coal mining. When everyone could recognize his scent, they started calling him the candy cane man. It was embarrassing. He tried everything under the sun to remove the smell. He talked to many doctors about it but they all recommended for him to remove all the skin on his body and grow it back. He tried that and the smell remained. The more scrubbing, the stronger the candy cane. He tried bathing in vinegar. Nothing. He tried rubbing rotten eggs on his body but the candy cane smell was too strong. He tried to not bathing for a year. He ended up smelling like death wrapped with candy cane. As he aged, the smell got stronger. By the time he turned 50, the candy cane man learned to accept that he will forever smell like candy cane. He will forever have old ladies walk by his home to ask him what he was baking. He will forever have random animals follow him home. He will forever have random children constantly ask him if he had candy. If he said no to those children, some of them would kick him in the knee and run. It follows him in his sleep. On his 65th birthday, he wished to turn into a candy cane. He thought if he became one, life will be a hell of a lot simpler. Unfortunately, that never happened. The scent of the candy cane man grew so pungent, he smelled up the entire Northern Hemisphere. The atmosphere smelled like Christmas every day. Several scientists that studied him say that by the time he turns 100, the entire Earth would smell like him. Be prepared when that day comes.

* CW: Vague detail of Child Abuse and running away. ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ There is a puddle, sparsely lit by the dying light of a setting sun. The gravel surrounding this small mirror of water is threatening to choke out its life. The sky is set aflame with purples and soft pinks. A bitter cold is creeping in as the shadows of trees scratch farther and deeper across the ground. An unknown face is reflected on the water’s surface. Where did it come from? What is it doing? Each time I close my eyes, the world around this puddle seems to completely change. I want to stay in between the gaps of blinking and seeing. This face is actually extremely clear to me. I do know who she is. A young girl, my sister. My eyes are borrowing this image from my mind. It’s not really her, but that’s her. The sight of her saddens me deeply. A young face that has not seen a sunny day in over ten years. I am knelt over this puddle, licking the surface of the reflection with my stinging eyes. I am looking for anything that confirms this is an illusion of my sick mind, a trick of unbalanced chemicals. A tender face and empty, loving eyes looking back at me as if I am the one inside this shallow water. Screams of my abusive mother echo in my skull. The words crash into each other like mud in a blender with dull blades. I feel so sick. I am sick. Sick of myself and this fucking unforgiving life. I have tamed the loneliness for so long and I have held different expectations to this idle existence. Holding on to only a small kindness, I made an oath. An oath that even if my small wishes are denied, I would live on for her. I, an older brother who should have been there, ran away from the pain and unrelenting clawing of monsters under my bed. Monsters with our mother’s voice and face. Her eyes have locked on to mine. Drips fall from my face and ripple the surface of the water. These ripples distort her mouth and eyes into a soft smile. Her eye socket is sunken and spilt, bleeding. Even through this, she smiles at me. I reach my hand into the water. My palm swishes through the liquid and she interlocks her tender fingers with mine. I can feel her warmth, the last time I saw her wasting breath saying my name. Do you still remember? Me making you say goodbye as I climbed out the window? You said something, with your sapphire eyes looking back at me. I wish you covered your eyes from watching me so intently. You said something. Your voice has snuggled into me and still embraces even after all this lurking time. The ripples of the water have a power to draw out the guilt and the water seeks a reward. I can feel your hand gripping mine, pulling me closer. Your mouth opens, begging me to listen Please, fill me with love. You’re not dead yet, scream out. Please respond while I just happen to be here. Please tell me, what did you say? And I hear her, my feet already running. Pounding the pavement with the same rhythm of my exploding heart. My young lungs are pulling in the burning cold air. The final thing you said to me, what did you say? My hands are shaking, drag me into your words. The vibrations of your voice tickling the air around me. Leo... Her hand lets go and I fall backwards. Scrambling back to the puddle, searching for her I see nothing. I scratch away the remaining water, digging for her body. My fingertips are bloodied. Please forgive me, I didn’t know anything. You didn’t say anything. Nobody would notice, even if there was a place for her body to return. I died in that coffin with her and I am still laying on the freshly dug up soil.

Many questions once nagged at the back of my head. Are we doing the right thing? Is this okay? Should we be doing this? It's taken a long time, but I no longer need an answer to any of those. I found my own reason to do what needs to be done, regardless of circumstances. My name is Elaine Marco, and I work for a special branch of the military that operates underneath the government. It is currently 4:03 AM, according to the clock hanging in my office. I look up and the digital calendar on my wall tells me the day is Tuesday, the month is August, and the year is 2302. Below that calendar lies a small glass coffee table with a coffee synthesizer and cup dispenser on the top. The coffee is old, and smells burned from where I sit; an old wooden desk, a rarity in today's world, with too many hardlight government and military reports scattered atop it. I like to think my office is big. It's larger than most, that's for sure, but I know that I could be doing much better. My eyes track down to the hardlight report in my hand. It's good news, for once. The operation went off without any trouble, and we got our guy. I sigh, placing the report on the desk, and give my temples a quick soothing massage with my eyes closed. Then why am I still so stressed? ***\~KNOCK KNOCK\~*** I open my eyes and look to my door to find my assistant standing there with several more hardlight reports in his hand. I inwardly groan, and speak. "Please, come in.", I say as I gesture him in. "There's... something that resembles coffee there on the table if you'd like." Leo looked to the coffee and to me before saying, "No, but thank you.". All with a polite smile to match. I returned the smile and looked down to see the reports in his hands. "Please tell me there's more good news in those.", I said with a bit more than a hint of desperation. I had dozens of reports on my desk already, and only one managed to not give me a killer migraine. When I looked back up, Leo was still smiling. "Actually", he began, "These reports are different. These are in regards to the big project." He gave heavy emphasis on "big". The big project or, as it's really called, "Project D" was the entire reason why this special branch existed in the first place. We were tasked with finding and collecting individuals who had something we were calling the "D" gene. What does the "D" mean, you ask? Divinity. You see, we've been hard at work creating an army of superhumans to spearhead our expansion into the stars. We need people that wont deteriorate before reaching their destination. Our top biologists and chemists have been working on a serum that will allow that "divine spark" to wake up in those people, and we will hopefully have ourselves a group of people strong enough to survive the harsh conditions of other planets. Humankind has already begun their interstellar expansion, but there's only so much we humans can do. We need something more, and that's where those with the "D" gene come in. It's speculated those who have it are descendants of literal living gods that resided among us humans in the distant past. Of course, there's no evidence of this, but the things we have been able to do with the "D" gene is incredible. Disease is a thing of the past, healing salves that mend cuts, breaks, and abrasions before your very eyes, and we've even found a way to weaponize it. Of course we have, right? Leo hands me the reports and I wave him off as I begin looking through them. According to these reports, awakening trials have been hit or miss. While it's easy to extract the "D" gene from a blood sample, and activate it in a controlled environment, it is much more difficult to activate the gene within the host itself. It appears there's been several failures, which have resulted in each carrier passing away before full activation can occur. I've seen what happens when it fails, and it's not nice to look at, let alone remember. When it fails, the body is engulfed in white fire and burned away. We don't know why the awakening rebounds in such a horrific way, but we've been finding ways to mitigate harm to both carrier and personnel. Despite this, there have been successes. I've witnessed a few of them myself. There is always a bright flash and a general feeling of calm and happiness. When it passes and we can see again, the carrier lives, though they are forever changed. Most changes aren't too noticeable, but we've had a few grow pairs of wings within months after activation. Others have acquired horns, tails, and many more abnormalities. I yawn and look to my clock and see it's now 6:42 AM. I turn to look out my window to find the sun is now rising. Time sure does fly when you're having fun. I turn back around and grab the final report, but I freeze only after the first few sentences. It had to be a typo. An error. I had to read it one more time to be certain. *'-and we have found an individual with a high concentration of the "D" gene. While most we've collected have had between 80% and 90% dilution to their gene, this one is quite the anomaly at only 20% dilution. A team is currently being put together to collect the target.'* This was something I had to see for myself.

###Please take note of the new feedback rule! #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.**   *** #This week’s challenge: **Media Prompt: ** **Bonus Constraint:** Story reimagines a classic fairy tale. We haven’t done a media prompt (or fairy tales) in a long while, so this week’s challenge is to use the above song and/or video as *inspiration* for your story. You can use the lyrics, the title, or the video itself and the interpretation is entirely up to you. Be sure to follow all post and subreddit rules! The bonus constraint is not required. **Don’t forget to leave feedback on at least one other story by the deadline (Mon @ 2pm EST), per the new rules!** **Note: Don’t forget to next Monday!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) You get points just for voting. You can check out previous Micro Mondays .   *** #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. - **Authors are required to leave feedback on at least one other story each week that you write.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I 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!   *** #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** (one crit required) | up to **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 in-depth, actionable crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.* Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.   *** #Rankings for - - u/katherine_c - - u/TheLettre7 - - u/ZachTheLitchKing *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Experiment with tropes and different genres with the brand new feature on r/WritingPrompts! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.

I’m just a bird. I can’t do much. I like to make sounds at other sounds. I don’t go hunting for food like relatives of mine. My little protector feeds me every day, as soon as he walks through the big blue door at the front of the house. My silver cage is in the living room next to the blue door, in the corner between two couches. It’s hung up low, so that my little protector can sort of reach me. The two loud people that live with my protector aren’t so nice. They don’t bring food, they barely even look in my direction. It must have something to do with their size. I’m small, and I get along with my small protector swimmingly. They are big and they are not that nice to small things. The blue door swings open slowly, and I feel a drive to let out my beautiful song! But I cannot. If this is a loud person, they will only return with angry loudness at my song. I do not like their loudness. Before I was brought here, I heard many many beautiful loud sounds from birds just like me. I sometimes try to mimic them myself - but not these kinds of sounds. The loud people here only sing about anger and redness. Red like their faces, or red like their hands. A blonde head pokes through the doorway. Small protector! It has been so long since I’ve seen you - oh you look just the same! How wonderful. I let out a small chime to let him know how excited I am to see him. “Hello Angel I hope you had a good sleep today!” the small protector picks up a bag from under the kitchen sink and walks over with a scoop of food. Oh right! He calls me Angel - how pretty. It must be because of my white feathers - yes that's it. Wait what's that smell... Oh! There is food behind me now! I cock my head around and look at small protector. He’s standing on the tips of his toes to be able to see me in my cage. Did you put that food there? Well I’m going to eat it anyway. The blue door is thrown open with a loud slam and my feathers ruffle up. Wow I hate when that happens! Small protector, you look worried. I am okay - let me just clean myself and make sure I’m pretty. Then I will eat my lunch. The biggest and loudest walks through the doorway and slams the door behind him. Darn it! My feathers ruffled again! Small protector please watch out for me while I fix this. “You’re home early today daddy.” small protector has a shake in his voice now. I wish I could put a shake on my voice. “I got fired... “ as soon as his sound reaches me so does his musty smell. Why does he smell so... sour? Has he been eating too many treats? The big person lets out a cackle, and takes a small metal flask out from his jacket pocket. “Or should I say... laid off...” he takes a quick swig and puts it back into his pocket. My small protector looks conflicted, his eyes dart from one side to the other. “Daddy what does laid off mean?” The loud person stomps his way to the kitchen before slugging his shoes off in the middle of the floor. Now his voice is loud again. “Laid off is when your boss is too much of a pussy to say you’re fired!” He takes off his jacket aggressively and throws it on the floor. A soft clang is heard and a look of utter horror is plastered on the loud person’s face. His eyebrows lower as he kneels and moves his jacket. Oh! A puddle is there now! Someone isn’t potty trained - I remember small protector trying so hard to train me so he wouldn’t get screamed at by the loud people. I got so many treats I learned pretty fast but apparently the loud people have to go back to basics. “You just made me forget about my booze! Your stupid and dumb questions just cost me half a mickey.” I don’t think me or small protector know what measurement “half a mickey” is, but the loud person has a red face now so it must be very important to him. This usually means something loud is about to happen. I really wish I could cover my ears like small protector does. That looks safe. “I... I’m sorry daddy.” “You just always gotta have your mouth open yeah? You never know when to just SHUT UP.” He shouted the last two words so loud! Wow! I don’t think I’ve ever been that loud. Small protector looks really scared now... maybe he wants treats? I don’t have any near me to give him though... well now I feel sad for small protector! He has helped me so much but now he needs my help! The loud person has stepped closer to me and small protector. He is stood right beside him, towering over like a big oak tree. “Remember last thanksgiving? AH?!” “I... I’m sorry daddy! I said I was sorry already - “ “ALREADY? You think thats ENOUGH? Do you think you really learned your lesson?” Yes! Yes he has! Small protector got yelled at for ruining thanksgiving last year even I can remember that and I have a bird brain! “I... I said I was sorry to mo - “ “Mom is not here right now!” the loud person raises his arm high into the air and small protector shrieks. “NO!” I shout. The loud man puts his back up straight and looks at me. Small protector turns to look at me, with watery eyes and sweaty palms. It worked! My song stopped him! “NO!!!” I sing. “Tell your stupid bird to be qui - “ I don’t like that tone! “NO!!!!” Small protector crawls his way into the corner, behing my silver cage. He grips my stand until his knuckles go white and he sobs for the loud person to leave him alone. The loud person doesn’t listen to small protector... but maybe he will listen to me! “NO!!!” The loud person points a finger directly at me. “I will eat you for dinner tonight if you do not shut up right now.” Ha! He’s starting to repeat himself... maybe he’s related to the parrots. Parrots are so annoying! It all makes sense now. Well my only option is to be even MORE annoying. “No! No! No! No! No! No!” I can keep this up all day, how long can YOU be loud for? The pointed finger comes closer to my cage and I peak my beak out, getting a tiny nip on his skin. “Ow!” He backs up, taken by surprise. He sticks his finger into his mouth and turns to the kitchen mess. “I want you to clean up your mess and then bring a beer to me upstairs, got it?” Small protector puts on a very brave face. “Got it.” The loud person grunts and starts his walk up the stairs, away from small protector. Small protector rushes to the kitchen, hops over the puddle, and onto the countertop. Oh! He’s looking for treats! How many do I get now?! 3 or maybe even 4!! Small protector runs over with the entire box, half a smile glued to his face. “I don’t know how many you should get so... “ He pours a big pile into my cage and I can’t help but tweet and do a fast twirl! All of this for just scaring away the really loud people! I could get used to this. ---------------------------------- If you made it this far - thank you! I really appreciate the time it took to read this. Hopefully you enjoyed reading the story as much as I had fun writing from the POV of a bird. Go easy on me in the comments since it’s my first time posting. Or don’t. Whichever is more fun.

Foreword: I made this to be submitted into a small contest, but I failed to meet the minimum word requirements. I am quite satisfied with the result and just wanted to share with someone. I hope you enjoy! **Sarah** She was nervous. Her face remained emotionless as she looked upon the curtain, knowing that soon it would open and that she would be exposed to the world beyond it. She sat in a circle of her peers, holding hands. The other actors all encouraged her. They all supported her. They believed that they could help her, but was she ready to accept them? She fought hard against her nerves. She knew what she had to do. She knew her speech. She knew every word by heart. She knew exactly what she had to say; what everybody wanted to hear. She recited it once to herself quietly and she could feel the encouragement rolling off those around her. They held her hands on either side. She didn't really understand the encouragement but she accepted it. At least, she didn’t reject it outright. Her heart beat faster and faster, but for every beat that accelerated the grip on her hand and wrist tightened a little bit more. She felt secured by it, grounded and held. She knew someone was watching out for her. She felt hope. Or was it despair? She swore she could hear her name whispered in the wind. The wind that passed from each member of the troupe to her. She was not yet ready, but the curtain was starting to open already. She could see the light shining glorious beyond it. It was beautiful and ever so bright and she somewhat feared it and loved it at the same time. Looking around her, seeing those that support her, she knew that she was going to face the light and she knew that they would be happy for her. What if it wasn't what she expected? What if the curtain opened and the audience beyond was disappointed in her, did not accept her, did not believe her performance? She'd been performing for so long that she couldn't imagine someone not believing her, but she always feared it. The time was nearly upon her and she could feel it. The cold sweat flowing about her body but she could also feel the tightening on her wrist as someone to her left supported her, encouraged her, called her name. It was time to sing. It was time to perform. It was time to dazzle those around her. She tried to pull away but the grip tightened and desperation filled the voice. She stayed a moment longer but the curtain was opening and she knew that curtain call was here. She knew she was on and that it was time to dance. She waited a moment longer, smiled and tried to reassure them that she was ready. The curtain opened a little bit more. She felt the grip on her wrist tighten and she felt a loving touch on her neck again. She tried to reassure them that she was ready but could barely mutter. She was ready. It was time. She could hear the audience now; could hear the murmurs and apprehension of the discussions happening beyond the curtain. People had gathered, watching at the edge of their seats, ready to see her but not wishing to be too loud and disturb her. Finally, she gathered her courage. She gathered her strength. She walked forth. She stepped into the light and the din got louder and louder. She did not notice. She did not care. She was there to perform, and none could doubt her. Everything went as she thought it would. She sang the tune as she had practiced. She called upon the audience's tears and love. She danced, twirled and played her part exactly as it was meant to be played, and it was wonderful. Everything was exactly as it should be and the light grew stronger and brighter. Blotting out everything in the world except her own voice and her own performance and her own presence. * * * Minutes passed and Mohammed cried. He held on to his sweet friend. He did everything he could. He tried to be supportive. He tried to encourage her but in the end it was just too late. The paramedic gently grabbed his hand and pulled it away from her neck and her wrist. He shook his head and said: “I'm sorry she's gone.

A small tear rolled down Gabe’s pale face as he looked on his father in a hospital bed. After five years fighting illness the man he thought of as a hero had been reduced to sunken skin and foul odors. The man’s dark brown hair stuck to a sweaty forehead. Tubes ran through him like an alien being examined in a science fiction movie. The machine next to him chirped with each heart beat but the sound was far from reassuring. The time between beeps had slowed since their arrival a week before. Now, in the sterile room, every sound seemed louder. At first the machine signaled the fight left in the man who lay on the bed, but now it was the drum beat of time running out. Gabe looked at his father trying not weep. The doctors and nurses had been buzzing in and out all day in an effort to make his father comfortable in what little time he had left. The kind gesture only seemed to make things worse. Their severe expressions made everything feel harder. His father was all he had left. His family was scattered across the country and his mother had passed when he was three years old. His earliest memories were of his father picking him up from school where they would walk in the park and talk about life. They would get dinner at a food cart and watch the people in the park and talk about the day. Gabe would tell tall tales about great oceans and far-away lands as his father would laugh. He would tell him stories about the people he worked with who did boring things because that’s what adults did when kids weren’t looking. He would hold his son’s hand when it rained because thunderstorms scared the boy. The laughed together and played together. When Gabe missed his mother, they would cry together. Gabe’s father was everything to him and to see him as he was now brought nothing but pain and fear. He wanted to be brave but it was hard. The only one he could talk to was his uncle Vincent who had come to look after him while his father was in the hospital. Unfortunately, he was always too busy dealing with the doctors and his family back home to spend any time with the boy leaving him alone most of the time in that stark hospital room. The chirps on the heart monitor were slower still as Gabe looked at what was left of his father. The doctors told him there wasn’t much time. Vincent had brought him to the hospital and waited just outside the room. He was meant to be saying goodbye but he couldn’t find the words. How do you let go of someone so important? He looked down at his feet and began to sob. The tears flowed freely from his eyes and his shoulders shook with the force of his emotions. He tried to console himself to no avail. With tears in his eyes Gabe stood and took his father’s hand in his. “Dad, I can’t tell you goodbye. I’m not ready for you to go. I want to be strong, I want you to be proud of me but I can’t do it.” Gabe spoke quietly to his father. “Uncle Vincent doesn’t know how to talk to me. He acts like I’m a little kid. You were always honest with me and knew how to make me feel better. Remember that time we sat in the living room looking at the old pictures of Mom? Do You Dad? You told me she was somewhere better and that just because her life was over didn’t mean ours was. We promised to live a really long time for her. We were going to make up for the time she lost. Do you remember Dad? I knew we were going to make it. And I told you when were really old we would die in our sleep and the people we loved would be happy that we had a lot of adventures. I thought we would be the same age at that point; that I would have caught up to you and neither of us would ever be alone. I don’t understand what happened. I don’t understand why good people die. I’m not ready to be alone. I still need you. And I haven’t done anything to make you proud yet. We haven’t discovered a new animal, or buried treasure. I haven’t even finished school yet. Don’t go now. Dad, please. I can’t lose you yet. I can’t.” His father’s head tilted and a tear ran down his cheek as he spoke. “Gabriel, you make me proud every day. You will find your way without me. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there like we promised.” The machine next to the bed hummed loudly and the beeps were no more. Gabe called to his father. He shook the bed with his free hand refusing to let go of his father hand. After a moment he fell on to his knees next to the bed, still holding his father’s hand and wept. It had been a long five years but he wasn’t ready to say goodbye. He wasn’t ready for his father to die. Vincent ran in the room and lifted the boy from the ground never taking his eyes off of his brother in the bed. “He’s gone Gabriel. I’m so sorry.” Vincent spoke softly. Not knowing what to say he held the boy and rocked him. Gabe shuddered under the pressure of his sobbing. He refused to let go of his father’s hand. He had never been away from his dad. He wasn’t ready to let go. He hoped if he held on long enough his father would be ok. That he could do the fighting now that his hero had fallen and together they would recover.

On an ordinary day; on an ordinary street; in an ordinary state; was an ordinary town with nothing out of the ordinary going on in it. There lived an ordinary man named Milton Magee. Milton Magee had an average build with; an average weight and height. His features were non-descript. The clothing and shoes he wore were plain and non-trendy. He owned a used, plain, dull blue Toyota Sentry which he drove everyday to his simple job as a toll booth attendant on I-76 North. Milton Magee was an only child to parents that had him late in life and had passed away 10 years ago. Milton Magee was not married, didn't have any friends (close or otherwise), didn't have a hobby, didn't smoke or drink, and owned no pets. Nothing stood out about him to anyone who saw him in passing. The apartment he lived in was ordinary. His furnishings were ordinary. He shopped for ordinary items he needed from the store. He watched ordinary shows on t.v. He didn't know how to dance, play a musical instrument, or speak a foreign language. No one would ever say things about him like outgoing, (though he was polite and mannerable when addressed) vibrant, flashy, loud, sporty, life of the party, (he was rarely invited to those anyway and never went when an invitation was extended to him), or just a cool guy. No Milton Magee was just...well...ordinary. Milton Magee's life held no surprises. His daily morning routine was simple and orderly. 7:00 a.m. An alarm sounded Milton Magee hit the snooze button for 5 extra minutes. 7:05 a.m. Milton Magee gets out of bed only half awake and still yawning....shuffles to the bathroom where he pees, flushes, washes his hands, removes his pajamas, gets in the shower, washes his hair, washes himself, he then gets out of the shower towel dries his hair and himself, brushes and flosses his teeth, combs his hair, then exits the bathroom; towel wrapped around his waist at precisely 7:35 a.m. 7:35 a.m. Milton Magee heads to the kitchen where he turns on his coffee maker, peels and eats a banana, while he waited for the coffee to begin brewing. Then he fries three strips of turkey bacon, scrambles two eggs, toasts and butters two slices of bread, pours the freshly brewed joe in a mug adding milk and sugar. Lastly he grabs a bottled water from the fridge to go with his breakfast. After he eats he cleans up all dishes used; disposes of any garbage; and wipes the counter and sink clean. 8:00 a.m. Milton Magee heads back to the bathroom to brush and floss his teeth again and splash on some cologne. 8:05 a.m. Finds Milton Magee taking his Navy blue short sleeve shirt (it's summertime now in the winter he brings out the long sleeves and packs away the short sleeves) and tan khakis out of his closet. He takes Navy blue socks from his sock drawer puts them on and finishes getting dressed. 8:10 a.m. Dressed now including his belt Milton Magee checks himself out in the mirror. Then he grabs his watch wallet phone keys and his work duffel bag. 8:15 a.m. After getting his lunch from the fridge (that he placed in a double insulated lunch bag the night before) he's out the door. He gives the door knob two twist to ensure it's securely locked. 8:20 a.m. Milton Magee pulls out of his parking lot and heads to work. 8:45 a.m. Milton Magee arrives at his assigned toll booth, parks, grabs his work duffel and lunch bags making his way inside his booth. He then fires up his P.C. 9:00 a.m. Milton Magee clocks in and settles and waits for the first car to come through his lane. It happens this way Monday through Friday every week. (Milton Magee is off on Saturdays and Sundays) No surprises, no deviations, simple and just....well....ordinary. On Wednesday, however, after Milton Magee completed his morning routine and waits for the first car to come through his lane; he noticed a new add on a billboard that sat on the opposite toll booths side. It said in bold lettering. ♤TIRED OF YOUR MUNDANE, DRAB, BORING, ORDINARY LIFE?♤ Then take a walk on the wildside with 8th Wall. The worlds largest and best virtual reality company. Our company is reknown for creating style, pizzaz, zing, fun, excitement. We bring to the world some of the most amazing incredible experiences that make life worth living. Do you want to ski on the French Alps, scuba dive in Tahiti, do the walk about in Australia, hunt seals in Alaska, bunji jump, parasail, sky, dive, visit Madagascar?... well 8th Wall brings you face to face with your imagination combined with cutting edge technology and immerses you in a feeling that is out of the ordinary and all from the comfort of your living room sofa. The message on the headliner ran a repeat loop...'Don't be ordinary be EXTRAORDINARY!' After Milton Magee saw that billboard add he began to feel something he could not quite explain; something he couldn't put his finger on. He felt different, off, not like himself, odd, weird, strange. He looks around him hoping for a clue as to what is happening; what is making him feel this way. He is somewhat annoyed, and a bit scared; because the way he is feeling is out of the ordinary for him. Milton Magee closes his eyes inhales a deep breath and exhales slowly. He does this continuously while counting to ten. He had to calm his nerves before traffic picked up. He opened his eyes to see four cars fast approaching his lane. Good, he thought, time to get busy. Traffic distracted him for awhile....but the feeling persisted....not only did it persist it grew and got stronger. His pulse raced. His face flushed. His palms sweated. His mind demanded an answer he did not have to give. The feeling continued as the day went on and in between the steady flow and lulls in traffic Milton Magee determined his present state was not good. He could not last too much longer like this. He knew if he wanted to stop the feeling once and for all; he had work to do. He must investigate and get down to the bottom of the dilemma he found himself in. Yes, he told himself, he would find out the cause of why he felt the strange feeling he was feeling and then come up with a plan to stop it. Milton Magee wanted his life be just as it had always been. Simple, orderly, no frills, no drama, no surprises, plain, and...just...well ordinary.

She woke up before her alarm and after not enough sleep. Years of routine had conditioned her to be up and out of bed, dressed and ready for work before her brain even consciously engaged. She functioned on an autopilot born from long experience and repetition. Recently that autopilot seemed to be breaking down. Everything felt difficult, slower, more painful. Things she had done without thought or hesitation for years were now challenges. She got out of bed reluctantly. At least this time she remembered her injured leg. Or at least lack of leg. She had been using the prosthetic for two months and was gradually getting used to it. She looked at herself in the mirror. A scarred tired looking woman approaching middle age, her short messy dark hair had some grey in it. Her olive skin looked rough and dry. She was fit and well muscled although she had gained some weight lately. She smiled sourly at that thought. She'd lost weight too. A legs worth. She wasn't the type for introspection or self pity but she was starting to think that might change. She had nightmares about the words 'Medical Discharge'. If she was booted from the agency she didn't know what she would do. It wasn't as if she loved her job but she had been doing it so long she had no idea what else there was. It wasn't just the leg injury. Having your leg bitten off by an angry land octopus was bad but hardly her first line of duty injury. She had been the sole survivor of her team on three occasions. That was an agency record. People didn't want to work with her anymore. She was bad luck, bad for morale. Rumour had it that Jurado no longer bothered learning her team mate's names. The truth was she had never bothered. She was an experienced if unremarkable operative for the agency. Her skills would not be hard to replace and her recent Injuries and failed psychological assessments meant she was a prime candidate for discharge and everyone knew it. Her salvation came in the form of budget cuts and the new prisoner. The agency didn't have the budget to train many new recruits, they didn't have the numbers to waste field agents on admin duties and right now they had a job no one wanted. The agency had captured a bio mech queen after managing to down a hive ship. The queen, six feet of hissing cadaverous cyborg zombie nightmare, had surprised everyone by being a model prisoner. She was cooperative to the extent of actually being helpful. Everyone was suspicious but so far the information provided had been accurate and useful. Despite the queens surprisingly friendly demeanour she provoked instinctive horror and revulsion in most humans. The agency scientists said it was a mix of pheremones and psychic backwash. Agency commander Carter thought it was because the bio mech were just creepy AF. The creatures used people as food and spare parts. Just being near one felt like being naked in a room full of scorpions. Even the agency scientists who were desperate to learn more about the biomechs were reluctant to be near her. Although the agency successfully concealed the biomechs existance from the general population a few ex agency staff had gone to work for Hollywood using thinly disguised Biomechs in scripts for sci fi shows giving the creatures a ridiculous swedish sounding name and silly catchphrases. It had the helpful effect of making occasional public sightings be written off as overenthusiastic cosplay. Royalties from the TV shows also boosted agency funding. New agency recruits were often disappointed at how derivative the biomechs seemed compared to their well known fictional cousins. Indeed over exposure in fictional media made the whole concept of the agency seem cliched. It was excellent cover. Carter's problem was that the prisoner engendered such revulsion that even the most level headed agent had to fight the instinct to pull the trigger on her. The biomech queen was a hugely useful intelligence resource, too valuable to lose but she needed a handler, a combination of liason, guard and bodyguard. Jurado was the only member of the team who was seemingly unaffected by the queens aura. There were a number of unflattering suggestions why this might be. Jurado needed a job. Carter needed somewhere to put the unpopular injured agent. It was perfect. Carter got the base doctor Kelly to certify, under protest, that Jurado was fit for light duty. Since then Jurado had spent the last two months in close proximity to the biomech. She escorted the alien to and from briefings and medical appointments. She sat by her cell in case any overzealous agent came looking for payback for the many who the biomechs had consumed. The Queen went by the name Elsa. She didn't actually have a name just a designation but after her capture her armour had been confiscated and someone had given her a Frozen T shirt to wear as a joke. The name had stuck. The Queen didn't seem to mind. Carter had hoped it might make the six foot super strong flesh eating killing machine seem less intimidating. It did not. Elsa seemed to react well to Jurado's company. The biomech were a hive species and she seemed to like having a new drone. Jurado was also enjoying the light duties. Because of her injury Jurado spent most of her guard duty in a folding chair seated well out of arms reach of the cell. She tended to fall asleep. On one occasion she was awoken by Elsa throwing a book at her to alert her that Commander Carter was about to walk in. After that Jurado began bringing her laptop and setting it up outside Elsa's cell so they could watch TV. They were currently watching 'Gilmore Girls'. It baffled the base psychologist Dr Kelly. It baffled Jurado too. She actually began looking forwards to the long night shifts spent watching TV with Elsa. Biomechs didn't sleep. Staying awake all night with Elsa actually helped Jurado sleep when she returned to her quarters. No more insomnia and fitful day napping. Jurado started visiting Elsa when she wasn't on duty. The guards thought it was weird but were more than happy for Jurado to relieve them. Jurado wasn't the curious type but out of boredom one evening she asked why Elsa was being so cooperative with the agency. She certainly did not seem scared of her captors. Elsa had laughed her wet hissing laugh. "I spent 2000 years as hive queen making every decision for my drones. My people do not have the concept of a day off." "This is a holiday for you?" "This is retirement for me." "But you are helping your enemies." "Ha! Humans are barely enemies. You are lunch and spare parts! No offence. My biggest threat was always rival hives. No, I'm happy here." Elsa stretched and not for the first time Jurado found her gaze pulled to the way the aliens powerful body arched against her thin shirt and drawstring pants. She even liked Elsa's pervasive warm bleach odour. She reached into the tub of popcorn she had wedged between the cell bars and her hand brushed Elsa's smooth grey claw. She found she was in no hurry to move her hand away and instead left it resting in casual contact with the biomech. Not acknowledging it. Not thinking about it. Definitely not holding hands. Jurado's sex life had been a matter of conjecture on base for some time. She'd never been seen to hook up with anyone. Don't ask, don't tell really don't want to think about it was the general consensus. The reality was Jurado had never been that interested in sex and losing her leg had not helped. So she was surprised to find herself having intimate thoughts about Elsa. It was actually nice to realise she could still feel that way even though the cause was a little offputting. She had seen Elsa naked at medical check ups and that image of mottled grey white flesh and dull grey implanted cybernetics haunted her in a very different way to how it haunted the medical staff. People noticed Jurados closeness with the prisoner earning her the knickname of 'Elsas girlfriend.'. Valentine's day some joker left a card by Elsa's cell. "So they believe we are romantically involved?" Asked Elsa. "No it's just a joke. Obviously they don't really think we're an item." "Why not? You are quite attractive for a human." Elsa reached between the cell bars and ran a finger down Jurado's bare forearm where her fatigue shirt sleeve was rolled up. Jurado kept very still. "Bio mechs reproduce asexually." Said Jurado hesitantly. "I was not suggesting we try to reproduce. " Elsa smiled thin grey lips peeling back over ceramic fangs. Jurado quickly changed the subject. Jurado had regular medical check ups with Dr Kelly to ensure prolonged exposure to the Biomech wasn't affecting her. "Is it possible she could be influencing me? " Jurado asked reluctantly during her check up. "Influencing you? To do what?" " They've got psychic powers right? It's how the hive communicates. Could Elsa be controlling me?" "Unlikely. Elsa's influence is limited to Biomech drones and anyway that part of her brain was damaged in the crash. I doubt she could even influence a drone to get her coffee right now let alone a human." "Right..sure.." "Why do you ask? Has she tried to get you to do something?" "Uhhh...not exactly..I..uhh" Jurado was too old and too mean to feel this embarrassed but she was also a professional. If there was even a chance she was compromised the doctor needed to know. "I've been having romantic thoughts about her." She blurted. "I thought that was just base gossip. Is it true you do it in the showers?!' "No!..well not with Elsa...look I just need to know if she is controlling me." Jurado spent the rest of the day undergoing medical tests. Elsa was also brought in for testing. The smirk on her face suggested someone had told her why. Jurado reported to Commander Carter. "So all your tests came back negative for alien influence. She's not controlling your mind. Your cholestrol is a little high though. Elsa's tests confirmed she is psychically neutered interesting side effect to that is apparently her sexual instincts are resurfacing." "Oh?" "Jurado, two weeks ago Elsa asked me if I had ordered you to flirt with her. She was concerned I was pressuring you to get close to her.." "Oh." "She was very happy when I said I wasn't." "Oh." Carter rolled her eyes. "Dismissed." Woman her age did not blush Jurado told herself as she went to see Elsa. "Well that was awkward." said Elsa teasingly "Dr Kelly says I must address you as sweetheart now. Or cuddlebunny." "Can we just pretend this did not happen?" "Of course cuddlebunny." A few weeks later Carter and Dr Kelly went to check on the prisoner and found Jurado seated in a folding chair alongside the cell. There was a tub of pop corn wedged between the cell bars where they could both reach it. Jurado was asleep against the bars drooling slightly with her head resting against Elsa's shoulder. The big biomech sat on the other side of the bars watching 'Greys Anatomy." on Jurado's laptop with the sound low. "Asleep on duty?" Whispered Kelly "She's not on duty. I think this is date night." "Kind of cute." "Doc, she's made of people parts." "Aren't we all? " "Honestly I don't care what or who she is made of so long as she keeps giving us information." Jurado woke from her doze and jumped to attention as Kelly and Carter entered. "Relax Liutenant. I just wanted to tell you because of her ongoing cooperation were moving Elsa to guest quarters. Elsa you'll still only have limited access to non classified areas with an ankle monitor and lieutenant Jurado will escort you but I see no reason why you shouldn't have more comfortable quarters. Jurado you can help Elsa settle in." As they departed Kelly looked at Carter "Did you just tell them to get a room?" 'I suppose I did.

"LMAO, Bitch. You can't actually be serious," Amy smirked down at me. She's always had it out for me, and I don't know why. We were friends in Kindergarten and 1st grade, when we both joined Pierre Deaumont Charter. In 2nd grade, we had been put in separate classes, so we started to grow apart. I had never dreamt that we'd be enemies though! Yet it had happened. In 3rd grade, we were once again in different classes, but she went out of her way to find me and tease me. She had blossomed into a bully by 4th grade. Elsewhere, she'd be the stereotypical popular girl, but here at Charter, well, they're different. They don't like to admit that they have those kinds of kids too. Social hierarchy? Can't be! Not at Charter! They like to think that the Social Emotional classes they provide us with, along with the 'all round energy of peace and acceptance' -their words, not mine- have changed us all greatly for the better. They like to think that they aren’t like other schools. Well, here’s the truth: that’s just as stupid as the whole not like other girls thing. But whatever. I glared at her and stood up. While I sat, she towered over me in her 3” heels(which she should not be wearing to school!), but when I stood up, I was taller. I’m the tallest girl in 6th grade, which annoys my parents, because they don’t want me to grow too much before I get my period and then be stunted, but it’s not like I’m that tall. It’s just that the kids here are waaaaaaaay short. Literally, the 2nd tallest girl is 4’7”. In 6th grade. Seriously. Like, what are they smoking???? JK, JK, even if we do have a social hierarchy, we truly don’t have any smokers, vapers or stoners, so that’s nice. And our school has a high school section too on the same campus. “Shut up, Amy. And maybe zip your fly,” I smiled, grabbed my books, my four person group of friends stepping in besides me on our way to advisory. Amy wasn’t even wearing any zippers, except for the one on her leather jacket- REAL leather, talk about horrible!- but she hadn’t realized that yet, so ha! I know, I know, how immature, but I couldn’t help myself! “Forget about her, Anusha. That witch will move on soon if you ignore her. You need to stop humoring her, or she’ll keep annoying you,” my friend Aalini fancies herself some kind of psychologist. It’s usually hilarious, the things she says, but also often annoying. I playfully swatted her arm, “Aali, bbg, don’t you see that lovely look on her face though? She’s still trying to figure out where her zipper is!” Lana, Athena and Norie laughed with me, but Aalini just rolled her eyes. Our laughs sounded so interesting together. My deep chuckle, Norie’s sweet giggle, and Lana and Athena’s high pitched cackles. They are twins, and though they’re, like, SUPER different in every other way, their laughs and voices are exactly the same. They moved here to NorCal (that’s North California) from Greece 2 years ago, but they only joined Pierre Deaumont last year, in 5th grade. After a while, Aalini finally joined in, snorts popping up in between her sharp bursts of laughter. I knew she’d give in, since she can never be upset for more than 5 minutes. I remember one time, in 3rd grade, when we first became friends, we had met because she was mad at her brother and was ignoring him. No joke, 3 minutes later, she ran back and apologized to him profusely. It had been hilarious, watching him shake his head at her. Suddenly, I heard the sound of something whizzing through the air, and then I felt something smack me in the back- super hard! It knocked me over and I fell to the ground, all the wind knocked out of me. I heard my friends turn and start shouting at Amy and her idiot squad of jerks, who were tittering. Norie bent down beside me. “Are you ok? Of course not, here let me help you up. I’ll take you to the office, ok? Yeah, and then we can tell the teachers- sorry, educators- that it was that horrible witch and her sniveling sycophants. Ooh and then we can tell them about all their other horrible deeds!” Two things to know about Norie- she is very caring and kind, but she also doesn’t really listen to people and she almost never stops talking. She’s also the only one of my friends who doesn’t get upset at me when I use- in their terms- fancy smart person words. Instead, Norie goes as far as to adopt them, peppering them through her speeches. I swear, she’s gotta have some sort of, like, notebook somewhere, where she documents all the ‘fancy smart person words’ (like sniveling sycophants) that I say, since she can’t seem to remember, like, anything else. I turned onto my side to face her. “Norie, bbg, I’m fine, well, I’m not, but I just need some rest. You can help me to get to the office, but I don’t want to deal with anything about that idiot right now. My head hurts too much for me to care enough. It hurts too much for me to get this sentence out!” She smiles at me. “Okay, I can do the talking. You just rest, and I’ll carry you there- actually no. I’ll call the girls and we can all carry you! It’ll be a team effort, like this school loves!” I craned my head to look at our other friends, who were still bothering the jerks. Aalini was shouting insults - I was astonished that the teachers hadn’t yet arrived!-, Athena was writing a list of all the things that the witch and her jerks had done to us- it was fixing to be very long. It was already up to her waist!-, and Lara was recording the whole thing, while bragging to Amy about how she had the newest phone, while Amy had last year's model. She never talked like that to us, and we didn’t have any phones(well, I had the model from 6 years ago, but that doesn’t count!). “Um, okay. Norie, sure. But first I have something to say,” I winked. She beamed at me and helped me stand up. Then, she supported me and we waddled over to where Amy and her jerks were still standing. She saw me and turned from my friends, poking her minions in the back. The 6 of them glared at us, then smirked. “What do you want , idiot?” she sneered. “Just a quick question, honey ,” she looked confused, “Why do you hate me so much?”

After another hour or so of trekking through the forest, we arrived at a clearing. For a brief moment, the dense foliage of trunks and vines gave way to compact brown dirt. And there, at the far side, there was a group of some twenty or so men, women and children - the rest of our captors’ group. “They back,” one small child screamed as he ran up to one of our captors, wrapping his arms around a leg the width of his body. The man leading the group turned to us. “You. That tree over there.” He pointed to a short, stout oak tree with the tip of the spear. “Go there. You try run. You die.” We obeyed the command and sat by the designated trunk. “You think spirits are hunting these people?” I asked. Alessia just tilted her head towards me, her eyes rolled upwards. I chuckled. “So how do we get out of this?” “Not sure. No weapons. No idea where we are.” “We need to know more. About this place? About where they’re taking us?” The man who led us here was sitting down with a few of the adults who had stayed at the clearing. They leaned in, listening closely to quiet words with their eyes glanced downwards. While elsewhere the returnees were running around with children or sharing jokes, that small group of three remained solemn. Alessia followed my gaze. “We can’t ask them. They believe any knowledge we share corrupts them. They’ll kill us if we try it again.” I thought on Alessia’s words for a second. “We can’t share knowledge *with them*...” I trailed off, pushing myself to my feet. “Where are you going?” Alessia said, placing her hands by her side, ready to follow. I held up my arm to stop her. “I’m going to ask some questions. But, stay here. They’ll be less jumpy with one of us.” Alessia relaxed against the trunk once more. “Just. Please Ferdinand.” She paused, closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Please don’t do anything stupid. Be safe.” “I will,” I smiled. I walked towards the small huddle. As I approached I began to overhear their conversation. “Cold claimed three. At least winter stopped. But vargs took child last week. If we don’t have children soon...” The woman speaking stopped as she saw me approach. The leader turned to face me, but he remained sitting. “What?” “I wanted to ask you some questions-” “Each time you speak, and share knowledge, you make death on all of us.” He gave a dismissive wave of his arm. “The rules state that you must not be corrupted from nature. But that only happens if I share knowledge. You can share nature with me. Tell me. I will only ask questions. No sentences, no opinions, no facts, just questions. No corruption.” “Why I accept?” “It costs you nothing to tell me. And this way, you control what I say. In return, I stay quiet. Make sure not to say anything that corrupts you from here on out.” The man pondered my offer for a second, exchanging a quick glance with the others. “Come closer,” he said to me. I took a couple of paces forward. “No. Closer.” I obliged, closing the gap between us, so that I was only a metre or so away from him. The man raised a hand to let me know I could stop. The man quickly reached for his spear, and with one quick movement thrust it up to my gut, stopping mere centimeters away. “Ask questions. You share. I thrust.” I swallowed hard, feeling the movement of the air through my body, pushing my stomach that moment closer to the tip of the spear, the edge brushing against the fabric of my shirt. “Who were those people who attacked you?” I asked. “Another group,” the man said. He stared at me with unmoving eye contact. An intense, unaltered stare. “Why did they attack?” “Food.” “They thought you had food?” The man let out a small shake of his head, but the eyes remained glued to mine. “We were food. They hunt.” “And they are why you carry the spears?” “Them. Hunting. And the varg.” “Who are the varg?” “Monsters.” I took a moment to check the questions I wanted to ask, making sure that at no point would I share knowledge. Looking down, there was the smallest of spaces where I could make out the uneven brown dirt between the tip of the spear and my belly. That brief gap that kept me alive. “Who are the Leviathans?” “Don’t know.” “Then how will you take us to them?” “At four years Leviathans demand a child. The river enters a cave. The cave leads to Leviathans.” “So you’re going to make us swim down the cave?” “No. Your bodies will float. You are not a child. You don’t need life.” I instinctively took a half pace back. My right foot, resting a few inches behind me. The spear though remained far too close. “You’re going to kill us for the Leviathans.” The man simply nodded. “Then why not kill us already?” I hated saying the words, feeling as though I was daring him to thrust, to do it now instead of later. I closed my eyes as I continued to speak, waiting for the pain to erupt in my gut. “If we are to be offered dead, then why are we alive?” The man chuckled. I squinted as he finally broke eye contact from the ripple of laughter. Finally he turned to me, and smirked. “Dead don’t carry themselves.” My mouth opened. But no words came. The air had been sucked from my lungs, my voice stolen. “Done with questions?” The man asked. “Go. We leave soon.” I turned and walked back to Alessia, my mouth still open, my mind unable to process our fate. Alessia was already standing staring at the tree we’d been sent to. “How’d it go?.” I didn’t respond initially. I was unable to find words to tell someone I cared about that our bodies were due to be offered to make-believe ghosts. Instead, I stood, perfectly still; my nervous, shaky legs, planted to the spot, until the words made themselves apparent. “They’re going to sacrifice us. Kill us and throw us in a river that will take us to the Leviathans.” Alessia let out a wry smile. “I’m not surprised. What were you expecting?” “I don’t know,” I said, my hands raising to the sky. “Not to be murdered because some stupid people believe some fictional spirits might come and harm them.” “I wouldn’t say it’s all made up,” Alessia replied, her eyes returning to the tree. “What? There’s ghosts that come and kill them if they break nature? There’s no real threat-.” “Ghosts? No,” “What are you on about?” I said, my voice becoming increasingly terse as Alessia failed to meet my fears. “While you were gone, I was looking at this tree. It’s covered in these little scars, where something hacked at it years ago and it had grown over.” “Spears?” Alessia shook her head. “So I started looking on the ground near the tree. And...” She reached into her pocket and placed a small metal bullet in my pocket. “That tree isn’t hundreds of years old is it?” I said, rotating the bullet in my hand. “Fifty years at most,” Alessia replied. She turned to me, her gaze steady, but her eyes wide. “Someone on this island is a much bigger threat than anyone in this camp.” “What doing?” a voice barked from the clearing. We turned to see the leader of the group heading our way. I flung the small metal bullet out the back of my hand and into the forest. Removing the trace of something unnatural. “We’re ready to go,” Alessia replied. “When you are.” The man looked at us for a second, deciding how to proceed. He nodded. “Yes. Move. Let’s go.” He headed off and gathered the rest of his crew before marching us off once more into the woods. As we left, the sun was just lowering past the tops of the trees. Sunbeams clawed through the gaps between the trunks, as long shadows crawled across the ground. Pace by pace, the sun slipped further down, till the horizon swallowed it. Red light burnt across the sky, and the embers of the day began to die out, slowly fading into the dark blue of the night. My hearing began to take over as the primary sense as the forest around us took on a different voice. Songbirds chirped for territory, as owls whistled their arrival, ready to hunt the forest for mice or voles. I looked at Alessia. The last of the sun’s light reflected off the perspiration on her face, as her eyes were cast in shadow. “We’ve got to make a move soon,” I whispered. “We can’t just wait to die.” “I know. If need be, we wait till the last second and try to fight back. But, we could do with something changing our situation.” Our pace slowed as shrubs and leaves snared at our ankles, trying to hold us back. “I...” My mouth ran out of words. “I didn’t really want it to end with a death march.” Alessia let out the smallest chortle. “It wasn’t my plan either.” “I’m sorry I got you into this, but... I’m glad to have spent this time with you.” I muttered. “Shh,” Alessia replied. “Stop pretending you know how this ends.” I tried to force a smile, but it quickly melted. “It’s looking bad though.” “Yeah. I just don’t like giving up.” Alessia looked at me, head tilting forwardsl. “So don’t you give up. No matter what.” I nodded. The leader of the group grunted behind us, and pointed to the right. We turned and descended through a steep bank of trees. I held out my hands against the trunks for balance, as the bark scratched back at me. The twisted mess of ivy beneath my feet hissed as I dragged my feet through it, the brushing leaves threatening me. Then, as we reached the bottom of the bank, we came across a clearing. The forest abated and wild grasses, thigh high, instead covered our surroundings. The river descended down rapids and into a gorge, heading to a large cliff to our left. Then it hit me. This river. This is where we were due to meet our end. The water flew down a series of bony rocks. Gravity gave it a kick on the way down, and the water raced towards the cliff disappearing into a cave. However, the cave wasn’t filled with jagged shapes like you’d expect from erosion. Instead it was a perfect semi-circle. The kind of shape never seen in nature. It was man-made. Not a cave, but a tunnel. As I looked up at the cliff too, I noticed that behind the bushes and creeping vines, the steep slope was made of individual stones piled into a great mountain. Each rock, no doubt, carried to the top, and added to the pile by human hands. I had no idea who built this construction or when, but it wasn’t part of nature. Whether our captors knew it or not, man-made structures had always been with them. We began walking out into the clearing. The sun had gone, only twilight remained. The long shadows had withered, retreated to the earth. The tall grass shivered in the evening breeze as we marched across the clearing to the whispering leaves. My pace slowed, trying to delay the inevitable. I looked behind me. The group was getting closer, their spears prepped out in front of them. Ahead, I could hear the water churning over the rocks, beckoning us towards it. My mind was in a haze. A thousand, desperate screaming thoughts looking for an option. My feet slowly trudged as an automatic process, while my brain fought with itself, throwing accusations at past decisions, futilely pleading with the Gods for a route of escape. The world around me disappeared. The entire universe consumed by nothing but the fury inside my own head. The lights, the sounds, the sense of the breeze on my skin, all dissipated as I lost myself in the tumbling, frantic thinking. Then a howl. A high-pitched, but deep-throated whail into the nighttime air. That same howl I had heard on the clifftop the previous night. I turned to face our captors. They all stared at the forest, their bodies braced: back legs stretched out, spears by their side ready, eyes watching. I heard a growl. A rumbling snarl seeping through the woods. Then it stopped. Silence returned. Time stood still for a brief moment as no one moved, no one spoke, no one dared breathe. Then one of the group with a single exhale muttered. “The varg.” The bushes shook as great beasts leapt from the undergrowth. The animals looked like dogs, but their size was at least twice that of any I had seen. Huge, padded feet paced towards us. Black snouts sniffed the air, and the corners of lips raised, revealing jagged teeth. The varg charged at us. One spearman tried to swipe at it, but the varg was too quick, leaping up and latching onto the man’s arm. He screamed as he fell backwards. The great creature clenched its jaws around the man’s neck, as another of the group thrust a spear into the creature’s flank. The varg winced, retreating a couple of paces, but it didn’t fall. It stood, turning its attention to its attacker, the lance still sticking out of its hip. I tapped Alessia’s arm. “Quick, let’s go.” We ran towards the river - the only route available to us. We stopped at the edge of the rapids, the water swirling beneath us. Behind us, there was another scream. I saw a man being dragged back towards the forest, teeth firmly sunk into his shoulder. I looked at Alessia, her eyes caught by the slaughter behind us. I grabbed her arm, and her head whipped round to face me. Her mouth was open, her lungs gasping for air, as her wide eyes pleaded for sense. I nodded to her. She took a deep breath, and nodded back. Then, we turned to face the water, and jumped. \ Next chapter released 4th November.

(WP) A Shroud of Protection I can barely remember my life before her: I was tucked into a wooden chest in the attic, being saved for a special occasion. Being a treasured family heirloom was an honor, but it was a lonely calling. Then she was born, and again, as before, I had purpose in life. I was taken out of the chest, able to feel sunshine again, and Grandmama Ruby spread me out, swaddling me around her fifth grandchild, and the warmth would have been enough to make me weep, if I’d had eyes. It had been so long since I’d felt the touch of a soft infant’s skin on my body. No matter how many years I had in the dark, these moments in the sun were always enough. Ruby cradled the sleeping child, staring down at her in silent wonder. I knew how she felt; with every life added to our extensive family tree, it never got old. A tiny life calling us home, giving me purpose again. Years had passed since Ruby’s mother had sewn me with her own hands, and after all these years, I would be tucked away, lying in wait for the next child born. And here she was, a baby to hold me close and snuggle me and take me everywhere. “Look at you, beautiful,” Ruby murmured, rocking her back and forth. “You have no idea how happy we are, that you’re finally here!” She was smiling, her dimpled cheeks flushed with joy. As happy as I was, I was also bristling with impatience. The bond would not form until Ruby told me her name, and as much as I wished I had a voice, my sentience did not extend that far. I had to wait until the time was right. “Oh, Frida. I cannot wait to show you everything,” Ruby whispered, and a subtle glow began to form around my edges, creating a protective barrier around the child. “I can’t wait to see what kind of person you become. But in the meantime, you’ll have this blanket. As long as you take it with you, you will be safe.” I was one of the family’s most closely guarded secrets, one of their sources of magic. Most people thought it was genetics, or good luck, but that wasn’t the case at all. Ruby and her family had been entrusted with secretive magical objects, and they only shared them with those who were trustworthy. I was one of the oldest in the entire collection, and Ruby always gave it to the youngest grandchild, as a way to safeguard against delicate mishaps. I was a shroud of protection, sewn into life and given a soul born from a family’s fierce love for one another. But, of course, this did not mean that other people, humans full of avarice and hatred and greed, did not covet or try to steal myself, and my brothers and sisters. Power is a truly dangerous, fluid thing, and there are some who would do anything to attain it. But I knew my purpose: to watch over the children of this line, until I turned to dust.

An orange haze envelops the small town of Republic, Missouri every year by way of the annual pumpkin festival. Pumpkins are bought, sold, carved, smashed, and baked into pies. The crowning achievement, however, is the pumpkin growing contest that promises glory and riches to whoever can grow the largest gourd. The winner is crowned the PumpKing and receives a $1000 cash prize. The champion from the previous year must relinquish the prestigious trophy to the new victor. “He only held the title for 12 hours or so,” Deputy Shannon says as he looks down at the deceased body of the newest PumpKing, Dennis Walker. “He won two years ago, though, and three years before that. Him and Harris usually go back and forth.” Sheriff Gordon squats down and inspects the knife protruding from the back of the corpse. He pulls a pen from his shirt pocket and pokes at a glob of orange goo stuck to the knife. “This what I think it is?” “Yeah, looks like one of the pumpkin carving knives from the festival,” the Deputy replies. He leans against the faded red barn wall and reaches into his coat pocket, retrieving a crumpled tobacco pouch. He watches a large, ominous dark cloud roll over the rising morning sun. He takes a pinch of the rich, woody smelling snuff and stuffs it under his lip. Though the temperature is warm and there is still plenty of daylight, Deputy Shannon feels a sense of foreboding pass over him and he shivers unconsciously. “Gotta be Harris, ain’t it?” The Sheriff tilts his head slightly in thought, “You think?” “Well, you heard all the hubbub about his crop of pumpkins this year, right?” “Aw hell, everybody heard about that. Harris came rip-roarin’ down to the Silver Dollar saying Walker had poisoned his crop. He claimed that him and his buddies had gone over and seen Walker’s entry pumpkin and could tell on sight that it was ‘scarcely bigger than a tom cat’ - his words- and then the very next day his own pumpkin started turning brown and smellin’ putrid and what have you.” Deputy Shannon grins, despite the morbid situation. “Well, that certainly sounds like him.” The Sheriff slaps his hands on his knees and stands up, groaning with the effort. “Guess we better load up and get on over to Harris’s farm and see what he has to say for himself.” ----- Gravel crunches as the old chevy police cruiser pulls in front of a large yellow house with faded blue shudders and a wraparound porch. Fat droplets of rain finally begin to splatter onto the windshield as the Sheriff and his Deputy open the car doors. White laundry billows on a clothesline in the steadily increasing wind, and Shannon notes the holes and stains on them. The front door is wide open, but the screen door is closed to keep the flies out. A portly woman in a well-worn red dress and a dirty apron bustles up to the door as they approach, wiping her hands back and forth and letting a cloud of white flour disappear in her wake. She is inherently likable, an excellent cook, and a passable weekday bartender when she isn’t busy tending the farm alongside her husband. “Gentlemen,” she says, smiling widely and opening the screen door. “I heard you pull up. I was just putting the finishing touches on one of my famous gooseberry pies. To what do I owe this pleasure?” “Marna, good to see you. You want help getting all that in?” the Sheriff gestures to the linens. “Oh lord, I forgot all about it. My head’s not screwed on right today. Yes, thank you kindly for your help,” Marna says and the two of them quickly get to work to beat the full force of the storm. The deputy stays back, peering surreptitiously inside the house through the screen door. The lights are off, and despite all the curtains being open and the early hour, the gloomy clouds cast the house in darkness. There’s a sweet smell emanating from withing - probably the pie - but there’s also the hint of something else he can’t quite place. Something unpleasant, rotting. There is no sign of Harris. He startles slightly when Marna speaks from behind him, “Can you get the door for me?” He obliges and watches her carry the large pile of laundry into the house and disappear behind the corner. After a moment, she returns. “Now then, what can I do for you?” she asks, stepping outside onto the porch. The Deputy notes that she closes both the screen door and the worn front door behind her. “Well first, let me ask, is your husband here?” Sheriff Gordon asks. “No, Harris didn’t come home last night. It ain’t uncommon for him to end up in the spare room above the Dollar on Saturday nights if he gets too deep into the bottle. Wish it wasn’t like that o’ course, but it is what it is,” she says, raising her chin defiantly. “I see,” Sheriff Gordon says, casting a glance at the deputy. “Well, I wish we were here under different circumstances, but there’s been a murder, you see.” Marna’s hand flies up to her chest. “A murder? Here in little Republic?” “Yes ma’am. I’m afraid Dennis Walker was found dead this morning by his son,” says the Sheriff. “Dennis Walker! Oh my, that is a shame,” she says fanning herself with her hand. “Well, you know our family never got along with the Walkers, but I hope you’re not here because you think Harris might’ve had anything to do with this?” The Sheriff casts another sideways glance at the Deputy. “We just have a few questions for him, ma’am. You say he’s likely at the Silver Dollar?” “Well, I should certainly hope so. Otherwise, he’ll have even bigger problems than the two of you,” Marna says with a scowl, indicating exactly who he will have problems with. The wind whips Marna’s greying hair around her face and the Deputy imagines that Marna can be quite like a storm when she gets angry. “Alright, well thank you for your time, Marna,” says the Sheriff. The deputy tips his hat to her and the two of them hurry back to the patrol car. ----- “Yeah, he was here last night, alright. Drunker than a skunk, and he closed the bar down at 2 am,” says Andy, the bartender, rinsing beer mugs as she talked. “You’re welcome to head upstairs if you need. Haven’t seen him yet this morning. Must have quite the hangover.” A man at the bar grins into his drink and nods his head at the two men. “Sheriff, Deputy. Long time no see.” Deputy Shannon gives the man a withering look. “Sure, Jim, if a day and a half is long. I see you’re straight back to business then. A martini at 11 am is an odd choice.” “Well, you know us city folks,” Jim says, shrugging, as though that explains the matter. “Don’t get into any more trouble. I’d hate to see you back in the clink again. Might be a new record, even for the locals,” the Deputy says. The man grins again and takes another sip of his drink, ending the conversation. Deputy Shannon and Sheriff Gordon make their way to the staircase leading to the room above the bar. “Guy’s weird, man,” the Deputy says. “Who drinks a martini at 11 am?” “You never like newcomers,” the Sheriff says, chuckling. “And you especially never like anyone from the city.” “Yeah well, can’t trust em, can ya? Says he moved here because a string of violent crime scared him out of the city, yet he gets locked up for petty offenses all the time. Vandalism, squabbles, public intox...” “Those are hardly serious crimes, and anyway the folks around here get locked up plenty,” the Sheriff says. “True,” the Deputy admits. “Still, you’d think after being in jail for five or six days that he wouldn’t go straight back to drinking before noon. It’s just trouble waiting to happen.” The Sheriff shrugs and knocks on the door at the top of the stairs. They hear a string of curses and shuffling. Finally, the door creaks open a few inches and Harris’s face peers through. “Whaddaya want,” he asks gruffly. “Are you decent? We need to ask you a few questions,” the Sheriff replies. “This isn’t exactly a good time. What time is it, actually?” Harris asks, going into a coughing fit. The room reeks of marijuana and stale liquor. “It’s 11 am.” “Shit,” Harris says. “Hang on.” The door closes and there are more shuffling sounds and then the door creaks open. “Let’s get this over with,” Harris says, walking into the room. “There’s like, privacy privilege or whatever, right?” The men walk into the room slowly. The Deputy waves a hand in front of his face, unsuccessfully diffusing the stench of the room. “What? Jesus Harris, it smells like a brothel in here.” The room is a complete disaster. Women’s and men’s clothes litter the room. Cans of beer crowd the nightstand and an empty bottle of wine lays near a tipped trashcan, its contents spilled onto the floor. There is an ashtray with a lit cigarette still burning inside. There are no windows in the room to let in fresh air. A bathroom fan is on, but the bathroom door is firmly closed. Suddenly, they hear a loud clatter from inside the bathroom, and then someone cursing. “Who’s in there?” Deputy Shannon asks, but no sooner has he asked the question than the bathroom door swings open. “Shit,” says Irene Walker, wife of the deceased. The deputy purses his lips, and his eyebrows raise, but he says nothing. The Sheriff coughs awkwardly as Mrs. Walker shimmies into a coverup and snatches the cigarette out of the ashtray, taking a long drag to fully reignite the ember. “Uh,” the Sheriff says, at a loss for words. Harris makes an impatient gesture, “Yeah, we’re fuckin’, so what? Whaddaya guys want? I gotta get goin’ before my old lady beats my ass for bein’ home so late. Can’t believe it’s almost noon.” “We’re here to ask you a few questions about last night. We heard from the bartender that you were downstairs all evening,” says Deputy Shannon. “Yeah, and so was half the town. I came here with my buddies to blow off some steam after the contest ceremony. Which was rigged, by the way,” he says darkly. “Drank some pumpkin brew. Came upstairs, et cetera,” he says, wriggling his eyebrows suggestively. “Went to sleep. And here we are.” “So, neither of you are aware of the murder that occurred last night then?” Deputy Shannon asks, watching Harris’ face for his honest reaction. He is surprised when the man’s eyebrows shoot into his hairline in surprise. Irene doesn’t appear to care much. Her face is turned away and she is puffing steadily away on her cigarette. “Murder? Whose?” Harris asks, leaning back on the bed. “Dennis Walker.” Irene goes still but says nothing. “You’re shitting me,” says Harris. “I’m not.” Harris exhales a puff of breath that could be a laugh. “Got what was comin’ to him, if you ask me.” “Interesting for you to say that,” the Deputy drawls. “I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re implying.” “Didn’t say that you did.” There is an awkward silence. Sheriff Gordon eventually fills it. “Irene, your husband is dead.” She turns her head and looks at him. Her eyes are bloodshot. “And good riddance,” she says quietly, taking a drag on her cigarette that brings it down to the filter. “He beat me, you know. Every time he got drunk. Which was all the time,” She mimed a backslap into the air, not meeting anyone’s eyes as she did so. “We were wondering where you were this morning, Irene. Your son was the one who found the body,” Sheriff Gordon says. “He says he came over early to congratulate his old man on his win. Says he was sorry he couldn’t make it to the ceremony.” Irene covers her face with her hands. “My poor boy,” she chokes. “I was here with Harris the whole time. It wasn’t him. Or me. Check with Andy.” “We will be doing that,” the Deputy says skeptically. The Sheriff shoots him a look, as if to say, ‘let it rest for a minute, man’. “Who else closed down the bar last night, Harris?” asks the Sheriff. “Uh, lemme think. Lyle, Ben, Kevin, Jim, Courtney, uh, Claire, Irene and me obviously,” Harris says. “I think that’s it. You’ll have to ask Andy, things get a bit fuzzy around midnight. I don’t usually take shots, but I was pissed off last night. You know that dead bastard poisoned my pumpkins, right?” Deputy Shannon makes a few notes in his notebook and pockets it. This whole encounter was awkward at best, particularly having just come from speaking to Harris’s wife. “We’ve heard the accusations, yeah. What makes you think it was Dennis?” asks Sheriff Gordon. Harris gawked at him. “You mean besides the fact that I would have won the PumpKing contest if not for my entry suddenly melting? I’ll be honest, Lyle, Ben, and I went to the Walker farm and talked some shit on his pumpkin. I could tell by the sight of it that mine would win. After, what, 10 or 12 years doing this contest, I can tell on sight what a pumpkin will weigh. His was nowhere near my beauty. We went to the Dollar after and laughed about it with Jim and some others. I was so sure I’d win. And then the next day - the very next day - my pumpkin starts to get spots on it and melts? Seven days before the contest. I’d say that’s pretty suspicious, wouldn’t you, Sheriff?” “It is a bit questionable, sure. But what proof do you have?” “Don’t need any, I know it was him. And he didn’t even need the money. I need the money. Bastard knew that,” Harris says angrily. “Alright Harris,” says Sheriff Gordon. “We’ll be in touch. Don’t leave town until all this is settled, you hear? You too, Irene.” “Yeah, yeah,” Harris grumbles. Irene nods stiffly. The Sheriff turns to the Deputy and gestures towards the door with his head. “Let’s go.” ----- The two men close the door behind them and make their way back to the bar. The place is empty now, besides the bartender. The two of them sit at the bar and order a round of pumpkin ale. The Sheriff lets out a long sigh and rubs his hands down his face. After serving them, Andy heads to the kitchen, leaving them alone. “Okay, so who do we think it is?” the Deputy asks, straight to business. “Well, there’s Harris or Irene, obviously. Both have motive, and neither has a good alibi, considering they were supposedly together all night.” “What about Marna?” the Deputy asks. “Marna? Come on, man. What would she have to kill the guy over?” “I don’t know, the cash prize from the contest? They could use the money, Harris said. Maybe she wanted her old man to win... Thought maybe it would keep him around the house more?” “Maybe. Doesn’t feel right though,” Sheriff Gordon says. They are silent for a long time. Eventually, the Sheriff asks, “Who else entered the contest?” “Hang on, they posted that on the festival website,” the Deputy says, getting his phone out. After a minute of searching, he says, “Looks like the runner up was Kathy Miller, 3 rd place went to Kevin Calhoun, and 2 nd place went to... Jim Burleigh?” “Jim? City Jim?” the Sheriff asks. “I didn’t know he was into that.” “Me either. What’d he do before he moved here?” the Deputy asks. “Dunno. Let’s go have a chat with him, shall we?” He looks to where Jim had been sitting and sees a nearly full martini still sitting on the bar top. “When did Jim leave?” the Sheriff asks Andy as she returns from the kitchen. “As soon as you two went upstairs, why?” The Sheriff and Deputy look at each other meaningfully and stand. ------ Jim’s apartment door is wide open when they arrive. The men draw their weapons and call out, but they find that the apartment is empty except for an orange tabby cat who hisses at them from the shadows. There is only a folding table and single plastic chair in the living room which makes the place look eerie. There is mail on the table addressed to someone named Lyle Cornerstone. After a few minutes of internet searching, Deputy Shannon finds an article. “Look at this.” “String of Knife Attacks Shocks Locals” A series of seemingly random stabbings in St Louis, Missouri, has left residents shaken. Two men were killed and a woman was seriously injured when an unknown assailant stabbed them in the back with a knife. Based on cctv footage, a single person of interest, Lyle Cornerstone, was apprehended but quickly released from police custody due to insufficient evidence. Police have no other leads. The investigation is ongoing... There is a single piece of paper next to the letters. The Deputy picks it up and reads it aloud. Gentlemen, I have taken my leave, but I wanted to have a final word. Draino works remarkably well on pumpkins, did you know? I hoped that afterwards, Harris would take things out on his rival for me, but I forget sometimes that people don’t think like I do. If I hadn’t been ‘in the clink', I could have taken Walker out sooner and then I would have won. I do so like to win. Alas, I can see that the jig is up and must make my way. Please see that my cat is taken care of. Cheers “Jim”

There it was, at the corner of Linden and Mulberry, the Heishardt House, ripe for the selling. An 1839 mansion built in Gothic style. 6 bedrooms 1 bathroom, two floors, on a double lot. You can’t find beauties like this anymore. Just as I was about to get out of my car and walk the hundred feet or so to the house, I got a call from my boss. It was the usual thing: I’m $300,000 below quota for the quarter and If I didn’t make it... Hell, the house could be possessed by a demon for all I care, this has to be the one. As I got to the front door, it opened just a crack. A girl with bubble gum pink streaks in her hair poked her head out. She had big eyes which were accentuated by her excessive use of black eyeliner. “What do you want?” I was taken aback at that. “I got an email from Mr. Heishardt asking me to visit. I’m here to help him sell his house. Is he home?” “You mean, Dick? Yeah come in, but take your dirty-ass shoes off.” she said. I can’t say I’m the biggest fan of her attitude, but as long as the house sells, she can spit on my shoes for all I care. I walk inside to see an immaculate home. It looks like the kind of thing that Martha Stewart would have designed if she lived in the 1800. The ornate central staircase dominates the foyer. A grand chandelier seems to hold hundreds of real candles as well as thousands of pieces of delicately cut glass. This could easily be a half-million dollar home. Maybe more depending on what kind of renovations are needed. A woman with short silver hair enters wearing a polka dot dress and a red frilly apron that says, “Kiss the Chef.” “Oooooh!” she cooed. “I thought I heard someone enter. We’ve been expecting you. I’m Susan Heishardt, but you can call me Suzy. Stephanie, you haven’t been rude to our guest, have you?” The girl with pink streaks in her hair rolls her eyes, “Ugh, no mom.” “Well don’t be a stranger, come on in,” said Suzy. “I’ve just pulled out a fresh batch of cookies. Richard is waiting for us in the kitchen.” The kitchen looked thoroughly modern for the 1950’s. It would certainly need a new stove, fridge, and dishwasher. New counter tops wouldn’t hurt either. I was practically salivating as I sat down at the dinette kitchen table and handed over my very last business card to Richard Heishardt across from me. We made the usual small talk for a few minutes until the cookies cooled and Suzy placed a plate between us along with a tall glass of whole milk. I was in the middle of explaining the current housing market, and that’s when I heard it... A rumbling sound. Some sort of deep shudder echoed throughout the house. “What was that?” I said. “What was what?” “That rumbling sound. You didn’t hear it?” Richard looked confused. He looked to Suzy. They both shrugged and looked back to me. “I must have imagined it. Anyway, as I was saying-” I then went on to explain the best way to price a house in order to maximize profit. In my head, I was chanting, “This has to sell. This has to sell.” over and over. In the middle of my spiel, I heard... a thump. The plate of cookies jumped slightly off the table. I couldn’t tell where it was coming from. It sounded like it was coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once. “Did you guys hear that?” Richard looked to Suzy who looked equally confused. “Hear what?” they said to me. My Ex-wife always called me crazy, but not this kind of crazy. Maybe if I walked around the house I could tell where it was coming from. Maybe it was “water hammer” from someone turning the faucet off suddenly. “You know, I think I’d like to take a tour of the house.” “Actually, I don’t know about you Suzy, but I’m ready to sign the paperwork.” I was shocked at that. In all my years of being a real estate agent, I had never had a seller so eager. “I haven’t even told you what my fees are.” I said. “Oh, I’m sure they’re reasonable. I’m sure we can trust you. There’s no reason why we can’t trust you, right?” “No! No reason at all.” I said, perhaps a little too emphatically. I whipped out my briefcase and popped it open. I pulled out page after page and had them sign each one. It took about 15 minutes. The whole time, I had this bad feeling, like I ate something rotten, except it was all over my body. When we were finished, I insisted on a tour of the house. “Why don’t we start with the basement?” suggested Suzy. “Actually, I’d like to see the ground floor, then the 2nd floor, then the basement, because that’s generally how potential buyers will tour the house.” Suzy looked to Richard for his approval. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea...” Richard said hesitantly.” “It should be... fine.” said Suzy. I’d already seen the foyer and the kitchen. They took me to see the Dining room, Living Room, Parlor Room, the Study, and the Servant’s Quarters. The wood was polished so that the rich mahogany stood out against the moss green of the carpet. The rooms were filled with plush chairs and ornate tables. Ancient paintings adorned the walls, honoring the illustrious line of Heishardts throughout the ages. Back in the foyer, Stephanie was sitting on the bottom stair, playing on her phone. We ascended the stairs to the second floor and I admired the delicate pattern of the runner under my feet. It’s those little touches that bring a half million dollar house to a six hundred and fifty thousand dollar house. At the top of the stairs was the master bedroom. To the left was the only bathroom in the house. Adjacent to that was the second bedroom. A corridor led around the corner to the remaining three bedrooms. We toured them all and I was deeply impressed by the excellent condition of the house. I was starting to calculate the commission I would make, when I heard it again. That thump sound. I could feel it in my bones and it made me feel nauseous. Again Richard and Suzy didn’t seem to notice it. I told my hosts that I was ready to see the basement now. As we descended the stairs, I noticed something wasn’t right. Behind me should have been the Master bedroom, the bathroom to the left of it, and then the second bedroom. Instead the three bedrooms were behind me. But there was only one staircase in the whole house. I retraced my steps through the corridor to the Master bedroom, and there before me... was the stairs again. Stephanie was still sitting at the bottom and still playing on her phone. “Is something wrong?” asked Suzy nervously. “No no. I’m just... I think I ought’a sit down.” I said. “You don’t look well at all. Let’s go back to the kitchen. I’ll have Suzy make you some tea.” I sipped on some Earl Grey and felt much better and ready to see the basement. Suzy flicked on the only incandescent bulb that lit the stairs down into the deep, dark, basement. She led the way, then me, Stephanie, and Richard at the rear. I swear I could hear a munching sound, like a tiger gnawing on a bone. But no one else seemed to hear it, so I chalked it up to another imagination. Once we were on solid footing, I heard a deep grumbling, and a heavy metal chain dragging across the floor. It was still dark. The only illumination came from the single bulb upstairs. “You got him, Richard? I need to find the light switch” said Suzy. Richard grabbed me by the neck and one hand on my wrist. I was so shocked that I froze in place. I had no idea what was going on. “Gosh. It’s so hard to find. Sometimes it’s just easier to cast the spell.” Then she said something that sounded like Latin and Russian combined. A glowing white orb appeared out of nothing and floated a foot above our heads. Then I could see what was making those noises this whole time. An eyeless, hairless, grey monster. It didn’t have lips, just two jagged rows of vicious teeth that protruded outwards in every direction. A thick rope of saliva dribbled out of it’s hungry maw. It snarled and took a step closer. I tried to back away, but Richard had me firmly in his grasp. The beast took another step closer and Richard squeezed harder. It opened up it’s jaws, much wider than any human would be able to, and lunged at my face. A heavy gauge chain that was wrapped around the beast’s neck and tied to the wall snapped taught and saved my life. The beast snarled and chomped at the air hungrily. Suzy began chanting in that strange language. Stephanie interrupted, “Dick, I don’t want to go through with the ritual after all. “We already have a sacrifice. We should complete the ritual and then we can talk. Now help your mother with the chanting.” said Richard. “You can’t tell me what to do, Dick.” “I’m your father, and you’ll do as I tell you.” “You’re my step-dad and I’m 78 years old! I’ll do whatever the hell I want to do.” Stephanie said. She walked up to Richard and shoved him much harder than I would have expected from a girl her size. Richard let go of me and fell on the floor and I could hear a little, ”snick” sound. Richard grabbed his hip and winced like he’d been stabbed through the heart. Suzy was just as shocked as Richard and just as speechless. Stephanie grabbed my arm and pulled me towards the stairs. I didn’t need any urging. I raced up those stairs like my life depended on it. She walked me out the front door. “You forgot your briefcase in the kitchen.” “That’s ok,” I said as I wiped the sweat off my forehead. “I don’t think I’ll need it.”

There were wolves on the train from Kildare to Kilkenny and the noise of them was driving me mad. They weren’t real wolves, of course. Real wolves would not have been as obnoxious, or as drunk, or as stupid. No, these were humans in werewolf masks and gloves, six of them in total, dressed up for some Halloween party or other, and judging by their boisterousness and how intimidating they were, they’d been ‘getting in the mood’ for quite some time. Thankfully, for now, they were halfway down the carriage and weren’t bothering me, other than with their shouting and laughing and occasional howling at the moon, which just so happened to be full, which was more than a little appropriate, considering it was the 31st of October. When I’d entered the carriage twenty minutes earlier, I’d wondered why the top half was empty, and had gladly taken a seat inside the door. Now, having listened to and observed the antics of the costumed idiots--all of whom appeared to be male--I knew exactly why it was empty. It had taken all my willpower not to get up and leave, but I was on this train for one particular reason, and the presence of these wolves seemed fortuitous. I had a writing assignment due in two days, the prompt for which was ‘journey on a train’, and having failed to come up with a workable idea, I’d decided the best thing to do was just hop on a train and see what happened. I’d brought a book to read which I’d hoped would provide inspiration, but I’d only made it through a couple of pages before being distracted by the commotion further down. This, I knew from my creative writing teacher, was a better source of material, so I set the book aside and took out my notepad, the one I kept handy for jotting down ideas and possible lines of dialogue as I heard them. At the top of a page I’d quickly written: ‘Idea - idiots on a train dressed as werewolves, on their way to a costume party. Could there be a real werewolf amongst them?’ Well, it was something. Below that I’d scribbled some of the things I heard the idiots say, things that weren’t sexual innuendos and didn’t have anything to do with how pissed they were and how much more pissed they were planning to get, like: “Why the fuck are we going to a party in the arse end of nowhere, lads, could we not have stayed home and gone to Coppers?” “There better be some decent-looking birds in this town, man, not just a bunch of bleedin’ dogs. Oh, sorry, present company excepted.” And the most recent comment, which had been voiced just seconds before: “Hey, Blevine, can I have a howl at your moon?” Okay, that last one was a sexual innuendo, but I included it anyway because of the name Blevine, which I’d never heard before and which had instantly piqued my curiosity. It was piqued even further when a female voice responded, in as dry a manner as possible: “Sure. As long as you can howl out your arse, ’cos you won’t have a mouth if you try it.” I didn’t write that down, or the muttered “watch yourself” that followed, from a deeper male voice I hadn’t heard before, because by then I’d looked up from my notepad and leaned into the aisle, hoping to catch a glimpse of the mysterious Blevine. I didn’t have to look hard to find her. The thin, pale-skinned and dark-haired girl in the loose-fitting cargo pants and baggy Nirvana t-shirt striding down the aisle directly towards me could only have been her, and her eyes locked onto mine as soon as she saw me. “Dickheads,” she said, reaching the end of the carriage and swinging into the empty set of seats opposite mine. She slouched back on the tacky, blue and green moquette-covered chairs, upper back and head against the window, one foot up on the seat, and continued to stare at me with amber-coloured eyes that seemed to deep-well drill into my mind. “What are you looking at?” she asked, spreading her arms as though I were checking her out. With shaggy, unkempt hair that hung to her shoulders, flat nose and thin lips, she wasn’t what you’d call beautiful in the traditional sense, but she was attractive in an earthy kind of way, and when I realised I was checking her out, I looked back down at my notes. “Nothing,” I said, waggling my pen over the page as if in preparation of writing. “Just enjoying the train ride.” “Enjoying?” she said, adopting a properly seated position in the aisle seat next to mine. “What’s to enjoy? A bunch of drunk losers in wolf masks thinking they’re off to the party of the year to get high or laid or both? I don’t think so.” Something about the way she said those last four words made me shiver and I couldn’t help but look at her again. “Really? I assumed they were off to a Halloween party, dressed like that.” “Oh, they are,” Blevine nodded, resting her forearms on her knees and placing her sharp-angled chin in her hands, so her face was mere inches from mine. Those eyes of hers, with their shimmering brightness and intensity of glare, were somehow piercing, comforting and unsettling all at the same time. “I mean, there is a party. I should know, I helped organise it, it’s just not what they think. They’re expecting a drink and drug-fuelled rave with loads of horny girls who can’t resist their ‘charms’, but they’ve overlooked the fact they were all told to dress the same way, so they’ve totally missed the point. But so what, suits me. “What are you writing?” Before I could think to ask one of my growing clutch of questions or answer hers, she’d plucked the notebook from my hand and was laughing as she read what I’d written. “‘Could there be a real werewolf amongst them?’ Some imagination! Are you writing a story? Do you believe in werewolves?” She was peering into my eyes again causing goosebumps to pucker on my skin. I shrugged, eyes flicking briefly to the moon that hung static above the treeline flashing past through the window, a moon that seemed to be watching the train with some amount of trepidation. “I wouldn’t say I believe in them,” I said, forcing my eyes back to hers, hoping she wouldn’t notice how nervous-or excited-she made me. “Not the popular fiction type anyway. But yeah, I am trying to write a story. Whether it’s going to be about werewolves or not I don’t know yet.” “Well, you’re heading in the right direction, if it is.” She said this as she placed my notepad on the table top before me and snatched up my copy of ‘Mythical Irish Beasts’, which was earmarked in places of interest. Flicking through the book, she stopped on one such page, which was heavily underlined, and read: “In his Topographia Hibernica, Gerald of Wales recounts the tale of a priest, who encountered on his travels a pair of speaking man-wolves, for whom he administered last rites. These wolves proclaimed themselves to be descendants of the Kings of Ossory, a mediaeval kingdom encompassing what is now Kilkenny and Laois, who’d been cursed by Saint Patrick for opposing his preaching of Christianity.” She paused in her reading and looked up, one eyebrow raised dramatically. “Doing your homework, I see.” “It’s kind of an interest of mine. Myths and legends, the supernatural.” She was staring again. Glaring again. Transmitting chills and half-smiling, though I wasn’t sure if it was in a mocking way or a pleasantly surprised one. “I’m impressed. You know about Ossory. Not many do. Fuck all do, to be honest. Those dickheads down there sure don’t. They think John Landis invented werewolves. John fucking Landis! Can’t even go back as far as Chaney. Think it’s all ‘body-morph transformations by the light of the silvery moon’. Dopes.” She said the word ‘dopes’ like she was spitting a slug from her mouth. “It’s cool you know the legend too,” I said, still trying to work out if I trusted this girl or was terrified of her. There was a touch of emo about her, or maybe it was grunge, I was out of the loop on subculture assignations. I also found it hard to guess her age, though she was definitely younger than me. “It’s nice to meet someone who shares the same interest.” She laughed, abruptly, startling me. “Oh, that I do! Sure, I’m from the area myself. Killeshin, in Laois. You won’t find it in your book, but local legends say it was a focal point of werewolf activity in the 13th century.” “No shit?” I said, perking up a little too enthusiastically. “Shit!” she replied, nodding eagerly and mimicking my excited tone, before glancing past me out the window, possibly to gauge where we were. “You know what? That’s where the party is. Killeshin. You know what else? It’s a werewolf-themed party. And do you know what else ? I’ve got a spare mask and I think you should come. I think you’d like it. You’d certainly appreciate it more than those chuckleheads my brother invited.” My throat was dry. My heart was thumping. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from hers. I opened my mouth and knew I was going to accept her invitation, even though I wasn’t sure I should. There was just something about her, an air of mystery, a sense of adventure, and I felt sure I’d regret it if I said no. But I never got the chance to say a thing. A hand appeared and tugged the book from her hands then he was there, one of the dickheads, the same one, I quickly established, that she’d scolded a minute before. He was wearing a t-shirt depicting an image from the film ‘An American Werewolf in London’. “What’s the story, Blev? Ditching me already? That’s not nice. What’s this shit?” Even through the latex and hair-covered head mask he wore, I could smell the alcohol on his breath, it wafted from his rubber maw to assault my senses. He was leafing through my book with the pointed, plastic fingers of his wolf-claw gloves, and I could just about see his eyes through his mask slits, shifting slowly from me to her and back again. “Nothing,” Blevine said. “Come on, we’re coming into Carlow, are you ready to get off?” “I’m definitely ready to get off, thought you’d never ask! Give us a kiss then!” He staggered forward and dropped his free hand onto her shoulder before jabbing the crumpled maw of his mask towards her face. I’m not sure what made me do it. Maybe it was a gut reaction to the abruptness of his move, maybe it was the stupid kissy noises he was making, maybe it was just the fact Blevine remained calm, staring at me past the big hairy head and pointy ear, waiting to see if I’d do something. Whatever it was, I got to my feet, curled my arm around his chest, drew him back. “Come on, man, don’t be a dick. Leave her alone.” He turned on me and lunged, dropping my book to wrap both his rubbery hands around my neck and push me back down into my seat. “Get the fuck off me, prick!” His eyes were full of rage inside his mask. He flicked his head and the tip of his maw caught my glasses, flipping them off my face. His fingers dug into my neck and he barked like a dog, moving his head closer, the smell of latex and alcohol overwhelming. I placed my hands on his chest to hold him back. “Jealous are ya, want me to yourself? Go on then, give us a kiss,” he said, and for a second he was all that existed in my world and the threat he presented was terrifying. Until it was removed, by another pair of hands that weren’t mine, big ones, with scratches and calluses on the fingers. “I told you to watch yourself,” came the same, gruff voice I’d heard before, and now I could see who it belonged to, a tall, gaunt man with sallow skin, sunken eyes, a mane of jet-black hair and bushy eyebrows. He pulled my attacker away and shoved him roughly into the door between me and Blevine. “You’ll regret that.” Fixing my glasses, my eyes were drawn back to Blevine, who remained seated a few inches away, staring at me between the two, circling her mouth with one finger. My cheeks flushed and I looked away, noticing the train had come to a halt in Carlow station while I was grappling with an idiot. His fellow idiots were lined up in the aisle behind the big guy, cans of cider and bottles of beer in their gloved hands. They were swaying from side to side, laughing and tittering, making fun of their friend. “Don’t ruin the night, Damo, ya big eejit.” “Sorry about that, lad, he gets a bit excitable when he’s out.” “Come on, what are we waitin’ for, where’s this bleedin’ party?” Blevine got to her feet and slid the door open, allowing who I assumed was her brother to shove Damo into the vestibule. “Calm down, Bleddyn!” she snapped, slapping his leather-jacketed shoulder. “No need to be so rough. This is a fun night we’re having, yeah?” The one called Bleddyn only grunted before stalking through the door after Damo, allowing the others to follow him out of the carriage in single file, bouncing and singing and whooping. When they’d all passed through, Blevine retrieved my trampled-on book from the floor and set it back on the table, leaning close to my neck as she did and seeming to sniff me. When she straightened back up, she was smiling. “Sorry about that. Like I said, dickheads. Hope my brother didn’t scare you. He can be a bit intense.” “It’s fine,” I said, with a shake of my head and a lick of my lips. “He was just looking out for you. And me, I suppose.” My face flushed with embarrassment at my failure to diffuse the situation. “Yeah, he’s grand, just doesn’t take any shit, you know? Anyway, about the party. I was wrong. You shouldn’t come. You’re one of the good ones. You wouldn’t like it, and you definitely wouldn’t fit in. Right?” “Oh. Yeah. Right.” “Yeah. For sure you wouldn’t. Just...keep doing what you’re doing. And good luck with the story. I’m sure it’ll be great. It should definitely be about werewolves.” “I think it probably will be now.” She smiled even wider and her eyes seemed to sparkle, then she patted me on the shoulder, winked at me once and was gone. From the platform outside I heard a ruckus, so I turned my head to stare out the window. The werewolves were there, jostling one another as they made their way into the small station building and struggled to get through the turnstiles. Bleddyn waited patiently at the rear until Blevine joined him, pushing herself up on her toes to whisper something in his ear. I saw him nod then enter the station, following the others into a dimly lit car park where a minibus filled with more werewolf-masked individuals was waiting. The whole encounter had left me feeling ill at ease. It wasn’t just that I’d been attacked by a guy in a werewolf mask, it was all of it, everything about it seemed off, especially Bleddyn, even Blevine. The way she’d looked at me, the things she’d said and how she’d made me feel, like I was losing control as she spoke. Had she really sniffed me? And what did she mean, I was one of the good ones? The train hissed and started to move. Blevine had followed her brother into the station. The others were boarding the bus. She was pushing her way through the turnstile. She stopped halfway through and looked back. As before, her amber eyes met mine and held my gaze, sparkling in the dull fluorescent glow of the station’s lighting. As the train slid forward and she dropped out of sight she flashed a smile, and I could have sworn her teeth looked as sharp as obsidian glass. But that had to have been my imagination. Later, when I’d have time to think clearly and investigate, I’d discover the names Blevine and Bleddyn were Welsh, and happened to mean the same thing--wolf cub. Even with that knowledge, which could only have been coincidental, even reading online about the mysterious disappearance of a number of teens on Halloween Eve a few days later, I’d never allow myself to believe what I witnessed that evening was anything other than it seemed. Nevertheless, from that day on, my research into the legends of the Werewolves of Ossory would become nothing less than an obsession. And I was sure I’d never rest ’til I saw her again.

The rusty metal chair grinds noisily against the damp concrete as I take a much-needed seat. The outdoor patio of my favorite café is busy and bustling right now as it’s lunch hour. I drop my belongings onto the glass table before reaching into my oversized hoodie pocket, pulling out a pair of earphones, and sticking them into my ears. The lofi-beat begins to play as the anxiety in my chest begins to dull. The world is muted by more sound. Beside me, a woman types frantically into her computer. Her face is stern, and her attire makes me believe she’s having a lunch break despite not actually taking a break. Across the street, a group of men work on a streetlight. One drinks out of a metal thermos casually whilst another leans against the wall, watching the other two men work. A car horn can be heard above my music, drawing my eyes towards an angry man yelling at a young girl who was nearly hit by the rushing taxi driver. The world around me is vivid and alive. Yet, I am not. In this strange world where I know no one, everybody moves. There’s no sleeping, no stopping, just movement. People don‘t have time for one another, and they’ve grown accustomed to living that way. Once again, however, I sit here alone. I feel like I’m in an impenetrable bubble that no one attempts to pop. The closest I’ve been to a real conversation was with the barista over what type of coffee I wanted. Even then, the interaction was meaningless. Her day kept moving- as did mine. In this world, there are billions of little worlds. Every person I’ve passed today has a life I’ll never know of, just as they will never know of mine. They are the center of their own universe, and I am the center of mine. But I sit here just the same, waiting for one of their worlds to merge with mine. I turn down the volume of my music to listen to the world around me. Cars drive by busily, honking at one another occasionally. A man chatters loudly on his phone about a meeting behind me. At another table, a group of teen girls laugh and chatter about some event they won’t remember 10 years from now. People pass me by. Each from their own walks of life. A homeless man rides by on a bicycle. A businessman carries a shiny black suitcase. A woman in a bright red jacket laughs with a woman who looks like she’d rather be anywhere but next to her loud friend. A young boy watches the ground as he hugs his laptop closely to his chest. Pigeons line the powerlines and streetlights. Taxis blend together in one hue of yellow. The world moves. Yet, I sit here motionless. A cold wind blows from the North, reminding me of the upcoming winter. The world is to be cold and grey once again, and I’m afraid that with the snow piles and thick coats, the world will become even more reclusive to me. Leaning back into my seat, I begin to admire the measly maple tree resting near the side of the street. Its leaves have been painted an array of oranges and reds to match the Autumn scene before me. It blows gently in the wind, causing stray leaves to float gently to the ground. The tree stands solitarily in this concrete jungle. It’s the only sign of actual vegetation for blocks. It reminds me of me in a way. It’s the center of its own universe. It lives for itself, and though it’s alone and feels lonely, it can comfort itself. When the weight of this world gets heavy, that tree just releases its problems into the wind. I wish I could do that. I wish I had the ability to easily let go. The clouds overhead all look the same. Endless masses of ashy grey, hinting, but never expelling a drop of rain. A quiet contentment washes over me in that moment, looking up at that dark, yet bright sky overhead. It was the first time in this noisy city, that I felt a bit peace. “Is this seat taken?” Asks a woman loudly enough for me to hear her over my music. My contentment is disrupted as I shake my head. “Thank you,” she mumbles quietly before taking the seat across from me. I sit up awkwardly, wondering if I should leave before she speaks again. “My name is Lacy by the way,” she says as she sets her belonging onto the table. Her eyes never meet mine, and she tries to hide the frantic note in her voice as she introduces herself to me. “I’m Peter,” I say, holding out a hand. She smiles and firmly shakes it before pulling open a laptop. Just as quickly as our friendly interaction began, it ended. She went back into her own universe, and I went back into my own. If I had any more courage, I’d ask her for her number. Maybe we could become friends. She seems nice, I doubt she’d reject me. But, the more I look at her, the more I see. She already has a life, and I will add no value to her world. As she types frantically at her laptop and writes notes in her leather journal, she doesn’t need me. As I sit here, taking sips of my nearly cold coffee, I don’t need her either. I’ve realized that people are only asteroids. We pass by one another’s worlds, watching each other carefully. We wonder if we should interact. We wonder if we should meet. We wonder if we should step into each other’s lives. But we quickly decide that most things are more appealing at a distance, and we become too afraid to merge worlds. Maybe this is for the best. When an asteroid and a planet collide, both gets hurt- if not destroyed. So maybe, being a lonely asteroid in this void of space is a good thing. Maybe it’s why we feel lonely. All we want is that planet, yet, we float away, never to see the place we once loved ever again. But in the end, we realize it’s for the best. I gulp nervously as I glance up at Lacy. She wears a casual sweater with a button up underneath it. Her hair is in a bun and she continues to type frantically. “What are you writing?” I ask, wondering if I’m being too invasive. She glances up, wide eyed, “A thesis for this English assignment I’m doing.” “Ah, good luck,” I say with an awkward nod. She smiles, “thank you.” She goes back to typing, and I go back to watching the world. Minutes pass before she sighs deeply and shuts her laptop. “How old are you?” She asks, startling me. “21, you?” “20. Where are you from?” “A world I wish I could go back to. You?” “Same.” She responds, shaking her head. “I thought this world would be for me. I don’t think it is.” “Me neither” I respond, watching her eyes glaze over with the same emotion I’ve felt for the past year. “Do... do you ever feel like in this place, you’re completely alone? Like you have no one to talk to but you’re constantly surrounded by people to talk to?” She asks. “I know exactly how that feels,” I respond as she nods enthusiastically, looking just as relieved as me that there’s someone out there who understands. “I feel so confined. I know I’m free, and I know I can go anywhere and do anything, but I feel so trapped. This place borders me in like a caged tiger and all I want is to be anywhere but here. I know nobody and nobody knows me. Being who I am, I thought I’d like that but... It’s incredibly lonely you know?” “It’s like you’re part of a world that isn’t yours.” I say, sitting up. “Exactly! And then-“ before she could say anything else, her phone rings. She lifts a finger, telling me one minute. I nod and lean back into my seat as she answers with a bright greeting. Her face falls suddenly, and I watch with curiosity as the brightness in her eyes becomes a darkness. She hangs up quickly, grabs her belongings and stands up. “I’m sorry, I got to go, but it was lovely meeting you. Goodbye,” she says as panic crosses every feature on her body. “Goodbye Lacy,” I say as she weakly attempts to smile one last time. Then, as swiftly as the asteroid entered my solar system, it was too distracted by the stars beyond me to collide with my world. She left, and about thirty minutes later, as did I. The tree however, stood there. Watching the world with a contentedness I could only dream of in this city that never sleeps.

Alex and Sophia had only been seeing each other for a few months, at the beginning they kept it casual at the beginning but over time it turned into more. One of Sophia's friends was having a BBQ and invited them both over, Alex had met some of her friends already, but this was an opportunity for Alex to meet the rest. He mingled quite well when he had to, but crowds weren't really his thing. Alex had managed to escape the awkward introductions and dragged out conversations to head outside and get some fresh air. Sophia was across the garden talking to some of her friends. Alex couldn't take his eyes off her, everything about her made him happy. Sophia's friend April noticed Alex, and the way he was looking at her. She made her way over to him, "There's only one thing on somebody's mind when they look at someone like that" "And what's that?" He asked. "As if you can't be without them, your eyes show how happy you are.... You love her, don't you?" After a short pause he replied "Yes". He never took his eyes off her, and grinned as he responded. "How could you not. She's the most beautiful girl I've ever seen, her smile alone makes me happy. She doesn't know though, and I'd like to keep it that way for the moment if you don't mind. It's only been a few months, and I just want to wait until the times right, but yes, I'm in love with her." April was curious. "What makes you so sure?" She asked. "I knew from the first time I ever seen her there was something about her, I was drawn to her but I didn't know why. When we finally went out together, there was a connection straight away. It was overwhelming, and I had never felt anything like it before. I didn't know what it meant at the time, but I knew it meant something special. The more time we spent together, the more I was drawn to her. When I was around her I felt safe, and happy. Every time I'm with her it feels like it's exactly where I'm supposed to be in that moment. I've never felt anything like this before and quite honestly I didn't believe you could feel so strongly about someone, in the way I do about her. It's more than just attraction or desire. It's like everything I've ever done has led me to where I am now, to her. I'm in love with her, and no matter what happens between us I know I always will be. I'm connected to her now, and I always will be. That's how I know." April just looked at him and smiled. "You have to tell Sophia what you just told me." "I will" He responded. "When the time is right though. She's really important to me, and I want nothing more than to make this work. If the time isn't right for her then I have to wait until it is, even if it is hurting me not telling her." April could tell it was hard for him keeping this to himself, but she could see he really did love her and that he was probably doing the right thing keeping it to himself for the moment. "Go to her. You don't have to tell her what you told me, but go be with her" Alex just looked at April and smiled, "Thank you" he said.

TW: Swearing Angela ‘Sneezy the Cat Lady’ Rhymes met the eyes of a billboard advert model through the classroom window. Three teenagers slouched in chairs with their arms folded, facing her whiteboard. One was on her phone. Angela sighed. “None of us want to be here at magic summer school so let’s get done what needs done and go home, deal?” Anna-May ‘the Animator’ Ghibli nodded enthusiastically, as the only one who wasn’t there through misdemeanors. Jesus Hernandez raised his hand. “Miss, how many classes do we have to go to before we can graduate?” “You have to be able to pass a test, Jesus. It’s not a number.” Miss Rhymes rubbed her forehead where a frown was working its way into a tension headache. The teacher rubbed the plastic chip on a cord around her wrist. “You can control cats, right?” asked Peter ‘the Pervert’ Parka, without raising his hand. “We need to begin the class for any of you to pass the test,” Angela said, ignoring Peter. “But you can, right? I heard you set a pack of cats on a kid for spitting on you.” Jesus smiled as if it was the funniest thing since he’d last looked at his phone. “Yes,” Angela said, hoping she could address their interest and move on. “I can control cats.” “That’s a cool power.” “Not really,” Miss Rhymes sniffed, reaching for a tissue. “How is that not cool?” Peter asked, “all I can control is clothes.” “Yeah, you suck, creep.” Jesus frowned at the blonde boy in the plain white T-shirt. Hernandez then stood up, knocking over his desk as he held the waistband of his trousers. Fighting an invisible force, his fingers lost their grip on the fabric. “PETER. STOP IT.” Angela felt her tension headache settle in for the day as she yelled at the boy who was giving his classmate the middle finger. “Why? He was being a dick. Why not show everyone his?” “Because that’s sexual assault, Peter. You’ve been told that a hundred times.” “More like a thousand,” Parka said as Jesus pulled up his trousers. “Then learn,” Miss Rhymes said, not holding back the anger in her voice. Her eyes caught Dalia DeWinter slouching in her chair. The girl had turned herself into a full sized doll with blank staring glassy eyes. “You’re just prolonging this if you don’t pay attention, Miss DeWinter.” Angela walked to the transfigured student and clicked her fingers in front of the girl’s unresponsive face. “What would happen if we pulled her arms off like that?” Peter asked, smirking as he eyed the plastic joints of Dalia’s bare elbows. “Prison or the chair, Parka. Don’t even think about it.” “I heard you’re an alcoholic, Miss.” Anna-May said, smiling the wide smile of a gossip laden teen. “Incorrect.” Angela rubbed the one year chip on her bracelet. One year, one month, two days , she thought. “I don’t drink anymore. Now I would like to start by-” She didn’t manage to finish the sentence as Jesus grinned an evil grin, pointing to her water bottle. “Want me to turn that into wine for you, miss? No charge. Maybe you could just say we all passed the test and we could go. Except Peter. He can go fuck himself.” Hernandez turned his stubble covered head to grin at Parka. Jesus stopped grinning as his purple letter jacket collar began strangling him. “Peter, enough!” Angel said, holding up her hand as if it would do something. “I SAID ENOUGH.” Her shoes clapped on the discoloured laminate tiles as she strode to her desk with purpose. Throwing back a glug of water she downed another allergy pill. Pulling her wand from her pocket, she chose the biggest book on the shelf and aimed it at Parka. “Owch. What the hell?” Peter looked at her with wide eyes and a red mark on his forehead. “You can't do that!” “I just did and I’ll do it again.” “You’ll get fired.” “I have tenure. If they could fire me they would have done it already. SIT DOWN. SHUT UP. LISTEN. I’m not asking you again.” She looked at Dalia, still as death in her chair. Angela rubbed her throbbing head. She pulled a marker from her pocket and began writing a spell they had to master on the board. Peter rubbed his head as his eyes followed her pen. Shimmering sparkles in the corners of his blue eyes hinted at tears he was fighting back. Angela breathed deeply, counting to ten in her head. “Look at that,” Anna-May said, pointing her black painted nails to the window. Despite herself Miss Ryhmes looked at the billboard outside. The handsome with the glass of wine in his hand was beckoning to Angela. The teacher turned to the student with hellfire in her eyes. “That’s not funny, Anna-May. Do you know how hard I fought to get sober?” A cat leapt onto the window sill. “I heard you punched Miss Banks from art class,” said Jesus, grinning the bully’s grin. Feeling her eyes itch and water, Angela opened the window. The striped moggy casually leapt through the window. A tabby leapt up behind it. The itch spread to Miss Rhymes’ throat as she went back to the whiteboard. “Repeat after me, or the cats will scratch the spell into your skin.” Hernandez and Anna-May recited the spell as Angela pointed to it. Peter pulled off his socks with his powers and had them dance in front of the cats to distract them. Felines poured in through the window, two at a time. Parka was in no time surrounded by moggies who had no interest in his socks. “Are you going to pay attention, Peter?” Angela asked. “Yes, Miss Rhymes.” “You’re not going to cause trouble?” Her voice was ice. Cubed ice floating in single malt whiskey. Something from Islay. Dammit, stop thinking about alcohol . “No, Miss Rhymes.” Parka shrank down in his chair rubbing his forehead. “Good.” Cats continued to floor into the classroom. Though her eyelids and throat began to swell she kept the cats there, watching each of the students as they repeated the spell with her. She wanted them to pass the test. She wanted to go on a holiday. Barbados , she thought. Sitting in a deckchair on the sand. An umbrella as I look out over the sapphire blue sea. Sangria in a pitcher on the table next to me. Fuck . Anna-May gazed out of the window again as Miss Rhymes wrote up the next spell on the board. Outside the window, the printed photograph of the beautiful man and woman were kissing. Teenagers . “Looking at the board everyone.” Angela was pleased with the rest of the lesson despite the fact she was slowly suffocating. Her airways were closing as the time passed. The breeze from the window was blowing cat hair everywhere. Without interruption she managed to note down and have them repeat every required spell. A week of that would probably be enough for them to pass the test. “Time to go, kids. Get out of my classroom.” “Woo,” Peter whooped, throwing his hands up. A ginger paw pushed his chest. He fell silent and nodded. The feline sea parted for Anna-May, Jesus and Peter to leave. “Can you walk on water, Jesus?” Miss Ghibli asked. “I can ice skate, yeah.” Hernandez had clearly been asked a thousand times. His delivery was slick and delivered with practiced confidence. He wore his letter jacket like a king’s cloak, swaggering. He’s not the messiah , Angela thought. He’s a very naughty boy . Their voices retreated down the corridor. Jesus and Peter insulting each other again. “Enjoy your evening with the cats,” Miss Rhymes said to Darla ‘Doll Face’ DeWinter. Locking the door, the teacher thought about Barbados again. Sun soaked bodies glistening with the sweat of mild exercise. DeWinter turned back to human form, expecting the teacher to be at the desk and the lights on. She leapt out of her chair backwards into more cats. Her perception of anything but the clock on the wall had vanished in her other form. Felines seemed to have appeared from nowhere. “What the hell?” asked Dalia as the cats she’d crashed into scratched her. On the board were the words: ‘See you again tomorrow Miss DeWinter, and every day until you learn the set spells. You only wasted your time.’ Pulling her phone from her back pocket, Dalia saw multiple missed calls from her mother. “Hi, Mom. Yeah, I did it again. Just gonna wait here. No, I'll be fine. See you tomorrow.” I’m going to be dealing with that Dalia idiot all summer , Angela lamented as she walked to the bus stop. The billboard for Welcome Wine leered down at her from the photographic eyes of the handsome man and the beautiful woman. Bitch . The bus pulled up, Miss Rhymes saw cats disperse from the school as the bus doors hissed shut. Catching the eye of a muscular young man with tattoos protruding from his gym wear, she smiled. He grinned back. Trading addiction to alcohol for sex addiction wouldn’t be so bad would it? At least I’d get some exercise . He flashed his teeth again as the bus turned a corner, arms bulging. Am I too old for him? Fuck it, he’s smiling. Come on, Angela, let’s do this . Just don’t sneeze on him .

The musty smell pulled Jethro out of his nap. A thin sheen of condensation coated his skin, residue of the muggy air that dampened his clothes and made his skin sticky. Sounds of dripping water echoed off of cavernous walls, turning small plips into cacophonous clangs. His old joints complained about the rigid, weathered wooden bench he was seated on, and he adjusted himself out of discomfort. He tried moving, only to feel himself rock with the motion in a way he hadn’t expected. He heard the swish of a paddle pushing through water, and he realized he was on a boat, floating down a river. In his eighty-six years of being alive, Jethro had plenty of strange experiences, but taking a nap and waking up on a wooden boat inside a cave was not one of them. Now that he thought about it, he didn’t really remember falling asleep, and waking up hadn’t really felt the same way waking up normally did. It felt more like coming out of a trance, like his consciousness was materializing after disappearing for a while. Across from him, he heard shuffling and murmuring from two people. After a few seconds of adjustment, one of them spoke up. “Where the hell are we?” He said. His voice was high pitched for a man, but he seemed to compensate for this by speaking more aggressively, over-enunciating every word. He directed that obnoxious voice ahead of them, demanding, “Who are you? What’s going on here?” There was another gentle swishing noise, this time on Jethro’s side of the boat, as whoever was guiding it pushed their paddle through the water. In an ethereal voice, somehow sounding like it emanated from the walls of the cavern as much as the man himself, he said, “Do you not remember your last moments?” “My...” the little man spluttered. “My what?” The ethereal voice became clearer as the ferryman turned to face them. “Your last moments on earth,” he replied, a condescending timbre to his words. “Before you died.” The woman screamed. The man tumbled off the bench and scrambled backwards. “What the fuck?” he spluttered. He turned to Jethro. “Are you seeing this shit?” he asked, in apparent disbelief. Jethro turned his head towards the ferryman, then back to the man. “I’m not sure what you’re referring to.” “The fucking skeleton in a cloak standing three feet away from you?” Jethro tilted his head in thought. “Oh yes, quite spooky,” he said, “Although I suppose that’s to be expected after you die.” He turned back towards the ferryman. “Excuse me, Mr Skeleton. You wouldn’t happen to be the ferryman of the river Styx, would you?” “Indeed I am,” Charon replied, turning back and pushing the paddle through the water again. “I thank you for being polite.” “Yes, well,” said Jethro, chuckling lightly, “I imagine in your line of work people aren’t always very happy to see you.” “One of the hazards of shepherding the dead, I’m afraid.” The woman spoke for the first time since they woke, with a thick, nasally midwestern accent. “This can’t be the end,” she whimpered. “My kids, they won’t have a mother anymore.” “Very optimistic of you to assume they survived that car crash,” Charon replied, sounding bored with the exchange already. “Wouldn’t you know whether they died?” the woman said, her earlier whimpering tone transmuting into a more entitled whine. “You’re the Grim Reaper, aren’t you?” “I’m not,” he replied. “And if I did know, I certainly wouldn’t tell you.” In a voice that sounded like she was about to demand to speak to the manager, the woman said, “Why not?” “It would cause more trouble than it’s worth.” She huffed, apparently at a loss for words. Instead, the man spoke up again. “I have unfinished business too, you know,” he said, matching her irritated tone. “I’m twenty-nine. I had a future to live for, I wasn’t ready to die yet.” He turned briefly to Jethro, then back to Charon. “Not like this guy, anyway.” Jethro frowned. Who was this kid to decide when another person should die, anyway? “With foul manners like that,” Jethro replied, intentionally condescending him, “the world is probably better off without you.” “Shut up, old timer,” the little man barked. “There has to be a way out, right?” he said to Charon. “A way I can go back?” “The chances of surviving that kind of overdose are one in a million,” Charon replied. “That’s not a no.” Charon sighed, with undertones of annoyance faintly audible beneath it. He pushed and pulled the paddle more vigorously, until the boat landed on the river bank, sand crunching beneath its wooden hull. “Over there is a tunnel that leads back out to the world,” Charon said, his voice directed towards the cavern’s smooth walls. “If you can make it through there without touching the walls or the floor, you’ll be returned to life.” “How am I supposed to walk without touching the ground?” the man said, bordering on outrage. “You know what I meant,” Charon replied, still nonplussed. “Can’t put your hands on anything.” “It’s pitch black in there,” the man complained. “How am I supposed to guide myself out without using my hands?” “Have faith,” Charon replied, sounding like he was only half joking. The man snorted. “Easy,” he said. “I’m a Catholic priest. I eat faith for breakfast.” “And you believe God is the right person to put your faith into?” Charon asked, with a hint of a chuckle in his voice. A short silence passed, the contempt between the two as palpable as the humidity in the cave. “I don’t believe it, I know it,” the priest replied. Charon chuckled again. “Good luck.” The priest marched out of the boat so ferociously that it nearly rocked itself away from the bank. Jethro listened as his steps squelched through wet sand, then scraped through gravel, until eventually simmering into light taps treading on stone. The echoes of his footsteps changed their shape and tone as the priest ascended into the tunnel, then grew quieter as he traveled further down. Hardly a minute later, the sound of sliding and scraping echoed back out into the cavern, followed by a muffled curse, then the much louder sound of rocks collapsing and causing the ground to rumble. The priest began to shout, but it was cut off by the crunch of his own bones as the rockslide crushed him. Charon sighed. “Every time.” “I’m going to try,” the woman blurted. The boat rocked as she stood from her seat. Charon paused in the middle of picking up his paddle, then turned to face her. “You think you’ll succeed where he failed?” “I have to,” the woman huffed. “My children need me.” “You still think they’re alive?” Charon replied, sounding amused. “If they died in that accident too, they would be here with me,” the woman said. “You’re assuming they died at the same time you did,” Charon replied, a smile tinting his voice. “You’re assuming quite a lot, in fact.” “Or perhaps it’s faith,” the woman retorted. “Maybe I just have faith that my children are waiting for me.” “Putting your faith in other people rarely ends well,” Charon said. “But if you want to risk it, I won’t stop you.” The woman stomped out of the boat, almost as if she was trying to crack the ground beneath her. To her credit, it sounded like she made it a little further than the priest did. But--in almost the exact same fashion--she slipped, she fell, and she got halfway through screaming before the rockslide flattened her lungs. Jethro sighed, adjusted his suspenders, and grabbed his cane. “Well,” he said, “let’s give this a shot. Looks like a fun challenge.” “Why?” Charon said, something approaching bewilderment rising in his voice. “You’re old. Even if you succeed, you’ll die again soon after.” “Then I have nothing to lose,” Jethro replied. “Hm.” Charon tapped the end of his paddle on the base of the boat. “I suppose I can’t argue with that.” Jethro smiled, then pushed himself to his feet, ready to exit the boat. As he stepped up to the edge, he was stopped by a bony hand grabbing his shoulder. "Not so fast," Charon said. "Let me have that cane." A chill traveled up the back of Jethro's neck at the ferryman's spidery touch. He turned, letting Charon's hand slide off his shoulder and gripping his cane. "Why?" "Your cane is an extension of your arm, making the end of it essentially your hand," Charon explained. "If you use it to guide you, you'll fail the challenge." Jethro gave Charon a wry smile. "You would take an old man’s walking stick away from him?" Charon chuckled. "We both know you don’t use it to walk." It wasn’t that Jethro couldn’t see without his cane--he had other tricks up his sleeve. It was the principle of the thing. Charon was right. His cane was an extension of himself, it had been for eighty years of his life. Whether Charon was trying to help him or handicap him, Jethro couldn’t say. But if it was the latter, Jethro was more than happy to prove him wrong. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll have faith in myself.” He handed Charon the cane, then stepped out of the boat and began his march towards the tunnel. As it had with the previous two folks, his first footsteps here accompanied by the crunching of sand beneath his feet, the friction between grains loosened by the water soaking into it. The gravel--which was really just a louder and more unpleasant version of sand--was next, but it didn’t last long. When he reached stone, he instantly had a better idea of where he was. He faced the tunnel ahead of him, and clicked his tongue. The soundwaves went out, bouncing off of the limestone walls, then radiated back to Jethro. One was all it took, and the cavern told him everything he needed to know. The opening of the tunnel was small and winding, with jagged walls and plenty of stalagmites to trip over. Treacherous, certainly, but not impossible. As he ascended through the tunnel, clicking his tongue occasionally to regain his bearings, his mind began to wander. He wondered where the other two had met their end, and he clicked his tongue once more to see if he could find them. A yard or two ahead of him, he detected a softer texture, absorbing more sound than the limestone. Skin, he reckoned. He walked towards it, kicked it with his foot. The ball of his foot hit the pastor squarely in the nose--he reckoned it was the pastor anyway, unless the woman from earlier had a thick mustache. Of the six or seven stalactites that fell on him, the echoes indicated two of them standing up crookedly. It occurred to Jethro that they probably impaled the guy, and he decided to keep walking, having no desire to accidentally step in blood. The cave became smaller as he continued on, and he found himself having to click his tongue more often to make it out. As his stops became more frequent, he started to wonder if impatience was what caused most people to fail. It had certainly been the cause of the mother’s end--Jethro learned that pretty quickly after accidentally treading on her hair. The further he went, the more debris got in his way--everything from crumbled limestone to dry bones, snapping and crumbling beneath his feet. But unlike everyone else who had failed before him, Jethro had eighty years of experience taking his time while navigating. He knew what to do, and he did it well, all the way up to the end of the tunnel. As he stepped out onto the grass, breathing in the fresh air, he felt himself lifted up into the air. The sensation of being taken off of the ground was unpleasant, like a plant being pulled out of its roots. But it didn’t last long, and soon his eyelids fluttered open. He felt bedsheets around him--the scratchy felt ones that they always gave you in hospitals. He realized his daughter would be visiting later, and it cheered him up to know he’d been able to hang on long enough to hear her voice again. There was one more thing he had to check, and he reached to the side of his bed, feeling past the segments on the railing. When he found it, he breathed a sigh of relief. His cane lay where it always was, leaning up against the right side of his bed.

“Who let the dogs out? Woof, woof, woof, woof, woof.” The words whispered through Oshima’s lips. “Can you stop it?” Kelly’s words not as quiet but still in a hushed tone. “Who let the dogs out? Woof, woof, woof, woof, woof.” Kelly just shook her head and watched as Oshima’s mouth curled up at both ends. She never was very fond of Oshima, but she promised James that she would try to be nicer. She didn’t have much choice since James was her best friend and Oshima was his most recent prey. Kelly wasn’t jealous of Oshima as much as she was protective of James. And Oshima was not the first target of James attention, but he had kept her around the longest. “The party was nice the party was - “ Oshima’s words were cut short by a loud booming sound that seemed like it was right beside the two of them. They both froze as they stared at each other. The dislike that Kelly had in her head was gone. All she could think about was how if she sat still enough, she might just turn invisible. The two of them sat motionless for what felt like a hour. While they sat there, Kelly thought about how all of this even happened. It was the day before Halloween when Kelly saw James and Ohsima walking down the hallway at school. She gave James a little smile and a wave as she walked pass the couple. Kelly knew to give James his space while he was with one of his targets. She walked a few steps before she felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned to see James smiling. “Hey, are you still gonna go with us to that party?” He always asked questions with such energy it was hard for most people to say no to him. Kelly knew him better than most. His charm didn’t have the same effect on her that it had on girls like Oshima. “Yeah, I guess,” Kelly said with a shrug. If for no other reason, Kelly had to be there to keep an eye on James. He could get a little carried away at parties. It was like that since they were eight. They would both go to a birthday party and James would find a way to break something. If it wasn’t another kid’s new toy, it was his own wrist or a window. One way or another, James seemed capable to find something that would take the attention away from the host and put the spotlight on himself. Most of the time, he didn’t even realize that he did anything until it was too late. More recently, he went to a party with a girl named Melody and left with a girl named Heather. The next day he met Oshima and they had been together for the past month. Kelly had a few boyfriends in her past. Most of them were James’s teammates. She would flirt enough and do just enough to get a ride somewhere or a quick meal. But there was only so many times that you can listen to a guy talk about himself or touch you with one of his six arms before it isn’t worth it anymore. She would ignore that jock and he would be feeling up some other poor girl the next weekend. There was one guy that Kelly would consider a boyfriend, but she would never tell him that. That guy was named Clarence. Clarence was not athletic, popular, or even very cute. But Clarence was putty for Kelly to mold as she saw fit. Not even James knew about Clarence. He was a complete nerd, minus the glasses. He would tell her how much he liked her, and she would make sure he knew that what they had was not like that. It was only for fun and practice. Kelly did like Clarence, but she would tell herself that she needed to keep it open so if another opportunity came along it wouldn’t get in the way. She had gone out with a couple other people while with Clarence, but they would eventually annoy her. When they did, she would go to Clarence to get out a little frustration and then continue with her day. Now here she was, stuck with Oshima in a impromptu stare down. A few seconds had gone by and although she was wanting to think about something happy or pleasant, all that was in her head was that song. “Who let the dogs out?” Kelly whispered the words as softly as she could, and it seemed to break the tension. Oshima cracked another little smile and blinked. Kelly thought to herself, “Ha! I won.” A second later they both looked up and heard little more than the typical sounds of the night. The night sky took Kelly back to the past few hours. It was Devil’s Night, October thirtieth, and there was a party at One of James’s friends. The name Chad, Brad, Brett, Chet, or some other douche name was hosting the party. And judging by the size of the house, he was probably Douche the Third or Douche Junior. Kelly walked up to the house and watched as every player of every sport was easily represented through the windows. She stood at the front door long enough to take in a deep breath, then she went inside. As Kelly walked through the house, she saw a couple guys that she went to first base with, three guys that made it to second, and the one guy who made it to third base. She kept walking through to the back yard and caught sight of James and Oshima. And standing right beside Oshima was Clarence. For a second, Kelly thought about turning around and started to before closing her eyes and heading back to the three most unlikely candidates. Once there, Kelly looked around nervously, pierced her lips, and gave nonverbal greetings, looking like a bobblehead on a bumpy road. “Soooo, how’s it going?” Kelly tried to look at all three of them while asking the question. “Hey, Kell, look who we ran into,” sarcasm was oozing out of James’s words. “I think Clarence here is in one of your classes.” “Oh yeah, I thought he looked familiar.” She tried not to look directly at Clarence, but when she did, a little smile crept onto her face. “How’s it going, Clarence?” Clarence gave a shrug and a crooked smile towards Kelly before turning away and looking into the darkness behind him. James was zoned out on the dance music that was playing through the entire house. Oshima, needing to be the center of attention, entered the conversation in her typical energetic way. “James, I forget something at my house, can you get me a ride? If not, it’s no big deal. I can just walk. It’s just through the cemetery. No big deal. “What?” James responded without looking at her. “I need to grab something from my house, can you at least walk with me?” “Kell, can you go with her? I’m waiting on something.” “I can wait her for your whatever,” Kelly responded with a quickness. “No, I don’t think that would be the best idea.” James started to shake his shoulders as the Baja Men were pumping. Come on James. I need you to go with me,” Oshima said. There was frustration in her voice. She turned and started to head towards the darkness. As she did, Kelly realized that Clarence had left. Clarence lived close to Oshima so Kelly decided to walk with her and take a little detour on the way back to check on Clarence. “Hey, Oshima. Wait up!” And Kelly jogged to catch up with Oshima. The two of them crossed a field that was before the cemetery. When they made it to the edge of the cemetery, Oshima stopped. “Maybe we should just go around,” Oshima said. A tinge of nervousness in her voice. She looked over at Kelly and Kelly glanced at her. If they went around the outside, there would be no way for Kelly to check on Clarence. “Nah, we should just go through,” Kelly had her brave voice on. “If you’re afraid, we could just run all the way across.” “I don’t know, Let’s just go around.” “We can run and I’ll hold your hand.” Kelly meant it as a joke. She never really wanted to make any connection to Oshima, but before Kelly could tell her it was a joke, Oshima grabbed her hand and began to pull her into the graveyard. Kelly wanted to shake her hand loose, but decided that it would be a few minutes of awkwardness and then she could check on Clarence. They bothtried not to step on any of the graces, but one would pull one way, then the other would tug the other way. They almost seemed to take turns stepping clear of the sacred ground as they ran. Then it happened, Kelly pulled one way and Oshima pulled the other way at the same time. Kelly’s foot hit soft ground and caused her to turn awkwardly, pulling Oshima even faster towards her. At the same time, they both began to fall, but instead of landing on someone’s final resting place, they fell in the future resting place of someone more recently departed. Oshima hit the ground hard, but Kelly was lucky and landed on something soft. She was fortunate enough to be the second one in the grave and fell directly on top of Oshima. And even luckier, Oshima was unconscious Kelly pushed herself off of Oshima and went to stand up. Her ankle did not cooperate, and it caused Kelly to fall back against the foot of the grave. Dirt sprinkled down on her head. She jumped and tried to grab hold of the edge of the opening, but the dirt slipped through her fingers. She landed on bother of her feet but the one still didn’t want to stand so she fell against the side wall this time. More dirt fell o her. She put her back against the wall and slid down ito a squat, placing both of her hands into her face. Kelly began to let out a few tears, some from frustration, some from pain. She did not know what she was doing. She was stuck in a hole in the ground with the one person that she never wanted to be alone with. It was another minute of solitude before Oshima came around. She pushed herself up from the ground and sat on the far side of the grave, brushing dirt off the side of her face. “What happened?” Oshima asked while shaking her head for some form of clarity. “I guess we shouldn’t have held hands,” Kelly said with a hint of anger in her voice. “or ran.” It was then that they heard it for the first time. A single pop of a sound. It wasn’t very loud, but it didn’t have to be. They both knew that they were the only people in the cemetery and the softest of sounds from anywhere would have caused the skin to crawl throughout their bodies. “Did you hear that?” Kelly asked. “I think so, but I thought it might have just been inside my head. I can’t get this out of my head.” Oshima said while shaking her head even more vigorously. Then they sat in silence for a few minutes before Oshima broke the silence with her own rendition of Who Let the Dogs Out. After the second loud boom and the Uncomfortable silence that followed, Oshima did the most curious of things. She crawled over the dirt, sat down beside Kelly, and placed one of her arms around Kelly’s shoulder. It was going to be okay. “Let’s try to get out of here.” Oshima had a kind voice that Kelly never noticed, or cared to notice, before. “You’re taller that me, so you should try.” “I did,” Kelly said in frustration. “The dirt was too soft. Plus, I hurt my ankle. I can’t climb out if I tried.” “Well, let me try.” And Oshima stood up and tried to jump, but the result was the same either way. Dirt falling down on them both. “Maybe we could work together,’ Kelly said before she could catch herself and stop. “You can climb up a little higher if you use me as a step. Then you might be able to get out.” Kelly pressed herself into the small side of the grave and Oshima fumbled her feet onto Kelly’s limbs and finally up to her shoulders. Oshima pressed against Kelly’s shoulders with force. It almost made Kelly fall, but Kelly caught herself in time to give Oshima a firm enough base to get her stomach on the edge of the grave. She started to flip her leg onto the grass when Kelly heard a loud high-pitched ting from above her. A second later, Oshima slammed hard against the ground. Kelly jumped up as fast as she could and looked at Oshima before turning to the area above her where Oshima was just a few seconds prior. Kelly saw a shadowy figure standing on the edge of the grave. In one had was a large metal pipe. His other hand tossed a pie tin into the grave that landed on Oshima's back. "Oh ladies," the man's voice was soft and cool. "Usually there is nothing that I like more than apple pie, but it's all gone now. I guess you'll have to do." The last thing that Kelly heard was the ping of the pipe and the thunder that accompanied the lightning that Kelly saw as the man brought the pipe down upon her skull.

Go ahead, ask anyone about the life and lies of Squidward and I assure you, there will be an overwhelming amount of negativity to suffer through. This hate against the classic villain from SpongeBob has been fostered over years of careful production, through hours of screenwriting and voice acting. Squidward is portrayed as the evil of the show and naturally, that means he is. The off-blue octopus did not have an easy life, of course. Living next to a neon yellow, overly enthusiastic, and possibly mentally ill sponge with his cognitively impaired best friend takes a lot of energy that the character just didn’t possess. As introverted of a character as he was, it also seems cruel to put him on the front lines of a restaurant, dealing with navigating the ins and outs of society. On the other hand, the sea creature wasn’t necessarily the friendliest in return, even when one factors in the inner workings of the story, seemingly all set against him by default. Having lively neighbours isn’t necessarily a justification to be stuck up or rude, as Squidward has been described. People have even gone so far as to describe him as a “terrible person” who “doesn’t deserve anyone’s sympathy,” credit to u/\[deleted\]. Is this judgement too harsh? Could it be that Squidward is a being merely longing for love, but having his heart broken time and time again? Only time can tell, and it surely did. As one may or may not think, depending on their dedication to SpongeBob or simply their intelligence quotient, after the era of SpongeBob ends none of Squidward’s personality will have mattered anymore. Not one thing, good or bad, could be remembered by him or his peers, unless of course you consider the producers of the show to be peers. On that day, the entire era, the childhood of many, the show will be ended. That’s right, the flow of creative work came to an end and media began a new period in time. But this leaves the mind scattering to find peace - what happened to Squidward? Now, of course, the characters of the show could not have died, it is simply not feasible. The death of something that never truly existed - is that really possible? Well, in a sense yes. But think not of it as a physical death. The characters simply ceased to exist, leaving behind everything they called home but at the same time one most wonder... are they not still there, stuck for eternity in the closing scene, down in Bikini Bottom? In the famous words of Billie Eyelash, when Squidward falls asleep where does he go? When you think about it closely enough, it all really makes sense. He’s in a constant state of being somewhere between the living and the dead, a sort of Limbo, if you will. He can’t feel, see, hear, smell, or taste anything, as all his spirit is tethered to are fading memories, as soon as those memories die out, whatever is left of him now will just be forgotten by the sands of time, a place where many a soul will always end up. The rest of Bikini Bottom has suffered the same exact fate. Empty streets with buzzing streetlights, vacant homes alive with mildew and molds, not a whisper to be heard, just the material plane left untouched for eons. Not a soul present, yet not a soul removed. This, to the purest and innocent of souls, could seem overwhelming. It’s not anything to fear though, this fact of life. That is, for most people. But then, of course, a select few, the Chosen Ones if you will, have the desire, the pulling force that guides them to look deeper within themselves and discover the dark truth. That maybe, just maybe, death really does exist for those in the Bikini Bottom. And that possibly, in some alternate universe not fully discovered but slightly unsheathed to those most worthy, the characters of the show lay in wait. Their bodies decomposing into smithereens just as the houses crumble and the stove corrodes. Of course, they can no longer feel it. You may think. They are, of course, gone, dead or not. But then you realize that in some glitch in the metaverse, they feel everything around them. They are simply unable to react. Squidward can still feel the pain of his entire life, stemming from the pure hatred stacked upon him from his first day of existence. You wonder if maybe, just maybe, Squidward is able to reflect, feel, but not react. And then you realize, as you, now embodying the being and whole of Squidward, drift off into what may seem to be a fever dream at first. But you know it is real. Of course you do. Enter Squidward, a man who had no desire in life other than to make others happy, to keep them well. Life did not harbour the same plan for him. Flipping burgers wasn’t where Squidward wanted to be. His one true desire in life, the only thing that could truly make him happy was... nothing. And it wasn’t a matter of being picky, no, it truly rested in one’s realization that the squid would never be remembered in a good light. The Creators, the worshipped ones, had decided that an enemy of the plotline was needed and that decision, in and of itself, created both a victim and a monster. Squidward. His generous, giving personality did not match the attributes assigned to him, in fact they went against the biological capabilities of a being’s brain. And so eventually Squidward snapped and became what he was portrayed as. At first it was difficult to conform, but soon it became a part of him. At first his true being started to become merely ‘watered down’ by the mask he was wearing, but soon this mask became a part of him, whether forced or by some sort of... intrinsic evil nature. Squidward became the person he swore never to be, and while most of his brain had become in line with what he was his morals, his ability to simply know what was right, had not changed in the slightest. And so he was not happy, knowing that he would be remembered as the squid with no heart but with no ability to change this fate. The moody, depressed squid. The picky squid. And he was. The ending of Bikini Bottom was a bittersweet moment in time for the middle-aged squid. As he continued to grow old, he had grown more into this bewitched personality and completely lost his true identity, but his moral standings for what was right had grown stronger by the minute. And so as Bikini Bottom faded to a grey and white memory, Squidward did as well. SpongeBob lost all life in his eyes, Patrick lost his smile, Mr. Krabs’ blissful nature disappeared. But Squidward, besides the change of color, had no change in the lack of life behind his eyes, or his always annoyed facial expression. As Squidward’s entire city crumbled around him and his ever-conflicting biological alterations came to a standstill, he did not care. Even in Squidward’s last moments of life, of being, of existence, no life in his eyes was detected. It had never been. As long as the Squid had existed, he had been seen as a terrible person, one with no capability to love, to feel. Little did they know that he was capable of such things, but that they had been ripped away by the capitalism of the media once again. Bikini Bottom would never be his home, not after what they had done. And as the city lay still, one by one, everyone forgot about the emotional turmoil “Squidward’s character” had caused them. But Squidward, his conscience and his being, will never forget. He will remember. You come to, with either a new realization or a deeper one. Squidward is in the multiverse, thinking and feeling, with conscience but somehow, lacking consciousness. But of course, in a world with so many possibilities is it not foolish to assume that this is the correct one? What secrets are revealed in another, undiscovered territory of the verses that we have yet to experience? Well, of course, it is just as foolish to attempt to dwell on this, and to figure out every possibility in a sea of them. But there are some things that simply need to be touched on, spiritually and physically. The slide guitar being one of them. And of course, you and Squidward, your souls now morphed into one in a way from your past experiences, feel yourself drift into what seems to be another experience. But this time, it is not out of body. You can feel yourself, your tentacles, your bald head. The clarinet you enjoy so dearly to play seems to harmonize with another instrument off in the distance. You guessed it, of course you did as a long-time member of Bikini Bottom - it’s the slide guitar. And unbeknownst to most, but to you and to Squidward; a sad slide guitar plays somewhere in the distance just out of earshot. A weeping soul, broadcasting it’s last hoorah on our soul wavelength; you then realize, it’s not sound your hearing, the guitar is communicating with you directly. It’s but a messenger for feelings previously unfelt, experiences most unknown, warnings and omens of the coming trials of tomorrow. We have yet to face them, but they will surely bring us to that same dingy lake one day. It reverberates through the trenches of the abyssal zone in the deep ocean, snippets of information being lost in the dense mass of water. The surrounding pressure feels, strange. Void of life, you may not realize it now, but this world you believe to view is devoid of any life, including you, a cob which has left behind it’s husk. A wandering spirit. These pitch black navy waters crushing you down but only in a silent and determined way. Millennium pass during your trek of these deep sea trenches. As you exit this mind-altering state of being, you do not feel fulfilled as with the last flash of vision. You are filled with envy and with dread - almost as if you are beginning to experience an existential crisis, if you will. But different than you have felt before. This leaves you feeling, feeling more than you believed to be humanly possible. You may not want to hear more of this dreadful, eye-opening material but curiosity and a passion to know what is beneath keep you from turning to the exit. And so you move forward through the dark halls, taking turns in directions never before travelled. You open doors that are pathways to memories, new experiences never showcased in the seemingly happy show. You are in the backrooms, of what you do not know. Each door you pass is a possibility, and each you do not open is one you will never gain knowledge from. You stop at the passageway featuring a cascading blackness, a level of unlight you did not know to be physically possible. And it isn’t. But you are no longer in the physical world, no. You have entered the limbo. You are the limbo. Opening the door provides a wave of dark, sinister feelings but with that you bear more knowledge. And the further you walk through this, the more you realize, and the more you fear. You come to a great fork in the road that is existence, you choose the one that calls to you most. And you are faced with yourself, and with the turmoil of life itself. He still lingers in the salty depths of the underwater world, deep below, farther down than any human was ever meant to survive. But we, we feel this thing that Squidward is experiencing, some lost in translation, but a burst of passion, if anything. This abyss leads places that intelligent life may never know about, these deep winding tunnels only mocking us, coaxing us deeper into the depths of the unknowns. There is no fear, no sadness, no happiness, nothing. We have only ever experienced, and only ever will, but only so much. Squidward knows of this as well, he refused it his entire waking life, even during sleep at times. A miserable life led to nothing other than a foggy cavern of mystery for our beloved Squidward. What an unfortunate series of events, from the canned milk to the clarinet, he was a mortal soul, calling out into the void, praying for an answer. None was given. Now he is left alone in this moisture to contemplate what he once was, a mind without a matter, a life, without death, and a death, containing nothing other than his true essence. Fear. Running out, back, up out of the dark state of mind you are in seems to take forever. And of course it does. The state of mind cannot be changed once it has been altered like this. You become one with this darkness and you are permitted to leave the abyss. But if you do not, you will stay in the depths and eventually become one with it, but not by choice. You accept the depression, the terrible realization that what once was will never be. And of course you are let out of the abyss, but there is nothing else to life other than the abyss now. Everything has lost its color; you are fading just as Squidward has. All that is left are the possibilities, and they envelop you. One stands out. In it, you are back to a realization that you have almost had before, but with a much deeper understanding of what is and what is not. In this alternative way of existence, you do not see Squidward but you know of his presence. Unbeknownst to the sea creature, he was born into a world where abstract constructs are all the eyes will ever see. This deep longing he dealt with his entire life, compacted only into a thought, occurring within a split second; ceasing continuation within an infinity of time, going by in a spark. This bursting decadence he once felt, then stifled by his own machinations. Soon not to be, and to be, he never was, he lives on in one way or another. His fleeting light, trapped in a limbo, a one dimensional plane, with four dimensional pieces. His whole life, though passed and experienced, he knows nothing about. Memories begin to fade, what once was his life, his love, his hatred, and his pride are all burning embers of an extinguished flame. Though he knows not now, he is subject to what many might consider a personal hell, what mortal minds see as bad, he merely just sees it. Without a body, he is left to only receive. No sight, no sound, no taste and no feeling. Merely his fading memories there to guide him, confused and dazed as a life form, he is now a supernova, a black hole, a universe. But once more, he knows not of what he witnesses. Staring into the deep blue and pitch navy-black trenches of the abyssal sea, he wanders, searching. Though a lost spirit, he is curious; a feeling once again felt after decades of empty existence. On, off, on, off, he lived only once in binary. Flowing now, he is able to see what he once missed out on, fearful of what lies past the horizon of this cruel pressure. Non-physical, he may be, but every immeasurable amount of pressure he still bears. Eons pass as he wanders the boundless stretches of lonesomeness, stuck in a timeless zone of constant fluctuation. The feeling has been present since the end, an instant realization that these waters, as large and infinite as they may be, they are lifeless. Devoid of any and all other conscious beings. Numbness may be the only description of this silent cavern of salt water. What lies above the surface he has never tried to explore, in dreams he may venture to god Neptune, nay here, he lay quiet. This deafening hollow landscape, fading exponentially, some may want to reflect. This soul we watch after does not. Distant steel guitar plays, just out of earshot, it weeps for us all, though of course, it’s only sitting in with his own reality. Playing notes never once before heard, it carries a message hidden between each memory, faded but available, it is found once more. His soulful coil ever changing in a non-Euclidean sort of way. His last moments of activity consist of more wandering, the same wandering he refused to give up in his physical being. Gone. Inactive. Wiped away, he ceases to exist, you may believe he was once here, but as a mortal being, we may never know the truth of our own inner workings, and those who have already left us in more ways than one. Sands of time have consumed his every part and trigger, everything that was once around him growing mildew and mold. Wallpaper slowly ripping itself off of his once habited abode. At the point in which you are, coming back from such darkness no longer seems to be a possibility. You long for the bliss that SpongeBob and his friends possess, and that is when you realize that Squidward is more a part of you than ever before. Squidward was a being entered into the Limbo before any other, existing in a world he was not meant to be in. Would you be happy in such a way of life? Of course not, and this has been proven to you today. It seems that the only thing you could really find comfort in at this point is the satisfaction of knowing that someone relates. Squidward. But of course, who is to say what is and what is not, as previously stated? How can we be sure that Squidward is what we think he is? The only real proof of Squidward's existence is from the creator's mind, so at the end of the day he could be completely different, and the animator could just have a bias against him. Is it possible that a very similar, yet different biologically of course, Squidward-like-human exists somewhere. Technically Squidward could be anyone, since no one has proof of how he looks or what he's really like, beyond the mind of the media. You could be Squidward, but you wouldn't know it since your brain doesn't have the capacity to understand that it is. No one is Squidward, he does not exist. But everyone embodies him, in every way, shape, and form. You exit the journey, no longer the same, no sense of joy within your soul. Every aspect of ignorance and bliss has been stripped from you, and you are left in the desolate and dingy lake. It is too far below the surface for anyone to see you and help you out, but too close for you to lose your last sense of hope and stop treading the waters. Oh what a realization it will be when it becomes known that you are tethered to the bottom of this bottomless abyss. There is nowhere to go but down, and there is no end to life or to death in this Limbo either. You hear the guitar somewhere beneath you, and you hear the sounds of boats atop the lake. Squidward is everywhere around you, but no where in sight and not reachable by any force known to man or to any living matter on the known universe. His weeping may be heard another day, from another sky than ours, he will call you, he will call I, limbo may be around the corner, but that will never stop you and I from living what he may have never been brave enough to live.

Paula Johnson gets up at 5 am, jumps in the shower, slips on her stockings, steps into her shoes, digs in the pocket of her raincoat, and walks out the door into the rain. She worked as a waitress at the English Muffin, a breakfast restaurant she has worked at since it first opened a hundred years ago. It's just another day for Paula Johnson, who is trapped in a time loop; time passes around her while she remains the same age and in the same job. Everyone around her goes about their daily lives, either leaving for better opportunities or dying. When the clock strikes, 5 am, everyone who had met Paula Johnson the day before forgets about her. Her first day at the English Muffin sparked the phenomenon. When she arrived for her second day, everyone acted as if they were meeting her for the first time. This has been her reality ever since. She's seen ownership change hands, the restaurant modernized, and longtime customers pass away and are replaced by new ones. This morning, Paula walks into the restaurant, checks in on the computer, and walks into the manager's office. "Oh, you're the new waitress, Paula, right? I'm Bob, the manager." "Do you want me to start at the counter?" "Sure, Angelica has been running around all morning; I'm sure she'd appreciate your help." Paula grabs an apron and approaches Angelica, who is struggling to make coffee. "I loathe this stupid machine," Angelica says as she aggressively presses switches with little effect. "There is a trick: you need to wait three seconds before flipping the brew switch. Bob is aware of it but has yet to have it serviced." Paula says as she flips the brew switch at the right moment, and the coffee starts to percolate. "Oh my God, I'm so glad you're here; that dumb thing has been driving me crazy all morning." "Don't worry, it'll be a good day; tipping is generally higher when it's raining. Is it okay if I take the counter?" "Of course, do you want me to go over the menu?" "I've worked in places like this before; let me know if there's anything else I can do." Paula walks up to Mr. Innes, who has been a regular at the English Muffin for the past eight years. "Has Angelica put your bran muffin and home fries in yet?" "How did you know that's what I always get?" "Word travels quickly, Mr. Innes; I'll have that up for you as soon as possible." "I can see you're going to be one to watch; your future looks promising!" Paula smiles as an underlying sadness begins to wash over her. She overcame it and walked to the end of the counter, where a couple was waiting for their order to be taken. It's not like Paula hasn't attempted to escape her daily life; she's tried to flee town, change careers, and even steal money, but her conscience wouldn't let her keep it. The bottom line is that the English Muffin is the only place where she can make money, support herself, and be somewhat remembered. She's tried almost everything to break the spell in the hundred years she's been living this day-to-day existence. She tried staying awake for 24 hours, then 48 hours; she paid a woman to stay awake with her until morning; at 5 am, she forgot who Paula was and freaked out. Finally, she placed a massive billboard of herself with the words, "I am Paula Johnson, remember me!" Every day the billboard was up, people acted as if it were the first day, and it had little to no effect on the spell. Paula was right about this rainy Wednesday morning; it was busy; she had already made her usual amount of tips by late morning. She took a break, drank another cup of coffee, and struggled to stay awake. Bob exited his office and motioned everyone to the kitchen just as she was ready to return to work. "I'm sorry for doing this now, but I wanted to inform everyone as soon as possible. I just got off the phone with the bank, and the English Muffin will be closing permanently." Everyone is stunned, but no one more so than Paula. She's almost catatonic. "It gets worse," Bob continues, "tomorrow is the last day we'll be open." "The restaurant will be closed after tomorrow!" Angelica said as she threw down a rag on a prep table in frustration. "Okay, everyone, I'm sorry I had to upset you with this, but I didn't want you to be surprised; let's have a good rest of today and tomorrow here at the English Muffin." "You're lucky this is your first day," Angelica said as she and Paula went back to the restaurant. "I've given three months of my life to this job, and now I have to start all over." The rest of Paula's shift is solemn, with a lot of thought on all the time she's spent here, but also worry about the future in the back of her mind. The restaurant is about to close when a man stumbles in, drenched. He walks up to the counter, where Paula greets him with a place setting and silverware. "Is it still raining out there?" "Don't worry; I think the majority of it is on me." As she held out the coffee carafe, Paula laughed. She poured him a cup after he nodded. Paula found the man easy to talk to, and even though the restaurant had closed a half-hour earlier, Paula told Angelica that she would lock up. The man asked Paula why she was sad. Maybe she was tired, maybe the news about the restaurant closing had weighed on her, but she chose to use this chance to express her emotions. "This restaurant I've worked at for a long time is closing tomorrow, and I'm not sure what I'll do after that." "You sound like I did a month ago; I had devoted my entire life to my family's business, and when it closed, I had no idea what I was going to do." "When did you decide to go on with your life?" "I stopped making excuses; eventually, you'll spend all of your time doing things in your comfort zone, but it's beyond your comfort zone where memorable things happen." "I desperately want to change, but I'm not sure I can." "Here's what I'll do; tomorrow morning, I'm getting on a train to start my new life; meet me at the station, and we'll figure it out together. The train leaves at 6 am." The man walked out the door, leaving a tip on the counter. Paula returns to her empty apartment, and the loneliness she has felt brings her to tears as she stares at the bare walls. She has spent the last hundred years living another day after another day and had nothing to show for it. Paula's alarm goes off at 5 am the next morning. She hops in the shower, slips into her stockings, steps into her shoes, and walks out the door. She knew it was a long shot, but she'd go to the train station in the hopes that he'd remember their conversation from yesterday. As she approached the platform, she noticed the man from the restaurant scrolling on his phone while waiting for the train. "Hi." The man was confused; he put his phone into his pocket and looked Paula in the eyes. "Paula! I'm so glad you could make it.

“Anna! Where’s my hat?” “Eric, where’s the cooler? The blue one with your name on it?” “TJ, in the car! Now!” So many people shouting, their voices filled with excitement as Eric, Anna, Zane, and I pile into Zane’s blue SUV. Anna takes the passenger seat, Zane is driving, and Eric and I are in the back. After graduating from high school, the four of us decided to finally take the road trip we’d been planning since 6th grade; from our boring town in Kansas to Florida. It was the third week of summer and we were finally ready. “How long is the trip again?” I asked as Eric, my boyfriend, pushed me into the car. “About 16 hours,” Eric replied as we buckled our seatbelts. “Well, I’m gonna fall asleep,” Anna giggled from the passenger seat in front of me. “Same,” Zane replied from the seat next to her, putting his hands on the steering wheel, and we all laughed. He turned the keys in the ignition and we were off. We quickly exited our small town and turned onto the highway. We played a few rounds of I Spy, sang along with the radio, and listened to an audiobook. After about 6 hours of driving, we pulled off the highway and into the motel we had booked the week before. We grabbed our overnight bags from the trunk and headed to our separate rooms. Eric and I collapsed on the bed, tired from a long day in the car. Suddenly, Eric’s phone started ringing. “Yeah?” Eric asked, the call on speaker. “Shouldn’t we get dinner?” Zane asked on the other end. “Probably,” I smiled, rolling off the bed. Eric groaned, rolling off the bed, and falling next to me. “But I don’t want to move,” Eric complained. “Too bad,” I giggled, pulling him up off the ground. Eric finally stood up and we strolled out to the car to go to dinner with Anna and Zane, me basically dragging Eric along, his arm around my shoulders. We waited for a couple of minutes but Anna and Zane didn’t come out of their room. Eric and I wandered over to their room and knocked on the door, but no answer came from inside. “Zane? Anna?” Eric yelled, knocking again. Suddenly, we heard a sound from behind the motel that sounded like that of a gunshot. “Anna! Zane!” I yell, starting to get worried. “Hang on, Zane gave me a spare key,” Eric exclaimed, shoving his hand into his jeans pocket, producing a motel key card. He quickly swiped it past the door handle and shoved the door open. Inside was Zane, lying on the bed, a red bruise blooming on his head as if someone had hit him over the head with something. Anna, however, was nowhere to be seen. Clenched in Zane’s hand though was Anna’s jean jacket, a dark liquid splattered on it. I crumpled to the ground as Eric raced over to Zane, shaking him. Zane sat up, looking around groggily, he looked down at the jacket, and his eyes widened. “Where’s Anna?” Zane asked, “Where did he take her?” “He? Who’s he? Who did you see Zane?” “A-a man, a tall man in all black grabbed her and took her out the back door. Did he bring her back? Where’s Anna?” Zane questioned, standing up, leaning on Eric. “TJ?” Eric asked, helping Zane onto the bed, “Call 911.” I pulled my phone out as quickly as possible, dialing the number as quickly as possible. The ambulance and police arrived and Eric and I were driven to the police station. We tried to go with Zane to the hospital, but the police wanted to talk to us. I held tight to Eric’s hand until we arrived at the station. The police took us each to a different room. The one I was in had a guard standing by the door, a large mirror on one wall which I assumed was one way, a large metal table, and two wooden chairs, me in one. A tall, balding man in a police uniform marched in, sitting down in the chair opposite me. “TJ, right?” He asked. I nodded, staring down at the table, my mind replaying the past few hours in my head. “I’m Jones, Jones Michealson. I need you to help me with a few things, okay?” I nodded again. “Where did you last see your friend Anna?” “Right before we went into our rooms, probably around 7,” I replied quietly. “Who had access to a key?” “Eric and I had a spare key, and I’m assuming the motel employees but that’s all I know.” The guard by the door handed Jones a couple of photos, and Jones spread them out on the table. There was an older man with white hair and wrinkles, two middle-aged women, one with short red hair, the other with long black hair, and two teenage boys. “Do you know any of the employees?” “Yeah actually,” I replied, sitting up straighter, “That man substituted at our school one time for Anna and I’s science class. Anna kept disrupting the class and he eventually gave her a detention. Those two women also substituted one time. They also gave her detention for throwing markers at the board. Those two boys both dated her for a month or so, but they were both ugly breakups.” “So what you’re telling me is they all had a motive.” “I mean, none of them were that mad at her-,” “But they all didn’t like her,” Jones interrupted. “Yeah,” I replied, “I guess, yeah, but Zane said he saw a man.” “Your friend was scared, he could have mistaken who the person was,” Jones suggested. Suddenly, the mirror on the wall shattered. A bullet tore through the shimmering glass in slow motion flying just above my head as I dove under the table. The glass rained down around me, the metal wall dented and the bullet clattered to the ground. I huddled under the table as a tall man in a black hoodie climbed through the gap where the mirror had been. He had long, wavy black hair, a scar on his chin, and deep blacked-out eyes.

After a long day at work Patrick finally sat down in front of his computer. He’s been waiting for this moment since he woke up from bed. Finally he will be able to fulfill his daily wish. Everyday, an endless cycle of going to work, eating lunch, going home, sometimes eating dinner, and sitting in front of his computer. Except on Sundays. Sundays are Elly Days. He would pick up Elly and spending the whole day with her. Watching movies at the cinemas, going to the aquarium world, picnicking at the park, you name it. With a press of a button, his computer whirred with computer sounds. He could hear the cooling fan running, he could hear the beeping sounds it makes every time it turns on. His monitor lit up. He entered his password and logged into his instant messaging software. His face lit up with excitement when he saw “David” online. David is his online friend. Although they have never met in real life they traded a few pictures with each other. They met in an MMORPG. A game which players around the world play in several servers under the same name, leveling up their characters, joining guilds, and play as wizards, warriors, knights, and many more. Patrick: busy? David: nahh.. Patrick: Can I call you? David: Sure! He clicked the telephone icon under David’s name. “Testing,” Patrick said. “I can hear you,” David replied. “Nice. what are you doing?” he asked. “I’m grinding at treant right now, loot drop raised to fifty percent till the end of the week,” David answered. His microphone detected his keyboard mashing and mouse clicking. “I could use some help tho.” “Alright, hold on. I’m logging in.” They spent a couple of round grinding at the spot. Patrick is a Wizard, his main role is to deal a high amount of damage to the enemies while being squishy. So he has to rely on someone else tanking the damage. That role is filled by David who is a knight. A knight can switch his roles between offence and defence. While in offence mode, he would wield a two handed long sword. Shield and a short sword while in defence. “Would be nice to have a healer instead of relying on these potions, haha! I’m running low on them,” David laughed. “I can heal you, but it won’t be as good as a bard or a witch’s heal,” Patrick replied. “Your heal is enough.” Patrick alternated between damaging the treants and keeping his tank alive by healing him. “Hey,” David said. “What?” “You’re gonna be there right?” David asked. “Be where?” “This Sunday, at two o’clock, World Boss. Everyone and their grandmother is gonna be there,” he said. “And there’s a chance of getting the dragon’s heart as a reward. They’re worth millions of gold in the central market. Players would buy them to get the slight extra damage in Guild Wars.” “No, I can’t Sundays are for-” “Elly. I know.” David replied with a hint of sorrow in his voice. “Come on, I promised my mother I’d take her out every week,” Patrick tried to console. “Everytime I spent time with her, I’d imagine what if she...” “Didn’t have down syndrome?” David finished. “Yeah. She could have a happy life,” Patrick replied. “You wouldn’t know that,” David said. “What?” Patrick asked. “What if she’s happier now the way she is than being normal like the rest of us,” David replied. “Because she got to go out with her little brother every week! I promise you that being with you is the highlight of her week.” “I never thought of it that way,” Patrick was in awe. “Yeah dude, if my brother comes every-” Patrick heard a door slammed in his headphones followed by a crying child screaming. “Oops, hold on dude,” David said. A muffled woman’s voice can be heard saying “All you do is spend time with your goddamned computer!” David forgot to mute his microphone. “Lisa. Honey. I’m begging you for two hours of alone time, just for me. The rest I spend it with you, the child, and work. This two hours is all I have, Lisa.” David begged. “Then what about crying Jimmy right here?!” she shouted. “I put him to sleep before I- It was you! You chatted loudly with your friends on the phone, laughing like there’s no tomorrow, waking him up!” David snapped. “Even this dude on the other line could f\*cking hear you!” “Ahem,” Patrick coughed. David noticed that he didn’t mute his microphone. “Sorry you had to hear that, Patrick,” he ended the call. Patrick sat silent for a moment. “I wish you were with me here instead of her. You make me happy,” Patrick said to his microphone. No one else on the other line.

Tick Tock. Six In the morning, but exhausted. Waking up, go to work? About to call in sick. I'm a manager, so I gotta go. An office job, so most likely bored. A 40 min. Route away. Not much of a drive but enough to consume the day. Open up, and switch the lights on. Clock in and make sure nothing is wrong. Make a copy so the printer's working. Of course, make some coffee to start the morning. New day same events. Same chatter, same stories, nothing different. Looking for an assistant because help is needed. Work picks up, and my energy depletes. Found several, time for an interview. Roughly 20 resumes gotta pick and choose. Jessica, Britney, Cassie, and Stasey. Seen enough faces to just want to leave. All for the same position. I don't want to say no, but they have to reason. I came across Lucy but, of course, had to interview. Ask my questions, and the response will conclude. She had about five years of experience. She knows her way around printers a fax and computers. Can organize and keep a heavy list. Perfect to remember, she makes notes with a pad that has a pen attached to it. Takes the calls and makes sure I remember the meetings. Can summerize everything and only what's needed. Spoke with respect and kept eye contact . Dressed well respectfully. She had a smile that would make you grin back. Sounds too good to be true. Odd to say but people can always stretch the truth. Others had moments that didn't end well. Some no experiance. Some dressed like it's a motel. Had one I won't embarrass her. Name I won't mentioned but wore a ripped t-shirt. Definitely drunk at least she apologized. She said it's not usual for her but can focus. Right! Tick Tock. 6am once again. The day starts over as if it's my friend. Open up, lights on, coffee again. Lucy caught my eye she seemed promising. I can't rush too quick more resumes. Give everyone a chance as one says. Patricia, Tanisha, Helen. I spoke to more people than some do on Television. Then there was Tiffany, Veronica, and Brittany. Can't remember them all but still respect the effort completely. Time moved on as it does. Denied most of them. Probably holding a grudge. Went on to Lucy and didn't hesitate. Strange but 100% certain as if we're related. I called to give the news. It was a Thursday and arranged for Monday's schedule. Then I went on day after day. Bored out of my mind in the most irked way. The job pays and I do it well. Can't blame the system but mentally it's hell. Always in your head sometimes. Focused on work but still out of your mind. Friday came, a mood switch. Finally some action before I leave it. The third Friday of the month so donut day. I reward my people enough to obey. Respect because the job is tough. Accounting so the pressure struck. Lunch comes around it's the three of us. One talked about his dog and the other talks about her crush. Enthusiasm doesn't match. Vibe with one while the other memorialize that. Saturday I chilled at home sleeping. Went shopping towards the afternoon but nothing obliterating. Excitement was craving but behind shame. Sunday I was alone then later I came. Monday comes once again. As it always does upset the confidence. Recovery mode from the weekend. Zone into work before the soul's condemned. Lucy's first day her presence makes it official. Beautiful honestly but the viewing was minimal. Showed her the ropes and how to climb. The ins and outs before the comply. Picked up quick and she did her thing. Got a weight lifted off me like armor on kings. The day drags as normal. Lucy up to speed and quite professional. "Meeting with Robin at 10:30 and lunch with Steven. 2pm you have a customer should be smoother than a jam session." "Thanks, Lucy I appreciate it. The energy and motivation is there I can feel it. Nice to get the ball rolling." Work gets done while the minds provoking. Wednesday jumps in it's place. Out of bed, brush teeth, out the door, and tie the shoe lace. Open up, flick the lights the same old routine. Printer's good, computers on. The business is operating. Everyone comes in, and life moves forward. Scan paperwork then onto a folder. Lucy comes in and starts right away. Made a coffee for me as if my vibe was gray. Presence that I appreciated. Enjoyed her smile the stress was detained. Months fall into my lap. Lucy on point awareness sharp like a wild cat. Knew the gap between throwing jokes and being serious. Single passing through but can definitely subsist. Days move as normal but the vibe has changed. Low key happy to work Lucy deserves the blame. Talked about it all from time to time. Life is hard verbalizing the pain can delay the confine. Spoke about her time before. Worked as a flight attendant 10 Years back the mind was restored. Good for her went out to explore. Of course landed an experience that put a foot on the door. Needed a change she said. The money isn't the goal spoke like a legend. Enjoyed the job as I hope to. Doubt anyone would deny information reduced. We went out several times but not as a date. Didn't want to come up from such a strong claim. Just as friends and it was great. Laughed, drank, walked just magnificent. Tick tock. 6 am another day. Shower breakfast then work it's Tuesday. Open up, lights and printer's on. Everything seems right. I gave a little yawn. Everyone comes in Lucy as well. My coffee was made I enjoyed her smell. A perfume that hugs the nose. My body is there but mentally composed. Years passes our bond just grew. Work went well a ton of papers were used. Never got in the way as some might think. Kept it professional give it a wink. I began to feel and I couldn't stop it. Let it warm me up love was convinced. She had a vacation planned for some time. Christmas in Switzerland I was surprised. Had someone there to show around. Will be gone for two weeks. No Lucy found. Plane will leave at midnight. I Will pass before she leaves town tonight. It might be my chance to confess. God know she might even find love there and have mine vanish. Friends become close enough with time spent. Keeps you from moving like a foot in cement. Hours pass work picks up. Had to finish manager stuff. Sucks but it is what it is. Worked longer than usual physically drained. I ador Lucy and fought the feeling. Smacked my heart with diligence ignoring the meaning. Can't love at work just doesn't coexist. Maybe I speak and she might start to resist. I felt it though, the fondness. I don't wanna ruin what's already great and have her to drift. Plane leaves at midnight and I contemplate. Fell for her but don't want desire to fade. What choice do I have? Just throw myself like a basketball on Cupid's behalf. 11pm and a 30min. drive. Damn can't be late gotta let my emotions fly. On my way still following the laws. Strit town so I can't get caught. Thinking on what to say. Brain in a fog my thoughts are moving like a parade. Made it to the airport and didn't even park correctly. Got out anxious looking for my allurement. Saw her at a distance resting with her legs crossed. Eyes at a book captivated. Approached and stuttered no lie. Couldn't manage but willing to try. "What are doing? I'm leaving soon. Almost midnight my flight can't be moved." "Before you go I had to be honest completely. I understand our work and understand the boundaries." Preserving the moment. "We have known each other for some time now. Been happier and fulfilled every time we were out. The work suffocates but not with you. Hard to place in words but enough to deduce. Your green eyes and coffee colored hair. The ambience was wild and peace was declared. Your presence over the years grows onto me." "Wow, I didn't expect this before I'd leave." "Sorry, but I had to, emotions distinguished. I couldn't risk you being oblivious to it. My feelings are in..." "Well to be honest before you continue. I will put out there I have feelings for you too. The air is just perfect between us two. would love you to come with but didn't want to destroy our relationship too. Everything was going so well.." "Yeah I felt that. Definitely understand and afraid of getting cut back." "NO I wouln't do that to you. I would be honest but nothing to tear down a heart that's just rude." A hug was produced. Feelings were poured like some apple juice. Throw myself and sit there in scrutiny. Make sure the words bleed well since there was so much to loose within me. She went on her way. I shuffled to work. Stay in contact like an atterny or lawyer. Missed her as I would. Time moved twice as slow like it wants to reassure. She came back and love sparked. Not give the news at work or it'll throw things off. Happier than a winning ticket. Got me moving back and forth like a game of cricket. Lucy my love strange how we collide. Other than the help the rest was a surprise. Up for anything other than goodbye. Kept a great vibe I can't emphasize. The rest is for you to conclude. My life went well enough of the mental abuse. Still stressful at times but turned down a notch or two. Let's see how it goes December's our yearly review.

“I quit!” he said. It was so sudden and so unexpected that she didn’t know what to say. She just stared at him, mouth open so wide the wind almost blew one of her blonde pigtails in. “What- what do you mean ‘you quit’,” she said, finally finding her voice. “You can’t quit. We’re a team. We’re Maggie and Jake. Peter and Jane. Luke and bloody Leia!” He snorted and shook his head. “Not anymore. You can take on the Death Star. I can’t take it anymore. It’s too much. All that singing. All the walking. The climbing. The falling. The broken bones. No. Nonononono! I’ve had enough.” He had moments like this. At first it was funny and infrequent, but now it was happening more and more. He always talked about other things, but this was the first time he’d ever said he was quitting. She grabbed his hand, trying to soothe it. To soothe him. She knew he had a temper. They always had. Being brother and sister, basically twins, she knew him better than anyone. Better than he himself sometimes. He wasn’t going to quit. He couldn’t. She had to get him back, to calm him down. She could do it, she just had to be reasonable. “Come on,” she said softly. “We’re here. We came all this way so why not finish it? Remember the times we did it before? How much fun we had?” “I’m not a little kid anymore,” he said, pulling his hand free. “I’m tired of it. Every single day we do this and every single time it’s the same result. What did Einstein say? ‘Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results’. Well we’ve been doing this every day for god-knows how long and the same shit happens every single time! “The real question is, how aren’t you sick of it?” She shrugged. She had to admit there were times it got tiresome, but she was a simple girl with simple needs and this was how they earned their crust. How they got their water so-to-speak. “Look, I get it. It sucks. But we have to do it, you know?” “Why do we have to do it?” he whined. She hated when he whined. He was the older brother, the next in line to look after everyone if Dad carked it. But he could really be a petulant child sometimes. “Because it’s just the way it is. It’s how we survive.” “Every bloody time we do it we almost don’t survive.” She shrugged, “It’s just the way it is.” “Why is it?” he said. He indicated around us. It was a beautiful, sunny day. The sun warmed our skin, the grass was green and full of flowers. Birds sang in the trees and bees buzzed happily. In the distance were snow-capped mountains, and dark green forests, while near us was our tiny village where kids laughed and played. “Look around us. Look at what exists at our doorstep-” Here we go , she thought. This again . “-mountains and forests,” he continued. “Don’t you ever wonder what dwells within? Fairies? Monsters? Our first great love? Our genesis or our demise? There are so many possibilities out there for us. But do you ever wonder? No. You’re content living this sheltered little life. Doing the same damn thing every day. How aren’t you bored?” She sighed, “Look. I get it. There is a lot of promise out there. But if you actually look around us, you will see what we do is important. It ensures our survival. Sure, you like the romantic notion of wandering into the unknown with your sword and shield and saving the beautiful princess from the evil wizard. Or soaring high in the sky on the backs of dragons. Sure, you think you can handle the danger and the death. But here’s a little bit of reality for you, dear brother of mine. You can’t even handle this one little job without complaining about it like a spoiled little brat! You take a little tumble and suddenly the whole world is ending.” She was angry now, her words bit at him like a snake in the grass and she knew it but she didn’t care. “It’s time you put on your big boy pants and understand this is the way of the world we live in. This is what we do. We’re not like the others. You’re not a prince. I’m not a fairy queen. We don’t blow down houses or climb beanstalks. We are simply a brother and sister trying to help our village survive. “I-” he began but she cut him off. “-You know what. I’ve had enough of it. Do it.” “What?” he said, visibility confused. “Go. Quit. Go run off and play swords with dragons. Go home, go to your room and get your tiny wooden sword and your shield and go.” She held her arms out to the bright, sunny world before them. “There you are,” she said. “The world awaits its newest hero with open arms!” Her brother's mouth gaped like a fish out of water before his eyes hardened and she knew the insults were coming. He was a wimp but he loved to double down and he loved to insult people because he was never ever wrong. “You’re an ass, you know that?” “Ahuh.” “A real cow.” “Moo.” “I should leave.” “Yep. You should.” “I can do it.” She gave an appropriately sarcastic sound of agreement. “Just you watch.” “I will.” “I’ll come back a hero.” “I’ll wait here every night hoping to see my triumphant brother return as the new king of whatever fairy tale he dreamed up with the sexy, virgin, and always faithful, queen by his side.” They continued trading barbs until the sun was high in the sky and sweat was beading on their forehead. It was always like this and she always just waited until he lost steam. “I... I- I- shut up, ok?” She sighed, he’d finally finished his tantrum. Picking up the bucket she held it out to him. “Ready to go?” “I’m not doing it. I’m serious. I’ve had enough.” “This is our story.” “I know, but I’m over it. I’m over the kids singing it. I’m over the falls. I’m over the injuries.” She wanted to say something but this felt different. Usually his anger dissipated by now and he dutifully did what was sung. But now, there was something else in his voice. Was it sorrow? Was it tiredness? He glanced at the mountains and the forests. Maybe this time he would actually do it. It was going to happen one day. Deep down she knew it would and that thought scared her more than anything. Maybe today was the day. Despite how much of a baby he was, she needed him. There was no other way this could work and she sure as hell wasn’t taking the lead. She wasn’t breaking her crown. It looked like it hurt! All around them she heard singing and knew it was almost their time to start. “Come on,” she tried, holding out the bucket. “Let’s go. We can talk later.” Jack took the bucket and tossed it away, “Forget it, Jill. There is no way I’m going back up that hill to fetch a pail of fucking water.”

NOW The elevator doors part, propelling Benjamin and Alice into the hallway, both loaded down with grocery bags. They each lean to one side under the weight. "You didn't forget the rice, did you?" Alice asks. Ben just grunts and points with his chin at one bag in particular. The one holding the rice. Alice beams, her grin a spontaneous burst of sunshine, and they exchange a glance of understanding, acknowledging neighbours with casual head bobs as they pass. Living in these flats, running into people is as common as daylight. The homes are neatly in a row, each one connected to the next by the shared balcony. As they walk to their door, the vibe of their small community is friendly, warm. But today isn't just another Saturday. There's a tension in the air, a sense of something waiting for them, right behind their door. As they reach it, Ben sets his bags down. The one with the rice slips out of his hand as he fumbles for the key in his pocket. It's all so normal. A weekend shopping trip, the same as so many others. At least, that's what they believe. As Benjamin's hand closes around the key, Alice's voice shatters the peace. "Evan!" Benjamin spins around to face his wife, her worry mirrored in his eyes. "What is it?" Alice's lips move, but no words come out. Fear and confusion play across her face. She points, her hand shaking, at the door opposite theirs. His eyes move along the invisible line her finger draws. And the moment his sight aligns with the object of her indication, a bone-chilling revelation shakes him to his core. Little Evan, their six-year-old neighbour, is sitting on the patch of floor where the shoe rack usually sits. His cherubic cheeks, delicate arms, and pristine white singlet are besmirched with a crimson hue. Even from their vantage point, the unmistakable scent of iron wafts through the air, its metallic presence a harbinger of the unspeakable--a child drenched in blood. TWO HOURS AGO Thank heavens they had arrived at CKS Supermarket while the morning was still young, allowing them to secure a prime parking spot with relative ease. The vast expanse of the supermarket echoed their good fortune, as the early hour had kept the number of shoppers to a minimum. With a swift motion, Benjamin snatched a shopping trolley while Alice, clutching her phone, took the lead, consulting the meticulously compiled list of necessary purchases she had crafted earlier. Together, they meandered through the aisles, diligently collecting each item on their agenda. Feeling no need to rush, they opted for a leisurely pace, relishing the unhurried nature of their quest. "Let's make our way to the rice section," Alice suggested. "Alright," Benjamin replied, dutifully steering the trolley as Alice forged ahead. In the midst of their stride, their heads turned in unison towards the sound of a woman's voice emanating from close proximity. "Hello, Alice," the voice called out, revealing itself to be none other than Ain, a familiar face from their neighbourhood. "Ain!" Alice exclaimed. "You're here too?" "Yes!" Ain responded, moving in closer, her face alive with an unstoppable desire for juicy tidbits. Recognizing Ain's familiar gaze, Alice wasted no time. She gestured discreetly to Benjamin, silently requesting a moment of solitude, before joining Ain's side. Now face to face, Ain wasted no time diving into the heart of the matter. "So, spill the beans, Alice. What's the deal with Clara and Fabian? I saw your message in our WhatsApp group this morning, but I was too swamped to reply." "Well, they're at it again, just like always." Ain clicked her tongue. "I wish there was more we could do to help them. Have you ever tried prying into their affairs?" "No way, Ain. I prefer not to meddle in other people's business." "You're right," Ain concurred, her tone filled with empathy. "Word has it that Fabian is quite the jealous type. Forever suspicious of Clara. Poor, poor Clara." "Indeed! And let's not forget about Evan. He's only five, yet he's subjected to his parents' ceaseless quarrels." Ain tsked once more, shaking her head in dismay. "I hope that little boy is coping well at preschool." "Yes, absolutely," Alice agreed. "I wish--" "Darling, which one?" Benjamin interjected, his impatience palpable as he pointed towards a tower of rice bags nearby. "Ah, excuse me, Ain," Alice apologised, momentarily breaking away from their conversation. "No worries," Ain replied graciously, understanding the demands of their shopping expedition. Alice swiftly rejoined her husband, and together they resumed their individual quests through the supermarket aisles, leaving behind the enigmatic troubles of Clara and Fabian, at least for the moment. THREE HOURS AGO The oppressive heat and humidity had persisted for weeks, and today was no exception. The scorching sun beat down mercilessly, reducing a mere stroll from their residence to the car into a sweat-drenched endeavour for Alice and Benjamin. Yet, amidst the stifling conditions, nature revealed its own compensations. Tecoma trees stood proudly along the periphery of the flat complex, their branches adorned with what seemed like an endless array of blossoms. Each tree boasted flowers of the same species, yet their hues varied from vibrant yellow to delicate pink, from pure white to regal purple. The sight was nothing short of spectacular, a testament to the resilience of life in the face of blistering temperatures. Alice and Benjamin found solace in the enchanting spectacle as they made their way towards their vehicle. For a fleeting moment, the oppressive heat yielded to the captivating beauty of the trees. As they neared their car, they chanced upon the Siew couple, their heads tilted back, captivated by the same view. Alice noticed that their three children frolicked beneath one of the tecoma trees, joyfully collecting fallen flowers and casting them skyward, revelling in a playful shower of petals. "Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Siew!" Alice greeted with warmth. "Hello! Heading out?" Mrs. Siew inquired. "Yes, just off to purchase some groceries." Mrs. Siew nodded her head in response, but then her eyes transformed into slits and her entire demeanour switched into a gossip-ready mode. She leaned forward, asking, "So, your home is right across from Clara's, correct?" "Yes, that's correct." "Are you in a hurry? Let's chat for a while." "Absolutely." Mr. Siew and Benjamin exchanged knowing glances, fully aware of their wives' predilection for indulging in a bit of gossip whenever their paths crossed. With a shared understanding, they meandered toward the nearest bench, affording their wives the privacy to engage in their customary tête-à-tête. "They're at it again, aren't they?" Mrs. Siew began. "Oh my goodness, yes. I wonder when they'll ever cease." "Did you manage to catch any of the commotion?" "I couldn't make out the words, but there was shouting and banging of things." "I'm curious about the source of their troubles. I've been told Fabian is quite the possessive type, really territorial." "Exactly. After all--" Alice was about to elaborate further when Benjamin cleared his throat, emitting a deliberate sound to signal that it was time to depart. "I suppose I should--" "Of course," Mrs. Siew interjected, offering a warm smile. "Carry on, then." SIX HOURS AGO When Alice woke, the other side of the bed was bare. Ben had no doubt gone out for his usual run. It was Saturday and she could afford a few extra minutes tucked away in the cocoon of her cosy sheets. Peace reigned in these quiet morning moments, all hers to enjoy. She found her phone and began her routine - first Facebook, then Instagram. A steady stream of images and words to keep her entertained, to share a smile, a thumbs up, a word of encouragement. It was an easy thing, to show kindness to others. Stretching out her legs, she opened WhatsApp. Thirty-five unread messages waited for her. One by one, she gave them her attention, sending off replies where needed. Her peace was shattered when the noises started. A loud clank, like a pot being dropped, then the all-too-familiar sound of a man's voice raised in anger. The thin walls of her apartment left nothing to the imagination. The woman's voice soon joined in, a clear sign that Clara and Fabian were at it again. Alice wondered, not for the first time, if they could ever find a peaceful moment together. Alice wasn't troubled by it, not really. It was just part of life in the building. A common topic of conversation among the women in their Block F Sisterhood WhatsApp group. She shared the latest update with them: "OMG, those two just woke up the entire block." The replies were quick and full of laughter. Alice wished she could stay and chat, but the clock was nearing 8:00 am. Ben would be back soon, and she wanted to have breakfast ready for him. Wrapping herself in a towel, she made her way to the bathroom. The sounds of Clara and Fabian arguing followed her, louder than ever. She tried to make out what they were arguing about, but it was useless. Instead, she chose to drown them out with a playlist from Spotify, focusing on brushing her teeth and washing her face. Her next stop was the kitchen, where she found the cupboards were almost empty. They were low on just about everything. A trip to the grocery store was inevitable, but that was a problem for later. For now, she had breakfast to make and a day to start. And despite the drama from the apartment next door, it was a good morning. Alice was determined to keep it that way. EIGHT HOURS AGO The world was quiet, still mostly asleep under a thin blanket of predawn light. The moon clung to the sky, its glow washing the land in soft lavender tones. The only sounds were the early birds and far-off roosters breaking through the silence. One could be excused for wanting to stay curled up in bed, to let the morning laziness take over. But for Benjamin, that wasn't an option. He had made a pact with his crew, his running mates, his brothers in the Gallop Gang . They'd come together the year before, brought together by their shared passion for running and the shared address in Ken Hwa Flat Complex. Stepping towards the roadside, where a stretch of pavement awaited, Benjamin observed the presence of Siew, Baharuddin, and Rudy, already engaged in their pre-run stretches. "Hey, Ben!" Rudy called out. "Hey, sorry I'm not late, am I?" "No, we're just warming up," Siew assured him. The quartet completed their stretches, preparing their bodies for the impending exertion. And then, like a pack of untamed beasts, they embarked on their run, each step pounding the pavement, their breath intermingling with the rhythm of their own hearts. Lost in the harmonious solitude of their companionship, they left the world behind. After an hour of hard work, the four men took a breather, huddling around a hefty, mushroom-inspired cement patio table. With eager gulps, they drained their water bottles and wiped the sweat from their faces. "So, Ben," Baharuddin began. "How's your neighbour?" "Which one?" Benjamin responded. "Oh, you know," Baharuddin gestured, his fingers playing out the movements of two endlessly talking mouths in midair. "The ongoing saga." "Still at each other's throats, as usual." Siew cleared his throat, leaning in. "Clara bears some responsibility, in my opinion. She can be quite cynical, don't you think?" "Yeah," Rudy chimed in. "I don't envy Fabian. It's a challenging prospect, handling a wife like that." Benjamin withheld his comment, contemplating the predicament. Then, a realisation struck him, reminded of Rudy's brother who served as a police officer. “Hey, Rudy. Couldn’t we report this to the authorities?” Rudy hesitated, his brow furrowing. "Unfortunately, I've inquired about this before. In most jurisdictions, verbal abuse doesn't constitute a crime. Unless there's physical violence or an imminent threat, the police won't intervene in a marital dispute. Verbal spats, regrettably, fall outside their purview." The quartet exchanged despondent glances, a shared realisation descending upon them. "Well, for now, all we can do is wait and see," Benjamin offered. Baharuddin nodded. "Yes, let's hope it doesn't escalate before we can take any action." "Why don't you all back off and worry about your own damn lives!" A sudden voice pierced the atmosphere, jolting the four men. Their heads swivelled, gazes settling upon the imposing figure of Fabian, towering before them--tall, robust, and muscular. He stared them down, an intensity emanating from his eyes, challenging them to make a move. Caught off guard, the four men dispersed, retreating to the comfort of their individual abodes, each bearing the weight of Fabian's silent provocation. NOW Five cops have huffed and puffed their way into the Fabian house. It has taken a fair bit of boot power and the handy assistance of a Halligan bar to bust the stubborn door. They were quick on the draw, spurred on by a nerve-jangling call from Benjamin about little Evan, all covered in blood, and the door that just wouldn't open. Benjamin, Alice, and a handful of locals watch, wide-eyed and silent, as the cops come out guiding Clara and Fabian, their hands shackled. The blood smeared on them paints a grim picture that has the onlookers rooted to the spot. Peering past the warning tape and barred door, they see a dark red stain seeping into the floor. Lying next to it, a gaunt woman's body is spread out like a gruesome still-life. Three of the cops click away, capturing the horrific scene for their records, getting ready to bag the body. Alice and Benjamin exchange glances, their brows knitting with confusion. They've spent long evenings talking with their neighbours in the Ken Hwa Flat building, thinking they've unravelled every mystery about Clara and Fabian. But they're wrong. They never knew about Evan's lifelong silence. They remain clueless about who's dead, what really happened, and why it all took place. But that's not their concern now. Their main worry is comforting Evan, whose sobs have hardly stopped since they found him curled up on the floor. Soon, a kind-hearted cop waves them over to the sobbing boy. "Got any idea what happened?" the cop asks, gentle and understanding. "Officer," Benjamin replies, his voice heavy with worry, "this little fella can't speak." "Know anyone who could connect with him?" the cop asks. Benjamin and Alice stop to think, then Alice's face lights up. She nods, saying, "I think I know just the person." *** After around thirty minutes pass, the Siew family emerges from the elevator with a sense of urgency. Alice's gaze is fixed on Zi Hao, the eldest child, who tightly holds a notebook and pencil. Alice can't quite grasp the purpose of these objects, but her instincts tell her they hold the key to effectively communicating with Evan in the near future. Without wasting any time, a police officer engages Zi Hao in a conversation, their voices muffled by the distance between them and Alice. Zi Hao, always obedient, nods in compliance, showing his willingness to follow the officer's instructions. Soon after, the police officer approaches Alice, who cradles the blood-stained Evan in her arms, and says, "Ma'am, it's time." Alice gently taps Evan's shoulder, indicating the officer and Zi Hao. However, Evan seems to resist, as if desperately clinging to Alice for protection. His innocent expression reveals a deep need for comfort. "Ma'am," the police officer interjects, his tone insistent. "You're welcome to come with us." "Very well, sir. Maybe we can continue our conversation at my home," Alice suggests, her voice filled with a glimmer of hope. The police officer silently nods, acknowledging Alice's proposal. *** The Siews and Benjamin huddle in the living room, quiet as church mice, while Alice, Evan, Zi Hao, and a police officer claim the dining table. A hush swells throughout the house, the echo of a tragic event hanging like a heavy coat on each person. And in this stillness, every word from the officer and Zi Hao rings out clear as a bell. Alice is putting the pieces together about Zi Hao's notebook and pencil, her eyes following the boy’s hand as it moves across the page. Evan's drawings paint an unsettling picture--an iron, a woman scrubbing dishes under the stern eyes of a couple. The truth hits them like a bucket of ice water, making them shiver with guilt for the gossip they've been spreading. The noise they thought was Clara and Fabian fighting was something far more sinister. It was the couple, not at odds, but united in their cruel treatment of a maid hidden within their home, a secret kept even from their closest kin. "Do you know how many times your folks attacked her?" the police officer asks. Zi Hao scribbles the question down so Evan can understand. But Evan just shakes his head, his memory a foggy landscape. "He doesn’t remember, sir," Zi Hao says, then a light bulb moment. "Hold on, let me try something." He draws ten circles, hoping to jog Evan's memory. But Evan shakes his head again. "Guess he doesn't remember," Zi Hao sighs. Then, as if guided by an unseen force, Evan rises from his seat and makes his way towards the kitchen window. The peculiar action puzzles the others, their confusion etched upon their faces. Sensing their bewilderment, Evan raises his hand and directs his finger outward, pointing towards something outside the window. Alice and the police officer follow his indication, their gaze falling upon a tecoma tree resplendent with a multitude of blossoms. Perplexed, they turn to Evan, seeking an explanation for his cryptic gesture. The officer swings around, planning to ask Zi Hao for help, but the boy is already behind them. "What's he saying?" the officer asks. Zi Hao's expression goes solemn. "He's answering your last question, sir," he says, his voice heavy with weight.

Some people said it was a monstrous eel. Some people said it was a landlocked sturgeon, an ancient creature touched by **dark magic**. Others said it was some sort of mutant, an abomination that should never have been. All were agreed, however; fishing for the **demon fish** was **folly**. All were agreed that is, but one. A local businessman heard the tales: reports of ducklings sucked under Deepdale Pond’s surface, tiddlers hooked by local children plucked savagely from their lines. He suspected the demon fish was no more than a big pike. He took the other stories; whispers of a curse befalling anyone who hooked the demon fish, a darkness falling over them and their endeavours, as superstitious nonsense. The demon fish was a pike and the businessman was going to prove it. One Saturday morning the businessman - an experienced fisherman - set himself up on the bank of Deepdale Pond. The pond was big, more of a lake in truth, but he had the whole day to move up and down the waterside, to search for the monster pike in every reed bed and deep pool. Dog walkers, picnickers, children with dinky little rods, all asked the businessman what he was doing with such bulky tackle as they visited the pond throughout the day. When the businessman explained that he was out to catch the demon fish they warned him off his charge, but he would not be deterred. As night began to fall the businessman found himself fishless and alone by the waterside. But he wasn’t going to be beaten. All the visitors to the pond throughout the day, surely their clamour had simply put the big fish off? Spooked it into hiding? But now it was dark and calm the businessman might finally be able to claim his prize. Knowing now was his best chance, he reached for his bait box and attached the biggest, smelliest mackerel fillet he had onto his hook. He cast it out into the deepest part of the pond and waited. He didn’t have to wait long. A monstrous take and the businessman was in, line screeching from his reel as he fought to keep the beast at bay. It had to be the demon fish! Moving along the bank to get the best purchase and keep the fish away from snags, the businessman gave as good as he got. He wrestled the fish this way and that, all in an attempt to tire it. Minutes past, then an hour, then longer. Still the fish would not relent. The businessman even started to doubt the fish was a pike. Pike were ambush predators he knew - sprinters not distance runners. And this fish had serious stamina. Just as the businessman thought it would never give in, the fish finally allowed itself to be pulled towards the bank. Even in the darkness the businessman could see its immense flank break the surface; by far the biggest fish he had ever caught. But he couldn’t quite make out what the fish was. Just a couple of feet closer and he would have his identification. A few inches more, an inch, and then, *TWANG*. With one last burst of energy the fish powered towards the deep water and snapped the businessman’s line clean. Close, but not close enough. Back home and without an identification, witness or photograph, no one believed the businessman’s story. And that simply would not do. Not after all he’d been through. The next Saturday he was back with better tackle and more bait. But wherever in the pond he tried, and whatever bait he used, nothing. Night bought no bites either, nor did the next morning. So the next weekend he came back again, and the next, and the next after that too. Soon he found himself fishing the weekday evenings, and then during the weekdays themselves. His business began to dwindle, and then fail. He didn’t care, the demon fish had one over him and he needed to settle the score. His wife told him he was becoming obsessed, she left him. That didn’t matter, the fish was more important. Soon the businessman was spending more time at the pond than anywhere else, all to no avail. Next he stopped sleeping, eating, all to give himself more time with a bait in the water. It couldn’t go on. Finally, sick with exhaustion, the businessman collapsed by the side of the pond. A dog walker found him the next day and, half-dead, he was rushed to hospital. The **demon** fish had **won again**.

When Good Champagne Goes Bad It was Oscar Night in Hollywood in 1960. Famed up-and-coming Movie Director Jack Jones had received his first ever nomination for his action movie "The Boxer", and was waiting patiently in his "Guests of Honor" seat. The audience clapped as a man walked up to the podium with a letter in hand to speak. "The next Oscar Award Category is "Best Picture of the Year 1960." The nominees in this category are "Herakles Versus the Nemean Lion", "Sapphire of Bombay", "The Boxer", "Clint Buckeye: Texas Lawman", and "The lonely Fisherman". And the Oscar goes to...."The Boxer!!!" declared the announcer. The audience gave a standing ovation as Jack Jones walked up on to the stage to receive his Golden Statuette. "I would like to thank the Academy, and I would like to thank my lead actor, Charles Tanner, without whom, none of this would be possible today. Follow your dreams!!!" Jack said at the podium. The audience clapped. Later that night, Jack and the cast of "The Boxer" had a dinner party at "The Brown Beanie" in Hollywood to celebrate. Jack Jones and his mistress, Actress Alexa Fair, Actors Charles Tanner and Dean Loren, Singer Roxanne Green, and producer Frank Cardella were the guests of honor in attendance. Roxanne chatted casually with western movie star Wesley Boothe, while Charles Tanner flirted with a waitress. Dean Loren talked to a composer about their work on "The Boxer" and other movies. Waiters rushed back and forth to the kitchen and the dining room, pouring Drinks, bussing tables, and so forth. There were exquisitely decorated Flower Bouquets in Vases placed on all the tables. A Band was playing Jazz Music on a stage. A female voice called out "BASTARD!!" The crowd turned to see Jack Jones's wife, Melissa, stomped up to the crowded table. "Jack, who is this??" Melissa said, pointing at Jack Jones' party date. "Oh, this...this is....um...my wife...Melissa, I'd like you to meet Charlene! She's Singer!" Jack said awkwardly. "Jack....How could you? When you come home, I'll be long gone!" Melissa said, leaving the restaurant in an indignant huff. "Melissa, wait!" Jack called out for her, but she was already outside of the restaurant door. An uncomfortable silence filled the air around the Dining Table until the Wait Staff brought out the Rose Salads and popped the bottles of Champagne. After a few moments of dining and chatting amongst guests. Jack Jones broke the atmosphere by choking and gagging, and then clumsily slumped over forward onto the dining table. "Oh my God, Jack!! Is he okay!?!?!?" Charlene yelled. A Stage Hand ran up to check his pulse. "Oh, dear lord! Jack is DEAD!!" The whole restaurant gasped and froze. The band stopped playing Jazz Music. Charles, Dean, and Roxanne, no longer hungry, set their forks down on the table next to their appetizers. A few minutes later, the police arrived. The Police were asking the Dinner Guests and Kitchen Staff questions like "What was the last thing Mr. Jones ate before he died?" and "What was in the Salad that could've caused Mr. Jones' death?" Dean Loren said "Well, there is ONE person I could think of as a suspect...Jack Jones' Wife, Melissa! Jack brought his Mistress Charlene instead of Melissa, and she was NOT HAPPY about that to say the least!" "Well, there's also Frank Cardella..." Wesley Boothe started. "Frank and Jack had been butting heads off and on for a little while." So the police interviewed Frank Cardella. "So, Frank, I understand that you and Mr. Jones didn't always see eye-to-eye..." started the Police Officer. "Well, Jack Jones was considering putting Charlene in "The Boxer" as the Round Card Gal, but I was skeptical, I felt it wasn't necessary. He said that Charlene wouldn't be interested in being an extra in the stands. I threatened to quit the film altogether if he wrote her into the Movie, and so Jack Jones agreed to leave her out of the movie, but I swear I didn't kill Jack!" Frank said. The Sherriff took note of every detail. "Well, thank you for your Participation. We'll question Mr. Jones' Wife later tonight." said the Sherriff. The Police examined the Kitchen and found no apparent evidence of Poisoning in the kitchen. The Homicide detective carefully examined Jack Jones's food, and found a most peculiar flower petal in the Champagne Flute as part of a glass decoration, still full. Carefully, he removed it with a pair of tweezers and headed to the University of California Botanical Gardens. "Excuse me Professor Delaney, I need you to tell me what kind of plant this flower Petal belongs to..." the Detective said, holding the Petal up for the Botanist. The Botanist gasped in Horror. "That's a ACONITUM Flower! They contain an extremely potent toxin which can cause Heart Failure!" Professor Delaney explained. "Up-and-coming Film Director and Oscar Winner Jack Jones was poisoned to death by this flower, do you know how anyone could have gotten a hold of the Aconitum Flower?" asked the Detective. "Well..." started the Botanist. "We have a small section of the Gardens full of poisonous plants for the sake of Research purposes, so if the flower that killed Jack came from there, someone who has access to the Botanical Gardens, like an employee or a professor must have gotten a hold of it...." The Detective then talked to the Secretary. "I need you to tell me who visited the Botanical Gardens, today." "I'm sorry, sir, but that information is confidential." The Secretary retorted. The Detective bribed her with a bottle of Whiskey and a Pack of Cigarettes. "Here's the records of everyone from the past 48 hours who signed in." The Detective saw Charlene on the list. So he called the Police. The Police raided Charlene's Trailer at the Studio, only to find the Trailer Vacant, except for a note. "By the time you read this, I will be long gone. I killed Jack Jones. Why? Because he promised to cast me in his last movie, and he never did. ~ Love, Charlene <3" Meanwhile, Charlene had crossed the border into Mexico and landed a job singing at a local Cantina in Acapulco.

The teleporter malfunctioned, as it always did, except this time it hurtled the atoms of its small, skinny inventor, Alfred Macadamia, through space, through time, and then through the ribcage of his smaller, skinnier next-door neighbor Petunia. Through the strange magic of the teleporter, Alfred was reassembled with his torso horizontally through hers, and their rib cages were atomically welded together into one large, agony-and-organ-filled cavity. Alfred stuck out of both sides of Petunia like a pencil shoved through the side of a fish, and the two of them had a conversation that went something like this: Screaming, Heavy Breathing. Wriggling Around, feeling one another’s organs bump and scrape together. Further screaming (louder, really making use of the double-diaphragm). Introductions, followed by weeping, followed by an apologetic explanation by Alfred that his teleporter must have malfunctioned, followed by a slight injection of hopefulness, explaining that At Least No One Died, And Perhaps They Could Go Back To His Place And Extricate Themselves from One Another (Please Excuse The Mess). After Petunia wiped her tears and Alfred stopped her from wringing his neck (“Do you really want a *corpse* stuck in your midsection for the rest of your life??”) The two of them waddled to Alfred’s dingy little house next door, Petunia impaled by Alfred, Alfred doing his best to support her with his hands and feet when he could reach the ground. Petunia opened Alfred’s door and, still not used to having a grown man shoved horizontally through her middle, slammed Alfred’s head on the doorframe. After some hasty apologies, they proceeded inside and spent the next four hours fiddling with Arthur’s stupid-looking little teleporter, failing to separate themselves from one another. It seemed they were hopelessly stuck like this, feeling their organs smash together in their somehow-combined rib-cage, feeling their blood mix and slosh about. They hated each other with a passion for around four months, but in time they got used to their new living arrangement. A time after that they decided that they might as well get married. Although they once had essentially nothing in common, living in the same body changed all that. Now they could carry on for hours about how strange it was, and tell each other inside jokes that were only funny to people who had been fused together by a poorly-designed teleporter. Sex wasn’t really on the table because of the angle they were conjoined, but they both had working hands and did enough for each other to get by. They were always right there, anyway. That was the thing--the other person was always, always right there. After a long and happy enough life, Alfred and Petunia lay on their deathbed, and Alfred looked up at his beautiful wife. She looked down to him and smiled, then he smiled, then she asked him if he teleported through her on purpose. Alfred said no, but he should have. This whole experience had taught him that the most important part of love wasn’t genuine affection--it was just helplessness at the hands of the universe to not be together. How could they not have fallen in love? The universe hadn’t given them a choice. How could they not have stayed in love? They never had the option to leave each other. The universe had simply given them their roles and they had lived them out as they had to. Petunia thought of a couple solid arguments against Alfred, then decided against them and laughed to herself. She couldn’t decide if this stupid man had ruined her life or made it better, and after a while she stopped trying. Whatever it was had already happened. She ran her fingers through Alfred’s thin grey hair, and he reached up as high as he could and rubbed her freckled, wrinkled shoulder. A while after that the two of them fell backwards into the eternal hands of the universe that had shoved them together, for some unclear purpose they both felt they were better off not knowing.

Desperation This has been going on for weeks, and I don’t know if I can take any more. The cold stone floor bites through my clothes, and I grit my teeth, tears of exhaustion pouring down my face. I do not know when my captor will come back, though I am praying to the gods that I have a reprieve. The size of my cell is tiny, barely enough room for me to lie down. In the corner there is a dirty metal plate, a chamber pot, and a pail of dirty water that is beginning to smell. There are no windows, so I have no way of keeping track of the time. My days have all bled together, a blur of violence and nightmares. My memories of life before this existence as a prisoner are few and far between. I am broken from my thoughts by the deafening screech of a door swinging on rusty hinges. I scramble into a sitting position, putting my back against the wall. The cold, heavy manacles around my wrists and ankles have rubbed my skin raw, and I bite back a cry of agony. The sound of slow, sure footsteps echoes throughout the cavernous chamber, and I find myself wishing that I had the company of the rats and insects that live in this hovel. If only I could rip out his eyes... The thought brings me a burst of dark, unexpected pleasure. After all, there’s not much else to do but dream up ways to revenge, in my position. After what seems like a whole eternity, my captor finally shows himself, standing in front of my cell door. In the weak torchlight, he looks sallow, washed out, his eyes like tiny black pebbles in his face. His red, bulbous nose is swollen, and when I look closer, his eyes are bloodshot. There are food and sweat stains on his fine silk coat, and it’s all I can do not to let my disgust show on my face. “Have you given any consideration to my offer, my dear?” He asks me, his words slurring. “What does it matter? My answer is the same, always. No.” At this, his mask of a fine courtier slips, and his lips curl. He spits, and I barely manage to dodge it. “I believe I’ve been quite generous, considering your... situation. But fine. If you wish to rot in your cell for the rest of your days, that is your human right.” Despite myself, despite aching for every bit of control I have, I laugh. The sound edges on hysterical, and I can feel my power coiling like a snake in my chest, calling upon the rats and the bugs and everything hiding under the flagstones. I don’t have much left; I’ve had very little sustenance. “But know this, my love. You’re not the only one who suffers from your choices.” I know who he is referring to. My family, outside of the palace. Heat builds in my chest, and I murmur a command under my breath, disguised as a prayer to the Father Earth and Mother Sky. The creatures within this prison hear my call, and heed it. The rats and flies descend on him in a black cloud, enveloping him until there is naught but dust. His screams echo off of the walls, but they are as music to me. In his place, there lays a shining metal key, and I just barely manage to reach through the bars and snatch it. My hands are shaking so badly I almost drop it. But my power has won me my freedom. It is finished.

It didn’t feel like I slept long, but when I began to stir and one my eyes I felt way better. I was a little stiff from the way I slept in the car, but I no longer felt groggy, tired, dizzy, or confused. In fact, I felt just like myself, and felt well rested. I began to stretch bringing my hands above my head. Then I looked over at him, and smiled. He smiled back before turning his head back to the road, “Hello sleepy head. Feeling better?” “That really did the trick. I feel much better.” I looked out the windshield at the dark sky, “How long was I out? Feels like I slept for awhile.” Then I looked at the time on the car’s clock, and I threw my arms down shocked, “What!? It’s 2:00!” I looked at him alarmed, and then outside again. We were going down a winding road that was surrounded by trees. I know I didn’t really know the roads around here, but I definitely didn’t know where we were now. Then I looked back at him. “Why did you keep driving? Where are we?” I tried to ask the questions calm, and not accusing, but it was hard too when I realized I had been in this car for almost two hours with him. He just looked forward out the window, and gave a little shrug. “I’ve just been driving around. Seeing where the road would take us. You looked so peaceful I didn’t want to wake you.” He gave me a quick smile, “Don’t worry if we get lost I’ll just put the GPS on.” I still looked at him shocked, and starting to feel a little annoyed, “Well turn around now. I want to go back. And it better not take us two hours to get back, because I actually have stuff I need to do.” He still had a trace of a smile on his face as he continued to look forward, and his voice was calm. “Alright, relax. We can go back. I just have to find a good spot to turn around.” I settled back down, and then leaned back in the seat. I could of easily drifted back to sleep, but I didn’t trust that he would take us back if I did. So instead I just crossed my arms and watched the road. We were going down it for awhile in the quiet, and I was beginning to wonder when he would turn around. I really wanted to get to bed at a decent hour, so I could still white water raft with Stewart, Tessa, and Bella. But the longer it took to turn around, the less I felt like I would get to do it. But I tried to calm myself, telling myself it would be ok. And it was working, until I saw a sign with an exit’s name on it, and I realized just how far away we where from the hotel. And suddenly I started to feel uncomfortable. I pointed at the sign, “Why did you head this way? It will be forever before we are back!” He was quiet for a moment, and then glanced at me. I could see his jaw line a little tense. “Like I said, I was just taking us where the road would take us.” I watched his face for a moment, and spoke with a clear stern voice. “This isn’t just seeing where the road will take us. This is going to take us to a different state completely. You have any idea how long it will take to get us back?” I pointed at the exit that we were about to pass, “You better slow down, and take that exit so we can turn around.” But he didn’t he kept going. I turn fast in my seat watching the exit leave us behind. Then I looked at him mad this time, “What are you doing? You missed a turn around. Who knows when the next one will be!” He didn’t reply right away. Not looking at me he replied, “We will find another.” And I could see his face fighting to stay as calm as it was. I sighed, and collapsed back in my seat, “Fine. Then I am going to just pull up directions for us. Ones that will get us back to the hotel fastest.” And I dug in my purse for my phone, and mid search I froze. That’s when I remembered why we had ended up in his car at all. We were looking for my phone in my car, except we never actually looked. So now here I was in his car with him with no phone. I spoke quietly out loud, “My phone...we never found it.” He didn’t look at me, but he replied. “Don’t worry. It’s probably in your car.” I couldn’t look at him. I could only look at my open purse, which now felt so empty. “But we never even looked for it.” He didn’t reply to that, and I started to think about how he had gotten me to get in his car without even looking first. But it was kind of a foggy memory. It was kind of like trying to recall a dream. I remember the resturant. I remember being in his room with him. I remember being in his bed with him. I even remember leaving his room with him, but everything after the elevator was fuzzy. And I could feel my pulse starting to pickk up. Three drinks that spaced out would not have had that kind of effect on me. It had to be something else. I had been tired before, but I always remembered what I did when I was tired. And my anxiety started to build when I thought about the beer he offered me, and how that’s when it went down hill. Could he have put something in it? Did he drug me? Did he want me to get in his car with him? Was he really taking me somewhere? And then my heart froze as I remember one last detail. He had said my name right before I fell asleep. We oddly enough, had never told each other our names. Even though I know I didn’t remember a lot, I know I never told him. Clenching my purse so tight that my knuckles went white I looked up at him. My voice felt hollow, “How do you know my name?” Even though I could only see his profile I could tell he was confused. His eyebrow raised, “What?” I repeated myself, “How do you know my name? You said it right before I fell asleep in the car. I never told you my name.” Then he looked amused, “What? You definitely told me your name.” Then he shot me a smug smile really quick, “What girl would go to bed with me, without even letting me know her name.” I wasn’t amused. This wasn’t a game to me, and I didn’t like how he was acting like it was. “Apparently a stupid one. And that is what I must be.” And I knew there would be no coming back from the next thing I was going to ask him. “What did you put in that beer you gave me, and where are you taking me?” I got exactly the response I knew I would. He looked at me bewildered, before turning his attention back to the road, “What!” Then he sound annoyed, “Are you honestly accusing me of what I think you are?” Then he calmed down, and steadied his voice. “Look I like you. When we started talking there was a connection. I took you out to dinner cause I like you, and wanted to treat you. We had a great night together. And then I thought it would be nice to go for a ride with you. I was a gentlemen to you. Never once forced you to do anything you didn’t want to. And now you are accusing me of, what? Date rape? Kidnapping?” He looked at me with pure disappointment. Part of me wanted to feel bad. Part of me wanted to believe him. But the part of me that was confused, and scared knew better. So I kept my own voice even. “How to you explain how I felt so off after that beer? How do you explain never checking for my phone in my car? How do you explain me losing my phone and hotel key, which I know was in my purse. How do you explain how I got in here so easily, and you are driving us far away?” He wouldn’t look at me again, but his grip on the steering wheel was tight. “You had two drinks earlier. I don’t know how much a light weight you are. But I didn’t put anything in there. I don’t know how you lost both those items, and honestly I could tell you didn’t feel well so that why I offered the drive. At the time making you feel better seemed more important, than your phone. I’m sorry for caring.” Then she looked at me, and held my eyes long enough to make me almost believe him, before he looked back to the road. All I knew now was that I had to get out of this car. “Let me out.” I said it without looking at him. “What?” He glanced at me quickly. “Let you out? It’s the middle of the night, in the middle of no where, and you have no phone. What exactly do you plan to do?” I kept my voice level, “I’ll borrow your phone and call a taxi, or get an Uber. I just know I don’t want to be in here with you.” He sighed, “That is ridiculous. I am not dropping you off on the highway at night by yourself, with no way to contact anyone if you get into trouble.” I raised an eyebrow at him, “Ok then. You can wait with me until my ride gets here, so I won’t be alone.” He shook his head, “I’m not doing that. I’ll just drive you back. It is safer.” I could hear a strain in his voice. I held firm, “Well, I don’t feel safe. So let me go. Otherwise you are kidnapping me." He was quiet for a few seconds, “Fine, I will get off at this next exit. That way we aren’t standing on the highway.” I crossed my arms, and nodded “Good.” Once we were off the exit he started to slow down, but he wasn’t pulling over. We passed at least two small roads that would have been good to pull over at, and one gas station. I started to get antsy, “Why aren’t you pulling over?” He gave off a big sigh, “Cause I can’t.” I raised an eyebrow, and tried not to panic. “What do you mean you can’t? Where are you taking me?” He sighed, “I didn’t think when I finally started talking to you that I would like you so much. But I did...so it makes this harder.” Now it was getting hard to hid my worry, “Make what harder? Where are you taking me? Why are you taking me.” I no longer was calm, “Let me go!” He seemed conflicted, “I can’t tell you yet. But I can’t let you go either. There’s no turning back now.” Now I knew I was in trouble. I looked out the window trying to control my breathing. We were going fast, but not that....fast. Without thinking I grabbed the door handle and started to push open the door. Wind came rushing into the car. It was cold and fast. I could see the dark road speeding by through the ajar door. Fear enveloped me as I thought of the odds of survival if I jumped out. My hand went numb on the door, as I tried to keep it from swinging any wider open. “What the hell?!” He said as he looked over, and he swerved for a second before getting control again. The jerk of the swerve sent the door closing, and I let go of it shocked. “What were you thinking? You can’t jump out of a moving car like that. You could die!” Dazed I looked back at him, “How do I know I won’t die staying with you?” My tone was remarkably calm for how I felt. He lowered his eye brows, “I’m not going to kill you. I’m not a murderer. That’s not how I plan to get back at your dad.” The last part he said caught my attention, and I saw his surprised face showing that he didn’t mean to say that. Before he could say anything I asked, “What does my dad have to do with this?” He looked away focusing on the road again, “I can’t tell you right now. You can know everything once we get there.” He looked over at me, and had a surprising warmness in his eyes. “I promise.” I felt a pit in my stomach, and gripped my purse tighter in my lap. “Where. Are. You. Taking. Me.” He actually looked sorry, “I can’t tell you yet.” Then he slowed down as he was driving around some debris on the road. Instead of asking him why, that was when I got my idea. I had to get out of this car, and we were going just slow enough that if we got of the road, and hit something I could be ok. And if anything, I would be just as bad off as I could possibly be later. So I took my chance, leaned over toward him, grabbed the wheel, and pulled as hard as I could. “What the fuck are you doing?” I heard him shout in a strained voice, as he fought to steady the wheel. I felt him pressing the brakes on the car as we jerked off the road into the grass. And then we went right toward a tree. I watched in stunned silence as I death gripped the wheel, holding it in place. I watched as the car went straight to the tree, and the right front corner of the car hit it. The car came to a sudden stop, I released the wheel and jerked toward the left. That was when I hit my head and shoulder into the side of the door hard. The windshield cracked, the hood curled up, and the airbags came out. I shut my eyes as I tried to catch my breath. My chest hurt from the impact, and immediately my head was throbbing. I opened my eyes to see the air bag deflated, and smoke coming out of the engine. He was slouched in his seat was his arms in his lap. He looked dazed, but remarkably fine expect a few nicks on his face and arms from broken glass. He looked over at me slowly, “What was that?” Before I could respond, or think of anything else I undid my seat buckle, fought the door open, and started to get out. “Wait, what are you doing?” I heard him call out to me. But before I could even check to see what he was doing I started to sprint into the woods. With one thing on my mind. GET AWAY FROM HIM!

I used to stare out of my window, when the nurse would draw the curtains on pleasant afternoons. The only sunshine I’d ever get was what escaped the delicate wisps shielding my room from the prying eyes of the outside world. I never minded that people could see me from the street. I watched them all the time, why shouldn’t they watch me? Everyday, like clockwork, people would march back and forth on the pavement, casual strolls, hustling, bursting steps, cars. When the nurse drew the curtains, I could see everything. My piece of the world was minuscule in comparison to what the ones I watched could see, but I was happy. Until I saw the Red Umbrella. It was a sunny July afternoon, the same faces crossing my sight as always, plastered expressions uniform. Men in suits and women in sundresses with little children paced through my strip of paradise, and I watched them. I watched them just like I did everyday from the sour gentleness of my sheets. They chose a cream color for me, but as the days went by it began to look like rubbing alcohol. Then, while I slept, they’d take away the bleached cloth and I would wake up in a jarring mesh of yellow. The cycle would repeat. Again, it was a sunny July afternoon, after they replaced my bedding, I found myself watching the same faces as always. I paid no mind to the uniformity of the scene; compared to the untextured, colorlessness of my walls, anything was beautiful. Then I saw the Red Umbrella. It was an unexpected streak of vibrancy in my strip of reality, drastic in comparison to the sunflower yellows, deep greens, and subdued grays that I so often saw from my window. Just as abruptly as it arrived, the Candy Apple disappeared from my vision. I found myself craning my neck to catch an extra millisecond of the Sweet Taste, but my fragile limbs shook from the effort. I sank back into the stifling cotton my head was fated to rest upon, weighed down by my imperfections. It wasn’t raining that day. My eyes held open by midnight ponderings gripped the Red Umbrella. Who carried It? I would give anything to walk in the warmth of the sun, feeling its raw touch, unobscured by curtains or glass. Who would cover themselves from its affectionate embrace? I didn’t understand. The Red Umbrella wasn’t there the next morning, or the one after, or even the following Monday. But I couldn’t get Its image out of my mind. It stayed there, burned behind my eyelids, appearing on the bedspread, haunting me whenever I blinked. I asked the nurse to keep the curtains open, just in case It came some other time of day. She gave me a quizzical look, but obliged, figuring an expanded horizon would do me good. It was the same. Night time yielded no different presence. The bustle was hushed, the still activities of the dark creeping through the street, unnoticed by the uninterested moonlight. I sighed, but out of the corner of my eye, I could’ve sworn I saw a Dash of Scarlet against the shadows. I turned stiffly, black dots dappling my vision. A hand was illuminated in the somber shine of the moon. An matte-white glove wrapped around the burgundy handle of the Red Umbrella. I could see It from my window, only a few feet away from the glass, fog creeping in from the edges. A moment, then It disappeared behind the translucent wall that separated me from life. And again, I waited. I woke up one morning to the sound of my door being shut. I was disoriented at first, but it only took a blink to be washed over by the numbing scent of fresh paint. It was like carbonation behind my eyes, bubbles bursting in my mind. I choked on the thick air, able to taste the sourness of the atmosphere. To combat the stinging, I shrunk into my bedding, it suddenly becoming my only solace. I laid there for hours, covered by my blanket. The empty white was grey from underneath, a soothing change from what usually crossed my sight. It was peaceful, and I found myself sinking into a gently rocking state of sleep. I dreamed of nothing. Months went by without another appearance from the Red Umbrella. My days blurred together, sometimes I would see a different colored car drive by, or a woman wearing a new dress, but that was the only spice I tasted. Slowly, my limbs grew stiffer, I found myself stuck, dependent on the mercy of room around me. The only exits being the door and the window. I began to resent the window. When the nurse left it open for a breeze to sweep through, I turned my face away. I turned away from everything. My gaze was fixated on the wall, what used to be a colorless canvas was now tinted an unflattering pale. When I asked the nurse why they had painted over the walls she only mentioned that there were chips in multiple places, and they had to add another layer of white to fix it. To stifle any sense of texture more like. She closed the window and left me to wander the cathedral of my mind. That night, I forgave the window. The crescent moon swung back and forth on its axis, like a pendulum counting the seconds till midnight. I heard footsteps, echoing the way water does when it drops onto puddles in caves. I blinked and there It was. The Red Umbrella hovered just outside, and I could see the figure holding It. Delicate white gloves, olive skin, a flowing black dress that shone in the moonlight. She held an empty hand out to me, face shielded by the shadow of the Red Umbrella. I opened my mouth to speak to her, but before I could utter a word, she drew her invitation back and transgressed my view. The nurse didn’t come the next morning. I laid in bed staring at the ceiling, a flat surface with a single hanging light. I could feel warmth radiating from the window, but I didn’t have the energy to look over. I heard the door open, gentle breathing followed and dripping footsteps. It was the woman with the Red Umbrella. My frozen body was pressed into the sheets, white glue trapping my limbs. I felt afraid. I had wanted for months to touch the Red Umbrella, but now that It was here, I was terrified. I had too many thoughts, unsteady breaths, holding me back from the Reverie I had so eagerly yearned for. “You’ve been waiting for me,” the woman’s voice was silk, a gentle breeze on a pleasant Tuesday, the soothing kiss of the ocean after burning sand rips away one’s soul. She closed the Red Umbrella, revealing her face. She didn’t have definitive features. I could see a thousand colors in her eyes, a hundred different faces, all of which I remembered but couldn’t quite place. She was familiar, like a childhood memory, lost for years, revisited by my consciousness. I stared at her, or more accurately, I stared at the Red Umbrella. It was pointing at my chest within arm’s reach, more vibrant than ever. “We’re ready for you.” My numb body began to sting, like needles pricking my arms and legs, shaking. I extended my hand and grabbed hold of the Scarlet Rod. The woman and I walked through the street together, she had handed me my own umbrella, an excited yellow, a smile hovering above me, keeping me sheltered from the rain. We walked past houses and gardens and schools, until we came across a weary building. I noticed an open window, curtains ruffled in the wind like butterfly wings. In the shadows of the room, I could just make out two figures, one fixated on the ceiling, cascaded by snowy sheets, the other knelt beside the bed, gripping the resting figure’s limp hand. “What’s happened?” I asked the woman as we continued along the path together. She was silent. Buildings became trees, thick forests of emerald with dancing birds calling out from their hiding places. The rain had stopped, and the woman turned to me, finally with an answer to my greatest question. “You’ve finally gone to sleep.

"It's like a ringing, maybe a pitch, no, a melody, yeah, there are words," Bob explained. "I don't know what to tell you, Bob; there's nothing wrong with you," the doctor said as he shone a light into his ear. "What do you mean nothing is wrong with me? I came in last week; every time I raised my right hand, I experienced a sensation in my thumb; it was like pulsating pleasure; yeah, I felt pleasure in my thumb," Bob said as he rubbed his thumb. "I'm sorry to say this because we've been friends for almost 20 years, but maybe an ENT isn't what you need; maybe a psychologist." "You're calling me crazy! Is that what you're saying? There it is again; Earth will end in thirty days," Bob said, gesturing to his ear. The doctor turned off his light and shook his head. "Look, Bob, you came in last month and said you had leprosy." "Can you blame me? Quasimodo sneezes on me in the subway, and I begin to develop spots." "You were wearing a spotted shirt!" "I don't have to take this; I'll get a second opinion; my cousin is a hair doctor in White Plains; I'll go see him." "Alright. Do what you want." "What did you say?" the doctor asked as Bob opened the door. "I didn't say anything." "Is this some kind of trick?" the doctor scratched his ear. "Are you all right? You look like I did when I thought I had trichinosis." The doctor had a seat and rubbed his head, "Yeah, I remember; your neighbor was cooking tofurky, and it smelled bad. There it is again." "What is?" "I hear it... Earth will end in thirty days." Bob taps his ear, "See, I told ya, the Earth's gonna end in 30 days; my luck, I just paid my cable bill for the whole year." It went viral, and out of the blue, everyone on Earth heard a voice in their head saying, "Earth will end in 30 days." Religious service attendance tripled, businesses were looted, and human society swiftly deteriorated into chaos. Government services ceased, and the President walked off the job. After one week, the White House's front lawn resembled a burning man, someone drew a penis on the Liberty Bell, and the constitution was found on the back of a toilet next to a People magazine from last June. But there was one group that remained hopeful. A group of scientists gazed up at the sky. "It just flipped to 22 days; that last one was 22." "Yeah, mine just flipped as well." At night, scientists worldwide looked for asteroids, alien spaceships, and, who knows, a guy with a beard and robe. But nothing. They looked into climate change, EMP from the sun, the state of all supervolcanoes, nuclear weapons, and what Charlie Sheen was up to. There was even talk of building a bunker. A well-respected panel was formed to choose 5,000 people for the bunker, and 2,500 people between the ages of 10 and 20 were chosen at random. Skyler Smith of Santa Clara was the lucky winner of a Mountain Dew cap sweepstakes. The panel personally chose 1,500 people between the ages of 21 and 40 with specified skill sets based on what would be required in a new society. Taylor Swift was included because it was decided that the Billboard Hot 100 must go on. Finally, 1,000 people aged 41 to 60 were chosen for their contributions to human society up to this point in history. When Elon Musk was left off the list, he pouted before he boarded his rocket and flew to his secret Mars colony. The countdown had reached ten days, and they began to bring food, water-making equipment, and other supplies into the bunker. However, on the day of the move-in, they discovered that they had locked the keys inside the bunker, and the project was canceled. Wars broke out all across the world as borders became meaningless, credit cards were maxed out, and people stopped paying their car insurance bills. On this day, a scientist in Switzerland believed he had spotted an asteroid, but it was later determined that he had been eating cheese near his lens, and the discovery was a false alarm. This false hope caused many people to stop fighting because they had to consider living next door to someone they had just tried to murder. They used to merely argue over how long the hedges were; now, there's that awkward moment when you remember your neighbor had a machine gun to your head. It was only one day to the end of the world; it was eerily quiet everywhere. Pedro Valente of Santa Fe, New Mexico, won Powerball and took the lump sum. Sara Nickerson of Sarasota, Florida, intended to try cocaine for the first time but accidentally spilled it into white flour, so she just made brownies instead, and when Tegan Richards of Denver, Colorado, awoke from a ten-year coma, relatives and friends raced to his bedside and broke the news that the world was going to end today. Humans from all around the world looked around at the death and destruction that had taken place in the previous 30 days. The Earth had already been destroyed; they had done it on their own and no longer needed the countdown. Tick, tick, tick, everyone waited for the fateful time with family and loved ones, and the moment had come. "Update complete. Restarting..." Bob sat up and paid close attention. "Welcome to Earth 2.0, now with Wordle." "Ohhh, it wasn't the Earth will end in 30 days, but the Earth update will end in 30 days. Oh well, that's on me, everyone," Bob said as he rubbed his thumb.

Four years ago, I had longed for a revolution in France. Every day my hungry belly and aching bones had cried out for freedom alongside my fellow countrymen and every night I had fallen asleep to dreams of a new, free world, a world which I had longed for with every drop of my bitter sweat. When we’d stormed their fortresses, leveled their walls, cut of their heads and reveled in our victory it had seemed, for a brief and flickering instant, as though we would finally breathe free, and standing in front of the bodies of our enemies I never once felt the slightest doubt about our cause. But as the years had passed, the new regime had begun to seem little better than what had come before. The fledgling Republic was just as poor as the old Monarchy, and war was looming hungrily on the horizon. Not so very long ago these things would have been bearable in our new world, we could afford to pay such a cost for our freedom. And yet, today, I would finally see how great this cost had been. Yesterday evening, cheered by a hearty dinner, I had almost been as hopeful as I had been during the revolution. The ride into town had been pleasant. Peering out over the dusky townscape, I had watched the town roll past in slow urban waves and pictured the wealth our future Republic might provide. Scruffy thatched roofs and worn-down wooden walls opened up around me as I rode past before making their way back into the distant townscape behind, each one seeming like little more than a dusty painting of an old, dead world as I pictured what each building might look like in the near future, on some uncertain date when our Republic would be mature and strong. But as I looked down, now, at the pretty streets of Cholet, teeming with fresh blood, I could not but pause to think on what we’d become. Our battle had been fiercely won and Royalist corpses were strewn across the cobbled road, their broken cannons and empty guns lying feebly by their blood-soaked bodies. They were the revolutionaries against the revolution, forever loyal to the king even after his death. More than brave, they had been cunning: starting smoky fires in the street to foil our artillery and fleeing when the battle had become too costly to them, the mass of their army had fled across the river. Those at my feet were the unlucky, and after gazing so long at these poor souls I began to wonder. Had we become that which we had beheld? Had we so quickly filled that void of evil and transformed into very thing which we had so deeply despised? These questions plagued my mind as I gazed at these fallen revolutionaries. Looking away from the corpses of my countrymen and gazing instead at the horizon, I tried to remind myself of what we were fighting for: our struggle to free ourselves from the oppression of aristocracy. But how easily that specter of doubt came back to haunt me. What right had we, if freedom was our goal, to take the freedom of life from these brave men and to drown their convictions in warm blood? Closing my eyes, I let the streets fill up once again in my mind as I tried to picture how the world would have been a few years before. The residents of Cholet now lying before me, and of the surrounding region, had never hated their masters as bitterly as we had. From what I knew, the nobility here had been relatively kind. I pictured the Lords and Ladies walking, perhaps, even alongside their subjects through the streets, an entourage of adoring subjects by their sides. Faces smiling. What had we done? How vain it was of us to think that we could rid the world of all its sorrow. Power had now corrupted us, the low-born, with its cruelty just as it had tainted the high-born long before. Surely the first kings were elected by their peers, just as we elect our politicians now, their subjects consenting to their rule. Perhaps even now some charismatic leader of the revolution was preparing to seize the power of the state for himself, a man seeking to recapture the power of our recently vanquished king. How long would it be until his tyranny would require a revolution of its own? As if responding to my inner musings, a half-slouched body to my left started to re-animate: “Good Sir, have mercy.” The corpse was murmuring “I am only wounded, please help me”. With sadness in my voice I replied: “No Sir, I will not help you. You are already dead.” After a brief pause, I heard him mumble a final prayer: “God, have mercy on us.” As the man murmured his agony to his imaginary creator, soon to be embraced by the cold dead earth around him, I realized that my doubts didn’t matter. Our fate had already been forged in the flames of the revolution, there was nothing I could do now. No longer condemned to the rule of Gods or Kings, each man and woman was now free to define and redefine their lives for themselves, forever rehearsing our great revolution internally whilst struggling to maintain the freedom they’d gained. They would have to fight, over and over, for the right to breathe free, for the right to define their own lives. Rulers and royalty, oppressors and suffocators, none of them had been truly vanquished, none of them had really gone while still new despots and dictators could rise through our new ranks. Now they were coming back, through us. We are them. The oppressed becoming the oppressor. The monarchy had never been the sole cause of our suffering, and no revolution could ever free us of the root of our ills. There would forever be the oppressors and the oppressed, so long as living beings drew breath. And so I must stand in bloody battlefield dirt, on the other side of that crooked mirror, the very oppressor I had once vowed my soul to defeat. I am destined to quell without mercy every spark of the counter revolution, just as our enemies had once sought to quell us. Up above a flight of larks were carried through the wind, dipping and soaring up again through the air before veering downward once more. We must march like this forever, through the pages of history, forever fighting in the dimness of the past.

It was a Thursday evening. On any other Thursday, I would have been in a meeting or a call or in the middle of something important at work. One day to go before the weekend, Thursdays are busy days. Come to think of it every day is a busy day. Weekdays, weekends, holidays, everything gets merged into one big time warp. The days are indistinguishable. >And you run and you run to catch up with the sun but it’s sinking, Racing around to come up behind you again, The sun is the same in a relative way, but you’re older, Shorter of breath and one day closer to death. -- Time, Pink Floyd 22 years had gone by in a blur. Hard work, success, love, marriage, baby, start-up and it goes on. No one tells you that the most precious thing you lose is yourself. One day at a time, you erode like the rocks being hit by the waves on the beach. Some days you don’t recognize yourself anymore. Every pursuit changes you permanently. I am now a changed man, a different one actually. After all these years, things started to look better again. I finally donated a huge chunk of my wealth. My wife started her quest to love me again and my daughter had begun her own quest for meaning in a family. The time was right. >*Don’t look for me because I am gone. The one you loved is gone, the one you married is gone, the one who stood by you and told you to do the same is gone. The me you wanted was never me, the person I became for everyone to be happy was never me. The person I became to achieve my success was never me. The lies I told myself were the truths I lived by. Now what remains of my life must be in the pursuit of finding my soul. I have to let go of everything I love and everything that has held me in place. I have to find where life takes me. I know you may never forgive me but I urge you to find compassion in your heart to do so. Cherish my memory and move on. I leave you all the material comfort to enable to find your own calling. I wish you nothing but the best and I hope over time you will forget our bad times and always remember the good times.* I folded the letter, placed it in the envelope and placed it on her bedside. I always felt looked her best when she was asleep, at peace with herself and everything around. I locked the door, threw the keys in through the window and walked around the block to the car. One hour later, I was at the airport. I checked in and while I waited for the boarding to start, I threw my smartphone in a bin. I felt a pang of anxiety. The plane taxied on the runway and lifted off. I saw the city I had lived and loved all my life grow small. I have flown a thousand times, it still fills me with awe. Planes are special, they represent our triumph over the greatest forces. I looked at the clouds beneath me in awe. We replicated nature & out did it. I always wondered if planes would have existed if not for birds. >Ever think about sleeping without any worry about when you need to get up? I woke up 6 hours later, swollen feet, burning eyes and disoriented. After a few minutes of wriggling my toes, I stood up and stretched. The reality of what I was doing hit me. My wife would have seen the letter by now, my daughter must be with her. I tried to picture the scene. Anger, disbelief and perhaps amusement. My daughter would have excused herself to the study. Brows wrinkled, she would be writing down everything she knows. I could almost see her with 3 map printouts- road, rail & air, with 3 circles on where I could be in 6 hours. I will always be proud of what she is. The toughest part was getting the fake passport. The rest was easy after that. It is only when I met the guy who procured the passport for me, I realised what I was about to do was real. I was trying to leave everything I had fought for behind. Two hours later, I walked to the immigration counter & handed over my passport. I hoped I didn’t look as nervous I felt. Getting caught would not only be embarrassing but an international crime. I could go to jail. “Look at the camera please”, said the lady behind the counter. She stamped the passport and said, “Thank you, sir, enjoy your stay.” I did it. The first few days were hard. I had the compulsive need to make a to-do list. I craved for comforts. I had preconceived notions about the places & experiences that I wanted to have. Experiences aren’t supposed to be planned, they are meant to happen. I went back to the basics, food, clothing & shelter. Everything else was fluff. My body began to adjust to foreign food, to exercise & to sitting lesser than 2 hours each day. The only upsetting part was when I saw a father & daughter or a husband and wife in conversation. I missed my family. For the first time in years: I saw the sun rising & setting every day. My back wasn’t stiff. My eyes didn’t burn when I woke up. I was in touch with myself. The noise in my head was unbearable for the first few days. Then it slowed down, it stopped chattering & it stopped wandering. I was present and alive. I bought my first guitar when I was 23, always dreamed that I could play to hypnotise myself and others around me. The guitar sat there in the corner like a dream that wouldn’t go away, the years passed and I never played it. Some days I would stare at it, it was a representation of my broken dreams that I had left on the side to pursue my career. >Everybody builds a museum of unfulfilled dreams at their homes. It is usually in the loft or the basement. Skateboards, tents, cameras, biking helmets, guitars, unfinished books, dairies & paintings. The dreams are “shelved” to make way for suits & shirts so that someday we could make time for the dreams again. After 22 years, I bought myself an acoustic guitar again and took lessons from the old man across the street. Finally, I started getting somewhere with it. >*It shouldn’t take 22 years before you begin introspection. To love anyone else, you also need to love yourself & your dreams. To have the energy to pursue things that make others happy, you must pursue a few things that make you happy.* I finished playing the last song for the night, an overwhelming sense of pride filled me when I heard the claps. I thanked the crowd & took a bow. Someone tapped my shoulder as I was packing my guitar. “Can I get an autograph and some dinner?”, said the pretty girl with a large smile. My daughter found her dad for the first time in years.

My sister, the prostitute. I know because she comes home every night and tells me about the men she’s slept with that day. She returns in the witching hours, just before morning breaks, and whispers things like “you won’t believe the strange man who hired me tonight. He was the most handsome person I think I’ve ever met, right down to his hands. When he opened his mouth I knew why he was paying for sex, his breath was disgusting!” She strides across the room, talking. Glowing in the moonlight that escapes the paisley-patterned sheets pretending to be curtains. Clothes slowly roll off her body leaving only perfumed evidence of their existence on her skin. “Remember how it smelled on the right summer day when we lived in that old apartment above the god-awful fish market? It was like that plus ten-degrees.” Once her hair is down and face is unmasked she continues her stories. Wrapped up snug under our Little Mermaid comforter, a reminder of a childhood cut short. Now our only remaining security. My skin is still soft, muted, like uncut fleece. Hers is the kind of soft from ritually melting lotions and creams into it, all of them tainted with some romantic aroma. Lavender and vanilla butt heads against musk and a sour note of patchouli on too warm of a night. Peppermint from that time she only had soothing foot lotion to rub herself down with. A smell so pervasive our landlady still knocks on our door once a week, “I brought a humidifier for you! Works much better than peppermint or Vicks to loosen up a cough, I’ll just leave it at the door.” In a strange way, her gravelly voice feels motherly. But my favorite is Amber, the kind that comes in a small wooden container, a delicately carved top that unscrews to reveal the magical substance -- like moist brown sugar. Sometimes when we lay together her voice is so faint you only know she is there is from the perfume dancing next to you. This is how we lay at night. This is how I know my sister. These are the lessons I’m learning about navigating life. Wide-eyed as usual, I wait for the first kernel to fall from her lips as though I’m starving. “Salt and pepper, business-dress. He talks casually like an uncle would instead of the head of an international company. Short for a man, one sock grey and the other pale pink. Commando,” she starts. “Was he kind?” I ask. “Don’t mistake shame or pity for kindness; they are *not* the same thing.” I push back the hair from my face and turn towards her hoping to catch some light on her face as she’s story-telling. “What did he want?” I ask, not willing to wait but unsure I want the answer. “Anna, there are things in life that you won’t want to do but you do them anyway because making money is more important than being proud of yourself... Tonight was one of those times,” she says without emotion. The light finally shows on her face, only the shape of her left cheek and the corner of her mouth. Neither turned up or down, but sitting straight as the hair on my head falls, and it remains silent before she turns herself away from me. She lays still as nature on a breezeless day, her feet locked tightly around one another refusing to play with mine. I wrap myself around this mannequin until I know she’s asleep. Her shallow, slow breaths pretend they know happiness in sleep. 4:00 AM blazes neon from across the room. I count the seconds as I relax my hold and steadily move towards the edge of the bed. Sitting up, carefully replacing the covers to hide the loss of my warm body next to hers. 4:07 AM now on the clock face. My toes naturally curl around the purple fingerlike shag. I shuffle across the floor towards her purse, passing our closet in its constant explosion of mess. A mirror of our lives. She claimed a regular bought the purse for her. The security tag still attached when she brought it home proved otherwise. Gold and purple and everything Gucci, inside and out, the purse could hold everything from a change of clothes to a 15lb terrier and even as many as eight hot DVD players, at one time. Pockets inside, but none in use. Everything is just thrown into the middle, a great meat pie. Sometimes when a tube of lip gloss gets lost, uncapped, and I pull something out covered in goo I imagine it’s Slime from an old Nickelodeon show. Key cards to hotels, too many to count. Most of them from places like the Holiday Inn and Marriott, once in a while an upscale boutique -- The Blake, W., Crimson. Those key cards she always keeps; stacks them nice and neat in a wooden keepsake box under the dresser. Next to memories of our mother, next to the last small container of Amber. I also find books of matches. She gave up smoking but her clients always ask for a light so she steaks them by the dozen from a sleazy downtown lounge, The Trifecta. She says she hates everything Trifecta and the matches remind her to never smoke again. Pills of every color, stowed in mismatched prescription bottles. They keep her cocaine company, baggie hidden in its own fluorescent orange tube labeled “Amoxicillin”. Her wallet, not currently covered in bubblegum pink goo, keeps track of three twenties, a few pennies, and one lonely blackened quarter. Her license pictures a girl about 25-turning-33 with loose brown curls hanging around a politely oval face. Enough light crawls into the room and I spot a single bit of paper tucked in the side pocket that I originally missed. I pull it out to see my name scribbled and a phone number I don’t recognize below it. “Anna,” I hear her say. That perfumed body floating along the sound waves to reach my ears and nose simultaneously. This time it is the sour Patchouli followed by sweet Amber that hits me. “What’s this?” I point to the piece of paper that now seems to light up the room. The perfume pauses a moment. “I meant to talk to you earlier, I just had such a terrible night that I wanted to wait. Harold has lined up a job, for you... He thinks it’s time you got your feet wet.” “Kate...” is the only word I manage to let escape. Her words change from Amber to peppermint. “You’re gonna do fine, don’t think about what I said tonight because it’s really not that bad.” “I’m scared.” A few tears test gravity while her words course through me, burning my nostrils through and through. “I ask a lot of questions but I’m not ready.” My nostrils flare wildly. The rats start chewing at my stomach. She reaches down to my hand, tugging at it to pull me back into bed. “Let’s get some sleep, it’s late,” her hand squeezing mine with every vowel. Her body encompasses mine *under the sea* while her vanilla voice says, “you already know everything. Doing it is the easy part.” Her lips trace the nape of my neck until I feel her nose pressed against my hairline. The musk of her fingertips searches this body to coerce acceptance of fate.

He sat on the pearlescent ground below him, one knee propped while his arm rested atop. He was contemplating - glaring through his furrowed brow at the two paths that lied ahead of him. For which each path had its balance of consequences that were unbeknownst to man. The scowl plaguing over the dark-haired heir's marble face was rightfully placed, he hadn't known why or how he had ended up in this predicament. 'Two doors,' he thought to himself, " What are the consequences that will greet me...' His black eyes closed swiftly, exhaling before standing to his feet. The man bit at the inside of his cheek nervously walking to the black door that rested to the left. Vasilis's mouth became dry as he gulped down nervously extending his long and shaking fingers outward to grab the silver doorknob. He exhaled loudly pushing the door open with unease. To what lay behind the door was nothing he had expected, it was even a comforting sight... for his home- no, his kingdom of Atlantis laid within the threshold of the ominous doorway. A smile was strewed across his cocky and confident face as he stepped foot through the unknown entity. Vasilis entered into his homeland- he had been spit out within the gardens that had been designed and constructed by his great grandfather father to honor the alliance between man and god. Stories had said the structure was built to be a beacon meant to connect the two lands... the Human realm, and Olympus itself. I walked throughout the giant crystal forged dome, small rainbows raining down over the mass vegetation that thrived within. the centerpiece to the botanical haven had been a golden orb that rested in the hands of a marble sculpted statue of Zeus. I took a deep breath in, breathing in the warm greenhouse air, a mixture of a sweet and soothing aroma entered through my nose. "I made the correct choice," He stated outward as he smiled at the sky, Vasilis's broad shoulders relaxing from their previous tense state, "Nothing feels different..." His smile quickly transformed into a glare. No matter the choice he made, there had to be a form of deleterious effects. There had been only one mortal he had worried for; A man who went by the name Philios. He ruled over the Greek Isles and had been Vasilis's first love interest. "If there will be adverse effects, they will surely come for the one who is closest to me..." I spoke aloud trying to rid my mind of the awful thoughts. "Vasilis." A woman's voice had cast over his body, causing him to jumped from the unexpected presence. "I am faster than the others..." She sat on the concrete bench that sat fixed to a small koi pond. "Who," He shook his head quickly, "Goddess Demeter..." The young prince was scared to look the Greek Goddess in her face, "I wanted to see you before the men got to you." She spoke with a smooth voice, her eyes never leaving him. Vasilis mustered the courage to look at her, his dark eyes widened in shock as the image he was met with was a beautiful woman. "You," his eyes fluttered open and closed as he tried to get a clearer look, her doe eyes were large, and blue, her skin an olive complexion, while her long flowing hair shinned a much brighter golden colour. His weary eyes traced aside from her, "Very few beings look away from the sight of me. You are one of the first I've encountered." Her voice spoke as if it were honey being poured into warm tea. "Your son was made in your image..." He gulped loudly, as he muttered the phrase aloud. "Yes, and for that reason, Philios is my most beautiful creation. Due to your poor choice, I had to be a witness of his demise..." Her sweet voice changed over into a calloused and rough tone. "Perhaps you should look to your brother Posideon for true blame." Vasilis finally gained the courage to glare upwards at the woman. "Oh, my brother has yet to receive his punishment, which entails yours as well." She snuffed me. "You must know- today will be your last day on this Earthly realm." She glared down at me. "Why..." the prince spit out while standing to his feet from the warm ground. The man stood a foot over the Goddess his brow furrowing again, "What did you do to him?" He had almost growled aloud as Vasilis's body began to shake from the fear of his choice. Perhaps he had walked through the wrong door, made the wrong choice... "Prince Vasilis, you and your lover will be reunited in death." Her once deep blue eyes began to change into black, the crystal dome above us cracked down the middle. The change in pressure began directly atop of the two. the Goddesses' long fingers grabbed his face nails digging into his prominent jawline. Her face moved closer to the man. Demeter's skin was hot, the heat bellowing off her marble completion could be felt from a foot away. Fear had coursed throughout the body of Vasilis, rendering his limbs useless, but he wouldn't allow himself to crack, not now with all the questions that remained... ' Move your arm... move your damn arm...' Vasilis screamed at himself internally, ' I will not die here.. .' He slowly lifted his left arm from his side, clinging his fingers tightly to the Goddesses bare neck. Vasilis's teeth ground together in fear as he looked over the woman with wide eyes. He didn't want to miss a moment as he watched the being's face turn red as the oxygen was deprived of her lungs. Her hand still affixed to the prince's face. The dome ahead cracked once again as energy increased above the two, "I'll make sure you suffer for what you have done to the one I loved..." I yelled out, Demeter's hands grabbed the muscular forearm trying to break the grip. Vasilis's right hand met violently with her neck as he squeezed her soft neck. A loud crack pulsed from within the women's body as her spine snapped. The dark-haired man laughed helplessly aloud as he watched the once goddess of Harvest thud to the ground. The sky above cracked loudly with anger. He stood frozen in place once again as tears streamed down his cheeks, the heavy rain poured from the dark sky above leaking down into the garden. The marble statue behind Vasilis cracked loudly, the golden orb that once rested in the Vasilis's body was weak as he fell to his knees, a man towered over him as an unknown voice spoke deeply over me, "You really shouldn't have killed her." the light-skinned man shook his head looking to the dead Goddess than to Vasilis, "Your city will now crumble, nothing will be left after we're done. This is the penalty for your wrong choices." He glared through me, his broad arms shot out, Vasilis had come from royalty, but had only ever heard stories of the mighty Zeus- the stories were true as he witnessed the Gods eye flush to white. ' What extreme pressure he carries with him...' Vasilis examined his broad chest, white beard, tied up hair, and white cloak wrapped around the Gods body. His eyes widened in utter terror as screams from outside the crystal dome shouted around them, "I allowed both Posiden and Prmotheus too much freedom..." Zeus's muscles flexed before me as the ground shook, Vasilis's eyes were wide as his beautiful city began to crack and pop with fire. The high rises that towered over the sea had begun to collapse, and crash into the vast ocean around them. "Stop!" The prince screamed out, this couldn't be real life, all the hard work he and his ancestors had completed, would be reduced to nothing. "If you had chosen the door to the right, I would have spared you, and your metropolis..." the voice boomed as if it were thunder over the naive man. The God looked behind the heir extending his hand out, the golden orb that had rolled onto the concrete began to bubble and change form completely. It was as if the orb had some kind of magnetic properties to it as it flew to theGods hand, it slowly changed from a ball to a long staff. Vasilis closed his eyes tightly as the ground rumbled and quaked below him. Zeus stood directly over the dark-haired heir, "You will be no more." His staff struck Vasilis across the neck, blood squirting out as the ruler fell to the ground aside from the Goddess who was once known as Demeter. Posiden closed his eyes as he breathed outward loudly. "Forgive me, Demeter." The man's arms lifted the woman from the blood-covered ground.

A couple of people asked me to post this on an askreddit thread when I mentioned it, so I thought I'd post it here, it seemed like it fitted. Michael stood with his back to the body of his dead wife, and took a long, weary drag on his cigarette. A lonely pearl of sorrow rolled down his pale cheek, and fell to the ground below. He was told it would help to cry. He was told it would give him ‘closure’. But all it did was remind him how much he missed her. He breathed out, allowing a suited arm to fall to his side and watched, detached, as the smoke drifted away on the breeze, carefree and untroubled by the worries of men. The cigarette was nearing its end. A second tear cruised down his cheek. He sighed. "Dadda” That one word carried for him more emotion than anything he had heard in his miserable life, a stark contrast to the innocence with which it was muttered. Michael turned with a heavy heart to see the short, stunted steps of his beautiful son. His cigarette was almost entirely finished now. Another tear crawled towards his chin. Felix’s messy, blonde hair matched his fathers, but he had his mother’s eyes, pools of wisdom, fascinating and vivid. But they only served to remind Michael of his guilt. Her eyes had been the last thing Michael saw that day. She had died of asphyxiation, from the smoke of the fire. The emergency services were already there when he returned from the shop with Felix. The stove had been left on; Michael had been the one to cook that night. The cigarette was gone now, lost in the jungle of grass. Michael shed one final tear, before wiping the sadness from his face and pulling his son into a tight embrace. Michael took a deep breath, and they turned to face her together. He resolved there and then to do everything to protect Felix, all he had left in the whole world, and to never let him go. Michael was at war. He slashed left and right through the enemy, dragging them to their knees. But all too soon it was over, and Michael stood, resolute among the bodies of the fallen, his vindication shining through the destruction surrounding him. He knew it had been necessary, to protect his son. His young, vulnerable son. He found relief, not pleasure in his actions, seeking only to shield Felix from the world. Only then was the billhook allowed to fall to the ground, replaced by a can of petrol. Michael spent a minute catching his breath, before dousing the ground in petrol. He reached into the recesses of his pocket, withdrew a box of matches, and lit one; it twirled through the air on to the bed of nettles. He looked on grimly as they slowly began to wither and curl in the flames, painfully aware that he could not prevent their return. Michael lit a cigarette. Michael sat in the empty, desolate shell of his house, on a dark September morning gripped in the throes of an autumnal battle, and watched the son he had spent 19 years nurturing and protecting leave his life. He was not a happy man. He had spent the years since his wife’s death keeping his son away from the world, and now he had failed. His son was leaving for a university on the other side of the country, where Michael could not protect him. Where Michael could not ensure he went to bed at the right time, or ate well, or went to the doctor for every tiny ache and pain. So he wept. He allowed the cascade of emotion to erupt from his very soul, and welcomed the feel of pain in his chest, comforting him with its familiarity, until no more tears came. Then he lit a cigarette. But it did not hold the same appeal now, the arid smoke slowly choking him like ash filling up his battered lungs. So he cast it aside, and once again began to weep. Michael stood with his back to the body of his dead son, and stared out across the rolling green ocean stretching out in front of him, punctuated by regular markers of death. There were no tears now; he had none left to give. He knew now it would not help to cry. He knew he would never get ‘closure’. He turned, this time alone, to face the graves of his family. He remarked on their passing to himself. A fire and a car accident. His son had been drunk. It was the last in a chain of mad stunts. Michael blamed his constant restraint and protection. To him, his grave was here now too. This time, there was no cigarette.

Every night at midnight, the purple clouds appeared in the blushing sky. With their arrival, pink flower petals fell from their depths for a solid hour each night. With the rain came a knowledge of things beyond the average person’s ken, but such was not the case with Aoife. Even though she was sixty-four, she awaited the rain each night for she knew it held mystery and power able to change her life. This evening was no different. From the bedroom window, Aoife could hear the chirping of crickets and the see the pink petals floating across dew-filled air, heralding the midnight hour. In anticipation, she froze. The flimsy curtain billowed in the breeze, floating about her and mimicking the clouds. Bong.... Aoife heard the chime of the grandfather clock. Two more strokes and it was midnight. Aoife held her breath and peered at the sky, a fervent prayer on her lips. Despite her plea, only the crickets responded, seeming to mock her long-awaited desire for more. Disappointed, Aoife sighed. She was about to seek the solace of her bed when from the grounds below, a movement caught her eye in the darkness. She squinted, attempting to identify who or what it was, but any further movement eluded her. She closed the window, sure it had been an animal. The sound of a knock broke the silence. Startled, Aoife quickly pulled on her shawl, wrapping it around her shoulders. Who the devil was here at such a late hour? She made her way down the rickety staircase. A light rap on the heavy paneled doors came again. Pausing in front of the door and attempting to sound brave, Aoife asked, “Who goes there?” “Seamus. I’ve come a long way to see you.” A man’s voice, thick with Celtic brogue, responded. Aoife took three steps backward. Who the devil was Seamus and what could he want with her? Surely he did not expect a woman, all alone, to answer the door for a stranger. At an attempt at bravado, Aoife barked, “I don’t care who you are - be on your way, I’ve no need of you this night.” Quiet ensued for long minutes before the man spoke again, his voice oddly laced with humor. “Are you quite certain, Aoife? I’ve hear you’re longing for something new. I’m prepared this eventide to help you with such an endeavor.” At the continued silence, he added, “I assure you, another opportunity will not come beyond the light of dawn.” Surprise flickered across Aoife’s face. A million questions surfaced in her mind. How did this stranger know her? What could he know about what she longed for? Enlightenment suddenly struck. The wondrous pink flower petals had surely sent this man, whomever he might be. Without further contemplation, she swung the door wide. Her face alight, Aoife studied the man standing before her. His hair was thick, a vibrant red, and his emerald eyes twinkled in the moonlight as he returned the look she gave him. He was tall, lean, and dressed immaculately in dark clothing and knee-high boots. He held a riding crop though there was no horse in sight. Aoife’s mind raced. Was Seamus here to harm her or to help her? There was only one way to know. “Well, come inside if you must,” Aoife said, moving aside so he could enter. “I’ll put the kettle on for tea.” “Oh, sweet Aoife, do you not have something a wee bit stronger? It’s been a tumultuous journey,” the stranger said, doffing his hat and laying it upon the table. Aoife eyed the man, but then nodded and pointed for him to take a seat at the table. If indeed the pink petals had sent him, she had no time to waste and would gift him with what his heart desired. From the cupboard, she pulled a bottle of amber-colored liquid and two glasses. She’d likely need a strong drink of whiskey, too. Placing the drink before him, she noticed the man still held the riding crop across his lap as if his life depended on it. S he took a seat across from him and drank from her glass of whiskey, hoping it would steady her nerves and allay her fears. “Oh, but you’re a good woman, Aoife,” Seamus said with delight, following suit and drinking of the whiskey. Aoife studied him. While somewhat odd in appearance, he was attractive, and certainly charming, too. She cleared her throat. “About the pink petals, Mister Seamus....” “I insist you call me Seamus." He smiled, an engaging one full of mirth. "Indeed, Aoife, your time has come. The pink flower petals have favored you, and I am at your service.” “I’m not sure I understand. Whatever could you possibly do?” Aoife asked, perplexed. “Do you not know, Aoife?” Seamus said with a wink. “I am a goblin and ready to bring your desires to life.” He grew serious. “Ah, but I’m guessing you’ve not met a goblin before dearie.” Aoife shook her head. She had, of course, heard many a story about goblins, but nary one had ever made an appearance at her door before tonight. It was about damn time. Aoife drained her whiskey. “Well, I’m ready and have been for a very long time,” she said. “I like your spirit, Aoife,” Seamus said and drained his whiskey. He held his empty glass out, and Aoife served him ample more. Aoife’s heart lifted. Here was her chance. In sixty-four years, she’d lived mostly alone. Despite the fact she’d married at sixteen, she’d had to bury her husband ten years later. In ten years, he’d never proven to be more than a friend. She’d given birth to and raised three sons, but now they seldom spared time to visit. Her life had been lonely. She had only been comforted by the memory of a long lost love. How different things would have been had she married Paddy. Foolishly, she’d thought her husband could offer more. Finally, she’d been gifted the opportunity to recapture lost love. Aoife’s heart swelled with joy. She could be young again, with Paddy. She stood and smiled at Seamus. “Let’s get this thing done. I told you, I’m ready,” she urged. “Are you sure, Aoife? You will not be able to travel between the two worlds. Your children will no longer be able to see you. Your life will be completely different,” Seamus cautioned. Aoife’s smile turned to a scowl. “My sons aren’t around now! I’ve got my life to live, and I told you, I’m ready.” She could scarcely wait to be with Paddy again. Seamus stood and carefully lifted the riding crop. “All right, Aoife. If you’re absolutely, positively sure, I’ll give you your heart’s desire and make you young again. You’ll be wife to Paddy, your lost love.” His eyes grew more serious with the words. “May you be happy, Aoife.” With a wave of the riding crop, time changed in a pink-tinted flash. **** Aoife awoke to the crowing of roosters. The sun was breaking through the dingy curtains as she opened her eyes. Confused for only a moment, Aoife bolted upright in the bed. She remembered full and well where she was supposed to be. Looking down, she saw long strands of brown hair instead of gray ones. Joy filled her for she was young again. Still, this was not what she’d expected; she was all alone. Suddenly, Paddy burst through the door, his hair disheveled, his clothes rumpled and dirty. He was unshaven even though it was past dawn. It was obvious to any observer he’d likely slept in his clothes. “Aoife, the kids are hungry,” he barked, apparently irritated by her still being in bed. “Why aren’t you up?” “Paddy,” she stuttered. “I’m so happy to see you.” A smile lit Aoife’s face. Paddy spun about, glaring in disbelief. “Happy to see me, are you? Well, how about being happy to see your six hungry youngins in the next room! They’ve been awake and ready for breakfast since sunup!” He made no effort to disguise his irritation. “Of course, Paddy. I’ll see to it immediately.” Aoife smoothed her hair into a bun and threw the covers wide, growing suddenly self-conscious as she emerged from the bedsheets. Six children? How in the world had that happened? She blushed a bright red. She knew precisely how it had happened, but still, six children?! Obviously, they were still very much in love, so Paddy’s impatience must have stemmed from hunger. Aoife opened the door to find six bright-eyed, red-faced children between the ages of one and twelve. Small fingers tugged at her apron as she tied it around her waist. Tears streaked the faces of at least two children begging to be held. Not taking the time to address their individual needs, Aoife quickly lit the stove. It wouldn’t do to upset Paddy further. Despite the chaos, she smiled. She and Paddy would have this evening to reacquaint themselves. Aoife spent the day performing a variety of chores: cleaning, cooking, gardening, tending kids, and washing clothes. In addition, Paddy expected her help in the fields. Aoife assumed he’d decided to farm instead of helping with his father’s mercantile business. While it didn’t make much sense, Aoife reminded herself money wasn’t everything. The love she remembered with Paddy had been spectacular and would carry them through anything. Still, she couldn’t wait to sit down after supper and find out more about this life she found herself in. It was all somewhat unexpected. Later that evening, Aoife felt as though she had a moment to herself. The children had been fed, washed, and were now abed. She glanced at Paddy, who sat slowly rocking before the hearth, smoking his pipe and reading a book. He seemed oblivious to her presence. Aoife pushed stray hairs back from her face. She was sure she looked a fright. She was hot and tired after the busy day. She hurried outside where the air was cooler to gather her thoughts. Pulling the kerchief from her head, she dipped it in the water pail, using it to freshen up. She’d change for bed and then ask Paddy to sit down for a long, much anticipated conversation. Butterflies of anticipation filled her stomach at the thought. So as not to interrupt Paddy while reading, Aoife quietly reentered the house and moved to the bedroom. She changed into bed clothes and brushed her hair, deciding to leave it down. Paddy had always loved her long hair and stroked it affectionately. She couldn’t wait for him to show such affection and whisper sweet words of love again. Entering the room, she thought Paddy still read from his book, but on closer inspection, Aoife learned his head hung down as he snored softly. Paddy had fallen asleep, and Aoife's heart warmed at the sight. It had been an exhausting day. Still, there was much she needed to say to the man, so she must wake him. Aoife knelt before the rocking chair. “Paddy. Wake up. Please wake up, dear Paddy,” she said, lightly touching his knee. Paddy jumped, opened his eyes, and sputtered. “What’s wrong? Why’d you wake me?” He stood upright, dislodging Aoife’s hand from his knee. “Damn! How many times do I have to tell you not to wake me, woman?” he barked, clearly exasperated with her. Surprised by his anger, Aoife stood and studied him. This was not someone she remembered so fondly from youth. No, this was not the Paddy who had lingered in her memories for so long. What kind of man had he become? “Paddy, I just want to talk,” Aoife said, lightly touching his arm in reassurance. “ Talk? When you know how tired I am, Aoife?” He pried her fingers from his arm. “What is it now? What could you possibly want to talk about? This better be good, Aoife, because I’m tired of your nonsense.” Aoife stepped back, staring at Paddy in disbelief. Despite giving birth to six children, she knew she still made a pretty picture. She had believed their reunion would be more pleasant, especially in view of the six sleeping children they’d created together, but it seemed that time had not been a friend to them. Never had she been spoken to or disrespected in such a way. Aoife squinted at Paddy and poked his chest hard with her finger. “Who the devil do you think you’re talking to, Paddy McLeod? How dare you speak to me like that?! I’m your wife and the mother of your children - six children, that is! And while we’re talking, please explain why we’re working so hard on this farm instead of you helping with the mercantile business?” Paddy was clearly confused. “ Are you daft, woman? We lost the store after Pa died five years ago. This farm is our only means of putting food on the table and a roof over our heads. You’re talking nonsense! ” Still shaking his head, he headed to the bedroom. “I’m tired and going to bed. I’ll hear no more from you tonight, Aoife McLeod.” Shaken, Aoife sat in the rocking chair, staring into the fire. It blazed a pink hue, taunting and reminding her of the pink petals. She had truly believed the petals would bring her a new destiny. She’d been so hopeful but that hope was gone now. She didn’t know how long she sat there, but a dawning awareness filled her. Love was much more than butterflies in the stomach, affectionate strokes of the hair, and whispered, sweet words. She remembered the gravity she’d seen in Seamus’ eyes as he’d lifted the riding crop. He’d known full well she would learn her lesson too late. Deciding she needed something for courage to face tomorrow, Aoife went in search of whiskey. She found it hidden high in a cabinet and poured herself a generous measure. She wondered if one bottle would be enough. Sitting at the table, she downed a glass and poured another. The amber liquid burnt as it traveled through her body. Hopefully, it would warm the chill that had invaded her body. Curse the bloody pink petals. Never had she been in need of drink so badly before. **** Dawn was breaking and light streaming through the draperies when Aoife awoke, still groggy from the amount of alcohol she’d imbibed the previous night. The table was hard beneath her arms and head. She must have fallen asleep there instead of in the bedroom. Well, that was all well and good since she’d no desire to lay next to Paddy after their conversation - if one could call it that. Rubbing her eyes, Aoife wondered why the sound of roosters and crying children did not yet fill her ears. Looking about, she stared wide-eyed at her surroundings. Quickly loosening her bun, she found gray-streaked hair. Relief filled her. She was no longer at the farmhouse, no longer Paddy’s wife, and no longer young and mother of six. She was back at her home where she belonged. It must have all been a dream! Relieved, Aoife sank down in the chair. She could not wait to see her sons! Never would she have thought she’d be so happy to be sixty-four, living a mundane existence in an all-too familiar home while looking forward to seeing her children, but she was. Thank the heavens above it had been a dream - albeit a horrible dream, but still just a dream. Tears filled Aoife’s eyes. She had been so foolish. She would never make another wish and she would never give Paddy McLeod another thought as long as she lived. Her husband, God rest his soul, had always treated her with the care and affection, his respect all too obvious in all he said or did. She wanted to weep, so intense was the breath and scope of regret. Her husband must have loved her even though he didn’t stroke her hair or whisper sweet nothings in her ear. More to the point, she now realized she had loved him, too. The irony of the situation did not escape her. She’d learned her lesson and wouldn’t forget it. Life and love were much more than trivial, small things; they were the depth and dimension of years well-lived while shared with a comfortable friend. Love was respect and devotion, loyalty and friendship. Aoife sat at the table a long while. Perhaps she ought never to pick up the bottle again, she thought, stifling a laugh. She stood, and as she reached to put away the bottle of whiskey, she stopped abruptly. Before her, on the table, was not only her empty glass but another one, and beside it lay a man’s black hat. Aoife reached to lift the hat from the table and held it closer. She found bright, red strands of hair stuck to the dark material. Seamus, the goblin was real. Did that mean what she’d experienced had been real, too, and not a dream? Maybe she shouldn’t have been so quick to damn the pink petals. If the magic petals had truly brought Seamus to her world and given her an opportunity to revisit a lost youth, at least they’d seen fit to restore her life when she’d realized her mistake. She’d never look at those pink petals that rained from the sky every night at midnight in the same wistful way again. They were far more powerful - and wiser - than she’d ever been. A loud knock sounded, and Aoife could hear laughter coming from the other side of the heavy doors. Cautiously, she made her way to the door and opened it. To her surprise, six men and women entered, laughing while each hugging and kissing Aoife in greeting. “Morning, Mum. What’s for breakfast?” they all shouted in unison. “We’re starving.”

Most people have at least one talent that they really excel at. Some special people have never met anyone who could outclass them at their talent. Fortunately for Arnold York, he was one of them. His special talent was duelling with pistols. As a member of high society, the opportunity to duel his rival noblemen presented itself rather frequently. It was customary in this place and time for gentlemen to settle their disagreements in combat, and pistols were currently the most popular weapon. As he gained his reputation as an 'unbeatable' duelist, he was provided target practice in the form of a few fools who fancied themselves a good shot. York accepted every challenge he received, and won them too. His skill made him essentially untouchable for most. Any man who had a qualm with him would back down rather than face death. As you might expect, this safety made him a troublemaker. An avid womaniser, he did not fear the anger of fathers. Yes, he had plenty of enemies, but he stayed on the good side of the right powerful people, protecting himself from assassination. He took care to make enemies only with the weak. His flamboyant character kept him in the good graces of the public. York always used the same strategy in a duel; once the start had been called, rather than turning to fire immediately, he would duck or throw himself to the ground. His opponent would then miss his shot, and York would take his time aiming properly, shooting the other man dead every time. Any commander worth his salt knows it is foolish to use the same strategy so frequently, but it worked for York. His opponents knew what he would do, but they still could never hit him. The secret to York's victory was simple: he was a cheat. Were he born two hundred years earlier, he would be a court Jester. Two hundred years later, a stage magician. He was a master of showmanship and sleight of hand. Everywhere he went, he would carry with him a duelling pistol with a blank shot. He would put on a show before the duel, captivating the attention of all who were watching, then diverting it elsewhere for a brief moment, during which he switched one pistol for the one loaded with a blank. Alternatively, he would have his servant replace it beforehand. If he was being challenged, he would provide his own set, and then use body language and subtle suggestion to coax his unaware opponent into choosing the sabotaged pistol. The reason he always let the other man fire first was so that the blank shot would not be discovered afterward. York's latest duel was with a stranger named Harrow. York had not wronged Harrow, but Harrow had challenged him nevertheless. Harrow claimed merely to be seeking a challenge, but York suspected he was hired by a certain local landowner whose daughter York had recently slept with. He was not bothered by the deception; he would win the duel regardless of Harrow's motive and leave for the next town. Since Harrow had challenged York, York provided the weapons and Harrow would choose first. This meant that York did not have to switch the pistols in the presence of witnesses, but he did have to force Harrow to choose the sabotaged pistol. This always proved trickier, but it was a skill he practiced extensively on his servants. The pistols were always prepared such that the steel components on the sabotaged one were slightly more polished, mostly to make a more attractive choice to the unsuspecting victim, but also to tell York which was which. As York's servant opened the pistol case, York checked that the shinier one was on the left as always. York took care to always stand on the right, as the challenger would be more likely to choose the pistol closest to himself. Noticing that the sabotaged pistol had sunken deeper into the velvet than its sibling (making it less prominent), he flourished his hand towards a nearby tree, making idle conversation about Autumn's early colours. It is natural for humans to follow a moving object with their eyes. If the object moves in a straight line, the natural response is to snap back to where the object started. But if the object moves in an arc, people's eyes will remain fixed on it when it stops. This effect is what York was taking advantage of. He moved his hand in a large arc towards the tree, diverting everyone's eyes from the pistol case as he lifted the sabotaged one into a more attractive spot. When everyone finally returned their gaze to York, they were none the wiser to his little adjustment. Suddenly, Harrow slapped York's hat off his head. The hat fell behind him and York stumbled in surprise. After York had regained his hat and balance, Harrow explained that there had been a wasp on the hat and he was simply saving him from a sting. This unconvincing story put York in a foul mood. "I'll be glad to shoot this impudent bastard!" he thought. "Enough talk, choose your weapon." he said disdainfully. He smiled as Harrow picked up the pistol on the left and walked to his position. York took the other pistol and did the same. They turned their backs and waited for the signal. As it came, York ducked down immediately and spun around. But strangely, Harrow had not fired. He was just standing there, watching York. He wasn't even aiming his pistol. "What is he playing at? Is he just trying to do something differently from the others? I ought to shoot him anyway. I'll fire the other pistol into the air later to get rid of the blank." he thought. He stood up, aimed his pistol at Harrow, and pulled the trigger. A blast came from the barrel, but as the smoke cleared, Harrow was unharmed. Harrow grinned sardonically as he raised his pistol to level with York's chest, the flintlock glinting in the sunlight.

When I touch people they turn into bears. My mom told me to keep it a secret. She said that’s why she doesn’t say “I love you” out loud. I could accidentally slip up and give her a hug, and then who would cook me dinner? Who would drive me to school in the morning? I just got curious I guess. It had been so long since it actually happened. Last time I was six and my uncle had just died from cancer. I touched him on the arm on his bed. Everyone sort of gasped when he transformed. When I tiptoed up to the coffin at the funeral I saw a teddy bear with a pale face and closed eyes, dressed in a little black suit. Again that was so long ago, I can barely remember. I’m used to not touching anyone nowadays, really. But when I see a fluffy beard or afro, or the smile of my friend when I am sad and not having such a good day, I sort of want to reach forward and touch them with the tip of my pinky. Today was just another day in English. He was sitting in front of me as he always did, green hoody, his elbow slouched on his desk. My crush with the sideswept Korean drama playboy bangs that I’d watched from afar for a year. I’d thought for so many times that if I reached forward, no one would notice. And today was perfect. Mr. Krueger had given us ten minutes to meditate at our desks. It was dark. Everyone was asleep. No one would see me. His hoody would protect him from bearification. So I put my pinky on the outermost crease of his hoody, where it was so baggy it definitely was far from his body. But as soon as I touched him he jerked awake and his elbow came into contact with my pinky. Pop! There was a teddy bear in front of me where my dream boy had been sitting. The lights went on and people started murmuring. I didn’t wait to look around and see what was going on. I made straight for the exit, slammed the doors of the hallway open, and ran the whole fifteen minutes home, slamming the front door closed behind me and barricading it with a chair. I ran into my room and stuffed my backpack with a water bottle, my mp3 player, and random stuff. No one was home. Soon I heard some rustling and men yelling outside. There was a big cracking sound, like wood breaking, being smashed in. “Halt!” said a voice behind me. I turned. A man wearing a helmet aimed a gun at me. “You, the Teddy Bear Toucher. Freeze!” “I just wanted one touch, I swear!” He rushed towards me and I dodged, bumping against him as I escaped. Pop! He was a teddy bear, lying on the floor, his helmet knocked to the side. I sprinted out of the house. For what seemed like hours I dodged this way and that, until I was deep into the wilderness behind my house. I knew where I’d be safe. I crept into the urine-stained tunnel under the old bridge, by which I could escape to the other side of town. Pigeons cooed from dark overhead corners. My heart was still slamming against my ribcage like mad. I just wanted a little touch, I thought. I didn’t want to hurt anyone. But you know how it is. No one wants to be turned into teddy bears. I took out my mp3 player and plugged in my music. Something comforting, like The Coloring Book album from Chance the Rapper. His music feels like how I imagine a hug could be. Warm and inviting, soul-surrounding. I feel like the soul of that human is being sung to me so I can be warm inside. I took Snuggles out of my backpack. He was an OG teddy bear that had come with a pack of laundry detergent my mom had bought once. I could hug him all I wanted and he wouldn’t turn into anything else but himself. He was worn and fuzzy from all the hugs I had given him over the years. I hugged Snuggles tight and imagined he was a real live bear hugging me back and telling me everything was going to be okay. He hugged me back as tight as he could with his little arms. Our hugs filled my soul and expanded my mind, filling me with soft cotton plush warmth. When the men with helmets and guns walked by, we were just two stuffed animals under a bridge.

August 18, 2020 It’s official. I have decided to set off to Xi’an by train, boat, car, whatever mode of transportation there is available to go on an archeology trip with Professor Langley to discover the secret behind the tomb of the Jade Empress. It’s funny how a month ago how I was still contemplating about the whole situation when I sat down with the good ol’ prof to talk about relics from Xi’an. The next thing I knew the professor had gone from talking about ancient relics and artifacts to telling me about the great discovery of the infamous Jade Empress’s tomb. “It’s just astonishing, and perhaps one of the greatest discoveries in archeology! You must come on this trip this time; it is a sight that you, my friend are not going to want to miss.” Gushed the professor, excitement evident in his eyes. I winced, knowing the last time I agreed to going on one of the professor’s archeology trips, how it turned from a peaceful trip at first to battling creatures like Candle Snakes, Vampire Beetles, and Human Faced Birds to survive. Thanks to my previous experiences as a grave robber and my wits, me and the prof were able to survive. Others of our party weren’t so lucky. Either smashed, eaten, or torn to pieces, the members of our party dropped like flies, leaving only me and the prof as the only survivors. If this trip down to the Jade Empress’s tomb was going to be anything like our last one, I absolutely was not going to go. “Prof, if this trip down to the Jade Empress’s tomb is going to anything like the last time-” “Of course not, I guarantee you it’s not going to be anything like Xuquetala’s Temple; I did my research.” “It better be. We almost lost our lives down there in that tomb. I still haven’t recovered from the amount of physical activity we had to do to keep our heads on. After what we went through, I’m not sure if I’m ready to go down another tomb this soon.” “My dear old friend, I assure you, there will not be any traps or mechanisms.” “You said that the last time when we went down that temple.” “If I am wrong, I will allow you to take some artifacts that you can sell in your shop.” “Deal.” And just like that, I found myself sitting on a train sharing a bunk bed with the prof, who is currently taking a nap. The prof had explained to me that we would first take the train to New York City before taking a plane to Beijing, China and then taking a bus to Zhejiang and then we are meeting our designated guide and going via car to Xi’an where we would meet up with the rest of the archeology team. The prof said the archeology expedition into the Jade Empress’s tomb would be more than a month in total and that our trip down to the Empress's tomb would be smooth as downing sake. I couldn’t help but think that this trip is too coincidental. Several days ago, my good buddy Chatterbox had gone off to China to earn some “big money” from a job he accepted. I pestered him for several hours trying to squeeze some information about his employers, but it was like trying to squeeze blood from a turnip. Even more strange, my Uncle Rosalind had gone off to China to take care of some “family business”, which left me, the heiress of the family, nothing to do except mind my antique shop and find something to do. Despite my family’s wishes for me to stay out of the family business and settle down and have children to carry on the family lineage, I was determined to prove to them that a woman could make her own way of the world and be just as good as a male relative of the family; particularly my Uncle Rosalind, who was infamous for his grave robbing skills. Uncle Rosalind did not agree to take me under his tutelage at first, but after months and months of trying to prove myself to him, he finally relented under the condition that I keep the fact that he was training me in the ways of grave robbing a secret from the elders of the family. So, at the age of twelve, every day after school, I underwent several hours of training for the next six years, until on the day of my eighteenth birthday, I secretly decided I was old enough and had enough experience to go and explore a tomb by myself. My uncle was furious when he found out and punished me with extra training for a week saying that I was not ready to go down a tomb and that he will decide when I am ready. That day eventually did come two years later, when my uncle brought me along to explore the tomb of a Qin Dynasty noble, which was anything but an ordinary tomb as we avoided traps, mechanisms, and mutated creatures beyond our imagination. We managed to come out alive, but that was the last time I would go down a tomb until four years later, when my uncle contacted me again. By that time, my shop was in a comfortable position as I had earned quite a bit of profit. And so, my adventures with Uncle Rosalind resumed, up until I met Chatterbox and Ace. My uncle had also decided that I did not need his tutelage anymore as I proved to be “a grave robber as good as himself, perhaps even better.” The three of us had explored many tombs together and encountered many weird and strange things. We never spoke a word of it to anyone and vowed to keep what we saw to ourselves. I ended up writing my experiences in a journal which turned into at least several notebooks that were kept in a hidden safe in my shop. Chatterbox thought I was an idiot to do that, but I didn’t care. “We might need them someday, if an emergency comes.” I said in a hopefully convincing tone. “The only emergency that you’re going to get is a knock side up the head for such a stupid idea.” Grumbled Chatterbox. I had to admit, he was right. But it’s better to leave some information behind for others to find instead of none at all. I can hear the prof snoring below me in great volumes. I better plug in my earplugs if I want to sleep soundly tonight. The prof snores like a volcano getting ready to erupt, which is why most of the time I always end up trying to sleep first. This is Reese Hurrikane, signing off. August 22, 2020 This cannot get any worse than today out of all days as I am sitting in a room with a big, buffoon of a goon of Lina Matejovsky, the one person I did not expect to see here, although actually now that I think about it, why wouldn’t she since her company is all over the country, thanks to her boss, the ever so cunning Hendry Maddox, aka the long time enemy of my Uncle Rosalind. We would be on our merry way to Zhejiang by now, but clearly Lina’s boss had other ideas for me and the prof. So now, in addition to being camera monitored in our own hotel rooms, we are not allowed to leave our until we agree to go back from where we came from and forget about Xi’an. Something tells me that Maddox has some sort of development project up his sleeve with the tomb, or he just wants to exploit the tomb and its treasures. I can imagine the professor is just sweating it right now and trying not to lose his sanity as he knows I’ll be the one to rescue him and get us out of any situation. Later One thing I would like to say before I start where I left off, WHAT IN THE ACTUAL HELL JUST HAPPENED. To sum it up, little miss lady agent decided to bust me and the prof out, with the help of Ace, who managed to cause a brief distraction for about five minutes to make sure we gave the goons the slip before they made haste with the chase. With Ace’s help, we managed to get away and hide out in a shop. Afterwards, we ended up staying at another hotel, where I angrily questioned Ace about how in the name of god he knew where I was and how he ended up working with Lina to bust me out. Ace being the moody person he is, answered my questions with succinct answers before he bugged off, while the prof was just grateful to Ace. As for me and Lina, well Lina and I have a complicated relationship. Despite the fact that we’re on opposite sides, she’s shown me kindness and mercy to me at least several times in the past when we crossed paths. But then again, there were times where she was selfish when it comes to survival and tried to protect herself first. She almost never smiles and for some reason doesn’t know how to take a joke much less seem to have a sense of humor. She’s just as cunning as that boss of hers and just as shrewd when making deals to collaborate. I never quite understood Lina and her motives, as her character was like a chameleon, changing its color to fit its surroundings. I still remember the first time we met, and how she elbowed me in the face and knocked me out with a hit to the neck deliberately. Good ol’ times. I never said this in front of her face, but she’s grown softer and slightly merciful as time passed, and once I managed to get just a glimpse of her vulnerable side that she kept so hard to hide away. I just hope she doesn’t hear that from me, or else she’s probably going to have to kick me in my reproduction parts for calling her soft hearted. Speaking of Lina, after dropping me, the prof, and Ace at another hotel, she told us this was the only time (and last time probably, knowing Lina) that she was doing us a favor and left. Typical Lina. Always once in a blue moon she ends up helping us out whenever we get into a sticky situation. In my opinion, she should do that more often, but she’ll probably never want to help us again if I say that. Ace is still moody as ever, just sulking in a corner near the window, looking at the cityscape that’s dotted with lights, illuminating the shape and design of the buildings down below. Despite the fact that we were safe for now, I knew we couldn’t stay here another day longer, without arousing the suspicions of Maddox. I declared to the both of them that we would rest here tonight and depart for Zhejiang tomorrow morning immediately. Ace nodded in approval at my words before he slipped back into gazing out the window. The prof had busied himself with relaying to the archeology team at Xi’an of our situation, and his face couldn’t look anymore irritated than ever. He couldn’t help but mutter unintelligible curses under his breath as his fingers typed furiously on his laptop at a fast speed, something about “darn plans being dragged out” and “that ape of a goon”. I couldn't help but softly chuckle at the prof, hunched over at his screen, his eyes moving back and forth across the bright screen. Clearly, it must’ve been his first time encountering Lina's men. Those big goons of hers don’t know the meaning of gentle. The amount of times that I’ve fought with them, is enough to make sure my fighting skills are on par and make sure I kept up my exercise. “It’s for you.” said Ace tapping my shoulder, handing me his phone. “Hello?” I answered casually. “Oi, Hurrikane. I heard you got yourself in trouble with Lina.” I shook my head smiling. I knew that British accented voice anywhere. Good old Chatterbox. “Hello to you too. So, you’ve heard?” “It figures since I caught wind of one of Lina’s men while I was on business.” “Business? I thought you were making big money?” “I was, until some bloke botched the expedition and left the whole team hanging. Now the expedition is supposed to take 3 more days before reaching our destination.” “Are you still in Beijing?” “Does that concern you?” “Never mind. How did you know Ace was here with me and the prof?” “I have my sources. What are you and the old geezer are up to this time?” I paused, trying to figure out if I wanted to tell Chatterbox about the Empress’s tomb, but he beat me right to it by saying, “You wouldn’t happen to be going after the bloody Empress’s tomb would ya mate?” My eyes widened in surprise as I quickly regained seriousness and hissed out “How do you know about that? Nobody knows except for me and the prof!” “It doesn’t matter how I know. Listen, I heard that tomb is going to be a real piece of work. You’re going to need all the help you can get to survive down there.” “Chatterbox, I’m sure I’ll be fine-” “What do you mean you’ll be fine; you bloody won’t be. You’re a nitwit if you think you’re going down that tomb with just Ace and the old geezer. Blimey, I’ll be damned if you come out of the tomb in one piece.” “Chatterbox-” “Don’t Chatterbox me, I’ll meet you blokes at Xi’an as soon as possible. Now quit yakking and get some sleep. You’ll need all the rest you can get. Toodles mate.” The line went dead before I could say anything else to refute. I sighed. Looks like things are going to get shaken up pretty quick. As Chatterbox used to say "Something is cooking, and it ain't stew." This is Reese Hurrikane, signing off.

INSIDE THE SQUARE CIRCLE Walking up front street past the Esso garage in North Shields, three miles past Newcastle upon Tyne the smoke from the coal fires rose up through chimney's on the houses of the notorious Ridges Estate climbed high into the sky. The houses had been built to house the fishermen and shipyard workers in the town in 1948 after the outbreak of Tuberculosis and other diseases caused by poor living conditions forced the council to build a new housing estate. The smell caught the back Terry’s throat as he crossed the road onto Scorer Street. His legs ached as he looked left and right as his mother had taught him. He coughed then took the strap from his haversack he was carrying and readjusted it. It had his plimsolls, vest, and a pair of football shorts that were way too big for him inside. Slinging it back over his shoulder, he hurried along towards the North Shields Boys Club on Scorer Street where he'd been a member for just over a year. passing the park he looked inside through the wooden railings to see if he could see anyone he knew. There was swings being used by some older boys who stood on the wooden seats and worked the swings higher and higher. There was a shuggy boat and a slide that no one was using because it was soaking wet from the rain that had came down in torrents that afternoon. The tennis courts at the back of the park had large puddles as well, no one could play when the ground was wet. However, it did not deter the boys playing football near the toilets at the bottom end of the park. Terry walked on he had to be at the boys club for six o'clock to meet Joe Myers his boxing coach. Joe Myers was a black ex-professional boxer had come over to England from Jamaica like a lot of Jamaicans and Africans on the Emperor Windrush during the early 1940's. Joe had fought on boxing shows in South Shields and Newcastle's St James Hall. It was a hard way to make a living but that’s what he did to feed his family. When he retired he took up various labouring jobs. Then someone approached him and asked if he would teach boxing at the Boys Club, Joe agreed and three times each week he would turn up in his free time to teach kids how to box. That all changed when Terry started. Joe then turned up every night for two years to train him. For over six months he sweated and strained to do exercises specially designed to strengthen his legs. Every night he did the same set of leg exercises until his thighs burned with the effort. Fifteen years Joe ended up coaching boys at the club, it had had passed by so quickly. Joe was now in his early fifties, he was was still enthusiastic and he had a fine boxing team. Terry remembered the very first time he met the man who was to change his life forever. Terry walked through the double doors leading into the North Shields boys club where he was met by a broad shouldered man wearing a brown tweed coat. His hair was neatly combed and he wore a walrus moustache. He ushered Terry into his office where he explained the rules of the club. Looking down at the young boy Harry Martin realised that this young boy was limited to what he could do. Going into a drawer on his large wooden desk he pulled out a set of darts and handed them to the boy. “Come with me son said the club leader and Terry followed. Harry led the boy through another door into an empty room. The first thing to hit Terry’s nose was the smell of stale sweat and lineament. It was the same stuff his father used on his bad leg. Harry showed him the dart board then walked away and left him to it. Terry stood awkwardly in his calliper boots trying to hit a dartboard that resembled the back of a camels arse. It was old and all the stuffing was coming out of it. The lime green coloured wall where the dartboard was fixed onto had many tiny dots on it where people thrown darts that had missed and hit the wall. There was also small pinholes on the red lino flooring that covered the floor where the darts had bounced out of the board. Four yellow painted doors surrounded the room. One led into another room where there hung several punching bags. the red painted floor had some hard rubber mats that they used for doing floor exercises. in the left hand corner of the room there was a speed ball and a platform that the boxers used to stand on to reach it. Further on there was an old bike on rollers. If sat on wrongly it would spring up and you would fall off. There was a long mirror on the opposite wall used for shadow boxing. Another door led to the changing rooms and a shower. This was something of a luxury to Terry who had never used a shower before because he only got bathed once a week in his house and that was on a Sunday. He usually went in with his younger brother to save on the hot water. The rest of the time he had to wash himself using the stone sink in the scullery. There was another door in the changing room that led to the upstairs gym where football, judo and gymnastics took place. A head popped around the door later that evening and the boy saw a large black man wearing a trilby hat, a white shirt, and jacket. His big brown eyes widened as he looked at the boy and said "Has you seen ma' boxers.' "No Sir, I'm the only one here Terry replied timidly.' He stood looking at the boy then said in a softly spoken voice "Do you wanna' be a boxer? "Me box? I cant, I have to wear this thing on my leg.' looking down the man saw that the boy was wearing a pair calliper Boots which had a metal brace strapped around the lower part of his knee. "How long you been wearing that thing on your leg sonny? "Since I was three I think, mam says I had to wear special shoes when I began to walk, but I kept on falling down so they operated on me then gave me these boots to wear.' "Well I can help to strengthen that leg of yours if you let me.’ "Will you, really? “Yes, come with me sonny.' The Terry’s boots reverberated off the lino flooring as he followed the big man. The man walked smoothly like a giant panther to the cupboard and reaching inside it he picked up what looked like a leather football. "Now see this here ball? I want you to lie on the mat there and place this ball between you legs and try and lift it. Can you do that for me?' "Yes sir, The boy got down onto the floor area onto one of the mat's. It was cold against the skin of his thighs because he was wearing short pants. He tried to hide the hole in the back that had been patched, it was coming away and there was a small hole that showed his bum. Forgetting that, he tried as hard as he could to lift the ball. He could only get it only a few inches off the floor. Joe began to set out the equipment but kept watching. "Now sonny,' you keep doing that until I come back. take a rest if you gets tired you hear.' "Yes, said the Terry panting.' Some five minutes had elapsed which had seemed like a lifetime when the man returned. "Okay you can rest now.' "Can you get up on your own?' Terry got up shakily then looked at the black man who was carrying a large pair of boxing gloves. They were brown in colour and made from leather and stuffed with horse hair. "Come here sonny, and put on these here gloves.' Walking nervously towards the man the boy stuck out a skinny little arm the man pulled on the glove that came right up to the elbow. Once the man had tied it Terry gave him his other arm. When he was done. the man asked" Is you Orthodox or southpaw? "None of those said Terry enthusiastically, I come from North Shields.' The man threw back his head and began to laugh. "What's so funny?' "Look,' if you had to fight someone how would you hold your hands?’ "I don't fight, cannot fight, I get bullied at school.’ "Well, once I teach you how to box those bullies are going to regret ever picking on you. Now show me how you hold your hands up.' Watching the dark skinned man said" you is orthodox, that means that you will lead with your left hand like this. The boy watched in amazement as the man threw jabs at lightning speed. "Now you try' The boy stuck out his left over and over. "Hey,’ you is good, you is going to make a good boxer. "Really?' "Yesum you is.' Now see this here hand? I want you to punch it.' Holding out the huge paw the boy then proceeded to punch it as hard as he could. "How many times did you hit that boy? "Three times.' "Good,' now I am going to move my hand and I want you to hit it again okay? "Yes sir,' Moving his hands quickly in all directions the boy tried to hit the target but failed. "See that, now if the hand was your head and you kept it still you would get hit every time but if it is moving you will hardly ever get hit and that is the art of boxing. You Hit the other guy without being hit back. Do you understand? "Yes,'I see.' "Now see this here, it’s called a spring ball, now after I adjust it I want you to use your jab, now its going to move so keep your eyes on it and then try to punch it. The boy holding his gloves up in the orthodox stance hit the ball as it moved. "Now erm, what's your name anyway?' "Terry.' Right then Terry, move around the ball like this and jab like me.' Copying the actions of the black man Terry moved around the ball sticking out the jab. "You is a natural born boxer.' Just then the door opened and in walked a young man with a neatly trimmed beard. he was wearing a flat cap on his head. "Is this your new student then Joe? "Yesum, this boy is going to be a champion.' "Him a boxer, he'll never make a boxer as long as he has a hole in his arse.’ "We will see.’ said Joe Confidently. This man here Terry is Eric Clarke, he is my second. Terry looked at the man and nodded then added “What’s your name then? “You can call me Joe.’ All that evening Joe showed Terry different punches on the heavy bag and Terry copied his every move. Terry, can you skip? "What like a girl? "No like a boxer, look Joe took off his jacket rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt and began to skip using some leather ropes. They whizzed around and his feet moved rhythmically as he danced over the rope. "Now you try.' Terry picked up the rope and tried over and over but could not get it to do what Joe had done. His left leg just couldn't get off the red lino on the floor. It hit his leg over and over and then stopped. "Okay Terry listen, I want you to come tomorrow at the same time bring some shorts a vest and some sand shoes if you have any.' I'm going to give you a set of exercises to do and you must do them every night. This will strengthen your legs okay "Yes,’I'll be here,' Terry said enthusiastically. Joe and Eric began pulling out ropes from the cupboard and Terry offered to help. The two men fixed what looked like block and tackle into the four corners of the room then fixed metal hooks into the eyes and began to tighten them up until it formed a boxing ring. Some young men who Terry figured were boxers came in from doing a run, they were sweating profusely. The sweat dripped onto the lino as they began to put on head guards and then stuck what looked like chewing gum into there mouths. "What's that thing that they have in their gob? the boy asked inquisitively? That is what's called a gumshield, stops you from getting your teeth knocked out said Eric Clarke with a wry grin, the man who had said earlier that he would never make a boxer. Terry thought to himself that he would prove him wrong. Eric Clarke had been one of Joe’s boxers, now retired he was now helping out in the gym. The ring made of rope was secured to the wall was now tightened up and Eric leaned back against it to test it out. Each of the other fighters leaned back on the ropes too test them as if it were some kind of ritual. When they were all gloved up sparring commenced. Terry watched as they moved as graceful as ballet dancers, shuffling and sliding, slipping punches the way Joe had shown him earlier. The sound that emitted from their mouths was like a hissing snake, then a grunt would sound when a punch connected. Joe was shouting instructions to both men from outside the ring as the other boxers who had been running looked on encouraging each boxer. "Time shouted Eric and both men then walked around the room sucking up air. After one minute they were at it again. On it went for six more gruelling rounds. Steam rose from the backs of each man as their gloves were untied and the next pair of gladiators got into the ring. Terry was fascinated, he so wanted to be like them. He was even more determined to prove Eric wrong. Later that evening Terry walked out of the door he had entered He walked slowly home with with the black ex-boxer, who got some strange looks off people as they passed. Terry didn’t understand about colour prejudice even though he lived amongst many black families on the Ridges estate. Terry began to ask Joe lots of questions about boxing. Joe calmly answered them all. I guess he'd answered those same questions to umpteen young boys who had come into his gym to learn the noble art over the years. Joe left Terry at the corner of Laburnum Avenue. That was the beginning of Terry's boxing career, a journey that would last some twenty two years.

He walked in line. He wasn’t leading, or following, but was firmly planted in the middle of the whole procession. He was calm, at ease, even, but the parade was anything but lighthearted. They grew closer. He could see it in the distance, the bridge where he spent much of his youth. The bridge where, as a boy, he waded into the slow, muddy, brown waters where his father fished for that night’s supper. The bridge, old and tall, covered in moss, yet still standing after centuries, was getting larger by each step. No one knew when, or who, or how the bridge was built. The village was just happy to have the bridge, for, while the water at the edge of the river was calm, towards the middle it became deep and treacherous. A jagged canyon underneath pulled a current strong enough to tear apart the foolish would be sailor’s raft. The bridge spanned the danger and allowed the village out into the forest on the other side. They started up the cliff. The bridge spanned what seemed like half a mile, impossibly long and impossibly tall, jutting out from cliff to cliff, towering above even the village’s highest cathedral spires. The parade continued. Marching up the emerald hill, closer and closer to the bridge. Somber faces gazed ahead, step after step. The whispering began. He looked around, taking in the hills, and the cliffs, and the bridge, and... and the people. The people who came to watch the parade. Tents were scattered among the rolling hills, little dabs of color in the sea of gently swaying emerald green. From the trees hung lanterns, ready to be lit as the celebration spilled into the evening. He had seen it before, as a boy, though never from the parade. He’d never imagined he would be the center of attention. But here he was. He stepped onto the bridge’s worn stone roadway. A horse trotted from the center of the bridge towards the parade. The spectators quieted. The clack clack’ing of the horse’s shoes echoed. He took a long, slow, deep breath in. “Rope!” The rider cried into the silence. Two soldiers from the rear of the pack brought forward a long coil of wrist thick braided cotton yarn. “Tie it to the pillar!” Ordered the rider. Her eyes scanned the procession. Two soldiers, a color guard, a drummer, a man, hands bound and ankles shackled, two more soldiers, and a priest. The soldiers finished knotting the fraying rope around the stone. They coiled what they could next to the short stone railing and looked to their captain. The rider rode closer to him. He locked eyes just briefly, then looked to the ledge, then back to the captain. “It’s time.” She told him. “Very well.” He walked to the ledge, the priest trailing along, praying, speaking to their gods, seeking his passage into the next life, bartering for him. The two soldiers uncoiled enough rope to slip a noose around his neck and help him up the ledge. He looked around at the bridge, admiring the stonework, taking in the intricate designs, and looking for new patches of moss or ivy he hadn’t seen before. “Villagers!” The rider started, her voice carrying over the hills between the campfires, “as you know is our way, we shall let the bridge decide his fate! For he shall fall and hang, or this bridge give way, and the river’s shore waters will be his savior.” The soldiers pushed. He fell, rope frantically uncoiling behind him. Thoughts of crumbling brick and mossy pillars filled his head. Sky, water, sky, water, sky is all he saw as he tumbled through the air, speeding towards the river. But a bridge that old doesn’t just fall apart. The rope went taut. The people cheered.

"Let's check out this fortune teller, Nigel. Maybe she can tells us our future," said Frank as he took the first step up towards the parlor car. I looked at the sign which illustrated a gypsy like lady silhouette with a crystal orb in front of her. On top of the sign read: "Come forth to see your future with Lady Qanilla!" And at the bottom of it said: "No refunds or exchanges." I replied with a little nervously: "I don't know Frank. For all we know, she could be a scam artist." Frank waved his hand and replied: "Looks can be deceiving. Who knows maybe she has a heart of gold and has good intentions." "You do know that not everyone is like you, Frank," I said just to clarify. "You can't just go willy nilly trusting people like that. They can take advantage of you if you aren't careful." Frank replied with: "I know buddy. Thanks for the reminder. I maybe too straight forward but I always have a close eye." I caved in, replying back: "Alright, Frank. Whatever you said. After all, I do trust ya. Just please don't let me do anything irrational." My friend of mine replied with his toothless grin: "Of course, I will. I'll always have your back. Just as I know you have mine." I then followed my friend into the parlor car which hostes a fortune teller. The lady looked exactly like she was impicted on her advised sign outside. She had black curly hair with white highlights and had red eyes which I'm sure was prosthetic. The fortune teller wore a purple dress with gold jewelry everywhere among her slim body. She had to be around her mid 30s but with all of the makeup and attire she wore, it all made her look like she was 25. I couldn't help but feel my face turning red once I came in through the door seeing her. She takes notice of Frank who entered first and then looks me with a smile. She introduces herself by saying: "Welcome gentlemen to my parlor of fortune. Please take a seat." Frank responds as he takes a seat to the chair on the left: "Thank you kindly for your hospitality Madam, oh what was it again?" "It's Qanilla my good sir," replied the fortune teller. "A pleasure meeting you. The name is Frank and this one here is Nigel," said my friend introducing to ourselves. As soon as I sat down on the chair to the right, he wraps his right arm around me to show Qanilla who he was referring to. I could say I was a bit of embarrassed which would make it the understatement of the year. For my face was red as a tomato after my friend announced my name to a fine lady that sat right in front of me. She smiled at me with her radiant fake red eyes as the light behind her highlights her curly hair and ita feature. I was obviously and absolutely star stuck with the state I was in. As I continue to find the words, pur lovely fortune teller ask me directly: "A bit nervous, are we?" It's clear that she could see right through me. I then proceeded to take a deep breath silently through my nose and once I had release the air from my lungs, I replied: "Yes madam, just a bit." She replied with a smile: "It's all good my love. You have nothing to worry about." I watched her eyes as she told me. The old me would have been paranoid about all of this but somehow I feel like I could trust her. Frank has done a number on me ever since visiting Miller Park a week ago. I've quite changed from how I used to be. I went from being a spolied selfish brat to a man who seeks vaules over life than the riches. After consideration and reassurance, I go: "Alright then. I believe you." Qanilla then responds: "Good, I just want to make sure my guests is always comfortable when they come visit me. You're awfully cute, Nigel. I can't help but pinpoint your accent. Are you from the UK?" Before I could reply, Frank goes: "He most certainly is. He's from London and his family owns a firm over there." Qanilla responds: "Oh lovely. I always wanted to go there myself. My little sister goes around the world for her job meanwhile I make a life as a fortune teller." "Well maybe one of these days, you can come with me when I get back," I said before I even realize it. Qanilla's smile even more than ever. She replied: "Really!? You would do that for me?" I responded with a smile: "Absolutely my dear. But first I would like to see my future." Qanilla was somewhat put off by that answer but she snapped back and return back to character. "Right, right," she said as she cracked her hands and wiggle her fingers up in front of us. She continues: "You all have come to see what the future holds and I shall gladly show you. I do however charge but considering I, Lady Qanilla, have taking a liking to the both of you, you shall both have a discount for this visit. Now, are you ready for me to tell you both what your future will bring?" Frank and I looked at each other. We both gave each other a smiling nod and both replied with a "yes". Qanilla then proceeds to levitate her hands above the crystal orb in front of us as she looked deep into it. I watched as she did all of this in amazement. Not one bit was I nervous or scary for here is a woman I would like to date. After a good minute or two, she goes: "Frank, I can see you now. Yes, right here. You have a heart of gold and a good judge of character. You've brought dear Nigel here for an adventure to the carnival and drop by to a lonesome woman as I. I can see your future. It's crystal clear..." "Yes, madam Qanilla, what is my future? Please tell me," said Frank with excitement. She responded: "I can you adopting in your future." "Cool," Frank replied. He then goes: "What do I adopted?" Qanilla speaks: "It's unclear but you would make a good role model. As for Nigel..." Anticipation excited me as I heard every word Qanilla said: "You have changed quite a bit for the past week. Thanks to Frank, you've become something better and your parents will be proud of that. Since you've met Frank, you learn to trust not only him, but others such as me. I can now see your future and it's bright as day my love." Excitedly, I go: "Yes Qanilla, my love, what is it that's in my future. Please do tell." She then makes a sadden face as a tear streaming down her face. Qanilla then replys sadly: "You'll be lonely forever..."

“So what’s the catch?” “A choice, no catch. You can either stay here and meet your fate or leave with me.” Romina Vega flipped the business card between her fingers, thinking. “You make it sound easy. I can’t just stand up and walk out of here. If you haven’t noticed...” Romina pushed forward, repositioning herself in the metal chair. Her chains chattered as she moved. “If you tried to leave, the guards wouldn’t be able to stop you.” Romina pressed down a short laugh. There was no indication that she posed a threat to anyone. She was young, barely into her twenties, somewhat slight of frame, and noticeably malnourished. Her hair was a plume of dark coils and unkempt chaos. She wore the customary green jumpsuit of the women’s prison, which nearly swallowed her entirely. She sat up and rested her weight squarely on the pads of her feet as if she was preparing to bolt. “Don’t play with me, old man. I know where I am and I know what I did to get here-” “Yes. About that.” The man reached inside his briefcase and pulled out a black legal folder. He opened the file and used his long index finger to skim across the printed report. “I know what happened. What you said happened and what the authorities charged. Between you and me, I believe your account.” “Why?” The man gave a half smile. “Why wouldn’t I believe you? The evidence is all there. I would be blind to ignore it.” “The police and the judge seem to think differently. They said I did it. I killed my aunt and mom.” “But I know you didn’t. You couldn’t have.” “The courts sure think it was me. Hell, all of Georgia thinks I did it. Why not you?” He smiled indulgently. “Because... I know what killed them.” “Really?” Romina scoffed. “What do you know that the court and the jury haven’t already disproven about my case? I’ve been convicted for their murders. Considering the circumstances, I honestly don’t blame them for coming to their decision. I don’t know what was real about that night anymore. Maybe I went insane. Maybe I made it all up. “ “Or maybe you were attacked by a being, not of this world. You came face to face with something. You fought it. Injured it... And lived to tell your story.” “A story nobody believes,” said Romina with a sneer. The memory of the nightmare played once more in her thoughts, bringing back the pain of loss it always carried. Her eyes lowered to the table, unable to sustain the weight of guilt pressing down on her shoulders, reminding her of what she couldn’t do. “You saw it, Romina,” the man urged. “It was a monster,” Romina said in a low voice. “Could have been human at one point, but... Maybe it was an alien? A demon... A... I don’t know what it was. It looked like a giant bat.” “It was what we call a Revenant. A being not unlike what you might consider a bat, only it’s not. It’s more like... well... A vampire... Or a parasite. It feeds off of living flesh and terrorizes those it once knew or came in contact with at one point.” “That thing was a vampire?” Romina did not hide her disbelief. “Probably not in the traditional context you would think. Dracula is far from what a vampire is. He certainly doesn’t look like what one is. Bram Stoker took the idea and put an agreeable face to the real terror those things are. Demons more closely describe them. However, even that term only provides the visual.” “What are you trying to say? I was attacked by a demon vampire?” “Well...” “You can’t piss on my leg and tell me it’s raining,” said Romina. “I know what I saw and what I saw wasn’t no damn vampire. I don’t know what the hell that thing was but it certainly wasn’t what you’re saying it was. Either you’re here to poke fun or you’re trying to make me look crazier than they already think that I am. I’m not crazy! I’m not on drugs! I didn’t imagine that fucking thing! And I sure as hell didn’t kill my goddamn mother! I don’t give a damn what the State of Georgia or the D.A. or anybody wants to believe! I’m not a fucking murderer and I didn’t kill my family!” Romina could barely catch her breath. She glared at the man as he sat placidly in his seat across the table. Her words had no effect. He stared coldly back at her as if looking directly through the whirlwind of her heated emotions. She got the sense that the man saw all of this before. Perhaps too many times enough to no longer care and possibly predict what would happen next. Again her chains tugged her down into her seat, reminding her she could do nothing further than the length of each link allowed. Her thighs burned with excess energy, demanding to be freed from the seated position so they could stretch and move with violent intention. Still, the man sat, eyes forward, and expression calm despite her fury. She could do nothing to harm him and she hated that he knew this despite what he suggested earlier. He had a kind face. The type that could appear fatherly. His hair was shock white as if he had seen far more than what Romina experienced. He wore all black, making his physique difficult to determine. However, she assumed he kept himself up. He looked like law enforcement or possibly an agent of some other agency she did not know about. She could not determine what sort of officer the man was as he did not display a badge like most would. Whatever enforcement the man represented did not require him to make his authority known plainly. It was all assumed which made her all the more curious. “Who are you?” Romina asked. “Who I am is irrelevant. Who I represent is more important.” “Ok, so then who do you represent? CIA? FBI? Italian Mafia? What is this?” “I am from an order of defense no man knows about. No other agency in the world is aware of our presence. We operate beyond the Veil. Given your natural skill and intelligence, we believe you would make the perfect candidate for our program.” “Program? You’re here to recruit me?” “You have been chosen.” “Chosen? By who? For what?” “Come with me and I will tell you everything you want to know.” “How about you tell me now,” Romina challenged. “Doesn’t work that way. I’m here for a limited time. Once I walk out that door, the offer goes with me.” Romina considered the offer once more, unsure of her answer. Although she did not trust the man sitting across from her at the interview table, she could not dispel the possibility of taking the offer and being freed. The past year of the murder trial and subsequent sentencing hearing made the days spent behind bars seem to flash by. After her sentencing, time bled into each hour drawing out the torture of her incarceration as she waited anxiously for the set date of her execution. So far, the attorney assigned to her case was not confident in the success of the appeal process. The first two returned denied and the third was decided with a high probability of denial also. No one believed her account of the monster coming into the small apartment shared by the three women. Not even the court-appointed psychiatrist considered her unchanged statement as truth. Instead, the doctor suggested the murders were caused by some sort of drug-induced psychosis causing her to hallucinate. Romina insisted she did not imagine the creature, nor would she allow the court to label her a drug-addicted psycho that raged during a bad trip. The trace opiates found by the police in her blood were not enough to support the intoxication theory. The jury quickly dismissed this explanation as the reason why her mother’s throat was torn open and her aunt was found mauled by the kitchen sink. There could only be one conclusion that made any kind of sense to those participating in the trial. A monster did not break inside her home and gruesomely murder her family. According to the State of Georgia, Romina killed them. “If I say yes, and I go with you... What happens next?” “You walk away from here never to return to this place again.” “And then?” “You will train. Be educated. Prepared.” Romina considered what the man said. “Prepared for what?” He sat silent. Steady. “You’re serious, aren’t you,” said Romina. “You can get me out of here? Just like that?” “Exactly that. Do you not believe me?” “Honestly, I don’t know what to believe. I don’t know who to trust.” “Trust God.” “Trust God,” Romina shook her head. “He’s probably the reason why I’m in here. Why did all this happen? My family is dead and I’m in prison. Some thing created by God is why I'm here talking to you. And you want me to trust God?” The man stood. His dark frame suddenly filled the space behind him as his long black coat and suit wrapped about him. His white hair and glacial eyes caught the light from the overhead lamp and made his face appear more brilliant than the rising sun. Romina almost gasped in awe realizing the man wasn’t exactly what she thought he was. He was something else. Something more. “You will soon know all the secrets kept from all of mankind. It won’t matter if you don’t believe... In time, you will.” Romina looked up at the man, shrinking away from him as his presence became overwhelming. His gaze was no longer tender or fatherly. Instead, it pressed down like a weighted blanket. He stood over her a moment before gathering the links of her shackles between his talon-like fingers. “It doesn’t matter if you don’t believe in God. Hell is real. What you saw was real. And there are worse things than death in this world.” The man pulled at the chains until the links bent and pulled apart. Romina looked down at her broken binds, then at the man. “What are you?” “I am what you will become...” [Exert from Current first rough draft project Hellseeker: The Awakening]

When I was 6, I saw how my mother killed our postman. When I was 6 I saw our postman raping my mother every morning for 4 months. When I was 6 I used to sit near by the window and wait til our postman comes every morning. I was an observer when I was 6. She has green eyes. They turn to yellow when she is looking at the sun. Blue appears when she is looking at the sea. And then there is black. With black comes darkness and sadness. They turn to black when she is looking at me. My sister has green eyes. When I was 7 I started going to school. When I was 7 I started answering to people's questions. When I was 7 I started lying to everyone. When I was 7 people liked me. When I was 7 I used to talk to everyone. When I was 7 nobody knew that every single word of mine was false. I was a socialiser when I was 7. She has gentle hands. They make cats purr. They make food that melts into everyone mouths. They make her face prettier every morning. They make wonderful sounds go from the piano. They create bruises on my skin. My sister has gentle hands. When I was 10 I learned that talking is directly proportional to attention that comes toward you. When I was 10 I learned how to get what you desire from people. When I was 10 I learned that if you keep confronting everything you don't like, people will give up on changing you the way they want you to be. I was a learner when I was 10. She has a nice body. It can be cold when she lies in the snow. It can be hot when she is lying in the bath. It can be glowing when she is standing in front of the sun. It can be covered in blood when she scratches her skin off. It can create white liquid when she makes me touch her. My sister has a nice body. When I was 14 I set our car on fire. When I was 14 I sent our mother to the prison for 2 years. When I was 14 I made 3 girls bleed. I was an achiever when I was 14. She is looking at me right now. She can hear all thoughts I have. She can feel all emotions I experience. For the first time I can see some green shadows behind that blackness. She is touching me right now. She can make me feel loved. She can make me feel worthless. She can make me feel powerful. My sister is looking at me right now. Maybe she can make me do whatever she wish me to. Maybe she can make me feel whatever she wants me to. But she can't do one thing. She can't make me stop growing. I'm 16 and I'm a killer.