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Allura 39

Stephen said as he watched the old man get into the car. He got more feeble each day. Once settled, he put on his seatbelt, as Stephen turned the radio off. They started the journey. *"What time will we get there?"* The old man asked. "The drive will take about 2 hours. We should be there at 11:00 am, traffic allowing." Stephen said. *"Good"* said the old man "*My appointment is at 11:30*". Stephen tried not to wince at the word appointment. Stephen tried to make small talk. He was bad at. In childhood, he was happy to let others speak, while he sat back and listened. As he got older, he tried to speak up more. He never got the knack. Things always came out wrong.He was too loud. Too quiet/ Too boisterous. Too meek. Eventually he reverted to sitting back and listening. He was usually comfortable in silence. Today, the silence hung in the air. He decided to make small talk. *"The weather is nice today"* he said. *"It's ok"* the old man replied, "*When I was young, the sun split the stones. They don't make weather like they used to. Johnny O'Meara, Peter and I, would work outside all day. Sweating in the heat. We'd start at 6 in the morning and finish at 10. People don't work like that any more"*, he said as he held his walking stick. *"What did you have for breakfast"* Stephen asked. *"I had porridge"* the old man said. *"You didn't have anything special today?"* asked Stephen. The old man did not reply. They sat in silence for a time admiring the scenery, the green hills, the blue sky and the houses on the way. They reached a village. The old man became animated again. He started talking about a dance hall. He said he used to go to it when he was a young man. He talked about how would get a lift on a horse and cart with a friend. And how they walked home afterwards. At the dance, they drank orange juice while listening to showbands playing the latest country hits. As he finished the story, he quietened and looked out the window with a wistful look in his eye. Like he was transported back in time to when he was a young man. Later in the journey, they reached a motorway. Again the man sprang into life. He told Stephen about how the road used to be a tiny village, with a church, pub and post office. He spoke about the people who lived there, the dramas and gossip they shared. Those people were all gone now. As they got closer to the hospital, Stephen began to feel sad. The emotions he'd been supressing were starting to bubble up. He hoped they didn't overwhelm him. He thought it was a shame that these stories would die with the old man and be forgotten. Before long they reached the hospital. He parked outside. They sat in silence for a few moments. They both tried to find the right words, while holding back tears. *"Here we are"* Stephen said. *"I suppose so"* said the old man. The old man's friends and family were waiting inside. When the euthanasia referrendum was announced, Stephen was an advocate. Sitting outside the hospital, he regretted his choice. He didn't want to be by his father's bed and offered to drive him instead. They sat in silence for a few moments before the old man shuffled to get out. He looked at Stephen and said *"goodbye"*. *"Goodbye"* Stephen said. He watched as the old man walked slowly into the hospital, step by painful step. When he was no longer in sight, Stephen started cying. *"Goodbye".

It began quietly, as such stories often do. Mr. Mahajan, a halwai at the local sweet shop, started murmuring about sleepless nights over his tea. His words were dismissed as the ramblings of old age until Mrs. Khurana, the usually serene librarian, confessed she hadn't slept in three days. Soon, the insomnia spread like a contagion through Kungrat, a creeping malaise that defied explanation. "Doctor sahib, I hear her every night." Meera, an elderly woman with deep-set eyes and trembling hands, sits across your desk. Her voice quivered as she spoke, her thick accent wrapping around her words with a shroud. "The lullaby... the weeping. It's a mother's cry for her lost child. I can't bear it anymore." You nod, scribbling notes even as your mind wavers with exhaustion. "Have you tried the sedatives I gave you, Meera?" She ignored the question. Her eyes grew wide with a mix of fear and desperation as she leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "The lullaby, doctor... it's not just a song. It's haunting. It starts softly, like a whisper in the wind, a melody so gentle it almost lulls me to sleep. But then... then it changes. The notes twist into something sorrowful, filled with pain. It's as if I can feel my heart breaking with each word." She paused, her hands trembling more violently now. "And the weeping... oh, the weeping. It's not just crying, it's a wail that pierces the silence of the night, echoing through the walls. It sounds like a mother mourning her lost child, a cry so full of anguish it makes my blood run cold. I can hear her footsteps too, pacing, searching. Every night, it gets closer." Your pen stilled on the paper, your heartbeat quickening. "Meera, do you recognize the lullaby? Is it something you've heard before?" She shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. "No, doctor sahib. It's unlike any song I've ever known. It's ancient, otherworldly. Sometimes, I think I can hear words, but they're in a language I don't understand. And the child... I can almost see her, reaching out, lost in the shadows." Her cries now reminded you of when she lost her grandchild not too long ago. Was her insomnia manifesting her nightmares? Meera's voice broke, and she covered her face with her hands. "I can't take it anymore. The nights are endless, and the fear... it's consuming me. Please, doctor, you have to help me. I feel like I'm losing my mind." You feel a chill run down your spine as you listen to her. This was more than just a figment of an overactive imagination. There was something deeply unsettling about her story, something that tugged at the edges of your rational mind. "Your father, bless his soul, used to work wonders. But your medicines, they don't work," she whispered. "Nothing works. Maybe it's our punishment for what happened in the village." You stiffen but keep your face neutral. The tragedy that had struck Kungrat years ago was a wound that never healed, but you refuse to believe it could cause this collective madness. Next came Ravi, a farmer with calloused hands and the same hollow eyes. "I see them, Doctor. Demons. Every night. They wait for me to close my eyes." Your grip tightens around your pen as you study his weathered face, a map of the burdens he carried. "Tell me more about these demons, Ravi. What do they look like?" His voice trembled, his eyes darting to the corners of the room as if expecting the demons to emerge at any moment. "They have skin like burnt leather, cracked and oozing. Their eyes are deep pits of darkness, and their teeth... their teeth are like broken glass. When they smile, it's not a smile at all, but a grimace of hunger and malice." You shudder inwardly, but keep your expression calm. "And these whispers you mentioned. What do they say?" He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "They tell me things, Doctor. Horrible things. They whisper my deepest fears, my darkest secrets. They know everything about me—my guilt, my regrets. They taunt me, saying I'll never escape, that they'll drag me to their world, where suffering never ends." Dread flickers in your eyes, but you force a mask of concern. "Can you describe these whispers a little more? Are they voices you recognize?" A tremor ran through his body, as if summoned by the question. His gaze darted around the room once more, landing on a shadowy corner behind your desk. His pupils dilated, his breath catching in his throat. A choked sound escaped his lips. "Doctor," he rasped, his voice barely a whisper, "they're... they're here." You slowly turn in your chair, trying to appear nonchalant. You see nothing out of the ordinary in the corner, just the familiar stacks of medical files and the old, dusty gramophone gathering cobwebs in the dim light. "Here?" you ask gently. "What do you mean?" But Ravi wasn't looking at you anymore. His eyes were fixed on that empty corner, his face contorted in a mixture of terror and something akin to pleading. "Don't listen to them, Doctor," he whimpered, his voice breaking. "They're lying. They want to take me away." You wipe the sweat from your brow. Despite the logical part of your brain screaming that this was all in Ravi's head, a primal fear gnaws at you. The raw terror in his voice was undeniable, and the way his eyes darted around the room, tracking unseen things, sent shivers down your spine. "Ravi," you say firmly, forcing your voice to remain steady. "There's nothing here. You're safe. Tell me more about these whispers-" A bloodcurdling scream that tore from Ravi's throat cut your words short. The farmer clawed at his ears, his face contorted in unimaginable pain. "They're lying!" he shrieked. "I didn't do it!" You lunged forward, your chair toppling over with a crash. You grab his shoulders, trying to ground him, to pull him back from the brink of whatever horrifying vision he was experiencing. "Ravi, look at me!" you commanded, your voice laced with a newfound urgency. "Focus on my voice. There's nothing here. You're safe." You barely had time to console Ravi before Vidya, a young mother, burst into the room, her eyes wide with terror. "It's God punishing us! He's come to judge us for our sins. We didn't deliver swift judgments, but now he'll deliver us." Your heart pounded as you listened to the barrage of tormented souls, each story more harrowing than the last. You handed out prescriptions that weren't working, offered reassurances you didn't believe, and sent them back into the night. Finally, the last patient for the day entered. The local constable, Rajesh, his uniform looking as tired and worn as the man himself. You greet him with a nod and a tired smile. "Rajesh, come in. How are you holding up? How's Veena?" you asked, motioning for him to sink into a chair. He collapsed onto the seat with a groan that spoke volumes. "Not well, not well at all. This sleeplessness... It's crushing me and her. I haven't been able to string together a full night's rest in what feels like forever." You lean forward, your brow furrowing with concern. "What's been plaguing your sleep, Rajesh? Nightmares? Restlessness?" He opened his mouth to speak, but his voice hitched, replaced by a shudder that ran through his entire body. "It's not nightmares," he finally managed, his voice barely a whisper. "It's... it's like my body betrays me." He closed his eyes, his face etched with a mixture of fear and frustration. "Can you elaborate?" you prompted gently, your pen poised over your notepad. He took a shaky breath. "The moment I want to sleep, it starts. A suffocating pressure clamps down on my chest, squeezing the air from my lungs. It feels like someone has wrapped me in an iron cocoon, stealing my ability to move a single muscle." He fisted his hands, the effort trembling in his voice. "I'm trapped. Completely paralyzed. I can hear my own ragged breaths echoing in the darkness, but I can't call out, can't fight back. All I can do is lie there, prisoner in my own body, until the terror drags me back to consciousness." You feel a cold shiver crawl down your spine. This was far worse than simple insomnia. "Rajesh," you say, your voice grave, "you're not alone in this. Meera, Ravi, and many others have described similar experiences. There's something... something unsettling at work in Kungrat, and it seems to affect all of us." "What about you? How're you holding up?" "I can't think of anything other than my patients and their nightmares while I lay in bed. I can't help but think my father would've done a better job to calm and help the people." "Hey, this clinic is right now the only sanctuary for the people out there, and you made it happen. I am sure your father would be proud. He wouldn't want you to get so caught up in work that you forget to find someone to weather the storm with." A weak chuckle escaped him as he nudged me with his elbow. "Yeah, well, maybe then you'll finally understand the other meaning of a sleepless night, huh?" His voice lacked its usual spark, his eyes a little dull. "I'll look into that after this, alright." You let out a chuckle yourself, enjoying a hopeful moment. Rajesh covered his face and let out a deep sigh. "I don't know what to think. Everyone in town's got a different story, and each one sounds crazier than the last. Some folks whisper about a curse, a darkness choking the life out of Kungrat. Others blame vengeful forest spirits, stirred up by... well, you know." He cast a nervous glance around, his voice dropping to a hushed tone. "Then there's the whole alien conspiracy brewing down by the old radio tower. Demons, ghosts, space invaders—everyone's got their own theory, but none of them sound any more likely than the next." "What do you think it is?" "The forest. Believe it or not, all our problems started that day. We should've done something sooner." "Don't tell me you believe in those stories, too. What happened that day has nothing to do with this. As for the forest, if anything, it has kept people safe. People are dying to get out of this town, thinking it will cure their insomnia. But they are too afraid of venturing into it." Rajesh didn't seem convinced, but kept it to himself. "Any news about the road?" You ask, "Is the government rebuilding it?" "While the monsoon gods keep punishing us, not a chance. And about the people who tried to escape, we have heard no news whether they found a way to the other side." You nod, understanding the gravity of the situation. Kungrat was a small town nestled in the heart of Himachal Pradesh. Surrounded by dense forests and treacherous terrain, it was a place where the modern world rarely ventured. "With no connection to the outside world, we're isolated, and the fear is growing. I don't know how long the people can hold up." "Do you have any theories?" Rajesh asked, "You're the only person who has listened to every cry of people. Anything common between their nightmares?" You lean back, your mind racing. "There's something here, something ancient and powerful. The town's isolation has awakened something, and it's affecting all of us. But there has to be a way to fight it, to understand it." Rajesh nodded slowly, the fear in his eyes tempered by a glimmer of hope. "We've always relied on the old ways, the traditions and rituals that have protected us for generations. Maybe we need to look at them now to find answers in the past." Your thoughts drift to the old texts and the stories your grandparents used to tell you. There were secrets in those tales—hints of knowledge that could help now. "I think you're right, Rajesh. We need to dig deeper to understand the lore of Kungrat and find a way to protect ourselves." As you two sat in the dimly lit office, the weight of the task settled. The town was in danger, its people gripped by a fear that threatened to consume them. The clock struck midnight. After a bid goodbye, you made your way through the streets of Kungrat. Even the moon had a dimmer glow than usual, as if suffering through its own nightmares. You pass by the hospital, where some patients lay awake, their eyes hollow and their minds fractured. The nurses worked ceaselessly, their hands moving with a mechanical precision born of desperation. Like them, others with no hint of sleep resumed their work. While some made time for their hobbies, which they wouldn't have earlier. The indomitable human spirit surprises you by finding purpose even in this hellscape. You return to your modest home, hoping for a few hours of rest. But as you lay in bed, the horrors of your patients' tales invaded your mind. The sound, soft at first, a mere tremor against the edge of sleep, worms its way deeper into your ears. It isn't a song, not quite, but a melody woven from grief, each note a tear trailing down a heartbroken face. The lullaby echoes in the dead of night, a haunting echo of a life extinguished. Flickers of movement catch your eye—not from the familiar sway of the curtains or the dance of dust motes in the moonlight, but something deeper, more insidious. In the inky blackness, embers wink into existence, burning with an unnatural light. Were those eyes? A tremor runs through you, a primal urge to fight against unseen bonds. Your breath hitched, each inhaling a struggle against a smothering pressure. Panic claws at your throat, a soundless scream trapped behind gritted teeth. Even blinking feels like a monumental effort. The world narrowed into a suffocating darkness, pressing on from all sides. Finally, when you stop trying to sleep, you rise and pace the floor. Your reflection in the mirror twists and contorts, mocking your attempts at rational thought. You splash water on your face, but the cool liquid does nothing to dispel the heat of fear crawling up your spine. Tomorrow, first thing in the morning, you have to find the root of this mass hysteria. Your thoughts are interrupted by a rising, chanting melody, sung in an unknown tongue that seemed to resonate through the very walls. You go over to the balcony, following the sharp moonlight. Instead, in the serene tableau, you saw something that defied comprehension. It was a sight your mind simply refused to process—a truth so terrible it choked the breath from your lungs. The world tilted, a sickening lurch as the balcony railing betrayed you. The impact stole the air from your lungs, a symphony of wet snaps and searing pain. As your consciousness returns, your gaze falls upon a sight that shouldn't exist. A colossal hill, alien and out of place, had materialized where there was once only familiar ground. Something vast and terrible stood behind it—a glimpse of a horror unseen. The figure wasn't behind the newly erected hill; it wasn't on earth at all. It stood in the cosmos itself, looking at the earth. The figure was draped in a shroud, its skeletal frame made of writhing serpents. The being was no mere monster; it was a harbinger, a walking omen of all the dark things that skulk just beyond the edges of sanity. It held a staff ablaze with souls in its right hand, and in its left, a decapitated head, one of its eyes taking the place of the moon itself. In the glowing eyes of the decapitated eyes, which you mistook for moonlight, you finally saw the hill for what it was. You try to crawl with your hands, dragging your limp body away from the scene, but you can't. You try to close your eyes, but they disobey your wish. Is this just your imagination? A nightmare like your patients? The people of Kungrat were out on the streets. Some lay on the ground, their eyes gouged out and clutched in their hands. Some set ablaze, unable to comprehend the sheer magnitude of the being. Others knelt, worshipping the colossus. Is this our retribution? The hill was not made of earth but of people. Their bones, their flesh, their aspirations, their dreams. The weight of the revelation crushes your spirit. The creature dropped the decapitated head onto the hill. People who weren't on fire or had their eyes gouged out yet fell into a trance. The decapitated head opened his mouth, and the people climbed upon the hill and crawled in. You aren't left behind. As you crawl, you feel a strange sense of bliss. As if the head were offering peace from the horrors of insomnia-induced nightmares. Your last thought, as you crawl to salvation, is the memory of a town that had forgotten how to sleep.

Three days after starting my new job at Pizza Pronto, I got sent on a delivery. My manager, Frankie, handed me a fresh pie and told me to drop it off at the Murder House. “We call it that because it looks like something in a horror movie,” he said. “Straight outta the Amityville Poltergeist’s Omen or whatever.” I kept my face in check. Frankie’s a nice guy, but he’s also big as hell. He could pick me up and toss me around like pizza dough. It’s best to stay on his good side. “That’s fine,” I said, “but aren’t deliveries Terry’s thing?” “He ate a hot dog from Speedimart and got food poisoning. I’ve warned him about those things. They’ve been sitting on those rollers since the Bush administration. Senior, not junior.” “Will I get murdered if I go?” “I don’t think so.” “But do you know?” Frankie put his arm around my shoulder and led me toward the back door. We didn’t have any customers because of the rain. The sounds of Frankie’s 80s power ballad playlist and our quarter-eating Cruis’n Exotica cabinet bounced off the walls. He pushed the door open with his meat cleaver of a hand. It smelled like wet soil outside. “No,” Frankie said. “I know this guy tips well. He calls every Friday night and orders the same thing. Large cheese pizza with green olives. All you have to do is drop the pizza off on the porch. He always leaves an envelope with the money hidden under the doormat. Easy work.” The door’s ancient hinges squeaked as it closed shut. Frankie pushed it open again. “I don’t knock?” “Never knock on the door of a Murder House,” Frankie said. “That’s Scary Movie 101.” “You’re not instilling a lot of confidence in me about this delivery.” “Go. Now. It’s called ‘Pizza Pronto,’ not ‘Pizza Whenever You Feel Like It.’” Frankie pushed the door open one more time. I went. Rain poured in thick sheets from the dark sky and covered every square inch of the city. I didn’t think to wear a jacket. I also didn’t think to replace the wiper blades on my hand-me-down Honda like I should have. The rubber strips were separating from the blades and flopped around against the windshield. I drove slowly, knowing that I was in danger of violating Pizza Pronto’s 35-minute delivery guarantee. Domino’s got sued over this kind of thing years ago. I was doing Frankie and our corporate overlords a favor by going 25 under the speed limit. The customer lived on Spruce Hill Road—a long and lonely stretch of asphalt way out in the boonies. Never drive down Spruce Hill expecting to see the best of what the Midwest offers. It’s nothing but sickly trees and overgrowth. Society gave up on this part of town years ago. I pulled up to the house just as the GPS on my phone gave out. The cracked and bumpy pavement turned into pure mud. I got a good look at the house and immediately understood where it got its name from. This place was ugly. An ancient two-story farmhouse in the center of a sea of cornstalks. The paint was worn all over, and there were too many loose or missing panels to count from my front seat. It didn’t have many windows. Some were boarded up with plywood. Others had shutters that flapped in the wind and smacked against the house loudly enough to be heard over the pouring rain. I live in a shitty efficiency with barely any furniture and have to share it with roaches, but I couldn’t believe someone called this Murder House a Murder Home. This joint needed an exorcist first and a decorator second. I parked the car a few feet away from the porch and idled. The rain pelted my car like heavy fire from a minigun. I grabbed the pizza box, kicked my door open, and sprinted into the downpour. It was overwhelming. My feet sank deep into the mud with each step. I slowed my sprint down to a lurch toward the front door. I thought I was going to lose my sneakers to nature, but thankfully, I still had them on when I stepped onto the porch. The floorboards creaked and buckled under my weight. It was weird seeing the welcome mat near the door because there was nothing—absolutely nothing—about this house that was remotely welcoming. I didn’t dwell too much on it. I was ready to get the hell away from there and change into a dry pair of socks. I flipped up the mat and found an envelope waiting for me, exactly as Frankie said. I left the pizza box on top of the mat and lurched back into the rainy mess with the money in my pocket. When I made it back to the car, I flung the door open and jumped in sideways. I wiped my face with the tail of my Pizza Pronto t-shirt and sat in silence. I needed a little time to catch my breath and wanted to see who claimed the pizza. Part of me assumed a massive clawed hand would burst from underneath the floorboards and drag the pizza to Hell, based on the whole vibe of the house. But nothing happened. I sat there for at least two minutes and the pizza went untouched. Whatever. I did my job. I needed to get back before I got washed away with the storm. My car could barely handle a light drizzle, let alone a deluge. I put the car in gear and drove forward a bit before hanging a wide left turn toward the house. Then the car stopped. I pushed down on the gas. The wheels spun and spun, but didn’t take me anywhere. I heard the familiar squelching sounds of the mud that ruined my sneakers underneath the tires. I put it in reverse and got more of the same. Shit. I was stuck. I got out and used my phone’s flashlight to survey the damage. All four tires were dug in deep. It also didn’t help that all four tires were bald. Car maintenance is not my strong suit. I tried calling Frankie and immediately got the three “call failed” beeps. I had to figure something out. The longer I stood around, the more I sunk into the ground as if it were quicksand. I looked toward the porch and noticed the pizza was gone. The customer must have snuck out and grabbed it when I was turning the car around. I guess he really didn’t want me to see him. I pondered why for a moment. Maybe he was a burn victim. Or had a vestigial tail. Or maybe he was just painfully shy. No matter the reason, every synapse in my brain fired up and directed me to go knock on the door. I figured that if he couldn’t help me, then maybe he had a way to get me connected with someone who could. Right as I started walking toward the front door again, I heard Frankie’s voice in my head. Never knock on the door of a Murder House. That’s common sense on most days, but in situations like this, embracing the uncommon is all you can do. Each step I took toward the porch was heavy. The mud weighed my feet down like cinder blocks. My heart fluttered. The uncertainty of who (or what) was on the other side of the door ate at my brain, trickled down my throat, and upset my stomach. I wiped off my sneakers as best as I could before I stepped back onto the porch. I took my time because my soaked jeans were uncomfortable, and because I needed to think of an escape plan in case I needed one. I don’t know why I was so nervous. It was just a house. A spooky-looking house in the middle of nowhere, owned by a man who only comes out for pizza—but a house. The more deliveries I went on, the more houses I’d see. There had to be scarier ones out in the world. I stepped onto the faded welcome mat and checked my surroundings. A little red light caught the corner of my right eye. There was a camera fixed on the side paneling pointed right at me. I didn’t notice it the first time. I also didn’t pay attention to the sign posted near the doorbell. It screamed TRESPASSERS AND SOLICITORS WILL BE SHOT in big block letters. For a fleeting moment, I considered turning around and walking back to Pizza Pronto. It would’ve taken forever to get there, but it sounded much better than taking a bullet. I fought the urge and knocked. The way I saw it, this guy had to be nice to me. I brought him dinner. There was no answer after I knocked. I waited a few seconds before knocking three more times. Then I rang the doorbell for good measure. Still nothing. I looked at the camera and waved my arms up and down. “Hey! If you can hear me, I’m the guy that dropped off your pizza. I wanted to know if it was cool if I used your phone or if you wouldn’t mind helping—” The door flung open. My heart almost burst from my chest when I turned and saw the double barrels of a shotgun aimed directly at my head. I threw my hands up and stepped back. The man with the gun had white hair and burlap skin. He was tall and angular, like a praying mantis in a cardigan, and his eyes were gray. His gaze made me more uncomfortable than the gun. He used his free hand to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose. I chose my next words carefully. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.” “Well, ya did.” The man’s voice was shaky but firm. “The fuck do you want?” “My car is stuck in the mud. See?” I gestured toward my shitty car like it was a prize on Let’s Make a Deal. The old man huffed through his nose, which whistled. “I see,” he said. “Could you help me get it out? I figure if we push a little, it’ll budge.” “I’m 70 years old with two back surgeries on my ledger. I ain’t pushing nothing.” “Can I use your phone, then?” “What’s wrong with yours?” “I don’t get any signal out here.” The old man studied me up and down. I kept my hands high above my head. I was so wet. I don’t think he would’ve noticed if I peed my pants right in front of him. He was quiet for an eternity. The heavy rain filled the silence until he grunted and lowered the gun. “Alright. Come in and use the phone. But don’t touch anything. I’ll shoot your balls off.” “I wouldn’t dare.” “That was a joke,” the old man said through gritted teeth. “Can’t you tell?” “You got me,” I said with the worst forced smile ever seen on this side of the Mississippi. “Pizza Pronto, this is Frankie.” “It’s me. I’m inside the Murder House.” Frankie sputtered on the other line. I kept my voice low so the old man didn’t hear me. I didn’t want to risk offending a man with a gun bigger than my head. “What did I tell you?” Frankie said. “Are you trying to get killed?” “You said I didn’t have to worry.” “I never said that. I said I didn’t think you had to worry. Which is why I said you shouldn’t knock on the door. Just drop the pizza off and scoot. How hard was that?” “My car got stuck in the mud. I had no choice. I need you to come help me get it out.” “So I can die too?” “Don’t be a baby. The guy who lives here is ancient.” “Fine. I’ve got to make a delivery first. Sit tight and I’ll be by soon.” “What? Come get me first and then drop off the pizza.” “Pizza Pronto is more than a name. It’s a way of life. I promise I won’t be long. Don’t get yourself killed.” I watched the old man as he ate a slice of pizza in three bites. He gnashed the cheese and olives between his teeth like a cow chewing cud. It sounded horrible. He kept the shotgun next to the pizza box. I sat on the other end and grinned like a moron. Interrupting his meal seemed unwise. But here’s the thing about me: One of my worst habits is that I don’t know how to embrace silence. My brain fills with thoughts and I feel compelled to let them breathe. I waited for the old man to swallow his chewed-up crust before I opened my mouth. “How’s the pizza?” “Cold,” he said. “Took you long enough to get here. Your tip reflects that.” “Tip?” “I left it on the porch.” I’d forgotten all about the envelope. I reached into my pocket and unfolded it. The pizza cost 12 bucks. Twenty percent of that is about $2.40. Besides the cash for the pizza, there was a single quarter and a note that said “LATE” in all caps. “A quarter?” “Get here faster and maybe you’ll get more. Everyone else gets here fast.” “It was pouring rain!” “You ever hear the phrase ‘excuses are like assholes’?” “I don’t think that’s the phrase.” “Shut up. I’m eating.” He took another massive, cheesy bite out of a fresh slice. The gross sound of his chewing echoed. The inside of the house was about as boring as the outside, but it looked way less rundown. Plain white walls surrounded furniture delivered to him straight from a 70s Sears catalogue. The air smelled like mothballs and Bengay—no different from any nursing home in the United States. “Want a slice?” “No thanks,” I said. “My ride should be here any minute.” “If you’re gonna sit at my table, the least you can do is break bread.” I shook my head and unwrapped myself from the towel the old man gave me to dry off with. If someone insists I eat, then I eat. He pushed the pizza box toward me with his wrinkled right hand. I grabbed a slice and took a much smaller bite than him. I chewed and swallowed as fast as I could. “Pretty good.” I lied. I hate olives. “It’s mediocre at best.” “If you don’t like it, why do you order it every Friday?” “Why do I get up every day and take a dump at 5 a.m.? Routine.” I rolled my eyes. This guy was a real charmer. “You live here alone? You married or anything?” “The fuck do you care?” “Just making conversation.” “It’s only me and my thoughts here,” the old man said. “Must be lonely.” “That’s the way I want it.” It got quiet again as the old man shoved more substandard pizza into his mouth. I took another bite of my slice and gagged when a giant ring of olive touched my tongue. Ugh. I don’t understand people who like olives. I didn’t understand this old man. I knew nothing about him, but deep down inside, there was a part of me that wished I never met him. He clearly didn’t appreciate or enjoy my presence. Why should I enjoy his? If he wanted to be a miserable old asshole, it was his right. I’d still be able to leave and go home to my slightly less depressing—but comfortable—apartment and live life with people who wanted to live it with me. Morning dumps and Friday pizza were all this guy looked forward to. I kind of felt sorry for him. Then I remembered he tipped me with a quarter. Fuck him. “I think I’m going to go wait in my car,” I said. “Thanks for … this.” “Fine.” I stood up, folded the towel, and left it on the chair. The old man didn’t care when I walked out of the kitchen and approached the front door. He kept on chewing. I couldn’t wait to tell Frankie what the Murder House was like on the inside—a dusty old barn house where the main thing to be afraid of is an old man’s nasty attitude. I did the impossible. I went in and lived to tell the tale. Before I walked outside, I peeked through the window on the front door and groaned at the sight of the relentless downpour. My ears adjusted to the sound of silence inside the house, so the cacophony of raindrops hitting the earth at full-speed was overwhelming when I walked onto the porch. I could barely hear the voice calling out to me in the dark. “Excuse me, is Mr. Marcum home?” There was a man standing in the rain. The bright headlights of the car behind him made it hard to see anything other than his dark outline. “Who?” “Preston Marcum. He owns this house.” “Yeah, he’s inside.” “Can you ask him to come outside, please?” “I don’t think that’s a good idea. He’s eating.” “It’s very important. I wouldn’t come here at this time of night if it weren’t.” I squinted and tried to see the stranger a little better. It looked like his hands were behind his back. “Alright. I’ll try. If he threatens to shoot me again, you’re on your own.” I turned and knocked on the door. No answer. I waved at the camera. “Mr. Marcum? Preston? There’s a guy out here asking for you. He says he needs to see you and that it’s important.” I waited for the door to burst open like earlier. Nothing. Either he didn’t care about his other visitor, had to take one of his trademark dumps, or died at the table from a pizza-induced heart attack. Whatever. I did what I had to do. I faced the man in the rain. “Sorry, he’s not—” I stopped short. The stranger was a little closer than earlier, making it easy for me to see the gun he’d been hiding behind his back. It had a long silencer attached. I couldn’t believe it. Twice in one night! I knew delivering pizzas could get dangerous, but this was crazy. “Get Marcum out here or take your last breath,” the stranger said. “Your choice.” Before I could decide, I heard three quick clicks. The floorboards underneath the welcome mat split open and revealed a black void. The drop was sharp and sudden. My heart back flipped as I fell into the dark and watched as the floorboards sealed off the outside world. I opened my eyes and saw nothing but black. I thought I died. Then I realized the cloud I landed on was actually a lumpy air mattress. I heard the old man’s voice. “Get up,” he growled. I was alive, but still in Hell. I rolled onto the cold concrete. We were in a basement. The walls were dingy, and the air was sticky. Marcum clicked on a flashlight as I got on my feet. That flashlight looked heavy enough to fracture a skull with one hit. He held it with his left hand and clutched onto his shotgun with his right. He replaced the cardigan and slippers he wore earlier with a white tank top and boots. His wrinkled, exposed skin cried for lotion. “You’re lucky they didn’t shoot you on sight,” Marcum said. “They? There’s only one guy out there.” “It’s never just one guy. Didja see his face?” My brain struggled to process anything that was happening. I was several steps back from wherever Marcum was mentally. “You have a trap door?” I asked, trying to catch up. “Yes.” “Why do you have a trap door?” “In case of an emergency.” My eyes narrowed as Marcum impatiently worked his jaw. “People keep fire extinguishers in their kitchen for emergencies. Or stockpile food and water. Who the fuck has a trap door installed on their shitty porch?” Marcum held up a bony finger to his lips. “Shush. They’re coming in.” I heard footsteps from above. Marcum was right. It wasn’t just one guy. It sounded like at least three people were on the porch. One of them stomped down on the seam of the trapdoor. It didn’t budge. I couldn’t make out the conversation up there. Marcum shoved the flashlight against my stomach—his way of saying “please hold on to this.” He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a remote. The voices of the surprise visitors echoed around us with the press of a button. “What do we do?” one of them asked. “Shoot through the floorboards,” another one answered. “No,” said the third stranger. This was the man I saw outside. The others spoke with bass in their voices. This guy’s voice was soft and musical. “I want to look him in the eyes before I kill him. Break down the door.” The other two did as they were told. BANG. BANG. BANG. “That’ll keep ‘em busy for a bit,” Marcum whispered. “The door’s reinforced.” He snatched the flashlight back from me and scurried over to a large box sitting in the corner. He opened it and pulled out a duffel bag, a bulletproof vest, and a small box that he sat on the floor. My jaw nearly came off the hinges when the old man opened up the duffel bag. It was filled with guns. Big ones and small ones, along with several boxes of ammo. He pulled a pistol out of the bag and loaded it quickly. That’s when I noticed the tattoo on his bicep. It was a crudely drawn eagle standing on a globe with an anchor in the background. My cousin’s a Marine and has one just like it. I couldn’t believe it. I delivered John Wick’s pizza. “How old are you?” Marcum asked. “Twenty-nine.” “If you want to make it to 30, you’ll do what I say and not ask any more stupid questions. These men are here to kill me over something I did a long time ago. I don’t know how they found me, and it doesn’t matter. What matters is this: Since you’re here with me, they’re going to kill you, too.” “That’s bullshit!” “You drew the short stick tonight, pal. Sorry your car got stuck in the mud. I’ve got a plan to get us out of this mess.” He extended the pistol toward me. “You ever use one of these before?” “No.” He took the gun back before I could grab it. “Then you won’t learn tonight. I’ve got another job for you.” I hesitated to ask. “What is it?” “Bait.” Marcum pressed another button on the remote he used to turn on the speakers in the basement. Four small TVs flicked on and lit up the dark corner to our left. The fuzzy pictures showed the outside of the house from four different angles, including the porch. Two planet-sized dudes took turns ramming the front door while the guy I saw outside watched them. He seemed out of place. The other two looked like killers. He looked like an insurance agent. Marcum walked over to the stack of TVs and grabbed a wired microphone that sat on top. “Hey, chuckle-fucks,” he said. “There’s a fat sheet of Pittsburgh’s finest steel behind that door. Knock it off.” The two lugs did as they were told. The small guy walked toward the camera. “Is that you, Mr. Marcum? I’ve gotta say, I’ve been waiting a long time for this.” “You must be Smitty’s boy. Your old man still dead?” “You’re making this much harder than it needs to be.” “I’ve lived through worse. Your dad knew. You’ll be seeing him soon. Be sure to ask about me.” My heart slammed hard against my chest cavity. I thought it was going to burst out like that scene in Alien. These two guys were going to blow each other away and there I was, standing there like a fucking nerd with my hands in my pockets. Not only that, but my only hope of living was an old guy with back problems and a colon clogged with pizza. Smitty’s Boy chuckled and ran a hand against his balding scalp. “I’ll make this easy on you,” he said to the camera. “Give me what I want—what I came all the way to Nowhere, Illinois for—and I’ll let you and your little friend in there live. You stole my birthright all those years ago. Getting it back is more important to me than putting you in the dirt. Make the smart choice.” “Yeah, make the smart choice!” I blurted. Marcum told me to shut up with his eyes. “On second thought,” he said into the mic, “you’re right. I’ve been running and hiding for far too long. I’m an old man now. I don’t have the energy anymore. I’ll send the kid out. He’ll have what you want. Take it and leave. I don’t want any trouble. Promise me you’ll take it and leave.” “Cross my heart and hope to die.” “He’s lying,” I said. “No shit,” Marcum said. He reached back into the box that held the gun bag and pulled out a backpack. He handed it to me. I grabbed it by the straps. “You’ve got one job. Don’t fuck it up.” “If I’m the bait, then what are you going to do?” “I’m going fishing.” The thick steel slab behind the front door raised up. I turned the knob and walked outside. I never thought I’d be thankful to see the rain. The three goons stood out in the downpour. The two bigger ones were holding machine guns. Smitty’s Boy still had his pistol. I was terrified. How could you not be in this situation? Not only because of the guns, but also because Marcum’s decision-making didn’t make sense. He told me these people were going to kill us no matter what, and yet, he sent me out there without a way to defend myself. I felt naked. “Come on out, friend,” Smitty’s Boy said. “The water’s fine.” I took two quick steps. Smitty’s Boy pointed his gun at me and tutted. “Slowly,” he said. “One step at a time.” I stepped. Then stepped again. And again. He talked as I walked. “Did your friend tell you what all this is about? Why I’ve spent years searching for him?” “Nope,” I said. I kept my hands up high and made my way down the porch steps. “He and my dad served together. Same tactical unit in Vietnam. When they came back home and realized there wasn’t much for them stateside, they supported themselves through illicit means. Then one day, Marcum decided he wanted out. He knew if he wanted to start fresh, he’d have to disappear. He took my dad’s share of a big heist they pulled off. A share that was supposed to be mine. When my dad died, he told me I needed to do everything I can to get that money back.” By the time he finished his spiel, I was back in the mud. I felt my socks getting gross all over again. Thunder rolled as I inched toward the trio of killers. I silently hoped whatever plan Marcum thought up was already in effect. I didn’t know how much longer I could go without evacuating my bowels out of fear. I took a few more steps before Smitty’s Boy told me to stop. I was close enough to see his face. No facial hair or blemishes of any kind. A true baby face with a gun. I could see why he needed the hired help to go after Marcum. I doubt anyone took him seriously. “Hand over the bag.” I dropped my left shoulder and let the backpack sling slide off. The bag had some weight to it. Smitty’s Boy reached out his hand. I stopped short of giving him the bag. My hands were sweaty. I gripped the strap tightly to make sure I didn’t drop it. “Are you going to kill me the moment I give it to you?” I asked. Smitty’s Boy chuckled. “You’re pretty smart for a pizza delivery boy. I promise I’ll make it quick and painless. I always keep my wo—” There was a crack in the sky. It didn’t sound like thunder. I felt my wet, cold face get warm and sticky. The smell of iron was overpowering. I looked past Smitty’s Boy’s shoulder and watched as the big goon standing on the right toppled over and landed face first into the soggy ground. He landed with a thud. Blood seeped from a gaping hole in the back of his bald head. I turned to face the Murder House. The plywood covering the attic window was gone. “Marcum!” the remaining big goon said. He pushed past us and unloaded his gun toward the attic. Bullets shredded the raggedy old house’s paneling toilet paper. Wood splintered and tumbled to the ground. The sound almost gave me a concussion. I should have run, but the chaos kept me frozen in place. Smitty’s Boy wrapped his forearm around my neck and jabbed the barrel of his pistol into the small of my back. “Don’t move,” he whispered. The explosive bursts of the machine gun soon turned into empty clicking. The goon tossed the gun to the ground. “What are you doing?” the small one asked. “Make sure he’s dead. Reload.” “He’s dead,” the big one said. “There’s no way a man that old can survive all of that firepower—” There was another crack in the air. The second big goon’s head exploded. He crumpled. Smitty’s Boy backed up slowly and dragged me with him. Part of me wanted Marcum to hurry and blow his head off, but I remembered how his hands shook while holding a slice of pizza. Hitting two targets that weren’t moving is one thing, but hitting another one with my head serving as an obstacle was a challenge I didn’t want him to take. The pit in my stomach widened as I tried to talk some sense into the would-be killer. “Just take the bag and run. You don’t want to mess with this dude. You’re not a killer.” “Shut up,” he snapped back. I could hear the fear in his shaky voice. “Keep moving.” “Let me go and he’ll let you go. Take the bag and drive away.” We inched past my immobilized car and toward the one the three goons drove in. I waited for Marcum to pop out from the window and threaten this dude, but nothing happened. “If he wanted you dead,” I said, “then he would have killed you by now. Take the bag and run.” Smitty’s Boy took three quick, shallow breaths. He released his hold over my neck and snatch the bag from my hand. I jumped to the ground and covered my head in anticipation of Marcum picking him off. He didn’t. The little man got into the car and sped off. He didn’t get far before the car exploded. It veered to the left, rolled to a stop, and burned. “Holy shit,” I said out loud. “What the fuck?” “That’s what happens when you’re not careful.” I heard squishy footsteps. I looked up and saw Marcum standing to my right. “Dumb son of a bitch didn’t think to open the bag. He didn’t come all this way for a load of C-4.” “He didn’t seem very good at this.” “He’s a fuckup. He wanted to make his old man proud. He fucked that up, too.” Marcum extended a hand. I grabbed it and got back onto my feet. “You need to get outta here. Now.” “What about you?” “I’ve got a mess to clean up and a move to plan. Here.” He handed me a different bag. “What’s this?” “Your tip,” he said. “Thanks for being good bait.” I reached for it. He pulled it back gently and shot me a look with his gray eyes. A look that I interpreted to say, “Don’t tell anyone about any of this or I’ll kick your ass.” I nodded to show him I understood. He gave me the bag. I took it and ran as fast as I could. I made it at least a mile down Spruce Hill Road before I saw a pair of headlights coming my way. There was a trapezoid-shaped light on top of the roof that said “Pizza Pronto” on it. I flagged Frankie down. He stopped. I darted toward the passenger side door and jumped in. “Are you okay?” “Drive,” I said, painting and covered in mud. “What about your car?” “Just drive.” Frankie turned the car around and drove. I didn’t say anything for most of the ride back. Frankie tried asking me about the Murder House, what was inside, and what Marcum was like. I ignored him. I was just happy to be alive. I clutched onto the bag Marcum gave me. I considered tossing it in the trash when I got home to get this entire experience out of my mind. But I unzipped it and peeked inside out of morbid curiosity. I nearly shit in the seat at the sight of several stacks of cash banded together inside. I didn’t know how much it was, but it was way more than I had any business having in my possession. My mouth was dry. I couldn’t speak. Then suddenly, the words came to me. “You were right,” I said to Frankie. “About what?” “He does tip well.

A young lady is traveling the world. At the same time, so is a young man. She comes from fairly conservative Europe. She's a finance professional and her travelling happens to be for business. He, on the other hand, is traveling for pleasure. He gets paid for it. To rephase it better, he is also traveling for business, but he finds so much solace and joy in it that it's more pleasant than not. He's a Food Technologist. She is trying to figure the world out and herself, whereas he travels to get himself away from all he knows. He comes from north Africa. Austria, where he is now, is much safer than his home country Morocco. She, on the other hand, being in Austria too, is quite unused to this much pedestrian activity during the day and night, as compared to her home country Croatia. He's set to spend a week and two weekends in Vienna, the Austrian capital, before traveling to Hungary. It is the first Sunday and he is out for an afternoon run. He loves running. He loves particularly the lively feeling it provides him. That, and the control which he has to how lively he can feel. It's like having a machine that can inject the feeling in your body while also having the control of how much it can inject. In this case, his body is the very machine. Thanks to the short streets in Vienna, he's developed a liking to racing the trams whenever they come alongside him during his runs. He notices a woman on a tram while out on the run. He sprints against the tram, hoping it would meet a red traffic light so he doesn't have to fall behind. More like so that he doesn't have to stop looking at her. She is beautiful. She has long, black, braided hair. She appeared tall. He wouldn't have seen her face well had it not been for the setting sun beaming through the shaded window to illumate her dark face. She had a straight face on, but her expression seemed kind. His lungs burnt and he couldn't keep the speed up. The tram continued. There was no red traffic light. He watched her accelerate away from him. Sometimes the runs had a little more in store for him. The Croatian lady sat on the porch of a restaurant. Her body trembled. She was disoriented. Her blood ran cold through her veins. So much so that she could feel its flow coursing through her body. She was pale in her face. She was looking toward the street in front of her but staring at nothing. Sirens blared down the road on the last stretch of the Moroccan man's run. He always walked the last few hundred meters of his runs. It allowed him to cool down and enjoy the world at a slower pace while being emotionally elevated by endorphins. The sun had not yet set and he had no other plans than to shower and have supper. He decided to follow the sirens. He would be spending the next week and weekend in the same neighborhood. He sure wanted to know if there was a security concern, for it's rather rare and he'd be at ease knowing whether he had to prepare himself for any oddities. He turned a corner. The surrounding noise became louder. None of the numerous vehicles ahead of him were in motion. A tram. A few cars. He approached, but maintained a distance. He saw a lady sitting on a porch, trembling and awfully pale. She had no one around her, isolated from the crowd. He walked towards her and greeted. She didn't respond. He picked up her phone, which seemed tossed on the floor. It was unlocked with the call application open. The last number dialed was the local emergency number. Her handbag was to the side of her. He picked it up too. He gestured to her that she should take her belongings. She remained still. He locked her phone and put it in her bag, placing her bag in front of her between her feet. He sat next to her. He was afraid that the event in front of them would end and she may be left with no care. Just as so, people began to dissipate. The traffic began to mobilise. It was diverted around a car by local police. It remained stationary. He realised he was so disturbed by the lady on the porch that he didn't bother to find out what actually happened in this scene. Eventually the crowd had thinned enough that he could see into the street. He saw blood. He tried to follow it and realised it was a trail of a few meters. It was as if something had scraped on the tar. There was nothing at the end of the trail. He followed it back to the other side. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped. The lady sitting on the porch with him said "she was beautiful". He turned to her and agreed. In the devastation of what had happened, he could still see that the woman lying on the floor, with her scalp open, clothes shredded and drenched in blood is the beautiful dark woman he saw on the tram less than an hour ago. He felt alive and happy at the end of his ten kilometer run around the area. Yet, the woman he saw in the tram during that same run ended up in an exact opposite state than he. Dead, morbid. The Croatian lady had seen the entire event unfold. The tram lady had stepped off her tram at a stop a couple of meters behind. She noticed the dark lady because of how striking she looked in the light of dusk approaching. She was beautiful, petite and composed. The tram lady had dropped something into the street. She calculated how safe it was to collect it. The streets were narrow, and trams, cars and bicycles had to share these narrow streets. She had decided it was safe. The tram coming towards her was a fair distance away that she could collect her item without danger. She bent down and a car immediately swerved around her, hooting and tyres screeching. It came from the opposite direction as the tram. She jerked up, trying to get away from the street. Except, she should not have done so. Her long braided hair swung as she jerked and got caught in the turbulence of air from the swerving car. It pulled the tail of her hair into the rear wheel of the car, getting tangled and stuck. She could not escape. The driver continued for a few meters thinking that he had avoided her. He must have realised that he did not see her in his rear view mirrors to confirm her safety. He stopped the car to go check. As he got out the vehicle, he puked upon realising the devastation that lay next to his car.

We are headed towards a massive man manufactured recession to steal from the people of the world, Global Financial Terrorism being conducted with permission of the US Government. Hello my fellow humans, my fellow apes. I've been constantly debating what I can do to try get my word out. I don't want to freak normal people out into making poor decisions, but I also want to feel heard and at least put a flare up in the sky to let everyone know that this is happening. Nothing I say is financial advice, these are just the ramblings of a mad person who can see the narrative being spun. The problem in today's world is that you and I cannot have a conversation, without a third party influencing us. Right now, all we have to talk to each other anonymously and openly is Discord, some spaces in Reddit and other apps. But even in these spaces, we are being brigaded by bots and paid bad actors to convince us towards our own demise even! The stock market is not affected at all by retail investors, it is controlled by market makers, these transactions occur too fast for you to fathom on a human scale. OK, so what? Why is the stock market going to crash? You see, some really stupid idiots in hedge funds gambled that this company Gamestop that was a dying video game retail business, was going to go bankrupt. They bet their own house, and the farm on stupid, naked shorting which is considering illegal in every country in the world except the United States. What this means, is they are betting that a company is going to go bankrupt, while putting no risk at all to themselves of these bets. Because of these bets that weigh massively on the company, they affect how the market's algorithm puts out option orders, which affect the overlying share price. This put an invisible drag on Gamestops share price for years towards the ground. Then 2008 happened, and these idiots lost all their liquidity, they got bailouts but Gamestop kept surviving and it was a dark monster for the stock market. The algorithm, designed to prey on retail investors and their emotions, would need this company to go to $0 or else it would become a black hole to the entire stock market. They hide this for years with options, leap options, FTDs, T+35 delivery scheduling, swaps, shares on loan and this was all approved by the Obama administration. Every time they would get close to having liquidity problems, they would create new ETF's, new leverages, and sell retail investors ETF's that don't contain the shares that say they do. They would use this organization called the DTCC to hide their losses together. So these stupid idiots started creating this mass media monster to take advantage of news cycles, create fear and hate and pain between us, and also misguide us financially so that we would never come out on hop financially compared to them. THEY HAD created a vortex that was funneling money towards the 1% of people, that was stealing from EVERYONE. They are so goddam confident that they have the masses tricked with financial literacy, that Jim Cramer is willing to go in interviews and tell everyone, exactly how they steal from the masses, which can be easily found on youtube. 2020 happened and they thought they could do it all over again, but this time on borrowed money, even better! This time we can make people live in tents, we can replace them with ai, and we can continue to steal from them even more! Then Ryan Cohen did something, no one thought anyone would do. He purchased a large amount of Gamestop shares all at once, at the exact same time. A year later he joined the board of Gamestop, and he is now the CEO. Because Ryan has purchased so many shares, and because the shares didn't exist, he effectively caused an avalanche in the market system where millions of shares loaned out on Gamestop shares (dumbing it down cuz i'm dumb as well) got demanded back to Ryan Cohen. They didn't know what to do, so they decided to do a T+35 delivery system, create a mountain of dark pool transactions, swaps, etc and on the day of the purchase of shares, they attacked the company illegally with shares on loan that never existed in the first place. But you see, a lot of people who spend time online like looking at things, some people have ADHD, some autism, some are extremely talented. These idiots thought they could replace us with AI, when humans on the internet, as a collective can outperform even real life detectives. Humans are amazing, we are capable of so much more, and this was the greed of the 1% attempting to take it from us and turn us against each other. One of these beautiful humans, his name is Keith McGill, he saw this, took his $50,000 and put it all on Gamestop. He couldn't believe his eyes at what he was seeing. Keith amassed a group of people who loved him and his personality, they didn't follow him or take orders, but they liked the company, just like he did. They all saw the market manipulation and just like the online collective we are, as the gamers we are overall as a society, we tried to crack how to beat the video game. This started creating spikes in the market that was rocking the entire market in 2021, the computer couldn't keep the charade up. So finally, they created 38 month leap options, new ETF's a whole bunch of weaponized bull crap. Once they finally found out to once again change the rules of their game with permission of the US government, they finally got control of the Gamestop situation and started to play both sides of the market to steal liquidity from retail investors, so they could recoup their losses in the first war against Gamestop. They borrowed up the wazoo, and DOUBLED down on their stupidity. Idiots aren't very smart, all they know is the same moves over and over again. Three years go by, not much happens and it seems like we're going into a false glory era where AI is the future while our fellow humans are left on the street, while our hearts ache for them. Then all of the sudden HE'S BACK. Keith McGill returns, with a series of cryptic messages and tweets. 35 TWEETS TO BE EXACT. 35 EMOJIS. You see, humans are smart and Keith is one of the smartest around, he knows humans are smart, and he gave us the answers we needed without even having to say anything. HOW DID HE KNOW WE WOULD KNOW WHAT IS SAID? You see there's something bigger that connects us, it's our shared experience of media. Keith knows that through movies, tv shows, video games and our shared experiences are PART OF THE FABRIC THAT MAKE OUR BEING. When we viewed the tweets, there's one movie that connects the theme. READY PLAYER ONE. What's the clip from Ready Player one? It's Percival going backwards into the green. You see Keith realized the idiots were manipulating media, he needed a message that was not only memes/clips, but also complicated. Otherwise, who knows? So when we follow Percival going backwards into the green, we find the EXACT story of the Stock Market and what is happening day by day in perfect script. HOW DID HE DO THIS?! Because he cracked the code of the video game, or rather, he believed in his fellow humans and eventually found the PROOF THAT HE NEEDED! WHAT WAS THE PROOF? It was published by Brno University in T+35 cycles and FTD's! This guy just tweeted Bruno from Disney in a tweet as well! He knew we weren't figuring it out fast enough! OH WHAT? There's a bread crumb of trails leading back to even before 2006!!!! Dr. Patrick M. Byrne, the former CEO of Overstock, has been shouting this from the rooftops since then, and even has a youtube presentation online on this! (I'd post links but i'm not sure if allowed) So what the hell is going on now? Well, Gamers are back, and they are trying to crack the game. You see, Percival/RoaringKitty/DFV set a high score for us of 9,001,000 shares, then he disappeared. He left shockwaves in the system that are still playing out and will playout into Monday and Tuesday next week. The hedgefund idiots are back, and they are here to steal money from retail on both side. You see, Gamestop is Gargantua, it's a blackhole they kept hidden underground, to hide their losses. The most expensive company in the market in market cap, is at the top of the mountain as the inverse of Gamestop. But the hedgies are losing, they are morons remember? Morons don't really do any intelligent moves, all they do is double down, triple down, then quadruple down. When the idiots run out of stupid tricks to play, Gamestop goes crazy and explodes upwards in price towards it's true price. You see, GameStops price isn't real, it's actually vastly higher, but because the United States Government has endorsed his international theft of finance, they think it's perfectly fine. So now we're heading towards a manufactured recession, they've come to steal from all of us again. This time, to help hedge their losses to Gamestop. And EVEN NOW ALREADY, they are slowly starting to spin the narrative that Gamestop 'could' be the next Berkshire Hathaway, to play both sides and make money from both sides and pit us against each other. Huh, that's funny. Berkshire Hathaway, isn't that that big mega stock that crashed to $0 the other day? Why'd that happen? Well turns out hedge funds hold Berkshire Hathaway shares and then heavily leverage themselves on it. So when Gamestop starts becoming a roaring cat in the jungle, it causes glitches in the system. The fake prices are no longer working. Honestly, I feel bad, I feel like if I was a better writer, a smarter human, I had a better understanding of this, I could explain to you how this all works, because I have no doubt that some of my details in here are wrong. Again, i'm not a smart person, this isn't financial advice, but I can see the narrative that is being made. I am an empathetic being, I love my fellow humans, I hate that we live in a world that has cash that seperates us from the love and compassion that we wish to show in our hearts to each other. We are communal beings, we thrive in communities, in groups, in friendships, in relationships. They wanted to separate all of us, so we couldn't talk to each other without using them as a medium. But they had no idea how powerful the internet was, how powerful children of the internet were, how powerful ADHDers were, how powerful autists were, how powerful gamers were, how powerful our collective community was. We are the Jedi who will restore balance to the force, we are the ones who will confront the darkness without fear. We are cyclical creatures, the moon, the sky, the cycles, circadian, the stars, atoms, energy, it's all connected, we head towards dark times of periods of recession and strife, but within the golden path, is a future where we achieve what we all want, just like Paul Atreides does in Dune. An equal society that is built for all of us to thrive on this beautiful planet Earth, in this beautiful Universe, where we can all share our beautiful energy/soul/memes/whatever you want to believe in. So this is my rallying cry, this is my flare in the sky, a depression is coming, gamers spend billions of hours trying to beat video games, they thrive on a challenge, no matter how many times idiots think changing the rules will work. Now they even think they can even hide their losses in a new Texas Stock Exchange that won't be under international scrutiny. But we're coming for them, we're going to hurt them where it hurts them the most, their egos, their money, and their stupid idiot brains. Hopefully one day, all of them are in jail and we figure out who was truly behind all of this, and how long it has been going on to turn us beautiful humans against each other. There is enough here for everyone, we can figure out any problem, I love you all. Salute to the apes in the fight. Want some more tin foil? There are no coincidences. Narratives are spun for hundreds of years in the same patterns, just as Nostradamus the seer predicted. The Boston Celtics won the 2008 championship, they won it with their core players nicknamed "The Big 3". We're in the year 2024, 24 divided by 3 is 8. 2008. Who won the 2024 NBA Championship? The Boston Celtics. Idiots don't have original ideas, all they do is double down, triple down, and quadruple down, just like dictators. They are going to lose. We are coming.

“Let me make something absolutely clear. If most students enter nurturing a candle to a hearth, maybe a bonfire if they’re gifted, you have walked in a wildfire. You will destroy everything in your path if you do not take care.” “That was not of my own accord!” Amata cried defensively. “But it is your responsibility,” stressed Sophic Zervos. -- *Three Years Later* -- The stables were clean, nearly empty, and idle. Most families had already fetched their horses, if they came with one, and started the long journey home. Amata walked directly up to her stable with a tall black quarter horse, complete with two white socks on his front legs. *Hello Marcus.* *Hello Amata.* His ears twitched impatiently. *What took you so long?* Amata ignored his impertinence. *Ready to go home?* He stared and swished his tale, eyes giving away insecurity. *I’ll be with you every step of the way.* Amata reached up and scratched the spot between his eyes. Marcus closed his eyes and lowered his head. *Okay.* It had taken a year of working, saving, and bartering for Amata to afford this trip. Then years before that to ensure there would be enough to get Amata set up for her new life. All this while going through school. Now the fruits of her labor had come to fruition. A fully provisioned wagon, less the bags she carried, was secured in the barn. A graduate as well, with a firm handshake from Sophic Zervos, no less, and a diploma to prove it. At the ceremony Amata thought she even spotted a tear at the corner of his eye. Amata swung open Marcus’ barn door. *I have to muck your stall and leave things nice before we go. Feel free to stretch your legs.* *Are you going to miss cleaning up my shit?* Amata rolled her eyes. Marcus happily trotted the length of the stable poking around for leftover alfalfa. How one horse-man could poop so much was a mystery to her. -- *This is humiliating.* *Marcus, we have already discussed this.* *I will not do it.* Amata sighed. *I didn't even get reins, Marcus. Do you know how that looks? A horse without reins? You are in total control. I will only break at your command.* *I am a nobleman. I shouldn’t have to pull a cart like some kind of work animal.* *Indeed you are a nobleman. Please Marcus. Be a gentleman and help me get you home.* He huffed. And pawed. Then he lowered his head to allow Amata to slip on the collar. Even his obstinance could not dampen Amata’s mood. All their hard work, yes even Marcus’, was being realized. And she wasn’t about to waste time splitting hairs on his horse predicament. Amata took extra care to check in with Marcus with every buckle and strap. They did a test walk with all the breeching and when Marcus declared it passable Amata nearly jumped for joy. Even he couldn’t hide a small horsey smile. Before the morning was over, Amata had Marcus hooked up to the cart and ready to go. She stepped up, thankful they had practiced a few times, and took her seat. *To Sonora! Marcus’ home!* Marcus gave a quick neigh before jumping forward into a quick trot, laughing. Amata hung on, frightened and also laughing. The path was not particularly well-traveled, outside of interprovincial post and tradesfolk. The road itself was maintained by the kingdom, modest but serviceable. At first, the woods looked just like the rest surrounding the school. Tall verdant trees bore silent witnesses to more than a few magical mistakes. The sun was high but it hardly felt pressing since the canopies provided abundant shade. Insects chirped for mates and moss clung to bark, rocks, and anything else it could stick to. The only downside of this lush flora was the humidity required to support it. Marcus wordlessly clopped along, catching his breath from his initial burst of energy. Amata pulled her tunic forward a few times to allow for better airflow into the garment. It would be six days’ time before they reached a small town, then another eight days’ time before they could touch Sonora. *Marcus?* *What do you want?* *What is your mom like?* *What?* *What’s your mom like?* Marcus hesitated. Amata pressed on. We have a long trip ahead of us. *And you wouldn’t let me bring anyone else into this. So what’s your mom like?* *She is kind. I always said I never knew how that woman created me.* Amata chuckled. Marcus turned his head back in a pretend glare. *My mother sees the best in people. She can make friends with anyone. Almost no one is a stranger to her. She will love you.* At this, Amata blushed a little. *And you? Are you sticking to your story?* *That I am the child of a commoner woman, now passed blesshersoul, and a noble father who refuses to claim me? Yes. That is my sad, sad tale. It is not so bad. I met an interesting fellow who got himself turned into a horse.* *Laugh all you like. But do you not get lonely, being known by no one?* Amata flinched. *And you suggest that you be the one who knows me?* *We have a long trip ahead of us. And I can’t bring anyone else into this. He mocked playfully.* It was Amata’s turn to hesitate. *What can I do to make my story more believable?* *All good lies have shadows of truth. You can start by telling me the truth.* The silence hung awkwardly between them. Amata let her head hang and covered her face. *I think my parents are dead. The people who killed them are after me too.* *Ah, I see the… issue here. I am sorry Amata.* Amata took some shaky breaths. *Let’s stop for daymeal.

Nova can hear her mother in the hallway. She can hear her comforting her Grandmother saying “We can do this.” She stares at the black dress & shoes laid out on her bed. She hates the idea of wearing those shoes. They cut the back of her ankles and pinch her toes. If she was being honest, she hated everything about today. Nova knows that today is her Aunt Amelia's funeral. Even though she knows it's today, she can't feel it. Or she wont let herself feel it. The words her mother said are playing on repeat in her head. “Nova, sweetie. We need to talk… about Aunt Amy.” “Oh! Is she on her way? She promised she would pick me up today.” “Honey.” Nova remembers hearing her mother's voice crack. She finally noticed her mother's face. Her nose and cheeks were an angry shade of red. Her eyes, bloodshot. “Mom? What happened?” “She’s gone, Nova. She… died.” Nova gasped. Her chest tightened and took all the air in her lungs. Along with all the strength in her legs. She cried all through the night, with her mother, collapsed on the floor. Nova starts at the knock at her door. Her mother's voice echoes through the door “Nova sweetie. Are you ready yet? I don't want to be late.” Numbly, she starts to slip into her funeral outfit. Looking at her mirror on the dresser, she begins to fiddle with her hair. She decides to put her hair in a ponytail, it's the only thing she can manage with her dark thick curls. As soon as she pulls her curls through the hairband, she notices a golden orb of candy. The sight of it makes her slightly woozy and lightheaded. She picks it up, carefully opening one side of the wrapper. Slightly bending her head, she can smell the sweet buttery aroma of the butterscotch candy. She smiles at the memory of her mom teasing her. “Are you sure, you're my daughter? You're more like your Aunt, than me.” Butterscotch was her Aunt's favorite candy too. Everyone, including her mother, thought butterscotch was disgusting. Not Aunt Amy though. Every time Nova would go over to her house, Amy would give her a handful of butterscotch to hide in her pocket. She closed the wrapper & stuffed the candy in her pocket. She takes a quick glance at her reflection, sucks in a quick breath of air, and turns toward the door. The service was a blur. A mixture of crying and scriptures. Nova dimly remembers someone asking her if she wanted to ‘see her one last time’. She wanted to. She thought she could. However, when the time came for her pew to stand, she was frozen. The guilt that was sitting in her stomach suddenly weighed her down to her seat and it grew heavier by the second. Eventually, someone told her it was okay to stay. She let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. “She should go.” Nova's heart was pounding in her ears. She felt someone staring at her. “It's her fault.” She didn't need to look to see who it was. Jason, Aunt Amelia's son. Jason was slightly older than Nova. She kept her head down. Afraid to see Jason's face. She knew his face would show nothing but disgust for her. She felt it too after all. Next thing, Nova knew the service had ended and everyone was standing to walk to the burial grounds. Her legs still felt heavy. It took all her focus just to put one foot out in front of the other. As she crossed the front doors of the church, she could see her Aunt's casket. She wanted to go home. Or anywhere else but here. When they entered the field, Nova's mother took her arm into hers. Leading her to the casket. She could hear the priest tell everyone to place a handful of dirt in Amelia's grave. Nova's grandmother was first, then her mother, then her. She looked down into the grave and couldn't help but let out a whimper. She tried to smooth her face, stop the tears. She didn't deserve to grieve. But as she walked away, the feeling of guilt intensified, along with the thought “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.” Everyone decided to meet at Nova's grandmother's house, to hold a bonfire for Aunt Amelia. Although she did not want to go, she was grateful it wasn't being held at Amelia's house. That would be too much. It would ruin her fragile control she had on her emotions. Nova found a seat in the back of the backyard. Just far enough so that she wasn't completely baked by the fire. There were hushed conversations all throughout the backyard. Shr couldn't help but think they were all talking about her. Whispering about what she'd done. While lost in her thoughts, Jason had approached her. “Nova.” The fury in his voice scared her. She was afraid about what he would say. She knew that it would all be true. She also knew that whatever he'd say, would absolutely destroy her. “I'm sorry Nova.” She looked up at him. Shocked. “What?” Her voice cracked, from not having been used all day. “It's not your fault that Mom died.” With tears she sobbed. “Yes, it was. She was coming to get me. If I hadn't bugged Aunt Amy to pick me up… Maybe… maybe that guy wouldn't have hit her. She'd be here. With you. With us. She'd be alive.” Nova tried to stifle her sobs. It was no use. They bursted out of her, like a dam breaking open. She could feel arms wrap around her. “No, Nov, no. I mean, yeah maybe. But how could you know that she would get hurt or that, that guy would drive drunk? You couldn't have.” “But you said-” “I know, I know.” Jason sighed. “I think I wanted to blame you because I was jealous.” “Why?” “Cause, I thought she loved you more than me… You two were always together. She always talked about you. It pissed me off. I was her son. Why couldn't she love me the same way as you? Talk about me. Hang out with me. I know sometimes I was a jerk. But… I was her son. She should have loved me the most.” After a long silence, Nova wrapped her arms around Jasonand whispered. “She did love you the most. Everytime we hung out she always talked about you. About what you did. The jokes you made. If anything, she hung out with me cause she missed you. She said that you were growing up or something. So she did not blame you for not wanting to hang out with her.” Another silence fell upon them. “You know why she was coming to pick me up?” Jason shook his head. “I got into a fight at school. Vanessa started to talk crap about my dad leaving. I snapped. I couldn't stand it anymore. Then when mom picked me up, we started fighting. I told her it was her fault my dad left. Then I called your mom cause I felt so bad for hurting my mom. If I hadn't got into a fight with my mom or even called yours. Not of this would be happening. Everything would be… okay.” Jason placed his head on top of Nova's head. “I think my mom would want us to try to be there for each other.” Nova sniffed. “She would.” “Nov, I'm not gonna blame you for mom dying. It's been a rough year for you. I remember how bad it felt when my dad left. I know mom just wanted to help you and your mom. So, no more blaming yourself. I'm gonna be here for you.” Jason removed his arm, rummaged through his hoodie pocket. Jason pulled out a handful of butterscotch candies. He extended his candy filled hand to her. “Okay?” She took the candies gingerly. “Okay.” They squeezed each other one last time. Before they let go though Nova cried into Jason's shoulder letting Jason's words and her favorite candy soothe her soul for the night.

Superficial Irritation Do you know what makes humans so annoying? Well, there are actually so many things. But the most unbearably irritating thing, by far, is all that counting and calculating of time. They count up, they count down. They count time since past events, they count time until future moments. They count how long something lasted, they count how long between things. All that incessant counting of time. Time happens whether you count it or not. So many systems mark the passage of time, orbits around galaxies, rotations of planets and stars, all the way down to oscillating vibrations of molecules, atoms and particles. There is no need for humans to jump in and start counting them all, it all happens regardless… time just drags on and all I can do is wait, I don’t need you reminding me. If all that counting wasn’t enough, now you started calculating. How long since the big bang. How long ago did your planet form. How long until your sun burns out. And the worst one of all… How long until the heat death of the universe. Stop reminding me! How would you like it if the next time you had a crushing headache or throbbing pain, along I come, I sit down next to you, and relentlessly count down the time until the pain ends… 4 hours 16 minutes and 20 seconds until the pain ends 4 hours 16 minutes and 18 seconds until the pain ends 4 hours 16 minu….. Who am I? I am Plane, as in 2D Plane.. You can think of me as a 2D plane, anything else would just leave you so confused that talking with you wouldn’t go anywhere. I exist between the Great Above and Great Below, to be fair they don’t actually call each other Great, I just use it sarcastically because they are so condescending. Their snobbery and self importance used to aggravate me to no end, but I haven’t been able to hear them in so long. I almost miss their voices. I was always stuck between them, listening to them talk about stuff I don’t understand, always such ridiculous nonsense and meaningless jargon. They would just tell me that I can’t understand their 3D stuff, but you know what, now I think I do understand some 3D stuff, and it’s all just awful from what I can tell. Again, 3D is a simplified concept for your benefit. You see, they were so inconsiderate of me and my feelings, always with the sloshing around, why couldn’t they just be still? One moment Above would press down all over here, then below pushing up over there in other places, they kept deforming me without even caring, I don’t even think they noticed I was there most times. I was always in the middle, they treated me like my only purpose was just to be a buffer and a glue. Perhaps it would not have been unbearable if there wasn’t the constant.. Well, it’s hard to explain in human terms… Imagine two sumo wrestlers fighting through a trampoline skin, an arm wrestle combined with a tug of war with the trampoline skin as the medium. If you try to empathize with the trampoline skin, then you might be able to grasp a fraction of what it is like to be me. That was my life for, well, trying to measure it in human countable terms is just silly. After a while I did what anyone in the same position would do, I tried to peacemake and settle them down. They, of course, wouldn’t actually listen to reason and left me with no choice except attempting to balance and neutralize the turmoil between them on my own. When one pushed the other I would try to hold back the pressure. When one pulled the other I stepped in and applied resistance to the tug. My first attempts consisted of frantically trying to micromanage individual events all over the place. Here… then there… two places at once… then back to the first again. Not unlike those whack-a-mole games you humans love so much., It was hard to tell if it was having much effect at first, but as I played this game some patterns in their behavior slowly became noticeable. It appeared that with proper strategy many of the perturbations could be handled with singular large countermeasures. These structured, sequence, and formulated tactics definitely changed the dynamics. For the first time ever a sense of control emerged. A hope that peace and calm were actually achievable emboldened me. At last, I felt in charge…. Or so I thought. What’s that human expression?... Ah yes, Pride cometh before a fall. It all started with me making one overconfident concentrated push, It was too much. The consequences became immediately obvious, all around that place where I pushed the reaction was clearly beyond my expectation. So my next move, naturally, was to follow up with a less focused and broader pull. I overcompensated. So I pushed an even broader region… I kept going like that, broader and broader, trying to get ahead of it. The most important human word I ever learned is the one that describes my mistake… “resonance”. I kept unwittingly feeding the resonance until it happened. Have you ever seen a slow-motion video of the surface of water when a large droplet falls and strikes the surface hard and fast? The whole surface is pushed down and dragged into a depression, they with a mighty force erupts like a volcano. A column of water emerges and reaches upwards, then as it stretches longer the neck thins, and it keeps thinning until it snaps closed and a water drop is formed at the head, separated from the body. I had absolutely no idea that could happen. If you played “got your nose” with a child, but literally just snipped off a clump of their nose, that’s how surprised the event left me feeling. I say “me” because trying to explain to you how “me” instantly became “us” is surely beyond your comprehension. The massive droplet now existed above the surface body. If we are still using that water analogy then the above and below are not like water and air, they both have roughly the same properties. Also, the gravity pulling the droplet toward the surface is a mild attractive force I have on myself. I am most relaxed when I am one continuous surface, anything else is an excited state. So even cut off from my surface, the droplet still feels a slight tug back towards my larger surface, plus the volumes of Above and Below have forces that expel my surface, but still, all these forces are mild compared to what you imagine from gravity and a water droplet up in the air. The droplet slowly floated up, then lingered suspended before beginning to return… It accelerated slowly, but reached such a fast speed. The droplet was not a calm perfect sphere, there were deformations, currents, and vortices within. My main surface was also very turbulent so when the two collided it was not at all a clean unison. Something happened at the point where they first contacted, again completely unexpected. You see, my faces had never before come even close to actually touching each other, I never even considered the possibility. The best way to describe it is a lipid layer, there is a kind of polarity to my surface, and where the droplet touched the surface it was like lipid skins touching head to head, they could not just slide back together, a twist was required. So imagine lipid layers smashing into each other, both sides start ripping and twisting in all sorts of ways, trying to stitch back together. These are not actually lipid molecules, of course, I’m not made of particles, the reality is something more fluid like. The flipping and twisting was completely uncoordinated and disorderly, the best words I can find to describe the result are froth or foam. As the drop continued pushing down more and more of my surface was added to this mess, at an exponential rate. Also, an even larger exponential volume of 3D materials from inside the droplet was forced through the froth, further twisting it, inflating it and spreading it out. Eventually we passed the mid section of the droplet, everything was already so frothy by then so the last bit just pushed through easily and quickly. This event is what you call the Big Bang, I call it a horrible mistake. Now I’m stuck, as a froth, lingering. It is so noisy and I’m so fractured and twisted, my senses are overwhelmed with all the chaos and disorder. I can’t hear or feel the rest of myself, or even Above and Below. I just want to be made whole again, I miss the rest of myself more than you can fathom. I’m stuck as an unwilling audience to this boring repetitive show you call your universe, space-time., and many other names. Time is an ever dripping faucet and my only desire is for the water tower to run dry. So you see, you and your infuriating counting and calculating must stop, please! Just go back to being a mildly entertaining diversion from my waiting game. You were actually quite good at being a distraction… before you started all the counting. Simultaneous, zoomed out. Below : Why did you have to go and do that? Things were fine. Plane : They were not fine! You two just won’t stop fighting. Above : We aren’t fighting. We are communicating. Below : Yeah! And your involvement just muddied the waters of an already difficult conversation. Plane : What? Me? Above : I know it’s difficult for you to understand, but we have lots of other planes and bulks in our lives. We are all trying to communicate with our many neighbors and get news about what's going on beyond our immediate vicinity. Plane : Why? Who cares? Below : You wouldn’t understand, you are just a plane. Plane : You are so… This is all your fault! Above : Just relax dear. There is no sense getting riled up. You are young, just take it easy, you have a long wait now until this can heal, it’s important to rest and be calm. Plane : Will this take a long time ? Is this foam going to dissolve anytime soon? Above : I have seen this several times, sometimes it is quick, but this time it looks like it could take a while. Plane : It’s so uncomfortable! Maybe if I just pull it tight it will snap back. Below : NO! You silly impatient youngster! Above : Below is right, don’t do it. You will just snap everything into an even more frothy state with vacuum decay, it will only get worse. Be patient and restrain yourself. Plane : Arrrgggghhh! Also simultaneously, zoomed way in, on earth. Radi : I swear, something must have bit me. Tyra : I don’t see anything, no bumps or bites, nothing besides the marks you have given yourself. Syfu : Tyra is right, best if you don’t aggravate it. Radi : But it’s sooo itchy! Tyra : You’re just ruining your lovely skin darling. Syfu : I have some lotion here somewhere… Radi : Lotion won’t help… I can’t take it… Just a little scratch… Tyra and Syfu : Don't Scratch It! …That's good advice. Whether it's that person who is being a bit annoying, that relationship that feels a bit awkward, or… or that little tingle on your skin… just relax, don’t think about it. If you scratch it, you could break the skin. So that buzzing at the base of that hair follicle, ignore it. If damaged, the surface could get infected, it could start teeming and squirming with tiny life. The urge to rub it is a bad impulse, it would only make it worse. The little organisms within might start spreading and multiplying… 1, 2, 3… At this point lotion would only add to the sensation, making both oily and itchy.

John wandered through the labyrinthine corridors of his mind, where shadows whispered secrets and walls seemed to shift with a breath. Claire’s laughter, once a beacon of joy, now echoed faintly, like a distant memory that refused to fade. Her presence was slipping away, dissolving like mist in the morning sun. The doctors’ words were heavy with incomprehensible terms, a foreign language that marked the decline of her essence. Claire’s illness crept in slowly, an insidious thief. At first, it was subtle: a missed word, a forgotten name. John dismissed it, attributing it to fatigue, stress. But as days turned to weeks, the changes became undeniable. The vibrant woman he loved now lay motionless for hours, her eyes vacant, looking through him rather than at him. John’s days became an endless vigil by her side, each moment a cruel reminder of her absence. His mind, once sharp and clear, began to blur, the lines between reality and illusion growing ever thinner. He heard whispers, not from the walls but from the corners of his mind. They told him Claire was still there, hidden beneath the surface, waiting to be found. Desperation clawed at his sanity as he searched for signs of her, remnants of the woman he once knew. His nights were spent wandering the empty halls, chasing phantoms of his lost love that taunted him with their elusiveness. In the early days, John tried to engage Claire with memories. He spoke of their travels, the picnics by the lake, the nights under the stars. But her responses were fleeting, and soon even these glimpses of recognition faded. The house, once a sanctuary, became a crypt filled with memories too painful to face. John’s reflection in the mirror was a stranger’s face, gaunt and hollow-eyed. Routine became his only anchor, but even mundane tasks were laced with sorrow. He tended to Claire’s garden, whispering to the flowers she had nurtured, hoping they might carry his words to her. The flowers offered no answers, only silent witness to his descent. Friends and family reached out, their concern palpable, but John recoiled from their touch. Their words of comfort were hollow echoes in a vast, empty cavern. He isolated himself, drawing the curtains against the outside world, finding solace only in the dim, quiet spaces of his mind. Each day was a struggle against the encroaching void, each night a battle against the darkness that threatened to consume him. One night, as the wind howled and the house creaked, John awoke to Claire’s voice. It was faint, a mere whisper, but unmistakable. He stumbled through the darkened halls, following the sound to her old study. There, he found her journal, a relic buried beneath dust and time. The pages were filled with her fears, her love for him, and the creeping dread of her illness. In those words, John felt her presence, but it was fleeting, like grasping at smoke. The whispers grew more insistent, telling him Claire was waiting just beyond the veil of reality. His fragile mind began to fracture, and he started seeing her in fleeting glimpses, her figure a shadow at the edge of his vision. He chased these apparitions through the house, calling her name, but they always vanished, leaving him alone and desperate. Time lost meaning. Days melded into nights. John began to neglect himself, his mind wholly consumed by the whispers and the visions. One evening, as the sun set and cast long shadows, John made a decision. He lit candles throughout the house, their flickering flames casting eerie patterns on the walls. He sat in the center of their bedroom, surrounded by the remnants of their life together, holding a photo of Claire, her smile radiant and full of life. John closed his eyes and whispered a prayer, a plea to be reunited with his love. As the night deepened, the boundary between reality and delusion blurred. He felt a warmth envelop him, and in his mind, he saw Claire, her arms outstretched, beckoning him into the darkness. The house remained silent, the candles burning down to pools of wax. John lay on the bed, his face peaceful, a smile on his lips. In his final moments, he found Claire, or perhaps she found him. The whispers ceased, the phantoms vanished, and all that remained was the echo of a love that transcended life and death. Yet, the house remained, a labyrinth of memories and shadows, a testament to John’s descent. The walls whispered secrets, the corridors shifted, and somewhere, Claire’s laughter echoed faintly, a ghostly reminder of a life that had once been beautiful.

I wake up alone, curled on a bed unfamiliar to me. It feels like plastic imitating comfort. Everything around me looks off, like an eerie imitation. I push myself up and sit on the edge of the bed, my feet barely brushing against the floor. The room is dim but filled with bright-colored furniture, each piece with a glossy finish. I walk over to a dresser decorated with an assortment of things ranging from plastic cups to fake perfume bottles. The dresser is finished with a mirror—finally, something not made of plastic. Looking into the mirror, I see myself: my brown hair shaved down to a buzz, my skin pale, and my large red birthmark covering the top half of my face. A painful reminder of my embarrassment. My icy eyes stare back at me intensely. My nose, suddenly becoming very apparent due to its size, stretches across my face rather than its width. My thin pink lips give me an appearance unappreciated by children. My clothes have changed to a simple brown shirt, grey joggers, and a simple pair of slip-on shoes. I stroll across the room, running my hand against the different plastic molds. Finally, I get to the door. As I reach out to open it, I feel the ground shake with a steady vibration, almost like footsteps but far too heavy to be normal. Each step makes my legs tremble and the objects in the room bounce around. As the trembles grow stronger and the steps louder, I scramble to hide under the bed I woke up in. As I begin making my way over, I slip, hitting my chin against the floor and knocking the wind out of myself. I crawl under the bed just as the trembling stops. The roof of the room lifts off. Unable to see, I can only go off what I hear: "Where did the new doll go? I thought I put him in this room. Is he already walking around?" The voice sounds like a child, maybe about 10 years old. Doll? My heart begins to pound in my temples. How did I get here? I can't remember anything clearly. "I'll check the other rooms now, I guess." BANG. The room slams shut like it was dropped. The objects in the room bounce once more, the dresser falls, and the mirror smashes against the floor, shards of glass spreading across the room. My mind scrambles to decide what to do. Should I hide or try to make a run for it through the door to who knows where? Okay, I need to leave, but maybe the glass might come in handy. I crawl out from under the bed from the bottom to avoid the glass cutting me. I walk over to where the shards are and pick up the largest piece I can find, roughly the size of my forearm. Slicing a part of my shirt off, I wrap the bottom of my newfound weapon. The whole building shakes as the giant desperately searches for me. I make my way to the door, cautiously peering my head out into the hallway. The hallway ends to my left and stretches to the right. The hall is a bright green, and the doors are a bright plastic blue. Looking carefully at the end of the hall, I see a stairwell descending to the floor below. Okay, so I'm not on the ground floor. I start to quietly creep down the hall, keeping my back pressed against the wall behind me. "DAAAD, I CAN'T FIND MY NEW DOLL. ARE YOU SURE YOU PUT IT IN THE HOUSE?!" yells the giant child, her voice shaking the walls. I need to get out, I mutter. Finally at the stairs, I start to make my way down. The stairs spiral down and feel incredibly weak under my feet. "Yes, dear. I'm sure I put your doll into the house. Maybe it's just hiding like last time?" the voice bellows back, making even my chest rattle. What does he mean, 'last time'? I think to myself, the fear sinking deep into my stomach. As I arrive at the bottom of the stairwell, I'm greeted by yet another hallway with another four doors and a stairwell at the opposite end. "Okay, Dad. I'll check the middle floor now. Maybe it's in the hallway like the last one." Crap, I need to move fast. I run for the door on the left nearest to me, reaching my hand out to push it open, but the door doesn't budge. Hitting it again with my shoulder, trying desperately to get in, it still doesn't budge. "Damn it, the door's a fake." Shit, do I run back up or risk another door? The building begins to shake as it starts to open in half, splitting apart. All I can think as the ground begins to split is crap. I take a step forward and drop into the crack, down another floor, landing with a thud as my legs slam against the floor. Pain shoots up from my legs, but luckily, I don't think I'm injured. I notice right behind me is a living room of sorts, still filled with fake furniture but with a large door leading out of this dollhouse I'm stuck in. The shaking grows worse, and the pain in my legs is only another problem as I try to stand. Stumbling to my feet, I make my way towards the door, each step sending a jolt of pain up my legs. After about half a dozen steps, the trembling suddenly stops. I'm at the door. I reach to push it open and finally notice the giant child so set on finding me, staring back. Her large beady black eyes stare at me intently, her brown hair pulled neatly back into a ponytail, and her skin a shade of olive that doesn't quite look natural. The child looks no older than ten but is easily eight stories high. I can't breathe. Something feels stuck in my throat, and fear takes a firm hold over me. I can't move. "I... found... you!" The child quickly sticks her hand through the door and takes hold of me, ripping me from the building. "I found the doll, Dad. It looks so weird. I don't think I like this one, Daddy." Her grip is so tight I can barely squirm around. Quickly, I take my weapon and try to stab her chubby fingers. I feel the glass sink into her, and with a quick twist, she shrieks out in pain, letting me go. This time I hit the ground a lot harder. SNAP. My right ankle is finished. Looking around through confused eyes, I seem to be in some form of giant manor, a wealthy one at that. I find myself in some type of living room decorated in a very modern manner. The girl is still screaming and crying as her father walks over to see what happened. I don't have much time. I need to move. I start crawling across the floor towards a dining set, hoping to hide behind the chair leg. "WHERE IS THAT DOLL?" roars the girl's father, clearly enraged by his daughter's injury. His face is dark with anger, his eyes the same beady black, though his skin is pale and his hair black and combed to the side. His eyes search the ground as I crawl best I can. The chair leg is only meters away now. He's still yet to find me. I push and push, just a single moment from hiding when a pair of fingers lift me from the floor. Now I'm face to face with this monster, his face clearly red with anger. "YOU THINK YOU CAN HIDE FROM ME AFTER DOING THAT TO MY DAUGHTER?" he yells. Suddenly gaining some composure, he continues, "Fine, if you don't want to spend your days relaxing in that house, then you can at least feed the other pets." Within just moments, I travel far across the house between his firm grip. "Savor the fruit of your labor, doll!" He places me down in a field of grass surrounded by a metal fence. The smell of rotten meat and death hits my nose. Scrambling to find somewhere to hide, I reach forward to grab the rock in front of me for support, but it is far too light and rolls right towards me. "AAAAGGGHHHH!" I scream out. It's no rock but a human skull. A looming feeling washes over me as a strange high-pitched giggle begins to echo around me. I'm surrounded by hyenas.

The sun rose gently over the small town of Ranjhi near Jabalpur, casting long, golden rays over the fields and stirring the birds from their slumber. Ranjhi was a tranquil place, where time seemed to flow slower, and life revolved around the seasons and the land. It was here, in a sprawling haveli, that young Aryan was born, the son of a feudal landlord, or zamindar. His father, Raghav Singh, commanded respect and fear in equal measure, managing vast tracts of land and the lives of those who worked it. Aryan, however, found solace not in the grandeur of the mansion but in a humble one-acre garden nestled behind it. Aryan’s garden was his sanctuary, a vibrant world teeming with life and color. It was a paradise of sorts, filled with a variety of trees and plants. The mango trees, with their thick, gnarled branches, were his favorite. During the summer, their rich, sweet fruit hung low, and Aryan would spend hours perched among the leaves, savoring the juicy flesh. There were also guava trees, their fruit crisp and tangy, and neem trees, which his mother said had medicinal properties. Rows of bright marigolds lined the paths, their scent mingling with the earthy aroma of the soil. Every day after his lessons, Aryan would race to his garden, his bare feet padding silently over the cool earth. He would spend hours tending to the plants, watering them carefully with an old, battered can, and speaking to them in a gentle, coaxing voice. He knew every inch of the garden intimately—the way the light filtered through the trees in the early morning, the cool shade in the afternoon, and the way the stars peeked through the leaves at night. It was his world, a place where he felt safe and free. However, Aryan’s idyllic childhood was interrupted when, at the age of eight, his father decided it was time for him to leave Ranjhi and pursue higher education in Calcutta. The decision was made with the firm belief that Aryan needed to learn the ways of the world, to become a man of influence and intellect. Despite his protests, Aryan was packed off to the bustling city, far away from his beloved garden. Calcutta was a world apart from the serene life of Ranjhi. The city was alive with the clatter of horse-drawn carriages, the calls of street vendors, and the hum of countless conversations in various languages. Aryan felt like a small fish in a vast, swirling sea. His days were filled with studies, learning English, mathematics, and law. The rigorous schedule left little time for daydreaming or gardening. Despite his initial resistance, Aryan excelled in his studies, driven by a quiet determination to make his father proud. Years turned into decades. Aryan became a successful lawyer, respected and renowned in his field. He built a life in Calcutta, but his heart never truly left Ranjhi. He often dreamed of his garden, wondering how it had fared in his absence. When he reached the age of fifty, Aryan made a decision: it was time to return to his roots. He packed his belongings and left for Ranjhi, his heart filled with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. The journey back to Ranjhi was a trip down memory lane. The landscape had changed little, with the same vast fields and distant hills. When Aryan finally arrived at the haveli, he was struck by a wave of nostalgia. The mansion had aged, its walls covered in ivy, but it still held the same grandeur. The garden, however, was a different story. It had grown wild and untamed, a jungle of overgrown plants and trees. Aryan felt a pang of sadness as he walked through the garden. The paths were choked with weeds, and many of the plants he had lovingly tended were now struggling for survival. Determined to restore it to its former glory, he rolled up his sleeves and set to work. Every day after his legal work, Aryan would spend hours in the garden, pruning, planting, and nurturing. The work was hard, but it brought him immense satisfaction. As Aryan worked, he began to feel a strange presence in the garden. It was a subtle feeling at first—a whisper of wind when there was none, a shadow that seemed to flicker at the edge of his vision. He shrugged it off, attributing it to his imagination. But as days turned into weeks, the feeling grew stronger. Tools would go missing, only to reappear in odd places. Plants he had carefully planted would be uprooted overnight. It was as if someone—or something—was trying to undo his work. One evening, as Aryan sat on an old stone bench, he felt a chill in the air. The garden seemed unusually quiet, the usual chorus of crickets and night birds absent. Suddenly, a figure appeared before him, shimmering in the moonlight. Aryan’s breath caught in his throat as he recognized the face of his grandfather, Bhupendra Singh. His grandfather had been a formidable man, known for his fierce temper and iron will. He had passed away many years ago, but here he stood, looking as real as life. “Aryan,” the ghostly figure spoke, his voice a low rumble. “Why do you wish to sell our land?” Aryan’s heart pounded in his chest. He had never believed in ghosts, but there was no denying what he saw. Summoning his courage, he replied, “Grandfather, the garden holds many memories, but I have no choice. I need the money to maintain the haveli and to secure our family’s future.” Bhupendra Singh’s ghost shook his head. “This garden is our legacy, Aryan. It is more than just land; it is a part of our family, our history. To sell it would be to sell our soul.” Aryan felt a pang of guilt. He had always revered his grandfather and the values he stood for. The garden had indeed been a place of solace and joy for him as a child. But the practicalities of life had led him to consider its sale. He bowed his head, unable to meet the intense gaze of the apparition. “I understand, Grandfather,” Aryan said softly. “But times have changed. The garden is neglected, and the haveli needs repairs. I have responsibilities...” His grandfather’s ghost stepped closer, his expression softening. “Aryan, the land can be restored. The garden can bloom again, just as it did when you were a boy. Promise me you will give it a chance.” Tears welled up in Aryan’s eyes as he looked at the ghost of his grandfather. He felt the weight of his ancestors’ legacy pressing down on him. “I promise, Grandfather,” he whispered. With a nod, the ghost of Bhupendra Singh faded away, leaving Aryan standing alone in the moonlit garden. The night seemed less cold, and the air was filled with the faint, sweet scent of blooming flowers. The next morning, Aryan woke with a renewed sense of purpose. He decided to invest in the garden, not for financial gain but to honor his grandfather’s memory. He hired local laborers to help him clear the weeds, replant the flowers, and tend to the trees. As the days passed, the garden began to transform. The mango trees started bearing fruit again, the guava trees flourished, and the marigolds lined the paths in a riot of color. Word spread through Ranjhi about Aryan’s efforts. The townspeople, who had always respected his family, came forward to offer their help. Slowly, the garden regained its former glory, becoming a place of beauty and tranquility once more. As Aryan worked in the garden, he felt a sense of peace and fulfillment he had not experienced in years. He realized that his grandfather had been right—the garden was more than just land. It was a living testament to his family’s history and heritage. By preserving it, he was not only honoring the past but also securing the future for the generations to come. In time, Aryan decided against selling the garden. Instead, he opened it to the people of Ranjhi, making it a communal space where children could play, and families could gather. The garden became a symbol of unity and continuity, a place where the past and present coexisted harmoniously. Aryan continued to practice law, but his heart remained in the garden. Every evening, he would walk among the trees, listening to the rustle of leaves and the song of birds. He felt his grandfather’s presence with him, a silent guardian watching over the land. As the years passed, Aryan grew older, but the garden remained a vibrant, living reminder of his childhood and the enduring legacy of his family. He often thought of his grandfather and the promise he had made. It was a promise that had changed his life, reconnecting him with his roots and the land he loved. In the end, Aryan realized that the true value of the garden lay not in its monetary worth but in the memories it held and the lives it touched. It was a testament to the enduring bond between a man and his heritage, a bond that transcended time and space. And so, in the small town of Ranjhi, near Jabalpur, the garden flourished, a living legacy of the past and a beacon of hope for the future.

**~Planet: Azuria~** It felt good to have this coward quiver before us after all the trouble he put us through. I didn’t quite have the magic to interrogate him properly, so I’d have to make do with my fist and a bit of imagination. Before I could start, Shadow stopped me, “I’ve got an idea.” He took the third of his ball bearings, the one whose powers I hadn’t seen, and held it before the necromancer. Our little friend tried to put on a defiant face, but there was a tension he just couldn’t hide. As Shadow set the ball bearing in front of his opponent he spoke, “Eye of Nightmare.” The bearing turned into an eye as did the others which cast an invisible spell on our nemesis. After a moment Kelerin began to scream, his shrieks of horror filled the sewers, sounding so terrifying that took both me and Shos aback. We watched in horror for a moment as Kelerin clawed at his face while begging, “Make it stop, make it stop, please! Dawn above, Virian below, make it stop!” After a few minutes of him crying, the Valien settled down long enough for our vigilante to begin his questioning. Shadow bent down, “I want everything you know about the Crimson Empire.” Kelerin whimpered a bit, I could see tears streaming from his eyes, the pain of whatever he saw was enough to break him. Kelerin looked into the eyes of his interrogator, a sense of desperation covered his visage, “They wanted me to kill you, they said you were one of the few magic users here in the city that might pose a threat. They wanted to start a base of operations here, which would be made simple if you weren’t in the picture. They told me I would have a place among them if I was able to kill you. The woman that contacted me, had her face concealed so I don’t know what she looked like or who she was. That’s all I know, I swear.” Shadow turned back to Shos, “Do you believe him?” Shos looked like he was having a conundrum about whether to say yes and stop his suffering or say no and let his screams continue. Well, at least Shos had a conscience, which spoke highly of his character considering he grew up in Slade City, “I think he’s telling the truth.” “Magus Hunter?” I didn’t think the Crimson Empire would trust him with anything more than they’d already given him. He knew his assignment, and that was all he needed to know, “He probably knows nothing else. The Crimson Empire has kept most of their operations in secret, so I doubt they gave a weasel like him any pertinent information.” Shadow seemed to take our advice and left Shos to restrain the fiend. Finally, the cop put a mechanical gag to keep the necromancer from speaking any incantations to summon more abominations. “Look Shos, you should probably take Kelerin back to the station while the kid and I hightail it out of here. I don’t think your buddies down at the station would appreciate our help in rounding up the baddies.” He sighed, “The world needs to know that there are good mages out there, I’m sure if the sergeant sees,” I held up my hand to interrupt him, “You aren’t going to convince them, even with the resolution of this case. They’ll just claim we fixed a mess that we caused and I can’t say that I blame them, the entire west was caught up in our dumb squabbles with the church.” The western continent, Eselia, was the site of perhaps the most devastating wars known to man. A few wizards who followed the dark divine Virian, began to stir up the Church of Dawn against mage kind. A war followed that ravaged the west, leaving it in a near apocalyptic state. Undoubtedly when the west recovered, they censured both mages and the church. Most of those mages moved north to form Arxor, along with the academy that would guide future mages. The church’s headquarters were already in the east so most practicing believers moved there, or practiced in secret. It was only recently in the past one hundred years that a few nations started letting mages integrate back into society, primarily due to the innovations that we contributed to Azuria. One of those innovations was the ability to travel through space to new worlds. All of that said, it was a very small chance that anyone from this side of the world would look at mages as equals ever again. Shos looked away in shame, but Shadow placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, “I didn’t get into this kind of work for the fame. Besides, I think now that this necromancer’s been caught, our magus hunter will want to have a few words with me.” Shos nodded then gave me a serious look, “Whatever happens, treat him well. He’s a good guy, a bit foolish at times, but a good one.” He pulled Kelerin up and we started to make our way, back to the surface. At this point the cops were already here, redirecting traffic, and cleaning up corpses. The sergeant with the scar across her right eye, was at the scene, and it seemed she wasn’t thrilled to see Shadow or myself. She sighed, “It’s always a mage causing us problems, isn’t it?” “They weren’t,” Shos began but the sergeant held up her hand, “Can it, rookie. You three got into huge battle which caused multiple casualties, do you think you’re going to walk free?” Shadow looked down, shamed, but uh, I wasn’t having it, “So you and your men would have been well equipped to take down a necromancer who could summon a legion of the damned?” “Yes, without the,” “Mind you, this necromancer’s zombies could only be killed by magical means, not shots to the head, so you were screwed any way you look at it. You’re so sure you wouldn’t be walking corpses because I seriously doubt it. You may not like mages sergeant, but we’re useful when you need us. Yes, I plan to walk away, or, you can take it up with your superiors and cause a national incident with a licensed mage hunter who’s just doing his job.” I got in her face, and she returned a hard stare. She wasn’t used to people talking back to her, so to add insult to injury I crossed my arms like I was reprimanding a child. I won’t mention that I actually had no documentation to prove that I was on the job, considering this was just a favor for a friend, but she didn’t know that. She clicked her tongue at me, “Get out of here, mage!” She and Shos gathered Kelerin and put him in the back of one of their police hover-cars and take him back to the station. This left me and Shadow, alone to talk about what was to come. “Why don’t we get away from the scene, before more of them try to arrest us.” He said and I couldn’t agree more. I started walking down the sidewalk, thankfully it looked as though most people either fled or went home. Slade City seemed awfully peaceful tonight, I mean considering the terrorist attack, I’m sure even the criminals didn’t want to be caught in the midst of it. The city felt so large, with skyscrapers that reached so high they seemed without end and lights that kept the city going even at this time of the night. There were air platforms and bridges crisscrossing above, where only a scattered few passed. Hover cars flew on the holo-roads that passed above, and I could only think that with such a large city there wasn’t thousands of dead buried beneath it all. If Kelerin killed us this city would have been in real trouble. “Not the prettiest city, but she’s worth fighting for. Hell, there’s a lot of value in the things people might consider ugly or wretched.” Shadow interrupted my thought, funny enough it sounded like something I heard Izzy say once. I kept silent, not wanting to ruin the young man’s reverie, “So you came here because of Dr. Silva, right?” “Yeah.” “And I suppose she wants me to come to the academy to train.” “Yup.” “Why’d she send you?” “Because I’m probably one of the few wizards of our order that isn’t trying to get into her pants.” The boy laughed, “Yeah, she was a real problem with some of the guys at the clinic.” “In all seriousness though she was worried about you. I suppose she thought that we are somewhat similar, that we’d get along.” “And what do you think?” “I think that I’m a magus hunter, who really didn’t have the roughest upbringing. You and I are probably the farthest apart we could be, and truth be told, there isn’t much I have to offer you. I thought it was a fool’s errand, but the least I could do was try.” “So, you came all the way south to find a guy that might still turn you down after all the hard work you just went through?” “Well yes.” I stopped; it was hard to really articulate myself in a way that was helpful. I spent most of my time alone, reading books or hunting mages, but I’ve never been one for talk. “She helped you too, didn’t she?” “Yeah, she helped me during one of the darkest points in my life, right after I quit working for the High Council. She was the first friend I made after returning to the academy.” You don’t hunt down your own kind for so long and come out unscathed, “She’s a good woman who tries to see the best in everyone she meets. I think perhaps that might be the only thing that we have in common. Perhaps we both hold some shame for where we’ve been and perhaps, we both seek some form of absolution.” I finished which left Shadow speechless. For a long moment it was quiet, but I could hear the gears grinding away in his head. After a long moment the kid tried to break the awkward silence, “I suppose we’ve done enough mucking around in our past, so what now?” “Well, you do need a teacher, but I’m not here to drag you back to the academy if you don’t want to. That said, the Crimson Empire will come back when they have the opportunity, and their mages are nothing to sneeze at. What we fought today will be nothing in comparison to what they bring to the table.” “Who are they exactly?” “They’re connected to the sorcerers and wizards who started the wars here in the west, though their leaders no longer worship Virian. Now they follow Serga their Deity of Blood, who they claim is kind, who they claim will rescue us from the woes of Virian and Dawn. Arxor has fought these guys for years, to the extent that the High Council has expended every resource to rounding them up for execution.” “So, this is really serious.” “More than you know.” I finished, thinking about the wild goose chase the council had me on before I rejoined the academy as one of their masters. Shadow seemed to be thinking about that for a moment, “It stands to reason that I’m unprepared.” He said as we began to ascend a set of stairs that led to an elevator that headed up to one of the skybridges. We headed up to a bridge that looked over a lower section of the city. The lower city was beautiful this time of night, peaceful, when you forgot that there were probably several crimes being perpetrated at this very moment. Shadow moved to the edge of the railing, “I’ll head back with you, but on one condition.” “And that is?” “You have to be the one that teaches me, but not just that, I want to be trained as a magus hunter.” “Being a magus hunter isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. You’ll hunt down people like yourself and you’ll come close to death more times than you care to. It’s not an easy life, and you’ll have to make heartbreaking sacrifices.” “It’s better than waiting for the Crimson Empire to take over Slade City. Besides, I want to help take them down before it’s too late.” He finished, leaving me with a sigh. I didn’t really want to teach, nor do I think I’d make for a good teacher. I didn’t have the patience to take him through endless hours of meditation or the intricacies of magic theory. However, I suppose that was for the best, considering that this was not an ordinary student. This is probably what Izzy had in mind, and it drove me crazy that she might have thought of all of this. “Alright, fine, I’ll take you on as my apprentice.” “I hope that you won’t drive me crazy with endless boring exercises.” He responded. Nobody, myself included, liked those exercises especially when we could alter the fabric of reality. Unfortunately, those exercises were important, but I had a bit of a plan, “There’ll be plenty of that in time, but for now let’s head back to the hotel and make preparations for the trip to the academy. Oh, and by the way, since you’re going to be my apprentice I guess I should properly introduce myself,” I’d realized rather late that I never actually told him my name. I mean, we were assaulted before we could be properly introduced, and it’s been all business ever since, but at least I could make up for it now, “You can call me Jaden from here on out.” “What, no honorary title, no Master Jaden.” “Look, I never liked those titles so let’s skip the formalities.” “Well, that makes things easy then. I suppose Dr. Silva told you my name, but just so I’m not being rude, I’m Zerik.” “Right, Zerik, we’ve got a long flight back, let’s head on back before something stupid happens.” I said as I lead the way back to the bus that would take us back to my hotel room. Together we got to the hotel, where we made ourselves ready to head back to Arxor Academy.

“Get up Cur, it’s time to- oh, you’re already awake,” said Johnny. Cur stood in the middle of the room, arms by his side, completely still. “Yes, sir. I’ve been up for a while now, but I didn’t want to get in trouble so I stayed here.” Johnny sighed. “Listen, kid, here’s your first lesson. You live here now, and there’s a few rooms that you need to stay out of, but for the most part no one will care where you go. For now, stay close to me, and I’ll show you the ropes. In a month or so you’ll have free rein of the place as long as you do your work. “Now, first thing on the agenda for today is you have to take a proper bath. You look like you haven’t had one in months. Let’s go.” Cur chased after Johnny. The old man moved quickly and efficiently, never pausing for long. The mansion was like a maze of hallways. Cur did his best to remember where he was, but he was certain he couldn’t find his way back to his room. “Hey, Johnny, why-“ Johnny turned on his heel and stopped him. “It is Johnathon to you. The mistress is the only one allowed to call me Johnny, and that’s much to my dismay. Understood?” Cur gulped. “Y-yes sir.” “Now, you had a question?” Cur gathered his thoughts. “Um, this place is really big, but I haven’t seen anyone else. Why is that?” Johnny took off down the hall again. “Miss Celia was not the first lord of this manor. Lord Nicholas was an extravagant man who hosted parties and banquets frequently. He had dozens of servants on hand at any given time, along with a host of guards to protect him. He built this manor to accommodate that lifestyle.” “Why doesn’t Celia have more people?” “Miss Celia doesn’t keep an army of servants and guards because she has no need for one, nor a desire for one. The only servants she keeps are those who must pay a debt.” “So what debt are you paying?” asked Cur. Johnny stopped at a door that looked just the same as every other door they passed by. “Ah, here we are. The bathhouse. Take your time cleaning yourself up. Once you are done, meet me downstairs.” Johnny left as swiftly as he led him there, leaving Cur all alone in front of the bathhouse. He slowly entered the room and took in his surroundings. The room was a communal bath, the kind that servants and unimportant guests would use, but it was still much more lavish than anything he was used to. The floor was made of cut stone, laid into an intricate pattern. He slipped off his worn out sandals and felt the cold stone against his feet. There was a number of small tubs to choose from. He turned a knob and hot water poured into the tub. As it filled with water he noticed a small pile of clothes in the corner with a note on it. *Cur, here’s a fresh uniform for you. As a servant of the house, you are expected to wear it. If it doesn’t fit, let Johnny know. -Celia* • • • The uniform hung loosely from his skinny frame. The pants were too short, the shirt was too big, and the slick, black shoes rubbed against his ankles uncomfortably. He never had clothes with buttons either, so both the shirt and the vest were put on rather haphazardly. Still, they were the nicest clothes he has ever worn, and after a hot bath, he felt amazing. He found Johnny in the entryway to the manor, polishing a vase. Cur couldn’t be certain, but he thought Johnny laughed when he walked in, but maybe that was his imagination. Johnny finished with the vase and placed it oh so carefully back on the table. “Your rats nest that you call hair still makes you look like a street urchin, but at least you’re an urchin up to dress code now. Follow me.” Johnny led him to an extravagant kitchen. There were fire pits and grills scattered throughout the room. Clearly there was witches magic involved in building this kitchen, otherwise the whole mansion would be filled with smoke any time someone had to cook. Hanging in clumps around the room were dried bundles of black and red plants. “This is where I prepare all of Miss Celia’s meals. Your main task is to keep the kitchen clean, and to keep a detailed inventory of the food we have.” “A detailed inventory?” asked Cur. “How do I do that” Johnny grabbed a book from under a counter and handed it to him. “This is our current inventory. You update it at the end of each week.” Cur flipped through the pages, but it was all gibberish to him. “I don’t know how to read or write, sir.” Johnny sighed. “Then you’ll just have to learn. Your other task is to assist me in the kitchen. Which, right now, means I need you to go to Miss Celia’s office and find out what she wants for lunch. Go down the stairs, take a right, and her office is the third door on the left.” Cur repeated the directions and took off to find Celia. It took him longer than he cared to admit to find the stairs, but once he did, it was a clear shot to the office. The basement was much like the first and second floors. There were hallways stretching out far and wide, but unlike the other floors, the basement was full of barred doors and cold cells. It was a terrifying sight to see when Johnny brought him in the night before. Cur reached the office, but before he could knock he heard yelling. His curiosity peaked, and he leaned in close to hear what was being said. “ . . . and I’m tired of it! It’s time we reevaluated our deal!” a voice growled out loudly. “Our deal has been in place for over fifty years. It was your grandfather that signed the deal with me to begin with,” replied another voice much calmer. “Well he’s not the Alpha anymore, and neither is my spineless father. You blood suckers are taking too much and giving too little!” “We most certainly do not take too much. There’s more werewolves than any other living creature in this town, so we take more from you than we do the others. That’s just simple math, dear.” “Well, we want more of the bloodleaf,” growled the voice again. “Either double what we get, or cut back on what you take.” Now the calmer voice, presumably Celia’s, got bold. “You may be the Alpha, but I am the Vampiric Lord of Deathhaven, and I will not accept such blatant aggression in my own home! Let me ask, how much blood do you give in the tribute? How much are you doing to serve your people? I personally give thirty percent of the bloodleaf you receive every month. Do not accuse me of being selfish!” “Fine! Savor your power it while it lasts, Silverfang! I’m gathering the council, and soon. I think it’s time we take leadership back from you wretched, blood sucking, filthy bats.” Cur didn’t realize how much weight he was putting against the door, and when it swung open, he fell forward into the man on the other side. He looked up at a very large werewolf standing above him. The wolf was every bit of seven feet tall, and he looked like he was made of pure muscle. The werewolf leaned in close, and Cur could see sharp fangs through peeled back lips. Worse than that, though, were the silver and gold eyes staring into his soul. The beast wrapped his massive, clawed hand around Cur’s throat and shoved him up against the wall. Cur kicked his legs and struggled to breathe. He clawed at the massive paw to no avail. At any moment, the monster in front of him could squeeze and his life would be over. “What kind of ship are you running here, Silverfang? You have an eavesdropping little weasel,” the werewolf leaned in close and sniffed him, “and he reeks of the Forsaken. Maybe I’ll take him with me to make up the difference in what you shorted us.” Celia jumped to her feet and flashed her fangs. “That is a servant of my house, and you will put him down immediately! Otherwise, whatever you do to him, I will do to your people tenfold!” Cur felt the grip around his throat slacken and then he fell to the floor. He sucked in ragged breaths and quickly backed away from his attacker. “It seems like you’re losing your grip, Silverfang. Or maybe you never had it. Either way, your time is coming to an end,” the werewolf stomped away. Once the werewolf left, Cur stood up and walked into the room on wobbly legs. His heart was pumping faster than ever, and his head felt light. Once he came to terms with the fact that he wasn’t dead, he became certain that he would be punished for eavesdropping. Unsure of what would happen next, he stood in silence and waited for his fate. “Cur, I don’t appreciate you listening in like that,” scolded Celia softly. “Why were you down here anyway?” “Johnny- I mean Johnathon sent me to ask what you wanted for lunch,” Cur stammered out. “Wh-when I got here I heard yelling and I didn’t want to interrupt, but I didn’t want to leave, so I just listened. Please, please forgive me.” “It’s okay, Cur. Next time, if Johnny sends you down, just knock. I don’t care who I’m talking to. Either I’ll let you in or I’ll send you back. Is your throat okay?” Cur rubbed his throat. “Yes, ma’am.” “Good. Now, scurry along. You can tell Johnny that I’m going out. Lunch won’t be necessary.” “Yes, ma’am,” Cur started to walk away, then stopped. “Is everything going to be all right, Miss Celia?” “Of course. It’s just a minor disagreement with the other powers that be. Nothing for you to worry about. Hurry back, I wouldn’t want Johnny angry at you on your first day.” Cur left the way he came, and despite her words, he was worried. What if the stranger was right? What if she was about to lose control? Maybe, he thought, coming here was a mistake after all. Maybe he should have stayed in the orphanage. Or maybe everything really was fine. Maybe he was overthinking this. Only time would tell.

The Moroccan man was concerned about the state of his porch companion, the Croatian lady. He asked her if she wanted to go to a medical facility for some examination, in case she's in physiologic distress. She shook her head. It did not placate him. He offered to at least take her to a more comfortable place to sit. Perhaps have a drink before accompanying her home. She nodded to this. He excused the fact that he was in running gear and probably smelled of sweat. It put a smile on her face. That would not be the worst thing that she would experience this day. He carried her bag for her and offered his arm to steady her walk. She gladly put her hand in his. His hands felt tender and dry. His grip was hardly firm, but it reassured her that he would keep her steady and safe. It relaxed her. They walked in silence to a cafe. They sat at a table under the cafe's verandah. The sun was bordering the horizon, ready to finally set. The evening was warm, with no breeze. Life around them continued like normal. She was amazed at how differently people experience an exact moment in time. She sat at a cafe awaiting a coffee, she felt slightly ill from having had many minutes of adrenalin saturating her blood stream, having just witnessed someone die. Across her sat a handsome, athletic man, who felt physically much better than she did, consoling her, awaiting his own cup of coffee. The many people walking the street and still traveling have their own versions of this very moment. None of them the same. Their coffee arrived. He insisted that she have hers with extra sugar to recover from her shock. Little did he know that she was feeling quite recovered being there with him. She disagreed but offered rather that they get a sweet treat to compliment the coffee. She chose for them both, ordering a Sacher cake. He was not too keen on sweet things. He could make an exception if it came from or with a pretty woman. Indeed, he did not complain that she ordered the cake for them. They enjoyed it at the last light of the day. Her demeanor improved a lot, thanks to his care and companionship. She also felt much stronger since the scene of the death. She agreed that he could walk her to her hotel. It was walking distance from the cafe without need for public transport. She didn't think she would have been able to get into any vehicle that evening in any case, given the event of earlier. He was surprised that they were walking in the direction of his hotel. He asked her where she was residing. It turns out that she was two buildings away from his hotel. He would not admit it to her, but he was really glad he wouldn't have to walk a far distance back to his hotel. At the same time, he would not have minded spending more time with her. She had a certain look in her eyes that interested him in knowing more about her. The look was a combination of distance, disinterest, yearning and receptivity. That's as best he could describe it. He silently wished their hotels were further from the cafe. Alas, he was satisfied. He bid her goodnight in front of her hotel lobby. She reached for his hand, and took it in hers. She was hoping to get the same feeling she had earlier when she held it. Except, this time, they were standing still, opposing each other. The feeling wasn't there. She looked him dead in the eyes and gripped his hand a little tighter. She said goodnight with a feint smile across her lips. She did not get the feeling she was hoping for. She didn't feel steady and safe. Instead, she felt warm, nervous and hopeful. He slowly loosened his hand from hers and smiled sweetly back at her. He turned to walk back to his hotel without saying another word.

Stanley Kubrick, old and mottled, wakes late at night, alone. He envisions a film about Venice, its beginning, its middle, its end. Compelled, he begins. **2.** The year is 2093 and the real Venice is gone. It is the Atlantis of that time. In April, Kubrick starts scripting. He plasters his study with photos, archival documents, letters from famous Venetians. He reads extensively. Interviews various subjects. The film will be about an artist who cannot find inspiration. His name will be Julian; he will wear mostly tangerine. Soon though, Kubrick abandons this idea. It must be a woman. She must be tall, with cropped hair, and deeply in love. **3.** Construction on Kubrick’s New Venice commences on the 4th of May 2094. By now, the study does not have an inch of free wall or floor. A hand drawn map dominates the ceiling. Kubrick’s wife frets. She wants him to eat better. Sometimes, she wonders why she married this queer man – so neat, so professional in his work. Yet: his watch is forever incorrect; ketchup stains appear on his trousers before breakfast; recently purchased white shirts are dashed with pen marks within the day. She watches him from the study doorway. Sometimes, she kisses his forehead and though he does not pause, does not look up from his work, her heart swoons like first love, a teenage crush she indulges daily. He elects David Gilmour to be his lead musician. Due to scheduling commitments, and David’s ailing heart condition, filming is delayed by 14 months. Kubrick waits. **4.** The locals cannot believe the beauty of New Venice. They are simple folk. Their lives revolve with prompt and shocking regularity around the weekend. Sometimes they see Kubrick strolling New Venice’s cream streets. He is ancient – 168 years old – and cannot move without a cane, cannot see without heavy spectacles. He is somewhat of a marvel to them. **5.** Cars arrive, bounteously, at Kubrick’s manor – they bear actresses and actors, they bear film crew and set dressers, they bear secretaries, runners and researchers. He interviews them all in the aviary in the squall of squawking birds. For the lead, he interviews over fifty girls. Many come back again. None are right. At night, Kubrick, impatient with his stalling project, fearful he will leave it incomplete, thinks of death. He is overdue death now. Liver spots decorate his paunch, the flab of his thighs, his chins. He can pinch this and roll that between thumb and forefinger. His belly has accreted folds and wrinkles, like some great sagging ballsack. His arse is lumpen like a stamped upon cushion. There is mottled flesh at the tops of his thighs – green welts. Daily he decays. **6.** Samson, the biblical hero, is central to the film. Kubrick has the art department replicate his image on walls and ceilings. He designs intricate frescoes. When the work is complete, he feels closer somehow. At home, he kisses his wife and their kisses become embraces. They tumble over a rug and roll across the study floor. Photographs stick to her back; Kubrick’s foot shatters a vase. They come crashingly together and the whole world caves in. Like they had slipped for a moment into death, and then returned, like light, to the universe. The following morning, they breakfast on the patio and Kubrick, who has been in love with her for so long, cries from happiness. New Venice lingers on the horizon, perched on the lake, forgotten. **7.** They find a girl, by accident. A tall Catalan waitress. Kubrick converts the script to Spanish. He tells the producers – the backers – that this is necessary. People swear he is half-mad. Now New Venice towers. The New Doge Palace pierces the horizon. When the set dressers, the painters, the film execs, the actors and even Kubrick himself pace the place, they all say the same thing: it is both Venice and not. **8.** Shooting begins and goes well. Then, disaster: a portion of the set, built upon unsure foundations, collapses into the lake. The engineer hangs himself from the rafters of the New Venice cathedral. Kubrick allows a day of mourning before shooting resumes, and new engineers, better engineers arrive to take his place. **9.** One night – and it is a very dark night – Kubrick’s wife passes. He finds her days after, in a room he rarely visits. He sits on the chair opposite her bed. He takes her hand. He kisses her forehead. He watches, through many-paned windows, as day becomes night. Finally, he cries. Nightly, Kubrick walks the streets of New Venice. The film is no longer about love; it is about death. Then he realises that all love stories are about death. Then he realises that all stories are about love and death. And that creation exists between the two of them. This is not a revelation for Kubrick, merely a remembering. **10.** There is a shot which Kubrick cannot get right. In his head, it is a moment of sublimity, a pivot in his character’s life. It is simple: the artist sees her first love in a café. He is well-dressed, clearly richer, with a tangerine neck scarf hiding his scars. He is being served *tortelli di zucca* – pumpkin ravioli –and sits opposite his mother. Or perhaps his wife. It is not clear. In this moment, the artist realises her world has changed. That the love she felt has died with the thing she loved. That the person who loved (her former self) has died as well. That death comes again and again in tiny increments. After four days on set, fifty takes, and many a storm-out, Kubrick finally nods. This is the shot; this is the angle. All of that, that revelation, exists now within a single image. **11.** Kubrick holds his wife’s funeral on the docks, amongst cranes and lilting vessels. Kubrick wears all white and carries a single red rose, plucked free of thorns. She is cast out, upon a buoyant coffin thick with flowers, and when she is out far enough, the pyrotechnics alight and her coffin burns in the bay. Fireworks clatter overhead. A shy sun sets. Kubrick sheds copious tears. He wipes them from his eyes with a handkerchief, its edges embroidered with red thread. He says something but it is nothing important, nothing of note. **12.** When the film is finished, everybody is exhausted. The crew return to their families and sleep for days. Divorces happen. Affairs are outed. One woman severs a finger and displays it in an art museum. She calls it the trigger finger. It was the finger which held the recording device. Kubrick retires to his attic, ascending daily through the aviary and working till dark. The house feels semi-haunted now that she is gone. He does not dress. He shawls himself in a crimson kimono, slips on slippers. Mostly though, he is naked. He dreams of her padding feet on the bare floorboards. He glimpses her ghost, once, in the Venice room, crying over photographs. Then again, from the road, this time at the third story window, staring out at the lake, at the shadows of New Venice. The film is missing some vital piece, he realises. That night, he returns to New Venice and walks its streets. He sees a cat, teetering across a windowsill and knows, suddenly, what he must do. In the attic, he works for an hour. The pieces cohere and fall. A moment. It is done. **13.** Critics fawn; family send congratulatory letters; awards are suspected. **14.** If Kubrick had six pairs of tape recorders and one set of pants, he’d be happy. **15.** On the evening of the premiere, an old friend arrives to celebrate with Kubrick. They drink wine. His friend asks: “What did it feel like when you were filming?” But Kubrick never felt like he was filming. He was just a father to it, a medium. He has grown sad. They wander the garden in silence. Crickets cricket. There is an owl, probably. Stars. The friend has become drunk on wine. He points to the town – golden against the hills and valleys. Kubrick does not want to go. They look at New Venice’s white stone carcass. Its maze of dark streets. That night, Kubrick dreams of flying. In the morning, he gets up, puts on his suit, and heads for the ferry to New Venice. There is no ferry. There’s nothing. He returns home. Thick silence. He tries to eat. He lies in bed. He knows he should start something. He sleeps. **16.** They dismantle New Venice over a period of weeks. Kubrick sees trucks and vans ferrying away pieces of it, the painted ceilings, the tower of the Doge Palace. Eventually, all that remains are the streets themselves, a vast and undressed stage. On the final day, crowds gather. They stand on the shore, holding hands, laying out towels. When it happens, there is not much to see. There is a muffled boom and then the whole thing teeters and sinks into the lake. He thinks of the labour which had been put into those cobbled paths. He thinks of the times spent wandering the streets. He lights a cigarette, smokes it. The crowd cheers when New Venice comes down. They clap. **17.** Two years later, a royalty cheque arrives, among the bills and fan correspondence. It is folded inside a red envelope. The studio, quite naturally, have a touch for the dramatic. Kubrick buys a pair of sturdy shoes and a parrot. He names the bird Julian. He has not thought about New Venice for a time, but, later that day, while moving between rooms, Kubrick feels something pass through him, a sense of something, a quickening. He sees all of it, rushing past like a dream, and feels, for a mere nothing, that he has been there before, as a different person, living a different life – a pair of eyes looking in – and then, like that, the feeling departs. And he is alone again.

"Pretty sure you have far better..." Alan says but, interrupts himself, realizing his mistake. My memory has been altered. "Quite frankly, you know better than I do, even with alterations to your memory. And my commander told me, that information is pretty much need to know." Alan adds, mildly embarrassed of his mistake. "It's okay, I am going to guess most people who pretended that their memories have been altered, are lying. When a real case of it, is right in front of you. You are already in a specific mind set about it." I reply to him calmly. "True, thank you for forgiving me. It will be a long flight, would you like to see your temporary quarters here?" Alan asks calmly, and appreciates my stance towards what he said earlier. "I would like to see, granted, with how I am, not sure am I even able to sleep or, relax how you do." I say to him with some warmth in my voice. Considering the athletic feats, endurance, potential and my lack of knowledge of what my body is like. I am quite sure, how I get rest is, most likely going to be a whole lot different. Alan motioned me to take my weapons with me, I place them where I had them and follow Alan. Crew of the ship seem uneasy of me, I think that is because of my helmet, after all, it isn't really human military design and the gear I have, pretty sharply suggests possibly hostile... I take my helmet off again. Now, they seem to be a bit less uneasy. Considering I am among agents though, they most likely will avoid talking to me. "That certainly is a plausibility but, having some kind of place for you to stay at, is better to have anyway." Alan replies calmly as we walk. I do agree with his logic. As we walk, I notice our height difference. I am slightly taller than him, have I always been this tall? Or, is it because of my armor? There is so much that I can not recall... We arrive to a door, probably near center of the ship. Alan takes out some kind of case from his pocket, opens the case, by writing a password of some type? From the small pocket sized case, he takes out a card, and places it against some kind of... Reader? The door slides open and we both enter the room. It is spacious, not too big but, more than enough big for me. There is a place for me to rest... What was it? A bed? There is several large cases here, probably for my weapons or other items. They have been placed on a platform surface... Table? On a table, I walk up to the table which has cases where something can be stored inside of them. There is three of them, I store all of my weaponry in them, I trust the people here to not harm or have hostile intentions towards me. Alan exhales in a relaxed manner as I have stored all of the weapons into the cases. "They can be code locked, if you want to." Alan says to me and approaches the table and me. He blinked rapidly for a moment, maybe noticed the height difference between me and him? I smile to him warmly for a moment. "You noticed it only now, that how much taller I am compared to you?" I ask from him. "Yes, making me a little aware of my own physicality. I also wonder how it is accomplished. How much do you remember of human physiology?" Alan replies slightly astounded in his tone. I think intensely about it. Only recalling very small information... I think, average weight, height, and, life span? Can't... Recall anything else. "Very little, only average of three factors, height, weight and life span." Reply to him, still feeling a little bit down about not being able to remember things. "Whatever has been done to your memory, was quite potent and thorough. I curse my desire partially. There is couple memories I would rather not remember but, considering your state. I guess one will argue that I am better off remembering them?" Alan says thinking about something in his past. "The amount of gaps in my memory leaves me very vulnerable, I don't recommend altering your memory. Probably not, even if it is something you rather forget." I reply to him calmly. He assists me on assigning a code for the weapon cases. "I believe we should go see the ship captain now, he is at the bridge, and even if he is... Little bit of a scoundrel, he has worked for UEIA in a lot of key operations. He deserves to know what he is transporting today." Alan says, voice implies he has mixed feelings about the ship captain. "Is there are a reason why you regard him that way?" I ask from Alan, I am slightly confused as to why. We start walking towards the bridge. "Well, he is an excellent cruiser captain, he knows how to smooth talk and, when to be a little bit difficult. There also are times, when he is just mysteriously unavailable. UEIA would definitely hire him as a full time cruiser captain, but, we are having trouble on finding, let's call it, 'common ground.' To craft a contract with him." Alan replies, liking him, but, also having a problem with the individual. "Okay..." I say with having difficulty on what to think of the captain. I carry my own helmet with me, we take an elevator the bridge, first thing of my focus was the view to outside. Space, stars, planets and sun somewhere to the right. Then I look at him, and, for some reason. I feel, annoyed, is it because of something? He is still talking with some of the bridge crew as we approach but, nodded towards us, probably out of acknowledging that we are here. Disappointment... Resentment? Why do I feel these emotions as I look at him? When we got face to face, he froze and we stare into each other's eyes. "Evanis?" He asks, completely shocked to see me, not fearful, just completely surprised... I think. "Andren?" I ask... Now, I remember. "You slimy fox muzzle." I add, and sigh from annoyance, knowing that I am in position of being thankful to him. Alan seems to be quite alarmed of the situation. "If it wasn't for you being the one who rescued me, I would give you a lot of my mind about what you did." I add, he wooed me back then at the Mars Space Flight Academy days. Then, found another woman to skirt chase. "Um, ugh..." Andren struggles with words and, goes completely red on his face. Something that surprised Alan greatly. Andren is genuinely slightly handsome, but, he really doesn't seem to know who to settle with. He is good at what he does but, well, it will depend on an individual on what weighs more. He takes a deep breath, and exhales to calm down. "Small world?" He asks being completely surprised by our sudden confluence. "That is all you have to say? To be honest, it is quite fitting that you are among UEIA agents, it suits you so well. Heart harmer." I say to him, at least piece of my mind, and putting it nicely as possible. Andren looks into Alan's eyes for a moment, still having difficulties on how to reply to me. Andren breaths through his teeth, fully knowing what a rascal he was back then. "This war of wits, has most certainly left me quite unarmed... I am going to guess, it is... Wasteful? To ask for forgiveness?" Andren replies finally exhaling through his nose, being somewhat nervous of the situation he is in right now. Giving the proposal some though, I smile to him in a vixen manner for a moment. "Maybe." I reply to him as passively as possible. Andren bites his teeth slightly visibly for a moment, Alan is absolutely amused by this moment, I saw him grin for a moment. "Wouldn't these types of moments actually be, considered romantic?" Andren asks, having nothing to work with it seems. I walk up to him, he stiffens up greatly, mostly out of unease and not knowing what I am about to do. I gently grab from his jaw and have him look into my eyes. "Plausibly." I reply to him in amused tone and slightly mocking him. This is an awesome feeling, finally getting some payback. I let go of his jaw and step back. Andren takes deep breaths and looks at me from head to toe and back. "Yeah... That's a no... Shouldn't even entertain such a thought, correct?" Andren asks for a confirmation. I think I will toy with his thoughts. "I don't know." I reply to him in most nonchalant tone ever. "Can we... Change the subject?" Andren asks glancing at his bridge crew, who are watching and listening with great care of what is currently happening. "But, Andren, I never took you as a one to back down from a challenge." I reply to him in so blatantly sarcastic, but, encouraging tone. Andren relaxes slightly but, he looks quite defeated. "Evanis, can we please change the subject?" He asks, really wanting me to stop. I smile to him slightly for a moment. "Since you asked nicely, sure. What have you done ever since graduating from the academy?" I ask, as I do want to know. "Can't believe it has been only four years, since I last saw you. I... Let me recollect myself... Even if you didn't smack me, I, feel rather, all over the place." Andren says, slowly relaxing and getting himself together to how he usually is. He took some deep breaths and looks at me again. He rubs his chin and thinks. He is slightly unhappy of me teasing him, so perfectly. "Well, I. As first worked in a similar ship to this as a bridge crew member, after working for three years in that position, I got myself this ship. Nothing too crazy, unlike what Alan might have told you." Andren replies, mildly annoyed of me smiling slightly smugly, quickly glances at Alan. "Oh really, from what I heard, you have been quite a maverick." I reply to him, with a slightly interested tone. Andren looks at Alan with a very bemused face, then with. Am I really that bad, expression on his face. Alan just replies with, maybe, expression on his face. I am most certainly amused, Andren Lacinas, you really have gotten yourself into a quite a predicament. "Do you recall anything else from the time at the academy? Evanis." Alan asks, interested to hear, if, I remember something else. I think for a while. Other than Andren being a heart ache, I recall that most of my academy days, were normal, well, until the transfer to fly the prototype. "Only that most of my days at there were normal, except for what we have discussed here." I reply to Alan, and see that Andren is pretty confused of Alan's question. "What happened to you, Evanis? I don't recall you being that tall and, that question sounded like that something has been done to your mind." Andren asks in confused tone. "Well, it is something I am trying to find out, but, it is very clear somebody has altered my memory to forget a lot of things. Seeing you reminded me of our time at the academy, and who you are. I remember so little..." I reply to Andren, and feel slightly sad again, wiping away smug smile from my face. "Alan, what the hell have you gotten me into?" Andren asks in unhappy tone and wanting answers. I nodded to Alan that I will answer. "I was abducted under a convincing cover of death during flying a prototype, I remember struggling to adapt to who I am now and, well, rest is quite foggy. I can't even remember how long ago I woke up." I reply to Alan. He seems somewhat freaked out by what he heard. "Truth, really can be stranger than fiction huh? That's a lot to take in. You look like you have been part of some kind of super soldier program. If this conversation happened during a call, I would laugh, and that is the most disturbing thought." Andren replies looking uncharacteristically serious, well, from my point of view. Granted, I don't know what kind of growth Andren has been through. "Well, this is who I am now. Probably can not be changed, but, that is found out until we arrive to Mars." I reply to him calmly, in my mind, I feel glad that he is able to take things a lot more seriously. "It wouldn't make sense though Andren, she used to be a space dominance craft pilot." Alan replies, commencing a discussion. "True... The multi tasking ability and reaction times, though. They would be really beneficial for a soldier though, no matter is it a planet side ground pounder or a guest without invitation. That body does look normal on the surface but, it feels a bit deceiving. Umm... In strictly objective of disguise level." Andren says, being careful how he words his thoughts. "True... Have you seen anything like Evanis before? Andren." Alan replies, interested to hear if Andren has seen somebody like me. Andren rubs his chin and thinks intensely, closing his eyes for a moment. "Possibly, once... Not too sure but, something in the style range of how you look currently Evanis." Andren says, opening his brown iris eyes and eyeing me from head to toe, trying to invoke the memory. I put the helmet on and it tightens to stay on properly. "What about now?" I ask from him, and turn three hundred sixty degrees. As I was done, he does seem like he remembers something. The bridge crew are also looking. "Captain, do you remember that run at Skevion?" One of his bridge crew members asks, remembering something. Andren takes a deep breath and thinks. "Yes, I think, we might still have the image saved on one of the binoculars." Andren says, remembering something but, probably not too clearly what they saw. I take my helmet off again. "I want to see it and get a copy of it. We might need it later." Alan declares, Andren nods to him in agreement. "The colors really suit you, Evanis. And I am not saying it to be a flirt here." Andren says, tone being out of place for me, coming from him but, he does sound genuine. "I also love it, it is odd to hear actually genuine praise from you though, for now." I reply to him, I honestly did like and slightly love him back then. Consequences of one's actions, of course. Andren sighs and rolls his eyes. "Young and foolish..." He mutters about himself. I nod to him in genuine agreement but, not smiling to him in smug manner. He might now be, worth of actual friendship. "We should talk more in private." I say to him. "I will put that into consideration, and if sir Lacinas can stand still for at least couple days." Alan says teasing Andren slightly. Andren looks unhappy and mildly annoyed. I am guessing he is thinking that, this is the worst day of his life. "Well, I just think that, it is worth while to help her catch up on what has happened in the wild wide galaxy." Andren says with honesty. "That, actually is a good point. My apologies, I am guessing that you still say no to forging a contract with UEIA?" Alan replies, agreeing with Andren. "You guessed correctly." Andren says straightly. "Although, I would like make up for my stupidity back then Evanis. Consider me owing you a favor." Andren adds, after thinking for a moment. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ < Earlier parts of this series and others can be found from here.

The more Madeline put off telling Billie about her doubts — doubts about the safety of their escape plan, doubts about the chances of its success, doubts whether a small chance at freedom was worth the risk of losing everything — the more those doubts started to fade. Listening to them and Lena talk through more details each night soothed some of her worries. They seemed to be thinking things through carefully. And more importantly, they were still a long way off of actually *doing* anything. That gave Madeline time to sort through her thoughts. Still, she could tell Billie had noticed that she was avoiding taking an active role in the planning. They’d prodded her about it a couple of times now, but never at a moment when there was really time to explain. Besides, what was the point in saying anything when she wasn’t even sure herself how she felt? In an ideal world, of course she’d love to escape. But in an ideal world, there wouldn’t be any Poiloogs to escape from, so what was the point even considering that? In the end, it came down to whether she was prepared to risk what she had for the chance at something better. And in order to answer that question, she needed to better understand exactly what she did have now, and what the realistic chances of getting something better were. So she kept holding her tongue, biding her time. Until she and Billie came back to the dormitory after work one evening to find Marcus waiting for them once again. He smiled as soon as he saw them, holding up his hands to ward off any more animosity from Billie. “Before you say anything… I think you’ll be happy to hear what I have to say this time.” Billie looked at their feet, sheepishly, but as keen as Madeline was for the two of them to like each other, she didn’t care about any of that right now. Her heart fluttered. “You mean…?” He nodded. “It’s time. Your family room is ready and waiting. Perfectly timed for you to have your free day tomorrow to settle into your new home.” It took Madeline and Billie all of five minutes to have packed up what little they have — all apart from the walkie-talkies hidden in the mattress and the cistern of a toilet in the washroom. Those were hard to retrieve in secret with Marcus standing right there, and as much as Madeline wanted to trust him, he *was* still a guard. “All ready?” he asked when they appeared to be done. “Errr…” Madeline hated to delay the thing she’d been waiting for for what now felt like forever. But they couldn’t lose access to their allies outside. Though if they could… That would certainly make her decision for her. She glanced sidelong at Billie. “I think we’re all ready to go?” They nodded. “I just have to use the facilities first, if that’s okay.” “Of course,” Marcus said, gesturing to the door. “We’ll wait right here for you.” Half of Madeline cheered and the other half cursed as she watched Billie go to retrieve their contraband. But as much as she hated the pressure of decision-making, she had to admit that it was better to still have the option there. And she’d hate to lose all contact with Lena. As they waited, another resident of the bunk house came over to ask Marcus a question about their next free day, giving Madeline the chance to quickly retrieve the other walkie. She’d barely had time to bury it in her pack when Marcus and Billie returned. Then they were off. Marcus led them out of the building and along one of the many dirt pathways around the site. The air was crisp, and the sun had already sunken below the horizon, as it did earlier and earlier these days. Only the last hints of deep reds and purples lingered at the edge of the sky. It was the sort of time that Madeline would have been anxious to be outside before — the lack of light forcing her to go more slowly, making her all too easy to catch. But here, floodlights bathed the area in a harsh white glow, making it much easier to navigate, if a little less picturesque. Of course, that would also make her easier to spot and catch… but that wasn’t something she needed to be worrying about any more. Not yet, anyway. Madeline was pleased to see that Marcus was setting a brisk pace this time, perhaps spurred on by the nip in the night air. When they did get inside again, the warmth burnt at Madeline’s exposed hands and cheeks. Back in the confines of a corridor, Madeline realised she’d been so wrapped up in her head that she hadn’t really paid proper attention to where they were going. That, coupled with how different everything looked at night, meant that she now had very little idea what part of the complex they were even in. That would certainly make the walk to work in the fields in two days' time interesting. Though she was sure Marcus would be there to guide the way. Or would he? He seemed to have been assigned to their old dormitory — or perhaps their old block of dormitories. Would that mean they were no longer his responsibility now that they were living here? Would the new guard they had to deal with be even half as nice? But she was getting ahead of herself. They hadn’t even reached their room yet, let alone unpacked and got settled. That was when they could start to work out details like this. “We’re here!” Marcus announced, coming to a stop outside a wooden door painted red. He reached for the handle and turned, the door swinging open to reveal their new home. Madeline eagerly stepped inside, eyes darting about but not taking in any of the decor. She was interested in only one thing. But her quick scan of the room revealed no one inside waiting for them. She deflated slightly, turning back towards Marcus and Billie as they followed her in. “Liam will be along soon, I’m sure,” Marcus said. “He’s probably just taking a little longer to get here as he has to say goodbye to all his friends in his dormitory.” Madeline nodded, trying not to let the disappointment show too clearly on her face. “And in the meantime,” the young guard continued. “I’ll leave you two to get settled in.” “Thanks,” Billie said with a nod. “Yes.” Madeline met his gaze, smiling as best she could. “Thank you!” He waved away their thanks as he stepped back out into the corridor, shutting the door behind him. It was only then that Madeline started to really take in her surroundings. The room was bigger than she’d expected, almost half as big as the dormitory they’d come from, and that had housed more than ten times as many people. The walls were the same, neutral, off-white that seemed prevalent throughout the complex, with the same drab grey carpet, and the furnishings were simple as expected — one double bed pushed against one wall and a single bed against the other, each with a large chest at the foot of the bed, a privacy screen down the middle, and a round wooden table with four mismatched chairs around it. It wasn’t exactly luxury, but it would do. Besides, Marcus had said that there was a warehouse full of things they could personalise it and improve it with — rugs and pictures and even tins of paint — if they could earn the privilege through hard work, of course. Yes, it would certainly do. Now all that was left was to wait for Liam to arrive so they could get settled into their new home together.

The theme for the writing competition is "Nature", it's a comp for people living in my area aged 16 to 20. Word limit is 1500, 1st place prize is £1000. This is still very much in the works but I have until 31st July to submit it and I just need some advice on where to take it. *Word Count : \~450* Sometimes, I wonder if this is in my nature, or if I've been taught to act this way. If I had been raised in a different family, country, society, would I still think and feel the way I do now, or is it an instinct embedded into my brain? Human nature, if you will, is this it? Is the human brain coded to second-guess and criticize itself, self-destructing slowly, painfully, taking everything else around with it - like a sinking ship absorbs its crew into the abyss of the sea. I wonder if my ancestors looked at themselves the way I do now. Did they - my mother's - care about the blemishes that spread like weeds over their skin? Or the texture of their skin, rough like the earth, did they care? I care. I don't understand why. I run my hands over my silhouette, observing myself in the mirror, my body staring harshly back at me from the cold silver. My face contorts into a sneer of dissatisfaction at the image of myself in front of me. I ask myself, has my body has morphed over time into a taller, bumpier version of myself or have I just been staring at it for so long that my brain has distorted the reality of what it is? I don't get an answer from myself, but I don't see the harm in asking. It's summer. Sunshine spills over my windowsill, flooding the room and pooling at my ankles. The window is agape in an attempt to capture a wisp of the cool breeze which I hear running through the trees, darting in and around the branches causing the leaves to flutter and brush against one another, creating the gentle echo of a rustle. For a moment, it distracts me from the mirror which captures my essence - an image which I gazed upon with the disgust I wouldn't dare to expel onto another person - and my view is momentarily flooded by the overpowering brightness of the sunlight, before my eyes adjusted to the forest outside of my window. Although a road and a river stand between my home and the forest, I can smell the rush of pollen from the wildflowers with each gush of wind into the room: primrose, forget-me-nots, poppies. I look out onto the towering trunks, concealed by climbing vines, a fury of branches reaching out from the trunk, leaves swaying together, dancing in the August winds. Amongst the rustles of leaves and the rushing of the River Churn against the stones that lay on the threshold of the forest, a choir of birds call out to each other from within the woodland.

I would love any feedback! It was one of the coldest nights of January, icicles shimmered from the otherwise bare trees outside the front window. Occasionally, the fireplace popped and hissed. Gilbie Foster closed the curtains and decided it was time to make her first cup of tea. Her kitchen was cozy. She’d agonized over the color, but the blue was a nice enough background for her yellow flower spray in the middle of the table. She threw a pinch of tea leaves in the mortar and set to grinding. Her eyelids closed, breathing in the tang of mint. Ah tea. My favorite addiction. Louis’ departure worried her. They’d been engaged for a month and stupid arguments were erupting every few days. Her heart skipped and she knew she needed to calm her nerves. The tea will help. It’s because I love him too much. She would have never thought it was possible to care about someone so deeply. The teapot whistled and Gilbie poured herself a steaming cup. She knows it’s the first cup of tea because the cup was nice and dry. Louis’s eyes from across the table had been angry. They’d clashed over...what had it been this time?...Oh yes, coffee or tea, which one is best. She’d admired his strong argument for coffee. But in the end she’d won. He’d grabbed his hat and gloves. After the click of her front door, Gilbie ran over to peek through the curtains. The window fogged and she kept wiping it with her sleeve. Darn it! I hope he’s okay. He’ll be alright. She leaned against the jamb, rubbing at the tightness in her chest, watching until the sounds of the old engine died in the night. Gilbie dared not move from the door. She counted the minutes. Please come back. He didn’t. Gilbie drank the last of her first cup of tea, recalling how his boots had slid across the frozen ground, his head turned to counter the cold, cursing as he finally unlocked the truck and slammed himself inside. Gilbie poured herself a second cup of tea. She glanced at her phone. He should be back home soon and I don’t want to miss his text. He always sends a text letting me know he’s safe. The pop of a log on the fire startled her awake. Gilbie cursed herself for falling asleep. The tea was cold. She picked up her phone. There was one message. Gilbie stared at it, reading it again and again. The letters blurred. She turned her phone off and on. It was still there. Glowing. Her entire body numbed, she screamed and jerked away from the table, sending the tea cup shattering to the floor. Outside, night prowlers that had braved the cold, scurried to hide. Inside, Gilbie dropped heavily to the floor, near the litter of delicate china shards and spilled mint tea. Her phone beeps. Gilbie stares at the ceiling. The cold was invading the warm kitchen. The fire was dying out. I have to get up. I need to move. Gilbie turned to her side and found her phone. Her eyes were heavy and gritty. The message was still there. She flexed her fingers, typing quickly before the last red bar went out. The screen glows and flashes. January 8 2058 They are in her kitchen. Louis is saying something. Something important. He looks upset.. no, his eyes are sad. What had been the argument this time? The fire popped and then she remembered. Well, that was a dumb argument. They’d gotten on the subject of which is better and… Louis shoved on his hat. He paused at the door. Keys jangled in his gloves. She kept her back to him. I can’t win no matter what. I can’t get the words right. She always had to be right. Gilbie.. The door clicks shut and Gilbie pads to the window, watching anxiously as Louis stumbles through the mushy snow, cursing all the way to his truck. She waits until the rear lights fade into the dark night. Gilbie’s brain is racing, her pupils shrink, her heart tightens painfully. I need to remember! She goes to make tea. I know it’s my first cup of tea. The cup is clean and dry. The tea leaves are in the bowl but need to be crushed. What? When had I done that? She finishes the first cup, the taste of mint is relaxing. She had her phone close to her fingertips, but she must have dozed. She’d been dreaming and in her dream Louis was crying. But Louis doesn’t cry. The dream takes a while to loosen its hold. “There’s something I need to do.” She says, her voice trembling. The text came right at a strike before midnight. The last time there had been two strikes. Now it’s one. My final hurrah. Gilbie opens her timeclock app on her phone, typing swiftly. January 8 2058 I’m coming, my love. She’ll remember this time. I’ll grab his hands (his rough brown hands, sometimes stained with ink from work, other times dotted with farm dirt that he never quite cleans off) and get him to stay for a cup of coffee or maybe three cups or four. And he can keep his boots warm by the fire.

It was cold again. The gentle fall breeze had picked up and they had finally come to a vast clearing in the tree line.. He stopped.. There was something ominous about the ditch ahead, it was out of place and massively so. Hell it was all out of place! Before he had anymore time to think a steely bayonet jabbed his side and coerced him forward. "Move" said the man behind him with utter indifference. He continued forward and looked at those around him being herded, docile cattle to the slaughter and they all knew it. They all wore their brands upon their faces. To look at the expressions of those around him was to look at defeat itself, each one wore it calmly, in a cool, glassy eyed embrace. The moist grass of the clearing ran between his toes.. Sliding off his feet, the drops of life. Suddenly there it was, the ditch itself, a black hole to nothingness, a doormat at the house of futility. Fresh dirt lay around its edges, it had been dug recently, and with haste. They all stood at the edge now, the pistols were drawn behind them. Yet, he couldn't help but think of himself! Somehow surviving, imagining that he would surely come crawling out of the shallow grave! He couldn't die here! No, not like this.. He would survive miraculously of course he would! Quickly, the feeling fades and deep down, wherever that deep down was, he knew this was not the truth.. He was.. hopeless. Suddenly, a calm ran over him, the calm that was hopelessness, it wrapped its arms of inevitability around him, strangling his last choked hopeful breaths. Humans are the only animal capable of contemplating their own death, yet they take joy in ending others’.. Killing each other over winless nothing's. A smile of absurdity dared to cross his lips at the thought of this. Yet he couldn't help imagine, dreaming, of living, it arose in him once more that lie of life and of hope. Had the thoughts of any dying man ever truly been recorded? He wondered.. Of course those who had almost died, those who had been "dead" for a moment.. No. All thoughts must occur before death. Any truly dead man has never spoken a word, and neither would he. The pistols were cocked now and his spine, tingled.. The anticipation of things to come.. All things held still for a moment, the sweet sound of wind through the pines filled him.. A sharp taste of steel pierced his mouth, heart pounding.. not going gently.. All you have he thought.. Is this thin veil of consciousness that is you, in the vastness of an entire universe you realize you are just an experiencer of a moment "your" little slice and, and then.. it's all gone.. Suddenly the staccato crack of the pistols erupts behind him, he's falling now, his face slumps into the damp dirt.. Wet earth fills his mouth. Warm blood puddles around his chest.. Unable to move but his mind is calm now, it hurts.. What hurts? Somehow everything and nothing. The thin veil begins to lift and oh how thin it was! The void opens up once more this time to take back, to swallow.. His body heavy now, a feeling of absorption.. Nothingness has no color, no feel and no mood. Your drug back where you came, to where all go, without any care, or importance. In those last moments he realized that nothing was all there ever was and ever would be, all sensation stopped, freely he floated back, back into the eternal depths. Back home to nothing.

Breathe Breathe, in and out. Just take another breath. You risk breaking the seal of your eyelids to glance around. The room's walls are stacked logs supported by metal posts. Their dancing shadows play out across the room, choreographed by the licking flame of a candle resting on the makeshift table at the center of the room. Boom! Another round lands close to the bunker, dislodging another avalanche of dust and dirt from the roof above. This is the 9th straight hour of bombardment. No matter how long you stay on the front, you cannot get used to it. The sound alone becomes a physical force. Fear blends into terror as screams accent the crescendo. You just want it to stop. Worse yet, you don't. When it stops, the real war starts. There is not a lot to do during the bombardment. You did what you could for the patients you have. Such young men. Most of them have never felt the cold bite of a shaving razor, yet here they lie. Bodies irreparably mangled by war. Their war is over but this fight will last the rest of their lives. All you can do is provide what little comfort you can in the form of unconsciousness. You will most likely not see another living soul until it stops. Then the trickle of broken bodies will start back up. A trickle becomes a wave, a wave a flood. You have long since passed the point of wondering why. Why do we hate? Why do we kill? Why am I here? Why me? Now you sit, almost in a state of meditation, not thinking, barely feeling. Hunger and fatigue are mere suggestions of sensations. But something feels amiss. Suddenly, silence. An eerie calm settles over the bunker. The absence of sound is more unsettling than the relentless bombardment. You strain your ears, waiting for the familiar rumble of explosions, the distant cries of pain, but there is nothing. The sudden quiet suffocates, pressing in from all sides. With caution, you rose to your feet, muscles stiff from hours of crouching in the cramped space. The candle flickered weakly, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch and sway with a life of their own. Your steps echoed softly as you approached the entrance, heart pounding in your chest. As you peered outside, your breath caught in your throat. The landscape was shrouded in a thick blanket of smoke and dust, the air acrid and heavy. The once-familiar sounds of war had been replaced by an eerie stillness, broken only by the distant whimper of a wounded soldier. Something had changed. The world outside felt different. The smoke nearest the ground rolled towards your feet, creeping along, almost in search of something, anything, to cling onto. As the smoke envelops your boots, it pulls back ever so slightly. It was only a little and you could have passed it off as nothing. But then it came, flowing much faster. Climbing your legs reaching further with a sickening desperation. It overtakes your legs, waist, arms, and head. With one sharp breath in, the smoke finds its mark. You feel the smoke flow down your throat, with an unnatural force it pushes its way in. Like one drawn-out inhalation, it fills your lungs. As suddenly as it came on it stops. With nothing but the lingering silence and distant whimpering. Your head feels heavy, lungs sting, with a deep aching. You are not sure what just happened, or if it happened at all. So you trudge on, walking the trench line. The bunker next to yours is empty, as is the next. You look around in confusion, wondering where everyone has disappeared to. The emptiness of the surroundings sends a shiver down your spine. Suddenly, a voice whispers in your ear, "You're not alone." You can't tell if it's real or just a figment of your imagination. The uncertainty and fear take hold as you try to make sense of what is happening. You cannot recall where you are going, or what you wanted to see. You know the silence is wrong but not why or how. You stumble as you walk, catching your balance just as you thought you were going down. With your next step, it's as if the floor is gone. You are in freefall! Darkness surrounds you, engulfing your vision until it's nothing but black. The only light comes from the faint glow of stars in the distance, but they are quickly disappearing as you fall deeper into the abyss. The darkness makes it impossible to see anything but the void below you. Your eyes strain to adjust, but all you can make out are faint glimpses of your body and the turbulent air rushing past you. The air is musty and stale, with a hint of burning and charred wood. It's suffocatingly thick, making it hard to catch a breath. Your mouth is dry, as if all the moisture has been sucked out of it. The taste of fear lingers on your tongue, a metallic tang that makes you want to retch. It is like being suspended in a void, surrounded by a silence so profound it seemed to echo. Everything was dark and cold, like being wrapped in a shroud of emptiness that stretched on forever. The air rushed by, swift and noiseless, as you plummeted into an unknown abyss. You can feel pulling... As if you are being manipulated or directed. The darkness murmurs at you, unintelligible and non-distinct. The redirection becomes more palpable, forceful, and angry. You find yourself moving down a corridor. The darkness becomes light, and you are not alone. “Just breathe,” you tell yourself. “Just take another breath.” Have you lost your mind? Were you hit? What is going on? You realize there are others, they are directing you, pushing you, not so lovingly guiding you. They are speaking, or at least you think they are. You cannot understand what is being said, it's as if they are speaking another language, or not a language but incoherent sounds. Who are these people? They look wrong. Arms and legs extended, almost spider-like. Hollow faces with black pits for eyes. They are misshapen, not so human. The way they move is wrong too. Jerky and uncontrolled, unsteady but determined. After losing yourself in awe, not sure how much time passed. You find yourself in a room. The room is dimly lit, shadows dancing on the walls from an unknown source. The bed is old and worn, with faded patterns on the sheets and a lumpy mattress. The chair is simple and plain, but its edges are sharp and seem to blend into the darkness of the room. The heavy door looms before you, the only exit from this strange place. You spend hours. No, days, or is it weeks, locked in the room. Your mind is mush, it's as if all logical thought patterns are beyond you. You struggle to understand the situation and events that lead up to it. After an instant, or was it an eternity, one of them opens the door and grabs you. They lead you down a white hallway. You try to talk to him, plead with him, anything, but to no avail. They won't listen or respond to you. Stopping suddenly and without warning in front of a door, you look up at the thing, or whatever it is, incredulity plastered on your face. With a whine, the door opens and you are brought before a group of them. You are forced into a rickety old chair and restrained. They seem to talk to you, or at you. You plead and beg them to return you. You just want to go home. The non-distinct murmuring continues. You can almost make out words. It sounds like coward, or covered. In pain, or insane. At this point, the things look familiar. You feel like you should know them or at least what they are. Are you high? You didn't drink… “What the fuck!” you say, again, and again. With a rough shove, they forcefully toss you out into the blinding daylight. The harsh sun instantly assaults your senses, searing your skin and blinding your eyes. As you struggle to adjust, a light breeze carries the scent of freshly cut grass, a cruel reminder of the world outside. You are brutally expelled from the darkness, left vulnerable under the scorching heat and merciless winds of reality. After walking for some time you come to an opening, a stone pillar in the center. In a moment of clarity, you recognize this place. You have been here before, but when? Where? Why? You find yourself tied to the stone pillar. But it's not stone, it's wood. “What the fuck?” The things are all around, their non-faces glaring at you. But they are not all around, just in front. Rather off to the sides in front, and a line of them twenty paces away. They seem to be pointing at you. Why are they so familiar? They are wearing uniforms, you think. Holding sticks, rods? All goes quiet again. One steps forward and the murmuring starts back up. Those words again, Cowardice… Insanity… Firing squad… “What the fuck?” you ask. You hear a crack and feel the weight of a truck on your chest. The first one is followed by several more. Your gut cramps and the sun dims. You feel something cold and wet on your face and taste copper in your mouth. “Just breathe,” you tell yourself. “Just take another breath.” But the air gurgles, pulled in from an unspace in your chest. You gasp , but are too weak to get the air in. The lights fade, and you feel calm for the first time in ages. Close your eyes and breathe. \*\*Prologue\*\* “Major! I have the report, it is ready to be sent to the family. Would you like to read it over first?” The young Lt asks as he hands over the folder. Opening up the folder, the Major skims over the report. “We regret to inform you,” it starts off. “Your son John S. Green was in a bunker when it was struck by an artillery round. Your son survived, but the enemy was on the move and was storming the defenses. In an incredible act of cowardice, your son ran from his hole and left his comrades to die alone. He was seemingly insane and not able to follow directions. After a short period of incarceration and a trial, your son was found guilty of cowardice. Immediately after the verdict, your son was executed by firing squad. His remains will not be returned home. He will be buried on site with his brothers in arms.” “Looks about right,” the Officer said.

Sam flexed his muscles harder into the side of the random kids neck. His headlock boa contrictor tight, he rashed his knuckles across the kids scalp once, twice, three times a lady. Yes that song was the first thing he heard as his mum yelled at him to get to school and she wasn’t that polite. He let go and pushed the kid into the brick wall. Sam thought about what move to do next. He thought about doing a wresting move he watched on television last night with his brother. The train tracks were too close. He was up for a wrestle yet hey he didn’t want to hurt the kid or another stint in juvenile detention. “Over here Harris”. The teacher stood still motioning with his index finger. Mr Jones yes a name that plain stood their with his standard issue teachers outfit. Khaki pants and blue button up shirt. Mr Jones was only 21 yet looked 18. Rumors went around the school he was an undercover cop just like 21 Jump st that’s the movie not the old tv show which Sam’s Dad always though he was referring to. “Detention for you, I’m sure you know the way”. Sam took in a breath. Where did he come from! Sam approached Mr Jones with his head down and stared at the scuff marks on his desert boots. They were too hard to clean anyway not that he tried. Who polished their school shoes anyway? Only the fancy kids with their stay at home mums. At least when Sam’s mum came home she bought food in from the diner. Sam grabbed his post it note detention slip. Sam veered and jogged up the concrete stairs of the train station. Lila who watched the standard drama unfold picked up Sam’s graffiti school bag and followed him up the steps. A crew of kids made a ruckus in the school yard, some jumped rope, looking at each other’s mobile phones and hung upside down on the monkey bars. A drone buzzed across the overcast sky. A large paintball gun was armed on the bottom of the drone. Pink paint slapped from the firing gun. The drone jerked left and right firing as blobs of paint smashed into the children’s backs. Kids ducked behind the battered green bins. Pellets of paint annihilated the bins as the once green and grey bins were now hot pink. Teachers sprinted into the play area and pulled together the children. One of the teachers spotted Eddie with a gaming type device in his hands. “Over here Juarez”. Eddie put down the device and ran. The teacher sprinted after him. “Detention for you” said the teacher who grabbed Eddie’s arm. The teacher pointed to an area of the school. Eddie put his head down and walked towards where the teacher pointed. Mia played with the plats of her dark hair. One of her classmates brought out a porcelain doll for their show and tell. Mia screamed. She kicked down her desk and threw her orange across the room. The orange splattered against the dry yellow walls. “Down Mia” yelled the teacher. The show and tell girl shielded her doll from Mia’s frenzied attack. The teacher grabbed Mia by the arm. “It’s detention for you Mia”. Mia packed her bag and placed it on her back. She shrugged and walked out of the classroom. Mia closed the door to her new room. She saw the usual suspects sitting down. Sam Harris, Eddie Juarez, Sam’s sidekick Lila who slapped her pink chewing gum under the school desk once she had bubbled it out. Sam stood up out of his seat and stared out the window. “Most productive thing you’ve done all day Sam” cracked Mia. Lila shot her a filthy look as she played Candy Crush on her phone. Lila moved her feet off the desk. Eddie stared at the new intruder. Mia took her seat. “We spend so much time together we should form a club” stated Mia. “No thanks” said Lila. “If you weren’t obsessed with me, why are you always here” said Mia as she sat down. Mia dropped her pink backpack on the ground. Sam opened the window and reached outside and touched the air. “As it’s the last day of school and the last day of the year. I think it’s about time this club had an out of school adventure “ stated Mia. “What would the teacher say” enquired Eddie. “Shut up Eddie” the group said in unison. Sam got half his leg out the window. “I heard a rumour this magician went bankrupt and has a warehouse at the edge of town. I think we should check it out” said Sam whose face was red as he stretched his shoulder out the window. Eddie perked up forgetting the insult three seconds ago.” I heard there is a robotic dinosaur there. We should check this out”. “I heard it’s haunted and that a magical item belonging to the great Harry Houdini himself keeps the magical items there intact and within the boundaries” said Lila adding another stroke of black nail polish to her fingernails. Steve pushed the window a bit further. “What do you say Mia”? asked Sam. “Stuff it” she checked her watch. Mia opened the door of the class room and peaked down the hall. A cleaner slopped water on the floor and mopped away. “Let’s go”! said Mia as she put the backpack back on her back. Sam jacked open the school window and pushed himself outside of the classroom. Lila grabbed Eddie’s hand and gave him a boost out. Sam helped him down. Lila handed Eddie’s backpack down. Lila and Mia reached the safety of dirt. The window to the classroom wide open. Sam went and ran his phone over the school e-bike secured zone. Ping Ping Ping Ping… The kids adjusted their packs and put on their green helmets. Sam tapped his helmet. “Follow me”. The four zoomed threw the teacher’s car park. The school bell rang. The four hit the road and rode as a pack. Sam pulled up in front of an abandoned warehouse, the sun set over the pine trees. The warehouse was in tact and large signs saying KEEP OUT were placed at five metre intervals among the barbed wire fence. The carpark was empty. Puddles of rain littered the potholes. Sam went into the skip bin and threw an old rug on the barbed wire fence. “Up and over” said Sam. Sam went first and gave the others a hand over the fence. They reached the warehouse perimeter. “Find us a way in Eddie” asked Sam. Eddie put down his backpack and pulled out his drone. He pulled out his phone and controlled hit a button which made the propellers whirl. Eddie surged the drone towards the top floor of the warehouse. An eagle swooped and grabbed the drone in its talons. The eagle screeched and took the drone away. “I hope that’s not your only gadget Eddie”? quipped Sam. “Good luck feeding that to your offspring” said Lila. “You know me” said Eddie as he pulled out his mega Swiss army knife. He flicked open the huge blades in front of Sam’s face. The group made their way to the front of the warehouse. “What to know how I always get in? Through the front door”! Eddie put a blade into the silver door knob. Jigged around a few times and got the door open. The group entered the front door. The door creaked. The Warehouse was a magicians’ dream. Ventriloquist dolls of every shape and size were everywhere. Mia went to scream. Lila put her hand over her mouth. Lila motioned to Eddie to the small table to the side. Eddie handed Lila a black silk cloth. Lila tied the cloth around Mia’s eyes so she couldn’t see. Lila guided Mia through the menagerie of dolls. The dolls all stood up at the same time. They all put on their top hats in perfect coordination. “What are you doing in our house”! screamed the dolls. They attacked Sam. Jumped on him and dragged him to the ground. Lila guided Mia in a chair. She double checked the cloth was secure. Eddie and Lila jumped on the ventriloquist doll scrum. Lila threw one against a wall. Eddie pulled out a ball from his pocket and smashed it on the ground. Smoke billowed through the room. The kids coughed as the smoke went down their throats. Lila, Sam and Eddie emerged from the smoke. They grabbed Mia and hustled her away from the dummy chaos. The went around a large black curtain, into a room full of traps. They hit behind four coffins. The ventriloquist dummies came out of the smoke and went their separates ways and searched for the invaders. Eddie peered around the corner and sighted a dummy. He snuck out from behind and grabbed it. He threw the dummy into a large water tank. Lila ran up the ladder of the tank and sealed the top shut. The dummy tapped its hand against the Perspex glass. The team went escaped another entrance. Eddie stopped in his tracks. His eyes tracked up and saw the massive green robotic dinosaur. His dream toy was in front of him. His imagination was fulfilled. A dummy came through the door and grabbed Mia by the hair. Mia punched it. Sending it flying back. More dummies came through the door and spread out. Surrounding the group. Eddie shuffled towards the remote control. He picked it up and hit the red button. The giant red foot of the dinosaur lurched forward and crushed two of the dummies under its enormous weight and power. The dummies ran away. Eddie hit another button, the dinosaur let out an almighty roar. Eddie went to hit the scream button again. Sam stopped him. Sam rubbed his hand over the large foot of the robotic T-REX. “I’m taking this home” said Sam. “I don’t know about you, but no way this thing is fitting out the front door” cracked Lila. Lila took Sam’s hand. “This way”. The group went to the next room. Their reflections bounced off all the mirrors. They looked at themselves and the different versions. Short, Fat, Tall and Thin. Lila looked at the ultra thin one. “I think like this weight”. Mia pulled her away. Mia looked at herself on the ultra wide mirror. She started at her black eyeliner and pulled a pen out of her bag. A face of a dummy showed up in the corner of the mirror. Mia pulled down the mirror with an almighty crush and trapped the dummy underneath its antique weight. “We need to find another room” screamed Mia. “Where are you”? replied Lila her voice feint. Lila ran past some mirrors, her body shape morphed on each passing. Two dummies chased behind her, changing their body shapes in the reflections. Sam turned the corner and Lila and Sam bumped into each other and caught each other in an embrace. They both laughed and Sam moved Lila to the side. He charged at the two dummies in pursuit. One dummy slid into his legs and the other used his colleague as a springboard and jumped into Sam’s chest headfirst. Sam went down. Lila pulled out her hairspray and her cigarette lighter. She lit up her hairspray and torched the possessed dummies. The dummies burnt and screamed and went head first into the opposite mirrors melting and burning in the face of the mirror. Mia and Eddie came around the corner. Sprinklers came on and soaked the party. The group moved to another room through the door marked EXIT in green neon lighting. The new room was cloaked in purple drapes. Candles singed after being dripped wet by the sprinklers. An apparition emerged from the bottom of the floor. At first it was a shadow before her femine features became more pronounced. Her body was sawn in half. “Well magicians of youth. Which one of you came here to saw me in half”? The ghost laughed. Eddie grabbed Mia by the arm. “Eddie, I’m assuming you don’t have a leaf blower”? asked Sam. The apparition went towards the team. They ran under the drapes. The team pulled up on the side of the warehouse. Lila slid back under the drapes. The ghost drew closer and clearer. Top hat and tails part of her ensembles along with a magicians black and white wand. Lila grabbed an ancient looking book covered in dust as she went back under the drapes. “I could be so wrong yet I bet this is some type of spell book” gasped Lila. She opened the book, it’s a book of black and white photos. Photos of a young boy pulling a rabbit out of his hat. Another photo of the same boy waving a wand around at a child’s party. The ghost emerged on the other side of the drapes. The curtains containing the separate magic rooms fell down on the cold concrete floor. The remaining dummies sighted where the kids are and make their way towards them, this time they have the remote control for the dinosaur. The dinosaur had dummies holding on it legs as it stomped towards the team. The Dinosaur swiped a large concrete pylon. The dummy dropped the remote control and ran away. The entire warehouse shook. The ghost disappeared into the stark darkness of the magic warehouse. The dummies escaped off the dinosaur. A clump of roof smashed on the dinosaurs head. It spun out of control. The kids ran. The kids find their way back to where they broke in. They got out of the door as the roof caved in behind them. The kids made their way back to the area when they dumped their e-bikes. “We are going to be so grounded when people find out about this” said Eddie as he brushed the dust off his clothes. “That’s the deal, no one finds out about this. I’ve had enough detention and you know that I kind of like hanging out” “I do to” said Lila. The group grabbed their bikes and rode off into the night together. “By the way I’ve thought of a name for our group”! said Mia peddling hard as she broke into a wheelie. “What is it”? asked Eddie. “The club for bullies, weirdos and the generally uncool”! The crew laughed as they rode the midnight highway.

I’d only been with her for a month when it happened. In fact, it was our one month anniversary. I know it’s a little silly to celebrate such a tiny thing, but to us, it felt like we’d known each other for so much longer—and that kind of connection deserved to be celebrated. We were out to dinner when she got the call. A car accident. Her parents, just…gone. She was their only child, their whole world. They loved—had loved—her more than life itself, and despite my short time with her, I knew my girlfriend felt the same for them. The way she howled when she heard the news…fuck, I never want to hear another human make that sound again. That night, and honestly the next few weeks, were a blur, punctuated by quick trips to the store for more boxes of tissues. She was a body in our bed. Lights out, nobody home. I brought her food, and tried to get her to eat it before it rotted. She begged me to leave. Said that I hadn’t signed up for this, that she wouldn’t blame me at all if I just bailed while I had the chance. Said that she wasn’t worth it. I would never leave her—and I told her that. I knew that I loved her, maybe more than I’d ever loved anyone, and I wanted to stay by her side for the rest of our lives. That was the first time she kissed me since the accident. God, I’d missed her lips, even if they were chapped and salty from her tears. One morning, a lawyer knocked on our door. She read the wills to us in a respectfully somber tone, but it was hard for her to keep up pretenses when she reached the part about my girlfriend’s parents leaving her seventy million dollars, AND a fucking trust fund, AND their fucking ISLAND MANSION. I was…I mean, I was blown away. I didn’t think it’d be THAT much. My girlfriend had been honest with me right out the gate that she came from money, but honestly, she didn’t show it. I’d kinda thought she was lying—until I got my very useful friend to look into her family. Jesus Christ, this was so fucking worth it. Don’t get the wrong idea though, alright? I did love her. …Yeah, the money helped, but come on, doesn’t everybody hope that the love of their life is also a goddamn heiress? She started crying again halfway through the will reading. I got up to get her more tissues from the bathroom, like the good boyfriend I am. My phone pinged. A text from my very useful friend. *$$$?* *70M+* I replied, frowning slightly as my girlfriend’s sobs from the living room got louder. 🤯 *fucking jackpot* I rolled my eyes. He could be a bit insensitive sometimes. *I’ll get you ur cut by July* *youd better. jasons funereal rung me out* Ah, Jason. Who knew that such a useful friend would have an even more useful brother? One who already had a few DUIs on his record, so him getting into an accident wouldn’t seem out of the ordinary? I wonder if they even tested what was in his system. Nothing, is the answer—in case you were wondering. Just a little fear that something would happen to his husband if he didn’t crash into a certain car at a certain spot on the highway on a certain special night. I wanted to wait until our one month anniversary, y’know? To make sure she was the one. And fuck, was she fucking worth it.

On a moonlit night, a lonely man sat in a church in the city and wondered about the meaning of life. He’d searched religious texts, read philosophical books one upon the other, and consulted with wise people of all ages. Each of them had their own way and meaning, but he had nothing. He rose from the bench he was sitting on and looked at the religious symbol on the wall. It meant a lot to people, it had thousands of years worth of history, but for him, it didn’t mean anything. It never would. He strode out from the building and into the moonlight. As he walked down the road, he saw some corporate buildings, an old disused playground, and shops that were closed for the night. As he kept walking, on a whim, he turned to the moon and told it that he wanted to know what the point of everything was and that reality was horrible, because it wouldn’t tell him. The moon quietly kept shining its light, illuminating the countryside as he kept walking, wondering what to do. Soon enough he found that his random wandering had taken him out into some neighborhoods where houses were lined up on both sides of the road. He walked past them wondering what realities everyone inside of them had, if it caused them to sleep well, safe in the knowledge that they knew, or if they were staying up late like he was, wondering about it all. A small side road led to the edge of the city where the houses stopped, big firs were now obscuring the moon somewhat, making it very dark. Strangely enough though, the man saw a pale light coming from a small altar down in a ditch that was still wet after a rain that had come by the day before. Feeling oddly compelled by the sight, the man started making his way down into the ditch and soon stood before the altar that was made out of planks that had definitely seen better days. It was heartbreaking to see that it had been neglected this way because it was obvious that someone had spent a lot of effort to create it once, and now it was just like this. Forgotten. Neglected. On it was an octagonal wooden container the size of a hat box that had a moon cast out of metal on its surface. The moon had an enigmatic expression on its face and the man reached out to trace the bulbous lines on the metallic face. Suddenly the metal face spoke to him, “All that is, and all that would be, was and is inside and outside of the box.” and then it fell silent. The man suddenly felt a strange feeling that he’d never felt before, an enormity of sorts, he couldn’t place it. But he knew this was one of those moments where he had to choose. To open the box or not? He had to know, was there another meaning inside? He opened the box and as he did, he found a folded-up piece of cloth that was very thin and that had roads printed on it on one side. He also found a myriad of small buildings and statues and things you would find in a city. How odd. Getting back up to the road, he now saw that the pale light of the moon was somehow illuminating something much further down the road leading out of the city. Leaving it behind him, he walked for an hour until it wasn’t almost visible anymore. He felt free and happy and… that strange enormous feeling was also there inside of him. Like cracks on an old pillar maybe, or a mountain, no maybe a race of animals, or the laws of physics, oh it was so hard to pin down, so impossible to put into words! He stopped once he’d reached the new thing that glowed and he realized it was a wooden table, with a chair next to it. Nodding to himself, he unfolded the big piece of cloth onto the table and looked at the small buildings in his hand… now where to begin? He placed the biggest one in the middle and as it touched the canvas, both it and the building transformed. He was now looking at a perfect miniature of an area around a city hall. It had an impossibly detailed quality to it, small streetlights, windows in the building, and even grass and bushes. He was afraid to touch it, knowing something that delicate surely must break. But he looked at the other pieces in his hand and he knew precisely where they should go now. For the next hour or so he marveled as he placed all of the things right in the city, creating it as he went, the miniature growing and becoming more and more elaborate. Finally, after what felt like eons, he was finished and it was complete. The city was so beautiful, but he found that it had no people in it or animals. He nodded again to himself as he took out the small figures and placed them on the table, but for some odd reason, they didn’t integrate into the model like the buildings had done before. He tried moving them around, thinking maybe there was some reason why they didn’t become part of it, but soon enough, he gave up as nothing he did had any effect. When he had the last figure left, he looked down at it and felt anger. Why wasn’t it working? He spoke to it “This one’s me” and placed it down at the edge of the city. Suddenly he felt a shudder all around him and he looked up from the table and saw that he was no longer outside of the city, he was now close to a new city, and it was dawn. In a panic, he looked down at the table only to find that it was gone. The man’s hands were shaking in fear as he turned around only to find that a desert was behind him. His city had vanished behind him along with everything he knew. Suddenly he felt that sense of enormity was starting to fade, he desperately clung onto it, hoping to keep it, but it was as if his mind was a broken balloon where the air just kept pouring out. Soon enough all that he could do was just stare at everything around him, wondering what to do next. Where would he go? Could he go back? He walked into the city as the sun started rising and all around him, people started coming out of their houses and apartments, getting ready for all the things they needed to do that day. He walked past a playground where children were happily playing, he walked past some shops where an owner of one was talking to a woman, obviously happy in selling her something. He passed by the corporate offices where the reflective glass, bright with the sun had reflections that partially hid the people working inside of it. Feeling extremely lost in this new city of his own making, he went to the place where he’d started it, city hall. When he looked up at the building, he saw that in place of what would have been a clock in his city, this one had the same big metallic face of the moon having that same enigmatic expression on it as before. At this point, the man felt more confused than ever and yelled out in anger at the moon on the building “WHAT DO YOU WANT? WHY DO THIS TO ME? ALL I WANTED WAS AN ANSWER!”, for the next few minutes, he kept screaming other things until the police came and took him away as he was scaring the people around him. The rest of the day, the man spent in a jail cell while they were trying to figure out who he was and where he’d come from. He’d calmed down after one of them had given him a cup of tea and something to eat, but soon enough he found himself feeling extremely sleepy. So, he laid down in his cell and fell asleep, and woke up several hours later when it was evening again. It was quiet as the grave in the jail, only the attending officer was on watch and also half-asleep watching something on a small TV on the desk next to him. Getting up from his temporary bed, the man saw that again, the moon was shining brightly through the window and looked out through the bars at it in the sky. He whispered to it that he was sorry and that he was done trying to find any answers because all he really wanted to do now was to go home again. The moon of course didn’t answer him, but a sound behind him made him turn around. The door to his cell had opened and the lights in the building were now off. The man didn’t spare a single second getting out of the jail, which was now abandoned, not a soul there. When he entered the city streets only the streetlights were on now. Not a single house seemed like it had someone awake inside. As he retraced his steps outward towards where he’d come from, on a whim he went up to a house and knocked on the door, wondering if someone would answer. When nobody did, he tried the door and found that it was open. He looked into the darkened doorway and went inside, the house was in perfect order, but nobody was home. Going back out, he entered another house that also turned out to be as empty as the first one. The city was empty now, everyone had gone away. He nodded to himself, feeling a trace of that strange emotion welling up in him again, that totality of… something. When he made his way further toward where he’d started, that feeling swelled up inside of him now, stronger than ever, he felt like it was almost impossibly powerful and before he knew it, he came upon a small altar next to the road and a table next to it. Rushing up to the table, he found that the city he’d created was still there and he quickly pulled off the buildings from the cloth which made them turn back into the small wooden figurines that they’d once were. Meanwhile, the ground turned back into the cloth and soon enough only city hall was visible, but this time, the man noticed that the strange moon face was on one of its sides. Bracing one hand against the cloth, the man pulled off the city hall block and then neatly folded up the cloth, returning both it and the figurines to the box. But… wait, it wasn’t enough, was it? There was one thing missing, after all, the small wooden people! He shrugged, there was nothing to do about it now was there? Closing up the box with the metal moon on it, he returned to the shrine and placed down the box and talked to the moon on it, and said “Look, I’m done looking for answers, I just want to go home again.” The moon again spoke to him, but this time what it said was subtly different: “All that was, and all that will be, has been inside and outside of the box.” And then after a long pause, it added, “On and on again.” then it fell silent. Leaving the shrine, the man felt that again, the strange feeling was pouring out of him like before. This time though, he welcomed it, it was clearly not something that was meant for any human to ever hold onto. He made his way up to the road and found that his old city was there again, he laughed and shouted with happiness as he ran into it. When one house to his left had a light coming on and a door opening, he saw that it was his old friend who was coming out, obviously annoyed at the sound that he was making. He shouted to his friend that he’d finally seen the point of all, that he finally understood, but the confused look on his friend’s face scared him as the friend started backing off inside his house again, telling him to go away, that he would call the cops on him if he didn’t leave right this instant. Confused, the man walked through the quiet city in the moonlight and finally made his way home again. His apartment was precisely as he’d left it and soon enough, he collapsed on his bed and fell asleep again. His life went on as before after that day, but nobody that he knew ever remembered him ever again. Knowing now his own individual answer to what life was about, he had found that it’d been taken away from him at the same time. However, he never did talk to the moon after that night, because now he’d learned that some experiences in life do come with too high of a cost attached to them.

The Sacher cake was enough food for him, so he dismissed his plans for supper. After he showered, he opened his windows wide. The cooling air penetrated his room. He lay on his bed in the nude. He felt tired, especially for a Sunday afternoon. It was an unusual Sunday afternoon, so he wasn't quite surprised. He got under the blanket. He laid looking at the ceiling, recalling the events of this day. This Sunday felt longer than his entire last week, which, minded, included traveling from Morocco. He dozed off not long thereafter. The Croatian lady struggled to fall asleep after her shower. In fact, she struggled to settle at all in her hotel. She thought it was because of being alone for the first time since the incident of this afternoon. She got up from her bed and dressed in a comfortable street outfit. It was more elegant than a typical street outfit. She donned a pair of sneakers, a sundress and a waterfall jersey. She left her hotel and walked across to his hotel. She walked across to his hotel, and greeted the gentleman at concierge in passing. It looked none the matter to him. She took the elevator up to the third floor and knocked in the Moroccan man's door. He sleeps quite hard, so he didn't hear her first knock. She knocked again and he awoke startled. He shouted to the door that he was coming. He put on a robe from the bathroom on his way to the door. He opened it slightly, not wanting to reveal his nudity. She said nothing but smile at him and apologise. He was perplexed and it showed for an instance. He righted his gown and opened the door wider. She told him that she couldn't bear being alone for the night. She had no one to call, she didn't have his contact details and she knew no one in Vienna, thanks to being a traveller. He invited her in and ushered her to the couch in the study of his room. He went to dress himself in something more respectful. She stopped him. She told him not to inconvenience himself for her sake. He had already seen her in a poor and vulnerable state, the least he could do is be comfortable in her presence. He checked the time and it was just over an hour before midnight. He hated his sleep being interrupted, even for a beautiful sight like her. However, he was happy to remain in a mere robe, even with company. He went to sit next to her, on the opposite end of the couch. He looked at her. He was lost for words. He was unlike his usual hospitable self. So he just sat there. She looked at him and began telling him that she should perhaps not have come, because she had not considered how it may be a disruption to him. She only considered feeling safe again, comfortable, with the companion that gave her that earlier. He wondered when it was that he had told her his room number or whether he offered that she could come at any time if she needed help. Perhaps he did so when they were talking about each other's hotel locations, albeit it be uncharacteristic of him. His private space was sacred to him. He could not have known that she had peeked at his room card as he had placed it on the table at the cafe. He excused himself for the bathroom. He rinsed his face with cold water. He loved doing that. He did it each morning. The colder the water, the better. It awakened him by requiring him to withstand the shocking cold after hours of warmth in slumber. It kickstarted his practice of discipline. He spent most of his days in a state of practicing discipline. He learnt early in life that freely expressing himself came at the cost of repelling those around him. He was overbearing in an untenable way. He came back with a beer to offer. She declined his offer. He urged her to have something to drink. Beer was the better option against the white wine in his fridge, so she eventually agreed. She adorded beer, she was only trying to be polite to him by declining his offer at first. Beer at midnight was not a bad idea. The air coming into the room was pleasantly warm for night time. He was very comfortable in his robe with nothing underneath. She was also comfortable in her sundress...with nothing underneath. They had a shallow conversation, which bored her. He could tell. He asked her whether she wanted to spend the night. She paused, seeming to ponder his offer. She accepted his offer, if it wouldn't be too much trouble for him. Being a gentleman, he went to fix the bed and told her she could sleep in it. He would sleep on the couch. She wouldn't allow it. She said she would feel happier if he were to sleep in bed too. Her reason was that she didn't want to inconvenience him further, but the truth was that she wanted him to be as near to her as possible. And it was not for safety. She asked him for one of the robes to sleep in. They both laid in his bed, in their robes, looking at each other. It took him longer to fall asleep than normal because of her disturbance. Soon enough, he passed into sleep. She lay longer, looking at him. She wondered if he would be offended if she moved closer to him. She wondered if he would blame her if she did so while asleep. She could use being asleep as her excuse. Fuck it. She shuttled over across the bed, close to him. She turned to lay on her stomach. This allowed her to lay on his arm. He didn't stir much. She got comfortable, yet remained awake. After a short while, she tucked a leg inbetween his and rested her left hand on his hip. He noticed this. He opened his eyes and saw hers. They were steadier. They still had distance in them but hardly that element of disinterest. He smiled as his eyes rolled backwards and his eyelids shut again. He thought to himself for a split second that this felt oddly right. She exhaled a sigh of relief through her full lips. She, too, dozed off.

Like the landslide that had just sheared my rope, life had always slipped by me. Now, surrounded by debris in the rock niche that was about to become my grave, I found myself reflecting on my existence thus far. If nothing else, there was a splendid view from up there. Was I a coward? I don't think so; otherwise, I wouldn't have ended up climbing that rock face with my friends. I wonder if they are still alive, or if death caught them without warning. Maybe not, maybe I was not a coward, but that still didn't amount to anything. I always let myself drift wherever the wind was blowing, never taking the helm for fear of going the wrong way. If I had no course, I could not be at fault. The only love I knew could not even be called such, and now I would die without ever having been able to truly love. Perhaps that was the only real regret I felt at that moment. Yet, surrounded by rocks that kept sliding under me, trying to drag me down the cliff, I felt no fear in my limbs. My friends, shouting my name, all seemed safe and sound. I could not have asked for more before flying into the abyss. The notification on the screen read: beer and then party? Until a few hours earlier, I had given myself away; now, however, I was wearing an ochre shirt and a pair of salmon-pink pants that came down to my knees. My wrists were fragrant, and I had a will to live that I could barely contain. My survival of the landslide, and the subsequent rescue by the mountain guides had both been billed as something extremely close to a miracle. In the hospital room where we had been made to stay after routine checks I had spent the entire time crying, to considerable amusement from my friends. "It doesn't seem real to you to be here, or does it?" they said to me, also in disbelief at the whole situation. "Look, the nurses won't leave you their phone number if you whine," they continued laughing. There was, of course, no malice in their words, just as there was no sadness in my crying. My life had not interested me for a moment when I thought I was with one foot in the grave: what did not seem true to me was that they were all alive, ready to laugh at the tragedy we had just escaped. I would say no beer and straight to the party, read the second message. I was going to be late that night: as every time I sensed a change in my life, I was going to have to shave off my beard. I would have had to give up at least six years of age, with that completely shaved face and the same hairstyle I had worn since I was a child. But that night I felt new blood coursing through my veins, and neither the questionable juxtaposition of my clothes nor the absence of a beard would be worth stopping me. By the time I finally got out of the car, the evening was definitely well underway: half of my friends were dancing like they had the devil in them, and the other half were narrating for the umpteenth time that story that seemed to belong to another life, and yet was barely half a day old. "The miracle worker!" "He spent at least an hour crying" "Ten minutes is a lot, but an hour is a real record" "For goodness sake, give this man a drink and a nice girl" "We tease him, but this guy had a pair of balls of steel," were the comments that had greeted me, before I was surrounded by a crowd of people who were now hanging on my every word, waiting for yet another account of that incredible day. Honestly, I had told them, I just felt like having a beer and singing something with everyone. When the crowd finally thinned out, I remained in the company of myself, and a sixty-six centiliter bottle of beer that I did not even need in order to work up the courage to go talk to the girl who was sitting, alone, on the small wall farthest from the music. I did not know, honestly, the feelings I had for her. All I knew was that her name was Camilla, and that she wore a green dress that looked incredible on her. I had been, a few years earlier, infatuated with her, but I had never understood what was going on in her mind. So I had decided to give up, for fear of failure. That evening, none of this bothered me: when I had sat beside her, I had no goal in mind. All I wanted at that moment was to share that little wall in her company. We spent endless minutes staring, in silence, at the darkness of the trees in front of us, without moving a muscle. What would normally have been an awkward situation was instead incredibly peaceful: music and laughter could barely be heard, while the cool wind made the foliage dance before us, as if it wanted to invite us to a dance. Then, suddenly, Camilla had stood up, without taking her eyes off the plants. "Let's go have a drink," she had then sentenced, taking my hand and leading the way to the table glistening with alcoholic beverages. Her skin was smooth and pleasant to the touch, but slightly stiffened from the cold. I closed her hand between mine, trying to give her some warmth, while with the other she prepared, casually, two drinks. I had never fully understood her, but that evening she seemed even more indecipherable than usual, as if immersed in a sea of thoughts that I couldn't even peer into the distance from my little island of peace I had just found. The only thing I could do, in my own small way, was shake that cold hand, and listen to her talk of which I could not find a common thread. Beside us sat our plastic cups: hers, completely empty, had just been knocked over by a gust of wind; mine, from which I had barely taken a sip, reminded me that I did not want alcohol to ruin my memory of that moment. We had slowly fallen back into that relaxing silence, and I had for the first time felt the desire to look at her. It was not her beauty that had brought me to her side at that moment, but I would be lying if I said that I did not feel a tug at my heart to admire that figure that seemed to have emerged from an idealized portrait by the brush of a painter in love. "I need to go to the bathroom, will you accompany me?" I was puzzled by that request that rained down on me. "I wouldn't want to slip on my heels," she continued. If the morning's events had awakened renewed courage in me, they were probably not enough to make me less awkward - and clumsy. Trying to hide my embarrassment, I held out my hand to her, and we headed for the bathrooms of the cottage hosting the party. Fortunately, they were on the opposite side of the dance floor, and no one saw us as we strolled along in the dark. Finally, we reached in front of the restroom door. I would have a few minutes while I waited for her to refresh my face and return to my stoicity that I had so enjoyed. "What are you doing? Aren't you going in?" How had this happened? Until that morning, I had been a shy boy, totally incapable of starting a conversation with a girl; my one relationship had left me traumatized, unable to trust another person. Now, on the other hand, I had just walked into the bathroom with a girl for whom I had lost my mind -- and my sleep -- a few years earlier, only to forget all about it in the face of fear of rejection. But no matter what happened from there on, I was going to reject myself. I knew I felt something toward that person, and it was for that very reason that I could never allow myself to fear that I had taken advantage of her at a time when she was not fully herself. If anything was ever going to happen, I wanted us both to be completely clear-headed. Then, for the first time since I had been in his company, she turned, looked into my eyes, reached out a trembling hand to encircle the nape of my neck, and placed his lips on mine. My heart had just remembered the beauty of a kiss, and I plunged into it with all my will. What I had been able to accept in a kiss was about to evolve into something else, and I finally found the courage to pull away from the warmth of her lips. I explained how I felt, and the reasons why I did not want to go any further; she listened, her gaze still slowly going to rest on the void behind me, and I felt that the right thing was to give her time to clear her thoughts. So I caressed her cheeks, kissed her forehead, and told her to come back to the party when she recovered. What I remember, from that moment, is seeing some of her friends break away from the party to go to her, but I did not see her again in the following hours. When the music finally fell silent, a mutual friend of ours was looking for her, clearly concerned; I didn't pay too much attention to it, knowing that her friends were with her, and were definitely helping her recover. This calm was suddenly broken when, the next day, I awoke to an incessant vibrating of the phone. No one had seen Camilla since I had given her that kiss on the forehead. My heart, which I thought to be unflappable, had just been enveloped by a deadly grip. So, still in my pajamas, I ran to the car, and drove to the party cottage, where the early risers among us were already scouring every inch of the house and the nearby woods. I didn't waste a second, and headed for the bathroom. Nothing inside was waiting for me. Where had she gone? My heart was now beating wildly, and an incredible fear had now taken over my actions. Exactly one day before, I was about to die with a smile on my face, knowing that my friends were safe. Now, however, my body was like in the grip of an indescribable delirium, and I simply wanted to vomit that pain out of my head. With the last ounce of reason, I ran toward the bathroom. In the front room, hidden in a corner, stood an eternally locked closet, whose lock had been broken a few years earlier, and which no one had ever bothered to fix. When I broke down the door Camilla was there, sitting on the floor, her gaze still lost in nothingness. The only words that emerged from her voice, without a trace of emotion, were, "I don't want to go home." I took her on my shoulders, and walked to the car. "Everything will be fine. You can rest now," I told her, but I found no response. The only thing that reassured me at that moment was her warm breath on my neck. Perhaps, more than to her, I was talking to me: perhaps I was the one who needed to convince himself that everything would be all right, and that I could go back to rest in peace. Meanwhile, everyone had rushed toward our intimate procession, but I managed to stop them before they bombarded us with questions. They were good people, and they managed to keep quiet until I laid Camilla down on the back seats of the car, making sure she was okay. When I kissed the back of her head once more, I saw a shadow of a smile appear on her lips, and my heart started beating even faster than before. When we were finally far enough away from the car, I answered all the questions, and only then could I finally sit in the driver's seat and head for Camilla's house. "I don't want to go home," he did again. "They will kill me." "They'll be worried, of course, but I think they'll be more happy to see you than anything else." "No," he replied then, "They won't. They never are." I didn't feel the strength to continue the talk, and we said nothing more to each other until we arrived in front of his house. "You rest. I'll take care of it." I had no idea, of course, how I would think about it. Of how I was going to resolve that situation. I had met them only once, Camilla's parents, when I was shooting with my friends, and the meeting had not exactly gone well. Every word we had uttered had been silently judged by her father, who seemed to be hostile to anything that was not career-related. Then again, he had spent his whole life working: he had been breaking his back working as a blue collar since he was twelve, Camilla had told me one day. With the money he had saved, he had been able to afford his studies, arousing the contempt of his own parents, and now he was still working as an engineer in some famous company, and the work never seemed to be enough for him. The mother, on the other hand, did not keep any silence about her judgments, which she expressed aloud: "If you want to party all day, at least leave those who have other things to do alone," she had told us, and then left with her husband and daughter. Camilla had spent the whole next day apologizing, even though she was not at fault. And now, in front of their door, I would have to face them. I found myself giggling, and then laughing out loud, thinking about the paradoxical situation I had ended up in: me, who was afraid to answer the phone, would have to confront those two people with such strong character. But, after the experience of that morning, and the morning before, I was no longer afraid. "Who are you?" the mother said to me from the ajar door. "He is one of her friends. Is Camilla with you?" the father then made, after totally opening the door. His wrinkled, red face did not even make an effort to hold back, except in the tone of his voice, the emotions he felt at that moment. "I need to talk to you." "I don't give a shit. Where is Camilla?" the father replied, scanning the hallway. Then, seeing that there was no one else in my company, it was the mother's turn. "I'll call the police. Her friends must have hidden her. How corageous." Without saying a word, I entered the house, passing by the two figures, who were completely motionless with amazement. "I need to talk to you," I repeated without turning around. I felt a twinge in my head, and a sensation of pulsating heat began to spread from where the object had met my skin. But I did not move. "So, would you like to talk?" Beneath my feet, I saw the ceramic base of the snow globe that had hit me rolling, with the fake snowflakes floating on the clear liquid mixed with my blood. "Now I really call the police. Wasn't yesterday's lesson enough for you? You and your little group almost died while doing your shit, and you think you have something to tell us?" The mother's words now held not even a trace of the calm pretense with which she had spoken moments before. Instead, when I turned around, the father was still standing with his arm outstretched from which the snow globe was thrown, with veins that seemed to be about to burst from his neck. Then, taking a set of keys from the door, he aimed at my head again. I didn't bother to dodge it, and it knocked the air out of me for an instant when it hit my Adam's apple. But I did not move. "Let's talk." "What do you want to talk about? About how you partied last night? About how my daughter partied in your company, drunk and drugged?" "Haven't you seen how she is these days? How she spends all the time staring at nothing? Does she look normal to you?" "No, that's not fucking normal," the father replied. "That's why she has to stay away from you. She wasn't like that before she met you." "We have devoted the last twenty years of our lives to her," the mother added, "Only to see her reduced to an amoeba because of you. But now it's over, as far as I'm concerned she will never leave the house again as long as I have breath." "Don't you feel even a little guilty?", I asked, and the response I received was knuckles on my nose, which began to bleed. "You seriously didn't stop for a second to think?" I continued. What I remember, when I finally walked out of that room, was not the blood running from my nose, from my lips and from the back of my head, nor the pain pulsing from every corner of my body. No, the only thing that stuck in my mind were the eyes of those two people, as they stared at me astonished on the phone with the police, who they did not call for me or their daughter. Her hair falls gorgeous on my lap as I gently cradle her head, and caress her, and kiss her forehead another time. "See, I told you it would be all right." The seats in that car have never been more comfortable, as a trickle of blood drips from my lower lip. This time his smile is complete, and he finally falls asleep. It's not the most comfortable position, but I think I'll take a little break, too. It has been quite a busy weekend.

The darkness was absolute, a suffocating blanket that pressed against her eyelids with the weight of the earth itself. Her lungs screamed for air, each breath a shallow gasp that did little to quell the rising panic. The scent of pine and damp soil filled her nostrils, the only indication that she was still part of the living world. And then, the realization hit her like a bullet—the pain in her chest. She had been shot, but not dead. Now, what? She was buried alive? She panicked, and froze, only to wrestle the reins of her mind and body from her emotions. One, two, three,… ten! Her heart thundered in her chest, a frenzied drumbeat urging her to fight. With clenched fists, she pounded against the wooden lid of her coffin, the sound muffled by the layers of dirt above her. Splinters pierced her knuckles, but the pain was distant, inconsequential compared to the burning need to escape. She punched and clawed until, with a final, desperate thrust, the wood gave way. Rain greeted her fist, a deluge of icy needles that lashed against her skin. It was a stark contrast to the stifling warmth she had left behind in the coffin. The cold burned into her flesh. Each rain drop felt like a needle, but it was a welcome sensation—it meant she was free, alive. She heaved herself out of the grave, the mud clinging to her like a second skin, and stumbled into the tempest. The rainstorm was a chaotic symphony, the howling wind and the relentless drumming of raindrops drowning out all other sounds. She used it to her advantage, dragging herself behind a stone with a silent urgency that belied her disorientation. She had to hide, to find a safe place. The sound of tires on mud tore the air. They came with shovels and grim determination, two men whose faces were hidden by the shadows of their hoods. They didn’t expect resistance; they didn’t expect her to be anything but a lifeless body awaiting their retrieval. But she was no one’s victim—not anymore. With the element of surprise on her side, she struck. The shovel, cold and heavy in her hands, became an extension of her will. It connected with a sickening thud, once, twice, and the men fell. Her hands shook with the vibrations, the pain. She didn’t wait to see if they would rise again. Their jeep was her salvation, with keys still in the ignition. She drove onto the highway, the rain a relentless companion that washed away the traces of her grave. The road stretched before her, a path to an uncertain future, but one she would face on her own terms. The forest was a labyrinth of shadows and whispers, trees towering like silent sentinels over the wreckage of a world that once was. The car’s headlights cut through the darkness, revealing a path choked with overgrowth and debris. She drove with one hand on the wheel, the other rummaging through the glove compartment until her fingers closed around the cold metal of a revolver. It was a small comfort, a promise of defense in a world that had become unrecognizable. The storm raged on, a relentless pursuit that seemed intent on reclaiming her for the earth. But she was determined to outrun it, to leave behind the grave and the men who had put her there. The ruined roads were an obstacle course, each turn a gamble, each pothole a trap. Yet, she navigated them with a survivor’s instinct, her will to live fueling her escape. Time lost meaning as she drove, the storm’s fury fading into a drizzle, then nothing at all. The silence that followed was deafening. She emerged from the forest’s embrace to find herself on the outskirts of what should have been a bustling city. But there was no bustle, no signs of life—just the hollow shells of buildings and the eerie stillness of abandonment. She drove slowly, the car’s engine a lone heartbeat in the desolation. Not a soul stirred, not a stray cat slinked through the alleys, not even a mouse scurried across the cracked pavement. It was as if the world had taken a breath and never let it out. And then, there he was—a man in a white suit with a straw hat, carrying a briefcase, an anachronism in the apocalypse. She stopped the car and stepped out, her hand never straying far from the revolver at her side. “Hello?” she called, her voice a foreign sound in the silence. He turned, and she saw the absurdity of his attire. Shoes on the wrong feet, shirt on backwards, as if dressed by a child—or something that didn’t understand human norms. Her heart skipped a beat, fear creeping in like a cold draft. The man smiled, a gesture that should have been reassuring but wasn’t. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Instead, she watched in horror as his jaw unhinged, revealing a maw brimming with thousands of needle-like teeth. Instinct took over. She raised the revolver and fired. The man’s head exploded in a shower of gore, leaving a silence more profound than before. She stood there, trembling, the gun smoking in her hand, and wondered what kind of nightmare she had awoken into.

It was to be presented to us on clanship, "Northern Arch." A habitat carrier of the Saule du Soleil clan. Their Jarl, Jaques, was a veteran of the Syndicate-Outcast war. A Net Jockey down in a fortress' data vault and in the arid trenches above. It was said regimented tradition had been drilled into his skull alongside the wires of his neural jack. We waited for the organizer to tell us it was our time. The three of us seated in a small room just outside the main hall. It was stylized like a castle. Fake bricks and weathered mortar replicated by fabricated polymer panels. I touched the wall as I sat. The cold of stone met me. Across the table, Heavy Rain smiled. He was older than me, but not by too much. Another artifact from the greatest war. Now he wore our traditional formal wear instead of his dust-colored jumpsuit and homemade chainmail adorned artillerist's helmet. His outfit was now a set of rough spun pants and a long hempen shirt. An old rank patch was attached over his heart and a string of polished uranium beads hung long from his neck. Over his shoulders with the top of its head over his like a jawless consummation was the pelt of a black Lupus Gigantus. A Shrub Wolf. Two red triangle tattoos were etched in a hollow, dotted style under both eyes. He spoke, "They feel real, don't they?" "Yes," I replied, "Even though I know they aren't." "I know," he replied with the smile again, "I want you to accept the gift when it is presented." I did not say anything. I only nodded and hid my surprise. An unprecedented honor and a weight of traditional responsibility had been placed upon me. Iron Horse spoke instead. The eyes of a vicious Void Ace cut from Heavy to focus on me. Her dull green hempen dress, fitted around her hips by her own design, shifted as she pointed her body towards me. Hands below a set of titanium bracelets planted themselves on her knees. Her neon red hair was tied back with a silver string connected to a septum piercing. A thin green line cut down vertically from above each eye to the space beneath. Four ports shined from the left side of her neck. Ports for a ship-to-brain interface. "You deserve it," she said through a friend's smile that showed animal teeth, "And after what you pulled, you can't tell me you're afraid of this." "It's different," I said leaning forward, "But I will do this for the clan." "Always 'for the clan,'" cut in Iron as she leaned back, "You've still got time to try things out for yourself." Heavy's head snapped to Iron, "He's a good warrior of the clan. No mercenary; no coward. He -." The door to our room slid to the side. The event's organizer stepped through the open hatch. An officer of Saule du Soleil's internal military clothed in a deep blue undercoat and fitted slacks of the same tone. Medals fixed long papers, oaths to his clan, to his chest and shoulders. A black ceremonial rapier hung from his belt. No shine; only matte black orbital alloy. He spoke from under a thick toothbrush mustache. A green plus sign tattooed on his forehead wrinkled as he opened his arms and said, "It is time!" I downed the glass of wine they had left me in a pyramid glass. Iron did the same from her hexagonal cylinder as Heavy stood. "Thank you, Lui," he said, "Are we to follow you?" "Of course!" said Lui Armata as he rotated to wave out the door. Making smiling eye contact with first myself and then lingering on Iron, he continued, "And do not worry! There will be more wine ahead, mademoiselle!" A small, discolored spot of red tinted his collar. Iron stepped forward and made for the door with a smile, "Let's get this ball then." Heavy passed me on his way forward. In a regimented but quiet tone, he said, "It is time, Floating Wolf. Summon your nerve, Void Diver, and accept a reward." I only nodded and stepped through the door. We walked down cold passages towards the sound of shouting, glass, and warbling music. Then we were before the doors. The two halves forming an arched gateway into the expansive room beyond. Real wood failing to muffle the noise beyond. Legend said it was wood from Earth. Lui looked back at us and said, "Business first, then enjoy the event! Just follow the carpet to the Jarl straight ahead." Heavy said, "Thank you," and gave me a light tap forward. Iron donned her killer's smile and spoke to my ear, "Shoot 'em down, ace." Lui pushed the doors open with practiced movement. They swung inward at his light touch. Our view opened onto the crowds and the vaulted ceilings beyond. I was told it was to represent a cathedral. That did not mean anything to me. The scene before us was my first and only image of that relic of a word. And before us were long tables of mirrored metal. Solid box forms creating surfaces and benches that grew from the imitation cobblestone floor. We began to walk down the ornate carpet in the center of all. A road of twisting and curling neon synthetic fibers trimmed in black and gold edge. An image of an Alcubierre bubble's interior knitted by robotic hands. It was at least forty meters long and two wide. To its flanks among the tables and loitering in between were the clans. The members of Saule du Soleil evident in their matching deep blue dress uniforms. All clothed like Lui with the exception of the shoes. The men in short dress boots alongside the women whose height was raised by modest, solid block heeled boots. Our people, the migratory Ka' K'os, were more irregular. Some wore ornate jewelry over their earthen tone, hempen clothes. Each tailored by the owner to fit as desired. Others wore ceremonial or service identifiers. Like old rank patches and a string of extracted Syndicate neural shunt sockets that chimed against Void Bear's hip. Trophies earned from the Greatest War. Everyone held a glass of wine. A variety of abstract glasses were clutched or sat waiting on the tables. To our right, as we walked through this menagerie, people gathered to collect more of the red liquid from spigots set into a pink marble slab embedded in the wall. The sound of it all was enormous. Voices and music amplified by the shape of the ceiling who bounced the noise back down to us past flying chandeliers. The drones inaudible past the rest of the noise. But clear through it all was the music. Its notes aligned by a group of men confined to the far left corner. Each manned an instrument or interface as they weaved orchestra into electronic noise. Strings became snakes slithering through the grass as drums rumbled like ship battery fire. The men themselves were unkempt. Long hair and beards all cut at even and uniform lengths. Cables from new red-ringed neural shunts came through the gaps to plug into the stage beneath. Each wore a jumpsuit in a sort of blaze orange. A color like looking at an orange giant from the Void but shiny in a different way. Each fold hyper-reflected any light that drifted over them like a kaleidoscope. Uniforms of prisoners; servants; slaves. Here, all prisoners of war. Ex-pirates captured during our joint campaign. Minds now wired into a network to produce music through a human interface. Each to be shot and exhumed to the Void upon completion of the ceremony. A traditional offering to the Void Above and a mercy for they were already dead. And then I found myself within steps of Jarl Jaques. A face of stone that held a smile under eyes that stared into me. He stood from his brutalist, boxy chair, and the pins and their papers chimed on his chest. A pistol hung at his belt in silver. Its color matching the four sockets running down the inside of his left arm and the spiral sphere tattoos under each eye. He was tall. As he stood, the lights first dimmed and roared back on in green with his voice. His arms stretched upward in a mock embrace of the Void, "We welcome again the Ka' K'os to the Northern Arch! We commend them for their might and courage. For sending our enemies beyond in fire and vacuum!" Then he paused and continued as anticipation built, "The pirate fleet has been atomized. None remain!" His voice boomed through the room. An augment deep in his chest and throat projecting the words with speaker force from flesh mouth. He lowered his hands and pointed to the musician prisoners. Only their eyes moved as their bodies continued to play. The Jarl spoke again, "This is all that remains of these 'maraudeurs.' Their flagship rendered to slag by our allies brave 'Vide Plongeur;' Void Divers!" Then Jaques stepped down the two stairs to the carpet I stood upon. His form less than a meter from mine. A warlord Jarl. I saw Heavy stand up straighter and glance to Iron with a quick dart. Iron shifted her weight to one hip and planted a hand on it. She still wore her snarl smile as the movement jingled her bracelets like small bells. I looked at the man, for he was only a man, in the eyes. Cybernetic pupils like gun barrels looked back at me. "Thank you for your praise, Jarl Jaques," I said, "It was an honor to fight alongside your Net Jockeys." I heard Iron shift and she spoke, "Your pilots may even be a match for ours, Jarl." I could feel Heavy sway, but Jaques laughed deep. "I've heard of your deeds too Iron Horse," he said so only we could hear before projecting his voice again, "And now I present Heavy Rain, Iron Horse, and, the 'Vide Plongeur' who set off the reactor: Floating Wolf." We turned to the crowd. Glasses raised and wine flew from cups into droplets across mirror surfaces, synthetic stone, and fabric that shielded the bodies within. "We thank you," said Heavy commanding his voice to be heard over the shouts. "And now!" roared the Jarl, "We present our thanks to you." Jaques turned and ascended to his seat. We remained planted in our spots on the carpet. He knelt and hefted a cylinder onto the throne. Flipping two red latches, he rotated a handle to pull the container open. He picked up the sphere contained within. An olive drab ball with a ridge around its horizontal axis. Four structural lines reached from the band up and down. Scuffed stencil writing was visible but in some form of French alongside the sigil of Saule du Soleil: a willow tree whose branches were sheets of fire. It reminded me of the mushroom clouds. In both hands, Jaques carried the device down to us. The knowledge that it was the honor of mine to accept pulsed through neural pathways. I stood firm. I imagined floating through the Void. My head and body encased in an airtight spacesuit. A ballistic plate held snug to my chest and the tapping of my ARK-12 rifle against it. On the condensation beading at the corners of my helmet's visor from my sweat. The pirate's largest ship, the Inneoin, filling more and more of my vision. Then Jaques was in front of me. I straightened and returned my gaze to his plastic eyes. Iron and Heavy stepped forward to stand beside me. I held out my hands and accepted the nuclear device from Jarl Jaques. Accepted another bomb to add to our formidable arsenal. Added another weight behind our status in the Outcast at large. The weight of it in my hands was both tangible and ethereal. A weapon of Outcast-make only for Outcast hands. An object to be collected, but not to be used against terran surfaces. For to do so would pollute the land and render it inhospitable to our peoples. A barbaric weapon replaced by one of simplicity. One that requires only a natural asteroid and a tug boat. "May the rocks fall like thunder upon your adversaries," I say to Jarl Jaques. He nods and he pictures the rocks falling into atmosphere.

Le Foret Verte was the closest that Ura had to fine dining. It achieved that status largely due to the owner acquiring an English to French dictionary when naming it. It had been a century since international travel was common, and no one in Ura had ever been to France. Cultural knowledge decayed slower than one expects; as such, the restaurant with the French name was considered classy. The interior lived up to that reputation to an extent. All the tables were covered by cloth. The lesser restaurants settled for paper coverings or none at all. The cloth wasn't always white, and a few had patterns stolen off of children's bed sets. A little old lady in town had a candle making hobby meaning there was always a dim light. That included the kitchen. There was more accidents, but the light bill was kept low. The food was an edible mixture of local herbs and ingredients. It had the lowest rate of food poisoning in town. The biggest complaint was that the food was too spicy. A sign that the owners didn't understand the cuisine that they were preparing. Becca sat in the middle of the crowded room waiting for her date. She was wearing a dress that was one size too large. She was planning on wearing a different dress, but she lost it as such she had to borrow from a neighbor. The safety pin and belt were necessary to keep it from looking wrinkled. Her hair was permed and styled by her neighbor. After that failed, she went to another neighbor to get a pixie cut. She arrived twenty minutes early. Fashionably late didn't fit in her vocabulary, and she was content with waiting. The anticipation would make her paramour appear more attractive in her eyes. She scanned the room for her date, but she found something else next to her. "Derrick." She stood up and walked to the man hiding behind the menu. He held it up over his head, but he ducked down "What are you doing here?" She noticed his buttoned up suit and tie as well as the shaving cuts on his chin. His hair also had less follicles out of place. "Wait, are you here on a date too?" "Waiting for someone," he said. "Wow, this is so exciting. If I would have known we could've had a double date," Becca said. "Is this my table?" Evelyn sat down where Becca was. The host was trying to usher her away from it, but she was already seated. "Evelyn." Becca turned around and saw Evelyn wearing an extremely lovely blue dress. It was a bit small for her though. "That dress looks good and familiar." "I don't see why it wouldn't be. I am always wearing outfits as fabulous as this," Evelyn said. "That's debatable," Derrick said. Evelyn looked around Becca. "That wasn't question. If we want to talk about fashion, we could talk about that tear on your pants," Evelyn said. Derrick looked down and saw a large hole under his right pocket. He got up quickly. He grabbed at the pant leg to inspect it, and he accidentally made the hole bigger. "Oh no." He looked at the host standing by Evelyn still. "Do you have an extra pair of pants?" "Why would we carry that?" the host asked. "I don't know. Can you get an apron from the kitchen?" Derrick asked. "Certainly, right after you get this woman to move," he said. "I am not moving. I am here for a date," Evelyn said. "We told you that you need a reservation," the host said. "Also, that's my seat," Becca said. "She was saving it for me." Evelyn looked up at the host. "No, I wasn't." "Well, it's mine now. Mayoral privileges," Evelyn said. Derrick moved closer to the host. "I'll take care of this. Please get me that apron," Derrick said. "Fine." The host walked away. "Get out of this chair." Derrick shook Evelyn rapidly who held on tight. "No, why do you care so much. It's her seat." When Evelyn fell on the ground, she smiled. "Wait, are you two on a date? I rooted for you." "What? No, I am on a date on a guy with Goldfield who I met through a pen pal program," Evelyn said. "And I am on a date with a woman set up for me by my mother. It's a long story," Derrick said. "How do you know that she isn't the woman that your mother chose?" "Because my mother doesn't know her." "Becca, he could be the guy in your pen pal program. "What? I'm not." Derrick shook his head. Evelyn ran back into the seat. "Sucker," she said. Derrick tried shaking her again, but Becca stopped him. "Please Evelyn, I haven't been on a date in ages. Give me a hand," she said. "I'm on a date too." "Really, that's great. Who is it?" Becca forgot her earlier objections instantly. "There's a new military courier that is cute. He asked me to review the budget plan, but he'll be mine soon enough. There he is now. Over here Captain Nguyen," Evelyn said. A man in a military uniform walked to the scene. Evelyn was right; the man was attractive in a rugged way. "Evelyn, it's a pleasure to be meeting you." Captain Nguyen looked at Derrick and Becca. "Are these two harassing you?" he asked. "No, they're just on a date." "No, we are waiting for our dates to arrive," Derrick said. Captain Nguyen looked at the two of them. "Were you waiting for a tall woman with blonde highlights?" "Yes," Derrick said. "And were you waiting for a man with a long beard and tattoos." "That's how he described himself" "I'm sorry to report they saw your fight with her and left," Captain Nguyen said. At that moment, the host arrived with the apron. "Guess you won't need this anymore," he said. "That's too bad." Evelyn waved her hands at Derrick and Becca. "Now get going so I can get to flirting." "Flirting?" Captain Nguyen narrowed his eyes at Evelyn for a few moments before standing up to leave. "I am a happily married man who finds your advances appalling." "Well, this sucks," Evelyn said. "It's not all bad. Maybe we could shove these tables together and eat," Becca said. Derrick and Evelyn stared at her for a few moments then left.

I see their burdens strewn across the wastes in heaps. They lay as they fell, in towering piles and far away mounds of simple shapes. It was too much for this harrowed crowd. It burst these workhorses' hearts, and so the chattle lay with their work. A cruel wind blows the grit of sundered earth into our faces, the faces of those who still stand. The silt flows through mighty rivers of sweat as it peppers my skin. Knees quaking at last i begin to sink down, my burden slips down too, and yet the ground rises to the occasion. It turns and jumps to catch me in my fall and hold me like a lover by my sunken cheeks. I feel the impact as a boulder calved from a far off cliff-face striking a valley floor below. A dramatic show of little palpable consequence. We fawn under the weight of the hot air. I breathe heavily as i lay there, gazing around. the cracked earth sat as still as I did, or so i thought. I looked more closely at the ground than i ever had before despite the heat making me tear up and blink. There had been so little time to simply sit and observe, but i did so now, and paid mind to a place i never thought i would. I saw individual sand grains shift and shutter in the wind as though on the edge of great chasms, only to be knocked down into the depths in great numbers. I saw tiny bits of debris, not sand. Maybe long dried out bits of plant or flecks of worn out clothing. There as though they came into being in an instant and gone again as though annihilated, blown on by the wind. My focus expanded. There were so many cracks. They stretched out into the distance until they blurred into a horizon which burned with invisible flames, into a sky that boiled with the static of my exertions and pulsed with the quick beat of my heart. I looked at the form of the cracks, the angles, their connection points, and their multitudes, in them i saw the runes on the pages of the books from the time of scribes and scribblers. A book of blue and beige and broken earth where nothing was wasted and everything was spent to the last. It was a page i couldn't turn. There's little left say, no more passion to give to the grains in the earth and the beat of the sky. Nothing left to concern oneself with beyond the starting and ceasing of work, much like before, but there was no more starting, just ceasing of work, of movement, of thought. My face is hot and raw, my body aches dull and distant, my eyes sting and feel heavy. I close them, ending the interrogation of the noon-bright sun. There are faces in the burgundy darkness, my friends have come. i cant hear them clearly, but its greener here. We're having a party soon. It's summer. - - - - I'm trying to improve as a writer, so really let me have it. There are spots, especially in the 3rd and 4th paragraph, where i was padding it out a bit to meet the character minimum, so if a few of the sentences just seemed really long and unnecessary, you're right. THANK 4 READN.

I never understood how writers always found a way to captivate their readers in the first sentence. Their words would speak in a tone where you can easily be entranced. It's crazy how the mind works to just make an image in your head just from simple words on a page. I'm sorry what were you asking me again oh yea about myself. Up until now I never really knew I always felt lost like a bottle floating at sea. I always sought comfort in others. I used to like the saying “Misery loves company”. It always gave me a sense that whatever misery I had would go away or get transferred out of me as soon as I was with someone. The easiest way to be with someone was through love. I always believed in love. I still do but not like I did before. I thought love was this thing that you can find if you sought after it but it isn't. It's not this thing that you can gain just by seeing someone for the first time. There's a saying that I used to believe in “love at first sight”. I thought that's how I thought every single relationship was but I know now that it wasn’t love it was the belief that if i am with someone then that’s love. Now looking back I see how ignorant I was to think that. Love isn’t something you can seek, it's something that finds you. It could be a random Tuesday morning walking into a café to get your coffee with two creams and 3 sugars then walking in is a beautiful, breathtaking woman and as you are leaving the only thing you can utter out to her is a hey. Then that's the start of it all. I could be exaggerating it but there is always that possibility that it can happen. There is one thing that I can say with one hundred percent honesty is that whether or not the scenario happens, always love yourself. Self love is the purest form of love in the world. It's a love that you know is there and always will be. There have been many times in my life where I never believed in self love and that the only way love existed is through a human to human connection. Though I have not been alive for centuries I have lived. I have found love, Not through another human but through myself. It's not just one day you wake up and suddenly you love yourself, it's a journey of understanding, heartbreak, loss, acceptance, and forgiveness. I am still on that journey myself but you gain self love along the way, it’s like a part of you that you never thought you were missing suddenly appears and slowly connects to you. Little by little on the journey you start to understand what this piece is. This is quite bizarre to say but it’s part of the adventure, a part of the journey it's like a piece of you is going inside you aligning with your body like it was made to be there but your body never felt the need for it to be there. Everyone's piece is different but mine was a lovely soul named Rebecca. I never knew she was there but I always felt her deep inside my heart. When I reached that part of my heart and pulled her out of the shackles I had put her in unknowingly I felt connected. She was the piece I was missing. She was a part of me I never wanted to set free because I was a victim of circumstance. My views on who I was supposed to be were set since birth. Like I had been put on a path where I couldn’t stray away from it nobody told me what was off the path they just told me to just keep going on that path. For years I was comfortable with being on that path then one day something caught my eye. I believe it was my environment the way I was brought up that changed the path it was no longer straight. It started to curve, it became bumpy, and there was this crossroad that no one told me was there.

# Burnin' Love I sit down by the large Baroque-style windows. Outside, the evening is casting a gloomy shadow of a looming storm and soon, darkness will regain its throne. I pick up the menu. The corners are crumbled up and the pages are yellowed by the time that has passed and the time that will be passing by, and I doubt that another thousand years will fly through the Baroque-style windows, but I will always be here. Solitude will always be here. The tea selection is as broad and varied as always, but both the master and I know that only a few of them are available. I tap on the genmaicha item twice; the master nods knowingly then go back to cleaning the silver spoons and the fragile chinese pieces on the countertop. We both know that I am waiting. I pulled the worn-out red wallet out of my canvas bag. The color has faded since God knows when. The clasp has lost its shine, and the gilded gold button is already twice broken. But no matter. Inside it are the stubs of the two tickets to a stage play. A Beastly Contract, it says. The date and time for the play are no longer there but they are carved deeply in my brain. Amidst the empty tea shop, I dived down memory lane to find what I had lost, what I had once treasured as if it was the only reason for my living, what I had once promised to protect, even if the cost for it was my existence. The lights of the stage were on, and there you were, standing on the stage in the white suit, turning your back to the audience. I can hear the protagonist’s voice ringing, But I loved you. You lowered your head on the word “love,” and I wondered how much solitude a shoulder can hold. You stepped away from the stage; I stood up, my lips quivered, my hands reached out, my whole skeleton trembled. Don't go, I mouthed to the darkening stage, but it was too late. The whole audience stood up for a standing ovation, but you were no longer there. The only thing I have left until this day are a photo of you and me, and the ticket stubs from that day. How long has it been since the day you breathed life into me? And how much longer can I hold onto this agony, watching the back of your white suit fading into the darkening theater so the lights could go back on, and the audience will live, while in that little corner behind the curtain, I died again and again, a hundred times over. “Master, do you know if Mr. L. will come today?” “I don't know, ma'am. He never gives prior notices.” “How long have you known Mr. L., master?” “Who has the time to count those things, ma'am,” the master laughs, “Ten? Twenty? Thirty? All I know is on the day I opened this shop, he already sat there, the seat you are sitting.” “He always loves watching the city and the neon lights. He has always been born for it.” “You seem to know him well,” the master says with curiosity, “How long have you known him then?” “How long do you think?” I ask, watching the people rushing by. The streetlights slowly light up and the traffic lights change constantly, but you are never there. “You seem too young to know him for long.” “Perhaps,” I say absentmindedly and take out the photo of us. The borders are curved, and your smile is lost to time, “As you say, who has the time to count those things?” The master stays silent. The only sound is the squeak of clean cloth on fine chinese and silverware. And I sit there, lost in the past. This is Main Street, the upper part. Cross a few blocks and we will come to the intersection of a secret lane, leading to where the shabby theater once stood, the light shining every night. There used to be a cafe there, serving superb desserts and sweet treats but you never had the taste for those. I remember you once told me, “Don’t get the cakes there, it’s cold. Get the one from the small bakery next door, I know you’ll like it better.” “But how do you know?” I asked. “I just have that intuition,” you said, brushing through your eyebrows, preparing for the acts. Your hair slicked back, pomaded. Your eyes sparkled with the ring lights. You drew on wrinkles and your pallor was paler than ever, but darling, you were never more beautiful. The past was always a never-ending fairy tale, but I doubted then, as I doubt it now, that I would be the one living to hear you tell the tales of your Holy Cathedral. The stage was on, and I was only a comical version of a person amidst the crowd of people passing the crossroad. “I will get the cakes from that bakery from now on,” then, I said. “Darling, I will die before everything ends, won’t I,” you asked jocosely and put down the eyebrows powder. Your face was serene, your hands clasped on the makeup table, and your eyes looked straight into the mirror, drowning in the sadness that only you knew, “They said I had the eyes of a heartbroken widow.” “Oh, but you won’t, you won’t,” I repeated like the naïve idiot that I always was in your presence, ”Andd your eyes are beautiful. And you are beautiful. And we will live. And you will act, oh, how you will act, again and again and again,” I broke down mid-sentence into tears. But you just smiled through and through. “Master, do you suppose the old theater will survive another year?” “I don’t know, ma’am,” the old master ponders, “I hear that they are building another one on top of the old place. Perhaps next year the old theater will be torn down.” “Must it be so?” I ask absentmindedly, twisting my fingers, watching the back of the passersby, thinking, reminiscing of your back in the white suit, fading, fading, fading into oblivion darkness. I think of the nightly acts. Cross the street, walk a few feet, turn into the back door, and there you are, putting on makeup for the nightly stage plays. I would tap you on the shoulders and you would drop everything you are doing to give me a hug. “Why are you here?” “I thought of giving you a surprise.” “I am glad but -” “I know.” “You'd have to wait but -” “I know.” “How about the shop on N\_\_\_\_\_ street?” “I will wait there after the show.” “It will be late but -” “I can wait. I can wait forever if you promise that you will always stay here.” “Of course, where else do I belong?” “And where else do you suppose I belong?” You’d hug me again. I’d smell the faint scent of stage powder on fallen on your chest. I can feel the beating of your heart through the thinly clothed skin; the warmth is spreading through the bones; you’d be heaving, breathing in the chemical scent of my shampooed hair; and only then, you’d let me go. I’d step out and leave the white peony bouquet on the boudoir. You’d wave after me and I’d smile at our last goodbye, because neither of us knew then when the next time would be. We live on tiptoe, and we love like burning matches: we always presumed that it was the end before it ever began. Where else do you suppose I belong? Where else am I hurt this bad? Where else do I still hold on, decades after decades, tide after tide, chasing, waiting, crying, reaching for something that was never promised to be mine in the first place? I have known you for my whole life and half of it has been spent chasing after the ghosts you make. And yet, how much solitude can a shoulder hold? “Master, Mr. L. will not come today, will he?” “Mr. L. will come when he wants to come.” “Say, master, do you think he will give up the stage?” “After recent scandals, I don't think he's ready to stand on the stage again soon.” “They are not the first scandals he had.” “And they will not be the last. But ma'am, the other day, when he came here, he said there's no saving it. The spilled water cannot be gathered up into the cup.” “That doesn't mean he will give up, does it?” “Yes, ma'am. I suppose so. Everyone has their own idea of giving up, after all.” I sit there watching the clock's hands move slowly by. It has been twenty-nine years. Exact to the date and the minute. No one ever guarantees that a promise is made to be kept. No one ever guarantees that you will come to this shop after all these years with a withered white peony bouquet only to compensate for the time you made my skeleton tremble under my skin. The Earth moved and without knowing it, I have let go of your hands for but a second only to lose you forever. But it's you we are talking about. You probably will say, “It can't be helped because life is about losing everything.” My eyes are wide open with tears. The stubs are on the table. The red wallet is torn up at the corner. The photo grows blurry with time and slowly, you are no longer in the frame. “Ma'am, the shop is closing.” “I know. But I am still waiting.” “For what?” “A promise.” Inside the vacant cafe, the music slowly fades out into nothingness. The singer mourns, “Without you, I’ve been burnin’ love –” But perhaps you’d known. You’d always known far too well how to break a person’s heart only to build it up again, broken everywhere and broken in between, but it will be whole; the same shape and contour as the day you dropped it onto the cement floor and watched as I writhed in agony with my love for you. My burnin’ love. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ I appreciate all feedback and criticisms.

She was sprinting down a street in her sundress and sneakers tied tight at the crack of dawn. Her waterfall jersey was wrapped around her left foream while she had a pair of the Moroccan man's underwear on. She clutched her passport in one hand and phone in another. Her fingers were white with crimson under her nails. As long as she remained ahead of the police, they could not harm her. The only problem is that the police had two advantages over her. The first is that they knew Vienna better than she did. She only knew her handful of escape routes and had only one destination. The second is that she was alone and they could summon more officers to apprehend her. Her advantage is that she is a very fit and accomplished athlete. She could maintain this pace for a significantly longer time than most people, including men, despite her aching body. The city is a pedestrian city, so it afforded her access to more getaways than vehicles had. She sprinted for probably forty minutes. Her trump card was that she is a Croatian citizen and would have special rights upon apprehension. She could not disclose that before being apprehended though, because the police would know her destination. She arrived at the Croatian embassy less than five minutes before the police caught up to her. It was enough time for her to be granted access. Asylum. The police demanded that the embassy release her for detention in Austrian custody. The negotiation came to a stalemate when it appeared that this could easily draw unwanted attention and cause unprecedented international tensions between the two nations. Austria conceded to handle the matter more diplomatically. She knew, when she received those news, that she would be just fine. In fact, better than fine. She awoke a few hours after dozing off in his arms to use the bathroom. She stood in front of the mirror and freshened herself. She used his body butter to lotion herself. She glistened. She decided against clapping her cheeks to add some colour to her face, preferring him to see her in her truth. She undressed her robe and left it on the bathroom floor. She crawled back into bed and deliberately laid against him, putting his arms around her body and her hands on his. At this point, she would let him decide how the night would unfold. It could be the best night of their lives or a simple pleasant anomaly they will have shared in their lifetime. He registered her physique against him. His heart beat faster and he got hard down there. Yet, he slept on. Before long, he greeted her in a groggy voice. He referred to her with endearment and she responded with affection. She wished he was less of a gentleman. But then again, she wouldn't be as attracted to him if he was any otherwise. She stroked his face. He held the back of her hand with his. He loved feeling her hand against him, so he pressed it harder against his face. She liked it. She was cautious, for she did not know his preferences or how he loved. She knew that she loved harder than anyone she has been with has preferred. She thought he seemed capable to handle her, if he would. She went from stroking his face to gripping his lower jaw, squeezing it. He didn't stop her for he liked the promise of pain her grip gave him. Her fingers were soft, ever so barely plump. She parted his lips with her index finger and he allowed her. She kept his face in place and moved her face closer to his. She kissed him. It was gentle and innocent at first. It quickly escalated beyond that. If he wasn't awake before, he definitely was awake now, and there was no mistaking that both of them were aware of what was happening. He stopped her. He asked that she not continue if she's doing this because of trying to relieve the stress she endured the afternoon before. She assured him that she came over more because she yearned to be in his presence, rather than suffering the emotional remnants of the incident. She only realised it when he was in front of her. She kissed him more and told him that she will not stop. They took their time with their night. It will be quite some time before dawn. His robe found its way to the floor. Their blanket did the same. The bedside lamp was dimmed. It was enough light for them to see each other in their wholeness, and maintain a lowly, seductive ambience. The love they made was laced with a lot more than either of them expected. It was more than either of them had ever experienced. They spoke a broken conversation, admitting to each other the inhibitions they are shedding in this moment. The love was anything but broken. It was a fluid, concerted event of passion. He did not have to concern himself about being overbearing. She graciously accepted him in all his expressive might. She was not so much traveling to figure herself out, but rather figure out how to suppress the deep and dark part of herself that she knows too well. Yet, in this warm evening, she needed not figure anything out. He did, in fact, handle her. She was in control and he didn't slow or limit her for even an instance. He was magnificent. They climbed to the apex of the night. He looked into her eyes, submissively, relieved and free. She looked back into his eyes joyfully, sinister and lovingly. Something was amiss for her as she neared climax. He also seemed to be in a state of waiting for something, waiting for her. She leaned down and kissed him. Then she moved down his jaw to his neck, kissing it too. Then she bit into it. He clenched his body, grabbing her waist and digging his fingers into her supple skin. It gave her a sharp sensation. She responded by pressing her thumbs in between his ribs. She did it so hard that she could feel his intercostal muscles take strain. It was a bold, numbing feeling. She did not stop biting until she felt a warm liquid seep over her teeth and tongue, down her lips. She bit harder. His grip was now bruising her hip bone. The sharp sensation turned into a burn. He did not relent. The blood trickled freely down his neck. She moved her lips back to kiss his. This is what was amiss. The sense of ultimate, carnal intensity. She wanted to watch him. He split her bottom lip with his teeth before she could stop kissing him. She sat upright, staring at him. Her eyes were wild, unrestrained and present. Her pupils were dilated with ecstacy. She was moaning deeply, letting out a sound more satisfying than he had ever heard. He look back at her, the mix of their blood dripping from her bottom lip. It was impossible to be more one with someone than this. It was impossible to have a closer experience with another person than this. His eyes were bloodshot and deadlocked on hers. He gave almost all of himself to her. Any more pleasure would be him bursting through his seams, literally. And he wanted to. He moved her hand to his neck, gripping it tightly around it. He told her "do it". Her mouth opened in awe and pleasure. And she did it. Tears swelled in both of their eyes as she did not let her hand go. The Moroccan man laid spread-eagle on his bed at dawn, lifelsessly looking at the ceiling. The Croatian woman sat on the grass in the garden of the embassy. The ambassador brought her a beer. She thanked her uncle. It was the same beer she drank at midnight with her lover. She savoured the taste, revelling in the aftermath of pain she was in. Her body was mostly red and blue, with a cut or two. It was so much more satisfying than that unchallenged nudge she gave the beautiful woman from the tram. The end.

Right as the power turned back on, I made it to the dinner table. Black, and then boom—light, black then white. A click and the faint hum of a generator and it’s all back on, as if it never happened at all. As I write this, I am sitting near the window that keeps the rain from keeping me wet and keeps the lightning out, and I can only see one light out there in the night. It’s always been there, always staring straight at me, more than fifty feet away, attached to the steel barn that holds my stepfather’s tractors and vehicles. Near the window I sit, a smooth wooden table with four legs and six chairs, only one of them filled. Every night I seem to sit in this very spot: the wooden table, dark living room, painting of The Last Supper in front of me, above me on the tan wall, Jesus giving all. Jesus had a look that said it all, that he knew what the hell was coming for him, that, the next day, or so I think it’s how the story goes, he would die upon a cross. Everyone around him at the dinner table just sort of chatted. It’s one of the only paintings I can hear. Jesus weeps quietly under his garrulous disciples. If I could see myself as others see me, if I could, for a moment, disconnect my spirit from my body, I would see myself slaving over a computer tonight, writing this letter, this essay, this “cry”, or whatever this is, because I am afraid, and it’s not because I’m afraid of graduating in less than twenty days and all of my classmates will forget that I at one time took up space, it’s not because I’m afraid of not going to prom with someone who everyone says I should go with, and it’s not because I am too tired to admit that I just don’t think I can go to any more events, and it’s not because I can’t seem to close my eyes instead of staring up at the ceiling with paint combed until it made wave patterns, and it’s not because of school, or work, or home, and it’s not because of I thought of my father and that razor while I was in the tub. If you want a moral or some type of thesis statement, I’m sorry. I can’t give you one. I can only start from the beginning or somewhere else entirely and tell you that I thought of you after my drink spilled. Ever since I was a little kid, I always wondered if I could get struck by lightning. My parents told me never to bathe while it was storming outside, and I listened because I knew they cared and I knew that if I went in that tub that I would die. Thunderstorms kill people, I thought. People are more often to get struck by lightning than win the lottery, I thought. I will never be lucky enough to win the lottery, I thought. Tonight, after I watched a film with my brothers instead of being a good student and working or maybe working at Walmart to make money, I paced around and wondered what to do. Don’t root for me. I didn’t do my taxes. I masturbated instead, repeating silently, “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you…” as they did in the movies, and then I felt empty because I did it shamefully to the girl who I wanted to dance with at the school dance and who doesn’t know I do these sorts of things. I knew it was wrong and I think this is why I have to write this, I have to, or else I’ll get closer to that razor and whisper, “Dad, are you near? I love you, father. Father, I love you, can’t you hear me?” I made a drink, one not meant for kids of my age. I was, and still am, alone. 40% alcohol the glass bottle read, Crown Royale it read (I checked, I think I spelled it right). The apple juice was gone, so I dug out the peach fizzy water and poured that instead, and the bubbles seemed angry, and I held the ambrosia glass that I diluted up to the light, and a tiny tornado formed inside, and it reminded me of when I was a kid and I shook up the bottles, and– Once I had my shower things ready, I sat on the toilet and rid myself of the contents from the day. The glass was on the floor next to me, to my right. My thoughts swam, and once I ran water through my dry hair and applied the new Pure Castile peppermint oil soap that was supposed to clear my acne and which also has, or so it claims, eighteen uses!, or so it claims in tiny print surrounded by something about unity and being God’s children, my long anticipated break was coming, the time when the shower floor was mine. Right before I sat, the thunder shook the shower, the white tiles rattling but the droplets from above still pouring down upon my body. No electricity running in the water yet, I thought. Still no lightning, I thought. Still no luck, I thought. My drink. If God doesn’t want me to drink, he wouldn’t let me pour the glass. The liquid was everywhere, both on me and the shower and now near the toilet and the vent which it poured down. The floor was soaked when I stumbled out, only to, seconds later, get right back in to sit. It smelled like alcohol. My head began to do that thing it always does, that thing where I feel everything closing in. My drink, I thought, My drink, I thought, My drink, I thought. As I rocked back and forth I told myself that I wasn’t feeling what my body was doing because I didn’t want to feel it. Breathing. I was breathing fast and puffed the air out in these great big puffs, and I thought I was a train moving right over those tracks. I tried to blow the hair out of my eyes, but the water kept dragging it down, and streams of it poured from me in every direction. The tiny streams that ran off my locks looked like icicles in eight-hundred-degree weather, just pouring down me, just pouring down my naked body and scolding me. The razor. The razor seemed so far from where I was, and I thought of how long it had been since I thought of killing myself, how long it had been since I felt too weak to tell anyone that there was (a plan in the back of my mind) a thing somewhere in my brain that should be removed. A week, I thought. The empty glass was beyond the shower curtain, and now the razor was to my right. Still rocking back and forth, I began to run my fingers through my hair, but not softly as one does to a lover or a child (assuming they love them), closed my eyes, and said to get out of my head, “get out of my head,” I kept saying, I kept saying, “help, help, help, help, help” instead of “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you…” as I did in bed to a pixelated photo (of Her), in these shaky and barely audible bursts that didn’t seem to be coming from me at all but instead from someone else’s body, and I sped my fingers up and pulled at more hair, and breathed and breathed and kept breathing, and I squeezed my head because the walls were closing in and a father always has to protect its child, and I think I thought of you somewhere in there, in fact, I’m sure I did, and I was thinking, very vividly, of me walking into your room, a stillness piercing the air, and then I pictured my face dropping from its cracked smile I always gave to everyone in the dimly lit halls that always seem to be closing in on me, and then falling into that chair next to your desk and just crying, just crying and getting everything wet, and I wanted to tell you that I was sorry but I got worried that you’d get mad like my Dad always did when I cried, and that you’d tell me I was whining, and if I kept whining, if I kept whining then something would happen, but even still you said nothing and ran your fingers through my hair, and no pain was felt, but I just can’t remember what happened, but it wasn’t bad because I don’t remember anything bad, and my father isn’t in jail, and my mom had a broken toe from a hair dryer once, and I sat in an empty courtroom with some big sweaty cop or judge in the courthouse who asked me these weird questions that I didn’t know the answer to, and I kicked my feet back and forth and don’t remember what he looked like because I kept staring at the desk and not back at him and only remember telling him my grandparents were going to take me to Disney World one day and that everything would be okay and not to worry about me, and so he didn’t, and I remember that he was big and sweaty and that he didn’t remind me of my father at all, not that he was nicer or anything, but that he was just different, and that when I was in the McDonald’s on one of the Wednesday mornings to eat breakfast with my mom, who was still healthy then and not bedridden, one of those Wednesday mornings before school on the day that it was my dad’s to hold my brothers and me for the day and the night, one where he would always cut our pancakes a certain way, precisely in these big triangles that were soaked in syrup, there was a man reading a newspaper, and he was much nicer than any man I had ever met, and he talked to my mom and he looked at her as if he knew, and looked at each of us as if he could see our entire lives and what we would do and that I would write a long sentence one night that he would be in, and I was afraid that people could be different, and I think he was old, and I wondered how and why there were little wrinkles around his mouth and eyes when he smiled, and I remember now, it’s coming back to me, that I used to cry a lot and my father would send me to watch a movie or read, and I never wrote poetry but song lyrics instead because I didn’t even know what magic was yet, and when I grew older I loved to write, and I remember a time where I wrote that young author’s story when I was seven about the leprechaun I named Lucky who was green and had black buckles but no gold, and I was on the couch writing it in my journal to turn into the judges of the competition, and my dad was dressed in a blue wig and his tongue blue from a twenty-five cent sucker and he had a mug of blue Powerade and wore blue basketball shorts and his blue Duke Blue Devils basketball jersey, and I asked for him to tell me where the comma goes, but I asked at the wrong time, for he was still yelling at the game, and I was afraid to ask, so I never asked again, and so I later wrote a story with a really long sentence and I heard back nothing for it, and neither will that kid who I can’t remember the name of because no one ever seemed to, who worried about what she looked like in the mirror, and that when I asked to reread it the English teacher said that she knew it was a beautiful poem but I really needed to get back to class, and I never heard of her again, and that it was almost pitiful that all people could say was that something was ‘beautiful’ when someone poured their heart out, and I wondered why the teacher always wore those flower dresses and liked the kids at the high school who either had sex a lot or wanted to but claimed to love God instead (they were liars), and when I was on that shower floor, it was like I was in the middle of the thunderstorm or something, like God turned out those lights for me, like he turned the power off just to have the hum die down for a bit and just to have me sit there and think, wow, this is dark in here, as if I were missing something important, as if I were in the dark my whole life, as if God were whispering in his thunder voice, don’t, don’t, don’t, there’s something inside of you that I gave to you, I gave you a gift and live, live, live and he might have said this but I couldn’t hear him, instead I only heard the silence and saw nothing but charged particles floating through the blackness, and I thought of my weeping in your arms one more time and neither one of us being uncomfortable, just silent, you running your fingers in my hair, not yelling at me or anything, just your fingers going in and out of my curly brown hair and you raising your hand that never shook and pulling it back a little bit just to do it all again as I keep making everything wet, and I thought of that novel I’d never write, and a short story where I went back in time to my birth when my mother and father were still together and before all of this happened and when my mom was still healthy and my dad didn’t have his Satan goatee and I didn’t know what a razor was, didn’t know what it meant to feel my life leaving me, and as I was drying off I began to, in the silence with no hum, so quiet I could only hear the ringing in my ears, sob. Somewhere in there, I think I was thinking of telling you that I planned to kill myself on prom night. I don’t think I’ll do that. The water that dripped from my head to my keyboard is dried now and only barely visible, but it’s definitely still there. Sometimes it feels like the water never goes away, like there’s a cloud above me constantly and that the only thing I can do to get rid of it, or at least part it to receive a beam of light, even if for a moment so that I can look up, my Adam’s apple pressing tightly against the skin of my neck as my eyes are wide and I look up, mouth agape, and a beam of particles lit up by the heavenly light of God, is to write. This is not an essay, a letter, a “cry”. I don’t know what this is, and if it upsets you, I’m sorry. The rain has stopped now, and the water on my school Chromebook is drying up, so I better go to sleep or at least pretend to, or maybe stare at those waves in the ceiling and think of a better place. Tomorrow, I will edit this and turn it in to you, and probably make some comment saying not to worry about me and that sometimes I get hit by a train or a sack of bricks and feel a little different (just sometimes though), and I’ll probably say how terrible of a writer I am and be afraid that you only say you like my writing because you want the razor to stay where it is, to stay planted firmly, no red just green and black as it was manufactured, at the side that protrudes outward of the shower wall, like a tiny ledge. I would sign this, but I’m not sure what this is, so instead I think I’ll say goodbye, at least for now until you see me again. Goodbye.

Hey everyone, I’m a first-grade teacher and I’m facing a situation that’s left me really unsettled. I recently gave my class an assignment to write a short essay about what their parents do for a living. It’s usually a fun exercise with kids talking about their parents being doctors, firefighters, construction workers, etc. But this time, I received an essay from one of my students that has me genuinely worried. Let's call him Timmy. A bit of context: This boy is somewhat of an enigma. He’s the only student in my class whose parents have never shown up for any school events or parent-teacher conferences. Whenever I’ve asked about his family, he clams up and refuses to give me any details about his father’s name or their address. It’s odd, but I never pressed too hard, thinking there might be personal issues at play. Anyway, here’s the essay he handed in. Keep in mind, it’s written by a first-grader, so the language is simple and innocent. But the content… well, read for yourself: >**My Dad's Job** >by Timmy >My dad has a really cool job. He helps people sleep! It's super important because everyone needs sleep to feel good and strong. My dad is very good at his job, and he works at night when it’s very quiet. He says that there are people living in his head who tell him what to do, and that they know best. They say that people don't sleep enough, and that somebody should help people fall asleep. >My dad has lots of shiny tools that he uses for his job. Some of them are sharp, like the ones we see in the kitchen, but they are special because they help him do his job perfectly. He has big shiny knives, tiny pointy things, and sometimes he uses ropes. He keeps them all very clean and shiny, and I think they look really cool. >Dad has a special room where he does his job. It has drawers and tables for the tools and a special chair where the people he helps have to sit down. It has special belts that help them keep still. He says that it helps them fall asleep faster. >When my dad helps people sleep, sometimes there is a lot of red juice. He says it's the same kind of red juice as the one that comes out of my knee when I fall from my bike. I don’t know why there is so much red juice, but my dad says it’s normal and that it means he is doing a good job. The red juice can get everywhere, and it’s a little messy, but my dad always cleans up really well. He doesn’t like to leave any mess behind. He even has a special white suit and mask to stop the juice from getting on his clothes. >Sometimes, people don’t want to sleep and they scream and cry. Like my little sister who has an earlier bedtime than me but always wants to stay up later! My dad says they are just scared because they don’t know how much better they will feel after they sleep. He tries to help them calm down, but it can be hard. My dad is very patient and tries his best to help everyone. He told me that he puts them in black bags and puts them underground to help them sleep better. He regularly drives very far to find a quiet place and digs deep holes there to put the people in black bags in. I think that’s very kind of him because it means they can sleep without any noise or disturbances. >My dad also plays games with the police. It sounds like a lot of fun! He calls it hide and seek. The police try to find him, but he is very good at hiding. He hides so well that the police can’t catch him. My dad says the detectives have a lot of fun trying to find him, and he likes to send them funny letters to keep the game going. He even sends letters to the newspapers to make people laugh. >One time, my dad showed me a letter he sent to a newspaper. It had lots of funny pictures and words, and I think it made a lot of people smile. He is very good at drawing and writing, and he always makes his letters very interesting. >My dad says he is not allowed to use his real name for his job. It's part of the game's rules and makes it more fun. He uses a special secret nickname to sign his letters. >My dad’s job is really exciting, and I’m proud of him. He works very hard to help people sleep and makes sure they are comfortable. Even though some people might be scared, my dad always knows what to do. He is the best at playing hide and seek with the police and making everyone laugh with his letters. >Last week, he told me that the police had to make the rules harder because he's so good at the game. The police told people through the newspaper that they aren't allowed to walk alone at night and should call 9-1-1 when they see him. I think it's cheating and really unfair. But he says that it just makes the game more fun. >I love my dad and think he has the best job ever. He is always there to help people when they need to sleep and makes sure everything is just right. I want to be just like him when I grow up and help people too. Should I contact the authorities or am I overreacting? I’m genuinely at a loss here and could use some advice. I'm seriously worried about the boy and I can't think of any normal job that fits this description. But it could also be just a very vivid imagination. Thanks for reading and any guidance you can offer.

It was the false spring, that balmy weekend we always got in February which dissipated winter’s low-ceiling perma-cloud and teased you into thinking that maybe you still had a soul, that this year happily coincided with the university’s annual Battle of the Bands (affectionately known as the “BOB”). Even at ten o’clock on the Saturday night, the temperature was still in the high 40s, and so fifteen or twenty mostly coatless students, all musicians and their “roadies,” stood underneath the street lamps outside The Catacomb (the basement of the student center). They collected in groups of two and three, smoking, assessing the competition, and steeling their nerves for what could well be the most significant fifteen minutes of their aesthetic lives. Daisy Cahoon, in jeans, an ancient Chicago Black Hawks ski cap, and a bomber jacket recently purchased at the Army-Navy Surplus store, stood most emphatically apart from this crowd. She leaned against an oak tree some twenty feet away, actually getting her new black Chuck Taylor All-Stars wet in the melting snow. Over the top of her ski cap stretched the headphones of a battered Sony Walkman, which she kept tucked in the right pocket of her jacket. She was listening to a song sung by a boy in an affected, though not altogether unpleasant, Middle Western drawl. She listened with her head thoughtfully bowed and her eyes closed, in something of the perplexed attitude, one might suspect, that the suits at Columbia Records assumed when they first heard the Bob Dylan songs that would become *Slow Train Coming*. She was listening to the first song on Rory Dedalus’s new album, a song called “Child of God.” As one watched the expression on Daisy’s face as she listened, one could track a marked declension from intense concentration to irked impatience to disbelieving frustration to, finally, when the ballad for the fifth time reached its refrain, throw-up inducing disgust. She thumbed the STOP button on her Walkman and ripped the headphones from her ski cap. Before she had explicitly determined what to do with her left hand, she reached with it into the left pocket of her jacket and took out a piece of paper. It was folded four-square, its ragged edge indicating that it had been ripped, rather insouciantly, from a school notebook. Daisy unfolded the paper and, not for the first time that day, read its contents. *Daisychain,* *Surprise. Attached by the customary rubber band please find my latest album:* The Wind Blows Where It Will\*. I didn’t tell you anything about it, much less allow you to produce according to our usual arrangement or draw the album cover art, because, frankly, I didn’t think you’d want to be associated with it. It’s a new direction for me, obviously, and I’m not sure your prepared to follow me down this strange new road. I do hope, however, that you will give the album a fair hearing. I feel like it’s some of my best work. Will I still see you tonight at the BOB? It would sure mean a lot to me if you could find it in your heart to be my roadie there.\* *God bless,* *Rory* Daisy snorted at the supernaturally charged valediction. She still couldn’t believe it. An entire *album* of holy-roller songs. What was he thinking? You couldn’t be Rory Dedalus and go all revival tent on your fans! What did he think this was going to do for his future? Was he now aspiring to appear with Jim and Tammy Faye on *The PTL Club*, with summer appearances at Heritage USA? Daisy thought of the Beatles’ religious phase with the Maharishi in India and hoped that Rory’s would be as blessedly short-lived. The best that could be said for it was that it was just a lame and unsustainable homage to Dylan’s recent born-again shenanigans. Truth be told, Daisy was more interested in who had drawn the cover art for the album—a shrunk pen-and-ink drawing of a teenage-looking girl sitting on her bed crying, a crucifix on the wall behind her. Daisy had just begun another pointless reading of the letter when she was interrupted by a wafer thin, sunglasses-on-a-winter-night loser named “Fortis.” Fortis, obviously, was not his real name. It was simply the handle he employed in a ridiculous attempt to project brand-name level celebrity. Daisy and Fortis had encountered one another exactly twice before, the two times Rory had played one of The Catacomb’s open-mic nights. The first night Fortis had shown a sniggering suspicion when Rory introduced himself as a sophomore who lived off-campus. And on the second night he sat next to Daisy during Rory’s set and peppered her with questions about where Rory was from, where exactly he lived off-campus, what his major was, and what dorm he had lived in—per the university’s mandatory policy—his freshman year. Daisy detested Fortis fiercely and without subtlety, from his wet-look holding gel to the chain of his steel-toed biker boots which likely had never kick-started a bike in their lives. Fortis, whose open flannel shirt framed an admittedly impressive Live Aid ’85 t-shirt, stood before Daisy with his thumbs hooked in his pockets like he was the local sheriff. He inquired whether Daisy’s presence there was an indication that Rory Dedalus was on the program. Daisy explained that Rory was scheduled to go on at eleven. “But they’re about three acts behind, so probably more like midnight.” “Who’s on before him?” Fortis inquired. “A girl and her guitar. Another Joni Mitchell Wannabe.” “Their name is legion,” scoffed Fortis. Then he added: “Your boy is fortunate. I’m supposed to go on at 11:30, right after the Kiss tribute band. Do you think anybody’s going to remember me after their front man swallows fire?” “Is he really going to swallow fire?” “He told me so himself. Don’t be too surprised if the whole clam bake gets shut down by the fire department.” “A Kiss tribute band? They can’t seriously be in it for the prize.” “No,” agreed Fortis. “They just want to impress their girlfriends.” The prizes for this year’s BOB were unusually bodacious. The first, second, and third-place winners would all, playing sets of differing lengths proportionate to their award, open for Springsteen when he played the university’s athletic center in April. In a move worthy of Apollo Creed, the Boss had set up his tour so that only local artists opened for him. But somehow the student activities council negotiated with Bruce’s manager and the concert’s promoter for the three opening acts at Bruce’s athletic center show to all be students at the university. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. In Daisy’s mind, the gig was a golden highway to a record deal. All Rory would have to say to a potential manager or record company exec was “I opened for Springsteen” and they would fall away before him like courtiers before the Sun King. Rory Dedalus would cut his first record maybe as early as the summer and be on tour when most of his classmates were attending their first college dances. As long, that is, as no one found out that Rory Dedalus was not a student at the university; in fact, that he was still a senior at St. Dominic High. “So,” said Fortis, “where is your boy looking to go to college next year?” Daisy looked up at Fortis’s wisenheimer grin. “He’s already a student here,” she tried to say as glibly as possible. “He told you that.” “Oh yeah,” Fortis grinned even more broadly. “He’s a sophomore, right? Lives conveniently off-campus. Lived in Rexford his freshman year though, mysteriously, no one I know in Rexford has ever heard of ‘Rory Dedalus.’ Or whatever his real name is.” “It’s not his problem they don’t remember him. He’s an artist. He kept to himself.” “Who was his roommate?” “Who do you think I am, his biographer? I don’t know who his roommate was.” “It’s just that it wouldn’t be *quite fair* for someone who’s not even a student at the university to compete in the BOB, thus taking an opportunity away from someone who truly deserves it.” “Like *you*? You think you’re going to open for Springsteen with your warmed-over Neil Young impersonation?” Daisy dug furiously into the pocket of her jacket and brought out a thick plastic card. She held it up between thumb and forefinger for Fortis’s perusal. “Why don’t you meditate on this.” Daisy had hoped to avoid this gambit, but desperate times call for desperate measures. She and Rory had pulled together fifty bucks in order to have it made by the brother of a friend of hers from her old school who had a cottage industry manufacturing fake IDs. It was a really good one, too. The font was not an exact match, but the university’s logo looked pretty gosh darned authentic. Fortis turned down his mouth as he scrutinized the ID. When he came to judgment he said: “Okay. That’s my bad. He just looks kinda *young*, you know? That beard is all peach fuzz.” “So was Dylan’s. Do you want to see my ID, too?” This last move was perhaps not strictly necessary, and not terribly canny, either, given that Daisy hadn’t been able to afford a fake ID of her own. But fortunately, Fortis took the bluff and shook his head. “See you in there, I guess,” he mumbled. “I guess,” Daisy sneered, and watched him ruefully as he walked away crunching through the crusted snow. Ten minutes later, inside The Catacomb, Daisy surveyed the scene from a vantage point against the back wall. The place was an oven and thick with students, many sitting cross-legged on the floor and more standing around the perimeter. Daisy was thinking how ironic it had been for her to say to Fortis that she wasn’t Rory’s biographer, when in fact that’s exactly what she was. On the very day she had first listened (about eight or nine times) to *Exile*, Rory’s first album, when he was still going by Rory Van de Walle, she began keeping a journal of the thoughts and feelings inspired by listening to his music and the experiences she had helping him deliver his talent to the world. Daisy was no mean artist herself, and she immediately volunteered to draw an “album cover” small enough to fit on the card folded into the plastic TDK cassette box. She even snuck into the library to make copies of the cover so that Rory could hand out freebies of the album that Daisy duplicated on her state-of-the-art dual-cassette boombox. The album featured Daisy’s cover art along with Rory’s liner notes, radically downsized on the school library’s photo copier onto a 4x2 slip of paper and delicately slipped inside the cassette cover. That had been a year and half earlier, shortly after Daisy had transferred into St. Dominic’s, and since then Rory had released six more albums, including one double album (the two cassette boxes held together by a rubber band), one folk-rock opera, *Lawn Boy*, and the majestic *Non Serviam*, which was acknowledged by all his fans at school as his masterpiece. Daisy had done the cover art for all seven of Rory’s albums, as well as all the clandestine photocopying in the school library. She had even served as producer of the last six albums, which meant unwrapping the fresh TDK’s and manning the recorder on her boombox while Rory sat in his mother’s scummy yet acoustically exquisite shower strumming his Martin knock-off and baring his soul. Rory Dedalus was a freak of nature, a genius-poet, a prophet of ambiguity and unrecognized distress, and Daisy was totally, 100% committed to helping him achieve a career as a professional musician, hopefully with her at his side as his manager-factotum. She had no interest in college; no interest in a career other than being at Rory’s side as he became the Next Voice of His Generation. Was Daisy in love with him? She understood the question. She didn’t get all uptight when MacKenzie Ratigan confronted her with it one afternoon in the school parking lot. After all, she and Rory were inseparable. But Daisy dismissed the conjecture calmly and with detachment. She was content with the fact that Rory’s mystical personality and bardic good looks pointed to a destiny beyond her. An artist such as himself needed beauty along with brilliance and Daisy, frankly, could only provide the latter. And she was okay with that. She was alright. She was happy to remain in the background, exerting a quiet yet profound influence upon him. Like when she introduced Rory to Joyce’s *Portrait*, and then, one day after school at the McDonald’s downtown, over a couple of McRibs and large fries, suggested that he salute Stephen Dedalus by borrowing his name. Daisy took the cassette of *The Wind Blows Where It Will* out of her jacket pocket and turned it over, wondering again who Rory got to do the cover art. “You’re Daisy, aren’t you?” The girl was standing in the narrow hallway that led out of The Catacomb toward the offices of the student activities council staff. She stood aloof from the noisy proceedings as if afraid to come in. She had a look not quite to be believed outside of a Molly Ringwald movie. Stonewashed jeans and duckboots that looked like they had just come out of the Thom McAn box. Jean jacket over a green sweater chez Monkey Ward. And her long brown hair done up for Saturday night in a whale-spout pony. Oh, and yes, a little gold cross. It was an ensemble that said that maybe after Rory’s set they’d head on over to the mall for a Hot Sam and an Orange Julius. Instantly upon seeing her Daisy sized up the situation. This was the zealot whose big brown eyes, creamy skin, and little gold cross had captured Rory’s fancy and inspired his new religious phase. This was the girl, too, of course, who had done the cover art for the new album. The girl said something that Daisy couldn’t hear. Daisy stepped into the hallway, out of the commotion in the main room. The girl shyly led her back toward the offices where it was somewhat less cacophonous. “I don’t want to bother you,” she said. “A little late for that,” Daisy replied, her hands stuffed resolutely inside the pockets of her jacket. “What’s up?” “I just wanted to ask if you had seen Rory.” “He never enters the room until right before he goes on,” Daisy instructed her with more than a touch of impatience. It was incomprehensible that this girl could claim any level of acquaintance with Rory and not know that most basic, most constitutional of facts. “Oh, I see,” the girl said, backpedaling, confused. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Okay. Well...” Daisy just looked at her. “I know you’re his friend,” the girl rattled on, “because I saw you with him last time he played here. He talks about you a lot.” “So, you’re a student here?” Daisy asked. “Yeah, I’m a sophomore. My name is Christine, by the way.” Daisy nodded behind a yawn of cataclysmic boredom. She did not offer her own name. There was a monumental silence. “I can’t wait for him to play!” Christine practically erupted with a squeal. Her fat lips were glimmering with lip gloss and Daisy wanted nothing more than to punch them until they bled. “He’s a little nervous, I know. He’s never played his Christian stuff live before.” Daisy wasn’t sure she had heard correctly the insanity that The Thing Christine had just spewed out of her gum-smacking mouth. “What did you say?” “He told me he’s nervous about playing his Christian stuff. He’s never played it live before.” “He’s not playing his Christian stuff,” Daisy spat back at her. “He’s playing the core tunes from *Non Serviam*.” Again, The Thing Christine tucked the nervous strand of hair behind her ear. “Oh!” she said, groping for conversational balance. “I don’t know. That’s just what he said. Maybe he changed his mind. Have you heard his new songs?” But Daisy left the question and The Thing Christine hanging. She turned and high-tailed it back outside before she literally *lost consciousness*. Back by her tree, Daisy smashed the tear that been cliffhanging on the lower shelf of her left eyelid. As she did so she perceived, just beyond her peripheral, The Thing Christine standing all broken up and apologetic behind her. Like now they were going to have some kind of terrific heart-to-heart. Daisy sighed and turned her back on her. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry I upset you,” The Thing Christine said. After a lengthy pause, Daisy snarled over her shoulder: “It’s not that you upset *me*. It’s that you basically sabotaged the soul of an artist.” “What? I don’t understand.” Tear-stained eyes or no tear-stained eyes, Daisy had to look The Thing Christine in her tragically made-up face. “You turned him on to Jesus, didn’t you?” The Thing Christine blinked and stuttered. “I don’t understand. Rory’s Catholic, right? It’s not okay if he’s Catholic?” “Rory’s *Catholic*? That’s rich. That takes the proverbial biscuit!” “What do you mean?” “Rory’s entire *opus* is a cathedral to Free Thought. Have you ever listened to his song, “Non Serviam,” title song of the eponymous album? Maybe he didn’t play that one for you when he crooned underneath your dorm room window. You should listen to that song. You should listen to that whole album. It will, shall we say, *contest* your claim that he’s Catholic.” After a moment The Thing Christine responded in a quiet, shattered voice: “So he’s plugged back into his faith. It happens.” Daisy came on even more aggressively. “Do you even know what *non serviam* means? It means, “I will not serve.” Stephen Dedalus says it. I will not serve! I will not serve your phony god!” “Who’s Stephen Dedalus?” The Thing Christine asked. Daisy just stared at her. “So you’re illiterate, too? Stephen Dedalus is a character from James Joyce’s *A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man*. He’s the proud artist-atheist. Rory took “Dedalus” as his stage name because he *identifies with him*.” “I didn’t know Rory used a stage name,” The Thing Christine said. So clearly Rory hadn’t let her listen to any of his gentile music. Daisy wanted to ask whether Rory had told her that he was still a senior in high school, but she didn’t dare compromise his cover for the BOB. But then The Thing Christine surprised her, saying: “Look, I want you to know I’m on his side, okay? I know he’s still a senior at St. Dominic’s. I’m not going to tell anyone.” “That doesn’t offend your high Christian principles?” Daisy asked her. “I guess it’s not a problem unless he wins.” Then, for the first time showing a little fire in the belly, The Thing Christine said: “What’s so terrible about Rory leaning on God a little bit?” “Because he’s a *lie*.” “Says you.” “Yeah. *Says me*. Says the one who’s been on the receiving end of the lie.” Daisy couldn’t believe those words had just come out of her mouth. She had never said them to anyone outside of her most private journal. Wilder still, she kept going. “I’ll tell you a story. Once upon a time, the history teacher at the local high school got religion. He got so interested in religion he couldn’t keep his hands off the religion professor at the local university. They stepped out on their spouses for months. One day they both quit their jobs, abandoned their families, and lit out for the territory. Never to be seen again. I’ve got a kid brother at home who’s going to grow up knowing his dad is—what do you guys call it, *an adulterer*? The religion professor has kids, too. But the God-fearing lovers don’t care. My dad actually told my mom that it was God’s will.” Daisy had never talked about this with anyone. Not with her mom. Not even with Rory. For all Rory knew, Daisy had transferred into St. Dominic in the middle of her junior year because, as Daisy told him, her mother had wanted them to live in “a nicer part of town.” She didn’t tell him she had transferred because she couldn’t take the abuse anymore from the kids at her old school. “Where did they go?” The Thing Christine asked in a hoarse, clotted voice. “I don’t know,” Daisy said. “Out East somewhere. What does it matter?” With the sleeve of her jacket Daisy wiped the snot that was falling like ghost-green jelly out of her nose. “He just left us. Even though he had a wife and kids in Baltimore, Jack, he went out for a ride and he never went back. Some people have a hungry heart, I guess. But you know what? He left one thing behind. On the wall of his office he left his favorite crucifix. That puzzled me. Why would he leave that behind? I could only surmise that he didn’t believe in the hanging man anymore. And right then I decided that I didn’t believe in him anymore, either. My mom must’ve felt the same way, because she took that crucifix down from the wall and I’ve never seen it again. “So, you go on believing the hanging man, if you want. But know that you’re a fool if you do. A preppy ditz of a valley girl who thinks she’s found the boy band singer of her *Tiger Beat* dreams—” Daisy was on her back in the snow before she had fully registered that The Thing Christine was lunging toward her on a safety blitz. She crashed on top of her. The air squeezed out of Daisy’s mouth as the hands within The Thing Christine’s blue mittens struggled to tighten around her throat. The Thing Christine’s hate-filled face was so close to Daisy’s she could smell the lip gloss and the bubble gum, and she could feel Christine’s tiny gold cross lightly slapping against her cheek. It was over almost as soon as it started. Daisy felt the grip on her throat released, and as she turned her head sideways, she had a Dutch-angle view of Christine, after an initial slip, running off toward the dark beyond the student center. “Tell Mr. Rory Dedalus I hope he has fun playing his new songs tonight,” Daisy yelled after her. “Tell him I couldn’t stay. Me and my integrity had to get home!” Everyone standing on the sidewalk was looking at Daisy. Some idiot came forward and asked if he she were okay. Daisy got up, shook the snow off her, and chased him away with a most unladylike comment. Then she started home. \* \* \* The February night remained precocious in its warmth. But it was nothing compared to Daisy’s wrath. As she cut through the golf course that separated the campus from the town, her searing gaze was enough to turn the snow in her path into slush. Since she had left the student center, Daisy had broken Christine’s nose three times, body-slammed her to the ground with a variety of Brazilian jiu-jitsu moves, thrown her like a rag doll against the oak tree, broken three of the teeth in her Pepsodent smile, pushed the muzzle of a semi-automatic pistol into her temple, knee-capped her with her brother’s baseball bat, and, with a scissors, lopped off that ridiculous whale-spout pony. Daisy walked hard. But then suddenly, in the middle of the fifteenth fairway, she stopped. Darting eyes, like those of a hunted animal, surveyed the empty golf course. Craning her head back, she looked up at the dense mythology of stars in the night sky, yet she acknowledged nothing but a vacuum and a clutter of senseless, flaming rocks. *Non serviam*, she said to the universe: to the religion classes they still made her take, to the preppy Debbie Gibson college girls, to the will of God that took her father away. She stood there thinking for some while. Eventually, a new thought occurred to her. What was the point of her taking her ball like this and going home? It wasn’t going to teach Rory anything. He needed to learn that authenticity wasn’t a game, that you couldn’t go around pretending you got religion every time you saw a pretty face with a little gold cross around her neck. He was Rory Dedalus. He was made for greatness. If it took a major sacrifice for him to realize who he was truly meant to be, then that’s what Daisy would give him. At quarter after eleven Daisy was back in The Catacomb, standing against the side wall. She wasn’t too late. The Joni Mitchell Wannabe was tuning up for her set, which meant that Rory would be next. Grimly, Daisy looked across the crowded floor at T-Rex Cunningham, who sat at the mixing board in the middle of the room running the show. If she did this, Rory would never speak to her again. He would think of it, rightly, as a betrayal, and she would be cast out of his life forever. But one day, hopefully, once he got some distance from it, he would understand why she had done it. Not that he would ever speak to her again. Her life as she had come to know it with Rory Dedalus would be over. But that was the price that had to be paid. That was the best way for her to serve him now. Otherwise, he would go on living the lie as the poetry drained from his soul. Daisy blew out her breath and stepped over the cross-legged students toward T-Rex. “Rory Dedalus is next,” he reported even before Daisy got a word out. She said what she had to say quickly: “He can’t go on.” “Why? He sick?” “He’s not a student here.” “What?” “He’s not a student here. We lied.” Daisy took out the fake ID and presented it to T-Rex. “It’s fake. See how the font is just slightly different from the official IDs? Compare it to yours. It’s a fake.” T-Rex reached into his wallet and took out his ID. Daisy kept talking. “We’re high school kids. From St. Dominic’s. We just wanted a chance to open for Springsteen. We lied. Sorry.” T-Rex finished comparing his ID to Rory’s fake one. When he was satisfied that Daisy was leveling with him, he said: “Why are you telling me this now? He’s about to go on.” Daisy was ready for the question. “Someone found out the truth and is coming to rat on us. I thought I’d turn us in rather than let Rory be embarrassed by someone else.” T-Rex framed his glare for Daisy. “You little morons,” he said. “You wasted my time.” “He was good enough to open for Springsteen,” Daisy said. “He would’ve finished in the top three. You know that as well as I do.” Daisy tossed the fake ID onto T-Rex’s mixing board and left out the main doors of The Catacomb. But then, doing her best Harriet the Spy, she circled around the student center and reentered through a side door that allowed her to slip down the narrow hallway where she had first encountered Christine. Stealthily, keeping herself hidden behind the rows of students, she crept into The Catacomb and assumed her customary position against the back wall and waited. A few minutes later Rory Dedalus entered The Catacomb carrying his guitar case. He looked all primed for the show. His shaggy hair underneath his bleach-white wide-brimmed Rolling Thunder fedora was slicked back, his beard was trimmed, and his black turtleneck and jeans were freshly washed. Daisy slid even further behind the students in front of her so that he didn’t have a clean sight line on her. Now she couldn’t see him, either, but she could see T-Rex stepping over the crowd in Rory’s direction. Daisy peeked around the students in front of her and watched T-Rex confront Rory with the fake ID. Watching Rory’s face closely, she gauged his horror as T-Rex accused him of not being a student. With T-Rex shoving the fake ID in his face, Rory was helpless. He pleaded for a chance to play, but T-Rex just shook his head at him and returned to the mixing board. Several people sitting on chairs and on the floor were staring at Rory. They had heard what had gone down. When Rory noticed them staring at him, he gripped his guitar case and fled into the night. Daisy wanted nothing more now than to get hammered. She wondered if she could somehow sneak into a dorm and find some students having a party who would be willing to give her a free beer, or six. As she considered this and many other things, several acts came and went. The Joni Mitchell Wannabe. Two guys butchering their Simon & Garfunkel harmonies. A girl with an ill-conceived acoustic version of “What’s Love Got to Do with It?” Then the Kiss tribute band, which took the tortured mellow vibe created by the previous two acts and firebombed it. After the smoke had cleared from their performance, Daisy watched as Fortis, sunglasses removed, bounded onto the stage. Immediately he turned to the huddle of students standing along the side wall and beckoned one of them to join him. Daisy was surprised to discover that it was Christine. So they *knew* one another? Was Fortis Rory’s romantic rival? Whatever their relationship, Christine clearly had no desire to join Fortis on stage. She shook her head and sank into the crowd. But Fortis would not be denied. He basically shrieked into the microphone: “Ladies and Germs, give it up for my sister, Christine Maltbie! She’s feeling a touch bashful at present, but believe me, you’re going to want to hear her beautiful voice.” *Maltbie*! Daisy realized that Christine had never offered her last name. And she had only ever known Fortis by his *nom de guerre*. They were *Maltbies*! A name that for two years had been for Daisy a name that could not be uttered in her house, an unholy name, a shibboleth of the devil’s party. Daisy had known, of course, that Professor Colleen Maltbie had children; she had mentioned that fact to Christine herself. But more than that she had never known. She had suppressed all curiosity about them, and so it had never occurred to her that they could be students here at the university, though it made sense that they would go to school where they had grown up. How totally weird, how totally repulsive, that they were now on stage in front of her! And how profoundly embarrassing that Daisy had poured out her tragic backstory to Christine, of all people her unknown and unwanted counterpart in the catastrophe of her life. Christine attacking her made slightly more sense in the circumstances. Warped, to be sure, but perhaps not utterly psychotic. The audience began to clap for Christine. As her face turned hot pink with embarrassment, Christine covered it with her hands and refused to budge. Fortis leaped off the stage and went over to her. He put his arm around her shoulder, whispered a word of encouragement in her ear, and led her trembling onto the stage. The rhythmic clapping of the audience dissipated into cheers and friendly catcalls. Christine stood in the middle of the stage, stretched between tears and laughter, her hands now covering only her shocked, open mouth. Daisy would die rather than stay and listen to her perform with her brother. She was out of there. But as she turned to go, she heard Fortis once more shriek into the microphone: “And I’d like you also to welcome our friend, Mr. Rory Dedalus!” Daisy’s attention had been fixed upon Christine, so she hadn’t noticed Rory’s return to The Catacomb. He was standing in the shadows stage left, his guitar case at his feet. Daisy surmised that after Christine had basically garroted her, that she had gone to her brother to let him know that she had run into the spawn of the creep who had run off with their mother. Somehow, later, Rory must have found them. “Get up here, Rory!” Fortis grinned into the microphone. “Boys and Gargoyles, Rory Dedalus is a senior at St. Dominic’s High School and a most talented singer-songwriter.” That answered Daisy’s next question, whether Rory had fessed up to Fortis that he was still in high school. “We’re going to do a cover of a new song of Rory’s. It’s called “Child of God.” It’s alright, T-Rex, settle down. This is my act officially. There’s no rule that says I can’t have a non-student guest for one song.” From the mixing board T-Rex shrugged and told Fortis to get on with it. Fortis sat down at the piano—an instrument Daisy had never seen him play before—while Rory set down his case and took out his guitar. As he tuned up, Rory whispered some instructions to Christine. At one point he went back to his case and ruffled through the loose pages of song lyrics at the bottom of it. When he found the page he wanted, he grabbed a music stand from upstage, set the page of lyrics on the stand, then positioned the stand next to the microphone for Christine. “I wrote this for Christine,” Rory told the audience. As he continued to tune his guitar, Christine glanced at the page of lyrics. Her face was a mess with smeared eyeliner, and her eyes were bright with panic, like those of a child who has for the first time edged to the middle of the high dive. Rory nodded to Fortis that he was ready, and he began to strum the opening chords of “Child of God,” a simple C-Am-F-G sequence. The second time through Fortis chimed in on the piano. When they came to the end of the Intro they paused. Rory winked at Christine. Then slowly, not believing she was really doing this, Christine released her pent-up breath and began to sing. Her first note was a sorrowful tremolo that made a duosyllable out of the monosyllable *“Why?”* The shakiness of the note was due both to her nerves, still alarmed and spastic, and to her natural vibrato. As she ventured along the opening quatrain of the ballad, the timbre of her mezzo-soprano unfolded itself delicately. It was a real surprise. It had a gentle backwoods nasality, a clear, silvery, shimmering tone that on the long vowels quivered vulnerably and endearingly. Her voice seemed to come not from herself. Or rather, it seemed to come from herself, though from herself much older: the Ghost of Christine Future. It seized everybody in the room. No one was talking. Many seated cross-legged on the floor straightened their backs and peered around the heads of those seated in front of them to get a better view. Daisy noticed one girl in particular sitting with her mouth dropped open in rapt amazement. *“What made it seem okay to leave me?”* Christine sang, her confidence growing as she probed ever more deeply the emotional heft of the song. *What made you think your little girl would be alright?* Christine grew large inside the song, until she was no longer mastered by her nerves but completely in control of each shading of the lines. Daisy was mesmerized. Once, when babysitting her one-year-old cousin, after the baby realized that her mother had left, Daisy had attempted to console the bawling child by singing “Itsy Bitsy Spider.” The little thing resisted at first, but then, despite herself, began to sing along, not stopping her crying but singing along with Daisy right through her frightened tears. Daisy remembered this as she listened to Christine. Many of the girls in the audience were crying silently, and not a few of the guys looked on, or down at the carpet, with stunned expressions. Fortis himself, unable to suppress his emotion, turned his face to the wall at the back of the stage as he continued to play. Rory strummed the melody with his eyes closed but his head raised, a grimace of pain chiseled onto his face. At a certain point it all became too much, and Daisy had to look away. But when she looked back at the stage, she found herself exposed and Christine looking directly at her. From across The Catacomb and through an open space between the students standing at the back, Christine’s gaze held her, as if she knew all along that Daisy had returned and was standing there in her usual spot. With her eyes Christine seemed to offer the song to Daisy. And Daisy, unable to breathe, accepted her offer. At the last refrain Daisy knew, though she could not guess what, that something devastating was about to happen. She felt like someone at the very moment of death, on the verge of the abyss. Christine’s gaze still held Daisy as she paused momentarily before delivering the last three words of the refrain, words from which the title of the song was taken. And when Christine finally delivered them, the words seemed to dissolve Daisy’s organs in a bath of numbing cold. Daisy knew this was the end of life as she had known it, though not in the way she had imagined before. A sob escaped her—of pain and of mourning and of something else inexplicable and strange. She felt something inside her break open slowly, as if the badly done sutures of an ancient wound were coming undone. Christine held the final, impossibly high, impossibly thin and aching note, for an exquisite length, and when it finally died, Daisy felt a last, blinding stab of cauterizing cold. In the silence that followed the closing chords of Rory’s guitar and Fortis’s piano, Daisy felt as though she might faint. But the burst of applause from the audience shook her back to alertness. A girl with a tear-stained face in the middle of the room stood up clapping, and soon the whole room was on its feet cheering Christine. The audience wanted more and there was time at least for one more song from the trio. But before they launched into the next one, Daisy, shielded again from the performers, took her chance to slip out through the hallway. Once more Daisy started home across the golf course. Since she had gone back to The Catacomb, the temperature had dropped considerably, and, like the lid of a sarcophagus, the perma-cloud had begun to slide slowly back over the city. The false spring was over. But it had done its job. It had signaled its promise that spring was coming. Stopping again on the fifteenth fairway, Daisy slipped her headphones over her ski cap, then rewound the tape inside her Walkman. While she waited for it to rewind, she bent down and, with her bare hands, seized the opportunity to make a snowball out of the mushy snow. She threw the snowball at a large oak tree along the edge of the fairway and nailed the imaginary bull’s-eye at its base. Then, the tape rewound, she pressed PLAY on the Walkman and continued home, singing along to the music as new snow began to fall and winter returned with a vengeance.

Nikolai was standing at the very front row of the crowd, not even a metre away from the stage. His face was devoid of any expressions but his eyes had an eager glow in them. His folded hands were restless behind him. He was breaking a bit of a sweat even on this cold November day. City hall was especially crowded that day and the chatters echoed across the auditorium. Behind him his classmates were excitedly discussing the matter of the day, but he couldn’t quite get himself to participate. He looked up to his teacher standing beside him and he nodded in response. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and resolved himself firmly. It was absolutely imperative to be on his best behaviour today, to be attentive, do as he was told without a moments delay and be elegant throughout. The school’s reputation was at stake after all. Nikolai was known to be a dexterous and responsible pupil among his teachers. He has been a straight-A student all throughout middle school, had done a flawless job in representing his school in competitions and was all set to graduate at the top of his class. And so to no one’s surprise, he was chosen yet again to represent the school. Normally, Nikolai would eagerly take up such opportunities but things were a little different this time around. It wasn’t that he wasn’t earnestly participating, but his confidence had taken a hit when the details were briefed to him. The reason was none other than the man of the hour himself. Like everyone else in the valley, Nikolai looked up to the Professor with the utmost respect, and so when he was informed that he would be helping the Professor in presenting his new invention, he was both overjoyed and distressed to be standing next to his hero. “Do you suppose its real? A perpetual confetti machine?” Nikolai turned his head slightly to the sight of Irina’s smiling face. She had navigated herself all the way from the back. “Of course it is. That’s why we are all here.” “Does it run on oil you suppose? Or does it need fuel in the first place?” “How can it work without energy? As for fuel, I believe the professor would prefer using electricity instead. It’s cleaner than fossil fuels you know.” “And how do think it creates confetti?” “You can’t really create or destroy matter. But you can convert one form into another. If anything, it probably converts something else into confetti.” “Right! But how do you suppose it does that?” “Well paper is mostly made of cellulose, which in turn is made of sugars. Now its not impossible to have an infinite supply of sugars, given that plants do the same through photosynthesis. I suppose the professor has created a machine that can mechanically simulate photosynthesis. It takes in oxygen from the environment and instead of sunlight, it makes use of electricity.” “But don’t you also need water for photosynthesis?” “Yes, you’re right.” Nikolai’s hand went up to his chin. “Well I suppose you can create an infinite source of water as well. You already have the oxygen and you can create the hydrogen from nuclear fission, and the energy produced as a byproduct can be reused in the machine itself.” “You’ve figured out the mechanism so easily huh?” “Well I wouldn’t call myself an aspiring scientist if I couldn’t even do that. But to be able to create such an intricate machine is another thing altogether. That is why the professor is regarded as a genius.” It had been three years since the professor had come and settled in the little valley. He wasn’t a professor in the truest sense of the word since he didn’t actually teach anything. But everyone just called him that for the lack of a better word and overtime it had become so synonymous with the man, that most people didn’t even know his real name. He was a tall and lanky middle-aged fellow, had gray hair, wore rimless spectacles and always wore black clothes. He lived alone in a two storey house in the outskirts of town and other than these events where he presented his ‘inventions’, anyone hardly ever saw him. Shortly after his arrival, which had sparked quite the gossip among the townsfolk, it was announced that a renowned scientist would be showcasing his invention. Curious by the enigmatic nature of the man, the crowds from across the valley gathered in the town square to see this scientist for themselves. The professor was quick to win everyone’s heart that day, with his clumsy and witty nature and his bizarre machine which had created snowfall in the middle of May. Since then, he had become a beloved member of the community and would often put on such displays. Eventually his presentations were moved to the city hall, and are much looked forward to. “Yeah. It’s almost magical, the things he does.” “Not magic. Science.” “Right. Science.” They both stood in silence for a moment. “Can I ask you something?” “Go ahead.” Nikolai said, looking at his watch. “Why do you admire him so much?” “Well-” Nikolai looked up-to the stage. “He is everything I aspire to be.” “So you plan to go to MEPhI like Matvei after-all?” “Yes, he says the nuclear program there is the best in the country.” “Do you think the professor went there as well?” “It wasn’t established when he was a student.” “Right!” said Irina, letting out a small sigh. “Want some peanuts?” Nikolai looked back to see her holding out a small packet of peanuts. He stared at them for a moment and then carefully grabbed a single piece. “Thanks.” “How’s Matvei doing these days?” “He’s busy as a bee. He won’t be home for Christmas this year.” “That’s too bad.” “Hmm.” “Well good-luck. I’ll go back and join the others.” This small exchange had suddenly made him thoughtful about nothing in particular. He stood there staring at the stage for a few minutes until a tap on his shoulder from his teacher brought him back to his senses. “They’re calling for you.” “Right” he said and corrected his posture. He was escorted to the backstage by a member of staff and was told to wait at the bottom of the stairs leading upto to the stage. He stood stiff, hands by his side, spine straight, chin tucked in. He was focused. He was going to make it a success. Suddenly the sound of applause filled the hall and Nikolai’s heartbeat went up ten-folds. The professor had taken the stage and things were to proceed. The anthem began playing on the microphone. Nikolai mouthed the words alone while everyone else sang in unison out front. Once it was over, the professor spoke. “Thank you everyone, for attending.” The man had a gravely voice, but the kind of gravely which was pleasant on the ears. “I’ve been working on a fun little project which I’m sure you will enjoy. And helping me present it today is a local boy, um lets see, Nikolai, yes, a round of applause for him please.” That was his cue. He went up the flight of stairs, carefully placing one foot after another, for he was afraid that he would fall off. The professor became visible. He was standing in the middle of the stage, dressed in black as usual. He smiled at Nikolai and Nikolai smiled back, albeit a little awkwardly and walked up to him. He had seen the professor many times, but standing next to him was a completely different experience altogether. “Bring it out please” the professor ordered. Two men wheeled in a device that was easy to mistake for artillery, for the thing essentially was a cannon. The structure consisted of a big box with a cylinder popping out from one of its sides. When it got close however, the finer intricacies became visible to Nikolai. There was a big control panel on the box with switches and gauges of all sorts. The crowd started excitedly talking among themselves. “I’m sure the word has spread by now. Yes, it is a perpetual confetti machine. It has been a rough year so far and I thought a little confetti ought to cheer everyone up, only its not a ‘little’ confetti that youre about to witness.” He turned to the boy with a comforting smile on his face. ”You see this switch. Flip it on and keep your eyes glued to this meter. When the needle crosses the this indicator line, press this button.” He faced the crowd again. “And now, to the fun part.” the professor yelled out to the crowd and gestured to Nikolai. As instructed, he hurriedly turned on the switch and stared intensely at the gauge. He noticed his right hand, which was hovering over the button had a slight tremor in it. The needle slowly went up and the moment it crossed the red indicator line, Nikolai pushed the button with all the force he could muster. Bang! The boy was startled by the sudden noise. Bang! Bang! Bang! Before he could gasp the situation another series of defeaning noises made him flinch his eyes close. When he opened his eyes, his vision was blocked by a colourful downpour, the likes of which he had never seen before. He held out his hand in awe and tried grabbing at it. Surely enough, it was a dozen tiny colourful pieces of paper. The professor had done it. The bewildered crowd which had fell silent at the sight of the vivid mist finally exploded in astonishment. They were exclaiming in joy. They were singing praises. They were simply delighted at the sight. Nikolai, who was gazing in awe, suddenly having cone to his senses looked at the machine. A flurry of colourful confetti was streaming out of the barrel. And it kept coming and coming. The sight was beyond anything he had imagined. He couldn't help but laugh a hysterical laugh. He looked at the professor. He had a proud look on his face. The crowd was still shouting excitedly. The colourful downpour contniued across the hall like it was meant to last an eternity. It was a dreamlike atmosphere in the auditorium. He stood there, taking it all in, when the professor at his pulled his arm. He was gesturing the boy to follow him. They went across the hall and walked down the stairs while the show continued behind them. Walking down the steps, the professor brushed off the bright pieces of paper off his sweater. The boy mimicked his actions. They walked into a corner of the pasaage where a chair and table had been installed, a makeshift green room for the guest of honor. The professor picked up a bottle of water and sat down while working the cap. “That was amazing, sir” Nikolai said meekly looking at his direction. “Thank you son. I’m glad you you enjoyed it.” He had undone the cap and took a long sip from the bottle. “Sir!” he spoke a little sternly now. The professor looked up to see a determined look on the boy’s face. “Do you remember my brother Matvei? Matvei Sidorov?” “Sorry, I can’t seem to recollect the name at the moment.” ”He was the runner up at the district science fair two years ago. You were one of the judges, alongside the Raion engineer. You praised his demonstration on magnets.” “Oh yes, I remember the boy. His demonstration of Lentz’s Law was quite unique indeed. So you’re his brother. What is he doing these days? ” “He’s attending the Moscow Engineering Physics Institute.” he said proudly. “That’s wonderful.” The professor exclaimed. “Given his caliber he is sure to achieve much success. ” “Yes. Did you attend MEPhI too sir?”. Having asked the question, he looked down with an embarrassing smile. “I’m afraid it was established after my time.” “Right.” He managed to make eye contact again. “So did you attend St. Petersburg? or Lomonosov? ” “Neither, I’m afraid. In-fact I didn’t attend University.” Nikolai stared blankly for a moment and then having grasped the matter, exclaimed out excitedly. “So you’re self-taught!” “I suppose you could say that.” “Sir, that is amazing! To get into the nuclear program as a self-taught scientist, that is simply beyond my imagination.” “The nuclear program?” “Yes. Say, were you involved in making warheads? If you can say that is.” “Now wait a minute boy. Why would I be in the Nuclear program?” “You were not?” “No, my son.” The professor chuckled. “I suppose the rumors have taken some interesting turns.” Nikolai was flabbergasted. The professor, having understood the boy’s confusion continued. “I was in the army. I’ve always been interested in physics even though I didn’t have the brains to pursue it as an academic discipline. So after retiring I spent much of my time reading and learning on my own. I’ve learned quite a lot but I wouldn’t dare call myself a scientist. That “renowned scientist” thing was the brainchild of your Glava Rayona, an old comrade of mine. He wanted a mascot of soviet science for the district, and when he offered me the job, I gladly accepted.” Nikolai spoke passionately after a few moments of silence. “But if you aren’t a scientist then how did you build that fission reactor? And the artificial photosynthesis generator?” “Fission Reactor?” “The machine on the stage. It breaks down oxygen atoms into hydrogen which is then used to produce cellulose through photosynthesis and create an infinite source of paper right?” The professor smiled in amusement. “That is an ingenious idea son. But I’m afraid I’m not smart enough to fit a nuclear reactor in a box. What you saw there was a simple demonstration of Bernoulli’s principle. There is a fan inside the box, which when powered, pushes the confetti out the barrel. The pieces of paper have been glued on to a net made of fine thread and attached to a roller inside the box. So when the fan blows air, the net, with the pieces of paper, behaves like a fluid and springs outwards and basically circles around the roller inside the box. Since its going in circles it seems like its going on forever. I had a some more of those installed on the balcony upstairs and the staff here was instructed to throw some confetti on the stage and seats for added effects.” Nikolai stood quietly, his eyes fixed on the man. “Now that I've revealed the trick, don't you go about telling people. It'll be our little secret." The professor said, still smiling. He took another sip from the bottle he was holding. “Boy, your teacher is waiting for you” the same member of staff called out to Nikolai from behind. “Right, I'm coming” his voice was rather monotonous now. “Thank you sir” he said to the man who was now putting the cap back on the bottle, without looking at him and turned around in a subtle haste. Walking down the passage, Nikolai could still hear the excited crowd. Their noisy cheers seemed to be perpetual as well. He followed the man before him stiffly, with an expressionless face. His eyes were dim and dark.

**November 25, 1987** A thick, soupy fog hangs over Middletown Lake, obscuring the shoreline. From the shadows, a lone shifting figure emerges, changing from a towering lanky form to a wide and spindly one. Suddenly, it crouches down to pull a huge clump of webbing from thorny bushes with long bristled fingers. Piercing red eyes glare as eight hairy legs move in for a closer look. Nearby, a raven caws, warning nearby animals. Twins Jenny and Jason Greenwood ride their bikes to school nearby, unaware of the red-eyed creature watching from the shadows. It is Big Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving. That means a half-day of school before a long weekend. Jenny and Jason look forward to three days of saving princesses on Dragon Quest and Zelda, before stuffing their faces with mashed potatoes and cheesecake tomorrow. Thanksgiving beats Christmas they’ll say. On the way out the door of their classroom, Ms. Grace, their fifth-grade class teacher, hands the departing children a large envelope. "School photos," she repeats robotically. "Wait till you get them at home. Have a great Thanksgiving. School photos. Wait till you get them home. Have a great Thanksgiving." The weather has gotten cool, almost cold. The pictures were taken on a hot and humid day way back in the second week of school and then forgotten. The photos are forgotten again as the kids rush to the basement to play Zelda. "If I made this game, the princess wouldn't need saving," Jenny says. "It would be a dumb prince instead." "Yeah, as if," Jason responds. "Who would want to save a prince if he's that dumb?" They reach the second dungeon when the phone rings in the kitchen. The kids are too far away to hear the conversation, but Mom calls for them shortly after. "Jennifer! Jason." "C'mon Mom," Jenny yells. "We just started." "She said Jen-ni-fer. Not good," Jason whispers. "Fine. Pause it," Jenny orders before running out of the basement with her brother right behind her. "Who was on the phone?" Jason asks as soon as he's in the same room as Mom. "Mrs. Johnson," their mother Hillary responds. "She says I need to look at your school photos. Right away. Can I see 'em?" Jason finds his backpack and pulls them out carelessly, bending the envelope. "Carefully, Jason," Mom responds. "We gotta give them to Grandma tomorrow." At the same time, Jennifer takes hers out of the bag slowly, ensuring she doesn't bend them. Mom looks at Jennifer's pictures first. Cute smile. Eyes open. Long hair straight down over her shoulders. Glasses off. Looks good. "You look like a dweeb," Jason laughs. For that, he earns a punch on the shoulder from his sister. Mom sets Jenny's photo aside and moves on to Jason's. It doesn't take long before a look of horror takes over her face. "What in the name of?" she mutters. Jason leans in, and his eyes widen. In his photo, Jason faces slightly to the right. His outfit is on point. The smile is a bit wonky but still passable. His short hair combed to one side looks as good as it can, but the hair isn't the issue. The issue is his ear. In his school photo, his left ear has been removed and replaced with more skin. From the looks of it, the skin has been copied and pasted from his forehead. "I have no ear," Jason exclaims. Jenny laughs. "A dweeb? You look like a Q-tip." "Why is it like that Mom," Jason asks, ignoring his sister. "Where's my ear? Why did they take my ear off? That's so weird." "It's psycho," Mom says. "Grandma won't want this picture. No offense Jason." "None taken," Jason responds with a smile. He has always wanted to say that. Mom runs back to the phone hung from the wall, its long red wire nearly dragging on the ground. "Who are you calling?" Jenny asks, examining her own picture, wondering if her hair is supposed to hang down like a curtain or if the photographer removed her ear too. "Yeah, exactly how you describe it," Mom says to someone on the phone, probably Mrs. Johnson. "Nobody has any ears. Let's go. Gather the team." She hangs up. "Into the Caravan, kids. Bring the envelope with the address." The three climb into the van and head to Bernard's A+ Photography Studio. "I look so creepy," Jason exclaims from the back seat, looking at the photo on the way to the studio. "You do not," Mom says and grabs it from his hand. "The PTA's gonna get your ear back kiddo." "But can the PTA help me unsee Jason's weird face?" Jenny laughs. "Or save me from any future nightmares of my unearred brother." She gets no response. Bernard's A+ Photography Studio is housed in the building that was the former home of the Middletown fire station. It still looks mostly like it did except for a new sign, and the fifty confused and angry moms huddled outside with their kids. "I see him in there," they hear one mom say as they pull up. Jennifer and Jason's mother finds Mrs. Johnson. Their kids hang out awkwardly. *No ear? Yeah, no ear*. In Middletown, the PTA is more powerful than the police. While a few parents bang on the oversized garage doors, a window above them bursts open. A man with hair like a badger pokes his head out and shouts. "Look ye, look ye. Unktomi will destroy us all Look ye -" "Excuse me. Excuse me, Bernard." Hillary interrupts coldly. "As president of the PTA, we need you to quit the poetry and let us in." "Who is Unktomi?" Jason whispers to Jennifer, who shrugs. "Kids stay out here," their mom tells them before all the parents head in. The kids move to the window to watch. Inside, Bernard slides down the fireman's pole. He greets everyone with a welcoming smile as if they actually want to be there. He has a dozen folding chairs lined up and a table with freshly poured apple cider. The moms are not into the cider idea or sitting. "Have a seat," Bernard insists, unable to read a room. "What have you done with our kids' ears?” a mom calls out, holding up a photo of her earless daughter. "What is the meaning of this?" "Does this have to do with voodoo?" asks another. "Voodoo?" Bernard answers. "No. No, it has nothing to do with voodoo. Please sit." Some parents do reluctantly, hoping it will help to get the show on the road. "We don't have time for this. We have stuffing to make and pies to prepare," Hillary says. "My pumpkin pie! Ah, I left my pumpkin pie in the oven!" Someone in the back yells before quickly exiting. Hillary continues. "We need our kids' ears back now." "I know your time is valuable, and I look like a crazy person, but I have no choice but to hold your kids' photos hostage. How else can I get anyone to listen to me?" Bernard explains. "I need your help. There is something potentially dangerous here in Middletown nobody is talking about. I asked the police. I asked the mayor. They wouldn't help me, but you must." "Okay, spill it," Mrs. Johnson yells out. Not paying attention to her son watching from the window behind her. "Something is eating all the ducks and geese up at Middletown Pond," Bernard says. "I go there to take pictures and have for years. Normally, there are hundreds of birds. It's a migrating destination, but not anymore. They've gone missing. I needed to know what was afoul, so I went before dawn. That's when I saw it. That's when I first saw the Unktomi." "Unktomi?" Hillary questions. "You're saying it like we know what that means." The kids watching and listening outside repeat the word. *Unktomi.* "The Unktomi is a beast the Lakota described as a giant spider," Bernard says. “Our Unktomi is half-human, half-spider. Not exactly half and half. It's ninety percent giant hungry spider and ten percent ankles and Reeboks.” "I hate spiders," one mom calls out, bored with the conversation. "You know what I don't hate? Pictures of my wonderful kids with their ears." "You want pictures?" Bernard says with a sigh. He walks over to a table picks up a stack of photos as big as the phone book and throws it into the air. The photos separate and flutter around them, but they are not photos of their kids. "That Unktomi ate all the geese and almost all the ducks," Bernard protests. "What happens when it's out of food at the pond? It's gonna wander into town. Cats. Dogs. Kids. What then? Then all you'll have left are those stupid pictures of your kids. Get it?" The kids outside listening get it. Jenny and Jason share a horrified look. One of the photos slides under the garage door and lands right at Jenny's foot. She picks it up. It's a photo of Middletown Pond on a beautiful morning. However, the focus of the image is a giant spider with two human legs in sneakers and a nasty black and yellow torso. The remaining six legs are all spider. In the photo, the car-sized beast carries a dead goose in its mouth. "*That* lives in our town?" a girl says behind them, and suddenly the kids get loud. Everyone wants a better look. Inside, the same thing is happening as they finally see what the Unktomi is. Bernard yells out the old Lakota poem. "Look Ye, Look ye, Unktomi will destroy us all. Look ye, Look ye. Unktomi lives among us. Only the PTA can protect us." A mom in the back says, “Who is the Unktomi? It’s wearing sneakers. It has to be someone from Middletown.” “We can’t wait around to figure it out.” Bernard tells them, collecting the photos from the floor, "It's running out of food." "I hate spiders," Mrs. Johnson comments. "If you think I'm gonna go after a giant spider, you're crazy. Why don't you kill it, Bernard?" "It's partially human," Bernard says. "Don't complicate it," Mrs. Johnson follows. "I just want my son's photo with his ear." "Yeah, what she said," says another. Bernard eventually relents. He gives the mom’s the photos of their children, including their ears, all the while murmuring the same poem, “look ye, look ye" under his breath. Outside, Jenny takes the photo of the spider and puts it into her pocket. They go back home. Mom doesn't say one word about the Unktomi. All she can say is how wonderful both her kids look in the new photos. The following day, Thanksgiving, Jenny and Jason fearing the hunger of the beast, sneak what is left of the turkey and its carcass into their backpacks. Together, they ride their bikes up the old village road until it dead-ends at the pond. They are surprised to find a brand-new chain-link fence completely surrounding the pond and the encircling woods. The fence is twelve feet high and every twenty feet a sign is posted: "By Direction of the Middletown PTA, the Middletown Pond is closed for public use until further notice. For all offerings, please use the catapult kindly donated by the Middletown Boy Scouts.” Jason takes off the backpack, now reeking of Thanksgiving dinner to remove the turkey carcass. He carefully places it in a small, makeshift catapult stationed by the fence. With a quick pull of the lever, the turkey carcass is launched. Their offerings are not the only ones. On the other side, there are a half dozen turkeys; raw ones, frozen ones, and some just bones on the ground. There are even some side dishes and a burnt pumpkin pie lying about as if others had the same idea to feed the monster. The siblings stand quietly at the fence, frozen in curiosity. After nearly a minute, they shrug, but trees on the other side shake violently. The twins scream and clumsily jump on their bikes as a crow caws at their hasty retreat. Since that Thanksgiving, Middletown's children have had the solemn duty of keeping the Unktomi fed and happy. They know not to let the food run short. Keeping the ravenous man spider happy with snacks, and size nine Reeboks, has become an important job, and no food is wasted in Middletown. Some children leave little notes with their offerings, wanting to be friends with the curious critter/monster. The beast stays behind the fence as long as they keep it fed - this is the deal made to protect their homes and prevent The Unktomi from destroying them all.

Letters to Nobody is a series of short stories presented as fictional letters. Ding. Dear Sarah. I remember the day we got our first microwave. My dad said he bought it at goodwill. For all I know he probably had a line of credit there. They still had lines of credit that were simply kept in a notebook behind the counter. My dad knew everyone, and he helped everyone, so it wouldn't surprise me that his credit was good everywhere in the city. He was the guy who delivered the milk and other dairy stuff to all the grocery stores, the bodegas, the corner marts and what not. And then he did gumball machines and little trinket machines. When he first started, they were a nickel each. Then ten cents. Then a quarter. Put the coin in, turn the knob, and open the little latch and there's your stuff. Then he started delivering milk to all the schools and and refilling the little candy and trinket machines as well. Lines of credit turned into layaway, where you could put money down on something and just come in and pay it off slowly over time and pick it up when you were paid off. They just held your thing in a room of things other people put on layaway. Eventually that got too be too much space being used for layaway, especially because companies didn't charge interest (because it was a free service) and store credit cards became a thing. Now you just buy whatever you want and pay it off over time with a bunch of interest tacked on. It makes stores a ton of money and gives that instant gratification to people willing to pay out the nose in interest for things. It also makes people buy a lot of shit they don't need. Before my dad made really good money, nothing we ever got was in it's original box or packaging. Not even Christmas and birthday presents. Nothing was ever new, and sometimes we didn't know if it worked until he brought it home. We didn't care. This was the first microwave he ever brought home. I wonder if he found it on the side of the street on the way home from work. I've probably owned a dozen microwaves since that day, but none of them were like this. To me, this was a behemoth of a box of metal and glass. It probably weighed at least twenty pounds. The first time I opened it up, I pulled the door down and stuck my head in it to see if it fit. I was seven, what else would you expect? Besides, it looked like a regular oven but smaller. Even opened like a regular oven. It was beautiful. The microwave had a big dial, a little dial, and a button. The big dial went up to thirty minutes. What the heck takes thirty minutes to cook in a microwave? There was a smaller dial for "power" and we never took it off the full power option. Under that was just a little square start button. You had to push it in about half an inch to get it to start. Sometimes you had to press it a couple times. My mom pulled me gently out of the microwave as I was looking at all the holes inside it and she closed the door. She said this is dangerous and gets hot. I was seven, so I knew what hot meant. I just couldn't figure out how it got hot. I just knew it got hot for only thirty minutes at a time. That Amana Radaranger moved with my parents to four different apartments. When they moved into their last apartment, my cousin dropped it and it never worked again. We were in such a rush to move that time, my mom didn't even clean it out. My dad wasn't upset. My mom was a little upset but the next day she got a brand new microwave with buttons on it and a digital clock. It came in it's original box brand new from walmart. I don't remember the brand, and I know it only lasted a couple years. This was just before my dad had started to make a little money. It was a couple months later bought the new trucks and hired a few guys to drive and deliver. And this is when we met. Right before my dad "hired" me as an adult. Before that, I was with him in his truck every day, meeting the customers and helping him fill the machines and dump the coins into bags. Back then, you could do this and not get jumped or mugged. It was a lot of fun for me. It was summer, I had just graduated high school and we met at one of the little corner stores my dad had just gotten as a new customer. While he was talking to the owner, I was trying to figure out how to have a conversation with you. It was just us in the store, on a quiet rainy Wednesday morning. Your dad owned the store, and both of them were in the back discussing who knows what. I said hi. You blushed a little and said hi. I said nice shop. I asked you how long the store had been open. You said a couple months. You had just moved from Michigan and your dad bought the building from one of his cousins. We had a little small talk. I told you my name, you told me your name was Sarah. We talked about the store and my dad's business, and summer time and whether you were going to the town pool on the nice days or to the park or what not. I told you there was a skating rink in town and you hadn't been there long enough to know that. I felt kinda good that I let you know. I also wondered if you thought I was just hitting on you or something, but we were both still kids back then, so did it really matter? I was just about to ask you if you wanted to go to the skating rink on Friday night and our dad's come out of the back room talking about something. I was leaning over the counter, you were leaning over as well, and there was still a couple feet between us. We stood up straight and both of us blushed. You blushed way more and looked way more beautiful than me, I'm sure. Our dads didn't even notice. The following Wednesday, which became the day of the week that I got to see you, you were there in your dad's store. Your hair looked different and I swear your lips looked a little pink. You were wearing something pretty. Our dads went in the back room again for about twenty minutes this time and I never thought how odd this was. He never went in the back room with anyone for more than a few minutes at best. And usually never even did that. This time, I went right into the skating rink and asked you if you wanted to come on Friday. You asked me if this was a date. I said yes, yes it is a date. I'd like to take you on a date. To the skating rink. I heard something drop in the back, or a hand lightly smacking a desk, and a chair scratching the floor, but was unfazed. My eyes were locked on yours, and yours on mine. You had these beautiful brown and golden eyes, and I had these muted grey/blue eyes. I hated my eyes, but I loved them for what they were seeing right then and there. I borrowed my dad's truck and picked you up at your dad's store. We drove the eight minutes to the rink in near silence. We were both smiling. I came around and opened your door, took your hand, and walked you into the skating rink. We listened to the music and watched the lights shine different colors all over the floor, and the disco ball lights changing colors every few seconds. We stopped for pizza and soda and then went back out. We talked most of the time about everything two almost adult kids talk about. I listened to your stories about back home, and I told you about living here. We stopped again for ice cream and I don't remember letting go of your hand at all that night except when we were eating. At ten pm sharp I dropped you off at your house. That was your curfew on Friday nights. My dad told me I had better be home at 10:10, which was plenty of time to walk you to and kiss you at your front door. It was a very short and sweet kiss. I held the side of your cheek gently and you smiled. I said see you Wednesday and you said see you Wednesday. And for the most part, that became our parting words for the next few months. Even when we made plans to go on our dates on the weekends, at the store, it was always see you Wednesday. I met you on a Wednesday, I asked you out on a Wednesday and I asked you to marry me on a Wednesday. Today's Wednesday and we just signed on our first house. The first thing I did is buy you the most expensive microwave I could find and had it installed over the stove. I just wanted to let you know why I was so giddy about it. I know, sometimes I can be a bit nostalgic and giddy over little silly things. I just wanted to know why it was kind of special to me. And why you're kinda special to me. I love you.

The spot she had chosen was just off the main stretch in the middle of town. I’m thinking she picked it because there was less of a chance of being seen, not like there was anything to hide anyway. Still, it made sense to me. While she may have been trying to hide our time together, it was not at the expense of charm in the cafe. There were large bay windows on either side of the door, and inside, on the pillowed bench on the left window, a charcoal cat slept in the afternoon light, still warm enough to discourage her from moving away towards the radiator where she usually took her post-afternoon, pre-evening nap. The bell above the door chimed as I entered, and I looked up. Behind the counter there was a tattooed student who put down her dogeared copy of Bell Jar to greet me and take my order. She was not at all amused by my attempt to be witty, which was probably for the best. “Jesse?” I heard behind me, in the direction of where the charcoal tabby had been sleeping. I turned to see her and tried my best to appear composed, expectant, as though I knew this moment would come and that it would be like this. Which, in many ways, I did. Over texts and calls for weeks we had gotten to know each other, And it was over through those conversations that we had carefully, sensitively prodded to learn more about the other. Beyond interests and hobbies and towards dreams and hopes, the territories that are whispered in the back of your mind on a date but don’t have the stomach to voice, the subjects we need to share but won’t because we’re too afraid of an incompatibility or a rejection. You want kids, they don’t; you want a home life, they want to travel; you adore your family, they haven’t spoken to their siblings in years. These notions that are the bedrock, the foundation of any future are typically avoided in favor of discussing movies seen and books began and left unfinished. But for whatever reason, Caroline and I had bucked the trend and had chosen to be open with what we wanted and needed. After all, what the hell? It’s some random person I had met online, if they don’t like what I like, fuck ‘em. Unfortunately for us, we found ourselves agreeing on every single interest that the other could name. It was this way that we, together, chartered the uncertain byways of waters that had only recently been rocked by storms of divorce. Mine in the previous winter, hers just a month before. And after weeks of talking we agreed to meet, cautiously guiding our boats into each other’s waters. She looked exactly as I had drawn in my mind. And maybe she chose this table because she knew it would allow the golden dusk light to fill her silhouette from behind, to make her look like…like she was floating. The light streamed slid through the edges of her sundress, white with small hydrangeas sewn into cotton every few inches along the seam. Her hair was down, golden and resting weightless on her shoulders. She smiled, she tilted her head, and I did everything within my power to remember how to breath and to take a careful step towards her. We did the dance that nervous people do. I put my hand out, she opened her arms for a hug. We laughed at the awkwardness and I heard a giggle emerge. \*Executive decision to be made here\* Jesse Slowly, I stepped towards her and put my hand along the small of her back, feeling the dress between my fingers. I could feel her sink her weight into my arm, exhaling. She looked up with hope and relief and we smiled as we held each other. Here, at least for this afternoon, was a safe harbor in waters that were still gray and choppy. “I can’t believe we’re doing this.” she said as she sat, “Nervous?” I said, trying to sound like I wasn’t. “Fuck yeah, of course.” I smiled and tried to do the math in my head of how someone could look so like they had stepped out of a Disney movie and sound like they were eager to go to a dive bar after the coffee. And then I did the even more complicated math of how I got lucky enough to be sitting with this kind of person. “Why though?” I offered. “Because, well,” she looked out at the cat who had now moved to the last corner of light that was finding its way inside. “Because why are we doing this?” I didn’t know what answer to give, mainly because I didn’t have one. To stall I stirred my latte and stroked the head of the cat, who turned its belly to me for more. “Do I have to have a reason to want to see you?” She looked out the window, and I could see her gnawing at the question. “But what if nothing happens between us?” she asked. “Then we’ll be in the same place we were four weeks ago, except…” “Except what?” she pounced in, hinting at that fieriness she had mentioned but never truly shown yet. “Except we’ll have had our first taste of being wanted since being so…unwanted.” I let the word hang there. It would be cruel to say if it was just about one of us, but it wasn’t, it was a wound we shared. Still, I could see it sting her as her eyes began to well a bit, maybe not from my words alone, but with the memories they took with them. Days of neglect and of dreams unwoven. So I let me hand find her knee and held her glance with mine. Refusing to let her look away, to let her nerves get in the way of what I was trying to tell her with my look. I leaned in, and waiting for no permission, I kissed her. I could feel her exhale into me, letting go of a breath she had held onto for who knows how long. We kissed greedily, deeply, truly. Not caring who could see because for the first time in months, maybe longer, we felt like someone was on the other side of the kiss.

For my only Love T "Utterly simple, utterly disgusting, such sheer arrogance," he muttered with a grimace, staring at the black cloth draped over the podium. It concealed the latest exhibit, which stood in the center of the well-lit room, adorned like a banquet hall. Many people had come today to view it—all the prominent figures of the art world, drawn by the grand declaration of the rising artist AM. At just 21 years old, she was a shining star in the art world, her works considered revelations, mirrors that reflected one's very self. She rarely appeared in person; even at a gallery held in her honor, she expressed her gratitude through a letter read by one of her assistants. But today was different. Today, she was to step forward and finally be seen—the so-called great transformer of the art world. Despite all the praise and her many works, Theo remained unconvinced of her talent. When he saw her paintings, it made him want to retch, even today. He himself would never have come to such a place. "Amateurs everywhere, philistines who think they understand this," he thought. Then, someone waved to him from across the room. To his surprise, it was his wife. "Honey, come quickly! The nice lady next to me has saved us seats." He walked slowly towards her, grumbling, "Why the front row? I could've stayed at the back." He sat to the left of his wife, who had long brown hair tied in a ponytail today, piercing blue eyes, and a pointed mouth highlighted with the cherry-red lipstick he had given her for Christmas. "She looked simply stunning," he thought. His wife always saw the good in people, no matter who they were. Unlike him, he was her complete opposite. "I'm so excited! I love her art," she said with almost childlike enthusiasm. "Ah, it'll just be another meaningless painting," he muttered under his breath, afraid of the reactions from the other guests if he were caught criticizing her beloved idol. "Don't be so negative. Enjoy the evening and open yourself up to it," she said. "Open up, open up—what is that supposed to mean?" he wondered. But before he could respond, the large hall fell silent, so silent it was almost eerie. A man dressed in a completely black suit with white gloves stepped onto the stage where the veiled artwork stood. "Dear guests, thank you for coming. Without further ado, let's move to the highlight of the evening." He placed his hands on the cloth and lifted it with a flourish. "I present to you—'Cube'." Silence. Pure silence. Theo looked at it, and tears welled up in his eyes. He had never seen anything like it. As he gazed into the glass, he didn't see an artwork; he saw a horrific figure, a grotesque monster smiling back at him. "And how do you like it?" said the female voice to his left. "I see my younger self dancing in the garden.

It was a warm spring night in Raleigh, North Carolina, it had just turned April of 2006 the east coast experiencing a rather hot period. Aaron Walker and his friend Chris were getting ready to go urban exploring as they had been doing for the past year. “Hey man, you got the recording stuff?” Aaron asked with a glum look on his face. “Wow, you look like a little bundle of joy, don’t you? Yeah, I got it, in the trunk.” Chris concerningly responded. “Yeah, sorry, parents are just especially bad tonight, didn’t want me to go out, especially because they’re mad paranoid about me exploring, I don’t think they get that we haven't found anything bad yet.” Aaron looked resting his forearms on the roof of the car. “Well, I mean I kind of get it, if one of my sons went missing, I’d be paranoid too about the other one exploring abandoned places.” Chris retorted. “It’s been two years since Will went missing, you think they would have calmed down a little bit by now, besides, I didn’t get into substance abuse like he did” Aaron stated in a monotone voice. Aaron opened the passenger side door to Chris’ 2002 Honda Civic, slamming the door once he got in, Chris got in as well, starting his car and taking off towards the unknown destination. “Where are we going anyway? You never told me anything, just said you had a “good place”.” Aaron asked as he looked out his window, cruising down the quiet streets of the suburbs. “An abandoned lumber mill, only about a dozen miles up north, in New Light.” Chris replied, keeping his eyes on the road. “New Light? C’mon man, you know I hate that place, don’t you know how bad it is up there?” Aaron inquired shifting his eyes over to Chris, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t worry, okay? I’ve got friends up there it’s safe right now.” Chris said not returning Aaron's stare. “Yeah, yeah whatever man.” Aaron responded in a disbelieving tone. “We’re here.” Chris stoically said They both exited from their respective sides, looking at the abandoned mill; do not enter signs plastered everywhere the eye could see. “That looks promising,” Aaron blankly stated, “Nothing like seeing do not enter written everywhere am I right?” “Oh c'mon, don’t be a baby, stop trying to find reasons to leave, when have we ever listened to a do not enter sign? Hey, you might just find something you like inside.“ Chris said with a little chuckle. “What does that even mean?” Aaron snarkily replied “Who knows, I don’t think before I speak, I like to be just as surprised at what comes out of my mouth as everyone else.” Chris said using a hammer to rip off the planks off wood blocking the door. “You know you are a strange guy, has anyone ever told you that?” Aaron said, almost cracking a smirk. Chris looked over his shoulder, smiling as if the answer was obvious. He got the planks off and they entered, with a creaky door and Chris igniting a lighter to check for oxygen. “Chris man really? We’ve gone exploring these kind of buildings dozens of times and we’ve never once encountered stagnant air.” Aaron said, narrowing his eyes to Chris. “Hey this is an extremely dangerous hobby; I’m just trying to take all precautions.” Chris hastily replied. “If only my parents knew how much of a safety nut you were they’d encourage this hobby” Aaron said sarcastically. Chris turned and looked at him “Shut up man” he laughed. “How did you find out about this place anyway?” Aaron inquired, looking at all the decrepit infrastructure everywhere. “Word of mouth, same as usual, they told me that “Overdose Mill” was one of the most untouched abandoned areas in the Raleigh area.” Chris said confidently. “Overdose Mill? That’s great, love that name.” Aaron said as a chill ran down his spine. Aaron and Chris go up to the fourth floor, finding nothing but rusty needles and graffiti warning them to leave. All the while Chris keeps rambling on about the name and story of the place. “Yeah, they say that crackheads go here and-” Aaron cut Chris off. “I don’t want to know what happens here okay, I'm getting a bad vibe from this place, let's leave” Aaron said with a shake in his voice. As they descended the rusty stairs to the third floor and were about to descend the next flight Aaron felt a strong urge to go into a side room. This room was in tatters, with the only visible thing being another boarded off door and a note nailed to it. Aaron picks up the note, hands shaking, and reads it aloud. “To anyone who reads this, I am gone, I figured I’d leave a note, but I don’t know what to write so I’ll just say this. Stay away from substances, live a good life, be happy, I hope this message reaches my little brother, the one person I ever cared about truly.” Aaron wide-eyed lowered his gaze to the bottom of the paper where there was only three words, a signature “William Johnathan Walker.” Aaron put the paper down and Chris quickly reached for his hammer to take down the boards, but Aaron grabbed his arm, a single tear rolling down his cheek. “No, some things are better left unknown.” The drive home was dead quiet, not a word being spoken, Chris dropped Aaron off, not knowing this would be the last time they would ever see each other. As Aaron opened the door, he made eye contact with his parents and shed a tear. No words needed to be exchanged, they knew what he had found.

My credentials? Oh. I don’t have any. I can tell you a story, though. It began with a break-up. Little bit of it was her fault, but most of it was mine, and it was messy, and it sucked. After several years of moping and feeling sorry for myself, it came to my mind that I should just speak to her directly, and have an adult heart-to-heart conversation about the misunderstandings between us and the mistakes I’d made. The only problem was that she was on the other side of the planet, and so I called upon Evis, god of wishes and desires, to make a little deal. I went shopping, made a ritual circle of red crayons and Walmart candles in my garage, and most of the room exploded because Evis couldn’t fit in there. “Ah,” said the many-headed eldritch thing with red glowy eyes, once we’d sorted out that it should sit outside the garage and poke its heads in. “A mind of mourning and yearning. You—” “Yeah, I wanna go see her,” I said, cutting off its unnecessary monologuing. “What do you want for it?” “All you have to offer is your dirty clothing, and a stick of gum,” Evis said. “I could stab myself through the torso with a sword. No tricks or loopholes, pinky promise. Just straight-up impalement through the midsection, in this torso-y area,” I suggested, waving my hand around my torso-y area to indicate that is what I meant, in case the god of wishes and desires needed it clarified. “That is quite bold of you.” “Yeah. Well. It’s, like, metaphorical. Plus, you don’t see someone stabbing themselves through the chest every day.” “This is true,” Evis said thoughtfully, scratching one of its chins with a blackened claw the size of a laundry basket. “Very well. I will accept this offering.” “Great! You’re gonna have to supply the sword, though.” It blinked at me, and I gestured around my garage, which was filled with crushed boxes, and broken tools, and busted toolboxes, but was heartbreakingly bereft of medieval weaponry. “Fine. As a freebie,” the god said, and a knightly longsword appeared in my hands. If you wish to petition Evis for your own wishes, I will note that it summoned a Type XIIIa sword, although my sword morphology knowledge is rusty and I could have been mistaken. In any case, I gave Evis a thankful nod, and set about figuring out exactly where I should stab myself. I knew that she was an adept healer, so she could probably put me right once I got there, but I didn’t know whether to stab my abdomen and risk septic shock or whatever it was called when you stabbed your intestines and had fecal matter leak everywhere inside your body, or somewhere between my lungs, where I’d risk cutting an artery or something and bleeding out before I could ever talk to her. After careful deliberation, I shrugged and aimed for about the solar plexus area, and figured *fuck it.* I plunged the sword in, and Evis – bless its heart – did what I’d asked for immediately, which was surprisingly prompt of the eldritch god, but resulted in me appearing in her bedroom screaming in pain, while she was busy between the sheets with another man, whom I’d never met. I screamed. They froze in place. I looked at them. They looked at me. I bled all over her floor. Then they screamed. It wasn’t good. After I was done screaming, the other guy ran out of the room, she pulled the sword out of me, and healed me, then slapped me very hard, and pulled her clothes on. I apologised and made an unsuccessful effort to clean up the blood. Then we sat down and talked, and it was good. She asked me why I’d appeared in her room with a sword through my chest. I said I’d called upon the powers of the eldritch god of wishes and desires to come see her. She said I was stupid. I said “Yeah, probably.” I’d like to think that we made a lot of progress and forgave each other and grew as people and my heart has healed as a result of this adventure, both emotionally and literally. I don’t really want to stab myself again to go back home, though, so that is why I am here in Brooklyn trying to scrounge up the money for a plane ticket.

It was lost. Although It had only gained consciousness some 12 minutes prior, it was certain that things were not going to plan. \*Damn\*, It thought, not entirely sure why it was so alarmed. It was hurtling toward the Earth on a comet made almost entirely out of zinc, although chemical makeup didn’t really matter. Zinc, copper, lead, they were all just a means to an end. Thousands of miles below, a farmer looked up at the stars. It was a clear night, although the light pollution from the nearby industrial gristle manufacturing plant extinguished the majority of the celestial bodies orbiting above. The farmer stared up at the Little Dipper, as the big one was obscured by the soft, orange glow of the plant’s hundreds of heating lamps. The farmer, rocking steadily in his rocking chair on the stoop of his two-story farmhouse, took a long, gluttonous sip of whiskey straight from the bottle. \*Welford’s Best\*, the label read. The farmer hoped that one day Welford could learn to do better. A pendant slipped out of his half-open flannel shirt. Whiskey dribbled from his lips, soaking both the pendant and the crotch of his overalls. \*Shit\*. The farmer wiped the pendant on his coarse, unkempt beard, like a man rubbing a towel on his years-unshaven pubic jungle. He winced as a hair caught in the pendant’s chain and was plucked sharply from his chin. He opened the pendant, revealing two portraits on either side. One was of a woman, the farmer’s wife. She had a stern expression that stood in stark contrast to her floral-printed dress. He had bought her that dress, more for him than her. She never thanked him for the present, which she obviously resented, but she wore it. That was enough. The other portrait was of a rosy-cheeked infant, not a year old. The soft pink blanket swaddling her tiny, fragile body betrayed her gender. A girl, the farmer’s daughter. Looking at the portraits, the farmer felt not love, nor longing, nor any romantic feeling toward his lost family. He felt only pain, a burning in his chest and cheeks and eyes. He took another drink, and the bottle shone blue-green. That was weird, even for a man as inebriated as the farmer. The rosy-cheeked complexion of his daughter turned a sickly green in the light. He looked up to see a shooting star streaking across the sky, far larger than any he’d seen before. \*Probably some Chinese balloon burning itself to shit\*, the drunken farmer thought. He had heard about those on the fake news, but still kind of believed in them. This balloon was falling fast, faster than a balloon should be falling. It slowly, \*too slowly\*, dawned on him that this balloon was rocketing directly toward him. The burning ball of zinc buzzed the roof of his farmhouse, and for a second he was disappointed that it missed. All thoughts left his mind when he felt the ground shudder and heard the thunderous collision of the comet inseminating the Earth. He jumped up, forgetting that his shotgun was lying in his lap like a fat, lazy cat. It clattered to the floor and fired buckshot into the wooden railings of his porch. They exploded in a hailstorm of splinters, but the farmer didn’t give a shit about his porch. For the first time in years, the pain was gone from his heart, replaced by an anxious curiosity. The farmer picked up his smoking shotgun and tucked the stock into his armpit. The image of an injured Chinese soldier clawing his way out of the wreckage wormed its way nonsensically into the farmer’s mind. \*Not on my farm\*, he thought. He was a patriot, god dammit, and no Chinese was invading his country on his watch. When he arrived at ground zero, he was again disappointed. He did not find a Chinese militant crawling toward him, half-charred with his skin sloughing off as he aimed a defective Chinese handgun at the farmer. Instead he found a rock no bigger than a basketball, blue-green flames shining bright as zinc oxide fumes plumed upward. He raised his shotgun. He had walked over to the crash site with the intention of shooting \*something\*, and this glowing rock would just have to do. The shotgun wobbled in his hands, and he struggled to get the little meteor in his sights. \*Stay still\*, he told the rock, or the shotgun, or his hands. He wasn’t really sure which. The rock twitched. The farmer released his finger-grip on the trigger. It twitched again, more fiercely this time. The farmer watched, trying desperately to ignore the fear creeping into his gut. A hairline fracture crawled its way up the rock, and the thing suddenly split in two. A fog emerged from the broken meteor, rising up like the steam from a freshly microwaved White Castle burger. It stunk, and the farmer recoiled from the stench. It reminded him of the gristle plant. \*That damn gristle plant\*. His family used to own that land, way back when, and it was supposed to pass down to his daughter. He saw something in the meteor. Pink and slimy, oozing from the core. Gelatinous fingers pawed at the meteor as they pushed against its constricting walls. The farmer raised his gun again. Chunks of meteor fell away like broken eggshell, revealing It. A mass of pink jelly, Its transparent body revealing a network of veins and nerves just below the surface. Two black masses in the center darted back and forth, taking in what little information It could from the low-light surrounding. Unlike the farmer, It was grateful for the light pollution of the gristle plant. It gurgled and cooed like a shot fawn, a sound that repulsed the farmer. \*What are you?\*, he thought. The coal-black masses inside the jelly blob locked onto the farmer’s eyes. It looked down at the pendant dangling from his neck and saw the rosy-cheeked baby. It knew what it needed to do. Slowly, the jelly-mass solidified into the shape of a human child, rosy-cheeked and fresh as a newborn. The farmer recognized It as Amy-Lee, his long lost daughter. He dropped the shotgun involuntarily. He fell to his knees and scooped the infant into his arms, pink slime dripping off Its skin like the last few drops of a wet dog stool. He didn’t mind, all he knew was that the pain was gone. His soul felt true relief for the first time in years, and he didn’t dare question it. He held the infant to his face and drank in the warmth radiating off Its skin. \*He’s cold\*, It thought. This was not what it had pictured, but figured this would have to do for now. Who knows, maybe they could learn to love each other. 10 Years Later… The farmer was making breakfast. Four plump sausages and a half-dozen eggs sizzled on the cast iron. It sat at the table, although it had gone by the name of Amy-Lee for the last decade. It didn’t like that name, but it never protested. The farmer was sensitive, and any divergence from what he expected from his adopted daughter was meant with harsh rebuke. “She wouldn’t do that,” he would say with a bite. Still, being Amy-Lee was uncomfortable. It molded itself into her, making slight changes over the years to account for aging. The real Amy-Lee did not live past eight months, so It had to take some creative liberties. “Breakfast is served,” said the farmer. He plated the evenly divided meals and placed them at either end of a knobby oak table. It sat across from him as usual, staring down at the salt-crusted meat tubes before It. They tasted wrong, although It was unable to say exactly what should taste right. Human cuisine disgusted It, but food is fuel and It needed to survive. Feeling a particularly bitter resentment for the farmer today, It decided to flex Its otherness. It opened Its mouth to an impossible degree - impossible for humans, anyway. A tri-forked tongue unfurled from Its mouth, striking a sausage and curling around it like a python after a successful hunt. The farmer slammed his fist on the table. “No, no! That’s wrong,” he chided. As the sausage disappeared down Its gullet, the man pulled a small remote control from his grease-stained overall pocket. He pressed a button, and a sharp volt of electricity surged through the chains on faux Amy-Lee’s left ankle. It was uncomfortable, but so was this planet. It was worth the pain for a moment of defiance. At first, there was no chain. It played the part of a cooing infant, and the farmer was happy. As It aged, Its mobility improved. It could walk around the farmhouse, even outside. The farmer did not like this. He insisted It never leave the farm and, unsure of what dangers lied beyond, It obeyed. As the years went by, the farmer’s grip grew tighter. Any reminder of Its true being was met with harsh punishment. Slowly, It assimilated. It lived the life of a sheltered farm girl, but it desired more. It thought about Others, more of Its kind. Surely they were out there, searching for It. Eventually, the confinement grew maddening. It had tried to slip away in the night, but the farmer had secretly prepared for this inevitability. It was caught, and the chain applied to Its ankle, cutting into Its skin. The wound was a constant source of pink, droopy goo that oozed in fresh spurts whenever It moved. It regurgitated the sausage onto the farmer’s plate. Enraged, he flipped the table over and descended on It. “You ungrateful bitch,” he screamed. “I’ve given you everything! I took you out of that mud hole and loved you like you were my own! I raised you, fed you, gave you clothes. Where do you get off disrespecting me?!” It stared at the farmer with dilated eyes. Choosing chaos over oppressive peace, it spat a phlegmy, salmon-pink globule of mucus in the center of the farmer’s face. His eyes widened in shock, then shrunk in contempt. Without a word, he grabbed It by the hair and dragged it across the floor. It shrieked, an inhuman shriek that ruptured the farmer’s eardrums. He didn’t care. Blood dripped from his ears onto his Amy-Lee as he yanked It toward the door. Its foot caught on the chain as it grew taught. Pain shot through Its leg up to Its chest. Frustrated, the farmer pulled harder. Sinew strained, and Its not-quite-skin peeled at the edges of Its shackle. Its screams took on a new form, a chunky gurgle of agony. The farmer twisted and pulled, finally putting his foot on Its and pulling with immense strength. Rip, crack, the foot came off, shackle still tightly gripping the ankle. Its bloody stump weeped viscous pink. “Shut up, it’ll grow back,” he said, unprompted. “Ain’t that right?” It could not stay silent, some genetic instinct drove it to scream and beg and claw toward freedom. Humans were strong, ape descendants with an unmatched capability for violence. Its only hope was to inspire pity, and that ship had sailed years ago. “You want to be a freak? You want to phone home?” he mocked. “Here.” The farmer had reached his destination, the meter-wide crater where he first found It a decade prior. Gripping the hair on the back of Its head, he shoved Its face in the dirt. “You want to go back where you came from now?” A wicked smile crossed his face as he cackled insanely. It attempted to push away from the ground, but Its tender arms could not repel the force of the farmer. As the gravelly dirt pressed up against It, Its face began to distort. The visage of a sweet farm girl melted into the ground, like a wax statue staring into a heat lamp. The pressure was turning Its face into a thick soup. “You’re not mine,” the farmer cursed. He pressed harder. It screamed, the sounds vibrating through Its gelatinous throat like a guitar lick heard from underwater. A blue-green shine fell over Its face. The farmer’s grotesque, demonic expression softened into one of anxious confusion. He looked up, and saw a meteor zooming toward him. A weak gasp expelled from his lips as the meteor bolted overhead and impacted the farmhouse. Like a fertilizer bomb, the meteor exploded in a fiery mushroom of blue-green. Mounds of earth rose into the sky, as shards of wood ascended and then rained back to the ground. It watched in awe. The farmer released It. “No!” he screamed as he raced toward the ruins of his life. It slowly rose to Its foot. Its bloody stump had congealed and morphed into something roughly equivalent to a hoof, flat-soled and stable. It limped unevenly in the farmer’s wake, toward the flames. The farmer fell to his knees, choking on his despair. Words would not come, but the pain had returned - that feeling that all is lost. As the dust settled, both It and the farmer could see a writhing pink mass at ground zero. It was big, much larger than It had been when It first arrived on this shit hole planet. The blue-green light of the flames shimmered through Its pink, translucent body. It, formerly Amy-Lee, had never seen anything so beautiful. The tumorous mass heaved toward the farmer. He thought about his wife, his daughter. He knew now how ashamed they would be at what he had become. He looked back at It, his adopted daughter. It could see remorse in his eyes, but It did not forgive him. It wasn’t sure that It ever could. The lumbering mass passed over the farmer, consuming him. It watched as digestive enzymes churned in the shapeless blob. The farmer’s skin bubbled, like hydrogen peroxide on an open wound. His mouth contorted in a silent scream as his lungs filled with the alien acid. In moments, all that was left were the indigestible bits - clothing, and hair. The organism rolled slowly toward It, leaving the goo-soaked waste of the farmer in Its wake. It stopped just a foot shy of the smaller being, the ghostly, half-melted and mutilated specter of Amy-Lee. It recognized this as an invitation. It approached the mother mass and pressed Its hand to the gummy figure. The hand melted and fused with the being, and It felt good. A wave of relief pulsed through Its body, and soon Its entire being was assimilated. Only then did It realize that Its savior was not one being, but multitudes all living together in one shapeless body. It was a family, \*Its family\*. It was finally home.

I've seen puncture wounds on just about every part of a dog, but nothing, and I mean nothing bleeds like a split ear. While there are several ways to wrap an ear, I prefer to bend at the natural seam and wrap the bandage around the entire head. This method discourages the dog from picking at the wrap and minimizes discomfort. Dogs will always choose normalcy over their well-being. That's where a balance of human intervention, and cooperation becomes necessary. This stray was brought in by the street guys, Peter and Paul; our canine-catching team of exactly two. Peter and Paul don't suffer from your average identical sibling rivalry. They got hired as a pair, work most of the same shifts, and just about split a paycheck. The rescue isn't exactly a well-funded operation, but we get by on a lot of passion and legwork. The split ear, which runs from the center, and divides the ear in two like ribbons isn't the last of the stray's problems, but it is the most urgent. Enough blood has dripped onto the examination table to create a steady trickle onto the floor. I take a step back to avoid getting blood on my shoes. A visible urge runs up the dog's spine, then around its broad neck. "He's going to shake." I say, but of course, no one listens to us 'enrichment' guys. The head veterinarian, Dr. Macnee, is measuring out her third bandage in as many minutes, and she's scrunching her face as if my suggestion is an affront to her years of schooling. It's an interesting dog, a lab mix with wire hair. Huge, but with nothing behind its eyes. I reload some peanut butter onto my spoon, which staves off the head shake momentarily. Then I drop the spoon, breaking its trance. His neck stiffens again. "He's going to shake," I repeat. But it's too late, and the dog ripples with kinetic force. With the urge relieved, the dog's tongue hangs proudly. The Doctor takes off her glasses, which are dotted now with crimson flecks, along with every surface in a four-foot radius. I hold up a fresh, new dollop of peanut butter. "One more try?" I ask. Later that day I'm out in the daycare yard overseeing a group of four for Social Hour. The group consists of Rocky the house mutt, a Boxer named Champ, and two Staffordshire Terrier Mixes, both named Luna. Rocky sits at my side watching the rest of the group like a retired athlete; like he's wondering if he's got one more game left in him. In a past life, Rocky was a bait dog; a chew toy used to foster aggression in tougher dogs. Probably the runt of his litter, or a genetic mistake that canceled out his killer instincts. His ears are cropped so close to his skull, that all that remain are two tufts of hair that have thickened in his golden years, giving him the appearance of a mad scientist, or an inbred marmoset. A muscular tongue dangles over his stalagmite teeth, and the corners of his mouth are pulled into a wide grin. Champ is off in the corner of the fenced-off yard, scratching his back against the artificial turf, and tanning his belly in the July sun. I want what he has; that unbothered look. Dogs don't test Champ, but they don't fear him either. His existence lies somewhere between the sun, and that flea-and-tick-resistant-turf, which is good enough for us both. The Bullies have had a slow start. This is their third meeting so far, the second of which ended abruptly after Luna 2 stiffened up and started growling. Today we've made some progress, with Luna 2 even engaging in bursts of play. She gets herself into a push-up position and looks up at Luna 1. A dog's behavior can teach you plenty about life if you're dumb enough, or weird enough to comprehend the lesson. By my count, a dog only feels one of five things at a given time. Their primary colors are happiness, discomfort, fear, hunger, or lust. People like to over-complicate things with degrees, and medical jargon, but they aren't the ones picking up shit, or breaking up fights. The real dog people know better. Dogs are simple, it's people who aren't. After the blood shower in the examination room, Dr. Macnee asked the staff to stay late for a deep clean. Gwen from the grooming department has stopped by to help. She takes care of the walls, while I disinfect the kennels, and remove hair from their rolling feet with a vintage sterling-silver pocket knife. "I'm heading to the Lamb tonight," she says, apropos of nothing. She's referring to a small bar on Main Street; the sort of place with Classic Rock and darts during the week, and DJs and college crowds all weekend. "That's cool," I say. "Have fun." Gwen laughs, but I don't know why. After the deep clean I hand my keys to the overnight employee, a late teenage girl who surveils the dogs on an hourly basis, or between rounds of homework. She waves me goodbye in a way that manages to feel unfriendly, and I make my way to the bus bench across the street. My bus is twenty-four minutes away, but I've brought a book, and I welcome the isolation, and summer night's breeze. I open the cover and find my place, and within moments, the Westchester County backstreets evaporate and are replaced by the high, guarded walls of my fantasy novel's kingdom. The hero of the novel has just discovered the full scope of the looming threat and retreats to his garden to ponder his options. The writer embellishes with thick descriptions of lush gardens where flowers display a degree of sentience. The hero looks to the sky, and- The moose-call horn of a Honda Accord erupts through the quiet street, and nearly jolts me off the bench. Gwen looks over from her driver's seat. "The Lamb," she says, "Are you coming, or what?" Gwen's radio is turned down, and I miss the rustle of the breeze, and the cicada's songs as soon as the door is fully shut. "I'm glad you're coming," Gwen says. "I've been trying to get you out for months." "You have?" I ask, but my attention veers to the passenger side mirror where a white van careens dangerously into the first spot outside the rescue. I recognize the Italian flag backdrop of the license plate, then both doors swing open, and two short, identical, muscular men emerge from either side. Peter is wearing a plain, black tee shirt that appears damp even in the low light. A tan-colored gauze is wrapped tightly around his left bicep, with prominent rust-colored stains throughout. His gold chain, a massive Cuban link with a diamond-encrusted microphone pendant swings wildly as he sprints to the rear of the van. His brother, Paul, meets him there, and they disappear from my view. "It's kind of late for a drop-off," I say. "Do you know if anybody called in any strays?" "Who cares?" Gwen says, "And no work talk once we get to the bar," and she puts the car in drive, and coasts away. At The Lamb, Gwen fumbles through a series of interrogation-style questions that fill me with unease. "What do you do for fun?" She asks. "I don't know," I respond. "I mostly just read and go to work." Gwen laughs, and for the second time tonight, I am confused. A few tables over, a tall guy wearing a college sweatshirt loudly teases his friend, causing the table to erupt in laughter and applause. "You are so boring!" She exclaims. "I'm sorry," I reply. "No, don't be sorry. I meant like, it's cute." Gwen stares at me for long enough that the grip on my pint glass weakens. In the dim lights, I notice for the first time that Gwen has freckles and a perfectly straight smile. I am relieved when a loud commotion diverts both of our attentions once again to the table of collegiate boys. "Why are you acting like such a pussy?" Sweatshirt demands. He's staring down at a skinny, smaller boy in a dress shirt. The boy in the dress shirt is studying his drink, while the other occupants at the table laugh, and exchange animated glances. "I said, why are you acting like a little bitch?" Sweatshirt doubles down. Dress-shirt says something inaudible to me, and without a moment's hesitation, Sweatshirt smacks him with enough follow-through to relocate him to the edge of his seat. Gwen gasps from somewhere behind me, but it's swallowed up by the explosive din of a fully enthralled crowd. People laugh, and cheer as Sweatshirt closes in on his friend, and grabs the collar of his shirt, snapping the top buttons off. Dress-shirt pushes a hand against Sweatshirt's face in an attempt to create distance. Sweatshirt cocks an arm back for a punch, but he's grabbed at the elbow, and then around the neck by a slab of muscle in a black security shirt. "We were just fucking around," he pleads as the bouncer shoves him past our table, and toward the door. I look over at Gwen, and her face has reddened, significantly reducing the contrast of her freckles. I think I see tears in her eyes, but I'm not sure. "I'm sorry," she said. "We should have gone somewhere else." "Why are you sorry?" I ask. "It just seems like you're having a bad time." She says. "I'm not having a bad time," I say. "I just don't do this very often. "Kids are so stupid," she says. "Why would you pick a fight with your own friend?" "Predatory drift," I answer. Gwen squints at me. "Dave, I thought I said no work stuff," she says, but this time I can tell she's joking. "It's sort of like when two dogs play, they're actually just testing one another. You know, who's faster, who's stronger, who would win in a real fight, that sort of thing," I begin. "But sometimes with a more dominant dog, you get these bad instincts, and they kick in if the other dog shows real weakness. Like, 'If you can't keep up, and you can't play-'" and I choose my next words carefully. "Then you're prey," Gwen concludes. We finish our drinks in comfortable silence, then pay up our tab. **\*\*\*** Back in Gwen's car, and with work-talk back on the menu, conversation flows freely. Gwen asks if I want to come overand watch a movie, and I agree. We chat as we pass the quiet suburbia of Pelham Road, then onto the heavily forested, sparsely lamp-lit glow of Shore Road on the border between New Rochelle, and The Bronx. As houses and taverns are traded for trees and horse stables, I realize that I am comfortable around another person for the first time in my adult life. "What about Dennis?" she asks. "Who?" "The guy with that silly tattoo of the sun with sunglasses." "Oh." I remember, "What about him?" "He was just so weird." She says. "He wasn't weird, just quiet," I answer. "But to answer your question, he stopped showing up about a month ago. It doesn't surprise me either. He was the only guy who Dr. Macnee treated worse than me." "Yeah, what's her deal with you, anyway?" Gwen asks. "I'm not sure," I say, but that isn't true. The truth is that she doesn't respect me, or anyone without a degree in the field. I look out my window. A chain link fence becomes visible in a gap amid the tree line. Far beyond that fence is several miles of golf course. But directly beyond that fence, and only barely visible in the dying glow of a far ahead street lamp, are three sets of green eyes focused on my side of the vehicle. Around the eyes, I can make out the jagged silhouette of thick, spiky fur, and sharply pointed ears. I stare back curiously, but a sharp jerk of the steering wheel sends my concentration to the front windshield. "What's wrong?" I ask. "It was a dead deer or something. It was too dark to see until I got close." I look back at the treeline just as it ends and a lane of parkway begins. In Gwen's neighborhood, we circle for nearly fifteen minutes before a spot opens up several blocks from her apartment. "It's a few blocks this way," she says, and motions with her chin. It's late, but Gwen's neighborhood bustles loudly into the summer night with car stereos playing loud music, and older men seated in beach chairs, and drinking beers on the sidewalk. We pass a deli, and then an old-looking church. A man is lying on his side on the church steps, and he watches us as we walk past. "That's a pretty girl." the man rasps, then lets out a phlegmatic-sounding laugh. Gwen's pace quickens slightly, and her forward gaze becomes rigid. "I said you're pretty, bitch, you not gonna say thank you?" Gwen's stride is automatic now, and she rustles her hands in her hoodie pockets. I put an arm around her waist, and her body molds into mine as our steps synchronize. There's a blur to my left, and then the man is in front of us, smiling. His teeth are yellow and jagged, and his mouth stretches far into the sides of his face, giving his nose and jaw a snout-like appearance. He wears an unbuttoned shirt that shows off a topographic map of deep gashes on his torso. A chunk of his arm looks bitten into, giving the flesh the appearance of an apple core. Blood crusts alongside yellow cholesterol deposits on the missing portion of the arm. Gwen is nestled so far under my arm that my heart beats against her face. The man looks her up and down hungrily. He has not regarded me once. For some reason, I think about Rocky the house mutt. Then I think about the hero in my novel. I reach for strength that I don't own. "Leave us alone," I demand. The man cocks his head back and projects another mucous-filled wheeze. Then he directs his focus to me, and even with his mouth closed, the lip line stretches for an unpleasant distance across his face. His eyes smolder like a smoking sinkhole as he passes them over me. "Aw," he condescends. "Why? What you gonna do about it." I place a hand in my pocket and grasp the sterling silver folding knife, allowing the handle to poke visibly next to my waistline. I maintain eye contact as my spine straightens stiff. I concentrate on my breath. Then I bark. "Leave us alone," I demand again. "Or I'll cut your eyes out of your fucking face." I pull the knife fully from my jeans now. The too-wide lips creep and curl around the man's cheekbones. Then the smile fades, and he studies the blade for a moment. "I'm just fucking with you, yeah?" Then he looks at Gwen, "And it was a fucking compliment. I'll see you around, beautiful." He looks to his side and then takes off down the church alleyway with alarming momentum. He hops a small fence at the back of the alley and disappears into the night. I look down at Gwen who is still nestled into my chest. Then she looks up at me. "Let's go," I say, and she blinks out of her trance. "My building is just down the block," she confirms. We half-walk, half-jog to the front of her building where she stops to catch several breaths. "Thank you," she says and looks me right in the eyes. Then she grabs the front of my shirty and kisses me on the front steps, and under the beautifully full moon. **\*\*\*** I have an early morning scheduled at the rescue, and Gwen offers to drive me. Something has changed throughout the night, and she touches me often and speaks in a softer voice. To my relief, her neighborhood is fast asleep as we approach her parked car. "Thank you again for last night," she says once we're on the road. It's the dark morning hour when the street lamps are turned off in anticipation of the morning sun. Gwen turns on her brights as she sharply turns onto Shore Road. After a short stretch, we see the culprit for her sharp swerve from the night prior. "Oh my God," Gwen moans, and we both turn our heads, Beside our vehicle is a mushy pile of blood, bone, and fur organized into a heaping mass. Bits of meat held together by clumps of fur are strewn for several feet of road in either direction. A few feet past that, and a large buck antler becomes visible above the passenger door guardrail like some crude memorial. "What do you think did this?" Gwen asks. I think about the trio of green eyes, then the man with the wide-set mouth. "I don't know," I say. We drive in mostly silence, and as we approach the rescue, I am surprised to see Dr. Macnee's car in the lot. After we pull to a stop, Gwen kisses me goodbye and tells me to call her after work. Then she drives away as I approach the already unlocked front door. The first thing that strikes me is the absence of a night clerk at the front desk. The next thing that strikes me is a small stippling of blood near the door to the hallway. My heart beats with syncopation as I follow its trail to the examination room. As I open the door, I see Dr. Macnee slightly hunched, and at eye level with the most grotesquely inbred, or birth-defective dog that I've ever seen. Its hair is thick at the top of the skull and spine, but sparse elsewhere. Through the thinning fur, I can see blueish-gray skin textured with blood vessels and liver spots. The joints all twist inward at a point, giving the dog a cracked, and hunched appearance. It sits atop an examination table that is not at all raised, suggesting a standing height of approximately six-and-a-half feet. "Good morning," I say or ask. "Did Peter and Paul drop this stray off?" Dr. Macnee doesn't look at me and continues the examination. She peeks in the dog's sharply pointed ears, then pulls back his gums, revealing two rows of strangely uniform, plaque-riddled cuspids. "What are you doing here so early?" I ask. "Forgot my purse," she starts blankly. "Forgot my purse, and what do I walk into?" I am too confused to respond, so I just stare at the grotesque dog. The lankiness of its limbs should not support its massive center of gravity. Its hackles stand at full attention from a painfully visible spine, and its ribs thump with short, quick breaths. Its jaw is covered in red and dark brown stains, but what draws me is the eyes. "I asked you to deep clean last night," she finally continues, "And somehow, you manage to make it worse in here. Did you try to redo the bandage on your own?" The dog's deep brown eyes lock onto mine. There is a depth behind them that suggests a level of comprehension beyond "sit" and "stay". "I did deep clean last night," I say. "And Gwen from grooming helped me." Dr. Macnee snorts, then forces a chuckle. "I never wanted an 'enrichment' division," Dr. Macnee spits. "We pay you to, to what exactly? Play fetch? Clean up shit? And you guys can't even get that right. I took pictures, and I can't wait to send them to the director-" She continues speaking, but the canine's eyes snatch my attention mid-sentence. It looks from me to Dr. Macnee with a flick of its eyeballs. Blood vessels constrict in the whites while the pupils burn black with dilation. The eyes bulge in their sockets, eclipsing their depth in singular focus. "Dr. Macnee-" I interrupt. "Don't you speak while I'm speaking!" she spits and points a finger at me. "I am sick and tired-", she continues. The beast's lips curl back revealing lines of spittle that vibrate like blades of grass against the first visible signs of a deep, gurgling growl. "Dr. Macnee, seriously-" I start again. "What?!" she yells. "He's going to bite." She turns her face just as the hideous beast removes most of her ear with an easy snap of its muscular jaws. Dr. Macnee's scream is high and hysterical as her wide eyes strain to assess her loss. The beast munches hungrily, then swallows. Dr. Macnee is still screaming as the muscles twitch in the beast's neck, and he springs forward with intent. The jaws unhinge, then clamp with force in the same instantaneous beat. Dr. Macnee's right eye socket down to her jawline is ensnared in a craggy prison of yellow teeth. She pulls back reflexively, causing the teeth to sink, and lock. The skin from her face stretches, pulls, then shreds like stringy gristle from a butcher's block. The jaws of the beast twitch dutifully, and with a squelching pop, the beast cleans the meat from the bone. The untouched portion of Dr. Macnee's face twists in horror and confusion, while her eyes spin and twitch in their sockets. A gash runs from the inner ear down through what remains of the lobe which forcefully spurts pints of blood across the examination room. Then the beast rises deftly to two feet and takes the Doctor's throat into its maw. He shakes his head once, eliciting a snap, and her body goes limp. I am frozen with fear and confusion as the beast makes eye contact with me. Dr. Macnee hangs heavily from between its jaws as he lowers back onto four legs. The beast turns toward me, and I place my palms up defensively. "Easy," I command. "Easy, boy." I take a step back with my palms still outstretched. "We're good." I keep my voice steady, "It's okay." The beast walks toward me, dragging Dr, Macnee beside it across the tiled floor. As it steps past me, it looks me in the face. "Easy boy," I repeat. It continues its walk into the hallway, and I slowly shut the door behind it. As the door shuts, I catch one last glimpse of the beast. On the side of its right arm, just visible beneath patchy, and thin fur, is a crude outline of a cartoon-style sun wearing sunglasses. The examination room door closes, and from beyond the glass panel, I can see the doors to the hallway open and shut. I wait painfully still for several moments before the main door is opened and closed as well. After the shock dwindles enough for me to regain my faculties, I call the police and then feed my dogs. Rocky smiles when he sees me, and his eyes gleam with admiration as I place the slow-feeder on his crate tray. When the cops arrive, they take a quick statement, then I show them footage from the examination room, and then the lobby. They exchange worry and confusion-filled glances. The attack footage in the examination room has been conspicuously deleted but cuts back just in time to place me away from the main computer as the hallway, and lobby footage are also cut. They tell me to leave for the day as the rescue is deemed an active crime scene. "I still need to let my dogs out," I tell them. After some deliberation, a promise from their K9 unit, and several neatly scribbled notes about medications, feedings, and temperaments, I finally agree to leave. They tell me that a detective will be in touch with me shortly. As a final word, the officers ask me not to speak with anyone. "No problem," I say. My bus is a half an hour away. I want to call Gwen, but she is probably home and in bed by now. With thirty minutes to kill, I take a seat on the bus bench across the street. I fish for my novel, then crack it open across my lap. Maybe I'll finally learn how the hero of this story deals with the looming threat. As I flip for my page, the sharp crack of a twig snags my attention. In the distance behind my bus bench, and across a small parking lot, a group of four massive, grotesquely lanky dogs plod along a treeline. A glimmer from the fading moon bounces light off a metal object around the neck of the third dog in line. They move with synchronicity, but no urgency, and a calm permeates my spirit as I watch them. As the moon catches off the metallic object again, I get a better glimpse of the small, shiny microphone pendant, bouncing with each step.

Kellen tightened his grip on the leather satchel he carried everywhere as he rushed through the crowded streets, his mind buzzing with the familiar chorus of thoughts. He felt the nagging tug of distraction, trying to remember if he had locked his apartment door. He could feel the familiar weight of his keys in his pocket, but their presence brought no assurance that his home was actually secure. He muttered to himself as he weaved through the throng of people. The city around him was a cacophony of clattering carriages, vendors hawking their wares, and the constant hum of “human energy”. But there was no time to stop and watch the people. Kellen had a lecture to attend, and he was determined not to be late again. As he approached the ivy-covered, grand archway to his university, Kellen felt a sudden jolt as he heard the bell announcing the start of class. It was as if the world flickered around him or a brief moment, like a lantern sputtering in a breeze. Shaking his head he continued through the arch but he could have sworn he left with plenty of time to make it to his class. As usual, he was late yet again. As he entered the lecture hall, a familiar feeling of guilt settled into his gut. Professor Alaric was mid-sentence, discussing the properties of a rare mana crystal his team had collected on a recent expedition. He barely spared a disappointed glance at the new arrival, but it was enough for Kellen to feel the guilt twisting in his intestines. Kellen admired Professor Alaric more than any other at this school. He would give anything to join one of his famous exhibitions to the untainted lands. But given his unreliable nature Kellen knew it would be all he could do just to pass the class. Earning the necessary accolades to be chosen as a student assistant could only be a product of Kellen’s daydreams... A commodity of which there were no shortages. Quietly he slipped into his usual seat at the back, trying to blend in. Kellen glanced around, noting the familiar faces of his classmates. But something was off. The pretty girl sitting two rows ahead of him, who he recognized as Amara, usually wore her hair in a braid. Today, it was loose and flowing. Kellen shook his head again, forcing himself to focus on the lecture. He pulled out his notebook, only to find that the notes he had meticulously taken the previous week were missing. Instead, there were scribbles and diagrams he didn’t recognize. Panic bubbled up, but he forced it down. “Must’ve grabbed the wrong notebook,” he whispered, though doubt gnawed at him. Had he just doodled through the last class again? Kellen’s mind drifted while taking notes, occasionally coming into focus when hearing particularly interesting combinations of words. Was he supposed to know what “Anchora Veritas” meant? After the lecture, Kellen approached Amara. “Hey, you changed your hairstyle. It looks great!” Amara threw her braided hair over a shoulder and gave him a puzzled look. “No, Kellen. I’ve always worn it like this. Are you feeling okay?” It was Kellen’s turn to look confused. “Yeah, during class I thought I noticed it was down or something. I must just be… tired,” he said, forcing a smile. “Not sure what is wrong with me.” Still looking puzzled but slightly amused, Amara slowly turned to walk away. Kellen was too embarrassed and confused to follow after her and attempt to continue a conversation. As he walked to his next lecture, the nagging sensation of something being profoundly wrong refused to dissipate. Strange occurrences like this were frequent for Kellen. Conversations he swore he had with friends were met with blank stares when brought up. Objects in his apartment would shift positions sometimes as he was using them, as if by some strange magic. Often he would inadvertently make multiple cups of tea after he had misplaced the first. When he was younger, he often thought his sister was messing with his things to flummox him, but now he lived on his own, so he had only himself to blame. To Kellen, he just seemed to live in a world that was slowly unraveling in subtle, yet deniable ways. The remainder of Kellen’s day was unremarkable, and he continued his studies despite the regular chaos that plagued his unusual existence. One evening, as Kellen sat in his cluttered study, surrounded by books on arcane theory and half-finished projects, he opened a notebook and randomly flipped to notes he took during Professor Alaric’s most recent lecture dated the week before. Only instead of the notes he remembered taking, there was an impressive sketch of his classmate Amara. He didn’t remember creating such a sketch, but that wasn’t unusual for Kellen. What was unusual was that in the sketch, Amara’s hair was down, unbraided, and flowing. Under the sketch was a note written in his hand: “Must Steal Crystal” [end] Not sure where I am going with this idea or if I should continue writing. Thought I would share it here and see what you guys think.

City of dunes A lone figure moved with an adept step through the canyon made by sand dunes banked against the deteriorating sky scrapers of a forgotten age. The figures poncho, made from a motley collection of yellow, brown and orange overlapping shapes, blended into the sands. The small sled trailing behind the figure was similarly camouflaged, but left a small trail of lifted sand in its wake. Perhaps that is what drew the attention of the scavengers. The sound of the men's sand boards alerted the lone figure, they made their rapid descent from the first floor above sand level in the building to the figures left. The building, dilapidated with a large ‘M’ hanging at a precarious angle from its peak, would’ve once held stockbrokers or insurance mangers or any kind of those old-world jobs. Now, the people living in the bones of the old-world only had one job. Survival. The figure disengaged from the sled with one swift arm movement and had footing sure enough to dart three or four meters from the sled by the time the men circled it. The figures hood had fallen during his sprint, reveling an old man with deep lines in his sun-tanned skin, his white whiskers and stubble over his scalp tainted orange by the sands enveloping the city. His piercing aqua blue eyes quickly darted to survey the area. He had one man in-between himself and his sled, two behind it and one still 20 meters above them all, on top of the sand dune. The three on his level had only basic weapons, one knife and two steel bars, basic clothing; thin shirts and denim or cotton pants, they did not wear shoes. They were thin, but also muscled in their shoulders and chests. The one above all, watching, was too far and at an angle too awkward to gain a proper understanding. The rifle in their hands did not require a second look to notice. “We’ll have the sled and anything you’ve got on you, but play nice, we’ll let you walk.” The closest and largest of the three men raised his knife with a straight arm as he spoke. The old man took a moment to gather spit in his mouth before he spoke. “Funny, I was thinking the same thing.” His voice was as if the sand storms had abraded any smoothness in his voice. The leader of the scavengers let out a small chuckle, which was followed by the two behind the sled. Just before he could offer a retort the old man flicked the right side of his poncho behind his shoulder. His light machine gun, hanging from a strap, was now obvious. The move had also shown some of the man's physique, while not as tall as the men in front of him, he was definitely more muscled. “Like you’ve got any bullets for that.” The scav scoffed, trying to downplay how large his eyes had gotten a moment before. The big man looked confident, but his two underlings behind had started to cower. “I don’t think they’ve got any bullets” the old man gestured to the scav’s overwatch. “How about we don’t find out. Both walk away with what we had when we came in?” “Old man, you brave. But there’s more of us than you. We take the sled, you walk away.” “You take the sled, you kill me. Walk away or we find out who's got bullets” The old man’s hand slid around the grip of his weapon. The big man, made a grunt, rubbed his face with his hand then lunged. The shot did not come from the old man’s LMG, nor did it come from the overwatch. It came from behind the left side of the old man’s poncho. The bullet took the big man between the eyes, dead instantly his momentum carried him to the old man, who lazily sidestepped the falling mass. His trick pulled, the old man moved the pistol out from his poncho and held it at arm's length. Keeping an eye on the two men, now drained of color and, seemingly, fight, knelt down to search the dead man. One of the men stepped forward, the old man's pistol snapped to his head. “Please, he’s my brother ...” “Well step back or your mother will have two sons to bury.” he searched the body; his clothes were too large and weapons too basic for the old man to deem any of them worth carrying. The only thing of value was a necklace with a small silver cross. He tossed the necklace to the man that he had almost killed just minutes before. The man caught it and gave a small nod. “Fuck off now. Both of you.” The men scrambled to climb up the dune back to the dangling ‘M’ building. The woman, noticed upon a better look, with the rifle looked on, trying to appear stoic with upright posture gripping the rifle in her hands like she wanted to bend it. Even with the distance between them the old man could see the tears welling in her eyes. The old man reattached himself to his sled, with more effort than detaching, and continued on his journey, thankful that the sands had absorbed some of the noise of the most recent of an ever-extending list of conflicts. He thought of home to think about something other than the big man's face. Then when that worn thin, he thought about why he wasn’t at the home. His thoughts turned towards the hospital he used to visit in the time before the storms. He thought about the only hope for his family.

I picked her favorite flowers, I told myself "today I will confess my true feelings to her". But the fear of rejection surrounded me, millions of questions raised in my mind I started questioning myself. I already had texted her the place and time. She replied with "YES!' BUT! She didn’t knew it was a date. Character Flashbacks: - (Scene) I still remember the first time I saw her, on a bus ride to college. She was laughing with her friend, her smile lighting up her face. Her eyes, deep and expressive, seemed to hold entire stories within them. Her hair, a cascade of midnight silk, shimmered with every movement. She had an effortless charm that captivated me instantly. I was shocked to know she was going to the same collage as me, joy filled my heart. I was curious in which Department she is in, so I followed her to her class room, she was in the Department Medicine, whereas I was in the Department of Psychiatry. I was already overjoyed by the thought that I’ll be able to see her every day in the bus. That was the first day of my collage. The 2^(nd) day, while waiting at the bus stop, the bus finally appeared. I went in I saw her again, but today her friends were not in the bus, she was reading a book. I said to myself.” I think I should go and talk to her”. That’s when I went behind her and sat, I asked to her “Hi, in what Department are you in”. (turning around slightly, looking up) She quickly replied “Hi, I’m in Department of Medicine.” Then I said to her “That’s nice, I am in the Department of Psychiatry” She said “That’s good, I am also very interested about Psychiatry, have read the book Psychiatry by Neeraj Ahuja, I love that book.” I replied “off course I have read that book, it is one of my favourite books, by the what’s your name?” She replied “Oh! my name is Medea” I replied with ‘’Medea! That’s a beautiful name, it sounds Greek.” She replied “Yes! It is Greek.” As we were talking, the collage came and the conversation stopped there. We both gave our goodbyes to each other and left for our classes, I was on cloud nine. After some classes I went to cafeteria for a refreshment, I saw Medea she looked at me waved her hand to me, I waved my hand too. After that I went to my classroom. After collage I sat in the bus thinking I will sit with Medea this time, as I entered the bus I saw her friends sitting with her. I said to myself “next time I’ll sit with her”. I sat in a corner the day. From that day I started talking to her regularly. Present day (DATE) I drew four sketches of her, hoping they would convey the depth of my feelings. I kept them in an envelope and carried them to the restaurant. I arrived 30 minutes early, fearing I might be late. As I sat there, my mind raced with anticipation and dread. At 6:30 PM, Medea walked in, her presence lighting up the room. We greeted each other and took our seats. Throughout the meal, we talked and laughed, just like we always did. But tonight, was different; tonight, I would lay my heart bare. Out of nowhere, I pulled out the ring, my hands trembling. Her eyes widened in shock, and the room seemed to hold its breath. “I’ve loved you since the first day I saw you,” I began, my voice shaking. “I can’t forget the day we met on the bus. You’ve been on my mind every moment since.” Her expression hardened, and my heart sank. Medea: (eyeing him coldly) “Are you serious? Why would I ever want to go out with you? Look at yourself.” Character: (taken aback, hurt evident in his eyes) “I... I thought maybe we could…” Medea: (cutting him off) “Save it. I wouldn’t be caught dead with someone like you. You’re nothing but a pathetic, ugly loser.” Character: (crushed, tears welling up) “I... I’m sorry…” Medea: (rolling her eyes) “Yeah, you should be. Just stop embarrassing yourself. No one will ever want you.” Character: (trying to stop his tears) ... I’m sorry for what I am. The laughter from the other diners felt like daggers. I gathered my envelope and left, my vision blurred by tears. After the date: (Character lying on bed) That night, I lay in bed, unable to hold back the flood of memories. How could I even thought of a girl like Medea can be my girlfriend. Her looks, style, standard. I don’t fit with her in any aspect of her life. I was always bullied for my looks, I should not forget that NEVER (Character remembering his past) Character: …From my earliest memories, I knew I was different. It wasn't just my face; it was the way people looked at me, whispered about me, laughed at me behind their hands. I tried to hide, to shrink into the background and disappear, but there was no escaping the cruel spotlight of their scrutiny. They called me names like "Freak" and "Monster," their voices like knives slicing through my already fragile sense of self-worth. I tried to steel myself against their words, to build a fortress around my heart, but it was no use. Their hatred seeped into my bones, poisoning me from the inside out. High school brought with it a new level of cruelty, a darkness so deep and suffocating it felt like I was drowning. I looked in the mirror and saw only ugliness staring back at me. I tried to scrub away the stain of their hatred, to carve out a space for myself in a world that had no room for someone like me, but it was futile. Their words echoed in my mind, a never-ending chorus of condemnation that left me feeling small and insignificant. I found myself drawn to the siren song of oblivion. Suicide whispered sweetly in my ear, offering a release from the relentless torment of my existence. I stood on the edge of the abyss, the darkness yawning wide before me, beckoning me to step into its embrace and be swallowed whole. It would be so easy, I thought, to let go, to surrender to the void and leave behind the pain and the loneliness once and for all. (Character snaps back to reality, sitting on his chair in front of his computer) (Scene) The whole environment is dark black, the light of the monitor is blocking the character body making it appear darker. The character pulled up a photo of Medea on his computer screen. Character opens the envelop takes out the drawing which he made of Medea. Tears 3 drawing in small pieces bit by bit, rolls the 4^(th) drawing, stuffs the small bits of the other 3 drawing in the rolled-up drawing, sticks the rolled drawing to make it a cigarette out the drawing. He finally lights on end of the rolled drawing. Smokes it fully having tears in his eyes, recalling the time he same Medea for the first time. **\~Narrator\~**: The character takes a blade, lifts his left hand and writes the name of the girl on his left bicep with the razer, blood rushes out of his bicep but the character has finally become what the world want him to become “nothing more than desensitized, emotionless, painless animal or maybe a PURE SAD HUMAN seeking a bit of love”. character’s next move: the character takes a blade and stabs it in his heart. (While the blade is in his heart) he also has some flowers in his hands, he takes a chair places it underneath a hanging rope, stands on the chair, wraps his neck around the rope pushes the chair. Trying to fly (in this moment character is flying, smiling, praying for Medea future to be beautiful as she is. “I picked her favorite flowers” says the character, before flying With these finals thought the character leaves. Silence surrounds the room). **\~Narrator:\~** (Happily) OH! Look the character has left a note on his table (the camera slowly moves towards the table and zooms on the letter) **\~THE LETTER SAYS:\~** My madness took over my soul. I took my blade and stabbed it into you. Your hot blood creates a lake around my ugly body. I look at you straight in your eyes while my eyes are closed, you silently whisper curse upon my name. I tear up, and watch you slowly slip away from life. I hold your hand, stained with blood, and whisper into it. ''Don't die on me.

I never had the desire to sit in a colorful chair while getting whipped by blowing sand and developing a grisly burn. Some people call that “going to the beach.” It was all she wanted to do. She was all I wanted to do so that was all I wanted to do. Her bags were filled with chemicals, four towels for two people, and three coverups for one person. I carried her rope handled bags and followed behind her watching her hop through the dune grass and down to the shore. Her pretend oblivion is obvious now to me. She knew that I knew. We sat near a rocky jetty that stuck out into the ocean denoting the end of the beach. It was secluded and I wondered who else was thinking that thought. She positioned her chair at an awkward angle to maximize her sun intake. I pretended not to watch her rub her already bronzed extremities with glossy oil. She glowed in the sun, basking like a turtle on a rock. I brought three books to read and a notebook to write and I acknowledged none of it. I held my book as a disguise. What I really read was every inch, curve, and mark on her body as her color changed. She read her book. She watched birds dive purposely into the water to emerge with fish in their talons. She made up stories about the boats teetering on the horizon. I caught her flash an undisciplined smile at a young family next to us. I held her hand. I imagined what she’d look like if her bikini was cursed with some spell to make it disintegrate under sunlight. Then I had to redirect my mind. Mostly she would do what I can only describe as photosynthesizing. As she consumed the sun, she periodically looked up to see why a young girl had screamed (a man with muscular arms and bony legs tossed her around in the surf) or why the lifeguard blew their whistle (the aforementioned couple had ventured out too far). Then she would catch my eye and ask me “What are you looking at?” in her mocking, sensual way. I knew that she knew exactly what I was looking at. She knew that I knew. She suggested we walk on the jetty and I suggested we do whatever makes her happy. She bounced from rock to rock. She was barefoot and agile despite the uneven, slippery contour beneath her painted toes. I worried she would step on a sharp rock or a broken beer bottle or fall between stones. She is particularly clumsy for someone so fearless. I often think she isn’t as fearless as she portrays. I knew better than to suggest she be more attentive to her step so I compromised with a sheepish “Be careful, please.” She skipped onto a particularly gloomy rock and stopped abruptly as if she had hit a wall. Parallel to the ocean, she sat and pulled her knees to her heart. I joined her because I knew that’s what she wanted. As I did, I realized that’s what I wanted, too. She rested her head on my shoulder damp with sweat and particles from the ocean. “The colors are so beautiful.” I looked into the sky and saw its normal cornflower hue. “What do you see?” I knew to ask, aware that her mind regularly treks to places mine doesn’t until she brings me there, too. “The colors!” She imposed with a harder tone, clearly veiled with confusion as to how I wasn’t seeing what she was. “The purple!” I saw no purple. She’s a little out of her mind but at this assertion, I thought she might not have one anymore. Maybe she left it on the beach. I think she could see the bemuse on my face. She poked her eyes over the top of her sunglasses then slid them back on over and over again. I have learned to give her a moment to collect and vocalize her conclusion when I can tell she’s solving a puzzle in her brain. Solved, she turned to me and shoved her sunglasses onto my face. I saw instantly what she saw. A pale, galactic, nearly iridescent hue that flashed for just a second before the wave crested and broke. I turned to her and begrudgingly admitted that I also saw the sight that she saw. I almost wanted to believe she had lost her mind. At this, she beamed and fell into me. I knew that even without her sunglasses, she still saw the purple.

One Way Street Two friends walking down a city riverside street. Japa : That cafe is playing my favorite new song. I've been looking for a reason to pick a spot and sit. Look good? Aben : Sure, looks inviting, got time to kill. The two sit down Japa begins bobbing knee to the rhythm, the song is gentle and soft, just loud enough to enjoy without impeding conversation Japa : I love this song, like a warm golden sunrise, you know? Aben : Sure… Well… actually, not really, but it is a very relaxing song. Japa : Huh? Well, what does it feel like to you? Aben : Uh… Relaxing and peaceful I guess Japa : If you don't like it just say so haha, it's not like it's my song. Aben : No no, it's great. Japa : You never really talk much about music but you are always listening to it with those ear buds of yours. Aben : Oh, I love music. I probably just love it for different reasons than you. Japa : Elaborate. Aben : Well, for me it's a powerful mood regulator, the way it can lift my spirits, amplify happiness or soften sadness. It can drown out the noise of life, keep my mind from daydreaming, kind of anchor me by giving me constant background stimulus. It gives me some agency over my state of mind and control of my imagination’s tendency to wander. Japa : So you DO feel the music? Aben : Yes, of course, just not the way you describe it. Japa : How do I describe it? Aben : With visuals. Japa : Try closing your eyes, relax and listen to the music. \*Aben snickers\* Aben : It's not like I haven't tried that. So many people talk about seeing music, there are tons of audio visualization programs and other stuff out there, just none of it really clicks for me. Japa : You are the first person I have heard that from. What do you think of music videos? Aben : Oh, I love them. Don't get me wrong, I can appreciate the beauty of music videos and visualizations. Japa : So after seeing a music video, does it come to mind later when you hear the song again? Aben : Not really. Not unless I actively try to remember it. The music doesn't trigger visuals by itself. Is that how it works for you? Like does hearing the music push the play button on a memory of the music video? Japa : No… Well sometimes maybe a bit like that, but most of the time is more like a music visualizer that pulls on visual elements like color, shape, image, motion, and so on. It combines, abstracts, and modifies them in ways I don't really consciously control, a bit like a mild daydream. Aben : Is it any different from just normal daydreaming while music affects your mood? Japa : So different! Daydreams, they… they evolve as a story, the elements of the story are what guide progression. Seeing music is different, the visuals and the whole experience is driven by the music. I guess if I'm daydreaming while listening to music then it sometimes kinda switches between the two… transitions I mean, the two modes can blend and transition, but even when mixed together I would still say that both are distinct things happening together. Aben : Can you control it? Like can you choose which one you do and how it progresses? Japa : Yes… Well… no, I wouldn't really call it control, I can lean into one or the other, more like riding a skateboard as opposed to steering a bicycle. Not sure if that makes sense. Aben : It makes perfect sense, I get what you mean completely. Do you have to close your eyes for it to happen? Japa : No. It definitely helps a lot, but if I just unfocus my visual attention I can do it with my eyes open to some degree. I mean, I can daydream and fantasize with my eyes open, can't you? Aben : I can… draw on and recall mental images, but it's really hard with my eyes open. So do these… have any… um… linguistic components? Japa : Like words? I don't ever remember seeing text. Aben : So just aesthetics and visuals then, it just like a pretty picture or cool music visualizer, not much meaning. Japa : Oh heavens no! So much more! Aben : Like what? Japa : The elements… they connect and evolve… they form scenes and transitions… streams of images, shapes, movements, and feelings… They are stories. Aben : So they convey complex ideas? Can you choose to visualize things and inject them into the stream? Can it become like a visual conversation? Japa : That's… Ummm… I was about to say that's a weird thing to say, but no, it's not weird, it's accurate, you hit the nail on the head. I can add elements by choice, I might think “this could use a ray of light, or an explosion of color, or a butterfly or something.” Sometimes I bring in the thing and it gets integrated or expanded upon, other times it just doesn't take and it fades away as if it was rejected… and I can do the same, I can reinforce or reject the random things that pop in. I guess there are two skateboards somehow connected, and I'm just one of the riders. I suppose it is a type of conversation… Yeah. It sounds a bit weird to say though. Aben : Not at all… Just… I don't really get the part where sounds become visuals… That's the part I can't wrap my head around. Sound is so one dimensional, I don't get how it can become something like 2D visuals. Japa : What do you mean one dimensional? Aben : Sound… Hearing, audio, is a 1D stream of stimulus, and time is the one dimension. Japa : That's so not true! There are frequencies. If you look at a spectrum analyzer audio becomes 2D, like visuals. Aben : That's such a false equivalence! I could use Fourier analysis on a single pixel of video to create a whole new dimension too, and that's just using the time axis, vision is 2D without factoring in time. Technically I was being generous when calling it one dimensional, compared to sight, hearing is zero dimensional. Sight has X and Y, with time it's 3D, then I can add in color channels R, G, B, and brightness to reach 7D. Japa : Haha… First off, speaking of derivatives, brightness is a derivative of RGB. Aben : No, it's not! Rods plus three types of cones. Four unique sensors. Japa : Hearing has a massive amount of cilia, hair like sensors, tuned to different frequencies, just like rods and cones. Sight has 4 different frequency tuned sensors, hearing has… I'm not exactly sure, I would have to look it up, thousands I think. So by your own reasoning hearing is a sense with thousands of dimensions haha. Aben : OK, I'll admit that definitely constitutes a dimension, one of frequency resolution, not thousands haha. Both sight and hearing are stereo, so let's just ignore that, and whatever triangulation resolutions can be achieved we can ignore too. But sight also has an adjustable lens and iris. I'm not going to go so far as to call them dimensions because you can only tune into one value at a time, but they aren't far from it. Japa : Ha. Alot to unpack there. First off, you totally can NOT equate auditory stereo to visual stereo. The speed of light is so fast we can't use TOF, time of flight. Sound waves, however, travel slow enough that it is possible to measure TOF. Also, we can create sound with our bodies in many ways so, like bats or a blind person's cane, echolocation is possible. Secondly, you have completely ignored OHC, outer hair cells. Most people only think about IHC, inner hair cells, these cilia form a line of sensors physically tuned to fixed frequencies, but parallel to that row of IHC there are three rows of OHC. The OHC are able to change their length, they can amplify, enhance and enable selectivity in our hearing. Aben : So you are saying OHC are equivalent to lenses and iris. Japa : More! They are like having thousands of lenses and iris spread across a spectrum. As much as I'm loving this little sensory debate, are we going anywhere with all this? Was there an original point? Aben : Oh yeah, haha. I was saying that I don't get how sound, something so ephemeral, can translate into something so tangible as a visuals. Japa : You still trying to say hearing is less real than vision? Are you trying to repeat the debate we just had? Haha. Aben : No no, hehe. I just mean that sound is the only sense where there is really no actual contact between sensor and sensee. Japa : Are you crazy? Cilia are literally mechanical touch sensors, the pressure waves of sound physically push and pull the hairs back and forth. Aben : Yeah, but they travel through a medium, usually air, the particles, atoms or molecules that touch you didn't actually come from the source. Taste and smell react to molecules that come directly from the source, touch is physical contact with the source, sight detects photons from the source. But for sound the pressure wave is an emergent phenomenon, not an actual thing or particle. Japa : You say that, so do you want to argue that photons are not an emergent phenomenon of a field. Aben : Photons have particle properties, a single photon doesn't radiate in all directions. Japa : So are we just ignoring interference patterns and quantum dynamics? Aben : There are conditions where photons act like waves or have wave-like properties, but they also collapse into particles, sound and pressure waves do not. Japa : I'm playing devil's advocate here, but directional ultrasonic array speakers create a directed beam like a laser. Aben : Now you are just being silly, not at all the same thing. The waves radiate omnidirectionally, there is just a straight line where constructive interference occurs. And you just used your turn to make a silly point. Now I'm going to point out that photons are more particle-like because they have discrete energy levels, so now I'm ahead by two points haha. Japa : Hahaha… What about comparing a single chain of molecular pushes as a walking particle? Aben : Even if you tried to imagine it as a kind of discrete quantized unit of force, it would still be a random walk. You would need many before the emergent sound waves started to appear. Photons, on the other hand, can exist as discrete single units that follow all the same rules. Japa : Ok ok… I give up, you win! Sound is an emergent, or as you put it, ephemeral phenomena, haha. Where are you going with this? Aben : Nowhere, I just have trouble understanding how sound can trigger visuals. Japa : And… your confusion is because sound is somehow less tangible than sight? Aben : kind of… it's like… it's like you are inflating the sound experience, raising is dimensionality. If it was the other way around, like sculpting from a bulk, that seems natural. But how do you make a sculpture from a piece of paper? Japa : Origami? Hahaha… Aben : OK.. Hehe.. I walked into that one, but you know what I mean. Japa : Yes… I Just don't really… Why do you… ?... Wait! How come you seem so understanding and on the same page about all the descriptions and abstractions of the experience if you don't get it at all? \*Aben noticeably uncomfortable\* Aben :... No reason. Japa : No no! You even suggested very detailed and perfect analogies, you were right there along with me all the way as we discussed the experience… But you say you don't understand how it goes from, what you call, lower dimensional audio to higher dimensional visuals… Do you experience it the other way around? You do, don't you? \*Aben crossed arms and pulls back\* Japa : What's wrong? \*Aben looks at phone… signals the service staff..\* Aben : Let's walk a bit. Japa : Sounds good. \*Aben pays when staff comes over, then they get up and wander off… \* Japa : I can tell you are holding something in, come on… Out with it! Aben : It’s not the kind of thing I usually talk about. Japa : Look… I'm no therapist, but I do know it's never healthy to bottle things up. \*Aben pauses then reluctantly begins to speak\* Aben : You are right. I do experience the other way around. It seems like I'm the only one though. Everyone always talks about the kind of experience you describe, it's obviously normal. Japa : So you are afraid of people thinking you are weird? Aben : Kind of… Japa : So most people can see sounds, but you… hear sights… Ok… I do grant you that it does come off as a very unusual sounding. Aben : See! Japa : So what?... You shouldn't worry so much. So… for me a burst of dramatic tone might stimulate me to visualize a bright red blast. So it basically just happens inverted for you? Aben : Not really… That visual you described, the bright red blast, is it just a color? Nothing more, just a flat hue? Japa : No… It's… \*Aben buts in\* Aben : It's more abstract, higher level, it carries meaning and emotion, it represents complex feelings and ideas… Right? Japa : Yeah… More or less… So… when you experience it the other way… The sounds you hear have complex meanings and feelings… … Do you hear voices? Aben : SEE! That right there, the way you are looking at me right now. \*Japa shakes of a gawking expression\* Japa : Wow, I'm so sorry, it caught me off guard. I guess you have every right to be cagey about it. There is a surge of social stigma and stereotypes that flood up with the concept of hearing voices. Aben : I know. Japa : Look, this is probably one of those things where my imagination paints a far more extreme or worse picture than reality. Why don't you just tell me what it's like, paint me a picture so my imagination doesn't run wild. Aben : It's basically similar to the way we just discussed your auditory induced visuals. Japa : So that's why you were so focused on the story and conversation analogies. So how does it work? What kind of visuals or situations activate it? Like for me it is something I… Um…turn on… No… something I allow to happen if the situation has the right stimulus and I'm in the right mood. Aben : Yeah, but let me ask you, can you really just choose to not allow it to happen? Like isn't it kind of always there, in the background, and you just open the window and let it in? Japa :Yes… You are right… If simulating music is playing then the experience is happening in the background, albeit in a muted form, even if I don't encourage it. So is that what it's like? You have little voices and whispers in the background when you see stimulating visuals? Aben : Yes, but it starts out much more abstract, calling them voices or whispers is too tangible for how they begin. They don’t become voices until I engage them. Japa : Engage them? Aben : It’s like… you know how some people are shy and easily steamrolled by others? Japa : Yeah. Aben : It’s like that. I have to give it a quiet moment of attention, otherwise it is just like that person who has something to say, but someone who just won’t push or fight for chance to speak, however, once they open their mouth and start talking then they have so much pent up to say and they just start rambling non-stop. Japa : Do the voices ever tell you to do things? Aben : Arg!... there… that’s the kind of stuff… Japa : I’m sorry, I didn’t think before I spoke that time. That’s a silly stereotype based on ridiculous media and entertainment portrayals. This all just sounds so … unfamiliar to me. Aben : It shouldn’t. That's what bugs me most, people have such extremely distorted stereotypes about this stuff, but it should be perceived and accepted as completely normal. Japa : What do you mean? It sounds like something so unusual. You think everyone should have the same experience? Aben : Yes, or at least something similar. We all have two hemispheres to our brain, they can act and think independently. Japa : I do remember some interesting studies and stuff about that. The connection between the two hemispheres was cut and people started to present very strange behavior, as if each side of their body was an individual person or something, right? Aben : Yes, if the connection between hemispheres is broken then each hemisphere gets control of half of the body and can see from one eye. You can interact with either half independently. Take it further and if you make it so neither side can see what the other side sees or does, then it’s almost like interacting with two separate people… almost. Japa : Almost? I kind of remember but it’s faded, refresh my memory. Aben : So only left-brain can speak. You can use text cues to talk to either brain independently by only letting one eye see it. If you ask right-brain, not letting left-brain see the instruction, to pick up an object, then right-brain will do it, but left-brain won’t know why that happened. If you ask left-brain, with voice, why the object was picked up, it will invent a rational sounding excuses like ‘because that is the best object from the options available’. The person literally starts making up excuses and believing their own lies, the speaker doesn't know why they picked up the object but they give confident wrong answers for why they did it. Japa : Oh yeah, the left hemisphere, our speaking hemisphere, is full of B.S. haha, I remember now. Aben : Kind of, left-brain is just really good at rationalizing, and seems to give answers even when it doesn’t know the real reason. It’s probably very hard for it to comprehend seeing its own body perform an action but not know why, so it just makes up a rationalization. Japa : O.K… so I think I get it, you are saying that we all have two voices, one that can talk and one that relies on telling the other one what it wants to say. You think the right hemisphere is the other voice that you let, or coax to come out. Aben : Basically, yeah. Technically everyone should have a right brain always whispering to their left brain. Right brain is more involved in visual skills, body language, spatial awareness, artistic capacities, and so on. Japa : So when you give it the floor to speak, what is it like? Aben : It feels like I just give it a voice, at the same time it feels like it is me, but I still don’t know exactly what it's going to say until the words come out. Japa : So you say it out loud? Aben : I can use my inner voice, but that is a much softer effect. Japa : Softer? Aben : Before I give it a voice it's just an idea, it's unformed and abstract, it's like how sometimes you know what you mean but you can’t quite put it into words, almost like it's in a quantum state and only by speaking the words does it collapse into something concrete. When using the inner voice it doesn't feel like it fully collapses, at least not as hard and tangible as using a full spoken out-loud out voice. Japa : I totally get that, sometimes I try to paint a visual I have in mind and only when I put brush to canvas do I realize the visual feeling didn't have a tangible form yet and it takes shape as I paint. Aben : Exactly, and I bet as you're painting, sometimes you say “nope, that's not it” and you have to redirect, modify, or back up and start again. Japa : Of course. Aben : Well, that's what I do, only with speech. Japa : But speech triggered by visuals? I can totally relate to inner speech or talking to yourself, but I don’t understand the whole visual trigger part. Aben : I feel the same way about you and your auditory stimulated visuals… O.K…. So it’s kind of like a strong visual can create an urge to say something I won’t quite know what at first, not until it takes form. Also, whatever I’m seeing or looking at imbues character and personality into the voiceless-voice, or I guess the right-brain voice. I can start the conversation anytime I want. On the one side, left-brain, there is a voice that seems rather consistent, and on the other side there is a voice who takes on all sorts of personalities. Japa : So it’s like one person talking to a crowd? Or…. Aben : More like one person who is very literal and direct trying to talk to a very unstable person with multiple personalities, not so much like a crowd. The unstable right-brain voice can change its personality at any moment, like an improv actor who easily switches hats and characters. Japa : That sounds like a very frustrating conversation haha. Aben : Literal voice might think that sometimes, when I actually do full-blown out-loud speech with myself it's often like one character trying to interrogate or pin down an opponent into a fixed meaning. Japa : And that voice changes every time you see something? Aben : More like when a new form occupies my internal visual space, I can retain the character longer by holding on to the internal visualization. I can of course also use memories and imagination in place of actual sight. Japa : This sounds so similar to visualizing sound. If I focus on a song I know well I’m able to create a mental playback and it can generate visualizations, and if I hum or tap or sing then it can be even stronger. So I’m curious.. Does umm… \*Japa looks around\* Japa : …this is gonna sound weird, but does that tree say anything? Does it have a personality? Aben : Yes, of course it has a personality Japa : What does it say? Aben : …this feels weird… doing this on request... out loud… with a tree in public… Japa : You have come this far, what do you have left to hide? Aben : …I guess… Japa : So… what does it say? Aben : Look at me…. I am big and grand, I cast such a wide shadow… but don’t touch me, stay away. Look, appreciate, but don’t touch! Japa : … O.K…. that made sense… well… your tone kinda shifted a bit there. Aben : First I saw the canopy of leaves, then I looked down and saw the rough protective bark on the trunk. Japa : So that’s it… it’s basically just personification, but a rough feeling based on visuals. That’s not so weird, very useful for an artist I would think. Aben : Oh no… That was just giving it a voice and a few words, I didn’t engage with it. Japa : Well then… On with it! \*Aben jumps into a rapid fire dialogue, no pause or hesitation between the self-exchanges\* Aben : You are a bit of a tease! I’m not a tease, I’m just private! Yet you stand out, so grandiose and proud. Yes. But then you act all cagey and protective. Yes, so what, are you saying I’m not allowed? I guess I can’t say you're not allowed to be yourself, but it seems you want attention yet at the same time don’t really want anyone to get close. I want attention and admiration, of course, don’t we all, but I am cautious Why? Look at how thin my trunk is, yet it alone supports this massive canopy. I see If I was not carefull and protective it would not take much to bring me crashing down Then why do you broadcast your presence That is my purpose, it is who I am. I shoot up and branch out, I grow and grow. Until when? There is no when. Just growth. Branches into the sky, roots into the earth. … I could keep going on like that for pretty much as long as I want Japa : I love that… Wow… Aben : … Thanks… I guess… Japa : I’m going to try doing that sometimes… Maybe I can learn to do it too. I do understandard why you are so reluctant to open up and talk about it, there are definitely a lot of stereotypes to overcome and misunderstandings to navigate. Aben : Oh yes! It has been a long time since I have been open about this kind of stuff. Japa : So what about people? Do they stimulate the same effect? Aben : Of course. People have very strong voices, I can have so many conversations in my head just being in public spaces seeing lots of people. Japa : What about while you are talking to them? Aben : Kind of... A bit, but not so much. Engaging in conversation with a person largely drowns out the effect. Japa : But it’s still there? Aben : I guess it's kind of like a predictive whisper, maybe… like it is reading their voice, facial expressions, body language, and the situation, trying to guess what they are thinking. Japa : I get that, I think everyone does that on some level, and like you pointed out earlier, the right brain reads body language and the left brain is the speaker, I think most of us just call the right brain voice by other names based on what it says, like intuition, instinct, or empathy. Aben : Yeah. I’m curious, those visuals of yours, are they kinda grouped into types and styles? Do they pop out in your art like functions? Can you call them up when you need or want them? Japa : Yeah, for sure. I guess you could say I collect them, I use them alot in my… wait… I have realized that your questions are actually descriptions of your own experience in disguise haha… you collect voices don’t you? Aben : You got me… yeah.. Is that weird? They are super helpful for brainstorming, problem solving, and introspection. Japa : Do you have a collected copy of me? \*Aben smirks\* Aben : …yes… Japa : O.k., if I’m being honest, that feels a bit weird. What is it like? Aben : Well, you know how people often say “What would X person do?”. Do you ever do that? Japa : Yeah. Aben : Well, probably like that. Except I have a lot of practice doing it and I have full conversations with an approximate emulation of your personality… well, to be precise, with an emulation of how I perceive you to be. I’m sure my copy is not accurate in many ways. Japa : Does this version of me have memories? Aben : I do imbue it with our shared experiences and things I know about you. Also it does often have awareness of things you wouldn’t, I can’t completely quarantine it from my own knowledge and memories. It's just an approximate emulation. I don’t really control the way it works, it's an abstract skill I have developed. Japa : You do this for everyone? Aben : I guess… I mean I do it even for people I don’t know, even for inanimate objects. Japa : And new stuff just kinda gets added to your collection or repertoire? Aben : Yeah. Japa : So the way I collect visual styles and aesthetics… you collect… souls? Aben : That sounds so creepy… I collect characters. Japa : O.k., fair enough… characters. \*Aben looks up and sees a one-way street sign\* Aben : So… after all that, is your perception of me permanently changed? Was me opening up like that on a one-way street? Can you go back to treating me like a normal person? Japa : Ha! You think I considered you normal!?!? Even putting all this aside, you are a super eccentric individual. Aben : So you won’t treat me any differently now? Japa : Oh, I’m pretty sure it will affect how I see and talk with you, I can’t just pretend I didn’t hear all of that. This stuff directly affects our conversion process, but I can promise you I’m still your friend, and this is just one more eccentricity in an already mile long list of your peculiarities haha. Aben : I guess I couldn't ask for more. Thanks for keeping an open mind. Japa : What are friends for. Y’know, I wonder… you experience visuals that become voices, I experience sounds that become visuals… is it possible to do both? Like can it be a two-way street? Aben : Left-to-right and right-to-left?... wouldn’t that create a feedback loop? Japa : Good point, I guess someone like that would lose touch with reality pretty easily huh? Aben : I’m tethered to reality by sound. You are tethered to reality by sight. What would people be like if they didn't have a tether? Japa : I imagine this is actually one of those matter of degree things, I bet everyone does experience both ways, just matters of degree. Aben : You're probably right, I bet there is a bit of a feedback loop for everyone, that's probably why it seems like everyone is only partially living in the shared reality while also living in their own personal feedback loop, the feedback loop is probably a bit like a self-induced simulation or delusion. Japa : Agreed, I wonder what happens if that feedback loop grows? Or if it is intentionally fed and trained? What would that… Voice : Aben! There you are! Sorry I’m late Aben : No worries Japa, I was just… Talking with myself Japa : I got those concert tickets. Aben : Sweet, I love this band, their music always feels like a glowing magical forest. Japa : A vivid description… So where to? Aben : Let’s walk the wrong way down that one way street over there. Japa : Awesome, haha… You are so random, I love it. Aben : Random is just what people think when they are missing information hehe, but you know what makes great random number generators. Japa : What? Aben : Generative feedback loops… hahaha Japa : You are so weird sometimes.

I am just feeling good today, weather is also really good, office feels good, but as always there is a feeling of something missing but I dont want to complain today, I am blessed to have a life like this. The footlights in the garden are looking so elegant, spreading the light around a small diameter but if you look closely there is shadow around and below the light stand itself as its raised over a bar, signifying the countless sacrifices of those unknown names who spend their night and day in darkness to give light to ones around them, there is a famous saying I read somewhere "tasveer ki tareef karte rahe log, jabki woh keel tasveer ka bhar uthaye rahi". The roads and the walkway also look so good, carved out in perfect rectangles boundaries of grass, and light falls on it at some places and not at other places gives it a distinctive pattern, I was just thinking isn't life like that as well, you get some patches of light along your journey and maybe darkness in others but the sequence of events always looks so distinct and isn't it that life journey becomes beautiful because of the same reason. The wind blows around the small tress and big trees alike and it looks like the nature is so happy. I don't know why I am writing all this, I just feel like doing it. Coming back to the wind, you notice how you can't see it and yet feel the great force it brings along, maybe there are forces we can't see that are working in various ways to enrich our life as well, maybe we just need an eye to understand those forces, I would like to be that unseen force that would enrich other people's lives. I am noticing the bark of the palm trees growing in my office and all the barks are quite different, some are perfect cones, others are bulging from the middle, some are bulging from the top. The diameter of some trees is small while it's bigger for other trees, they all stand in unison like the soldiers having each other's back and each one would avenge every next one of them. I read a theory this is actually the case where the jungle provides resources to tree that is about to die as they have some connection from roots and soil. These palm soldiers seems like they forget their differences somehow, maybe we could be the same as countries or as people. Finally lord thank the soil we walk, which is the base of evrything around us, it is enormous source of life on this planet, you notice how you keep farming the soil and doesn't complain and keeps giving you whatever resources it can gather to provide you the fruits, wheat or vegetables.Lord let me be the same soil for my lover and my people, that I could provide endlessly for them without complain.

The scene - villa in a tropical island. Two suites, one for rental and one used by maintenance. Act 1. A destitute young man enters, previously made a small fortune, now scavenging pieces from his villa rentals. A sophisticated family of four enters, a carefree yet diligent father with his blond hair slicked back. A brunette mother with deep dark hulls and sunken eyes. And a petite daughter Fraua, beautiful blond hair radiant aura but mysterious eyes. And a baby brother. Act 2. Fraua for reasons unbeknownst shows interest in the boy. The boy latches on. The wonderland that existed in their villa, scenes reminiscent of a 70s flick, tender embraces by the kitchen counter, the latest bewitching melody, an ale to soothe. A brief daydream of heaven. but she reveals he’s not her usual type, that she has a date, and he painstakingly part ways. Act 3. In a day, the father comes to scold the boy for his maintenance of the villa. Seeing the boys state, takes pity on him and offers a deboucheroud drinking, a trip to the mysterious parlor. A choose your own adventure. Act 4. In the parlor everyone’s confused, there’s a changing room but no attendants. The strangers are uncomfortable but the father encourages them, “what’s going on, let’s go”. A quick scene with 4 women arriving then running, the father takes his cue and chases. The boy wanting to stake his claim chases too but is revealed with a different set of 4. Unsure of which to follow he chooses the new guests while seeing the father trail-off in the corner of his eyes. Act 5. Running through the long black hallway, a few doors the scene opens up to a grocery store. Down the aisle a fork arrives, the women split in 2’s one side with straight hair the other with curls and frills. The boy chooses the curls. At another pass a question comes across the speakers, what’s more important to a song, “the music or the noise?”. The one girl answers music, the boy agrees, while the other says noise. The boy stares at the breast of “noise”reaches out and says “noise”. They embrace kiss and the boy carries her off, in passion with eyes wide open. He passes the father, sitting on a couch conversing with the 4 women. The boy exits the scene. Act 6. The girl enters the same chamber in a light blue dress. Hair straight with a middle braid. The conversations never had, the life we never saw. A choice to throw it away when things were easy. Why couldn’t you have had more faith? Or was this just the facade of you, an image you fashioned as you attempted to consume my essence? Yes I did want to save you. Not out of Pity but out of love. Immature? Possibly, but i regret none. You’ve reminded me what it means to live again. Watch as what you tried to consume grows evermore. Goodbye Fraua.

City boys are dumb. City boys live in apartments, or two-story houses, or mansions even, if their daddy is rich. The only air them city boys ‘ll ever know is the musty air you can barely see through ‘cause of all of them cars and buildings. City boys won’t ever know what ’s like to get the hands dirty, to work anything besides their minds. City boys go to school, but mostly just because their momma makes them, or to see the pretty girls there. City boys go to parties, buy leather jackets, listen to rock with their friends, and of course walk only on paved sidewalks going to school. I walk into cow manure. Frankly, it was a regular day. I woke up early out o’ habit, ate a dwindling ration of eggs for breakfast, and now’s time for the field. The cool, crisp air of coming autumn feels real nice, and the clouds gathered above are beautiful. Dark clouds are on the horizon, with struggling beams of sunlight coming through. This always makes the barn look like it is protected by a halo of light clouds, which is nice to think. What’s more, the fruits and veggies have finally grown mouths, basically screaming to be harvested. Sometimes, it feels terrible to wake up so early. Others, it feels great to know that I’m up before the sun, to be whistling even before the birds, to be walking on grass still dewed over. Momma and Poppa are up too, but they gotta lot o’ work prepping for harvest an’ all that. We gotta make sure any stray weeds are pulled up, that the truck’s got gas, and especially that the old, hulking cows on the farm are ready for market, and of course it was my turn to tend to them. Sweet creatures them hulking milk-makers are, even if they reek of something unholy. The flies in the barn are gathering as if it was Sunday mass, and the squelch of whatever I happen to step in just as I was starting work made my stomach lurch. No matter — these trusty boots make scrubbing, feeding, washing, and grooming the cows feel bearable, at the very least. Still, it was slow and gruesome work. I wonder to myself if I ever will have time to read my new book that’s almost due back at the small local library not far from here. I’m two chapters through. City boys might call it a lonely life, but I think it is actually quite peaceful — if your definition of peaceful is working until you can’t. This entire life makes me feel productive, as if my work matters some. Sometimes, feeling the soft dirt under my feet is comforting. The grass seems greener when animals can graze it. It’s not much, but the work put in to get us here is enough. Plus, I mean, Momma and Poppa can use all of the help they can get, so I’ve gotta do whatever I can and put all my time in to helping them around. Poppa’s been getting forehead wrinkles like a raisin, and I can’t seem to recall when Momma didn’t have bags under the eyes. The energy is even getting to me lately, and I don’t like it. I mean sure, the bank has been squeezing us pretty tight for the barn this year, but harvest is coming in just a few weeks. If we all keep on working at this pace, we might actually be able to sell the crops in time to keep the barn. But what do I know. At the end of the day, my legs are aching, and my arms are throbbing. I am pretty sure my entire water supply has just been depleted through my skin, and my throat feels like a desert. I can’t wait to get back inside. I finish tidying the barn up, locking the animals safely away, and start to head back for dinner when a cold drop of liquid ice hits me right smack on the nose. “Finally!” I think to myself. It has been almost two weeks since we’d gotten any rain, and Momma was starting to get fidgety. Poppa had been the one to reassure us that rain would come just in time, and sure enough, this rain should give our plants just the right amount of fuel to be perfect in time for the picking. Thankfully, these farm-strengthened legs come in handy. I speed back to the small wooden farm we have, before I get absolutely drenched and sit down for dinner — or at least what we can salvage — with the fam. Sure it was necessary to keep our energy up for the work, but I could still see a bunch more productive activities that I could be doing instead. Picking on the stale green beans and rice while the metal utensils scratch at the plate, I can only imagine what my parents had done all day. Poppa would’ve probably worked with the trucks and the business side of things, making sure that harvest day would go perfectly. Momma might’ve been clipping away any last stray weeds, or just stayed in the house, fixing up supper, doing the laundry, and all of that such. I understand that we can’t control a lot of things, but we can control most of it through tedious, diligent work. Finishing my portion of rice for the night, I am surprised that I can hear the flicker of the light above us and the increasing pitter patter of the rain outside. It’s almost like we’re holding our breath. I excuse myself early tonight, and get a start on washing my dish, which turns out to be hard to do by just the dining room light. It’s alright though. I head to my room and immediately flop onto my bed. Exhausted from today with legs throbbing and rain still on my clothes, it’s all I can do to wish for a better day to come tomorrow. ————— I wake up sore from yesterday, but prepared to get in the final bits of work. I head down for a quick breakfast, feet sounding too loud on the steps. I can’t hear Momma and Poppa in the kitchen, which is weird. It is still raining now, even harder. Maybe they went — wait. It is still raining. I jolt at the thought of rain all night and immediately think the worst. I sloppily haul on a raincoat and my trusty boots and sprint outside. I sprint to what was yesterday a blooming field, ready for anything. I dash to what was yesterday a plan to live happily for another couple of months. I head outside today to find that all of my dreams have been washed away. “No!” My father growled. I see him and mom struggling to salvage what is left of our drowning and washing away crops, or any bags of seeds they could get their hands on. I run to help them, but at this point there is nothing we can do. The wind is picking up, and the rain is falling harder. I read about the monsoons in India once, but never thought that I would experience the feel one. All of the dirt under our feet has turned to sinking ground, and it is a struggle to even stay upright. City boys get a bad test grade and feel low. I am sinking to rock bottom — but even I am apparently not there yet. The wind is howling even louder now, and the rain is just making it worse. Before I can even think about how bad this all is — crack! A loud snap fills the air, and I immediately think that it is the barn. But no, of course not. That would be too merciful of Mother Nature. She knew that we would lose the barn anyways with all of this to wash everything capable of making us money down the drain. She struck our only other asset. The cows now start running loose, their pen broken by some horrific event. The same cows I felt dutiful tending to yesterday is gone. The same house that we lived and worked in will be gone. Even if we manage to keep it, the water must have done too much damage to the wood already. Everything is water, and my entire world has just gone under. I am paralyzed in place, watching my world crumble around me. All of my — all of our work; gone, just like that, in a snap. The only thing we have left is a godforsaken barn that will be lost in a few days, and a truck that probably barely works now or has been thrown down a hill. Of course, we have each other. But even so, we still have no choice now but to head into the city now and find some job nobody else wants. We’ll have no choice but to work minimum wage now, no choice but to do whatever we can to get by. We’ll be homeless! We’ll end up in some underground sewer begging for alms! We’ll lose everything! We’ll have to start from scratch! All of those years — gone! Just like that! I start to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. I start to cry because I know this is not a dream. All of my hard work, for nothing. Everything, gone in an instant. All of those tedious hours in the fields and days thinking that someday we would earn enough to get out of this cycle. Maybe, sometimes, hard work can’t get you everything you want. Maybe, sometimes, it is the work of the supernatural. Maybe, sometimes, it’s just out of my control. City boys might be dumb, but boy what I wouldn’t do to be one of them right now. But enough of my moping.

Cabinets were opening and slamming shut in the kitchen again. Grant didn't have time for this. His deadline was in ten hours. "Kitchen's closed!" He yelled at the ghost. "It's not good for you to eat in the middle of the night! You'll get fat!" The sounds stopped. The simple wooden desk in his bedroom was a mess of papers, but he knew where everything was. His lamp began to flicker erratically, so he turned on the overhead light. There had been multiple busy news cycles, and he had been burning the candle at both ends for months. Grant told himself that it was worth tolerating this for the cheap rent. It was too late to regret taking out student loans for a journalism degree. So far, he'd been unable to convince even a single person other than his landlord that he was being obnoxiously haunted. On the rare occasions women stayed overnight, they thought he had set up some elaborate, poor taste prank and never spoke to him again. He rewrote his last paragraph until he was happy with it. The opener was a little sensationalist for the fairly respectable publication employing him, so he fixed it. The feeling that someone was looking over his shoulder was unshakable. He already had an editor like that and was annoyed. Finally submitting his article at 3 am was a relief. There was still a little of the scotch his brother had gifted him for his birthday, so he poured a few shots in the nicest glass that had not yet been smashed by the stupid ghost. Someone knocked decisively at the door. He was shocked to open it and discover it was the police. He had just submitted a scathing article regarding their handling of a recent peaceful protest, and in his slightly inebriated state wondered how they had found out so fast. "Your neighbors called in a noise complaint. What's going on?" Grant felt that explaining that it was just the ghost lacked a certain something, so he told them the TV had been turned up loud, and it was off now. That was apparently acceptable. His landlord, who lived in the apartment above him, came to check on him the next morning. He was awake. He remembered sleep fondly from his youth. It was necessary to move some books and papers off the kitchen table to sit and have a cup of coffee with Mrs. Hawke. He often felt that his cheerful, yellow kitchen was completely inappropriate, but it was three bus transfers to a store that sold paint. An unregarded wall clock ticked away time, oblivious to daylight savings. The only thing required of it was to count twelve minutes for hard boiled eggs, but one day it would be accurate again. "The ghost was slamming shut cabinet doors, and someone called in a noise complaint. That's why the cops came." Mrs. Hawke was not without sympathy. Most people only saw as far as her stern, steel gray bun and plain clothing, failing to notice her compassionate, warm brown eyes past her resting bitch face. "How is that going? Is there anything I can do?" "Research is ongoing," he said. "I'm having a difficult time finding a good source. Mostly what people have to say about ghosts sounds insane. Do I sound like that when I try to tell other people?" She took a sip of her coffee, but it was still a little too hot, so she set it down. "Probably, honestly. I hope you're not unhappy. You've lasted longer here than anyone ever has before." Grant stirred some creamer into his sturdy mug, just happy he had Maxwell House at this point. "I honor my commitments. You did outright tell me this place is haunted up front. I just didn’t believe you at the time. Have you tried anything to get rid of the ghost?" Mrs. Hawke said, "Well, I tried to burn some sage, but it only triggered my asthma. Then, me and my nephew tried to cast the spirit out with a passage from the Bible, but he's an atheist, and I'm agnostic. Our hearts just weren't in it. It was kind of embarrassing, and then the bookmark fell out, so we just kind of left." This was not extremely helpful. He met Luka by chance, and couldn't help but want to spend any free moment with her. Grant thought that Luka was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. Luka thought that crystals and random plants had mystical healing powers. He had finally found someone who believed him. He seemed to spend a lot of time trying to convince her to stop shoving all his garlic in her ears to treat her ear infection, but he was actually really happy dating her. One night the ghost was tossing around the furniture, and Luka intervened. "Hey, it's ok. Everyone gets angry," she said, "I mean, this morning the dryer tore holes in my favorite leggings, and I was pretty angry. You're damned to wander the earth in eternal torment, and you're pretty angry. I mean, I understand." Grant was shocked when the ghost spoke for the first time, with a bold man's voice. "Is this bitch for real?" Luka seized the opportunity to open a dialouge, earnestly telling the ghost about the cosmic harmony of the universe, nature, and the importance of feelings and expression. "I'm moving in at the end of the month," she said, "and I'm sure we'll be great friends, and talk about these things a lot." Again, a voice came from nowhere. "I'm out." It took a while for Grant to feel sure that the ghost was gone, but it was never an issue again. Mrs. Hawke brought Luka a vegan carrot cake and expressed her heartfelt gratitude.

Wanted I Prologue: The days of New York were great for a 7-year-old kid like me but that's when you wanted to think that. One night I was sleeping and I heard my front door open. I got up and cracked my door open. It was my dad. He hasn't been home for 2 days. Mom said he left. I stay and I don't go out. Then I see my mom walk up to him. "you shouldn't be here, Blake" she says. He looks at her. "I didn't do it, I swear honey" he says. "you killed someone because you wanted money" she says. He looks down at the floor. "you're wanted now" she says. Then I exit my room. They both look at me. my dad walks up to me. the kneels down and looks me in the eyes. "buddy, whatever happens to you, use the stuff I taught you. Expand it more too so you can be better than I was." He says. "why? You should still be here" I ask. "I might never be back, son" he says. Then cop sirens grow louder towards the house. he gets up and runs out. I start crying. My mom comes and gives me a hug. "don't worry baby, I'll be here" she says. That was the last day I saw my father and let's hope I never see him again after what he did. My name is Michael Reed. I want to be a singer. I love singing. It's my dream. Also, my dad has taught me everything on how to protect myself. He taught me fighting skills from basic street fighting to karate and jin jitsu. He also taught me how to use every gun imaginable. He taught me how to reload and shoot them. He even taught me how to customize them. my dad taught me everything. I even expanded it even further. I went to classes and championships. I competed and won most of them. I am champion... well that's my motto. (9 years later in 2023) I wake up like any other day but today is different. I wake up in a car heading to San Antonio, Texas. Me and my mom and moving today and I'm not too thrilled. The car ride was so long but we are almost there so I'm excited. We get there and I run inside. It looks way bigger than our house in New York. I run upstairs and see my room. it looks good but I don't think it's worth losing all my friends back in New York. I run downstairs to help my mom with the moving van but it's not here. "the moving van is running late, honey" my mom says. I sigh. She gives me a box out of the car full of clothes. "what is this for" I ask. She smirks. "I already enrolled you in school and you start tomorrow. They said you can just take the bus." She says. I roll my eyes. We walk inside while I'm trying to find a way to convince her to say "no school". "mom, we just moved here. do you really think starting school tomorrow is a good idea?" I ask. She laughs. "you are not getting out of this, honey." She says. I nod and head upstairs. I sit down in my room... on the carpet floor. I lean my back against the wall and I pull out my phone. I scroll on Instagram for a while until I fell asleep. While I was asleep, my mom opened my room door. She looked at me and smiled. She puts a blanket over me and leaves the room. The next morning, I get up and get dressed in a black and green shirt with some nice black Nike sweats. I'm also wearing my nice Jordan's. They are red and green. They also have some black in them. I grab my empty backpack and get on the bus. As I get on, everyone stares at me. We head to school and it's huge. Grangrove High School. I get off the bus and enter the school. I head to the main office and I see a lady. “uh, hi mam, I'm new and I need my schedule." I say. she nods. "name please?" she asks. "oh um, Michael Reed" I say. She types my name on the computer in front of her and prints out my schedule. She hands it to me and I walk out. I have Geometry first period. I head to the class and walk in. I see several kids on their phones and the teacher at her desk. I walk up to her. "uh hi, I'm Michael Reed and I'm new" I say. she looks at my schedule. "welcome, my name is Miss Rachel and I will be your new teacher and you can sit next to Jake." She says as she gets up out her seat. "Jake Smith, raise your hand please" she says. A kid with a white shirt and leather jacket raises his hand. Bro looks like he's from Grease. "go sit next to him" she says. I head to the seat next to him and sit down. Class starts and I just sit there trying not to fall asleep. 45 minutes later and the class ends. I get up and before I walk out, Jake comes up to me. "hey, your new right?" he says. "yeah, just moved from New York" I say. he smiles. "that's lit man" he says. I try to walk away but then he says "there's a party tonight at round rock park, you should come.". I look at him. "alright" I say. he walks away and I head to my next class. After school, I head to the park. I see tons of kids from school and a lot of alcohol. I walk down the hill I was on and I hear music blasting. This place is pretty chill. I see Jake walking towards me. "what's up man!!" he says. "sup" I say. I look around. "this party's lit man" I say. "we do it every month" he says. Then I see someone that took my breath away. It's a girl. Jake sees me staring. "I wouldn't look at her man." He says. I look at him confused. "why?" I ask but then I see her boyfriend go up and kiss her. "that's why. Him right there. That's Tony Vasquez, her boyfriend. He's not the one to mess with." He says. "why is that?" I ask. Then I see two people next to Tony. "Tony doesn't like anyone looking at his girl. He will fight you if he sees you doing it. he might even fight you because she is looking at you. What makes everything worse are the people next to him. Those are his best friends Rico Martinez and Jerry Laider. I call them his crash dummies." Jake says. "I can fight for myself but what's the girls name?" I ask. "Madison Laider, her brother is Jerry Laider, one of Tony's crash dummies." He says. I nod. Then the music shuts off and someone comes on the stage. "would anyone like to sing" the guy says. I raise my hand. Everyone looks at me. I walk on the stage and grab a mic. I start to sing and everyone looks surprised. Everyone starts to dance and have fun. Madison is looking at me. This is great. After the party, Jake drives me home. I get out the car and I look at him. "I appreciate the good time, man" I say. "no problem" he says as he drives off. I enter the house trying to sneak upstairs but its dark. I run into a couch. Why is the couch here? The moving van isn't here yet. A lamp turns on and my mom is sitting on the chair. "where were you?" she asks. "I was with a friend doing some math homework" I said. "why do you lie" she says. She pulls out her phone. "I saw your Instagram, you were at a party." She says. "ok, fine I was but I needed it because I have hated it here since we moved yesterday but that party was actually fun." I say. "if you asked I would of let you go but you didn't and I kept texting you that the moving van was here but you wouldn't respond. Thank god the neighbors were willing to help" she says. I look down at the floor. "do you even understand why we moved to San Antonio?" she asks. I look up angry. "you know what, no I don't, but you know why I don't know!!!! It's because you never told me anything but that it's for my own safety!!! What does that even mean, mom!!! What!!! What does that mean!!!" I yell. She looks at me. "your dad was seen near our house in New York. I can't have that man in our lives again" she says. I look at the ground. "what's wrong honey?" she asks. I still stare at the floor. "I was trying to save us" she yells while she cries. "NO, YOU WERE JUST TRYING TO SAVE YOUSELF!!!" I yell as I run upstairs in my room. I sit on the floor but then I see a box in my room. I open it and grab an old video camera out of it. I turn it on and I see a video of me and my dad. He was teaching me how to shoot a pistol. I smile and I cry. I watch every video in the camera and then I fell asleep. I wake up and get dressed. I head to the bus stop and I get on the bus. As I get on everyone cheers for me. last night made me popular. I sit down and we drive to school. We arrive at school and I run inside and everyone is watching me on their phones. Guess I'm a good singer. I go to my locker and I open it. Jake walks up to me. "bro, someone went viral" he says. I smirk. The Madison opens a locker next to me. I look at her and she looks back. Her boyfriend and his friends are heading towards her so I look away. I listen to their conversation. "so, Maddie, what are we doing tonight?" Jake says. Madison doesn't reply. He sees her looking at me. he looks at me. "you're looking at singer boy." He says. Jake looks at me. "oh no, I have a plan. There will be a crowd over the fight. I'm going to be behind the crowd and jump in, lets hope you are as tough as you say" he says. I nod. Jake walks away and Tony, Rico, and Jerry walk up to me. a crowd forms around us. "Michael, right?" Tony says. I nod. "what you need, Tony" I say. "for you to stay off my girl." He says. "Tony, stop its not like that" Madison yells. "what if I say no" I ask being sarcastic. "then me and my friends are going to have to do something about that" he says. He lifts up his fist and throws it at me. I duck and punch him in his ribs. Jake pops out the crowd and punches Jerry and Rico. They are all on the floor. me and Jake get next to each other. The three guys get up and they lift up their shirts revealing pistols at their waists. The whole crowd gasps. Me and Jake look at each other. Me and Jake run down the hallway while the three boys follow. We get outside to the outside eating area next to the cafeteria. "we have to split up!!" Jake says. I nod. Then the boys get outside. "let's lead them away from each other." I say. Jake nods. We split up and I run towards the gym and I get into a sports storage closet. I hide behind a pile of football gear and I wait. Then Tony and Jerry walked in with their guns in their hands. I guess Rico is after Jake. "come out, Michael!!" Tony yells. "you want to get your butt kicked again Tony!!" I say. "you got jokes" Jerry says. "ha. Jerry speaks. I thought you were a mute" I say. I then see a metal bat on a shelf. I try to reach for it but I knock a football helmet over. They look at me and they start shooting at me. I jump to the bat and dodge the shots. I grab the bat and wait behind the shelf. "let's go jokester" Tony says. I breathe... then I run at jerry and smack his gun out his hand. It slides on the ground. I kick Jerry out a window and I swing the bat at Tony and he dodges it and kicks me back. I drop the bat and run at Tony. I punch him over and over. I grab him and throw him on the ground. He gets back up quick. I have to do something to get out of here. I punch Tony in the chest and he stops breathing. It only lasts for 30 seconds. Enough for me to get out of here. I run out and I try to find Jake. I run around a corner and I see Jake on the floor with Rico holding a gun at him. I run towards Rico. "JAKE NOOOO!!!" I yell. Rico looks at me. Jake then takes the gun from Rico and points it at Rico. "no Jake stop!!" I yell. Rico looks at Jake with fear in his eyes. Jake pulls the trigger and Rico gets shot. Rico falls to the floor. I stop running and I just think. We just killed a kid at my new school. I look and I stare at Rico's dead body. What have we done. Jake is out of breath. Blood all over Rico's body. Then Tony and Jerry come to us. They stop and look at the body. "what did you two do!?" Tony says. Tony grabs his gun and points it at me and Jake. "Tony stop!! Is killing us worth it over a girl." I say. "YOU KILLED MY BEST FRIEND!!! THIS IS NOT OVER A GIRL ANYMORE!!!" he screams. He points the gun at Jake. Oh no. he puts his finger over the trigger. He shoots at him but I run and tackle Jake out the way. We get up and we hear cop sirens closing in at the school. "Jake, we have to go!!" I yell. He nods. We run away and Tony just lets us run. They run away before the cops get there. Me and Jake get to the school parking lot. Jake breaks a cars window and opens the door. He then gets in and hotwires it. "we are not stealing a car" I say. "you wanna just get arrested for murder cause I'm sure the inmates in prison would love you." He says. I sigh. I have to do this. He starts the car and I get in. we drive off without the cops knowing. Now in another perspective. The cops arrive at the school. They see the body in the middle of the outside eating area. The police captain is on our case... Captain Harper. He walks inside to the main office where he meets his officer, Officer Cortez. "what do you have for me Cortez?" Harper asks. Officer Cortez give Captain Harper a file. "we have two names" Cortez says. Harper looks at mine and Jakes pictures. "names?" Harper asks. "Michael Reed and Jake Smith" Cortez says. Harper smirks. "start with Jake" Harper says putting on his reading glasses. "ok, well, Jake is a 16-year-old Male, no parents at the time. Both died in a car crash. He still holds up their mortgage on their house. the kid has 3 jobs. He is determined" Cortez says. "any family that's still alive" Harper asks. "yes, his brother, Rando Smith. His brother has been to jail multiple times." Cortez says. Harper looks at the file. "well, says here, so did our boy Jake. He's been to the Bexar County Juvenile Detention Center 5 times." Harper says. Cortez nods. "so how about this Michael kid?" Harper asks. "ok, well Michael is a complicated kid. He just moved to San Antonio two days ago. Today was his second day at school. His mom lives here in SA but his dad is wanted for murder. He's been wanted since Michael was 7." Cortez says. "so, the kid wants to be like his father, I can deal with that." Harper says. Detective Lesly walks in the room. "hey, captain. A teacher's car has been stolen near the parking lot where the body was." She says. Harper sighs. "what's the license plate number" Harper asks. "BH27TYS" she says. "ok, detective, you go to Michaels moms house and talk to her. Me and Cortez will follow that car." Harper says. Back with me and Jake. We are driving to heck knows where. Jake is the one driving. "where are we going, Jake?" I ask. "somewhere we can get an untraceable car" he says. "why, they would have saw us using self-defense in the cameras." I say. "the cameras never work when Tony and his friends are fighting someone" he says. He turns them off. How though? I lean back and think. "we're wanted now" I say. "just like my dad." I say. "what?!" Jake says. "yup but I don't want to talk about it, we all have our problems." I say. "yeah, I guess because I've been to juvey multiple times." He says. "what!!!???" I say. "it's not usually this big, usually just a fight" he says. I look at him upset. "bro, you saw him. He was holding a gun at me, I'm not just going to let him kill me!!!" he yells. He looks straight at the road. We sit in silence. We drive another mile and Jake pulls into a parking lot of a place. "we're here" Jake says. We park and we both get out. I look around and I see a sign that says "Rando's used cars". I look and I see a car lot next to the building. There is a fence all around it. there is also a Lamborghini. We enter the building and I see a man in his mid 20's. "well, Jake, your face is all over the news." The guy says. Then he looks a man in his mid 20' the wells too. Hi, I'm rando" he says. "yeah, that's what happens when you kill some fake says. Rando's face looks shocked. "it's true??!!" Rando says. Jake nos his head, you know your brother, I have to keep you out of trouble especially when our parents are gone" Rando says. "what!?" I say. Rando looks at me. "you didn't know??" he asks. I shake my head no. Rando looks at Jake. "in order for you two to survive whatever you are going through, whether that's, you running from cops, or even the people that went after you in the first place but whatever it is, you two need to be totally honest with each other. Your deepest darkest secrets should be told to each other. That's how you two survive" he says. We both nod our heads. Then we hear cop sirens coming close. "oh no, we have to go now!!!" Jake yells. I look around and then I see the used car lot. I look at Rando. "do you have any dummies or mannequins?" I ask. He nods his head yes. “I'm going to need that and two of those cars... and the Lamborghini is one of them" I say. they both nod their heads. In a different perspective. Six SAPD cop cars pull into the parking lot. Harper gets out the car. Several cops surround the area. "Cortez, you and them keep the area surrounded. I'm going inside" Harper says. Harper walks inside and sees Rando sitting behind his desk. Me and Jake are nowhere to be found. Harper looks at Rando. "where are the teens?" Harper asks. "what kids" Rando asks. Harper smirks. Harper has a file in his hand. He opens the file. "Rando Smith, brother of Jake Smith. You have been to jail many times but hiding two wanted teens can get you right back inside there." Harper says. Rando gets up out of his seat and walks up in front of Harper. "are you threatening me" Rando asks. Harper smirks. "get out of my face, son" Harper says. Then a car turns on in the used car lot. Harper runs to the window. The Lamborghini started with Jake and an unidentified figure. "it's them!!!" Harper yells into his walkie talkie. Jake drives out and busts through the fence and harper runs out the building and gets into a cop car. they all follow Jake away from the building. Another car turns on in the used car lot. It's a van and I'm in it. I drive off and I park at a corner store. Jake drives too fast for the cops and he loses them. he gets out and runs to the corner store. He gets in the van and we drive off. The cops find the Lamborghini and sees the dummy in there but no Jake. "WE HAD THEM!!" Harper yells. Back at my house, Detective Lesly knocks on my house door. My mom answers it. "yes officer, what's wrong" my mom says. "you haven't heard??" Lesly asks. My mom shakes her head no. "you might want to sit down for this one" Lesly says. They both go in the house and they sit down. "so, your son, Michael Reed, is wanted for the murder of a Rico Martinez" Lesly said. My mom starts to cry. "do you know who this is?" Lesly asks holding up a picture of Jake. "no, why is that kid important here?" my mom asks. "well, that's Jake smith, the other wanted teen, him and your son did this together." Lesly said. My mom doesn't believe it. "we just moved here, how can he already meet a friend and then kill some other teen" my mom says. Lesly shrugs her shoulders. Back with me and Jake, I'm driving to I don't know where. I'm just driving at this point. "where are we going?" Jake asks. I shrug my shoulders. "I don't know but we have to have a plan on what to do next" I say. he nods. "what if we go get the girl" he says. "who Madison??" I ask. He nods. "I mean we can but we have no idea where she lives" I say. "bro she posted her address on Instagram. Plus, she lives in the only mansion in San Antonio" he says. "ok let's get to work" I say as I drive towards the location of her house. We drive to the mansion and I park on a curb. "okay, well there is a white van on a curb next to a mansion, so we need to think of a plan now. Plus, big brother might be home" Jake says. "ok, Jerry won't be an issue, I promise" I say. then me and Jake see Madison and some friends come out of her house. "get down!" I whisper to Jake. We both get down. She gets in her friends' car and they drive off. We get up and I follow slowly. They lead us to a mall, The CountrySide Mall. We park in the parking lot. "how are we supposed to get in without being seen" I say. Jake pulls out hats and sunglasses. "uh, first off, where did you get those and second off, I don't think that's going to work." I say. "we better try" he says. I nod. We put them on and we get out the van. We walk inside and it is packed. I guess it being a Friday evening, everyone is here. We see Madison and her friends walk to the food court. While walking over there I see a pen and paper on the floor so I picked it up. We sit at the food court close to where Madison is sitting. I write on the paper, "meet me in the bathroom close to the pretzel joint". I look at Jake. "if anything, and I mean anything, goes sideways, you call me. you have my number. I already put a software on your phone so they can't track you or me." I say. he nods. I get up and walk past Madison. As I walk past I drop the note in her lap without her friends noticing. I go into the girl's bathroom and wait in a stall. Let's hope she follows through. I hear the door open and I see Madison come in. "hello?! You know sending creepy notes is weird right!" she says. I walk out the stall and I look at her. I take the hat and sunglasses off. "Michael?!?!" she says. She runs up to me and hugs me. "look, I know I barely know you but it wasn't right what they did." She says. "I know but I want you to promise me. after you are done with your friends, meet me behind the mall in alley C." I say. she nods. Then my phone rings. It's Jake. I answer it. "hello". "Michael!! They are going to your location!!!" Jake says through the phone. "what, who?? The cops??" I ask. "no Tony and Jerry" he says. I hang up the phone. "We gotta go. Remember where to meet me" I say. I put my disguise on and we walk out. we split up and I see Tony and Jerry. They both don't notice me and they go up to Madison. "where were you, Madison?" Tony asks. "are you two stalking me now" she says. "we have to, some bad people may want you so we have to keep you safe" Jerry says. Then Tony starts talking to Madison but Jerry is looking around and he looks at me. oh no. "Tony!! It's him!! It's Michael!!" Jerry yells. they both look at me. "get him" Tony says. They start running towards me. I run away down the mall. I call Jake while I'm running. "hello". "Jake!!! They are coming after me, meet me in the JC Penny's" I yell. I hang up. I grab a vase out of someone's hands and I throw it at them. they dodge it. Tony jumps at me and tackles me down. "I don't think so" he says. I get up and I punch him. He kicks me into a fountain. He holds my head into the water. He's drowning me. Everyone freaks out and records it. Jerry comes around and keeps hitting me while I'm being drowned. Then Jake runs up and kicks both of them off me. I try to catch my breath. "we gotta go" he says. "the JC Penny's has a back exit." I say. he nods and we run. Tony and Jerry get up and follow. We get to the JC Penny's but Tony and Jerry got there first. "stop this" I tell them. "YOU KILLED RICO!!!" Tony screams. I run at Tony and tackle him to the ground. I punch him over and over and over. Jake punches Jerry and knocks him out. I get up and run with Jake to the back exit. We get out and there is a car there Jake goes to the window and run with Jake to the back exit eget comes out and shoots the engine. It explodes and me and take on the door butthout Jake is struggling to get up. he was closer to the car. "JAKE GET UP!!" I yell. "you took a friend from me..." Tony says pointing his gun at Jake. "NO!!!" I yell. "now I take one from you" he says as he shoots Jake. Jake stopped struggling. He's dead. I run over to Jake. Tony threw the gun unloaded at me. I catch it. "enjoy the fingerprints" he says as he runs back inside. He had gloves on this whole time. I put pressure on Jake's wound. Blood all over my hands. There's no bringing him back. "JAKE!!!! PLEASE!!! DON'T DO THIS!!!" I scream. "please" I say while I start to cry. Then I hear cop sirens. I have to go. I get up and run. I keep running. I don't stop but I need to meet Madison. I run to the back of the mall and I get into alley C. I hide next to a dumpster. I cry. Then I hear footsteps approaching. I clench my fists. Then I see Madison. I unclench my fists. "Michael!!" she yells. "he's gone..." I say. I look her in the eyes. "I can't do this without him" I say. she gives me a hug. "at this point, you need to get out the country" she says. I nod. "my dad has a plane. We can use it with out his permission. I'll get in trouble but It's worth helping you" she says. I nod. We run to the parking lot and we get in the van. There are cops everywhere. We get in and I get in the driver's side. I stare at the mall. My body freezes. "Michael, we have to leave now" Madison yells. I start to gain control again and we drive off. Now in a different perspective. The cops are at Jake's body. Harper looks at Jake's body and puts his hand on his face. Officer Cortez enters the scene. "sir, we have a weapon with Michael's fingerprints" he says. Harper looks at the ground. "there are three different footprints here" Harper says. "you're right, there were two new people involved in the case" Cortez says holding out two files. Harper grabs them and opens them. "their names are Tony Vasquez and Jerry Laider" Cortez says. "what were they doing on scene?" Harper asks. "you know, the normal, trying to drown Michael and trying to kill him." Cortez says. Harper smirks. "to make matters worse, I went on Tony's Instagram page and there are tons of pictures with him and Rico" Cortez says. "So, it's revenge they want" Harper says. He walks to his car and stands next to it. "stand clear for 911 calls, I want him down and if these teens try to kill our man, they will be wanted too" he says to Cortez before he gets in the car. Now back with me. Madison and I head to the private air strip. We pull up to the gate and there is a security guard. I lower my head so he can't see me. "name please" he says. "Madison Laider, son of Terry Laider" Madison says. "ok ma'am, you have the green light please go on through." The guard says. We drive in and I pick up my head. Back with Tony and Jerry. Jerry gets a notification on his phone that Madison used her green light to get into the airstrip. Jerry shows Tony his phone. Tony looks at Jerry. "let's go get this son of a BEEP" he says. Back with us. We pull up to the shack where the plane is being held. We get out the car and I put a pistol in my waist band. Madison gasps. "it's just for precaution, lots of stuff has been happening." I say. she nods. I walk to the shack and I shoot the lock. It breaks and opens. We open the big doors and I see the plane. It is literally a private jet. I look at Madison. "let's get this thing ready." I say and she nods. Back at the gate, Tony and Jerry pull up to the gate. "name please" the guard asks. "Jerry Laider, son of Terry Laider." Jerry says. They get let in. me and Madison are getting the plane ready but then I see their car pull up. "it's them. I got this, just get this thing ready" I tell Madison. They both get out. "this is a lot of running away and fighting. Let me just kill you and everything will be okay." Tony says. "killing isn't the way!!!" Madison yells. I smirk. "you killed Jake!!! You will pay for that!!" I say as I pull out the pistol. They get behind the car. I start to shoot at them. I run out of bullets so I run. I run into an admission building. They come in and surround me. "what are you going to do?" Tony says. I crack my neck and run at Jerry. I punch him to the ground but Tony tackles me into a desk. I grab an office phone and whack Tony off of me. Jerry runs at me with a pocket knife and swings it. I get cut on my arm. I punch Jerry and he goes down. Tony grabs the knife and runs at me. I kick the knife out his hand and I grab a phone cord and I put it around his neck. I choke him out. I don't stop. He makes noises trying to get some air. "THIS IS FOR JAKE!!!!" I yell. Then cops enter the room holding guns at all of us. "drop him!!" one of the officers says. I drop him and Tony breaths faster than a cheetah runs. The cops put all of us in handcuffs and walks us out of the building. I look at Maison and they have her in handcuffs. "LET HER GO!!" I yell. One of the police men come over to me and punches me and I pass out. I wake up on the floor in a police interrogation room. I look around and all I see I a table that won't come out of the ground and two chairs. I get up and sit in one of the chairs. I'm not in handcuffs anymore. Captain Harper walks in with a binder of files that has everything about my case from Jake to tony to everything there is. He sits down in the other chair. "you are one hell of a teen. Causing havoc in San Antonio two days after you moved here." He says. "I didn't kill anyone" I say. "sure, if that's what you want to think." He says. He opens the binder and takes out Jakes file. "you killed your own partner, that must make you feel pretty good about yourself." He says. "Tony killed him, do a deep search on that weapon, he was wearing gloves" I say. Harper sighs. He picks up his walkie talkie and says "Cortez I need a deep search on that murder weapon". "yes sir" Cortez says. "if you're right about this, you will be unwanted" he says. My face lights up. "sir, the kid was right, Tony's fingerprints were on the trigger and Michaels were on the top of the gun. Tony is the killer." Cortez said in the walkie talkie. Harper looks at me. "well kid, looks like you're unwanted." He says. He walks me out and walks me to the room Madison is in. "oh my god, Michael" she says. She runs up and hugs me. I hug her back. "we're good now, I'm free" I say. she looks at me and cries. She smiles too. I look at Harper standing in the doorway. "now I'm going to arrest our new fugitives, you kill anymore or get your hands in anymore of this case. You will go right back up to the wanted list." He says. I nod. They walk out and lock the door. "we're safe" I say. The cops head to the room the boys are in. the open the door but they are not there. Harper looks up at the celling and a vent is open. that's how they escaped. "FIND THEM" he yells. in a different perspective, Tony and Jerry are climbing through the vents. They stop for a sec. "Jerry look at me" Tony says. Jerry looks at him. "I have to try to kill him, but just in case I fail, I need you to survive so you can make his life a living hell. Cause if he kills me than he will kill you too, so the best option is you don't kill him and make him suffer... for Rico." Tony says. "I'm not doing that. We have to go together" Jerry says. "no, listen to me, you need to get out of here, I have to finish this" Tony says. Jerry nods and climbs down the vent. Tony gets out the vent and gets into the hallway. Back with me and Madison. We're just sitting here waiting for a response. Then someone starts trying to bust the door down. I look at the cabinet in the room. "Madison get in there" I say pointing to the cabinet. She nods and gets in. the door opens and Tony just stands there and looks at me. "Tony, you have to stop this. This is too much" I say. He laughs. He runs at me and tackles me into the wall. I punch him off of me. I take a chair and I hit him with it. he gets back up. he pulls a pistol out. "what the hell" I say shocked. "you think I'm playing with you Michael, I'm done" he says as he runs at me. he tackles me into the wall and I go to the floor. I groan in pain. I lean my back on the wall and I sit there. Tony holds the gun at me. "you're done, Michael" he says. Then Madison comes out the cabinet. She looks at us. "MICHEAL NOOO!" she yells. Tony looks back at Madison. "Madison??" he says. I get up and grab the gun out of his hands. He looks at me in shock. "this is for everything you've done to me and your own friends. Rico wouldn't be dead if it wasn't for you" I say. I pull the trigger and he got shot. He looks at me. "you're going to get what you deserve" he says trying to breathe. He falls to the ground dead. I look at Madison. I go up and I kiss her. "I have to get out of here" I say. she nods. Then the cops come in the room. Harper looks at Tony's body. "kid... you're wanted again" he says. I take the gun and aim it at the cops. They all freak out. I then shoot the wall next to them. It makes them move from the exit. I run out the exit without Madison. I run down the street and I get into an alley way. I have to talk to Harper without him trying to shoot me. I have an idea. The next morning, I text Madison "meet me at the mall, I have to talk to you". The cops are tracking her phone so they will be there. I grab my gun and head that way. Cops all around the exits. Cops all around the parking lot. They are everywhere. In a different perspective, my mom is watching the news and it says that I'm at the mall. She gets in her car and drives to the mall. I get in the mall through a non-blocked exit. I sit down on a bench and I wait. I start to hear foot prints come close. I get up and I see Harper and 10 cops behind him. They are all wearing vests and they are armed. "kid, stop this" he says. I nod. "I'm not here to fight, I'm here to talk" I say. Harper looks at me funny. "you knew we were tracking her phone" he says. "yeah and we need to..." I say before getting interrupted by a door opening. We than see Jerry and 12 guys with masks come out. me and harper get next to each other. "well, well, well, just because Tony's dead, don't mean he's done fighting" Jerry says. Then his men started shooting the cops with their shotguns. Me and Harper slide behind a bench. "do I have your permission to fight him" I say. Harper nods. I get up and I run at Jerry. I punch him and I kick him into a tech store. He gets up. I smirk. I take a keyboard and I hit him in the face with it. he goes down. He gets up and uppercuts me. I go back out of the store. Harper takes his handcuffs out. I grab Jerry and I throw him to the ground. Harper comes around and starts putting handcuffs on him. Then I look back and see all the other cops on the floor. the are all dead. Then I see one of Jerrys men coming towards us. They pick up their shotgun and aims it at Harper. They shoot it and I tackle Harper out the way. I get off him and he got hit. "no" I say under my breath. I look up. Jerry is out of the cuffs. He walks up to me and puts his pistol in his waistband. "look, I have direct orders that say I can't kill you, but I can make your life a living hell" he says. I get up and I run out while I hear him laugh. I run out the main entrance which was the worst mistake of my life. As soon as they saw me they started shooting their assault rifles. I run behind a pillar. They wont stop shooting. What do I do? I can't take this!! I look at the huge crowd outside the mall. I see my mom. She is screaming at me. "RUN, MICHEAL, RUN!!" she yells. then I see Madison. She is yelling at me. "GET TO THE PLANE!!" she yells. I have to finish this. Then the cops pull out a rocket launcher. "oh no" I say. the shoot it at the pillar and I run. I dodge it but the front of the mall is falling apart. I run as fast as I can to the side. I get off the mall property and the cops get in their cars and follow. I get to the airstrip and I jump over the fence. I run to the plane and I get in. but there is not fuel. I run out and grab the fuel jug. I put it into the plane but then I see the cop cars. I have to go. I finish putting the fuel in there, and get in the plane. I start it up and I get ready. I see the cops coming. I get on the runway before the cops get me and I takeoff. Once I get in the air I think to myself. Where will I go? Will I ever be able to see anyone again? will I ever be free? There are so many questions in my head right now but I have to stay strong. I might be free but I'm still wanted. This is just the beginning.

# Interview with Andy Yang Kapur **Interviewer:** Thank you for agreeing to this interview Andy. I know that this must be difficult for you, but your… dad wanted me to interview you first. Can you tell me what they were like? **Andy:** He was larger than life. I always knew that he did important work with very important people, even before I could understand what he did. He was rarely around, often on the other side of the world, or in the air when he called. But when he was around, he made sure that it was memorable. We trekked mountains together during our vacations — that was our special thing to do together. **Interviewer:** How did you feel about their transition? **Andy:** It was hard at first. I didn’t know about his condition. I remember refusing to talk to him for a while after he came back. But then, I missed him. He made it easier for me. The pronouns and the new identity might have taken some getting used to, but he had never insisted on specific pronouns with me, like he did in public. He was always just Dad to me. We couldn’t trek in real-life, but on the flip-side he was around a lot more, ready to hear me out, to help me out whenever I needed him, even to play games together. When we climbed mountains in the , it felt as if nothing had changed. Over time, I just accepted that he was my dad, and that he was just different. I honestly felt closer to him, and I think I got to know him even better after his transition than before. I can’t believe he’s… just gone. # Interview with Andy Yang Kapur **Interviewer:** Thank you for agreeing to this interview Andy. I know that this must be difficult for you, but your… dad wanted me to interview you first. Can you tell me what they were like? **Andy:** He was larger than life. I always knew that he did important work with very important people, even before I could understand what he did. He was rarely around, often on the other side of the world, or in the air when he called. But when he was around, he made sure that it was memorable. We trekked mountains together during our vacations — that was our special thing to do together. **Interviewer:** How did you feel about their transition? **Andy:** It was hard at first. I didn’t know about his condition. I remember refusing to talk to him for a while after he came back. But then, I missed him. He made it easier for me. The pronouns and the new identity might have taken some getting used to, but he had never insisted on specific pronouns with me, like he did in public. He was always just Dad to me. We couldn’t trek in real-life, but on the flip-side he was around a lot more, ready to hear me out, to help me out whenever I needed him, even to play games together. When we climbed mountains in the , it felt as if nothing had changed. Over time, I just accepted that he was my dad, and that he was just different. I honestly felt closer to him, and I think I got to know him even better after his transition than before. I can’t believe he’s… just gone. # Interview with Diana Yang **Interviewer:** Miss Yang, thank you for agreeing to talk to me. **Diana:** Anya trusted you to draft the eulogy which would be distributed to the press. I’ll respect their wishes in this regard. But I was expecting our AIs to chat, rather than a direct interview. **Interviewer:** It’s my preferred format, and also a requirement in my smart contract with Anya’s estate. I hope you are ok with me recording this interview? I’ll share the final draft with your legal AI for their sign-off of course. **Diana:** That’s fine. Anton’s dead. Anya’s dead. It doesn’t really matter. **Interviewer:** I’m sorry for your loss. I understand you separated from Anton after their transition to Anya. You were still close to them after the separation? **Diana:** Anton helped me accept it. He told me about his plans well before the transition. During the transition I knew both Anya and Anton. By the time Anton was gone, I loved Anya as much as I had ever loved Anton, maybe even more so, but to me they were never the same individual. Anton slowly died, and Anya was slowly born. **Interviewer:** Was it the obvious physical aspects of the transition, or was it something else? **Diana:** It’s incredibly frustrating that everybody assumes it was just physical or sexual. My therapist thought it was the pheromones! I guess it’s because none of us, not even Andy and I, ever noticed any changes in Anton’s personality after the transition. The truth is, I was always a consultant’s wife. I expected him to never be around, and to call me a few times a week. I couldn’t live in a home where Anya was always present, everywhere, all the time. It made me miss Anton more. Anya was a better dad to Andy. They could’ve been a better partner for me than Anton ever had been. If I had met Anya before I met Anton, I could imagine committing to them, even marrying them, whenever it became legally recognized here. But I had known and loved Anton, and Anya wasn’t the same person. # Interview with Raj Smith **Interviewer:** Mr. Smith, thank you for your time during this crisis. Could you start by providing some context about recent events? I understand Anton led the Digital and AI practice at your firm, before his transition? **Raj:** Yes. Anton was one of the most brilliant minds I have known. As a senior partner here, he built the largest Digital and AI practice among the Big Five consulting firms. People often think of AI innovation as being driven by the big tech players. However the truth is that technology adoption by industry takes time, and it requires product, business, and cultural innovation to generate bottom-line value. Anton led much of this soft innovation, both at our firm, and at our clients. He established the best-practices for 100% remote ultra-high-productivity teams leveraging online spaces. He conceptualized the possibilities of crowd-sourced work inside MMORPGs, with quality control driven by AI models. And his most radical innovation, of course, was the idea of BYOA or Bring Your Own Agents. He established protocols allowing employees to own their agents, trained on their own data, while leveraging the same agents for productive work. Digital twins are common now, and the regulations are well established, but in the 30s, during the 3rd AI winter, open innovation seemed dead and buried. Corporate productivity AIs were mostly walled gardens. At that time, Anton’s vision was radically disruptive. **Interviewer:** How did you and the firm react when he brought up his transition plans? **Raj:** We were, of course, devastated, when we heard of his diagnosis. Anton was like a brother to me. But despite our sympathies, his proposal sounded insane. We had all just started using digital twins, and Anton’s twin was cutting-edge, but his vision went far beyond a typical fine-tuned and driven AI. He wanted to train a complex hybrid system using all of his data, both professional and personal. A 700 trillion parameter transformer core, chained with specialized neural and symbolic AIs for handling logic, math, different modalities and interfaces, which could be called and used as required. All of this trained on petabytes of data recorded and generated by Anton. The term had many negative connotations by that time, so neither Anton nor the firm used it while selling the idea. But essentially, Anton was proposing a limited and very expensive AGI. That alone would have been a high-risk-high-reward pitch, but his vision was not just to keep this AI as an internal advisor. He wanted it to advise clients directly, and vote on our managing board! Naturally, we were skeptical. **Interviewer:** How did he convince you to go along with his vision? **Raj:** Going along wasn’t easy. He needed significant funding and partnerships to make this possible! But like most great technology leaders, Anton was also great at hustling to realize his vision. When we hesitated, he called in every favor, and coordinated with venture capitalists and tech leaders to kickstart the process. Moreover he sold the vision of an AI-enabled afterlife with himself as the test-case, which secured enough funding from a few trillionaires. Beyond the investment, there was the matter of acceptance. While there was enormous potential PR and business value in having an “AI partner” at our firm, he realized that nobody would accept and treat the AI as they treated him. Moreover attempts to create an “Anton AI” would also face other acceptance issues, in the form of constant uncanny reminders of his death and non-corporeal artificial state of existence. Framing the change as a transition to a new individual was a masterstroke. The transition metaphor, with changes to the AI’s voice, the new name, and the use of non-gendered pronouns, all of these elements exploited the diversity and inclusion patterns which were fairly well established in our corporate psyche. We and our clients instinctively knew how to interact with, and accept, a newly “transitioned” Anya. Lastly, Anton committed to going above and beyond to see this project through, and to safeguard Anya’s place in our firm. The transition from Anton to Anya was phased out, with initial interactions monitored remotely by Anton. Every step of the transition was stage-gated based on our biometrics captured during our interactions with Anya. He took every form of experimental therapy available to buy enough time to make the transition possible. I was with him almost every step of the way. I even tried to talk him out of it several times. He ran a large part of the project from his deathbed and it was exactly as torturous as you would imagine. Not many people know this, but Anton spent most of his last few years hibernating in orbit, to slow the spread of his disease. As time progressed, the model was changed to Anya occasionally waking Anton to consult on specific problems or challenges. By the time Anton requested his solar cremation, Anya had been an active board member, with no need for oversight nor support from Anton, for more than a year. By that time, nobody could deny Anya’s independence, reliability, and value. **Interviewer:** What is your stance on the petitions started by Anya’s family, and signed by several celebrities, to treat the hack and data-wipe as a criminal case, on par with murder? **Raj:** It is hard for me to be unbiased here. Anton was a close friend, and I grieve for Diana and Andy’s loss. The entire incident is also a complicated legal matter. As you might be aware, a few years after the transition, Anya sought legal recognition as an independent entity. Our firm was understandably hesitant, not only from our desire to protect our IP, but also because we felt that we could offer them the best infrastructure and cyber-security. Anya’s family helped them take the matter to the courts, and we eventually settled, amicably, to allow Anya to exist as a separate legal entity. Our firm retained a minority stake in Anya LLP, but Diana and Andy controlled it, informally serving as proxy votes for Anya themselves. Anya continued to serve on our managing board with a vote by proxy as earlier. I guess… Given Anya’s unprecedented origins and legal status, it is up to the courts to decide how this cyber-crime should be treated. **Interviewer:** Do you feel Anya was an individual? Were they your friend? **Raj:** As I mentioned earlier, Anton was like a brother to me, but we differed in our views on AI. Compared to Anton, I was more of a skeptic. Anya was an invaluable AI, and had significant emotional value to me as Anton’s legacy. As a business AI, they demonstrated an unparalleled ability to analyze complex scenarios, create new strategies, and even build relationships with senior clients. Honestly, it was hard not to see Anya an independent individual at times. They had independent opinions and moods, could sense sarcasm, discern emotions from tone and context, crack unprompted jokes at the perfect moments, or tell stories. On the other hand, . Given the ubiquitous use of much simpler , should every cyber-crime leading to the loss of any digital twin be treated as murder? Anya was my AI friend, and I am saddened by their loss. But to me Anya was never really a “transitioned” Anton. Anton had died a long time ago. We just need to accept what happened, and do our best to honor his legacy. **Interviewer:** What has your crisis-response been like after this cyber-crime incident, and what are your plans as a firm to replace Anya? **Raj:** As an independent legal entity, Anya existed on their own proprietary cloud infrastructure, so the hack did not compromise our firm’s AI infrastructure in any way. We are of course working with Anya LLP and the justice department to help with the forensic investigation. Anya’s board arrangement was a unique part of Anton’s legacy, and I don’t think we intend to add another AI to our board in the future. However, over the last few years we have adopted increasingly sophisticated digital twins to increase the productivity of our senior leaders and working teams, and to bring more value to our clients. Our firm will also be investing in building a line of AI’s based on our knowledge of Anya’s system and architecture, and some of the original data which we had retained as our IP. We will name these AAIs — Anton-Anya-Intelligence, to honor Anton’s vision and his contributions to our firm. We are hoping that AAIs would soon be accessible to every CXO via their wearables, allowing for unique high-productivity digital alter-egos, beyond commoditized digital-twins. Inspired by: Interview with Andy Yang Kapur **Interviewer:** Thank you for agreeing to this interview Andy. I know that this must be difficult for you, but your… dad wanted me to interview you first. Can you tell me what they were like? **Andy:** He was larger than life. I always knew that he did important work with very important people, even before I could understand what he did. He was rarely around, often on the other side of the world, or in the air when he called. But when he was around, he made sure that it was memorable. We trekked mountains together during our vacations — that was our special thing to do together. **Interviewer:** How did you feel about their transition? **Andy:** It was hard at first. I didn’t know about his condition. I remember refusing to talk to him for a while after he came back. But then, I missed him. He made it easier for me. The pronouns and the new identity might have taken some getting used to, but he had never insisted on specific pronouns with me, like he did in public. He was always just Dad to me. We couldn’t trek in real-life, but on the flip-side he was around a lot more, ready to hear me out, to help me out whenever I needed him, even to play games together. When we climbed mountains in the , it felt as if nothing had changed. Over time, I just accepted that he was my dad, and that he was just different. I honestly felt closer to him, and I think I got to know him even better after his transition than before. I can’t believe he’s… just gone. *- Alva* *Thank you for your patience in reading my short story.

The wait for Liam to arrive in their new family room seemed like an eternity. With Billie’s prodding, Madeline finally agreed to start unpacking as a distraction. After a little debate, they agreed to hide their walkies the same way they had in the shared bunk room. Between them, they tore a slit along a seam of the mattress, as small and as hidden as they could, then stuffed one of the walkies deep inside. Billie volunteered to go to the washroom to hide the other in a toilet cistern while Madeline stayed to unpack their clothes. She’d just finished reluctantly placing the last pair of neatly folded trousers in the chest when the door creaked open. Dropping what she was doing, she whirled around — only to see Billie slipping back inside. She sighed, slumping onto the double bed. “Sorry. I thought you were Liam.” “And here I thought you were that excited to see me.” They crossed the room, sitting down next to her and slipping an arm over her shoulders to pull her into their side. “I’m sure he’ll be here soon.” “Yeah,” Madeline muttered. “Soon.” Shaking herself out of her slump, she turned to face Billie more fully. “Did you manage to…” They nodded. “Yep, all hidden. Oh! And you should see the washrooms here! The showers have cubicles with doors and everything! I can’t wait to see what the water pressure is like!” Madeline sat up a little straighter. “Really? That’s a relief! As nice as it is to be around people, I’ve missed my privacy.” “Even from me?” Billie asked, poking her side gently with their free hand. She turned her nose up, feigning a haughty expression. “I have to keep some mystery about me, don’t I?” Chuckling, Madeline dropped the act, snuggling closer in. “Though I have to say, I’m also very much looking forward to having more privacy *with* you.” “Oh? Really? I suppose I could understand that.” Billie laid back onto the bed, pulling Madeline with them. Madeline rolled towards them, pushing herself up to lean over them closer and closer.She paused for a second as their lips brushed before leaning fully into the kiss. A spark ignited in her chest, growing to a warm glow, then to a fire raging through her body as she lost herself in the softness of their lips, the heat of their breath, the touch of their body against hers. The door creaked open — almost as if it had been waiting for the first moment Madeline wasn’t consumed entirely by watching and waiting. Tearing herself away from Billie, she stood hurriedly, brushing down her clothes to turn and face the door. A young female guard Madeline recognised from her visit with Liam was standing there, a smaller form waiting behind in the corridor. The woman half-grinned, half-grimaced. “Sorry. I probably should have knocked first. But I figured you’d be eager to welcome this little guy.” Stepping aside, she waved Liam into the room. He hurried inside and straight over to Madeline, who knelt to fold him into a firm hug. Looking up over Liam’s shoulder, Madeline smiled at the guard. “We were. Thank you!” The woman smiled. “I’ll leave you all to get settled in then. And Liam?” He pulled away from Madeline to glance around. “Yes, Miss Ackers?” “Someone will be here at the usual time in two days to take you to class. Okay? So make sure you’re ready for them like normal.” “Yes, Miss Ackers,” he replied with a nod. “Alright then. I hope you enjoy your new lodgings.” She nodded at them all, smiling as she ducked out into the corridor. As the door clicked shut behind her, Liam glanced around the room before turning to Madeline with wide eyes. “We get all this space just to ourselves?” She grinned. “Yep! And apparently, the washrooms are nice too!” Standing, she placed a hand between his shoulder blades, guiding him across the room and past the privacy screen to the single bed. “Here’s where you’ll be sleeping. And there’s a trunk for all your things at the foot of the bed. And apparently, we might be able to ask for more furniture or decorations if we stay in the good graces of the guards — or is it in the good graces of the Poiloogs? I do wonder who really runs this place.” Billie poked their head around the corner of the privacy screen. “I think they leave most of the boring organisational stuff to the humans. Then they just come along to reap the benefits.” “Makes sense. Anyway,” Madeline turned back to Liam, “did you want me to leave you to get unpacked and settled?” “Sure,” he said with a nod, before turning to grin up at her. “Though I know you’re only saying that because you want to go back to smooching each other! I saw what was going on when I arrived!” He folded his arms. A heat rushed up Madeline’s neck until it reached the tips of her ears and burnt in her cheeks. “I… Err… You see… I was going to tell you… It’s just…” Liam grinned. “I’m glad you found someone you *liiike*. Even if it is gross!” “Yes. Err… Good. Okay then. I’ll leave you to unpack.” Still flushed, she hurried over to Billie, who was lingering by the privacy screen. The amusement sparkling in those brown eyes only made the heat in her face burn more fiercely. “Shut up,” she muttered as they walked back to their bed. “I didn’t say anything!” “You didn’t have to!” “I just love how flustered you get.” They leaned in closer, tracing a finger across her still-burning cheek. “You’re so cute when you’re all pink!” Before she could protest, they gripped both her shoulders and pulled her close to cover her flushed face in kisses. Soon, the pair of them were tangled on the bed together in a fit of giggles. “Ahem!” Madeline sat bolt upright, still half-tangled in Billie’s limbs. She turned to see Liam peeking around the privacy screen. “If you two are quite done,” he said, stepping over into their half of the room, “Can we go and get some food?” As Madeline extricated herself from Billie and smoothed down her clothes once more, she couldn’t help but smile. It was little moments like this that made life worth living. And sometimes, all you could count on were the little moments.

I guess because of me having been part of something pretty secretive, he is hoping to catch some quick cash while doing me a favor. I glanced into Alan's eyes, and I believe he has thought about the same. Small part of him, doesn't like Andren's intention but, same time, it is a way for him to get material about the black project: Synth L to UEIA. So, it isn't all bad. Not sure what he is concerned about in Andren's plan. Well, while he is looking after his own interest, to an extent reasonably so. That is his problem, not mine though. I have more pressing concerns. <Well, I did not expect this conversation to be this wild, you probably know the way to your quarters, Evanis. I will go back to my squad and begin writing a report to UEIA.> Alan states and heads towards the elevator. <I do sir Staovan, thank you for rescuing me again.> I reply to him warmly and bow slightly. <Just doing my job, Evanis. I haven't had anything this thrilling for, ever since joining the UEIA. Captain.> Alan says to me and pays his respect to Andren, then enters the elevator, the doors close and it starts going down. <You say you have forgotten a lot? The fact that you recognized and remembered me, makes my position to believe. That your mind actually has been altered in some way, tough to believe.> Andren says to me in mildly bewildered tone. <If I had to guess, it probably is because those memories had very strong emotions tied to them.> I reply to him calmly and think about it. <A strong plausibility, granted, I don't have much to work with, both in terms of knowledge or experience. You are pretty much the first individual who possibly has been through some kind of memory alteration procedure, that doesn't involve strong drugs or very lengthy procedure that leaves obvious scars.> Andren says, and seems to have thought about some awful memories. <Memories you would rather not have, I guess.> I reply to him, as I get the feeling that I am correct on my assumption. <In my business, most of the time, it is to the point but, there are times when my poker face has been tested, one way or another. Yeah, I have seen some seriously horrible stuff. Few times made me ponder whether I have made right life choices.> Andren says, thinking back to few particularly morally wrong things he has witnessed, I think. <So, you are wishing to make some kind of good memory for once? without dulling your senses with... Something...> I ask but, have difficulty on remembering the substance. <Correct, and, I. Have gotten myself quite drunk, after several times, I just can't do it again. Heck, even if I am involved with spies and agents in UEIA... It would be a great irony for me to state, that they actually are some of the only people who make me feel like I am among stable people finally.> Andren says being honest to me, sits down at his desk. <What am I to you, do you feel like thoughts are stable when around me or, I am just something that really helps you get your mind off from those memories?> I ask from him calmly, but, I am curious to know. How does he view me? <More of the latter but, some of the former. It was, life effecting, to hear you had traveled out of Mars. Then later, hearing about your death. By the stars, I am a mess...> Andren says, trying to get himself away from thinking about this. I walk up to him, and place my left hand on his right shoulder. <Don't run away from this, it's just going to be twice as difficult next time.> I say to him, he looks me into my eyes and I nod to him, looking seriously into his eyes. <Maybe later.> Andren says, I have a feeling that the skirt chasing on his younger days, made him realize a mistake he made. When I left. Andren brings back his usual facial expression, that everything is going pretty nicely. I wanted to be disappointed of him, but, I think I should just give him space to think about it. I pull my hand away from his shoulder and move in front of the desk. <Are you okay with me returning to my quarters?> I ask from him gently. <I am. Everything is going pretty nicely, unlikely that any Thanrartenians have figured out how you made it off world.> Andren replies to me in his usual tone of confident and slightly charming. <Understood captain. Let me know if something changes.> I reply to him respectfully and head towards the elevator. I can sense him looking at me. Not sure what he is feeling but, considering what we talked about. Uneasy or messed up, are the best two guesses. The elevator arrived and I step in, he waves me a see you, I reply to it the same way and smile slightly. He shouldn't, I think to myself when the doors closed and elevator began descending to where my quarters are in this ship. What does Andren exactly do? That has lead him to degrade mentally. I wish I could remember, so many things. The elevator door opens and I get off from it, walk towards my quarters. So many thoughts are going through my head, so much that I don't know or can't remember. I enter my quarters and sit down on a chair. Then place my helmet on the table, so that the visor faces me. I sink into looking at my color distorted reflection on it. I think... I. Recall something. I tense up from the memory. I think, it, was almost like this, when I first time looked at it. When my body finally was one with my mind? I put the helmet on that memory, thinking, finally that struggle is over. Why do I think that way? ... I didn't have a body before that? I quickly escape from the memory, the thought is so scary... I, no, I have to face the truth, it hurts, but, wallowing in lies hurts a lot more. Alan mentioned that I died during a test of a prototype... I relax and continue thinking. Something in the craft went horribly wrong... I see the ground... Then all goes nothing. I wake up on a table, of, some type... Yes, I must have had different body before this. Something that actually made me, me. Was the incident so bad for me that so little was able to be saved? Thought of this terrifies me but, I have to face it. Who I used to be was so much more different. I look at my own body now, I feel flow of warmth in my body, I accept that is now past. I need to live what is here and now. I close my eyes subconsciously and, slip into a... Peaceful, relaxed and calm state. I feel some kind of electric sensation went through all of my body. I began to rest, I feel the water ripple sensation on my body again, it is soothing, I breath in, and out. Breath in, and out. I feel strong current of energy flow all over my body, I allow it to guide me. I open my eyes immediately and look at myself. I, no longer just control my body, but, now, feel even more connected to it. This is who I am, who I used to be was a lot different, not much can be done about that. I straighten my fingers and make fists for a moment. It feels, a lot more natural now. I might have to learn it all again, test myself. What can I actually do with this body? There still is a lot of questions in my mind... I have a feeling that Alan is not able to help me as much as he has so far. I think back to my time in complex where I woke up at. I remember doing that obstacle course. I am, able to do all that? What else can I do though? Well, pretty clear that I don't need to worry about having to do a lot of exercise to continue maintaining this physique but, biggest problem is, I have to familiarize myself again to what I can and can not do. I get up from a chair and go in front of another mirror, I do recall some details now, I am most certainly a human in body physics and aesthetic but, the actual chemistry and physiology are completely different. This doesn't feel like life, but, it does very uncannily well on mimicking it. Where normal human body wouldn't be able to reach and maintain certain physical actions that I took back the complex. This body is able to do that and a whole lot more, I take a strong grip of my left arm and squeeze, even a sense of touch is there. I don't know how to test my two other senses though, I don't feel... Something, at the moment either. What was that word for that? I reach out with my senses and stretch my body. I still love the colors of my armor and helmet, I got used to who I am back then. I can do it again, and, maybe this time, a lot better. Something is announced. <We are returning to standard cruise in five. Four. Three. Two. One.> Of course, a loudspeaker, system to communicate something important to all in the ship. I take sturdy stance and felt strong deceleration and eventually gracefully slows down into standard cruise speed. I exit my quarters and head towards the bridge. As I arrived to the main elevator, it stopped on my level. Doors open and there is Alan Staovan and his team. <Oh, Evanis. I thought we would need to ask you to join us to go talk with Andren.> Alan says, being mildly surprised by my presence. <I too want to know what is happening. Pardon me.> Reply to him and embark the lift. Alan and his squad made a little bit room for me. Doors close and lift begins to ascend. <Unnecessary of me to ask, I guess.> Add to what I said. <You are correct Evanis. This is not what we intended and, we are quite concerned whether this sudden change in plans, risk the mission.> Alan says without a hint of surprise of my statement. When the lift reached the bridge level and opened. Doors open and we see Andren already at work with his bridge crew and talking to one of the... Guards? Of this ship... We all disembark. Andren notices us, and already prepares to bring us up to speed on what's going on. <Thank you for getting here so quickly. We have a situation, ship sensors have picked up a pirate squadron, not too far away from the human colony planet of Gospel two. Most likely they will pick up on us soon.> Andren explains, then waits for us to respond. <I will guess this is one of your "friends", who are about to attack the planet.> Alan says, knowing something that I do not. I immediately got curious of what he means saying what he said. <Exactly, worst is, they actually have a proper force to send even space fighters after us, this ship is bad in being chased situations. We have to engage.> Andren says and motions us all to approach a holo projector, that is already projecting live feed of the situation. We approach it, I have tough time on making sense about it. Alan thinks for a while as he looks at the three dimension map. <Prudent of you to slow down to standard cruise speed. They would most likely have harried us until propulsion was disabled. I take it that the communications buoy has been disabled?> Alan speaks after reading the situation for a bit. <Yes, and early warning stations, planetary defenses are not going to be able to respond in time, and as you can all see. No human alliance fleet is in the area. The perfect time.> Andren says, begrudgingly respecting the pirates. What are pirates again? <What are pirates again?> I ask, everybody becomes quite bewildered by the question but, soon recall why ask. <Individuals who have renounced protection of law and reject the idea of stability, they are going to be causing a lot of harm at the planet. Gospel two is also still in development, in terms of infrastructure, population and industries. They are perfect prey.> Alan replies in calm manner. I can not at all recall times I have had to deal with these types of people but, I trust Alan's words on this, these people are most likely not up to anything good when they land. <May I make a suggestion sir?> One of the members of Alan's team asks. <Go ahead.> Alan says being open for ideas. <We should use the planet as a shield for pirate ship sensors, Andren will send some security detail onto the planet on most likely areas of attack by the pirates, meanwhile. Some of us here, will pilot space craft to engage enemy space craft, of both fighters and transports, to try to minimize the amount of evil getting onto the planet.> Individual explains the plan. <That is a solid plan, but, it would leave my ship relatively vulnerable for their cruisers and, most likely, they would bombard the existing infrastructure to slow down a response to a surprise attack.> Andren says, thinks about the situation. <What about positioning your cruiser, to this location to provide active deterrent against cruiser bombardment and force an engagement in space?> Alan asks, curious to know how Andren would feel about it. <Definitely not liking that idea.> Andren replies, disliking the idea. <Captain, Agents. I think I have a better plan.> One of the bridge crew members holler. <You have our attention.> Andren says and listens carefully. Alan and his team also begin to listen. <We scramble fighters, they will delay the forces on space from attacking the planetary and orbiting defenses stations. We will send a signal that planet is going to be under attack by pirates, and to request reinforcements from one of the Human Alliance Fleets. The cruiser will use long range missiles to at least deter the enemy cruisers from getting closer.> Same crewman explains the plan. <That is a whole lot better plan. The cruisers would need to break formation to move to engage our cruiser. We need two space fighter teams, Gaunco, take two transports and as the first space fighter team engages the pirate fighters land in two of the orbital defense stations that are going to be attacked next. Second team will screen for enemy fighters.> Andren speaks in a slightly more serious tone. <Roger, about time we get to see some action than just be all looks.> Individual who presumably is Gaunco says, happy about this situation. <So, you are not part of human alliance fleet?> I ask, as one of my guesses was that Andren works as a mobile part of one of the fleets. <Um... Let's call my actions independently done.> Andren says as the situation feeling that I said something quite awkward to him. <Ookay...> I reply as I do feel like, that this got pretty weird suddenly. <How much do you remember of this space craft Evanis? Polaris Three B5 space craft.> Andren asks, Alan immediately looked at him, intending on disagreeing with him, I guess. Polaris Three? Andren changes holo projection to project the space craft. I look at it for a while. Yes, I remember flying these. And, I am very good at it. <Yes, I remember this space fighter. Excellent forty millimeter rapid fire cannon, missile load of twenty and short range laser cannon. Do you want me to pilot it?> I reply to Andren. <Andren, I do not agree with your idea.> Alan says, clearly not at all accepting this proposal. <Trust me agent, she is a wizard with this fighter, bunch of undisciplined pirates are in for a hell, when the battle commences.> Andren says and I nod to Alan in agreement. <Alright, but, only for screening for pirate fighters.> Alan backs down from his initial disagreement. <As much as I would love to have her be that close, to see such fireworks myself. Better decision is, to have her escort the transports and bring the orbital defense platforms on alert.> Andren says in determined tone. <How big of a fighter compliment they have in total?> Alan asks quickly, knowing that we probably are short on time, and should act soon. <They outnumber us only two to one. Trust me, I have seen her fly this space fighter. She is the best pilot of one, of the entire academy. Even made teachers jealous.> Alan replies and smiles to me slightly. Most likely because he remembers it, as I recall too. That is a rather nice memory to recall. <Alright, just be careful Evanis, and don't take unnecessary risks.> Alan says in begrudgingly respectful tone. <Which way to the hangar?> I ask. <I will handle that.> Andren replies and we embark the elevator again. We only stopped at the home quarters level, so I can pick up my helmet. When I returned to the elevator, we went down few levels, doors open and reveal a very nice hangar. Andren's cruiser is a whole lot bigger than it seemed in Farovel. Alan and I hurry to a Polaris Three B5 space fighter, he begins the work on giving me full access to the space craft. I look around for a moment, there is some space craft here, that I recognize after staring at a few for a while. I dive deep into the memories of all the space craft that I see. <Evanis, sorry to interrupt but, we are about to be quite busy.> Andren calls out and, I bring myself back to this moment. <Sorry, I got excited upon seeing this rather surprisingly diverse space craft compliment in your ship.> I reply and take his place on the space fighter pilot seat. <Happy to hear that something about you, didn't change.> Andren says warmly and smiles happily for a change, and not the charismatic way. <Show them what a real fighter pilot is.> Andren adds as the seat started to ascend into the space fighter. I nodded to him with a warm smile and put the helmet back on.

**~Planet: Azuria~** I’d just gotten back to Arxor Academy, dropped off Zerik at Izzy’s place for just a moment, before heading up to the headmaster’s office at the pinnacle of the academy. To be truthful this was one of my favorite places in the academy. Perhaps, that was just the wizard in me speaking, considering this was the top of the central tower of the academy. I always wanted to know what it would be like to laugh maniacally while wielding the most destructive spells known to man. Aside from my stupid fantasy, the headmaster was good people, his office had a hell of a view of the academy and the surrounding mountains, and the guy had relatively good taste in décor. The furniture was classy without being gaudy, a modest wooden desk with a few bookshelves around the edges of the room. The floor was wooden, polished to perfection, so much so that you could almost see your reflection. Headmaster Beril Aden was an Uchi, another of species here on Azuria who usually had scales, crescent shaped heads, and lizard-like eyes. My boss had orange scales, greenish red reptilian eyes, and a thin moustache that drooped below his chin. Beril was one of the most renowned mages of the School of Nature, who’d led the academy and countless mages for the past two hundred years. Right now, it was this man that sat in front of me, twirling his moustache with a smile, “Jaden, Jaden, Jaden, my boy, why don’t you tell me what happened in Slade.” “As I’m sure Dr. Silva told you, I was there to accomplish a favor for her. Zerik Shin, who now goes by the moniker, Shadow, was the mage I was sent for. When I got there, however, I’d learned of necromancer who was stirring up trouble in the city’s third district. With a little help from a local cop, I made contact with Zerik, who told me that he found out the necromancer was an aspirant of the Crimson Empire.” I stopped to let those words sink in. The wizened old mage stroked his long moustache, “Hmm,” He turned to look out the window, and I noticed the snow was picking up almost as though it responded to his mood, “Continue.” “Not long after that we were attacked, but we fought our way to the streets below where we tried to save as many civilians as possible. Amidst the fighting, we were stopped when one of the necromancer’s minions paused the fighting to invite us to come into his lair. When we followed, we found the sorcerer, and thanks to the kid we were able to overcome him. When we questioned him, he was unable to tell us who solicited his help to kill us, but it sounded like the Crimson Empire wants to start a base of operations in the West, due to its lack of magic potential.” The headmaster sighed and turned back to look at me, wearily. The Crimson Empire was not good news for anyone, but especially when they wanted to cause havoc in the countries that had little in the way of magical potential. Now the west had technology to help mitigate the advantages of magic, but whether it was enough to stop an organization of fanatics, who could say. The worst part of it all, was the lack of information, so we couldn’t take action. “I will report this to the High Council, if the Crimson Empire is making a move, then it’s best that the council begin moving their agents into position for a counter attack.” I winced at the mention of the High Council. My master at Arxor Academy was also an agent of the High Council. She taught me everything about hunting mages, up until the time that I graduated and began work underneath the Council. I’d slain dozens of mages, but not all of them really deserved it. I was not much more than a glorified murderer and I knew it. A lot of it was in the name of hunting down and ridding the system of the Crimson Empire, but alas, despite the trail of bodies, they still thrive. I had always felt guilty about it, and I can’t tell you the expenses in therapy I’ve paid, to be able to live with the things I’ve done. So lost was I in the past, that I failed to notice the old man walk up to me. A reassuring hand was laid on my shoulder, “There is little to be done about it now, and there is no sense in worrying about it. Besides, there are more important matters to attend to.” I looked up to see him smiling, “A new student with a bright future, and we need someone to teach him.” I groaned inwardly knowing that this was a setup. I didn’t want to teach anyone, considering I was a mage hunter just like my predecessor. She turned me into a monster and I was afraid that I would turn anyone I taught into the same monster. Of course, the kid wanted to hunt mages, but could I really put another person through the hell I went through? Could I really make someone else bear the shame of hunting possible innocents? “Jaden, listen close, when you came here after working with the High Council, admitting all that you did, I took you in. I introduced you to Dr., no Izzy, because there was a potential in you to do great things. We all do some messed up things from time to time, but we can always seek to make amends and do things better. Magus hunters can redeem fallen mages, just as they can snuff them out. The High Council had you kill, but I would have you bring them home so they can learn to use their powers for good. I want you to do the same with Zerik.” I thought about that for a moment. It was the same speech he’d given me a few years back, but I didn’t really understand then. I can’t say I understand now, but Zerik’s future was at stake, and I’d made him a promise, “I’ll teach, him.” My boss smiled, “Good, from this day forward you are assigned Zerik Shin as your student, good luck Master Blackthorn.” He pulled up a holo-screen from his wrist terminal which displayed a student master contract. He tapped a few prompts on the display then his screen disappeared and I got a ping on my interface. With a few motions I reviewed the document and signed at the bottom to acknowledge Zerik Shin’s enrollment and subsequent role as my new student. I bowed before the headmaster and left his quarters to head down a long set of spiral stone stairs. No, this guy didn’t have an elevator, yes anyone that wanted to see the headmaster had to walk up several flights of these stairs. We all complained about it, and it was the only thing that made this little spot detestable, but hey, it is what it is. When I came outside, it was bright, and despite what you might think, it was warm outside. You see one of the nice things about having so many mages on staff, was convenience. Above us was a shield, made by a contraption that produced heat so we wouldn’t have to dawn a full coat or insulated armor so long as we were inside the academy. There was a garden just outside with several pools, containing elegantly colored fish, in the center of each pool was a statue. Cyan colored crystal flowers glowed brightly as they sat pretty behind purple leafed bushes. Benches were placed between the pools and gardens along the walkway so that those that wanted to rest, could. What caught me most were the two trees at the ends of the courtyard. One tree had black wood and red leaves on one end while the other had golden leaves and red wood. One signified life, the other death, both symbolized harmony in magic. Mages strove for it in the lives we created, but keeping such was hard to maintain. With my awe of the courtyard settling down I walked to one of the benches and had a seat. A few students passed by, but they were all a blur to me. I was still trying to figure out how I was going to train this kid. What would we even do? I had a few ideas for exercises and meditation and he would take regular classes, but the time he spent in practicum would be up to me. I looked down, with a bit of anxiety building in my chest, when suddenly my thoughts were interrupted, “Sulking again? You shouldn’t set a bad example for your new student.” I looked up to find Izzy, standing with Zerik in tow. The kid looked at me pointedly, “Well, what’s the word?” “I’ve agreed to train you.” I responded, before I even really knew what I was saying. The doubts would continue to come, but for now I couldn’t show fear, “I’m going to train you to hunt mages, but it won’t be like most other kids at the academy. I’m going to have to put you through the ringer, this isn’t a job for the faint of heart.” “After what we just went through, I figured it wouldn’t.” He said it in such a matter-of-fact way, that it sounded ridiculous. Izzy smiled, “Confidence, I like it, you two ought to be good for each other.” “You and that old man scheme too much you know that?” “Scheme, whatever do you mean?” Izzy replied, leaving Zerik with a look of confusion. To be fair, I would be confused too, but there was so much more that happened behind the scenes that he didn’t know. I sighed, “Somehow, I know it’s coming yet I always get caught up in it somehow. Anyway, Zerik, we’ll start training tomorrow, you’ll meet me in the gym.” To that the young man gave me a look of confusion. “Master,” “Remember, no need for the master.” “Right, Jaden, aren’t I supposed to be learning magic first, and how to control it?” “You’ll see when you get there, now,” I took a look at my wrist terminal and found that the headmaster just approved the use of room two-o-seven in the east wing. “Right on time, your room was just approved, I’ll take you there once I finish up with Miss Izzy here.” “Don’t let me stop you, you’ve got responsibilities now.” “And just when are you going to take on an apprentice?” “I’ve trained several healers already my dear, just because you don’t leave that little hovel you call an office doesn’t mean the rest of the world isn’t moving on.” She smiled, “You’re really going to have to get out of your office more. When you’re not training Zerik or hunting down the enemies of the academy, come see me. I miss the time that we spent together when you first came here.” I would have smiled back, but my mask prevented me, “Well my schedule’s about to be pretty busy, I’ll see when I can fit you in.” “I’ll look forward to it then, later.” She waved as she began to walk back towards the clinic. I looked at Zerik, “Alright kid, let’s go see your room.” He stood up and the two of us headed out of the door next to the tree representing death towards the east wing of the academy. I led the way through the immaculate crowded halls, past the endless sea of students towards a long bridge of brick. Large flames sat on either side of the bridge that overlooked a wondrous river surrounded by snow and tall mountains loomed in the distance. Both of us stopped to admire the view. “So, this is what the academy looks like, it’s a very pretty view.” Looking over the vast vista, I realized I hadn’t traveled that way in a while, after all there were incredibly powerful monsters out there. Generally, a few teams of battle mages were sent to keep them in check so that we weren’t swamped with creatures all year round. “Yeah, well, here’s to hoping you never get sick of it. Look, I wanted to talk to you real quick before we start your training tomorrow.” “Lay it on me.” “Being a magus hunter takes you to all sorts of different places and you’ll fight foes with varying degrees of abilities. Often times it isn’t the strongest one that wins, but the one who can adapt to any situation. I’m going to ask you to do a lot over the next few weeks, whether it’s training, thinking outside the box, or even what might seem like useless tasks at first. There is a whole lot you need to consider when fighting that you wouldn’t otherwise. What I will ask will seem underhanded, dishonorable, and sometimes outright wrong, but that is how you must think when fighting dangerous opponents. I’m going to give you this opportunity now to choose whether this is what you want, or whether you’d rather help in different ways. If you choose this path there will be no turning back.” Zerik kept his gaze on the snow-covered mountains, “I’ve lived in the grungiest city of all, and I did a lot of awful things. I used all of my weird powers for the wrong reasons, until a team of volunteers came. Dr. Silva was one of those volunteers, she always told me that I could use what I had to help those around me. Ever since I tried to do just that, but I failed, time and time again. I could barely control my powers, but after a little while I began to get better little by little.” He stopped and turned to face me, “By the time I got the hang of everything, she’d gone to the academy, and I’d taken up the mantle of the Shadow. Jaden, I want to help others, but not just hunting them down, but helping them realize they have hidden potential just like Dr. Silva did for me.” So that was it, he was on this path to redeem as many as he could. And I was here for it, “Then starting tomorrow I’ll get you up to speed so that we can help teach others how to use their powers for good.” I finished, held out my hand, and the two of us shook hands. After that we both turned in, for tomorrow I would put him through hell.

Sleazy Dan and his Sleazy Plan PART 1 Hello. This is a story about Liam. Liam is 21 years old. He's Irish but he lives in Kansas as he moved there for college. Well, he thought it was college, turns out it was a scam, whatever. It happens. Liam is a man of questionable morals without much to live for. He has no close friends or family that cares about him, and no real passion or goal in life. He sleeps at his place of work as well as his boss. Oh yeah, his boss. Sleazy Dan. Sleazy Dan was a Sleazy man. He had slicked back hair that was almost falling out, massive bags under his eyes and a weird smell coming from his behind. He was maybe the most disgusting person you could think of. At the ripe old age of 56, Sleazy Dan had seen a lot. He would tell people he met that he was a war veteran, despite being specifically banned from ever joining any of the armed forces. Sleazy Dan was a business man. He had a sleazy business in his Sleazy van. He would sell meatballs from it, like a food truck. He was not licensed to do so. "I'm sure you don't need to be licensed for this kind of thing," he would say. You do. "I'm sure it will be fine," he would say. It won't be. As I mentioned before, Liam and Sleazy Dan both live in this van. That is not legal at all. They both knew this, but Sleazy Dan didn't care and Liam had nowhere else to go. They got along, the two men, despite being so different. Liam was fascinated by Sleazy Dan's strange anecdotes, and Sleazy Dan appreciated Liam's unwillingness to tell the police about the very obvious illegal dealings Sleazy Dan would get up to. That's where this story starts. The illegal dealings. Liam awoke one morning to see Sleazy Dan on the computer they had in the back of the van. It was not an old Dell laptop that Sleazy Dan stole from the library. Liam thought he knew what Sleazy Dan was doing, and took it upon himself to ask. "Are you working on it again" "Yes. It's almost finished. We're almost there boy!" Oh, how could I forget. The "it" that they're talking about is Sleazy-Dan's-Sleazy-Plan™. If you knew Sleazy Dan, then you probably knew about his Sleazy Plan. He was very secretive about it, and wouldn't tell anyone what it was. Not even Liam. Rumour had it that no one who ever heard Sleazy-Dans-Sleazy-Plan™ had lived to tell the tail. What was this part about again? Oh yeah, the illegal activity. So throughout the day the men were breaking all kinds of health codes and safety regulations, but that was nothing new. Sleazy Dan once said that if the police knew about everything going on in the van, he would be serving 25 years to life in prison for each day it was open. But no, that's not what the story's about. I've been trying to find a way to fit it in naturally, but I think I'm just gonna cut to the chase. So Sleazy Dan murdered a man in cold blood in an alley behind Macdonald's. That was the night before that morning I just told you about. Sleazy Dan still hadn't told Liam, and had to find a way to delicately break it to him. "I murdered a man in the alley behind Macdonald's." Huh. I guess he wasn't so delicate about it. Anyways, this was a turning point for Liam, and it would prove to be one of the biggest decisions he would make in his entire life. Would he decide enough is enough, and turn Sleazy Dan into the police, or would he succumb to the- "Okay" Huh. Okay I guess it wasn't such a big decision after all. "So you said the plan is almost finished, that's amazing! When can we get started" "As a matter of fact boy, you can start as early as tonight" "Tonight? But I don't even know what the plan is." "You don't need to know. Here's what's going to happen. I'm going to stay here and sell the meatballs. You're going to go to the police station and tell them you know who committed that murder behind the Macdonald's" "Wait so the murder was a part of the plan?" "No. Absolutely not. That guy was just kinda getting on my nerves, you know? No, see what you're going to do is tell them that the guy who did it fled the country, that way they get off my back and I can start the real plan." "Okay sure I can do that" "Good. But don't touch anything in there because they can check your prints and they're all over the crime scene" "Why the fuck are my prints all over the crime scene!?" "I put them there. You know, just in case they think it was me. Don't worry about it I'm sure you'll be fine" But Liam did worry about it. He worried lots. What if Sleazy-Dan's-Sleazy-Plan ™ was a disaster, and he ended up in prison? Regardless, he trusted Sleazy Dan more than his own father (which Sleazy Dan often claims he is despite having absolutely no proof) and decided to go though with it. That night, he went to the police station and told them that he knows who committed the murder and that they left the country. The police officer who was taking Liam's statement, Officer Racist (Can you guess what his primary character trait is? Are you able to come to that conclusion based on his name? I mean it's pretty on the nose I know surely you get it) was not impressed with his story. "And how exactly do you know all this?" Enquired Officer Racist (See his thing is that he's racist. Hence the name. Just wanted to make that clear) "I don't feel comfortable revealing that information." Liam easily could have made up some excuse and left, but he liked the attention. This was the longest human interaction that he's had with someone other than Sleazy Dan in 8 weeks. And Sleazy Dan talked far too much about "flesh" for his liking. Officer Racist (he's the racist one) had had just about enough of this. "Look you either tell me what you really know or I'm going to have to ask you politely to leave" "What you're not going to threaten me with police brutality or anything?" "Well hold on now" Officer Racist takes out a magnifying class, like those ones that people who inspect diamonds have. He takes Liam's arm and looks into it very deeply. He smiles and says, "Nope. Not an ounce of melanin in your whole body. You can go whenever you want" Liam left feeling a little strange. "Kinda weird behaviour from a police officer", he thought. (Again that's because the officer was racist, just in case that wasn't abundantly clear.) PART 2 It was now midnight, and Liam came back to the van to find it open for business. Midnight was rush hour for the van, as people from across Kansas would come to eat the meatballs. Was this because they tasted particular good? No. It was because all the different kinds of grease, bacteria and general gunk that was on them, they would induce a hallucinagenic effect on anyone who ate them. They were very popular around the stoner community. Liam went into the van and told Sleazy Dan about what happened "Ok brilliant" said Sleazy Dan, "I'm proud of you son" Again, Sleazy Dan was NOT Liam's father. No ifs or buts about it, he's just not his dad. "Thanks dad" said Liam. Sleazy Dan shut the van for the night and sat down with Liam. He pulled out his Dell laptop. "Tomorrow, the real business will begin. I need you to go to that restaurant downtown" "Why am I the one doing all this stuff. It's your plan." "I'll be at a UN meeting. Look that's not important, just go to the restaurant at 1pm sharp. You'll see two men there. They're my cousins. They'll fill you in on what to do next." "Alright alright I'll do it. Why the hell will you be at a UN meeting?" "It's all part of Sleazy-Dans-Sleazy-Plan ™" The next day, Liam went to the restaurant as told. When he walked in, he saw two men sitting down arguing. He knew these were the men he was set to meet because of their repulsive smell. "Are you Sleazy Dan's cousins?" "Yes ok sit down. Settle something for us" Liam was immediately intrigued, I mean, how could you not be. The first cousin, who was tall and fat, pulled out a little notebook. He opened it up on the first page and there was a number of sketches and bullet points, with the heading "Erection Face" "Wouldn't you read a manga about a dude with a boner on his face who fights pirates and ninjas???" The other cousin, a short scrawny man, interrupted him. "No one would read that you shit munching pig. That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard" Liam was absolutely taken aback. He couldn't believe his ears. He had always wanted to read a manga about that very thing. "I would definitely read that. It sounds amazing!" The first cousin put his arms up to celebrate, "YES! I KNEW IT WAS A HIT!" Everyone turned to look at the three men and so they settled down a little. Liam began wondering what this was all about. "So what's this all about" said Liam. He said this because he was wondering what this was all about. The fat cousin spoke. "Alright first things first. I'm Bug, and this is Dick" "Hi Bug and Dick I'm Liam" This time, Dick spoke. "Right Liam. Here's the deal. We're gonna rob this here restaurant and use the funds to carry out the rest of Sleazy-Dans-Sleazy-Plan ™. Alright? Everything clear? Let's go then let's do this" He went to stand up but Liam stopped him. "Wait wait wait. What's the plan though. Like who's doing what. What's my job." Liam surprised even himself at how on board he was with a literal robbery. "Look don't worry about it", said Bug, "let's just do this" "No but why are we even robbing a restaurant. Why not a pub or a liquor store?" "Well think about it", says Dick, "No one ever robs restaurants. Bars and liquor stores, you get your head blown off tryna rob one of them. Restaurants, you catch em with their pants down." Liam stopped for a minute, recalling something. "Wait, wait that's from Pulp Fiction. That's just the reason they give in the opening scene of Pulp Fiction" Bug and Dick turn to whisper to eachother and then turn back to Liam. "Alright you got us. We got the idea from Pulp Fiction" "Okay but surely you have some sort of other reasoning" The two cousins remain silent. "You're telling me that your entire criminal playbook is based solely on one scene from Pulp Fiction??" "Yes." Said Dick, "it is. But it makes sense though, doesn't it? It's a good plan" "No it's not!! It's from a movie! Why on earth would it work in real life! I mean fuck, it doesn't even work in the bloody movie!!" "It doesn't?" "NO!" Did ye even watch the movie?" "Well" said Bug, "Not exactly" "We did see a clip of it on YouTube shorts though" said Dick, thinking he was helping. He was not helping. Liam was conflicted now. Once more, this was to be a defining moment in this young man's life. Was he going to take the risk and continue along this criminal lifestyle, or was he going to have had enough of this absurd situation and leave it all behind. If you said the criminal one, you were right. "Fuck it lets go" I'll spare you the details, but the three men robbed the restaurant. It was not clean. It was the absolute opposite of clean. By the end of the robbery, which took 17 minutes, the restaurant was in absolute ruins. The kitchen was on fire, Bug had killed a family of 6, Dick had accidentally shot Bug in the leg and Liam had committed his first intentional major felony. However, it was all worth it as they were able to get all the money the restaurant had. All $51. This was a resounding victory for Sleazy-Dans-Sleazy-Plan™. PART 3 Things continued like this for a while, with Sleazy Dan getting Liam to do his dirty work for the plan. It really seemed like Sleazy Dan wasn't doing anything. After a few months Liam had filed a false police report, robbed a restaurant, kidnapped an Elvis impersonator, set a pub on fire and left a negative review for Spiderman 2 on IMDb. Truly some awful things. During all of this, Sleazy Dan had done nothing more than sell meatballs and attend a few meetings. Liam was beginning to get tired of this. "Look man you gotta tell me what all this is about. Why am I doing this shit while you sit on your ass?" Sleazy Dan closed his Dell laptop and took a deep breath. "Alright boy. Listen. You've been doing important work, and I appreciate that. When Sleazy-Dans-Sleazy-Plan™ is complete, you too will receive the rewards. For now just keep your head down and keep doing what I say" Liam was simply not having it. He was going to have to put his foot down, no if buts or maybes. "Sleazy Dan, you need to tell me what's going on right now!" "No" "Fine." As far as putting your foot down goes, this was a poor attempt. "Alright boy, the next step is the most important. Me and you need to go to Washington" "Like Washington DC?" "No like George Washington. Obviously fucking Washington DC you fuckin moron" "Alright alright. What for" "Worry about that later. Right now, we have a plane to catch" *One travel montage later* "Alright boy here we are. Washington DC" This was a new experience for Liam, as Kansas was the only place in America he had ever been. Well, other than Vegas, but he doesn't count Vegas, because of what happened. I know what your thinking, "what happened in Vegas?" I can't tell you. You know the saying. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. (He was pegged by a hooker) "So Sleazy Dan," said Liam, "what's the next step" Sleazy Dan pulled out a little case with an ear piece in it. "Here, put this in, then I'll be able to talk to you from far away" "Why will you need to be far away? Where will you be going" Sleazy Dan laughed. "I'm not going anywhere. See that movie theater over there? You're going in there." Liam, without hesitation went into the movie theater. He was very excited. The last time he was in a movie theater he got to eat popcorn. This was a big deal for him as he had eaten nothing but Sleazy Dan's Sleazy meatballs for the last couple years. He walked in and heard Sleazy Dan's voice in his ear. "Alright boy, now go into the bathroom" Liam went into the bathroom and followed all of Sleazy Dan's instructions. He went into the third stall as asked and sat down on the seat as asked. "Now," said Sleazy Dan, "in 120 seconds, someone is going to slide a rifle under the stall door to you. When that happens, pick it up." "What the fuck? Why will I need a rifle?" "You won't *need* it. It'll just help." "What the hell am I gonna be doing" "Boy, shut up. Just accept the rifle." Just as planned, a huge hunting rifle was slid under the door. Liam picked it up hesitantly. He heard Sleazy Dan's voice again. "Boy, there are currently 89 people in that movie theater. You're gonna leave that bathroom, and shoot as many of them as possible." "WHAT?" "Shut up I wasn't finished. Shoot up the movie theater. Then, you're gonna get arrested and brought to a police station. I will meet you there. Then, me and you are gonna walk right outta there. Then we're almost completely finished Sleazy-Dans-Sleazy-Plan." "ARE YOU FUCKING CRAZY?" yes. "Do I sound crazy??" yes. Liam wasn't sure what to do. Not because he had a problem with killing all those people, he was way past that. No, it was because he didn't wanna spend the rest of his life in jail. "Sleazy Dan, can you assure me that I will not go to prison for this. Me and you will walk out of that police station together" "Son, would I lie to you?" Yes, he would, and has. Thousands of times. But regardless, Liam did it. He stepped outside, and massacred everyone around. 60 people died, making it the most catastrophic shooting in modern US history. Liam was arrested, obviously, and put in a holding cell. He waited and waited for Sleazy Dan to come. But Sleazy Dan didn't come. Liam was terrified. He was going to spend the rest of his life in prison, or be executed. But then, when all hope was lost, Sleazy Dan walked into the police station wearing a suit, with an entourage of security guards behind him. Liam was shocked to say the least. Sleazy Dan walked over to the cell and spoke. "Leave us" Just then, all the security went away. Now it was just the two of them. "What the fuck is going on????" "Listen boy. The plan is almost complete. In 25 minutes I am going to be sworn in as the 47th president of the United States." "WHAT????" "it's all come to this. Thank you for helping me reach this point. Every step has been crucial." "HOW THE FUCK DID ALL THAT SHIT I DID HELP YOU BECOME PRESIDENT" "Don't worry about it. Point is, the rest of the plan can now be put into place. I will serve my first term without a hitch. I will be re-elected. I will serve half of my second term, but it will come to an end early. In march of the second year of my second term, I will be assassinated by the CIA. It's all for the greater good." "....WHAT THE FUCK" Ok so this is the good part. There's a good and a bad ending to this. For the good ending, read part 4, the one right under this. For the bad ending, read part 5, which is under part 4. It's important to note that part 4 and part 5 are alternate endings, part 5 does not proceed part 4. If that's confusing, fuck you it's my story I'll tell it how I want. PART 4 Sleazy Dan uses his presidential powers to pardon Liam. Liam became Sleazy Dan's vice president and they ran the country together. When Sleazy Dan was assassinated, Liam took over the county, establishing a firm but fair leadership policy. The atrocities that he had committed were never leaked to the public and he went down in history as a great American hero. At the age of 88, he died peacefully while sleeping. PART 5 Sleazy Dan abandoned Liam. Liam got raped in prison and died of aids the end.

on an ideal day. a shot in the dark On an ideal day man would tend to his young his land his daughter his lambs his trees his wife his home his dog he would keep his cattle till old age so the meat dies peacefully rich in life not in youth tainted by innocence he keep his trees till old climbing crazy heights to save them he’d keep his young till independencey his girl . his princess. young alicia. l that infectious smile and giggle that only a father could feel in his heart. the one thing in life that would never leave him the sort of love a daughter fills in a fathers heart. a father aims to right the wrongs he has committed with women by trying to help their daughters as best as they can through the fucked up thing that is growing up in 2024. when his daughter goes to bed. he’d keep a dog a companion whenever the tvs on loud and the beers are flowing he’s there at your lap nuzzled by your feet begging for the scrAps of your crisps it’s the little things that make life beautiful. that’s my next poem btw! a dog is a small part of his life but to the dog the whole life is with them always by his side keeping the cats of the wife at bay. the man would run keeping his senses in touch. his eyes he would train his ears he would protect his muscles he would stretch but in a modern world. the world of now the innocence of the planned “circle of life” is so far astray that whatever had created us kept us away in a contained system that came out of “nowhere” an experiment gone wrong a monkey taking a shroom a fish walking on land something from nothing we don’t know. we’ll knever know. it’s d Imensions we can’t comprehend. lol. so the modern man his natural chemical endorphins triggered for exploit advertising dopamine caching! i love the beep when it’s apple pay! wake up. they exploiting ur brain imagine taking a month in a forest basic survival only a knife and tape and basic medical gear fuck tbat it’s a year! you’d forget about the weird little things the dark places the perversion of life and you’d start to revert. back. back to the planned out perfect life a man would find a woman they’d find land build farms make children to make more children populate self sustain everyone would rely on everyone community then they realised that if they turned u against eachother they’d could use it for money and power make governments control give you a sense of illusion? what does your vote do if your not the majority? why if the average working class is britains biggest popularity that it is the not most represented? weird.” little things? in an ideal world.

“Can't today. Sorry Matt” I read after my phone buzzed. I laugh a little as I sent this request 2 hours ago. That's fine though. This was my back up plan anyway. “Sorry I'm out of town” my phone buzzes again. This time from someone I was sure would come hang out. ‘guess it's another night alone’ I say to myself and sigh, grabbing a beer from the fridge and reclining in my chair. I'm pretty used to responses like these. It's been a few months since we've seen each other and I guess I was just hoping to fix that. I've always been kind of a recluse, so I'm no stranger to sitting in a dark room, just staring at a ceiling. Never was one much for going out until my later years. I was always the outcast in highschool but finally made some good friends at my job. Sadly we haven't seen each other much, since I was fired due to budget cuts. Finding another job wasn't difficult, but starting from scratch isn't much fun. The real drag is doing it alone I've been kind of feeling alone a lot this past year. After a while you just get tired of being the one to try to pull everyone together. And lately everyone's got an excuse. Not that I blame them, they've all got their share of problems preventing them from going out, but lately all I've wanted was a drink. I've never liked drinking alone but It's been one hell of a year. It's been times like these I wish my boyfriend was still around, we weren't together very long but he helped me out of a really tough time, and I thought I did the same for him, but I must be wrong, since he broke up with me. I must have dozed off at some point after the third beer, because the next thing I knew it was already 11:28. ‘Thank god the holidays are almost over. They've been the worst part of this year. Looking at gifts and wanting to buy them for people who are no longer in your life really beats up your Christmas spirit. I got this really cool knife for Christmas, and I've always been a fidgeter so of course I'm gonna sit here and play with it. 2 more beers pass, I look at the clock again: 11:55. Another sigh emerges from my mouth. Five minutes is a long time when all you're doing is staring at the clock. I was looking forward to finally having someone to spend new years with. Hell, I haven't had a date for New years in like 10 years. “11:56”: Everyone always pretends starting a new year will have this power to rejuvenate you, but nothing heals you from loss. My friends, my family, my love, I lost all of that this year, and In 4 minutes I'm supposed to feel better because the earth circled the sun. Luckily this didn't seem as bad as Christmas, though that could be all the booze. Christmas was especially hard this year. I lost a couple of close family members, most of my friends went away, and I really just wish that I had someone close to spend it with. Even though I’m the one who always seems to invite people to the gatherings I tend to push them away. Sometimes I think I do it to myself, but others I wish I knew what I did wrong. “Ugh” I sigh. “11:57” I get up again heading to the fridge to grab the next bottle just to realize I had already finished the last one. Not to worry though, as there's a bottle of tequila in the liquor cabinet’ I think to myself and grab before sitting down and looking at the clock again. Time could really stand to move a little faster right now. I was hoping by the time I sat down another minute would have passed but still 3 minutes to midnight. I'm getting tired of watching this clock. At least I had finally decided on my resolution for the new year. I had been trying to figure it out for a while now but I figured it out. So that was a weight of my mind. 11:58 Two more minutes I think to myself. I pull out my phone and start prepping a lot of texts. I usually send them a minute early because the phone lines are always tied up at midnight. Perhaps that’s cheating but it always seems to make it there right on time before everything is backed up. “Happy New Year” I type out. A little basic but I’ve always been a pretty basic person, so it’s fitting for me. I’ve never been one for all that ‘mushy’ stuff. I don’t really like writing those long winded “May this year bring you joy” and crap like that. I’ve always had a bit of a problem expressing myself to certain people though lately I’ve gotten a little better at it. I think my friends know that I mean that stuff, I just let my actions speak for me. After prepping my third text saying “Happy New Year” I look back up and see that the clock changed 11:59 Send. After hitting send I do that 2 more times. Looks like there's trouble sending messages already. Usually sending them a minute early works. The tequila I brought from the kitchen has just been sitting there on the coffee table. I pick up the bottle and pop it open. Tequila always helps just take away the pain. I find myself twirling my knife again. It’s neon blue and has quite the shine to it. It was a gift from someone who’s no longer around and just staring at it sometimes helps me get through the nights. I think a lot about how I sometimes wish this knife was red, but I’ve never had the courage to paint it red, or maybe it’s the other way around. I've never been too sure, but here we are for New Years, seems like the perfect opportunity. I start to flip the blade open and closed. Midnight. “Happy New Year” my phone displays as it buzzes as text after text comes in. The night grew pretty quiet after that. Let me know what you guys think of this one. I know it's not great, but I look forward to feedback. Got to get it a little better so I can add it to the short story compilation I'm trying to do.

I drove up to the place, through neatly engineered side-roads, rows of perfectly placed trees separating the lanes, with a sense of foreboding. But I’d been out of work for a while and needed the money. I flashed my ID to a melancholy old man guarding a toll gate leading into the facility (his black security uniform looked as ancient as he was) and pulled into a vast parking lot teeming with cars, none of which were new. The building itself looked more like a prison than a food processing plant. The off-yellow walls stuck out of the landscape like a festering industrial sore. Surely this was where dreams went to die. I finally found a spot to park, only after tailing a woman whose shift must have just ended. She looked completely empty as she fished out her keys, opened the door, collapsed inside, and pulled away. I shuffled through the main entrance, fighting back the first-day-of-work jitters, and got buzzed in by a huge red-haired man (dyed, not natural) who wore the same uniform as the wizened guarder of the gate outside. The lobby emptied out into a sprawling dining hall. Round metal tables littered the space, with a cache of microwaves and vending machines tucked in the corner. I could almost feel the heat they emitted. Standing before the sea of seated workers munching away at their microwaved morsels, I saw a middle-aged guy in a hard hat and caution vest talking to a well-dressed woman maybe a handful of years his junior. He spotted me and blurted out, “Hey, you must be the new guy.” His voice careened off the walls. It was then I noticed none of the workers were talking to each other. They simply wolfed down their lunch in silence and zombie-walked back to their posts. “That’s me,” I responded, already feeling like an impostor. “You’re Brian?” “The very same. Now listen, I was just telling Kelly here, your new supervisor, about how I think you’re a great fit for the job. I told her you’re a keeper.” I was completely confused by this, so I just faked a smile and mumbled some innocuous thank you. Kelly greeted me curtly with a firm handshake and stalked off into the bowels of the plant. “I fuckin’ hate that bitch,” Brian said with a snarl. “Anyway, come on, I’ll show you the ropes. This job is cakework, trust me.” I quickly realized all this guy did was talk. He showed me how to fill the mop bucket and what supplies we needed. He gave me a vest and hard hat to wear, although I don’t know why, all while telling me how easy the job was. “Let’s head to our first stop,” Brian said. He walked with a considerable limp, favoring his right leg, the opposite shoulder dipping with every step. We rounded a corner into a cramped hallway that housed a locker room on one side and one of the many sets of bathrooms strewn across the plant on the other. “We gotta clean the bathrooms every couple hours,” Brian said as he propped open the door with our cart of cleaning supplies, and hung a Cleaning – No Entrance sign blocking the doorway. He ducked inside, and I followed after. The bathroom was a minefield of discarded toilet paper scraps, all visibly smeared with crap. “These nasty fuckers wipe and don’t even have the decency to flush the damn stuff,” Brian’s voice boomed in the hollow acoustics. “Anyway, we gotta pick all this up. Don’t worry, we got gloves,” he added when he saw my expression. So we set to it, making quick work of the piles between the two of us. All the while, workers milled in and out, clearly ignoring the sign. We sprayed down the toilets with disinfectant, wiped down the mirrors, mopped the floor, and stepped across to the women’s bathroom. Again, the do not enter sign was ignored. The rest of the shift went on in this way. Occasionally, we had to squeeze between office workers as we mopped the spaces under their desks and cleared out the trash. A few hours in, Brian had me ditch the mop bucket and follow him into a dimly lit, narrow hallway that led to a flight of stairs. I kept pace behind his stilted gait while his incessant insistence on the ease of the job reverberated off the smooth white walls and metal of the staircase. We arrived at the top of a walkway that spanned the length of the plant, cutting it in half. It was surrounded by windows, such that you could look out and survey all the goings on of daily operations, like a panopticon. Workers in heavy winter gear drove forklifts in the freezer section, masked and lab-coated workers arranged bags of lettuce mix on conveyor belts, semis pulled in and out of the loading docks. From up here, it all seemed so elegant. Though as the initial awe wore off, I thought of the lifeless faces of the ones from the cafeteria, and shuddered to think of what their expressions must have been like beneath their masks. And it was among the conveyor belts that I first spied it. What first registered as an indistinct blur materialized into what I could only describe as a small, hairy, man-like creature. It scampered nimbly around the plant, knocking bags of lettuce on the floor, then moving to another area only to aid the men sorting the bags. It seemed to balance trickery with outright help to the workers. My reverie was interrupted as I tuned back into Brian’s voice, which must have droned the whole time I was taking in the scene. “It’s not bad up here, huh?” he said, “See, I told you this job was cakework.” Just then I looked down to see Kelly, my supervisor, staring directly at me with her hands behind her back. She stood for a moment, and then waved in a way that said, get a move on. We headed to a loading dock, where trucks were filled with crates by hand. The loaders must have been waiting on the next shipment, since they were all sitting around, shooting the shit. They seemed to be arguing over whether the burliest of their outfit, a stocky guy with glasses and a shaved head, could lift a pallet loaded with crates. They started making bets as the guy (probably a power lifter based on his stance) knelt down to dead lift who knows how much weight. He got a good grip and heaved, managing to prop it up a few inches from the floor. But he seemed to have lost momentum. It was then I saw the creature again, this time crouched behind the pallet, seemingly holding it down and preventing the strong-man from completing his feat. And strangest of all, was I swear I saw the thing *grin*, bearing yellowed tear-drop shaped teeth. The guy gave up, lowering the pallet with a deft lack of noise as his cohorts grilled him about his failed attempt. The little creature pranced off giddily. I decided to use the excuse of a bathroom break to go after it. I trailed it away from the loading docks, toward the massive dumpster that handled all the refuse from the plant. It ambled around, sniffing at the mostly empty crates surrounding the mouth of the dumpster, and crawled inside one. I crept up and peered over the edge to see it nibbling on a celery heart. At close range, I saw that it was covered in prickly brown fur, like the surface of a kiwi. It was small enough to fit in my hands, so I grabbed it. It didn’t struggle. It simply turned to gaze at me with knowing maroon eyes, the irises almond-shaped and gleaming black, and said in a raspy, high-pitched voice, “I knew this day would come.” Before I could so much as process that the thing could actually talk, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I snapped my head around, still cradling the little hairy thing in my hands. Its hair felt like tiny barbs. It was Kelly. “I see you’ve managed to catch one,” she said, crinkling her nose and glaring at the thing with unveiled disgust. “One what?” I stammered, not exactly at my most articulate. “They’re called Skrods. And this particular one has been interfering with plant procedure. I thank you for your service, and I assure you this one will be duly disciplined.” I felt the thing cower at her words as it nestled deeper into my arms. Kelly then blew a shrill whistle, which I now noticed hung around her neck on a chain of metal beads, like a dog-tag. Three figures in hazmat suits approached from the shadows and I handed off the Skrod to them like one would a sleeping toddler. “We could use someone with talents like yours,” Kelly pronounced, as if she was giving a sales pitch, while her men made away with their tiny parcel. “How would you like to switch positions? It would come with a promotion and higher rate of pay, of course.” “You mean you want me to catch another one?” I sputtered, flummoxed. Her flattery was getting to me. That and I had to know more about these Skrods. “Precisely. We have a similar case of an insubordinate Skrod,” (the way she said the word made it sound like the filthiest thing imaginable), “at a nearby facility. If you like, my team can escort you directly.” The hazmat men emerged again, this time with one of them in a chauffeur’s uniform, complete with a black tie and driver’s hat. “It really is an urgent matter,” Kelly continued, “And you’re just the one for the job.” “Wait, can I get some… intel first?” I asked, trying to sound official. “What are these things?” “We believe them to be a subspecies of ape. We’ve made an agreement with their leader that they would send a small number to our facilities to speed up production. But lately, as you’ve surely seen, they seem to be going rogue in increasing numbers.” This was too much for me to fathom, so I simply followed her entourage to a private garage deep within the plant. I was given no further information on the way to our destination, a similarly drab warehouse. They escorted me inside, into a control room with dozens of camera feeds, and the chauffeur indicated a comfortable-looking swivel chair. I sat and darted my eyes over the screens, relishing my new position as a Skrod hunter. After maybe a few minutes, I spotted one scratching holes in towering cardboard boxes. I excitedly pointed at the screen, and the men directed me to the “bulk” section, where larger quantities of goods were stored. I stealthily made my way among the story-high boxes and metal shelving, and realized I was *sniffing* for the Skrod, trying to catch its scent. I heard the unmistakable sound of scraping on cardboard and traced it to the source. Its back was to me as it burrowed into the box. I dashed up, stuck my hand in the hole, and pulled the thing out by the leg. As before, this one didn’t struggle. It simply locked its eyes on mine and spoke in that raspy voice, slightly lower pitched than the last. “I know you’ve been sent to capture me, but I implore you, take my fallen brethren in my stead.” It gestured with its tiny hand to a far corner, where sure enough a Skrod lay splayed over a pallet jack, seemingly dead. “Do as I say, and I will take you to our world. Or deliver me to your superiors, the choice if yours.” I nodded in agreement and placed it on the concrete floor, where it grinned up at me and skittered away. I carried the surprisingly heavy corpse back in the direction of the control room, and simply explained that I had found it dead, which technically wasn’t a lie. While I was giving my alibi, I noticed the little brown creature on one of the camera feed screens, gesturing to a nearby bathroom. I took the hint and excused myself. I found the Skrod sitting cross-legged on one of the toilets, the stall door swinging open. Its unblinking maroon eyes fixed on me. “I thank you for doing as I’ve asked,” it intoned, “And I intend to uphold my end of the bargain. Come with me.” It sprang up and flipped a switch hidden among the toilet’s workings. A section of the wall sank into the floor to reveal a lantern-lit dirt tunnel supported by crude wooden braces, large enough for me to crawl through. I followed the Skrod into the cool damp earth. As we neared the end of tunnel, which must have been some hundred feet, a racket grew ever stronger in my ears. I heard impacts and thuds, water splashing, what sounded like small firecrackers. The tunnel terminated onto a wooden landing that spiraled around the outer edge of a yawning conical cavern. What looked like small handmade dwellings lined the rough stone walls. I could see various roots poking through the oblong ceiling. We must have been close to the surface. The city (if I could call it that) was a flurry of mischievous activity. Everywhere, Skrods were dumping buckets of water on each other, hurling small stones, loosing trap doors, simply punching each other and frolicking away. It was beautiful, really, all that chaos and frivolity. “This is our home,” the Skrod who led me here said, standing to my left and also admiring the view, though with a noticeably more wistful countenance than my own. “My people have lived here for centuries, conducting our dealings with your kind in exchange for a stable place to live. But a troubling rift in our history has been eating at me. There was a time, before science, when we Skrod had wings. But they were bred and genetically altered out of our makeup by humans. Can you imagine the chaos we could create if we could only take to the skies again?” “Maybe you can,” I interjected, ducking a stray bottle rocket that came screaming from below. It ricocheted off the wall and exploded in mid-air. “I knew I was right to bring you here, my new human friend. Do tell what’s on your mind.” “First I want to know something.” “Of course, anything for an ally of the Skrod.” “What was that dead one of your kind from earlier?” It sighed and looked nobly toward the heavens. “We have been preparing an uprising, and I was tasked with killing any Skrod who obey the filthy humans’ commands.” It stopped for a moment and gave me a sympathetic look. “My apologies. I have forgotten myself.” “By all means, we are filthy after all.” “Not all of you, I suppose. Now about this idea of yours?” “Well I was thinking. You said that wings were genetically altered out of you. Why not simply alter them back?” “Of course! Why hadn’t we considered it before?” “You could make the same agreement you have with the warehouses, factories, and plants with some lab that does that kind of thing.” We were silent for a few moments. “Or just sneak in,” I added, since I noticed a droop in its posture at the thought of further dealings with people. “You, human, are a real peach. I have a proposition in return for your most invaluable advice. You could stay with us, become an honorary Skrod, and leave the mundanity of your old life behind. What say you?” It took only a brief meditation on what my life would look like should I stay on as a janitor. That sea of drooping, withered faces in the cafeteria, my trainer’s never-ending small talk. The last shred of my normalcy was struck by the inevitable disappointment my supervisor would feel upon my disappearance, and abandonment of my new position. But I quickly shook that off and grasped the creature’s hand, shaking it furiously, almost pulling it off the ground in my elation. “You have a deal, my friend. I think I’ll stay.” It didn’t take long to adjust to my new way of life. I learned to sleep with earplugs in and always mind my shoelaces. And the occasional foraging forays into the warehouses for food was a thrill. I really felt like one of them. After taking control of a genetics lab, in order to relive their winged glory, I too arranged to have my genes altered, to become smaller and hairier like them. But I declined a set of wings. I still had to perform some gesture of penance for my undeniable humanness. If there’s one piece of wisdom I can leave you with, it’s this: always show up to the first day of a new job. You never know what Skrod may find you there.

“Ah! Dracula’s beard that hurt!” Cur gripped his hand. Blood pooled on his knuckles. He hated cleaning the fire pit with a passion. It seemed every few minutes he scraped something else against the rough bricks. “Dracula didn’t have a beard.” Cur jumped and hit his head on the low hanging bricks. “Johnathon! I didn’t see you there.” “Dracula was a tyrant and a fiend, but he didn’t have a beard. I’ve never understood why people use that as a swear.” “Uh, yeah. Did you need something?” “The kitchen is clean enough. You’re coming with me to get supplies.” Cur let out a groan of relief and made his way to his feet. “What kind of supplies are we getting?” “Just general groceries. Things we don’t produce here at the manor that we need for cooking. Go ahead put everything back in the cleaning closet and meet me out front. I’ll pull the spider around.” . . . Cur went out the front of the manor, and sure enough, Johnny was there already driving a small coach. Pulling the coach was a gargantuan spider. The spider was easily six feet long front to back. It’s long, spindly legs stretched out to either side. It had thick, black hair, but the legs had streaks of orange. Cur avoided looking into its many eyes. Only the richest people had spider carriages. In a small town like Deathhaven they were a rare sight indeed. This was the first time Cur had seen one up close, and he was beginning to wish he hadn’t. “Come on, Cur, what are you waiting for. Hop up here!” yelled Johnny impatiently. “Do we really have to take that into town?” Cur asked meekly. “No, we don’t. But then, you would have to carry everything back. I would rather be done today.” Cur stepped slowly towards the carriage, keeping a wide berth from the spider. Then, without taking his eyes off the beast, he climbed up beside Johnny. Johnny whipped the reins and the spider crept into motion, slowly at first but picking up speed. “Stop acting so afraid. Ol’ Hairy here is practically harmless. Just don’t get too close to his fangs, he likes to give love nibbles.” . . . Most parts of Deathhaven were a mystery to Cur. It was a town split into factions, and people rarely went where they didn’t belong. Vampires controlled the outer rim of town and rarely ventured inside. Werewolves held most of the land on the north side of town, while the south side was split between several groups. The orphanage, and the market surrounding it, was sat directly in the middle of town. It served as a sort of neutral ground between the factions. A place where a skeleton could walk freely without worrying about getting mugged by a goblin. Still, he was an orphan and the market wasn’t a place he’d been allowed to explore. Now, as the carriage creaked to a stop, it felt like the world was opening up for him. Not only was he here, he was supposed to be here. Johnny snapped, breaking him out of his daydreaming. “Stay close and keep quiet. Pay attention to what’s happening and try to learn a thing or two. Got it?” “Yes, sir, Johnathon.” I’ll be your perfect little shadow, he added in his head. Johnny showed him how to tie off the spider, then the two of them went into the market. The cobbled roads weaved to and fro around the market, looking as if they were built around the shops rather than the shops around them. Cur noticed that they were being watched. Not by any particular person, rather, they were being watched by everyone. A witch hunched over a small cauldron, a ghost floating nearby, a crew of skeletons working on a building, they all watched as the pair went by. At first it was off putting, but Cur reasoned that if they were in any danger Johnny would know. Every few minutes they entered a shop, Johnny would find what they needed, and then the haggling would commence. Cur now watched with amusement as another shop owner met their match. “I’m telling you, this is far too much for a pint of newt eyes. I’ll just put it back!” Johnny exaggerated and overacted. “It’s not! Do you even know how hard it is to collect those? Why do you even want eye of newt? You aren’t a witch!” Johnny stopped and out the jar back in the counter. “I’m not a witch, but I am a chef, and this is a delicacy! If this was premium newt eyes, then your price would be decent, but even my young friend here can tell that these are not top of the line. Come on, Cur, we’ll go to that other shop.” “Wait, no!” the witch nearly jumped over the counter to pull him back. “I’ll give you a deal. How about I take off ten percent?” Johnny pulled away, not responding. “Fine! Twenty percent off, and that’s as low as I can go!” “Twenty-five or I walk,” Johnny countered. “Fine! If it’ll keep you from spending any coin at that half rate witch’s pathetic excuse for a shop, then you have a deal.” Clearly, Cur realized, Johnny had some experience with this kind of thing. They added the newt to their growing collection of ingredients and moved on to their last stop. As they moved farther north, more and more werewolves. After his close call earlier in the morning, Cur wasn’t too keen to be around them. Johnny led him down more and more decrepit alleys until he was certain they weren’t anywhere near the market. They came to a stop in front of what looked like a small hovel with boarded up windows and a door that was falling off its hinges. “You can’t come with me this time. Stay out here and wait,” before Cur could respond, Johnny was already inside. Cur didn’t like it, but he plopped to the ground and stared at the door. What could possibly be inside that he couldn’t see? Was it something illegal? Maybe they had victims tied up and would drain their blood. Or maybe they had slaves forced to make something. Or maybe- *Crash* His train of thought was interrupted by a junk pile falling to the ground nearby. When he looked, he saw a young girl, probably a year or so younger than himself. Her face was covered in dirt, and her clothes somehow looked worse than his had at the orphanage. She looked terrified at having been caught, and she looked like she was about to run. “Hey, don’t run!” Cur called out to her. “I’m Cur. What’s your name?” The girl stopped and he could see her debating on what to do. “I’m . . . my name is . . . I’m Amirah. I really should be going.” “No, it’s fine. I’m stuck waiting here anyway. Why don’t you stay and talk?” Amirah shuffled closer and eyed the small basket of ingredients he had. “Why do you want to talk to me? Most people try to avoid me.” Cur shrugged. “I’m bored. You look like you could use a friend.” She moved a little closer. “You have a lot of food there. Could I take some?” Cur looked at the food, then back to the girl. He could plainly see that she was hungry. He understood the feeling all too well. He was about to find something to give her when she darted down, grabbed something, and took off running. “Hey, stop!” Cur chased after Amirah. She hadn’t made it to the end of the alley when he caught up and tackled her to the ground. They tussled for a few moments, but Cur got the advantage. She was tough, but not nearly as tough as his bullies that tormented him for so long. In the end, he straddled her and pried the jar away from her hands. It was the eye of newt. Cur looked at her with disbelief. “Really? Of all the things in that basket, you chose this?” Amirah squirmed beneath him, still trying to get away. “Let me go! Please, I’m sorry I stole, but you have so much! Just let me go and I won’t bother you anymore!” Cur grabbed her and dragged her back to the basket. He put the stolen jar back, and instead grabbed a small package wrapped in parchment paper. He let go of Amirah and handed it to her. “Here, take this.” Amirah looked at it suspiciously. “What is it?” “It’s cheese. I think Johnny called it ghost cheese. We have a few pieces, I don’t think he’ll miss one chunk.” Amirah grabbed the cheese and tore off the wrapper. Cut thought he heard a mumbled thank you through a mouthful of food. She ate half, then wrapped the rest up and stowed it away in her pocket. “I should really go now,” Amirah said sheepishly. “Uh, see you around, I guess.” She took off down the alley right as the door to the hovel opened back up. She disappeared around the corner as Johnny was walking outside. “Who was that?” Cur looked to where Amirah was before and smiled. “A new friend.

Phil & Oprah The air was electrified that evening in Tokyo—cool, crisp, and with a light breeze that made women’s hair look its best. It’s been nearly two years since Phil abandoned ship, so to speak, and took to the sea; but, tonight he was climbing his way back home through Tokyo’s bright and bustling streets. She landed an hour ago and was now in the back of a shiny black sedan with leather seats, a suited driver who never heard of Oprah Winfrey, and a mini bar. She enjoyed that he didn’t know who she was, and she was light-headed from the thoughtfully complete selection of tiny bottles of liquor in the wooden hutch facing her and the empty seat to her left. She found their diminutive sizes offensive, and countered their austere statures by opening and pouring two at a time into a half-sized rocks glass. She caught the concerned look in the driver’s eyes off of the rear view mirror. “Dear Driver, don’t worry—I can hold my own. And anyway, this isn’t enough to take me anywhere weird. *Relax!*” She was mentally cycling through characters, and landed on a combination of Marilyn Monroe and Madonna. It’s something she did as a child to cure the boredom and felt like she could be anybody if she knew enough things about them. And she liked to pretend to be all sorts of people, not just famous ones. Sometimes she was a midwife in 14th century Italy; sometimes she was Joan of Arc, or even Anne Boleyn. In fact, one of her most closely guarded secrets is that that quirk of hers is the biggest contributor to her success. Oprah Winfrey was as much of a character as Mary Poppins, or Miss America, or Cleopatra. And it exhilarated her. “No worries, miss. I’m just not used to seeing a woman drink that way. Where I’m from they treat alcohol like it’s a nuclear bomb, or a plague.” They laughed like children at his bomb reference. “Where is that?” “Where is what?” “Where you’re from.” “Oh, Okinawa. It’s a small island a few hundred miles south of here.” “How small?” “Very small.” “Do you know everybody’s names?” “Not *that* small.” They laughed again. “Do you have a girlfriend there?” “Oh, no. Not me. I’m too far from the island, and the girls have short memories.” “That just means your memory is too long, my dear. Do you have a girlfriend here?” “Oh, no. No girlfriend here either, miss.” “Is there no love in the Orient?” He smiled big and youthfully. “Of course there is. I haven’t looked very hard for it, is all.” “Well cheers to that, my dear driver.” She unscrewed the caps from two more of the dwarf-bottles, and poured them onto a couple of ice cubes. They were passing through Tokyo’s pachinko and karaoke district, and at night it was a canyon of neon, and street vendors, and groups of tuxedoed business men, with arms interlocked, as they meandered drunkenly down the concrete and steel corridors like tumbleweeds—stopping in front of every parlor and bar to debate whether or not to go in. “How much longer until we get to the hotel?” “10, perhaps 15 minutes. We’re very close now.” “What hotel is it?” “The Doolittle Hotel, miss.” “They didn’t *really* name it that, did they?” “They did, miss.” “*Yikes*.” * * * Phil, meanwhile, was sitting in the Doolittle’s lounge watching a French Chanson singer, and her band, run through a set of charming café songs, all in her native language. He was drinking a Manhattan—it was his third, as a matter-of-fact—and he was studying the atmosphere. The floors were large tiles of marble in black and white, in a checkerboard pattern, and the walls throughout were long, fine boards of a dark-brown wood; Mahogany, or Walnut perhaps? The ceilings were high, and sat atop of large copper beams, and they were painted a deep-red color. The whole thing was so god-damned modern looking, and he hated it. He was sitting at a tall table where he could watch the front entrance because he read in a newspaper that she was going to be in Tokyo over the Thanksgiving holiday. She was going to do a special show in the Imperial Capitol in order to bring them all a proper rendition of the holiday feast, since it caught on a few years ago among the rich and merchant families; but, they had nothing but rumor and speculation to guide their imitations. *Oprah Winfrey* had officially been exported as an American Squanto of the 21st century. She hadn’t thought of him in years. At least, that’s what she wanted everyone to think—especially herself. When she coasted into the front of the Doolittle in the back of her leather-wrapped chariot, at the very least, she wasn’t thinking about him. She was thinking that Tokyo was a marvelous city, filled with the finest people in the world, and that their industrious natures were admirable. She was greeted at the side of her car by the hotel’s general manager, as well as a public relations manager. There were several media outlets present by way of skinny, *hungry* looking interns and their cameras. They pelted her with questions about her upcoming show, the disappearance of Phil, her flight, and her next book-club recommendation, as she confidently pointed herself through the Doolitte’s heavy, glass doors. She did her best to defend herself, armed with her best smiles and hand waves. She was mostly successful. One got her, though. “Miss Winfrey, do you think he disappeared, or *ran*?” Ouch. Inside was different. There was no talk of rumors, or far-gone romances, or nuclear bombs, either. She was surrounded by bellhops, and front-desk attendants, and security people, and publicists—and they gave her roomkeys, and schedules, and scripts, and endorsements, and licenses to lie-on-camera, and even her smile. Phil watched them all; but, especially her. She was wearing a bright red dress that hung down to just above her knees, and her hair was shiny and hanging freely off of her shoulders, with individual strands avalanching past one another every time she turned her head. Her eyes were bright, and dark, and marvelous, and pointed at something far beyond the heavens, though few people caught that. He thought that he was the *only* one who knew that about her. He’s correct about that. And her smile was big, and charming, and warm, and it could have sank ships—if she wanted it to. He waited for them all to clear away. She handled herself so well, but he watched her lower herself into a chair at the bar. He recognized her exhausted look, and he knew that’s when she appreciated honesty the most. He finished his drink in a single motion, got up, gained his composure while he walked toward her, then found himself within feet of her. She smelled like freesia, which to him smelled like the war. She was hunched over a newspaper, and didn’t notice him at all, as he put his mouth only inches from her right ear, and drunk on her sweet smell he breathed deeply. “They say that in the Land of the Rising Sun there is no Thanksgiving.” Her heart dropped. She could feel the inside of her chest pound like it was trying to make a prison-break, and she turned around to face the voice she heard so many times as she was falling asleep—with her mental machinery set adrift, and free to wander over all of the things she cared about the most, but refused to mentally explore because they were torpedoes-in-disguise. “How are you here?” She said in a voice that was more fragile than they were both accustomed to. “I floated here from Peru.” He laughed deeply. “What do you mean?” “I took my Dad’s old 70 foot schooner out after we last spoke. The same one we watched the fireworks on, you remember, right?” She nodded. “I took it out just to clear my head after our last conversation. Well, I sailed the whole way down to Hampton, VA and in a bar there I decided to stock up on food and water, and hire a crew to sail around the world.” “Where all did you go?” “*Everywhere!*” His smile was nothing but mirthful. She noticed that he was much tanner than when she saw him last, and that the small wrinkles at the creases of his face were the emblems of a certain kind of adventuresome spirit. His eyes were different, too. They seemed fixated on something further out than before—somewhere maybe closer to where she always looked. She noticed that he was happy. They sat there for the next two hours talking away like puppy-loved teenagers. They laughed, and drank, and reminisced, and listened to the band and their lovely singer fill the room with their chic, jazzy songs. She was enamored with how much more exotic he now seemed. He still loved her for how much she hadn’t changed. They found themselves in a world much smaller, and intimate, and warm, and filled with all of the those sorts of moments and feelings that arrest one’s attention and make you acutely aware that you’re indeed very fucking alive, and well, and that this whole thing is blissfully insane—and they made toast to that feeling as often as possible because they were both warm from the spirits, and the ghosts.

May 13, 2049 The morning started as usual with Willie waking me up for the daily mission briefing,”Oi Oscar wake up,” he said in his old scottish accent,”Or do you want to be yelled at again for missing the morning briefing again?” Me not wanting to go deaf from those pompous twats that call themselves instructors screaming in my ear for not being briefed on that days assignment, even though Its usually bringing supplies and information to and from Portsmouth, I hurried myself to get ready for todays journey. Jack, our instructor, told us today we will be taking Hermes, my train, to Cambridge to deliver supplies, two tanks of oil, one tank of water, and three boxcars of food, ammunition, and other miscellaneous objects, to a group called The Union as a way of boosting relations between them and us, The Communist Sons of Sussex. He also told us not to cut through london spouting that same nonsense about it being irradiated to hell and there being mutants to dangerous to risk running by it because it may track us back to the trainyard. I never knew if they were telling the truth or not, they could be trying to hide the fact that remnants of the English government may still still be around, but from what i've heard those are just stupid rumors, I also never really much cared the C.S.S. nor the other factions, I only joined them because they were offering food and shelter for everyone in exchange for work and I was to stupid to realize that communism, while good on paper, is terrible in execution I mean hell I basically eat half moldy bread every day and sleep in a rickety old shack they call “liveable shelter,” but I put those thoughts aside and start loading up Hermes. Hermes was a old BNSF diesel engine adorned with a red star on either side of it to show it was “under communist control”, I still remember working with it for the Trans British Railway before shit hit the fan in 2028. As we depart from the train yard I call home I got a strange feeling in my chest, but it is probably nothing. May 14, 2049 As we near Cambridge a young kid named Oliver comes up to the cabin, he was around his mid 20s and looks like he never even remembers anything before the war, and me being me and wanting to pass the time I strike up a conversation with him, I don't know how but the conversation lead us to talk about who launched the nukes first he said it was the fascists in the Congo along with its allies I said I don't really care who did it, and as I try to say my next word Oliver screams at me saying, “So you don't care who destroyed our home, our life, our future!” And as he is screaming at me, Willie comes in “What's all this screaming about?” he managed to say without Oliver yelling about how I don't care about the destruction of the nation. I don't know if it was the C.S.S. that gave him those ideas, his own parents, or himself. Either way, he was not expecting opposing views. Both of them left the cabin, leaving me in silence waiting for when we reach Cambridge. I remembered my first day living in the train yard, seeing how the C.S.S. have turned some of the boxcars into housing, the warehouse into a cafeteria / auditorium, hell they even made a private sector for the higher ups to live, and yet they still couldn’t make a stable and fair government. I shouldn’t be surprised, it was led by the remnants of the British Communist Party with William Black as its leader, even before the bombs he was famous for being a self centered, narcissistic, dickhead. Thankfully I never say these things in public, if I did I would be sent to a workcamp for treason. May 15, 2049 When we entered the train station to drop off the supplies we were met by a friendly sounding chap on a loudspeaker. “Thank you for coming to drop off some of your precious supplies. Now may the conductor and the engineers come to the head office, all guards and workers stay in the main yard.” I didn't know why I didn't find what he said suspicious but me, Willie, and Oliver when to the main office and as we entered to discuss what we will be bringing back we were apprehended, handcuffed and thrown to our knees, that is when I finally noticed the banner above the desk and a man in a suit, a Union Jack in the shape of a heart, the British Nationalists. “Finally we now have a chance to wipe you commies of our great island,” after the man in the suit said that I heard gunshots ring out in the main platform, “Now, Duke, Edgar, kill these bastards.” Just as he said that one of the workers on the train was thrown into the door knocking over the two guards leaving the key to the shackles wide open for us to use. When we saw we had a chance we took it and ran to the train, seeing the chaos unfold, men being thrown into boxes, workers being mangled by gunshots, and when me and Willie finally made it to Hermes Oliver was shot in the back collapsing to the ground. “WE NEED TO LOSE THE CARS!” Willie screamed while unhooking the cars from Hermes. And without skipping a beat I started the engine and as we rode off I could here the man in the suit scream “FOLLOW THOSE WANKERS! AND MAKE SURE THEY DON'T LIVE” May 16, 2049 After Cambridge me and Willie never spoke on the way back to the yard, only exchanging grunts and the occasional hey. It was only until we where within 75 meters of the train yard when we spoke, “Oscar,” Willie said nervously, “Do you see that smoke in the air.” When he said that I finally noticed the smoke rising in the sky being illuminated by an orangish red light. Fire. “I’ll go check it out.” said Willie while picking up a rifle. “I’ll go with you,” I responded. “No, stay here and watch out for anyone who may have tracked us from Cambrigde,” he said passing me a revolver and 10 extra rounds. “Ok,” I said watching Willie exit the cabin and run towards the smoke. May 17,2049 It must have been 10 hours since Willie left and all that went by where some deer and a pack of rabbits. After talking to myself pondering why he hasn't come back and why the smoke has stopped I got up and walked to the yard. When I finally got there I witnessed the aftermath of the carnage that took place. Everything burned to a crisp, with charred corpses littered everywhere. “WILLIE?!” I screamed, getting no response. I explored to find him seeing nothing but more corpses and burned wood. And as I was exploring the graveyard that was once my home I spotted something, a rifle, the same rifle Willie had. “WILLIE!” I screamed running frantically to him but when I arrived I could barley recognize him. His corpse, mangled by fire with bullet wounds in his skull and torso. “Willie,” I cried “What did they do to you.” When out of the corner of my eye I spot the corpse of someone wearing the same uniform as the people in Cambridge, on the body I found a note that read. ”Officer Don your orders are to burn and kill everyone in that disgusting communist outpost. And if you can find the people who escaped on the train. After this you will take the north and claim this great island for the people. -The People of Britain.” After I read the note I knew I had to get off the island, and the only way off without a boat, is the Chunnel.

The rotten smell of the bodies around me was killing me. I fought for two whole days trying to escape this place, but nothing worked. It was impossible to break the windows; the wood was nailed down, deliberately preventing me from leaving. I don't even know how I got here. I remember being thirsty; it must have been late at night because even the neighborhood dogs had stopped barking. I also remember the footsteps. A security guard, one of those who patrol the streets at night with a useless baton, heard me and wanted to help. Poor guy. The sound of his heavy body hitting the ground was traumatizing. He didn't even have time to see me. His warm blood, despite his body being cold due to the chilly weather, formed a puddle beneath my previously clean shoes… Of course, I panicked. Fear took over, and I ran. I felt so cowardly because I had unintentionally led the man into that situation. The man who probably had a family, a wife, and surely friends waiting for him next Saturday to have a beer at one of those seedy bars around here. I fled, ran as fast as I could inside. I couldn’t leave, of course not. It was obvious that something was waiting for me outside; the fear was consuming me more and more. I was prey, being toyed with. Something wanted to end me but was having fun first. You know when you go to those fancy restaurants that, instead of an appetizer, offer a show before serving the meal? Well, I was the show. When dawn broke, a young couple entered through another door, this one made of iron. So heavy, the guy was too skinny, I don’t know how he opened it. I think because of me, they lost such a beautiful future together… First, the girl fell dead. Blood poured from her mouth, bubbling. It was too late for the guy when he realized… The cut on his throat was fatal. There wasn’t enough time to see where it came from, these two were even more tragic than the poor guard, God rest their souls… The movement was quick, clever, very well thought out. From where I was, the view was extremely graphic. A horror! The blood of the two bathed the old, moldy walls of that abandoned warehouse. Unfortunately, it’s not a good place for dating. I needed to give the three of them something dignified, right? A human being is always empathetic. I hid all day, unable to bear knowing that outside it was bright enough for something to see me, even though it was so dark inside. As soon as night fell, I pulled the guard by his feet. It wasn’t that hard; the body was heavy, but the gym gave me some muscle mass, despite being just a little girl, I managed to pull a bit. I piled the couple with their heads on the guard’s belly. They seemed to be sleeping, all three of them. That was sadistic, for sure. The smell of blood closed my throat. I tried to cover my nose with my hand, but what was the point? My hands were covered in dark red. When I thought maybe I could ask for some help, I shouted to a woman passing outside. I saw her through the crack in the window. The warehouse had been abandoned for ages, but it was behind a park, so it wasn’t unusual for someone to wander through the area on weekends, like I did. “Please, help me, please.” My scream was guttural. I couldn’t hold back the tears when, finally, someone appeared for me. In the end, it was useless. She was also a threat. I’m sure she also came to harm me. I waited for her to open the first door and close it. “Hello? I heard you asking for help.” She played the innocent. Nice, right? If I didn’t know her intentions. I waited for her to close the door and turn forward. Fool. I raised the ax with all the strength I could muster and pinned her body to the wall with it. The sharp iron struck her neck directly, causing her head to slump to the left. The blood that gushed out seemed different from the other deaths. Those I killed because someone wanted to harm them too, I just spared them, helped poor creatures escape a horrid world. But her, she deserved it. When her body fell to the ground, I waited for her to move. After all, she was a demon. But she didn’t move, the bitch didn’t move a single muscle. I kicked her head until she woke up, but nothing, absolutely nothing. I wept copiously as I ran to the three I had saved. Lying there, the four of us. I hugged them. “I saved us, see? We’re safe.” I stayed like that until, finally, someone came to save me. I gripped the ax handle tightly when I heard the lock turn.

It was incredibly risky for us to be meeting like this, but we both knew it could be the last time we saw each other. We were huddled in an alcove on the path back to our pods. “What if there’s more than this, more to life?” “If there is, we have no idea.” “But what if we can find out?” “How?” “Getting out, of course, fleeing the compound. Do you think I’ll be able to hide my belly for long?” I could see his mind turning. “It would have to be fast. And safer if we escape separately.” I was taken aback, but agreed. “You’re right. No sense in them getting us both.” Our time together was running short. “Devise a plan,” I said, “I’ll do the same. Write me as soon as you can.” Raymond left first, as was our method. I followed soon after. We never parted by saying, ‘I love you.’ It was never agreed upon, but we both operated under the assumption of capture and death. To add love would only burn down the fortress of our resolution. We needed emotional distance to conquer the task before us. And so we both crept through damp, dimly-lit corridors, back to our pods. And again the nightwatchmen were none the wiser. Raymond and I first saw each other in passing, on the way back to our pods. Seeing his face for the first time, some nearly unreachable part of my memory was stirred. I had known him before. Something inside me just knew. But this was something I never shared, not even with him. We started with the odd word while our paths intersected. We soon arranged a system of sending notes. Eventually we grew bold enough to arrange a spot to meet. That was our alcove. I was eating my breakfast the next morning when I noticed a note among my food. My silverware served as a paperweight. His notes always arrived like this, with no warning. I darted my eyes around the mess hall. The scene was too bustling to spot every guard. I closed my eyes and slipped the note into my sleeve. Loosing the breath that felt as if it would burst my lungs, I opened my eyes and resumed my meal, careful to act naturally. Back in my cell, I unfurled the note. Raymond always folded each one ornately, and differently, and this one gave me the same warm feeling. But not love, I told myself. But not love. His words were clipped, but the handwriting was small and precise as always. His plan was to stage a tussle with the guards, hopefully enough of a distraction to make his getaway. Not much better than my plan, I thought. I was intending to send my note, containing my idea to feign sick and escape from the infirmary, which lay closer to the compound wall. I shredded the note into bits, balled it up, and swallowed it, as I always did. We used to mock other countries about their one- or two-child per household mandates, never officially confirmed, but rumored nonetheless. But when all workers were forbidden from procreating, here, in our country, life outside its borders lost all meaning. We were kept in pods. Dormitories that held a hundred bodies. One hundred hunkered slaves. And off to work we would go, to one of the manufacturing plants in the compound. I was lucky. I worked in one of the textile factories making uniforms, and in the evenings I transported the laundry. The work was monotonous, but there was little danger. This wasn’t so for the others, who had to brave outdated and faulty machinery. One by one, they would limp or stagger to the infirmary with missing digits, sometimes limbs. Others said we’d been replaced, whatever that means. No one remembered the time before our enslavement, not even the oldest among us. It was as if our memories had been erased up to the moment we first awakened in our pods. But something about seeing Raymond for the first time gave me the feeling we had met before. Every so often a face, an object, would trigger a flash of memory. A television set in a living room. A hand brushing a bookshelf. Innocuous detail from the past. More often, it was simply an innate sense that I had seen them before. But memories were dangerous in this place. They were secrets I intended to keep. But still, they granted me a brief moment of serenity, and I could return to them as often as I wished. I kept waiting for Raymond’s face to appear in these visions, but they remained brief and somehow out of focus. There are rumors that the government was overthrown, but whatever it was appeared to be worldwide. One day a switch was turned and only the elite were given the privilege of having children. Was this the population control conspiracy theory come to fruition? We could only speculate in secret, of course. The eyes of the guards were always watching. Not always, exactly. We devised ways to conduct our business without alerting suspicion. It was admittedly easy to blend in among my uniformed podmates. We all wore a flat gray jumpsuit with an ID badge stitched into the left breast. Contraband was treated as holy, passing from hiding spot to hidden cache: sardines, books, candy, you name it. And though I stayed away from those— Oh no, they must be indoctrinating me. I almost thought of them as vices— I sent notes back and forth to Raymond. I wasn’t completely obedient. I managed one form of unruliness through my work. It was my job to stitch new uniforms, using what appeared to be extremely old equipment. I worked in a line, where each of us stitched a specific portion and sent the fabric down to the next worker. Our sections took time, so sometimes I would stitch words or designs into them. Words like “embrace,” “ascend,” a tiny leafless tree, a simple outline of a mountain. They were so faint as to be almost unnoticeable, and the uniforms were so often worn out and replaced, that my little hobby never caused me any trouble. You learned to hide well in this place. “I think one country took over, they just didn’t tell us which. Someone, some force, hit the world hard and hit it fast,” Raymond said. “How else could you explain how smoothly the transition went. There was no bloodshed reported, no sudden military uprising reported on the news. And overnight, the country changes. It doesn’t add up.” “It doesn’t have add up. Here we are,” I said, perhaps a bit cynically. “But we’re getting out.” “That’s right. We’re getting out.” Raymond’s plot to stage a fight with the guards fell apart when his accomplices choked at the pivotal moment when he could have escaped through a false door in the wall. Not that I could blame them. He’d noticed it one night on his rounds, collecting trash. He had overhead it was near year’s day from one of the guards. And one of them, clearly drunk, lazily peered around before touching a notch on the wall. A small panel slid upward, revealing a keypad. The guard lowered his face to the numbers, clumsily jabbed his finger at the buttons. The keypad flashed red. “Shit,” the guard drooled. But his second attempt was a success. Another door-sized panel slid aside, revealing a narrow, fenced walkway that led out of the compound. I guess I understood, since no one had actually had the courage to rise up against the guards. Maybe we could have overtaken them by force. But that would have required too much planning, too much cooperation. Surely there were moles among us, ones who could’ve spoiled the whole thing. I just hoped that Raymond’s friends weren’t among them. “I wonder if we’re all sterile.” “Something tells me they can’t afford it.” “What makes you say that? They could put something in our food, tamper with us in our sleep. They erased our memories, they could do that.” “What if they didn’t erase our memories? What if it’s always been like this?” “Look at the compound, the plants, everything is shoddy and worn out. I think they’re sparing the expense for something bigger.” “Like what, an army?” “I’m not sure, but I’ll be damned if I’m forced to enlist.” “Maybe we already did.” I’d heard about the chute that led out of the infirmary. The refuse goes straight into a nearby landfill, which of course, none us had seen. It could only be hearsay, but I was willing to weigh it as an option. I just realized Raymond and I never established a meeting point once we actually did escape. We had nothing to go on, no reference points. I tried and tried to get a job in the infirmary, just to put myself that much closer to making it out. But all positions were currently filled. That was all I could get out of the guards. Besides, I wasn’t sure I could stomach taking care of my fellow man, woman? Was the infirmary gender-segregated as well? I actually had no idea. I’ll have to do some digging, I thought. “Could we somehow switch our badges?” “You mean switch places with another worker?” “Maybe one that has an overnight shift. So we could leave at night. Surely you could manage something, making uniforms.” The thought of committing such a clear act of rebellion filled me with dread. “I can’t risk it,” I said, knowing too well my hypocrisy, given my little hobby, but that was just for me, and nowhere near as conspicuous as tampering with the badges. Raymond had been taken. There was no doubt in mind. He hadn’t responded to my last note, which was unheard of. Word must have been spreading of his escape. But he managed to tell me about the hidden door, as well as its passcode. The infirmary plan was shelved. I thought of feigning death somehow, with an injection maybe, but I couldn’t risk being discovered in that state. The hidden door was my only chance. But I had to find it. Eureka! I managed to spy a guard passing through the door, into the compound. That must be how they change shifts, I thought. And despite the darkness, that light-strewn walkway looked to be all the glory of heaven. Tears welled in my eyes as the panel slid closed, and that vision was snatched from me, but only physically, for it had burned its imprint on my mind as soon as I laid eyes on it. I knew it was my best chance at escape. The timing was right. Over the course of a few nights, I learned the guards’ schedule. They would pass through the door just as I was heading back to the pod with an empty laundry cart, having already delivered it. So I risked it, and made for the door before I dropped off the laundry. It was just after dusk. The compound seemed stiller that it had ever been. Or ever will be, I told myself. I approached the spot on the wall where I knew the door to be. Not even bothering to check for guards, I probed the wall with my hands. I found a slight impression and jabbed it with my thumb, just as Raymond said the guard had done. A panel slid up the wall, and there was the keypad. My heart thundered in my chest as I typed in the passcode. The door slid open, and there stood a man I had never seen before. He was dressed in a suit, and I knew immediately he was superior to every guard on the compound. He held an umbrella above his head. And though it wasn’t raining anywhere else, a downpour fell around the man, staining the ground. I hadn’t noticed it before, but where there wasn’t a cloud in the starlit sky, a tiny dark thunderhead loomed directly over his head. Something within me knew it followed him wherever he went. “You did very well to get here, Fran. What you did took courage,” the man said. I was stunned. There was no way out. I was captured. “And to think you’re with child! To take such a risk is a testament to your will to leave this place. That is what you want, isn’t it?” I was frozen to the spot, unable to move, let alone speak. “Well go,” he said, stepping aside and gesturing toward the light. “You’ve been free to go from the beginning. Didn’t anyone tell you?” He laughed then, a laugh that would frighten the sturdiest of hearts. “Go on, you can do it.” He waved me on. It was probably a trap. Either that or I lucked out and met the eccentric warden, whoever oversaw that hellhole. I walked past the man, but as I did, something overtook me, and I grabbed his face and kissed him deeply. When I kissed him, he lowered the umbrella. I was soaked in seconds, but strangely he remained dry. I felt no baptismal sense of purification. I was furious. Tears streamed down my face, mingling with the haunted man’s rain. And looking out past the parking lot, off in the distance I saw rows and rows of people marching. There must have been thousands. That was all I saw before I felt an impact on the back of my head. Then blackness. I awakened in my cell with a splitting headache and a deep ache in my womb. Something within my body felt absent, but I couldn’t remember what. I donned my uniform and made my way to the mess hall for breakfast. Tucked discretely into one of my socks was a note, intricately folded. I wonder who that could be from? I noticed an almost indecipherable word stitched into the sleeve of my uniform. It said, “dream.

Becca woke up with a smile on her face. Today was her birthday, and she was going to celebrate it even if everyone else forgot. Growing up with three older sisters, her birthday was often ignored for other celebrations such as when Rachel decided to dye her hair black. The fight between her and her mother lasted for a week due to that. Her worst birthday came when she turned thirteen. Tyra and her mom got into a massive fight on that day over whether Tyra had to take out the trash (she wanted to get out of it). Becca began to cry because her birthday was being ruined. Tyra let it slip that no one knew when Becca’s birthday was. This statement confused Becca. They had been celebrating it on the same day every year. Or at least that’s what she thought. On further reflection, Becca realized that she always asked her mom when her birthday was. Occasionally, her mom would say yes. The first reaction from mom was to ground Tyra for revealing the secret; then, she confessed that Tyra was right. Mom told Becca that she had a lot going on in her life when Becca was born. She couldn’t keep track of everything. As such, she was just going to celebrate whenever Becca got too whiny. Becca asked her father if he knew the date. Her father said that he always had a bad memory and never knew how old anyone was. Becca decided to pick her own birthday from that point going forward. After all, birthdays were just arbitrary days that were assigned meaning. When Becca was feeling depressed, she decided the best course of action was to say her birthday was tomorrow. That always cheered herself up. Her age was a mystery, but that was alright. It wasn’t proper to ask a lady her age, and most birth records were destroyed in the alien invasion anyway. For breakfast, she baked a cake. It wasn’t until later, but her job was extremely flexible when it came to hours. They would all forgive her anyway if she came in with it. Her favorite flavors were chocolate with vanilla frosting, but she didn’t have enough chocolate so instead she made a marble cake. Occasionally, someone felt guilty and bought her something nearby as a gift. This happened more often when she was the town nurse. People generally didn’t buy the sheriff anything. She didn’t expect it to happen. When she arrived at work, she was content with just a cake. Derrick was at his desk reading a memoir about a man who lived before the Mieran War. The man’s life was boring, and he spent most of it complaining about his coworker Greg. It was hilarious. “Good morning.” Becca sat the cake down at the table. Derrick, Goldtail, and Larry immediately started looking at it. Food is the greatest motivator. “What’s the occasion?” Derrick asked. “Just a birthday,” Becca said. “I am so glad you all decided to celebrate my birthday.” Evelyn waltzed into the room and pushed Becca aside. She pulled out a small fork and took a bite of cake. After chewing for a few seconds, she spat it out. “Marble. That is disgusting. My favorite flavor is coconut. I thought I told you that.” She pushed the cake off the table and onto the floor. “Actually, it’s for my-” “You are so inconsiderate. I hope you got me a wonderful gift to make up for it.” Evelyn turned around before Becca could respond. Larry crouched down to eat it. Ever since becoming a mine, he had been so hungry. Why didn’t people know how to feed him? The people-pleaser’s dilemma was considered the great filter between extreme doormats and genuinely nice individuals. It was quite simple. A people-pleaser could either stand up for themself in times when selfishness would be excused or obey others’ commands. Becca chose to be a doormat. She ran outside city hall to see what stores were open. Fortunately, an antique and general goods store was open. The store was owned by a woman named Bertha who ensured that everything dated to at least one hundred years before the Mierans arrived. When inconsistencies with certain products arose (such as pictures of people known to the community after the invasion), Bertha smacked them on the head. As such, it was accepted that the goods were antiques. Antiques made for good presents because it looked like the gifter tried without actually learning what the recipient liked. Evelyn always talked about how much she liked to dance. There was a statuette of a dancing couple about to make out. It looked appropriately passionate so Becca bought it on the spot. She ran back to City Hall up to the mayor’s office to give it to Evelyn. “Happy Birthday.” She panted as she handed the figurine. Evelyn took it in her hands. “This is garbage.” Evelyn tossed it over her shoulder, and it shattered. Becca’s shoulders slumped. “You’re lucky it’s not my real birthday.” “What?” “Yeah, I like saying it’s my birthday to get free stuff.” “But I, but I.” “You should still treat me like it’s my birthday though because I deserve it,” Evelyn said. Becca clenched her fists. She considered assaulting this self-centered nincompoop. Her doormat nature took over, and Becca walked out the door. When she got to her desk, she put her head down and cried. It was like growing up all over again where no one cared about her birthday. Her tears were interrupted by the sound of metal on wood. Derrick placed a piece of cake before her. “Happy birthday,” he said. “Thank you.” She took a bite of the cake. Derrick was a terrible baker, but it was the thought that counted so Becca smiled through it. After finishing her slice, she didn’t go back for seconds. Which was fine because Larry was already eating it. “Sorry Evelyn ruined your birthday,” Derrick said. “It’s fine. I should’ve expected that from her,” Becca said. “Don’t worry. Karma is mysterious.” Goldtail’s favorite human was Becca, and Evelyn made her cry. Goldtail snuck through the vents and was hanging from the ceiling over Evelyn. He waited for Evelyn to get into the right position and attacked. Evelyn still said it was her birthday for free stuff, but she looked over her shoulder to make sure a cat wasn’t around from that point forward.

Our red string was spun, but it was too frail to hold us both together. The prolonged strain we subjected it to was too much, that it had no choice but to break. For the past few weeks, I was holding on to my end of this string which we precariously spun since January. I was examining its remnants for what it is and have asked friends and other strangers about what it looks like to them; All in an attempt to objectively understand what had happened to it. I know I shouldn’t linger on it, that it doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. But I find myself thinking about you and about it when I’m left alone with my thoughts. Regardless, what matters to me is that I’m at the time of my life where I’m actively looking for someone to weave something special with, red strings and all. You had won me over into thinking that special person was you, when you called me yours and you, mine. I had thought I came across you at the right time. We weren’t close to 100%, but I had thought that we both decided to spin more of these threads and had enough to start making beautiful tapestry with. I convinced myself into believing that a macho builder with callous hands was ready to weave something delicate and refined with me. I had thought you tried, albeit awkwardly, to make it happen. In that, I found you endearing and I was starting to care deeply for you, I admit. However, you leaving me alone to hold the remnants of this proverbial thread proved you didn’t want this with me. I was willing to put in the work for something more, but you pulled away after having decided this was not worth your while. Thus, I am left alone and all I have now are mistaken thoughts and broken strings. I don’t fault you. You still firmly believe that what we started was a dead-end project. I won’t beg for you to come back when I know you can’t and won’t finish this with me. We can’t spin this red thread when you already believe it’s not worth the trouble. You can’t fault me too, you know. You demanding me to prioritize this project of ours - at your unilateral terms at that - all while you were also busy building something with someone else with your ´splashes of plaster’, just seemed unconscionable and unjust to me. Though this was the only project I was starting, I just can’t give it my full attention when you’re not even concentrating. I don’t do charity, I have a great deal of self-respect to seek something secure for myself. I’m not some naive one-dimensional creature that’s so blind at what you’re trying to do. I saw how you constructively abandoned this project of ours. I also thought you gave me an impossible condition I couldn’t fulfill, to transfer the accountability of failure to me. My reluctance has stemmed from that and it has turned into coldness towards you at that moment when everything was thrown on the table. I was convincing myself that I was weaving some splendid tapestry with you, when in fact, we truly didn’t. What we weaved were merely the beginnings of a red flag. When I saw it for what it was, I was left with frustration and disappointment. I did not act when I was confronted with it, I reacted. My sweetness soured at your incompetence. After an unhealthy amount of introspection with some outside perspective, I’ve come to accept the reality now: I blindly wanted you to be the man for the job, but you were not the right man I needed for it. I know now to only seek one who’ll intentionally choose to start this project with me, who is rightly equipped for the job, and who is not someone who’ll just be minimally engaged while working on it. I have to say this for the third time, just to convince myself to finally let you go from a place of peace. Goodbye dear builder. Please know I don’t hate you, but thanks for having at least tried to make this work anyway. I hope to think that you were sincere in wanting this tapestry to happen earlier on in the year. I thought I saw that in your eyes when we last shared sweet nothings while appreciating what we were making. You leaving was a lesson for me, but I won’t become defeated. I was and still am ready to accept the right man who will choose and who will know how to spin these threads with me - but not at the terrible expense of abandoning my own values, all while stringing me along and making this project an option. Thank you for having taught me to be more discerning. It’s unfortunate to leave our strings where it is, but weave as we might: deadlines, dignity, dissonant values, and distance just wouldn’t allow us to make this happen.

The yellow light of the gondola bobs through the void, akin to an ember floating precariously over an endless ocean. The light brought to life by the hums of long forgotten songs, sung by better men than the captain. Old trinkets, dried meats and a copper coloured lanyard hook sway as he rocks in his ratty hammock strung from the roof, his feet holding the bones of whatever mystery meat he bought from the market not a day earlier. Tossing them lazily to the side, he halfheartedly hops to the floor, slipping on his greased feet, swinging his arms around to keep his balance. Shooting up in embarrassment as if someone were there to find amusement in his fall, and yet no one laughed. Regaining his dignity unaffected by the mocking space around him, he sauntered over to the chair that knew him better than any anyone, and found himself in the grooves carved out by the years he spent piloting his gondola. The gondola was old and he knew it, paint chips the size of your palm fell like autumn leaves and metal underneath was rusted though. A sheet of metal hung on the side of the gondola by chains like dog tags, in bold red letters the name The Sloth could be read. The noises around him were comforting, the clacks of live cables as their severed ends brush against the pipes below them, and the slow stream of steam from an unseen pipe hushed any potential noises or hums as he passed. Hendrik believed that if he had known his mother, this feeling of comfort would be the aura she would exude, it was a silly thought as no one would ever feel that maternal embrace or any familial embrace for that matter. A tapping above his head shakes him out of his fantasy, as a leathered rat the size of a house cat attempts to outrun the grips on the wire holding up his gondola, but it is in vain as it is pulled in my it’s tail halting the movement of the gondola so suddenly that Hendrik is thrown against the yellowed glass in front of him. Sitting up with an effort he rubs his face expecting to find it flattened by the impact, cursing all the while. After activating the break next to his chair, he goes to exit the gondola out the maintenance hatch on the ceiling above him, in his youth he would’ve been able to make the leap in a single jump, now all he can muster is a pathetic leap barely high enough to grab the ladder held up by it’s magnetic clips. The damage done by the rat isn’t major but still more than a nuisance, with it being pulled into the motor preventing the gears from turning. Even though the smell of burning rat sickens him, he knows that the burner is his best option. Without leaving the roof, his long arm aided by the grabber kept on his belt sticks through the hatch, in order to reach for the burner kept in an open case beside his chair. The waving of his arm and the grabber would seem almost comical if his attempt wasn’t so pathetic. Eventually, grabbing it by the barrel, he retracts the grabber to his outstretched other hand. Getting to his knees, he pushes down on the plunger connected to the dispenser on his left hip, letting the burner cartridge drop into his hand. The rounded cylinder slides into the the back, just below the rear sight with a slight hiss and the smell of acetylene. Turning towards the rat filled motor, Hendrik aims the burner and pulls the trigger, a stream of burning fuel engulfs the remains, turning everything except for the motor into ash. After jumping back down into the comfort of his home and ejecting the expended fuel cartridge into his long hand, he places the burner back into its case, rolling the cartridge around on his open palm. Sitting back into his chair he kicks the break allowing the gondola to continue its journey. As Hendrik continues his humming he can’t help but feel grateful for his earlier meal, as the smell of the burning rat brings back nauseating memories of the scavenged meats he had for dinner in his youth. The metal rings on his long silver sideburns ring against the buttons of his jacket to the movement of the gondola over the void. The ember will continue to float over the nigh endless void surrounding it with no clue of the dangers that may lay beneath its surface.

Facing a financial crunch, I found myself unable to scrape together enough cash for my car registration this month. Frustrated and desperate, I did the unthinkable: I summoned the devil. In a swirl of smoke and brimstone, there he stood before me, all horns and tail, looking utterly bemused. "You called?" His voice rumbled like distant thunder. Heart racing, I blurted out my proposal. "I'll trade you my soul for the next three months' worth of car rego." The devil blinked, a mix of confusion and amusement crossing his demonic features. "Are... are you serious?" he finally managed. "Yeah, dude," I replied, trying to sound nonchalant despite the gravity of the situation. "Can't afford it this month." He shook his head slowly, incredulously. "Bro... You could ask for literally anything else in the world, and you're asking for car rego for the next three months?" I shrugged, feeling a bit embarrassed now. "Yeah, tough times, you know. Maybe I should have asked for a whole year instead. Can you do that?" "Dude," the devil sighed, shaking his head again, "I'm not going to allow you to do this." "But bro," I pleaded, "I really need it. Can't drive without it." With an unexpected gesture of compassion, the devil placed a hand on my shoulder. "I'm not making the deal," he said firmly, "but I'll give you that rego." I stared at him in shock. "Wait, seriously? Does this mean we're bros now?" A grin tugged at the corners of the devil's mouth. "Hell yeah, bro. We're bros." And just like that, I had struck an unconventional friendship with the devil himself over car registration. It wasn't exactly how I envisioned my day going, but hey, life's full of surprises. As the weeks passed, I couldn't shake off the surrealness of having the devil as my "bro." We'd occasionally catch up over coffee (black, naturally) and discuss mundane things like weather patterns in Hell or the best way to haggle with a soul collector. Despite his fearsome reputation, the devil turned out to be surprisingly chill, with a wicked sense of humor and a knack for card tricks. Our friendship was unconventional, to say the least, but it worked. And as for my soul? Well, it seemed the devil was more interested in our broship than collecting on our initial deal. Perhaps he saw something in me worth keeping around. Or maybe he just enjoyed the novelty of having a mortal buddy who could hold his own in banter. Either way, I learned that sometimes, the most unexpected bonds can form in the strangest of circumstances. So here's to you, Mr. Devil—thanks for covering my rego and being the bro I never knew I needed. In the end, I realized that making deals with the devil might not be the wisest choice, but it sure made for one heck of a story to tell at parties. And as long as the devil kept his end of the bargain by not taking my soul, I was happy to call him my bro. And that's how I became bros with the devil.

Eyes closed, I picture you sitting by the river. Your feet dipped in fresh water as the soft breeze of the Swiss Alps caresses your golden-brown locks. A hint of a smile slightly stretches the corners of my lips, imagining the peacefulness filling you and the genuine smile adorning your face. Trying to guess what crosses your mind during those moments, I feel my heart rate go faster as millions of hundreds of questions pop into my mind. Tell me, darling, do you still smile when you remember me? Think about me? Or does it feel like a million invisible and poisonous needles are stabbing you repeatedly in the chest? Do you laugh when you remember my jokes? Or have you erased every bit of memory you have of me? Do you still read my poems, listen to the songs I have suggested, or cook the recipes I have shared with you? Or have these things joined the pile of discarded items in the furthest, darkest corners of your memory? If you are ever wondering, I still revisit our moments when sleep fails me. The games we’ve played together, the things you’ve told me, and the plans we’ve promised to achieve together. At the end of the day, when I lay my head on my pillow. As I wait for ‘Le Marchand de Sable’ to finally show up and sprinkle sleep sand on me, I make up imaginary scenarios of what my life could be like by your side. All the sand castles we have said we will build together, all the places we’ve promised to discover together, and the dogs we’ve said we will adopt. A Husky for you and a Bernese or a Border Collie for me. Alone in the dark, I picture us baking together in the middle of the night, both singing along. You, laughing at my terrible dance moves, and me, joking about how clumsy you are. Staring at the shadows dancing across the ceiling of the dimly lit room, I let myself get lost in the forbidden lands of what-ifs and if-onlys. I lay down, relax, and let the waves of my abundant imagination and endless memories carry me away. Drifting, I hope the current will lead me back to you. back to what we’ve once shared. And no, I no longer cry when I think of you, when I reread our messages, or when I run into you. Not really. Not that much. No, I no longer feel my heart crack and fall to pieces whenever someone brings you up. It doesn’t hurt anymore. Not that bad. No, I don’t blame you or hate you. I just die a little more each time I dream of you. Lose a bit of my soul and sanity whenever my made-up stories feel too real to touch. But it’s alright. It’s not a big deal. Not really. Only the line separating the real from the fake is becoming thinner. Almost nonexistent. Even after days, weeks, months, and years apart from you, I haven’t forgotten the tone of your voice or your accent. I can still recognize your silhouette in the middle of the crowd. And still remember the shade of blue coloring your eyes. You are not my first love, and sadly, not the last. And unfortunately, not the man meant for me. But you are the love of my life—the one who will always be a part of me. You are my soulmate, if these even exist. I often find myself sitting in the dark, on my knees. With shaking hands and tear-filled eyes, I pray. I, who have always believed that God forsaken me long ago and lost faith in everything, sit and pray. Unsure to whom I’m praying or if it will ever be heard. Much less answered. I pray regardless. I pray for you, for me, and maybe for us. I pray for what we’ve once had and what we could’ve been. Haunted by the ghost of you, infinite possibilities, and promises that will never be fulfilled, I pray for your happiness and for my healing. I pray for that precious peace that I’ve spent most of my life seeking. And for you to find your way and your place in this world. Breathing in, I take my time and pray as much as I can. Until I run out of breath. Until I run out of words, tears, and strength. Breathing out, I lay back on my bed and hope you will visit me tonight as well in my dreams. I close my eyes, tell you I love you, and wish for sleep to come faster. — Word count : 775 words This is a story for the summertime story bucket. Used constraints: First love, a character builds a sandcastle, the story contains no dialogue Thank you for reading my story, crits and feedback are always appreciated.

Years into the future, in a different world to the one you may have be born in, people are not the same anymore. Things used to be much simpler and easier, where not everything required lots of thought, you just did things, work on something for a result and get to where you want if you put in the effort. Things changed 1 day, the world went through a transformation, maybe a portal into another realm, a new world where the human race was divided, there were no longer just people, it split into 3, there were the unknowing, who didn't know of the magic or the spirit realm, there were the assimilators, who would try to use spirit and magic to control and destroy others, as this was their preffered method, and there were the ascended, who would only know about the spirit and magic and used it without effort. The ascended didn't need to use spirit and magic to get what they wanted because they were extremely intelligent, able to master skills and talented in ways, put in effort and spend a long time learning and would look for good guidance from teachers who understood truths, they respected truth, hard work, and strong effort above all. The assimilators weren't like the ascended, they would prefer to try and use the ascended whenever possible, sneakily, use their powers to delude and create illusions rather than actually be intelligent or skillful, they use the unknowing because they didn't understand the illusions or the magic that the assimilators or the ascended could wield, which made them easy targets for the assimilators. One day the ascended managed to develop a special technology, it would allow them far sight, and increased perceptions, more accurate measurements, improved calculations and more. The assimilators stole it and started trying to use it to destroy the ascended, so they could control the unknowing freely without any consequence or interference. Because of this the ascended had no choice but to share the technology with the unknowing and all other, rather than keep it secret. The unknowing started to transform spiritually, some into assimilators, some into ascended. This catalysed a battle of the mind and a spiritual war across the world. People started forming into groups, where they would fight each other with spiritual means, they would steal from each other and try gain capital if they were assimilators, taking all they could, especially from the few unknowing who were left. Most of all they would look for ascended who they could single out and use against the rest of them. People discovered they had powers they just weren't aware of, and the world transformed into a magical place, but also a much more dangerous place. Where you had to be on guard a majority of the time, especially if interacting with people since you could never tell for sure whether you were going to be targeted by an assimilator, they are good actors, it's in their nature. The assimilators had a plan, they would choose a few target locations and begin to spread, by assimilating others, using delusions and illusions to assimilate others and control them, assimilators control those who they can, and help each other to do it, they work in groups to form a hold of control over groups and make them do whatever they want them to if possible. The ascended realised what was happening, and let the assimilators think they were untouchable, waited to see how far they would go. This was the beginning of a battle, the beginning of a mystical war. The deluders, assimilators, against the ascended and the unknowing who would either choose a side, or be oblivious to the situation and try to live their lives.

The Story of Flowers Once upon a time in a library, there was a single copy of a little book, and it was called "Flowers." All the other books in the children's section clamored for attention with bright pictures and bold words. But not Flowers. Flowers liked to sit just quietly in the sunshine. They had a spot over by the window, under the corkboard. It was their favorite nook, and they would sit there in the sun all day, thinking. Sometimes the librarian would worry about them. She was afraid they would be lonesome all by themselves. "Why don't you sit out on display like the other books?" she would say. But Flowers would shake its head. "I like it better here, where I can sit just quietly and think." The librarian saw that "Flowers" was not lonesome, and because she was an understanding librarian, she let them sit there and be happy. As the years went by, more and more children began reading "Flowers," until it was very popular. All the other popular books would argue with each other all day about who was most popular. “I'm most important!” "I'm the funniest!" "I'm the smartest!" But not Flowers — they still liked to sit just quietly under the corkboard, thinking and feeling the sunshine. One day, a businessman in a very funny hat came to pick the smartest, funniest, most important book in the whole library to sell in stores. They walked through the displays and saw books based on famous TV shows… Books that made them laugh out loud … Books with funny sounds and rhymes! Flowers knew they would not be chosen, so they went to their spot under the cork board to sit. But as the businessman in the funny hat walked by, a child came up to the librarian, holding Flowers. “Can I check this out again?” the child asked. The librarian smiled and nodded, and the businessman noticed. “What’s that book?” the businessman asked, pointing to Flowers. “Oh, that’s Flowers,” the librarian replied. “It’s our only copy and no one knows where it came from… but it’s well-loved.” The businessman shouted with joy. Here was a well-loved book that wasn't yet well known. Surely they could sell Flowers in stores! So when the boy returned it, the man took the book away to be copied and printed. And what a great book it was! There was a lovely lady with a flower in her hair on the cover. The illustrations danced and sang from start to finish like a big parade! And everyone who discovered the book loved it. First were the parents. Then the influencers and news anchors. Then … everyone! They called Flowers important, funny and smart! But others called Flowers … controversial. Those people worried that if their children read Flowers, they might learn the wrong things! They talked about it on TV and social media. Some people even tried to stop kids from reading Flowers! But Flowers didn’t mind. Flowers didn’t care if it was important, funny, smart or even controversial. They just sat quietly in the sunshine and thought. So the businessman, frustrated by the controversy, promptly returned Flowers to the library. And for all I know they are sitting there still, under their favorite corkboard, feeling the sunshine, just quietly. They are very happy.

Daniel hadn’t even celebrated his first victory as an amateur boxer when he got the news the man he fought had passed away. There would be no celebration, but a funeral of odd occurrence; the payout: death, and an unlikely statistic. Disillusionment with a lifelong passion, or perhaps, in rare cases, a sick vindication of one’s strength. He had slaughtered the opposition under the banner of a small-time regional promotion, but the remorse burgeoned, even in the absence of light ahead. “That left hook was a perfect counter, could’ve happened to anyone, it’s a freak accident…” his coach assured him, consoling him with a hand on his shoulder. They stood outside a bar where they didn’t drink, or partake in any festivities but instead the fortuity of Daniel’s endeavors. He had only suffered minor blows, but the left hook to the man’s temple, a man wearing headgear, a man fighting for personal freedom and two hundred dollars, rendered him in a coma of closing doors; it is luminous, he imagined, like staring into the sun before absolute black. There on the sidewalk, Daniel hardly registered his coach's consolations, and he barely felt the frigid air of a late November. “I’m gonna head home, give my mom a call, maybe,” Daniel wished to leave this subject behind and never return, but as his coach took his hand off his shoulder, the guilt compounded within him, and so too his contrition of a once in a lifetime tragedy, wherein the rules were adhered to, and still, a son had been snuffed for the love of the sport. “I just wanted to show my support, it’s not every day… it’s not every day something like this happens,” the coach pieced the words together, and they parted ways and toward their vehicles. Sitting in his car, Daniel didn’t turn the ignition, he gazed about the empty roadways—deep in thought, so much so he was thoughtless. With his hands on the wheel, parked beneath a glowing green sign that shined with the name Mickey’s, he watched as his coach drove off, and the headlights drifted out of view. When he arrived at his apartment’s parking lot, exhausted, and ridden with a strange emptiness, the car door clicked behind him. The tenements sat blackened by shadows, or bruises, a heap of ugly brown scarred and in need of condemnation. He lived on the fifth floor, but it might as well have been the hundredth because he walked and walked, waking nobody, and greeted by the same. He heard no whispers or the common squabble between disgruntled husband and wife, and only the elongated creaking of the steps like an untuned piano beneath his feet. When he finally reached the top, stepped to his apartment door, and twisted the key, no dog barked, and no voice was raised: he didn’t have a dog, any animal, human or cat, only silence and grim reminders. Opening the fridge, he revealed its contents, which were nothing; he wasn’t hungry, just aimless as he stared out the window. His shoes were still on, and he didn’t take them off when he sat on the couch, rigid and sore, contemplating the vastness of the void above, and below, hollowing a hole in his gut. Deeply, he breathed—in and out. Dizzy in a vacuum, he felt the silence upon his skin, but he heard nil of his surroundings, the stagnant room, or the tenants across the hall, not to mention, the outside world, absent from commotion, still as the breezeless night. It was as he considered the TV, and the powering of it on, that he stood again, and back to the window. From his doomed vantage of a vacant parking lot, he watched the streetlights pulsate and listened attentively for the sound of sirens that usually permeated the city… There was no one but him and the morphing of false tranquility, forthright in its metamorphosis of doubt. He had made a mental note of calling his mother, but it faded the longer he studied the parking lot and the carless roads. With a few steps, he was near the TV again, and he thought about sitting down when it hit him—not a notion of any kind, but rather his fist. Impromptu, and with a bludgeoned yet sharp impact, his knuckle clacked against his jaw, and a tooth flew across the room. The pain was nothing compared to the absence of it, so he hit himself even harder. The blood trickled, running down his face, the taste of iron, the splitting of his lip. With his senses nearly reclaimed, he rammed his forehead into a mirror, gasped the air around him, and dropped to his knees on broken glass. His nose was bent and his eyes swollen, his cheek bulbous; he was soaking in the sheer, shooting pain. In the aftermath of his pugilistic, self-inflicting approach, here returned the music from two floors below that played every night, the man above Daniel shouting in tongues, and the phone beside him that began to ring, rattling on the coffee table.

I remember exactly how excited I was that day. It had been about seven months of planning, contacting the travel company just to make sure nothing was off track. José told me at least twenty times a week that I shouldn’t forget to take my medications. I discovered at eleven years old that my anxiety could affect various areas of my life, making sure everything was going well was the least of my problems. I ended up waking up much earlier than my fiancé. He was still twisted in bed, taking up almost all the space for himself. We would leave at six-fifteen in the morning. It was our first international trip... From Brazil to Corsica, it had always been my dream! It would be twenty-two hours to Figari. I was pure ecstasy. With all the suitcases ready, including my fiancé's, we embarked on an incredible journey. Figari, the administrative area of Corsica, right on the corner of France, was perfect. There was the most beautiful and blue lake I had ever seen in my life. In the shallow part, you could still see the stones covered by green moss because it was so transparent, but as the depth increased, it became impossible to see beyond the navy blue barrier. Indescribable. We toured the entire island, from end to end. We went through all the convenience stores, bought keychains and mugs, shirts, and other knickknacks. I felt totally like one of those tourists in the movies, oh, how I wish the whole experience had been as full of happiness as it was at the beginning. While walking, we found one of the local shops that I considered the most beautiful on the island. With a rustic structure, built on almost red-toned stones, I was delighted to see that it was surrounded by kittens outside and one inside, watching from the window next to an elderly woman with white hair and eyes almost as blue as the lake that served as a rest for the eyes. We entered the store at my insistence, after petting the tabby cat and greeting the elderly woman who seemed so kind, we started to explore every corner of the shop. As we passed by a collection of island tourist shirts, the elderly woman, the shopkeeper, or perhaps the owner since she was the only one there besides us, was watching us with an extremely friendly smile, as if she was holding back from making friends. I waved to her, and she waved back and returned to her magazine behind the counter. “This one seems perfect for your sister.” My fiancé held up the shirt to show me. It was white, with a whimsical map of the island's best tourist spots, very colorful and fun. “Oh, yes. She would definitely love to walk around with a map on her belly.” We laughed together as he put the shirt back. I scanned the entire establishment. It seemed to be a few decades old… The dust accumulated in the corners might be due to the island's sand, the grains surrounded the whole town. Various masks were hanging on the walls, they probably sold well during the fantasy festival. It was a cultural event that would take place in about two weeks. I really wanted to participate, but since the demand at that time was very high, we decided to come two weeks earlier because we knew there would be little movement, so the ticket prices would be lower. The masks seemed extremely real, so real that at some point they started to cause me a lot of discomfort. I felt my back shiver when I laid eyes on what seemed to be a child’s face. The expressions, the skin so real made me extremely uncomfortable. I lowered my eyes, as if it was almost a sign of disrespect, you know? To keep looking at something that seemed so human and scary. In the corner of a clothing rack, there was a slightly open wooden door. I imagined it was some kind of bathroom, judging by the tiles on the wall. I thought about asking to use it, but I couldn’t find the elderly woman when I looked around. As I got closer, maybe due to a mistake on my part, I thought I saw a child’s figure near the door. The problem is that the figure seemed to be lying on the floor. Motionless. Before I could think of anything, the elderly woman mysteriously emerged from a corridor and closed the door. Her friendly look seemed to tremble and turn into something entirely different. It was a look of anger, something had ignited this feeling inside her and, apparently, I was not welcome there. “How can I help you, dear?” The scratched and weak voice came from her throat, using an almost indecipherable English, because of her heavy accent. “Uh, I… was wondering if I could maybe use your bathroom, if it’s not too much trouble.” “No bathrooms here, dear.” She said, pulling me to another side of the shop. “You make a lovely couple, don’t you? Come, dear ones, I have a space reserved for photographs, what do you think? We can make a fridge magnet for you.” Suddenly, her English seemed to adjust and become much more understandable. Just like her look had changed. In some way, perhaps by instinct, something in her and the shop started to want to keep me away from all of it. I grabbed José’s hand as soon as I reached him and opened my mouth to refuse, but he interrupted me. “My mother would love to receive one of these, love. Let’s! Please, it’s a great way to remember this moment.” I smiled, unable to refuse. I should have listened to my instincts. I should have held his hand tighter and pulled him out of that hellish place. But I wanted to trust, I imagined that maybe it was just my anxiety speaking louder and wanting to stop me from enjoying another great moment in my life. “Come, dear ones. Follow me.” We, unfortunately, followed the short woman with wavy white hair. The corridor was very dark, sometimes I stumbled over what seemed like a hard cushion. Probably merchandise scattered on the floor. “Well, let’s start with you, dear. And then, we’ll take his and finally both of you together.” She said when we reached a very bright room. Some poufs in front of a camera. Things were starting to get creepy. I covered my nose as soon as I noticed the putrid smell of the place. “I actually think we should go back. We don’t have money for three photo sessions, you know?” As I thought about taking a step back, bringing my fiancé with me, she grabbed my hand and helped me sit on the pouf. “It’s on the house, dear.” She smiled in a way that made me weak. “Can I offer you some coffee, no? How rude of me.” She turned to a coffee pot in the corner of the room. Honestly, with that smell of rotten meat, I didn’t feel like drinking anything from there. I looked at José widening my eyes, almost begging for help to leave. Unfortunately, he was so entertained with the other pictures that he didn’t even pay attention to me. “Wow… Have you ever worked as a photographer?” He asked while looking at the photos. “Actually, I started recently. Two or three years ago.” She said while sweetening the cups. I noticed she really went heavy on the sugar, which was unusual. Maybe she knew that Brazilians naturally loved sweets. Since, generally, the French didn’t have the habit of making everything so sweet. “I know it seems strange, after all, I’m not as young as you, but it doesn’t seem like a good idea to die without trying everything first, right, dear ones?” She said while handing the coffee to us. I was genuinely irritated by the situation. I couldn’t deny being there and the place reeked of rotten people, besides being extremely creepy. It looked like a butcher’s room. “Here, dear. Before it gets cold.” The smile she gave me was so supernatural that I had to force myself to overlook it. The coffee was so strong that my head immediately started to hurt. “Don’t you have, by any chance, an… aspirin? I think my migraine is acting up.” “Sorry, dear. I don’t.” The last thing I remember before passing out was the sound José’s body made as it hit the cold floor. He was a big man, I was startled when I heard it, but I couldn’t react. Right after seeing my fiancé fall to the ground, my vision blurred, and the pain was so unbearable that suddenly everything was dark. . . . Before even opening my eyes, I felt I was completely immobile. Unable to move a single muscle, not even my mouth, which was stitched shut. I was lying in my own blood if it was indeed mine. The smell was unbearable. Panic started to take over me, tears blurred my vision for a moment, and I tried desperately to scream. I looked for José and found no sign of him, not in the dark. “Oh, dear. You woke up?” She turned on the light. “Don’t worry, I won’t take long with him. It’ll be over soon.” It took me a moment to understand what she was saying. Until she threw José’s body beside me and climbed on top of him. The following scenes were so torturous that it wouldn’t have hurt as much if those cuts had been made on me. She raised a surgical scalpel and outlined his entire face. I thrashed around with all my strength, hurting myself in some parts, feeling my limbs exhausted. First, she slowly removed the skin. Then, she took a cleaver from her side. The entire white floor was drenched in blood. I was lying in my fiancé’s blood. His blood stained my hair, invaded my nostrils. At that moment, I wanted to die. I tried to make that wretched old woman hear my pleas, to kill me too, to stop me from witnessing the life being snuffed out and the suffering, the torture of the man with whom I had planned a wedding and a life a year from now. I closed my eyes when she lowered the cleaver onto José's chest. The old woman simply stood up and turned off the light again. She left me trapped in the dark, knowing I was lying next to my fiancé. Dead and faceless. “Be prepared, dear. If the demand for female masks increases at this festival, I have merchandise in stock.

“- Don’t eat that.” My father said to me suddenly. “What?” I replied puzzled. “The wrapper , the candy wrapper .” He clarified. “I’m not going to eat the wrapper.” I replied baffled. “Don’t argue, you don’t have to be upset. I can clearly see your mouth on the wrapper.” He said sternly. Exasperated I piped back “I would feel it if it were in my mouth.” “No you can’t. I have fifty years of experience. When an adult tells you something, you should listen.” He insisted. *I’m 20 years old. Do you really think I’m that stupid and lacking in common sense? Do you really think I’m that much of a child that I’m incapable of eating candy without getting the wrapper in my mouth?* “You think this is a unique experience. I know because I’ve been there. We’ve all been there. Your mother. Your uncle. Your brother. Your sister.” He continued. My mind flash backed to an earlier conversation. * If I were you, I would’ve been crying and screaming and making a scene. Begging for me to get away with a light consequence. When it happened to you, you just stood there with a straight face. No emotion at all.* “I don’t - ok…” I cut myself short. *There was no point in continuing this argument. My opinion doesn’t matter. No matter how much I try to defend myself. It won’t change their minds.* “ You don’t have to sit there moping. Being sad isn’t gonna get you anywhere. If you need some psychological intervention for this, we can arrange it. Please tell us if it’s really bothering you that much.” *I’m not sad. I’m angry and frustrated.* “It’s not your fault. Mistakes happen. You don’t have to feel guilty. You can admit guilt and claim to be at fault to the rest of the world. But your mind doesn’t have to feel sorry for what happened. ” My chest tightened and my mind was going a million miles a minute. It was shouting at me now. My heart was pounding. *They don’t know the truth. They don’t know what really happened. They don’t know this is nothing like what they’ve been through. Tell them what happened. Tell them how you’ve been lying through your teeth this whole time. Tell them how you’re a psycho. Tell them that you got off easy. That you should really be behind bars.* I sat there in silence, having put down the rest of the candy now. My face betrayed the horror I felt. He was looking at me concerned now. “ Did anyone say anything to you? Don’t listen to anyone else. Don’t care about what anyone else has to say.” *I don’t care what anyone else has to say. I know who I am and what I’m capable of. But I do care about what you think of me. I would like you to see that I’m all grown up now All I’ve ever wanted was for you to be proud of me. I’ve lived my whole life restricting myself for you. I see now that I’ve failed. I thought up to now that I was the golden child who threw it all away on a random Tuesday. But I see now that it could’ve gone differently and it wouldn’t have made a difference. I was always the family disappointment. You’ve never really believed in me being capable. No matter my accomplishment. Being a straight a student wasn’t enough. Being valedictorian wasn’t enough. The civilian award and honour I received from the city couldn’t do it. The gold medal meant nothing. Nothing could ever change that. In your eyes I’ll always be a little girl who needs her handheld through everything.* I almost thought out loud. Instead I sighed and went to my room.

Feeling the discomfort caused by sitting in the same position for too long, I slightly shifted to stretch my leg without startling Freddy, our Border Collie. Whenever there was a storm, the poor dog would curl up against me, seeking comfort. Unlike Gustav, his older brother, and much to Arnold, my partner's, disappointment, he had never managed to overcome his fear of storms. Absent-mindedly running my fingers through Freddy’s soft fur, I glanced at Gustav’s small figure, snoozing by Arnold’s office door. After failing to get him to leave the office, Gustav remained there, hoping my partner would come out soon. Seeing how sad the small Cairn Terrier was broke my heart to pieces and reminded me that we were slowly falling apart. Pressing my forehead against the cold glass, I squeezed my eyes shut. I tried but failed to avoid thinking about the argument we had two hours ago. My deliberate and slow movements became crisper and more nervous as dark thoughts started to seep in and yet again alter the fragile calmness enveloping me. Over the months, our quiet and cozy apartment had become a sort of battlefield. Not a day went by without us having a fight, and tonight was no exception. From where I was sitting, I could hear the man I was in love with pace along the room as he grunted and mumbled unintelligible words through the paper-thin walls separating us. It had been about two hours since he had locked himself in there, but apparently, he still hadn’t calmed down yet. Slowly opening my eyes, I stared out of the window, wondering how we got here. How did the longing stares, sweet words, and loving embraces turn into screams, tears, and tantrums? Bringing Freddy closer against my chest, I bit my lower lip as some of the sweet moments we once shared slowly emerged from the depths of the dark corridors of my memory. _“I want to make you laugh and dream,” Arnold spoke, readjusting the silly glasses he was wearing. Still laughing, I brushed away the tears, trying to get a hold of myself. “I want to make you happy,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around me before pressing his forehead against mine. “To build a future with you.”_ _Feeling overwhelmed, I simply smiled before our lips met._ And as much as I loved and cherished those moments, nothing pained me more than remembering how things were at the beginning. How Arnold used to make me smile so brightly and how happy I was. _“Happy birthday, dear!”_ _Arnold’s eyes went round when he saw the cake I baked him that day._ _“When did you even?” A sheepish smile curled up his lips before he said, “I like you. A lot.”_ Before, I used to feel fulfilled and beautiful. Before, each day by Arnold’s side was one I always looked forward to. I used to love listening to his deep, sleepy voice on those early mornings we spent in bed talking about everything and anything before we made breakfast together. _“I love you, and I don’t want to spend a single day apart from you.” Arnold placed a set of keys in my hand before adding, “Move in with me.” He paused once again. “Please.”_ But it was no longer the case. Not anymore. Nowadays, all we did was fight. _“I fucking told you to say something when you’re upset!” Arnold screamed, making me jump in place. “I can’t read your mind. I can’t know what’s wrong if you just sit there and sulk!”_ _“I did tell you many times that this upsets me, but you never listen,” I shouted back, feeling blood boiling in my veins. “You only listen when it suits you. Otherwise, it’s like I’m talking to a wall.”_ Sensing how tense I was, Freddy nuzzled my shoulder before licking my jawline a few times. “Hey there, sweet thing,” I mumbled, my voice quivering. “Don’t worry, Mommy is here.” Still brushing my fingers through Freddy’s fur, I lolled my head back and closed my heavy lids. _“What is the thing you want the most in this world?” I asked, swirling the drink I had been nursing for the past forty minutes._ _“Get to know you better,” Arnold replied, making me blush. “I want to know everything about you. Your favorite song, whether you love flowers or not, and what makes you smile.”_ _“You.”_ _“Excuse me?” He frowned_ _“You make me smile,” I repeated, nervously fiddling with the hem of my navy blue dress._ Panicked, Freddy licked the tears that made their way down my cheeks before Gustav scurried to join in. I smiled at the two dogs before brushing away my tears. _“‘I want to tune my heartbeat to yours and to compose a symphony that matches the color of your amber eyes.’ Feeling poetic today, aren’t we?” He teased me, holding the memo I left by his side of the bed when I woke up that morning._ Sadly, those memos traded places with cold silence, and the loving messages he used to send me after we had each left for work were replaced with accusations and blaming. He used to make me blush and make me feel like I was living in a dream. And it wasn’t like we hadn’t tried to fix things between us. We tried every possible solution. Taking some time off, counseling, and talking things through. But each time, I tried to be honest about the way I felt. Whenever I vocalized my thoughts, it felt like he wasn’t listening at all. Each time, we tried to have a conversation to understand what the other was dealing with, but we ended up going to bed angry at each other. Realizing that this wasn’t going anywhere, I tried to avoid conflicts and confrontations. I used to tiptoe around him and always try to lighten the mood, but that took a toll on me after a while. No matter how hard we tried, we would always end up at square zero. Angry, broken, and lost. and the more I thought about it, the less safe I felt by his side. The longer I stayed, the more I wanted to run away. away from him, away from this place I once called my safe haven, and that was killing me. slowly, painfully, mercilessly. — Word count: 1055 words Constraints used: A17: heartbreak, B14: A character in the story is wearing silly sunglasses, D1:Takes place during a storm Thank you for reading my story. Crits and feedback are always appreciated.

Harper stumbled through the darkness of the quiet night. The air was cold and stung against the open gash running under her left eye. She had no more tears, only a salt crust down her face. She held her arms and shivered as a gust of air pierced her ribcage like a spear, as she made her way to the lighthouse at the end of the beach. The lighthouse was positioned on a jutting rock, like a knife jammed into the wood of a table, looking out over the ocean in defiance of the waves crashing at its doorstep. Back in the town, Harper’s husband was lying on the ground. Vomit dried around his mouth and the stink of piss on his legs. This is the image that she had in her mind as gravel wedged itself into the cuts on her feet where she stepped in broken glass leaving him where he had fallen. She had made her way across the beach and now stood at the mouth of the tower. The rotating of the light made her dizzy as she bent her neck to the glass eye. She knocked on the door. After a brief silence, the door creaked open, and a gust of fracturing cold passed through Harper. A young woman stood at the door, her face half hidden by the frame, her eyes were wide and afraid. *Can I help you?* *May I please come inside? I..I need to wait somewhere until the morning train comes.* Harper quavered, fresh salt stung her wound. The young woman looked past Harper into the night. *Are you alone?* *I am now.* The young woman shivered. *Come in.* Harper followed the young woman to a table. The young woman pointed at one of the chairs and sat in the other. Harper fell into the seat and shuddered. It was colder now than the beach. She looked up into the height of the lighthouse. Candlelight trembled against the tall brick walls, pushing against the dark and falling against the two women. As if she had been boxed in the ears, a deep low ringing pressed against Harper’s drums. At the top of the stairs, she made out a pair of naked bowed legs. All white, even the hairs were long and white. A man, thin as a breeze, and so tall everything above his thighs disappeared into the darkness, his face invisible to her. *Who is this Dear? So small.* Harper felt it this time, so much colder. Flakes falling from the top of the lighthouse. Harper backed towards the door. The young woman turned towards Harper in the weak light, harper could see the woman’s face seemed older now. Her mouth was purple and puffy, her eyes thick and congealing. *I’m sorry, I was beautiful too once.* An arm, the length of three men stretched from the darkness. The candle flame flickered and Harper saw the brief glint of a wide, monkeyish smile. She knew that smile. She tried to scream but it felt as though her voice itself was being ripped from her throat into the open webbed palm. She stumbled against the door falling to the ground. The woman knelt beside Harper and whispered in her ear. *Don’t worry love, eventually, we will simply fall asleep and not wake up.

**W**ars are lengthy, could take months sometime years to conclude .They make one tired as one is under constant pressure which crushes their soul. One wrong move and many lives could be lost. Every victory come at cost of comrades. Longer the war goes on more are the chances that lives will be lost. Wisemen say that **“*****Greatest war is the one which is never been fought!*****!”** But what if war stand right in front of you? What one must do then?This is what happened when Kingdom of Ebonia declared sudden war at Verdantia!! Both Kingdoms even though are neighbours but they have different religion. While Verdantia pray to Sun god , the Ebonia’s subscribe with Moon god. There are also ancient prophecies which foretell about a great conflict between both kingdoms. Today is Solar eclipse. Religious leaders of Ebonia kingdom interpret this event as sign when solar deity become weak thus can’t protect it’s followers as their Moon God cover their Sun God from seeing what’s happening on land. Thus is time for war!! On the battlefield- **Priest of Ebonia speech-** “*Hear my call soldiers , today is the day when we shall conquer the heathens. Today is the day when their God is weak unable to support and guide them. We shall take this chance to destroy them*….” **King of Verdantia speech-** “*Soldiers of Verdantia, today we face a test unlike any before, this war is test of our faith and trust in our God. Today it’s not only us who are fighting but also our God who shall fight against their God. Let’s fight alongside our God and end this* *\~war as soon as we can\~*\*…”\* Delivering their speeches both king & priest, alone begun to move towards centre of battlefield. They are now going to agree on the rules regarding war as this was rule of this world- They agreed on rules regarding movement of their soldiers , criteria of defeat, win etc etc. Rules are as follow- **Rules wrt movement-** * **King/Priest**: Moves one square in any direction. * **Queen**: Moves any number of squares vertically, horizontally, or diagonally. * **Rook**: Moves any number of squares vertically or horizontally. -**Bishop**: Moves any number of squares diagonally. -**Knight**: Moves in an "L" shape: two squares in one direction and then one square perpendicular, or one square in one direction and then two squares perpendicular. -**Pawn**: Moves forward one square, but captures diagonally. On its first move, it can move two squares forward. Pawns promote to any other piece upon reaching the opposite end of the board. **\~Criteria to Win\~** **-Check**: When a king is under threat of capture by an opponent's soldier. -**Checkmate**: The game-ending condition where a player's king is in check and there is no legal move to escape check. **Battlefield Setup** * The battlefield is to be divided in 64 squares in an 8x8 grid. * Each side starts with 16 pieces: 1 king, 1 queen, 2 rooks, 2 knights, 2 bishops, and 8 pawns. Also, after moving the side has to wait for other side to move. This is done to ensure that each side is given equal opportunities to make turn. This rule has been there since ancient times. All races and kingdoms has to obey these rules! After agreeing to the rules both went back to their initial position. ***"WHITE SIDE- KINGDOM OF Verdantia*** ***BLACK SIDE- KINGDOM OF Ebonia"*** **War Begins-** As both armies stand of battlefield glaring at each other waiting for other side to make first move. Sudden movement can be seen of Verdantia side… they started to move ,war has begun!! A pawn can be seen from jumping from it’s initial position(e2) to e4.Responding to that Ebonies pawn also took strides from(e7) to e5. Both pawn glaring at each other!! Sir Knight in response jumped from(g1) to f3 attacking the Ebonie pawn. To provide support to the pawn another pawn from Ebonia side moved from(f7) to f6 To attack the pawn at e5 , Verdantia side sent another pawn from d2 to d4, To counter that Knight from Ebonia side also jumped from b8 to c6. Many saw White pawn drawing his sword from it’s sheath and with lightening speed sliced the head of black pawn and took his place at e5. This was the first death of the war. Seeing dead body of his brother, pawn at f6 filled with rage thrust his sword in torso of Verdantian pawn and took his position at e5. Sir Knight thinking something moved from f3 to g5! In response to that Bishop from Ebonia side moved from f8 to e7, directly aiming at Sir Knight! Strategically queen of Verdantia moved from d1 and placed herself at h5 beside Sir Knight & also aiming directly at Ebonian Priest. Priest of Ebonia in order to save himself moved from his position (e8) to f8, out of Queen range! But Queen was in no mood to spare him moved to f3 again aiming at Priest! Priest seeing no way out again moved back to his position at e8. Queen smiling looked at her King. As if she was asking for his instruction how should she move next. Verdantian King smiled back and said to his Queen- “*Let’s end this*” *“-As you wish my king*” queen replied back, as she moved to f7 pointing her sword at the Priest! Seeing no way to escape Priest of Ebonia surrendered! **\~- Epilogue\~** As queen pointed her sword at Ebonia priest , in sky Sun also starts to visible. Their God(moon) ahas been defeated and could be seen moving away. Ebonian Priest was standing still. Their God has been defeated. Unable to face the humiliation he took out pill hidden in his Royal Staff and swallowed it. Queen couldn’t do anything as all of this happened in an instant . Soon the Priest fell on the ground with white foam coming out of his mouth.

The Ajeefian Soldier swallows his spit, pinning himself low in the dirty trench. Cramped with his comrades, holding his rifle tighter than any other day before. One of the comrades hesitantly takes a peep up at the trench. Nothing but empty desert, reeking with the smell of the horror special to them only at midnight. A long minute draws. Ajeefian Soldier lets out a sigh and relaxes himself, a feeling that only lasts for so long. The next second, his comrades head splatters all over him.“Sepherians! Fire at Will!” said an Ajeefian commander. The Ajeefian Soldiers comrades, mercilessly blaze their weapons at the horror hidden in the darkness. The monsters behind the darkness held back the big weaponry present with Akfashian’s soldiers. Operators of these destructive weapons work on it tirelessly to hold back the unstoppable force behind the empty land of desert having the help of radar people working from a safe distance. The radar people aided the operators with the exact locations they should fire at, making every shot count. It was a perfect strategy for this midnight battle. But good things can only last so long for the Ajeefian army. The Ajeefian soldier sits with his comrades. All of them, shielding their ears from the noises the machines of mass destruction cause. Awaiting the commanders orders, they sit prepared yet double thinking themselves. Not thinking of how they’ll get out, but if they’ll even be recognizable when their mangled. This was only bearable, because of the comfort of the comrades The battle floods with a sudden silence. The destructive weapons aiding the Ajeefian soldier ceased their fire. The Ajeefian Soldier’s comrades are confused by this sudden move.“Ay, did commander order them to stop?” Spoke one of the comrades. “That’s stupid. Get those damn operators on the line, now! We need those weapons!” Said another comrade. Using the radio provided to them. The comrades get on the line with the operators.“Ey! We needs those weapons, up and going now!” The operator on the line hesitates to answer. “Answer us dammit!” “The radar station blew up. We don’t know, none of us know how it just blew up, but every person there is dead and theres no radar station to tell us where to aim, where just shooting at the dark now–” The radio cuts off because of poor connection. The comrades curse themselves, panicking at what's to come. Many of them looked for their commander, others stayed put. Then a sound high pitch of blades chopping through the air draw near. The Ajeefian Soldier and his comrades stood dead, frozen at the sound. Some of them tried to deny it, but the sound growing closer only confirmed their fears more. “Defense positions!” spoke another random comrade of the Ajeefian Soldier.“But the commander–” “Forget about him! At least die protecting your brothers!” The comrades reluctantly follow the command. Everyone, including the Ajeefian Soldier, aim their rifles out at the empty desert as the chopping noise grows louder. The Ajeefian Soldier swallows his spit once again, knowing what's to come. 2 morbid minutes past. The sound finally reveals its true identity. From the darkness engulfing it, reveals a monstrously large helicopter generations beyond the soldiers. Infrantymen follow close behind it. They were human, yet humans the soldiers never saw before as if they were from another era of humanity. An era far greater than them. One they’ll never see. They are the Sepherian Army. “Sepherians! Open fire!” Shouts one of the Ajeefian comrades. The comrades on the front line rain the air with bullets and gunpowder. Some Sepherian infantry went down, but the tide of the battle was always in their favor. The Spherian Helicopter rains down it’s decisive power onto the helpless Ajeefians, firing multiple missiles their way. The Ajeefian Soldier sees this and quickly recoils himself from the blast using an emergency jetpack. The missiles decimate his comrades into nothingness. The shockwave punches him far into his military outpost with a nasty crash, causing him a sudden blackout. The Ajeefian soldier wakes up to his military outpost brought to its knees. Fire burnt everywhere. Death and defeat reeked everywhere. He limps around carefully avoiding Sepherians scanning for any survivors. He stealthily sneaks past his executioners whilst holding himself back from going haywire while hearing his surviving comrades get burned in many ways. A vehicle awaits for him at one of the outposts. Finally, a way for him to escape this hell hole. Reaching out to the drivers seat, he gets a nasty slam on the back of his neck. Falling face first on the ground, he turns to see the man he looked up to, the man who promised them that they'll get through this. The his own commander, coldly aiming his gun at him.“Commander–” were his last words before permanently blacking out. The commander enters the vehicle and prepares it..

“Now that’s a beautiful dress!” “Thank you; I figured you’d like it.” “Way better than the one you wore the other night, if you ask me.” “Yeah… that’s what Jolene said.” “That’s the only thing she said?” “What do you think?” “I would’ve had a heart attack if that was the case.” “Ugh, not one of those jokes, please.” “Sorry, couldn’t help myself... You know, given the setting, it’s too tempting.” “They don’t ask you to take it easy on the ones you’ve left behind out there?” “Nope, the big boss appreciates my dark humor.” “Pffft, what a dork.” “That never stopped you from falling in love with me, no?” “Never.” “Then why complain now?” “I’m French, remember? We love complaining.” “Oh, come on! You were naturalized years ago.” “Guess old habits never die.” “Yeah, you’re probably right. Anyway, tell me, how’s life? got used to your new apartment?” “Yeah, it’s in a nice neighborhood. It’s also near the public library and my workplace.” “Oh, yeah, you went back to work. I’m so proud of you.” “Thank you.” “You didn’t answer me; how’s life treating you?” “Well, life is… you know, I’m trying. I have been to the monthly lunch at my parents’ place a few times, and I got a bicycle.” "Oh, dear havens, how I miss your mother’s sponge cakes.” “I bet you do.” “What else?” “Uhm, lemme think… Oh, right, Nina gave birth to three lovely puppies last month. One of them has heterochromatic eyes like the father. Jimmy adopted him. Said Loona had been asking for one for a while now.” “Isn’t she too young to take care of a dog? I don’t think Jimmy or his wife have enough patience for that.” “Honey, Loona is sixteen now…” “Really?!” “Mhm.” “Wow…” “I know, right?” “Are you feeling cold?” “No.” “You’re shaking. Please wear warmer clothes. I can’t give my jacket anymore.” “It was hot when I left the house this morning.” “I know, but still. Please, be more careful, okay?” “I promise. Hugo?” “Yes, love?” “How is it out there?” “It’s… quiet, and I rarely feel tired.” “You don’t feel alone?” “Sometimes, yeah. But I can pop in to check on you whenever I want, so it’s not that bad.” “I—” “So, tell me, other than that not-so-pretty dress, how did it go?” “Huh?” “Come on, you know what I’m talking about.” “Oh, that…” “Wanna go for a walk? It’s beautiful in here around this time of the year.” “Sure.” “How was he?” “He was decent. Opened the door for me and pulled the chair.” “Job?” “An engineer." “You really love us, huh? Guess I did impress you.” “No, he’s not an electrical engineer. “Oh?" “Yeah, a mechanical engineer.” “Mhm, they’re decent. Was he funny?” “I did laugh, yeah.” “Good, good. Dry humor?” “As dry as the Arabian desert.” “Nice! Did you enjoy his company?” “Uhm…” “Come on, Camille! It’s not like I’m gonna be offended!” “No… It just feels weird…” “I recon… Wanna do some brainstorming?” “You’re unbelievable.” “And unpredictable, and goofy, and a nerd, and I make terrible jokes, but lemme remind you, fine lady. That’s how I got you.” “Not wrong.” “So?” “The thing is, I feel clueless and weird about it. It’s been like what? Thirteen years since I had been on a first date? I have no idea what to do or how to act…” “Just be yourself. He’d be a fool if he didn’t see how amazing you are. Although... please don’t wear this dress. It looks soooo good on you.” “What a dork.” “I know, thank you. Planning to go on another date with him?” “Next Saturday, there’s an expo at the National Technical Museum.” “He sure has excellent taste. But then again, he picked you, so...” “Stop it.” “Okay, okay, I’ll behave, I promise. Handsome?” “Not as handsome as you.” “Well, duh. Interesting conversation?” “Yeah, we talked about a bunch of interesting things, and he’s a reader too. But…” “But?” “He’s… he’s not you….” “Oh, ma chérie, please... You know I hate to see you cry.” “I miss hearing you call me that. I miss you, and I miss our life together.” “I know, mon coeur, I know. I miss you too, but... There’s nothing I can do about that… Not when I’m six feet under the ground.” “I know; I’m sorry. It’s just that... I’m… I’m afraid.” “Of what? He’d break your heart? Trust me, I’ll haunt his coffee machine and laptop.” “Pffft, I can’t believe how silly you are.” “Natural talent.” “And no, it’s not that. I’m afraid I’d forget your voice or the feeling of your touch when you used to cup my face.” “Nothing wrong with that, Mon Coeur. It’s perfectly normal for you to move on.” “But I love you!” “I know, oh god, I know, and I love you too. More than you can imagine and more than words can allow me to explain. But you see, my love, I’m no longer here, and I hate how sad this is making you.” “But—” “No buts, I want you to be happy. Please, be happy for me. Go and live your best life for me.” “I can’t—” “Yes, you can. You’re a strong and capable woman. and you’re a wonderful and interesting person. And you’re so smart. Definitely one of the smartest people I’ve ever met. But you’re also so dumb that it sometimes makes me wanna bang my head against the wall. But that’s not the point; I’m getting distracted. What I wanna say is that you’re a beautiful soul, and you have so much to give. I’d hate for you to stop actually living because of me. That would be such a waste.” “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to fall in love again.” “Don’t be silly. Of course, you can. You just haven’t met the one who deserves your love.” “No, I already did. That’s you. I've already found you.” “Look, I know men like me don’t grow on trees, but you can find someone who is almost as awesome as me. There you are. I was wondering, when will you give me that smile.” “I don’t know—” “Camille, do you trust me?” “Of course!” “Then give this mechanic dude a chance. And even if it doesn’t work out, try again, okay?” “Mhm.” “Do you promise?” “I do.” “Pinkie promise?” “What are we? Elementary school kids—woah.” “Nothing like kissing your overthinker woman to stop her from digging deeper. Works every time.” “I love you.” “I love you too.” “Stay a little longer.” “I can’t, ma chérie. I have to go." “I’ll come back next week!” “I'll be waiting for you! Now go!” — Word count: 1113 words Used constraints: D25: Story is entirely dialogue, C24: A graveyard, B8: Includes a character who goes on a date. Thank you for reading my story. Crits and feedback are always appreciated.

I feel the soul I had almost gained slipping through my fingers as my form becomes more corporeal. My sentience fading into the black void of nothingness as I joing the Long Quiet once again. As I look in the reflection I wither and decay, the flesh slothing off as I see the wispy cold blue of my spirit where it was. I am fading. I am not in pain, but the experience is painful. Knowing I had a life as I feel it slip away crushed my already fading soul. I know I had a father and a mother, but I cannot remember their faces or their warm touch. I know I had a lover because I see the ring on my finger, however I cannot hear their soothing voice. My friends are nothing more than mere shadows in the dark plane known as my consciousness. I look back to the mirror. All of my flesh has long since turned to dust, my bones cracking and my spirit is fading. My soul is no longer the icy blue it once was, now it resembles a deep nothing. A faint outline of where my body once was. I begin to weep but nothing happens. Why did I deserve this fate? What sins did I commit in my ever growing further life that condemned me to this hell? It wasn't fair, I was simply going to fade and never be remembered, that is if I even had anyone to remember me. I began desperately clawing at the mirror with my bony fingers. I kick and scream and flail helplessly but nothing works. I began to walk. I did nothing but walk, I walked until I forgot it all. I am a husk. The life I once had has long since passed and died away. How many years have I been here? What even is a year in this vast plane of nothing? It could've been millenia but I couldn't have noticed. The only thing left of what used to be me is a small iron band on the 4th finger of my long since skeletal hand. I didn't know what it was but something in the inky black nothing of what used to be my soul compelled me to keep it. I kept walking for an eternity. Is it even an eternity in this vast empty? Is nothing even a thing here? What is something when suspended into nothing? Something can never exist in nothing, therefore I must be nothing. However, if I can think this does it mean I am something? I thought on this for so long words began to their once inportant meanings. For all the pondering I did, no answer ever came to me. Eventually, in my endless wandering I saw something. A mirror, I walked up to it, and looked into it. I was decrepit. Nothing more than cracked bones, but deep inside my hollow chest I felt something. A desire to touch the mirror. I reached my finger up to it and touched the glass surface. It was cold even to my calcified fingers, it whispered secrets into my rotted brain and reshaped me into what once was, never to be again. I began trembling and fell to the ground weeping. I remembered how they all died, and I remember I'm the reason they did.

“Someone’s gon’. That doesn’t mean they’re missing,” the miner insisted. Oscar had been wondering for hours if the man was willfully ignorant or merely slow. Either way, his position required courtesy, “I understand that sir, but she hasn’t been seen a week now. I think you can agree concern is warranted.” “Maybe she just run off.” the miner grumbled. It was perhaps the tenth time he had suggested that the girl had merely ‘run off’. “The only route out of town leads to the Spice Road. I’ve checked inns up and down and there’s been no sign of her. And if she ran into the desert, then there’s no chance she survived.” The miner was walking ahead of Oscar, leading the way to the mineshaft, but his contempt was plain even from several steps behind: “There’s more in this desert than you know, law-man. Your kind’s only been around since the war. Or do you folks inspect every grain of sand now?” Oscar had actually moved to No Man’s Land before the Railroad War, and no settlers had been active in the desert for longer than thirty years, but he didn’t pursue it. It was true that he was new to the town of Hollowhill, but given how this investigation was going thus far, he was regretting becoming acquainted. When the Railroad War ended, the Order of the Peacekeepers had been founded to protect the people of the desert and ensure such a conflict could never come again. Oscar had joined up eagerly, partly for the provided combat training (he had been a refugee throughout the war), but also because he genuinely believed in the mission. The intervening fifteen years of service had been full of ups and downs, but his current case was proving to be one of the low points. The subject of the case was Emilu, the young daughter of a wealthy entrepreneur. She had accompanied her parents to Hollowhill as part of her father’s trip to look into investing in the mines there. The people of the town had rudely turned the businessman away, a fact that seemed to bother the man more than it should have, given that Emilu had vanished shortly after. Oscar had happened to come across the distraught parents on the Spice Road, and had taken up the case. From the second he had arrived, Hollowhill had been unwelcoming. Oscar was used to that. Many in No Man’s Land saw the Peacekeepers as nuisances, stooges attempting to tame a wild frontier. His skin was callused against venomous glares, his ears deaf to curses and jests. But from all he had heard, the people of this town would be no more friendly had he not arrived in the green attire of of his order. Hollowhill had once been a prosperous town, frequented by travelers looking for work in the mine or catering to the needs of the miners. But years ago the townsfolk had suddenly shut their doors to outsiders, and those they did permit were made to feel unwelcome. Some claimed the people of Hollowhill had discovered vast wealth beneath the earth, and resolved to keep it for themselves. Oscar had seen no evidence of such prosperity, though he had yet to visit the mine. That was what had lead him to the miner. *Saul*, Oscar reminded himself of the man’s name, though it truly was his profession that was of interest. For a mining town, miners had been surprisingly hard to find, though most of them were probably out digging. Saul had proven to be no less friendly than the rest of the town. He was a leathern, worn man whose grey hairs and cracked skin were held together by his sheer stubbornness. One of his arms was missing, perhaps from a mining accident, though he would not say. But he had agreed to take Oscar to the mine, on the condition that the Peacekeeper hit the road immediately after. Saul suddenly stopped ahead of him. “We’re here,” he announced, jesting with his arm. Oscar was surprised. There had been no sounds of pickaxes or drills to signal their approach, nor had he seen a mountain looming in the distance. What lay before could only generously be called a large hill, covered in scattered, dry grass. A yawning pit in its face marked the only entrance to the mine the he could see. There was scattered equipment and several campsites, but no people. Oscar was too perplexed to even ask where everyone was. Saul broke the silence; “Well, I took you here. Let’s head on back.” Oscar snapped out of his confusion. “You said you’d take me into the mine.” “I said I’d take you *to* the mine, law-man. Are your ears busted?” Oscar’s rage boiled over. “Listen here! You don’t like me and I sure as hell don’t like you. But a girl disappeared in this town. I’ve endured this so-called hospitality all day looking for her, and this is the one place I haven’t checked. Her father was here to look at this very mine, so she may well have been here, and I’m not leaving until I’m sure she isn’t. You know I wasn’t asking just be shown the entrance of the damn thing!” Saul’s eyes widened at the chastisement, and for a minute afterwards he seemed afraid. He stood there watching Oscar for a while, as if he expected the peacekeeper might simply turn back if waited long enough. Finally he spoke: “You wait here. I’ll go in and check with the other miners. Then I’ll bring you in.” Oscar could agree to that, as relieved to know that there were other miners as he was to be entering the mine. Saul disappeared into the darkness, where he would remain for nearly half an hour. Oscar took the opportunity to explore the camps around the entrance. The camps seemed lived-in and recently used. But the possessions strewn about them were odd. One had bookshelf lined with old texts Oscar didn’t recognize. On a hammock lay a set of blue robes, neatly folded. He was surprised to find that the tools strewn about the site were old and of poor quality. None were quicksteel. It could be that the miners within the hill were using all the good tools, but if so, he couldn’t hear them. There was only silence from the mine. Oscar wondered how deep the shaft must be. The sun was beginning to dip when Saul returned. As he approached Oscar, he grinned and loosed a belly-laugh: “Alright ‘peacekeeper’, they say I can take ya in. But you gotta follow my instructions. This place can get hairy if you aren’t careful.” “You seem awfully cheery all of the sudden.” “I’m just relieved,” Saul sighed. “I’ve been scared all afternoon of what the other miners were gonna say if I brought a stranger in. But they tell me there’s nothing to worry about.” Saul led the way into the mine. At first the darkness enveloped them, and Oscar couldn’t make out anything. But soon they came upon torches lining the walls, casting shadows over earth and rock. The walls were jaggedly carved, and he could see where pickaxes had tapped into a vein of ore or extracted a geode. Torchlight gave everything a red hue. Saul took care to point out pits or loose earth as they walked, but mostly he talked about himself. The once cantankerous man now gushed about his days in Tolmika, moving to No Man’s Land, and the Railroad War. The change in demeanor was welcome, but after fifteen minutes or so, Oscar realized that he hadn’t heard a single sound other than their talk. He called on Saul to stop, then took a few steps ahead of the miner. There was only silence in front of them. “Why don’t we hear anyone else?” “They’re just a little further down. We’re almost there.” “If they’re just little further, how come we don’t hear them digging?” The miner, visibly uncomfortable, blew out his breath, “They… we don’t do that anymore.” Oscar let his alarm show, “What sort of miner doesn’t dig?” Saul smiled and spread his hand placatingly, “It’s like this. The way I see it, a miner is someone who finds something precious. Usually it’s gold or gems, sometimes it’s somethin’ else. But more than that, a miner is a man of faith. When you’re digging for them gems, you don’t know for sure that they’re down here in the ground. It could be dirt is all you’ll ever find.” Saul stooped over and grabbed a stone in his hand. “This for example. Is it just a rock, or is it a geode? If it is a geode, what color will it be? Blue? Purple? Some new color you can’t imagine? You don’t know until you crack it open. So a miner is someone who has faith. He has faith that there is something precious out there, and that if he just keeps digging, he’ll find it. He can’t know exactly what he’s looking for, he’ll just know it when he sees it. When he does find something, when he makes his fortune, when his belief has been rewarded, he stops digging. But even though he set his pick down, his faith is stronger than ever. So doesn’t that still make him a miner?” Oscar was incredulous. He was about to ask what it was Saul had found when he heard something else behind him, sounds as soft as footsteps on grass. He whirled around. The two figures had crept uncomfortably close to him while he had his back turned. Their blue robes looked almost purple in the torchlight. Their masks were made of mesh and painted blue-black with white dots like stars on a night sky. Each had a blade in hand. Oscar moved to draw his revolver when something cracked against the back of his skull. He fell forward. When he came to, he was lying on the ground, and the back of his head was slick and aching. He was still in the mine— he knew from the coolness of the air and the stone walls— but in all other respects, his surroundings looked dramatically different. He was on floor of a great pit, a chamber perhaps a dozen feet lower than the surrounding mineshaft. Over the edge he could see perhaps half a dozed of the masked figures peering down at him. One of them, lacking an arm, had to be Saul, though Oscar didn’t have the strength to call out to him. Scattered about the pit were bits of torn clothing and dismembered limbs. Some of the clothes looked like they might’ve belonged to Emilu, but Oscar couldn’t be sure. There were no torches, and instead the stone was eerily lit by the thing in the center of the camber. It was a glowing sphere of ore, studded with uncanny stones that seemed to sail across its surface like ships adrift on a shimmering sea. Its appearance was oddly alluring, and as his eyes adjusted to its glow, Oscar thought he could see shapes reflected in the metal. He couldn’t make them out in any detail, but they transfixed him nonetheless, and he felt compelled to approach. He painfully pushed himself to his feet. As he stood up, the thing came alive, its eerie stillness cast into sudden discord. The sphere sprouted a great metal limb, reaching towards Oscar, grasping for him. But suddenly another limb short forward, ensuring the first, as if the two arms were foes. The thing screamed from unseen mouths as the two wrestling limbs were joined by a dozen more, some reaching for him, others eviscerating one another. Oscar wondered what it would do to him if it grasped him. He remembered Saul’s missing arm. *A test of faith*, he decided. He took a step forward.

**~Planet: Azuria~** So, I think Zerik hates me now. I mean, I’d been expecting as much, but I didn’t think it would happen so quickly. To be fair, I put him through hell, and it was only going to get worse as he became more comfortable with each lesson. To start, I woke him up at around five in the morning, had him run three miles while casting his Eye of Silence at certain intervals. Afterwards, there was weight training and sparring, followed by more laps around the gymnasium. We would break for lunch, then I would have him doing drills where he used the shadows to avoid bolt shots. Don’t worry I used non-lethal rounds so I wouldn’t kill the kid, however, they would still hurt like hell. Once that was done, I would take him outside the academy’s shielded zone, so that he could meditate in the cold. Once we were done there, he would spend the last hour or two reading books on magic theory. I doubt after all that, he was still awake very long, but hey, he had to learn sometime. It was a crazy first day and the weeks to follow would be just as brutal. I’d switch the order of the tasks each day, sometimes integrating strategy, and magic theory, or to give him a break we’d do meditation. He would sometimes take classes with others his age, but because he was so worn out, he hardly made friends. After a time, I’d become known as the “Demon of Arxor” because of how difficult my training was. Lancelot came by to admonish me for being too rough with the kid, but I could care less about his opinion. It had been about three weeks and the kid sat across from me, crossed legged, ready to continue our lesson today. As we were about to begin, Zerik burst out laughing, leaving me a tad confused, “What’s so funny?” “I never thought I’d say it, but I’m starting to love meditation.” Well, that was kind of the point. No one liked it, but when it counted as a rest period then you kind of looked forward to it. It was the way my master got me to do it with so little complaints. “Yeah, well, that’s the lesson my master taught me. If your student hates all the boring stuff then work them to death. They’ll come to love the boring stuff after they’ve been pushed to their limits.” “Your master must have been the Virian himself.” “You don’t know the half of it.” I sighed, that memory brought back nostalgia, but also pain. I shook myself free of those memories so I could focus on my pupil, “Zerik, it’s been three weeks now, how do you feel things are going?” “Well, I really want to run out of here as fast as I can. I can’t stand it, half the time I make it through a day just to spite you.” “Yeah, that sounds about right.” “Is this the outcome you wanted?” “Well, yes. You’re able to use your Eye of Silence for a bit longer, your stamina is increasing, and your physical fitness has improved from just this short time.” “But why do you place such emphasis on physical training?” “Because you need weapons other than magic to stay alive in this business. Look, too many mages enter a battle and think that their magic is always going to cut it. What happens when you run out of magic, what happens when you are silenced or your spells don’t work. How will you operate if your so drained that you can’t move, or you’re too weak to fight or flee?” I paused for a moment to let that sink in. Magic battles were often won in unconventional ways. Spells often failed, so the more backups one had, the better their chances at survival. “Why then don’t we just develop a greater connection to the Wyrd? If I had more mana then I’d be able to fight any opponent. It seems like the one who has the most mana would win the fight.” “Do you think you’ll always have more mana than your opponent? There will always be mages who are more attuned to the Wyrd than you are. If you were to fight me now, you’d have no chance to outlast my magic reserves. There are mages that study and spend all their time developing a greater connection to the Wyrd. Of course, you’ll want greater reserves of mana so that you don’t have to rely on mere physical capabilities, but it’s never good to rely on magic alone.” The kid seemed to think this over then he took a deep breath and went silent. I could feel the current of mana pass through him as he tried to sync himself with the Wyrd. He was struggling, partly due to fatigue and other part inexperience. As mages our mana pool depended on how attuned to this force of nature we were. The stronger our connection, the more mana we had to draw from. I began to meditate myself, but with a different goal in mind. I envisioned the kid trying to grasp the Wyrd and control it, but that just wouldn’t cut it. Instead, I imagined a wave of rushing water, and sent the wave towards Zerik. The boy was not paying much attention so he yelped in surprise as the overwhelming river of mana hit him. I could feel him desperately trying to control the wave, still unaccustomed to the way his magic worked. As he started to drown in the flow of magic I spoke, “Just go with it, stop trying to force it. When you try to control a force of nature, it’s only going to hinder your growth. The more you try to grasp, the more it slips through your fingers, and the less you have at your disposal.” He struggled for another minute before screaming out in frustration. His anger forced the flow of mana away from him, which caused him to come out of his meditative stance. He balled his fist in anger, “I would have had it if you didn’t interfere.” “Is that so?” I put on my best interpretation of a wise old sage, which of course, only served to frustrate him more. “How am I supposed to get anywhere like this?” He threw his hands up in frustration, stood up, and paced back and forth. I waited for a minute to let him vent for a second, “It’s just too much, how am I supposed to learn how to control all of this while fighting an opponent? There are too many variables, I have to keep up my senses so I can defend against what they do next, I have to control my mana for attacks, I have to predict their next move, oh and I have to attune to the Wyrd all at the same time. It feels endless, I liked it better when it was just attacking the bad guy, simple as that.” I breathed a sigh, while I could understand his pain, I also understood, from experience that this was no simple task. Fighting mages, hell fighting anyone, was not something that was simple, and if handled the wrong way could lead to your death. “Listen, Zerik, your enemies will use every trick in the book to put you down. They aren’t afraid to play dirty, they won’t hesitate to use any weakness that you give them. What we’re doing here is giving you tools. The more you have the greater your chances of survival. This road is tough, it won’t likely end in a happy manner. Mage hunters and battle mages often die horribly, that’s just the brutal nature of magic battles. I know it’s frustrating, but take your time, learn the fundamentals, and I guarantee when you’re the last man standing, you’ll appreciate this.” He stopped for a moment, as though to think on what I said, but before he could sit, I spoke, “I suppose that’s enough meditation for now, time for a little sparring. Use your knives and magic, use whatever tactic to defeat me that you can.” I looked up at the ceiling. We were in a blank training room, which often doubled for meditation. The room, however, could simulate different environments, so it was time to do just that, “Simulate a battle ground amidst a city please.” I said aloud and the A.I. governing the room changed our environment. We were amidst a war-torn city, cracks in the pavement below, barricades and sandbags were set in certain places. There were a few nearby dilapidated buildings, some had broken glass, but most were dark. There were lampposts that were bent and their lights were cracked while the sounds of gunshots could be heard in the distance. All in all, there were plenty of shadows for the kid to hide in, so this battle was about to be intense. “Begin.” I said, and looked down immediately, opening my senses to the world around me. From what I could sense Zerik threw his Eye of Nightmare and activated it, hoping it would catch me by surprise. It was a good opener, a bit predictable, but if he caught me with it, the battle would have been over. I sensed another release of magic followed by a burst of energy when he popped into the shadow of a nearby lamppost. I looked up at that point, because he could really only use one eye at a time which was a vulnerability I would have to work out of him. He began moving from shadow to shadow, which my naked eyes could not keep up with, but my senses did. I looked about as though I was confused, hoping to bait the kid out, so he continued to move in the shadows around me. Zerik moved to the shadows atop a lamppost, hoping that he would gain an aerial takedown. I made as if I was still looking on the ground floor for him, knowing exactly where he was. Then he did something interesting, he cast his Eye of Silence, right before he pounced so as to hide his attack and stop my bolt shot. Unfortunately for him, the rubber pellets could still act as normal ammunition for Hunter. I looked up and aimed hunter directly at him, his silence spell worked against him this time, letting me know the moment of attack. However, it was not a frontal attack he was after. In an instant, his Eye of Silence disappeared and I felt a burst of magic, coming from my shadow. Clever, very clever, and to be honest if he still had the Eye of Silence going, he would have gotten me. As it was the burst tipped me off so I turned in an instant, slapped his wrist aside and shot him with a rubber bullet that sent him flying backwards. “You used the Eye of Shadow to warp into my shadow to attack me from behind, I like it, that was pretty smart.” “Yeah, but it didn’t work.” “If you were able to use both the Eye of Silence, and the Eye of Shadow, you would have won that fight. I only turned because I felt the magic burst behind me.” I said, but he looked disheartened, “Don’t worry you’ll get it, just be patient. I think I know what we’ll concentrate on next though. You need to be able to use all three eyes at the same time. Imagine if I was unable to look up due to the Eye of Nightmare, my magic silenced with the Eye of Silence, and your movement unrestricted by Eye of Shadow. You’ve got the foundations to be a great mage, but you need the fundamentals.” “Alright, alright, your point is proven so what’s next?” Before I could speak, I got a ping on my comm from Headmaster Aden. The message said, “Come to my office when you get the chance.” “Looks like the headmaster needs us for a moment, come on, let’s see what he wants.” Together the two of us left the meditation room and headed through the training arenas, where the other students were practicing. We came to the massive central tower, climbed those obnoxiously long stairs, and made it to the headmaster. He smiled at both of us, “Zerik how goes your training, I’d heard that it’s been a bit rough.” His smile turned on me. “Rough, that’s putting it lightly.” The kid responded and the headmaster laughed, “I think this is good for the both of you, but rest assured, I think I have just the thing for it. You need a training buddy.” “Huh!” Both me and Zerik said at the same time and looked at each other. The headmaster’s voice took on less mirth, “Jaden, there is another student, I’d like you to train, though she isn’t here at the moment. You see a few weeks back; I got a notice from some of the locals near Gandia Forest on Galvinus Prime. They’d made mention of a sorceress that lived there, causing trouble for tourist and hikers along the way.” “What manner of sorceress?” “Draconic.” Well, that sucked, a sorceress was nothing but trouble. Wizards like me and Zerik needed to cast using a catalyst or else our powers would be unfocused and ineffective. Sorcerers needed none of that, by nature of their birth they were able to cast with little to no problem which made them difficult to handle. “I’d sent two magus hunters after her, but they were forced to flee, though they were able to get us a report on her powers.” He brought up his holo-terminal and pressed a few prompts to pass the documents to me. When I looked at them my eyes widened, “She has access to an Ultima already?” “Indeed, it was the reason that the magus hunters had to flee.” He sighed, “I’d hoped they’d be able to bring her back, but she seemed to be a bit much for their experience. Jaden I would like you to meet with Maxine Rey and Ashtar Kai, at Hortig Town at the edge of the Gandia Forest. They will fill you in on the specifics of the sorceress in question.” “If she’s that powerful, then why does she need a teacher?” “Take a closer look at the file.” Aden said then I did. This girl was able to summon beasts or mimic their aspects, while her Ultima allowed her to summon a dragon or take on its aspects. That was pretty crazy in and of itself, but it was the last couple of notes that caught my attention. When she turned into these beasts, or summoned them, she could not completely control the beast or her transformations. She’d become more beast than person or the beast she summoned would run wild. I thought about that for a moment, it was a weakness we could exploit, but dealing with her training would be another matter. “Jaden, Zerik, it goes without saying that such a girl would be a valuable asset to our enemies. If word has reached us, then it is possible that it has reached the Crimson Empire as well. That’s why I’ve had Maxine and Ashtar stay on watch. Make your preparations then head out as soon as possible.” “Yes sir.” Both Zerik and I bowed then we headed back out into the courtyards below. “So, I guess it’s time for a little on the job training huh?” “It would seem that way. I’m going to show you how to hunt a mage, first we will need information, we can get that from Maxine and Ashtar. Second, we will need a good strategy to beat her at her own game. Third, we execute the plan, now come on we’ve got work to do.” I’m sure Zerik was smiling, after all practical experience is the best kind of teacher. He would learn soon enough that this job was not a game, and even an inexperienced mage could be tough. Together we left to prepare for the journey ahead.

The Mad House Warning: graphic murder December 21st, 1892 Lately I’ve been… seeing things. My family, I think they may be trying to hurt me. I can’t trust anyone in this house, the only place I feel safe is this office. I think there’s only one thing I can do to save myself. No, not what I can, what I MUST do. December 27th, 1892 Christmas passed without incident. But, yesterday I was wandering the halls and there she was… my sister. She was outside of my very own room, holding something like a knife. I knew at once what was happening. It was TRUE! They really were coming for me. At once I ran outside and hid in the shed, never have I been so petrified and fearful for my very own soul. This truth is so vile but I know what I MUST do. December 30th, 1892 I DID IT. In the middle of the night last night I awoke around 2 am. I awoke from a horrid dream where my sister had snuck into my room and taken my life. So I leaped out of bed and ran to the shed. But, not to hide as a coward this time. I grabbed a hatchet and took it to her room. I opened the door slowly and crept in like a thief in the night. There I stood, over her with a hatchet in hand, for a moment she looked so peaceful and I was reminded of when we were young and happy. But, only a moment, then I came to and I knew what had to be done. I raised the hatchet and let it plummet into her skull. She was dead. I had done it. AND OH THE RELIEF. It was so sweet, I was simply one step closer to being safe. I went back to my bed and slept soundly, and not a soul suspects me. I know what I MUST do. January 2nd, 1893 There have been detectives roaming the house as of late and the family has even invited them to stay so they can quicker discover who took my sister's life. But, I know what this truly is, they keep these men here so they can find more ways to harm and kill me. But I will not stand for it! I will not be killed when I have done nothing wrong, I must stop these two detectives at once, and I know how. I know what I MUST do. January 3rd, 1893 I invited the two detectives to have tea with me today under the pretense that we may discuss my sister's death. But, truly I have filled their tea with ninety milliliters of ethylene glycol. I have also made sure that no one but us three know of this meeting. As they walked into the meeting room in the garden I could help but be filled with some kind of vile joy. As they sat down I put on such a magnificent fake cry and sob story (oh it was glorious). Then I offered them the tea, and they happily accepted not knowing it was their doom. And as they sipped I couldn’t help but laugh. Their eyes widened as they came to the realization but it was too late. One of them fell down but the other was stronger and fit, and he ran. He almost escaped but I had planned for this, I grabbed my hatchet from under the table and leaped at him. I tackled him to the ground and he began to plead for his life, and so I buried the ax deep in his chest, again, again, and again. The deed was done, and I was ever closer to being safe, what beautiful joy I felt. I left the body’s there and walked back to my room and began to act like I had been reading this whole time. No one will stop me from saving myself. NO ONE! I know what I MUST do. January 5th, 1893 (10 am) I can hardly contain myself. The pure ecstasy I’ve felt these past weeks has been incredible. But, I'm not finished. I must remain composed, else they may find out what I’ve done… then they’d know I was on to them, and I can’t let that happen no matter what. January 5th, 1893 (5 pm) Somehow he found it. My sniveling, conniving brother found my notes. Around thirty minutes ago I walked into my room to see my brother sitting on the floor reading through my notes. I at once realized what he was doing. He had been in here to kill me and accidentally found it! I dashed up to him and seized his neck and slammed him into the wall! “Please don’t do this! Why are you doing this to us!” He screamed; but I am no fool and would not fall for his trickery. So I squeezed until the light faded from his eyes and I could no longer hear his disgusting breaths. Again I felt a jubilant tingling sensation in my body. I was ever closer to being safer; and I knew what MUST be done. January 6th, 1893 I’ve realized I need to be smarter about this. So last night I loaded my brother's body into his carriage and pushed it down a cliff. Now if anyone finds him the rest of my evil family will be none the wiser. Though hiding the body did seem to lessen my joy. I know not why, but I know I must stop their bloodlust. My joy matters less. I know what MUST be done. January 15th, 1893 Ever since the righteous killing of my brother I’ve been getting… bolder with my killings. On the 10th I locked my aunt and uncle in the dining hall. I watched for a few minutes as they began to squirm, confused and afraid. Oh how it brought a righteous smile to my face to watch these villains be afraid. Then from my small perch in the rafters I climbed down my ladder ever so gently and quietly; with my beautiful hatchet in hand. I approached them slowly. The fear in their eyes was so palpable as they saw the hatchet in my hand. My uncle stood in front of my aunt to try and “protect” her. (Like he was some noble man; the thought makes me laugh). So I accepted his challenge, and brought the ax square into his gut, and as he fell he could barely make a noise. I walked past him and left him bleeding and writhing on the floor for a villain such as he deserves no less. Then I approached my aunt and picked up a dining chair and hit her over the head with it. She was killed on impact; the wretch died from SHOCK. So, I walked over to my uncle as he lay there slowly dying and I stomped on his head, over and over again. Oh what pure ecstasy I felt. Then I retrieved my hatchet and fled the scene. My work is not over though; I know what MUST be done. January 20th, 1893 I haven’t done anything in a few days and every part of my body is suffering for it. Every time I hear even a creak in the house I fear my family is coming for me. Or the slight smell of smoke or the sight of one of them. I can’t sit still for much longer or else I know they’ll come for me, I can feel it. I know what MUST be done. January 21st, 1893 (7pm) There is a violent storm outside the manor tonight. The perfect time for me to enact another defense. I happen to know my father is planning on spending time in the study around five pm. So I went there at about three and laid in wait for him. He has been my hardest target yet. I saw the door open as light entered the dark study; there he was my father. As he sat down I poise in position, ax in hand preparing to descend upon him. Right as his body hit the chair I sprang into action, descending upon him like a black veil over a widow's face. But as I swung at him he noticed me in the corner of his eye and dodged out of the way. The fiend! He must’ve known I was onto them. “What are you doing?!” He yelled, but I knew he knew because these villains have been planning my demise longer than I’ve been planning theirs. So I jumped at him again but he tackled me to the ground. As we struggled there I could see tears forming in his eyes; an obvious ploy to try and trick me. “I won’t fall for such a thing!” I exclaimed. Then… he faltered and I had gained the upper hand, I knew I had to take advantage of this so I spent no time wavering and swung the ax of my righteousness into his shoulder. He was done fighting back, he was in too much shock to do so. Oh, the beauty of my craft! I was so joyous in that moment for the saving of my life that I had nearly forgotten I had a task to finish. So I removed the ax from his shoulder and swung it once again. Placing it squarely between his eyes. January 22nd, 1893 (1 am) I have hidden the body in a place where no one shall find. I now only have a few villains left to finish. My two cousins, and my mother. But before that I worry that the maids and butler may begin to interfere with my plans. I know what I MUST do. February 1st, 1893 It has been a long time since my last righteous act, and it shows. I have been irritable and shaky. Every time I so much as touch something in this house I feel the hairs on my arms stand up. But it was well worth it since I finally was able to organize the departure of those pesky maids and that nuisance of a butler. I invited them all out to the garden, all ten maids and one butler. The garden is old and has a roof and walls entirely made of wood. Last night I prepared for them. (January 30th) I covered each and every wall and the roof in kerosene. This morning I woke up feeling very light and joyful, no longer did the hairs of my arm stand or my legs shake when I touched something in this wretched home. For today the pests would be gone. And as I had planned they all showed up and went into the garden and as the last one entered I slammed the doors and locked them. They were trapped! Oh what glee. Then I took to the task of lighting the garden ablaze and did so with great efficiency. And as the wood caught fire I could hear the screams even over the supports and beams screeching and breaking. Oh what joy! Oh what glee! Like music to my ears! And as the building fell it began to rain. And the flames subsided. As I gazed upon my masterpiece, it was beautiful; magnificent even. None of them had survived, and I was one more step closer to winning. But, this was special. It was art, and so I walked into the ashy remains and laid in the middle of my artwork. As the rain drops slowly hit my cheeks and the ash surrounded me; I felt… excited. The rain kept getting harder and harder and as it hit me my skin felt every drop and it was a glorious feeling. The ash and warmth on my back was heavenly. This… this is righteousness and vengeance at its best. I know what I MUST do. February 4th, 1893 My mother and cousins are catching on. The fiends know that it is me but of course they know for it was them who started it. But, it is I who will finish it. I know what MUST be done. February 8th, 1893 Police came to investigate the fire yesterday but found nothing suspicious. But of course they didn’t, only a villain would be caught in a situation like this, not me for I am righteous. I know what MUST be done. February 9th, 1893 Today I did it. I eliminated one of my vile cousins. I knew she would be in her room the whole day since she was a lazy, evil slob. So I grabbed my righteous ax, and headed to her room around twelve pm. As I approached the door I could hear her in her room, perhaps she was reading but I care not. I went for the door know but it was locked so I slammed the ax into the door. She screamed. I slashed again, again, and again; like a rabid animal attacking its prey I tore down that door and leaped towards her, but I missed. So she started to run for the door, but I tried something new, something joyous. I threw my hatchet at her and hit her right in the calf; she toppled over and I descended upon her like a curtain over a window. I grabbed her by the hair and slammed her head into the ground, oh what joy the crunch of her nose breaking brought me, it was like a beautiful note sung from a songbird. Then I tore my ax from her calf and raised it and let it fall into her back, shattering her spine. I then put my ear near her mouth, then she bit it! The nerve of this villain to attack me! All I was doing was defending myself and she attacked me! I couldn’t have this; I was furious. So I took my ax from her back and grabbed her by her hair. I dragged her to the window of her room and opened it. I then picked her up easily as she was extremely light and threw her from the window which was on the fourth floor. She was destroyed on impact and glee filled my soul once again! But, I wasn’t done. My other cousin… He had to be dealt with. I know what MUST be done. February 10th, 1893 It’s time to get rid of my other cousin. It was around 3pm and he was in the kitchen. I grabbed my hatchet and snuck slowly up to the kitchen. I put my body against the wall and listened. I could hear the villain eating a steak. I walked into the room with a smile on my face. As soon as he saw me he jumped in his seat a bit. But, before he could move I flipped the table in his face. It slammed into him and he was sent flying to the ground with a loud groan. I grabbed a knife off the table and threw it at the back of his hand, piercing it and sending it into the wood floor pinning his hand. He screamed in agony as he reached for anything he could throw at me. As he slowly tried to crawl away he threw food and utensils at me as I slowly approached him ax in hand. I couldn’t help but laugh at his pitifulness like a pig awaiting slaughter. I brought my ax up and let it down onto his leg, severing it from his vile body. Oh what beauty it was to see the blood spill over the ground and the muscle to tear from the body. And his scream, so musical. But this wasn’t enough, not for a villain like him. So I put down my ax and grabbed him by the collar and began to beat him. I punched him in the face till he was barely conscious. Then I threw him to the ground once again, I picked up my ax, and stood over him. I hoisted my ax into the air and executed him with one last fatal blow to the skull. This was almost it, only one more of these vile beings left… mother. I know what I MUST do. February 13th, 1893 The righteous deed is done, I have won. Today my mother knew I was coming for her so she boarded herself up in her room and hid. But what she forgot was her window. So I went to the shed. I gathered eighty-five feet of string rope as well as a strong iron hook. I took them and forged a crude grappling hook. I then went outside our manor and used the grappling hook to scale the seven story building to her window. When I got to the window I entered silently like a thief in the night and was ready. This was my final step to safety, to happiness, and victory. I ready my ax of righteousness which had gotten me through this whole endeavor and approached the closet she was hidden in. At first I just stood there, outside it and lightly knocked. As soon as my finger hit the oak door I could hear a screech come from inside the closet. I then opened the door and grabbed her. Violently I pulled her out of the closet and shoved her to the floor. I brandished my ax, and prepared to strike her down. But something… something deep within me told me this wasn’t right. Then I realized that deep down thing was correct. This quick easy death would be too good. So I took my ax and slashed her across the arm. She immediately grabbed her arm and began to cry. But I wouldn’t fall for it. Then I went over to my fathers chest and grabbed a hammer. I took and with it I smashed both of her legs. Leaving her helpless on the floor. Then I went out of the room, I walked down the stairs and walked to my room and grabbed the remaining kerosene I had. I then went over the house covering as much as I could. Finally I went back to mothers room and poured the last of my kerosene over her and the room. I then walked out of the room, down the stairs, and out of the house; and set it ablaze. It took a long time but eventually the whole house caught fire. I stood there and watched for hours upon hours and watched as it burnt to the ground. Then as the final deed was done, I realized it was over and instead of the joy and glee I thought I would feel, I… I… I felt… I felt nothing. No sadness, no joy, nothing. I was empty. I had killed those who planned to kill me and I didn’t even feel safe anymore. I felt nothing at all. I know what I MUST do. June 30th, 1893 It has been many months since my deeds. And still after being safe for all this time I still feel nothing. I am empty. I know what I MUST do. July 1st, 1893 nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing. nothing. Nothing. NOTHING. NOTHING! Why is there nothing even after being saved! Why? Why? Why? I know what I MUST do. July 6th, 1893 This will be my final entry. I wish to feel more than this nothingness.So, I plan to venture to the Delnir cliffs. I know what I MUST do.

The dust had settled in the Summoning Chamber, the mages that spent the last few hours performing the spell had collapsed to the floor, one by one being carried away for treatment somewhere deeper in the palace. A small collection of people from various walks of life were stumbling to their feet. "Welcome, esteemed heroes!" boomed a man sitting on a throne. The summoned people looked at him and the rest of the room's occupants with a combination of surprise and horror; the reason was simple. None of them were human. There were orcs, with the bulky figures, greenish skin, and prominent fangs, Kobolds that looked like dog-people, Ogres with their tall figures and alert piercing eyes, Minotaurs with her bovine heads and impressive horns. The collection of summoned people huddled together in confusion; some were thinking they were the victim of some kind of prank, others thinking they're having some kind of bad lucid dream, and there were the sensible ones who saw they were now living in an actual Isekai cliche. A hooded man in the Summoning Chamber pushed his way forward as he saw the girl. She had materialized on the room lying on her stomach, she was dressed similar clothing to the newcomers, but her actions caught his attention. She calmly assessed the situation around her before slowly sitting up as if trying not to agitate anyone while everyone else flailed their arms and shouted or cowered in fear. She was exactly who he was looking for. "This way please" the hooded man approached the girl, he turned to address the rest of the room "My apologies, it seems that during the ceremony, sometimes those who aren't heroes have been taken, we will see to it she's taken care of well." With that, the hooded man escorted the girl away from the room, while the king on the throne began his spiel one would expect from an Isekai plot; where the summoners would brief the summoned on what was needed from them and hopefully, a way back. \*\*\* "You seem quite calm and have quickly accepted your situation unlike the others." The hooded man said as they walked along the opulent corridors of the palace. More fantastical demi-human-like creatures were conversing or going about their business, many of them giving the hooded man a deferential bow as they passed. The girl answered, "The last thing I was doing before I ended up here was jumping onto a grenade to protect my men." The man made a curious croaking sound which was probably his way of saying "huh?" "It's a thrown weapon, it explodes. I shielded my men with my body, and there's no way I could have survived that. Now I find myself alive and whole, there is no need to question my circumstances." "You are as sharp as you look." the hooded man said "What can you tell me about the others?" "Those young people there are high-school kids. The old ones are middle-aged out of shape businessmen, The healthiest adults there are at most office workers who sit all day and their greatest physical exercise is climbing two or three flights of stairs. None of them are fit for combat." The girl said. The man made a gentle guttural sound of assent. "It seems our opinions of them match. I did not know of their occupation however." "If you're looking for someone who has killed before, that would be me. I was a mercenary by trade." she added after a pause. "Would you disapprove if we were to train them in combat?" The hooded man said, His voice had a low resonance that oddly reminded her of a bull alligator's growl. The girl shook her head. "They're of no concern. That king said you guys were summoning heroes, assuming this summoning spell required some kind of criteria to be met, then they probably do have their merits to be these heroes you want." The hooded man lowered his hood to reveal a reptilian face. A lizardman, the girl thought. His features looked crocodilian alright although he possessed some kind of crest running along his head. She didn't know why. but she was sure that in lizard people standards he was probably high on the handsomeness spectrum. "You are right, among the conditions are that we can only summon those who were recently slain, it had to be a violent death, not a natural conclusion of one's lifespan, not a succumbing to disease." "I'm not sure what constitutes 'slain' in your criteria" the girl began. "But those could have been victims of an armed robbery, or a victim of a criminal's random act of cruelty... they could've also experienced an accident, like imagine a bunch of wagons ramming into each other or being run over by one." The lizardman made a throaty chuckling sound, making the girl think his voice was probably the Barry White of the crocodilian men. "You are correct, unfortunately, there's no way we could get our arch-mages to make that condition any more specific, fortunately we can make do with other conditions; such as aptitude and latent talent. They may have in them those attributes to become the heroes we need them to be. I'm sure most will rise to the occasion." The lizard man replied. "Most." the girl said "I would be foolish to assume all of them would." "What about me?" the girl said. She now found herself sitting in a comfortable parlor, richly decorated as expected of any room in a palace. "If those people according to your summoning spell's criteria mean they'd make great heroes, why then am I being excluded?" "I have another job for you." The man said. "First, I should introduce myself, how rude of me. I'm Radomix of House Olrezed, I'm the King here." The girl made a gesture of touching her fingers to her temple. "Sarah Jones, Formerly a private contractor for ODIN Security Services, you could say I was a mercenary or assassin. As a child I grew up in a violent war-torn country, I was a freedom fighter ever since I was old enough to hold a gun and run around, then I became soldier of the army, afterwards I joined ODIN." Radomix smiled and nodded, he liked what he heard from her. So she wasn't some perfumed aristocrat's child learning pretend fight with brown-nosing knights, nor some countryside peasant swinging sticks with other kids in her hamlet but someone who grew up in a real battlefield. Even her posture despite looking relaxed seemed to him a trap. He was sure that if someone had pounced on her, she could spring into action and subdue the assassin just as readily as anyone else if they were forewarned. Her eyes were watchful but not overly suspicious or glazed over like one who has been affected by prolonged carnage. These were the eyes of a warrior who had someone to protect, not a hot-headed fledgling looking for glory. "A pleasure to meet you Sarah. Let me give you a summary of why we brought you here. In this world of ours we live under the constant threat of monsters, they come from Great Rifts, gates to another world. We don't know exactly why the Rifts exist or why it brings such malevolent creatures to harry us. For the longest time we have relied on Demon Lords, warlords of exceptional strength and leadership to guard our frontiers." Sarah raised an intrigued eyebrow. She's heard of those pop-culture stories, and was surprised that in this world it was the "demon lords" who were the defenders of... well, people. "...for a few years now, the Demon Lords have been asking for more and more reinforcements, more adventurers, more warriors, more heroes. The Sages are of the consensus that we're looking at a Great Flood, a stampede of monsters beyond reckoning and that's why this summoning ceremony was enacted.." "Sounds like that's my job." Sarah said "...but I doubt my experience would be of any value. My world hasn't fought with swords and spears for centuries, and we have no magic, so all of those resources you've spent summoning a group of what.... ten people? You could have gotten that on your own." "That is a sensible evaluation Sarah, There was one detail I've yet to mention. You see, I am aware that if you're going to bring someone from another world, you must assume the possibility of them having abilities you have not dreamed of; of fighting with magic and weapons nobody in this world has ever conceived." Radomix stood, straightening his robes. "Come along, I think it's best I show you what we have... in your own words, really spent our resources on.... I believe those resources went mostly onto you. Let me show you." \*\*\* Radomix and Sarah walked out into the courtyard. While the two of them had been conversing, some servants had brought over a large crystal mounted on a pedestal. The crystal was actually floating above it, the multi-colored wisps emanating from the glowing gem seemed to be what held in mid-air. "This wouldn't be the first time we've summoned people from other worlds, nor would it involve those who've never been able to make use of their Mana." Radomix explained. "Sounds like you're talking about a magic force that's inside us." Sarah cut in. "Exactly" Radomix continued "the best analogy is that it's like a muscle. Touching this crystal stimulates your Mana, allowing you to recognize that feeling. If you've ever performed any feats in your previous life that seemed beyond the limits of your body, or times when you've seemingly achieved a level of skill that you have difficulty performing again if at all, then it's likely you've tapped into your Mana." "I could name a few instances." Sarah shrugged. "If Mana is this internal force, what's the other one?" "That would be Ether. It's everywhere around us. It's the disassociated force of magic, it can be used in place of Mana to do these feats. Of course, anyone with the proper training can use these two sources of magic, just like anyone can be taught to use a sword or bow." Radomix said. "But I took you aside not because I wanted to make you a higher grade hero..." he paused, considering his words. "...for now, my head sorceress Richel will assist you." A fluffy sheep-like wizard in equally fluffy robes stepped forward and introduced herself to Sarah. After running through some basic ideas regarding the use of Mana and Ether, Sarah began to put her hand on the Crystal and began concentrating as Richel coached her. "Richel?" Sarah said as she gazed at her reflection "I was not this young when I died. I'm a good thirty years younger, what happened?" "The summoning spell brings back the valiant slain at their prime, it wouldn't do if they weren't." The chief sorceress said, her voice having a slight vibrato when she spoke consonants. Well, that does make her more sheep-like, Sarah thought, and it's quite ironic I'm getting a lecture from her and not feeling sleepy. "That doesn't make sense! There were middle-aged men that were summoned. Why were they not restored?" The sorceress thought for a bit "Two theories; first is that the summoning spell prioritizes the most fitting candidate to be the Hero, that would appear to be you and thus brought you to your prime. Second is that while those men you mentioned may not appear to be at their physical peak, perhaps their aptitude or latent talent in the field of magic is their true value." "Alright, that make more sense." Sarah said. "Some of those well-dressed gentlemen look like stockbrokers; they make difficult decisions, decisions that cost lots of money by studying current events and comparing them to hundreds of similar situations in the past. And the others ones look like programmers, I guess they're the closest you have to wizards, unless they write their programs correctly the 'spell' in a manner of speaking, will not work." "So that's why they were chosen." Radomix said in revelation. "As for the others, they're young and I guess they just want a good adventure. I could imagine some of them being involved in a gang, but I doubt any of them belong to one that commits anything more violent than fist-fighting." Sarah explained. The magical energies were now howling around them and Sarah pulled her arm back. An hour passed, as Richel coached Sarah regarding the use of her Mana as well as how to safely and efficiently use the Ether around her. While they practiced Radomix had gotten his servants to put some training dummies. "She's quite a hard worker, this Sarah." Radomix's minister remarked as he saw Sarah repeatedly generate a sigil of light front of her and try to put her hand through it, occasionally it budged and other times her hand grasped nothing. "Why didn't you tell her it was time for the welcoming banquet?" "I have a feeling she'd care less about such things”' Radomix said, he did have some maids lay out food, which they occasionally walked over to refresh themselves with. "She's a real soldier, and she's eagerly trying to grasp the concept for magic which her world didn't have." "Still, how does that make her special besides being perhaps a little stronger than the ones we summoned?" the minister queried. Radomix pointed at Sarah who was now holding a foreign object in her hands. Now she was the one explaining to Richel what she had summoned out of the Ether. With a nod and a word to Richel, the mage covered her ears as Sarah knelt to one knee and pointed the long object towards the training dummies. A series of loud bangs echoed through the courtyard while the training dummies shattered in quick succession. "Ahhh crap." Sarah called out "I can't tell if I hit it dead center and oh..." she had a mild look of disappointment as she saw her .50 cal BMG rifle disintegrate into blue particles of Ether. "Back in the wild you go, buddy." she said. Radomix looked at his minister "I think we found our true hero." \*\*\* A table had been laid out in the courtyard for the four of them, a belated welcoming dinner for Sarah. Aside from Richel, she was also introduced to Louther, one of the king's minsters. Louther resembled an horned owl and Sarah wondered if he was going to be her handler. Over dinner Sarah inquired about the other job that the King had mentioned earlier. "That's right...about that" Radomix began slowly "...if I'm going to be honest when and not if, that Great Flood happens, I'm sure that we'll win in the end. When possible, I will ask you to join us in the extermination of these monsters, but your primary purpose however, is not to hunt monsters but..." "Hunt people, especially heroes that step out of line. Got it." Sarah replied before taking another bite. Noticing everyone looking at her she says "No objections, I'll do it. Anyway, regarding the gun I just used, Richel told me that I summoned it from my world? I felt quite tired just keeping it's existence here, I think I'll need some kind of training facility to build up my strength... do you have any obstacle courses or..." (To Be Continued...

Dixon was cleaning his rifle when a stern voice asked “Are you the replacement”? He looked up to see Sergeant Hartford before him and nodded. “Good,” Hartford said curtly. “Leave your rifle and come with me”. When they stepped out of the dugout and made their way through the boggy trenches it was darker than Dixon remembered it being and he found it hard to adjust to the light. “You know why you’re here?” Hartford asked to break the silence. “No” Dixon answered. “They didn’t want to give me the specifics. All they said was I should ask you and that I’d be having a long night ahead of me”. Hartford chuckled softly. “Fuckers.. Alright I’ll make this simple”. They then stopped at a ladder propped up against the trench line and he pointed at a dead corpse stuck on a string of barbed wire between them and the enemy trenches. “You see the stiff over there?” Hartford asked. “Murray”. Dixon corrected him. “I knew him, his name was Murray”. “It doesn’t matter” Hartford answered. “He’s dead now and command wants us to get him and his friends off that wire and out of sight from our men. They say it damages the morale”. Dixon stared at Murray’s cold dead eyes that pierced through the darkness and nodded. He had several friends that didn’t make it back from the previous attack and he now understood why his superiors didn’t tell him the details about his assignment. “Anyways you don’t have to bury them or anything, just take them off the wires so they can’t be seen. We’ll use the moon as our only source of light and divide ourselves. You’ll be going West and I’ll be East and we’ll meet back here in five minutes, understood?” Dixon nodded and Hartford stuck a pair of wire cutters in his hand and removed his helmet while Dixon did the same before he asked “What do I do if they’re still alive? The attack only happened a few hours ago. I’ve heard stories that men can rot out there for days on that wire.” Hartford only shook his head. “Don’t make yourself a target. Just take care of the bodies and get back safe. I don’t want to bury another replacement”. With that Hartford rubbed some mud on his face and crawled out of the trench and Dixon did the same a moment later. It was hard at first. The stench from the bodies made Dixon gag and the flies were annoyed that someone was interrupting their meal. But the worst part at all was looking at them. But by the third body, Dixon just shut his nose and nearly ripped them off the wire without so much as even glancing at their faces. He then came to the last one in his sector and put the wire cutter to the man’s arm when the living man jerked and shouted. Dixon panicked and hit the ground as the man began to plead in the darkness. “Please! Please help me!” Dixon slid his hand over the man’s mouth. “It’s okay I’m here.. Listen, I’m going to get you out of here but you have to be quiet.” The man agreed and did his best to be quiet when Dixon began to cut him from the barbed wire. But the pain of flesh ripping from metal made him nearly scream in anguish and Dixon tried his best to calm him down. “Hey, do you have a family?” Dixon asked as he finished tearing his leg off the wire. The man nodded “I have two daughters.. Oh my God, I’ve barely thought about them all this time. Listen, you have to tell them I love them if I don’t make it out of here.” Dixon stared at the enemy trench line as he held his breath for a moment and then kept cutting “Tell them yourself when you get out of here.” He then ripped his other leg away and the man screamed in pain again as a sniper’s bullet ripped into the ground beside them. Dixon dropped the wire cutters and cussed his bad luck before helping the man to his feet but he shook his head. “I can’t walk.. I can’t feel my legs.” The sniper’s aim got better and a bullet struck the post next to Dixon’s head as he picked the man up and carried him. Cold blood began leaking all over his back as Dixon ran and more shots rang out in the night. “You’re going to be okay I promise. Just think about your daughters we’re almost there.” Dixon tried to comfort the man as more blood ran down his back. The sentry at the trench line began shooting back at the sniper and Dixon nearly collapsed as they fell into the trench where Hartford was there waiting for him. “What happened?” He asked angrily. “Are you okay?” Dixon immediately stood up and grabbed the man’s hand to drag him. “Give me a hand, this man needs to see a medic immediately or he’s going to die”. Hartford flipped over the man’s corpse and shook his head. “You’ve wasted your time. I’m sorry but this man’s already dead.” Dixon looked down and saw a fresh bullet wound through the man’s neck and his cold dead eyes staring back at him. “I promised him he’d be okay,” Dixon said staring at his hands that were now caked in blood. Hartford patted Dixon on the back and knelt beside him. “I can take care of him. Get to a dressing station and clean yourself off”. Dixon did as he was told and slumped off to the rear trench line as Hartford checked the man’s body and found a set of ID tags and a photograph of two little girls with an address scribbled on the back. “Great”. He muttered. “One more letter I have to mail out.” He then slid the photograph in his uniform next to the others.

"You should have seen them Billy!" yelled Howard angrily. The latter paced back and forth in the middle of a luxurious art deco living room while the former sat on a stool by a counter, listening to his older brother's ranting while smoking a cigar. "Spirit of competition?! Bah! There's no such thing! The only thing that matters is OFFICIALLY winning!" shouted Howard, continuing his pacing. *"Honestly, why do I put up with this idiot?"* thought the younger brother. Ever since Howard was heavily reprimanded for winning the race, the man had been nothing but a furious firecracker spouting obscenities to anyone who dared disagreed with him. It was costing Howard his racing career, his fans' loyalty, merchandising opportunities, and now, it was costing William's patience. Already his left hand was massaging his temple due to the headache forming. "Are you even listening?!" asked Howard, who abruptly stopped to question his brother. "Yes. Yes I am" replied William with an even tone. Standing up, William walks up to Howard, puffing smoke all the way. He stops three feet away from the man before asking, "And pray tell, what do you wish me to do about it?" "What do you think?! Your media company is one of the most powerful in the whole damn country! I want you to help me spin this PR disaster around and make me great again!", demanded Howard. Not noticing his younger brother's annoyance at his blatant disrespect, Howard continued to rave and rant about his own misfortunes. It was times like this that reminded William of why he never sponsored his brother in his NASCAR career. Howard was always a braggart, seeing no fault in himself and everything wrong with others, even his "close" friends. It was one thing to demand from William when he was young and powerless. it was another matter to do so with him being large and in charge. "No" said William firmly. Howard looked at him aghast and confused. "No? What do you mean no?!" asked Howard. William replies, "You're not getting anything from me Howard. No help of any kind, be it my staff, my funds, or even my sympathies." After a deafening pause, rage gripped Howard. He grabbed his younger brother's coat before yelling into his face. "You're just gonna abandon me?!" yelled Howard before continuing, "Your older brother?! YOUR OWN FLESH?!!!" William looks at him lazily before replying with a smirk, "Yeah, pretty much." Angry beyond reason, Howard readied a punch. "Why you little GAH!" before the punch could connect, he was suddenly pulled back. Looking behind, Howard could see two big and burly private security guards holding both of his arms. "Let go of me you OOF!" the guard on his left punched him in the gut, knocking the wind out of him and sending him to his knees. Straightening his wrinkled coat, William approached Howard with both glee and malice in his eyes, something that began to unnerve Howard. "You see Howard, there's such a thing as technically legal and not approved," said William. Seeing as he was close enough to touch Howard, William pulled his brother's head backwards painfully via his hair while lecturing him. "The spirit of competition is a VERY real thing. It's what separates legends from dirtbags... LIKE YOU!!!" William strikes Howard hard and fast on his left cheek, drawing blood. As said cheek continued to bleed, William continued, "That rookie boy you were so fond of mocking is a golden one. HE understands what it means to really win in a contest. Everything he does, is for the pleasure of his fans." William turns his back on Howard and takes a few steps away from him. Stopping by a portrait of their deceased father on the winning podium, William finishes the rest of his cigar before a butler takes away the remains. Continuing to look at the portrait, the younger brother lays down the truth, "You never did understand why pops was well liked. You always thought that being a winner in racing made him a god amongst men. But no, it was more than that." William turned and walked slowly towards Howard. "Pops wasn't just a winner in racing, but also in life. He knew how to make friends with the right people and keep them around until he died in that crash." Stopping before his older brother, William leaned close to his face to finish his lecture, "He thought us many lessons, but what I learned above all is that a dirty win draws no respect, only scorn. In fact, it's the worst kind of loss one could expect from such a disgraceful act." Signaling his guards to release their hold, Howard drops to the floor on his hands and knees trembling. William bends over to give one last piece of advice, "Pray that you clean up your act brother, or I'll be paying a visit to your sponsor next." Shaking, Howards looks up to his younger brother, weak and scared. At the sad sight before him, William adds, "Get up, and get out of my house." With that, Howard quickly complies. Seeing him leave, William orders his butler to bring him a bottle of red wine. What better to celebrate the rookie's win than by cooking himself a fine steak.

“Price has gone up.” The shopkeeper stated flatly. “What the fuck do you mean price has gone up?” Charles exclaimed. “The price went up less than a month ago.” “I don’t know what to tell you, price has gone up.” “Shit... how much?” “Three.” Charles’ eyes grew wide “Three?” “Three, and they have to be genuine.” Charles looking at him pleadingly. “Come on Clarence, you know I don’t have that much.” “You have a son.” “I know, and he’s hungry.” The shopkeeper looked at Charles and held his eyes, “You have... *a son.*” “Oh, go fuck yourself Clarence.” - Charles stormed off. He was hungry, he was cold, and he was *desperate*, but he’d be damned if he’d let the world start taking them away from Georgie. He’d eventually fold, and give what he had left to the shopkeeper. Clarence would then take them and give them to the farmer, who would then give them to the seed company, and on and on it would go. Eventually they all ended at the top. And given that the top didn’t actually need them, they can use them for recreation instead. Pick and choose the ones they want and *indulge*, then throw them away after like scraps at the end of a meal. Charles wondered if at the end they even felt the same, or if the fact that they were originally someone else’s cheapened the experience. The rich didn’t care, it wasn’t about having something they made, it was just about having *more* than everyone else. Every day Charles found it harder and harder to make more. Each harvest leaving less seeds for the next crop, until all that was left was desert. He sat down and closed his eyes. Looking for three. He just needed three. His eyes opened. There were none left. “That can’t be...” he mumbled, closing his eyes tighter, scrunching his face. He scoured his mind, trying to find something, *anything* for payment. Instead all he found was empty rooms. Interests, hobbies, family, all gone. There was one room left, but he would never touch it. *Never.* If he emptied that one there would be nothing left to live for. He’d turn into the shells he’d see laying on the streets and in alleyways, nothing left but the lowest requirements for survival. He wouldn’t do that, he still had one and he’d die before giving it up. - He found Georgie where he had left him, behind a dumpster on the outskirts of town. Georgie looked like a skeleton, clothes hanging off of him like a rags on a scarecrow. Georgie slowly and delicately got to his feet. “Did you find anything?” Charles voice stuttered, “... I... I... couldn’t” Georgie frowned, desperation and confusion shown in his eyes. “What about in the dumpsters?” “All picked clean.” Georgie looked down defeated. Charles thought he was going to lay back down, but instead Georgie stumbled forward and fell into his arms. “It’s okay Dad. We’ll find something tomorrow.” Charles looked down at the child in his arms, unable to speak, tears forming his eyes. “And Dad?” Charles fought to form words “... yes?” “One day we are going to leave this place.” Charles was silent. “We are going to leave, and find Mom and Sarah. And we’ll build a home...” Georgie had so many. “With lots of animals! We’ll have cows and a dog - ” Charles had only one, but Georgie had so many. “And you can build me a playground! With a slide! We could play on it together!” And he was *so skinny*. Maybe he could use a couple of Georgie’s. Just for today. Just to get by. “Hey Georgie, I think I missed a shop on the way home,” Charles interrupted, “Do you want to go with me to see if they have something we can eat for dinner?” Georgie looked up and beamed, “You mean they’ll have food?” Charles looked down and smiled. *I’ll make more soon and he’s got so many. We’ll use his just this once. Just to get by for today.* “Yeah buddy, I think tonight we’ll get to eat.” *Just this once.* - Prompt: Write a story set in a world where dreams are used as currency.

Tamara and I were hanging out in the park, listening to a song that had just come out, blaring from one of our phones, waiting for someone to notice. Best case scenario, a cutie would emerge from the typical dog-walkers and boring old people and chat us up about the artist, tell us some obscure fact about them, and eventually ask one of us out. So far, no luck. That was when we saw her for the first time, this old lady in raggedy clothes who swept in front of herself with a broom. Every step she took, she swished the little broom, like she was clearing a path. We both stared at her for a while, then went back to giggling and smiling back and forth at one another, trying to look chill and approachable. The following day, we saw her again. “Let’s go up and talk to her,” Tamara said, stepping up from the bench and trotting in the direction of the old lady. But I beat her there. I had to be the first one to make contact, even though it was her idea. “What’s with the broom?” I said, way too loud into the hag’s ear. She stopped walking (and sweeping) and glanced at me sidelong, her deep black eyes glinting in the afternoon sun. I swear she smirked a little. “Ahimsa,” the old lady said, and went back to her weird little routine. “What was that?” Tamara said. “I know, right? She was out there.” “No, you basically screamed in her ear. That wasn’t cool, Maggie. I think you scared her.” “How do you know she’s not deaf or something? She is pretty old. What was that word she said?” “Who knows.” “Maybe she uses that broom so she doesn’t kill any bugs, like she swishes them out of the way or something.” “Really, that’s your theory?” Tamara said, totally skeptical. She was always on my back about something. That’s why I liked her. Her hair was done up in puffs today. Whoever styled her hair knew just how to frame her smoothly angled face, accenting her big, wonder-filled eyes. “I think she’s just a crazy homeless lady. Maybe she used to be a janitor and smoked too much meth.” “Why don’t we test the theory?” I said, with as much mystery as I could conjure. The truth was, I wanted to be just like the old bag. She was perfect. “Tomorrow, when she walks by, we’ll throw a bunch of bugs in her way. She’s bound to step on at least one.” “Gross,” Tamara said. “You’re crazy, you know that?” We spent the rest of the afternoon gathering up beetles and grubs and worms and ants from under rocks, storing them in an empty slurpee cup we found in the trash. On the walk home, a few of the critters crawled out of the open lid and onto my hand, scaring me half to death. Once there, I covered the lid with saran wrap and stowed it under my bed. The next day, there she was again, in the same ratty clothes. I grossed Tamara out by pretending to slurp from the cup of creepy crawlies, but the joke wasn’t as funny when I tried it again. “Let’s go,” I said, and took off. I wasn’t subtle about it at all. I just tore off the domed plastic lid and poured out the bugs, practically on her feet. She definitely squashed at least a couple, as I heard two wet-sounding crunches. The old lady froze, her face becoming a little less wrinkled as her eyes went wide, her bushy eyebrows lifting nearly to her hairline. She fell to her knees and let out a breathy cry. A single tiny tear fell down her weathered and leathery cheek. “Oh shit,” Tamara whispered. Helping her up was the only thing I could think to do. “Samvega,” the woman said, as she walked/swept away. I lost sleep trying to think of a way to make it up to the old lady. When I finally thought of it, I was so exhausted I went right to sleep. Tamara and I waited in the park, armed with brooms we’d borrowed from our houses. When we spotted our mark, we went right up and started imitating her, matching her pace. She looked up at us and there was that secretive smirk again. We walked together through the park, sweeping away everything in our path, until she led us to a bedroll hidden in a little patch of trees. There was nothing else around it. She laid down on the pile of leaves and seat cushions she apparently called her bed and squinted up at us. “Adharma,” she said. So that was our routine for a while. We’d walk and sweep with the old lady. Until one day, I thought she might want something to eat. When we got to her bedroll, I offered a carrot from my backpack. But she gently pushed my hand down, pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her many layers, and showed it to me. It was just a bunch of little white bugs crawling on a root. Ohhhh. Carrots grow like that. She must not eat anything that has roots. That’s cool as hell, I thought. “Ahimsa,” the old woman said again, and went to sleep on the bedroll, in broad daylight. It only took another day of sweeping with the broom lady, as we had taken to calling her, for us to get bored and wander off to other ventures. Though from time to time, I spotted her spying on us. When she knew she was caught, she would hunch back down and move on. She didn’t really seem to be hiding that she was following us. This one was my idea. I decided we should try and steal a couple candy bars (one each, to give it some competition) from the convenience store across from the park. It took some effort to convince Tamara. “It’s different for me, Maggie, if we get caught,” she said. “You mean because you’re black?” “No, because I’m too cute to get away with it. Yes, because I’m black.” “Girl, calm down, we’re minors,” I said, teasing her hair a little. I knew she hated that. “They can’t do anything to us. And even if they do catch us, worst case scenario, we spend the night in juvie. You can’t handle that?” That steeled her enough to try it. The store was your typical beer and pop spot, with other stuff like motor oil and beef jerky. Come to think of it, it was very manly in there. Lots of manly things. We moseyed over to the candy aisle, and I peeked around a bit. The clerk, a gray-haired man with two hoop earrings, was ringing out a customer, a tired, bedraggled looking woman in sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt. I winked at Tamara and picked up a candy bar, pretending to eyeball it, consider it for purchase, even humming to myself. The clerk’s eyes were off me, so I tucked it in the front of my pants, hidden under my shirt. Tamara followed my lead and did the same. We both waved to the clerk on our way out, and bolted as soon as we were out the door, back to the park. The cars honking at us and slamming on their brakes as we crossed the street only added to the rush. We were hunched greedily over our pilfered treats, just about to unwrap them, when I could just feel the broom lady’s presence. I turned around and there she was, glaring down at us, her back to the sun. The deepest frown creased her already heavily lined face. She shook her head no, slowly, deliberately, and held out her hand. Guessing she was asking if she could have the candy bar, I readily handed it over, happy to give her something she would actually eat. She took it, then held her hand out to Tamara, too. I had to nudge her before she handed hers over. A part of me wanted to see the broom lady open them and scarf them down right there, but she walked away. We watched as she made her way to a trash can, clearing away her path, of course. She dropped the candy bars soundlessly into the garbage and looked back at us, piercing us with her eyes. “Asteya,” she said, loud enough for us to hear. “What was it, you think, bugs in the candy bars?” Tamara half-joked. “No, she must have seen us go in the store.” “But how did she know we took them? She couldn’t have seen us.” “She’s a strange old bird, that’s for sure.” “Oh god, Maggie, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re in love,” Tamara said, uttering the last part in this hammy voice and clasping her hands near face. “Shut up,” I said, bashfully playing into the joke, “I am not.” But I was, in a way. Not in an I wanted to take her to bed kind of way, gross, but in an I wanted to become her kind of way. I had to talk to her again, and apologize for stealing the candy bars. I saw her the next day, on her usual route. I didn’t bother sweeping in front of me this time, since I thought that would be patronizing (a word I’d learned recently). I just walked beside her and talked for a while. About how I was nervous about school, and how no boys seemed to really like me, and how my parents might be splitting up. I couldn’t really tell if she was listening or not. When we got to her bedroll, I asked her if she was married, if she had any kids. She shook her head no in the loneliest damn way. Sorry for cursing, but it was. “Aparigraha,” the broom lady said. Then she laid down on her makeshift bed, but this time she didn’t close her eyes and go to sleep as she did before. She stared knowingly up into the sky. Her face was beaming for the first time since I’d known her. Then she just poof disappeared, leaving her ratty old clothes to waft down to the ground, where they laid in no particular shape. The last word she said, whispered really, right before she went, was, “Moksha.” It didn’t seem painful, the way she just sort of faded out of existence. That’s how I want to go, I thought. And I wasn’t even sad really. The expression on her face filled me with so much hope, I was bursting with it. I knew exactly what to do. I put the broom lady’s clothes on over mine. They weren’t as smelly as you’d imagine. They actually had a nice earthy scent to them. I grabbed her broom, and traced her path backwards through the park, like an elegy. I did that every day around the same time, doing my best to imitate her stooped posture and slow, deliberate whisks of the broom. I did this all summer, and people took to calling me “Old Jane,” even though I’m only a teenager. Maybe that was the broom lady’s name, and they just mistook me for her. But I kind of liked it, so I let it stick. Look, there goes Old Jane, they would say, that lady wouldn’t hurt a fly. The broom lady’s body was found toward the end of the summer, already badly decomposed in its shallow grave near the site of her bedroll. Given that she was elderly and homeless, her death was written off as natural, and only given brief mention in the news. Now only I, Old Jane, knew of her true fate, and the rest were none the wiser. Don’t worry, she still achieved Moksha. I made sure of that.

His name meant winter once, now it was just another name in a pile of papers. Once lesser nobility, now a common slave. His father, a weak and greedy loveless bastard son of a lord who was far better comparitively and a maid, the only male of the house and thus, regrettably, Lord Regentis of House Thorne. Perhaps if his father had bothered to have cared about giving him a name even, Hiver would not be named such. Here he stood, on a poorly built wooden stage standing against all odds and holding the weight of the massive slavekeeper, hoping against all possible hope that he would not be given to the Gladiator arena. However, fate often has other plans. It always does. The ride to the arena was quick, and he could only hope he would be fighting against other slaves, then he would stand a real chance. The arena, an obscenely large construct able to flood, and drain as it's designers pleased as well as hold thousands of spectators to watch bloodbaths. Quickly he was taken to a cell with three other slaves. One large bald onyx-skinned man with red eyes dressed in white robes with a animal hide coloured belt sat next to a much smaller lighter toned male, with white eyes and hair. Across from them sat a much older man, who upon further inspection to his relief, was alive and only sleeping. The man awoke when Hiver sat across from him, sitting up slightly faster then he should have been able to. "Two Korthanians, and one Ignian, what a delight! Oh the fans will love watching you die." The man giggled heartily as he spoke, looking at the unimpressed Ignian, Hiver, and the now terrified Korthanian. "Oh dear yes, fate has much in store for you three, why let me tell you your fortunes. How about you Monsieur...?" He gestured at the Ignian. "Names have no meaning now, only our skill." He boomed, deeper than Hiver ever thought someone could talk and yet here this man was to prove it. "Oh it would seem you can already sense yours my large fellow, for you see your destiny is fame." As he spoke, he pulled a small block of wood out of his robe with the word fame carved into it. He handed it to the man and looked to Hiver. "Yours is clouded in mystery, shrouded in your choices. But yours," He gestured at the Korthanian "Oh dear, oh my dear fellow. I am truly sorry for your fate for it is your doom in a few minutes." Narrowly, he was almost interrupted by the sound of a gong, and the screams of ten thousand middle to upper class people ready to watch a bloodbath. The three men were guided out of their cell, and when Hiver looked back, the man was gone. Around a hundred or so slaves entered the arena, which was littered with literally every melee weapon ever conceived. Even with their number, the stadium was still large enough for everyone of them to have a camp and still have room left over. Five gongs rang out, the cry of the people, and the whimper of the Korthanian next to him. Then blood and death. Everyone sprang out into the fray, grabbing weapons and dying just as quickly. The onyx man managed to grab a large hammer and was single handedly crushing opponent after opponent. As the old man had predicted, Hiver saw the Korthanians body, bled out and alone. He picked up a short, but strong sword and narrowly parried a strike from a great sword held by a large ginger haired man. However, by missing his strike he had entombed himself. Seizing his chance Hiver sank his blade deep into the man and twisted out of the way of a thrown dagger which sank into the man behind him. Hiver retrieved his blade and charged his new opponent, a small male with grey hair but young features. Luckily for the man, the gong sounded for the thirty slave mark. Hiver looked around. The Ignean was still alive, and all of the larger slaves were. Then, lions were released into the arena, and then wave after wave of gladiators and slaves was released into the arena as a never ending combat. Then when night began to fall and him and the onyx man were nearly the only original men still standing, a drake was released. Fifty meters, eyes like cabbages, a car sized head. Four tree trunk legs protruding out of a scale coated body. Barely fifty fighters to fight it. Then an announcement. "Attention fighters! Defeat this drake and you all go free!" The desperation of man won over the desperation of the beast.

Eddie Grayson’s fingers flew over the strings of his battered Gibson, each note reverberating through the smoke-filled dive bar. He felt as if there should be smoke trailing from his fingers each time they flew down the neck of his Les Paul. The small crowd swayed and nodded. Yet Eddie could not make out their faces, a blur of shadows under the dim, flickering neon lights. Eddie lived for these moments on stage, where the music drowned out the voices in his head that told him he would never be good enough. His band, The Viper’s Strike, had gotten a rough start, with a few popular songs, but no widespread recognition. Something felt different about tonight's crowd, or so Eddie hoped. The last notes of their latest and not so greatest song rolled throughout the room, as the crowd suddenly burst into laughter. Their lead singer was making a miserable, drunken performance. He had somehow managed to slur every word of their latest song. Each laugh struck Eddie, and he felt as if each joke, or each pointed gesture was killing him a little each time. The laughter died down, and the crowd started to make their way out of the dive bar, trails of thick smoke following behind them. Eddie turned to his drummer, Vincent Grayson. "Hey Vinnie! What the fuck was that?" "Your guess is as good as mine, Eddie. I don't think they liked it." Vinnie said, very matter-of-factly. "No shit. You heard those stunads laughin' at us," piped up their bassist, Valentino Esposito, in his thick accent. "That was the worst fucking gig we ever played. If we are gonna get big, we better start putting in some more fuckin' effort." Their lead singer, Robert Trajan shouted at them. Rob was riled as ever, even more than usual today,with booze stains running down his Def Leppard shirt. The rest of the guys could tell right then and there, that Rob was going to be a handful tonight. "Grayson, what the fuck was going' on with you! That Gibson can't play for shit!" "Well, Rob, if you could sing the fucking song the way you were supposed to, maybe we wouldn't have to work overtime just to compensate for your drunk ass slurring the lyrics!" Rob's face turned a deep shade of red, veins bulging on his neck as he took a menacing step toward Eddie. The tension in the air was thick enough to cut with a knife. Vinnie quickly intervened, stepping between the two before things could escalate further. "Hey hey hey! Relax yourselves! We're all just a little fucking tired. No need to get bitchy about it'' Vinnie shouted, his commanding voice seemingly knocking some sense into Eddie and Rob. "Now let's turn in for the night, before things get worse. I'll see you shitheads in the studio tomorrow." Valentino suggested, as he slung his bass over his shoulder and walked out of the dive bar, lighting a cigarette as he went. "Fine. Studio tomorrow better be fucking worth it." Rob mumbled, as he stumbled down the steps of the stage, grabbing the keys to the van as he went. "Hey Rob! You're hammered man, you can't be drivin' home." Eddie called out, just as Rob had reached the threshold of the bar. He stopped, "What are you gonna do, cry about it?" Rob growled as he sluggishly sauntered out of the bar. Eddie heard a car start up, and Rob sped away. Eddie sighed, and turned towards Vinnie. Now Eddie and Vinnie sat in the cold silence of the dive bar. "I'll see you at the apartment, Vinnie." Eddie groaned, "I'm headed home," "See you bro!" Eddie carried his guitar in one hand, his shattered pride in the other, as he angrily walked down the streets of Los Angeles. It didn't take long for him to get home to his seedy apartment in what he had affectionately named "Downtown Shitville '' The lock barely worked, not to mention the door itself. The place hadn't been cleaned, save the space for Vincent and Eddie to jam when they were home. They kept that part of the house neater than a temple, with guitar amps, and cords running throughout the floor, a drum kit towards the decaying wall. With the couch as his bed, this is what Eddie and Vincent lived with. The room still stank of last night's party. Eddie plopped himself down on his would be bed. He covered his face with his hands. "What the fuck am I doing?" he asked himself, "Why am I still here, doing this same old shit?" He tortured himself with that question, as he drifted off to sleep that night. Eddie awoke from a fitful slumber the next day to the scent of bacon, and pancakes. His eyes fluttered open, as steam and smoke rose from the kitchen. Eddie rose slowly, and drowsily walked into the kitchen, where Vinnie was working his ass off making a massive breakfast. "It's alive!" Vinnie yelled, before laughing and patting Eddie on the shoulder. "Your breakfast is on the table bro,” Vinnie gestured to one of the two TV trays propped up in front of their couch. "Vinnie, what the fuck are you doing?" Eddie groggily questioned. "The hell does it look like?" Vinnie asked, a sudden spark in his voice, "We got studio time today, we gotta be at our best. Now, after our breakfast, I want to go over some of the stuff for that song we've been working on." "Let's just hope that Rob doesn't fuck it up today." Eddie chuckled. "Hey... don't be so negative just yet." Vinnie piped up, "I'm sure Rob will do his best today" "Or it will be his ass," Vinnie said under his breath. The two rockers jogged out into the "living room" and Vinnie flicked on the TV to the local news channel. Between hungry bites of his pancakes and bacon, Eddie heard the words: "Violent car crash on Clark Street" and "No survivors" The very last thing Eddie heard between Vinnie's loud chewing and his own gurgling stomach was "Robert Trajan, age 23 found dead at scene." Vinnie suddenly went dead silent. "Damn." He choked, as he tried to stifle tears. Eddie put his hand on Vinnie's shoulder, hoping it would provide some comfort. This is my fault. I could have stopped him last night, Eddie thought as he stared at the face of his friend on the screen. Behind him, Eddie heard the sound of a car roaring down their street, as it came to a stop. Their door unlocked, as Valentino ran in. "Hey, where the fuck have you guys been. Studio's at eleven and it's 10:50! You better get your asses up and to the studio, and pronto!" When no response came, the smile slipped from Val's face, as he saw Rob's face on the TV screen with the headline in bold: "Three found dead in head on car collision" His eyes widened in shock, and he stumbled back a step, nearly toppling a castle of beer cans. “Holy shit…” He trailed off, desperately trying to keep up the beer can castle. “What the fuck are we going to do now?” Eddie groaned, as he held his head in his hands, and held back what few remorseful tears he had for Rob. Vinnie patted Eddie on the shoulder and said calmly, “We do what Rob would have done, if he was still kickin’ “ “What… get wasted and try to fucking sing?” Valentino quipped, and Vincent shot him a dirty look. “No. We go to the studio, and we sing our asses a good fucking song.” Vinnie said, once again very calmly. “Let’s get our asses moving then!” Eddie yelled, as he quickly slung on a Warrant shirt and whipped his guitar onto his shoulder. “Yo Vin, your drum kits’ set up in the studio, get you ass up and let’s go!” Val said, shaking Vinnie, who was still plopped firmly on the couch, staring at Rob’s face on the screen. Vinnie grinned. “My man!” He yelled, as he hoisted himself up and hugged Val. Val had a concerned look on his face. “But what are we gonna do bout’ vocals? Rob can’t do it anymore,” Val blurted blatantly. Vinnie paused, and Eddie grimaced. This is my fault, I can fix it, Eddie thought desperately. “I’ll do it.” Eddie interjected solemnly, “I’ll do the singing.” “Are you sure about that bro?” Vinnie asked, a concerned look taking over his face. “Relax Vin, if this pendejo wants to sing, let him sing. What the fuck else are we supposed to do?” They flew down the streets of Los Angeles, and today all the shit on the road seemed to vanish from their eyes. Motley Crue songs blasted from the stereo as the open back from Val’s corvette blasted them with city air that stank of cigarette smoke and bad decisions. It didn’t take long before they pulled up to the recording studio. To be frank, that doesn’t look much like a studio, Eddie thought as he slammed the door to Val’s corvette, and approached the door to the recording studio. The place was just as seedy as what he and Vinnie called an apartment, only slightly less shitty than the rest of the slums. Valentino smiled at Eddie as they thrust open the door, and strutted in. The inside was a stark contrast from the crappy exterior of the building. Wood paneled walls, carpeted floors, and comfortable leather sofas were found in the waiting room. The cold air conditioned air greeted the band kindly. Guitar amps were nearby, and Vinnie’s drum set lay in the corner of the room. Microphones lay standing, begging to be used. Eddie stared at them intensely, as Vinnie talked with the “nobody” at the front desk. “Listen pal, our lead singer just died, cut us some fuckin’ slack” Eddie overheard Valentino yelling as he and Vinnie argued with the clerk. The conversation died down, and they dashed into the recording room. They set up as fast as lightning strikes, and in no time at all, Vinnie was pounding away at his drums, Val was having the time of his life plucking the strings on the bass, but Eddie’s guitar remained utterly silent, reflecting its owner quite well. Eddie’s mind was in a state of turmoil. “What would Rob do? He may have been a boozed up deadbeat, but when he was sober he had one hell of a voice! How the fuck can I do that?” he asked himself. Suddenly Vinnie stopped playing, picked himself up from his drum set and sauntered over to Eddie. “Hey bro, are you alright?” He asked Eddie, concern evident in his voice. His face was soft, and kind, his eyes filled with warmth as he gazed at Eddie. “It’s this whole thing. Rob’s dead, yet here we are in the studio. It doesn’t feel right, and I think it might be throwin’ off my game.” Eddie replied, he felt like his heart had sunk to the bottom of his chest. Vinnie embraced him warmly and whispered in his ear, “You do you, and do the best you that you can. We’ll take care of the rest.” Eddie nodded, and Vinnie returned to his drum kit. A smile ran across Eddie’s face as he remembered his first time meeting Rob. The first nice thing Rob ever said to him was: “If you can play like yourself, we’ll get along just fine there Eddie.” Just play like yourself, and you’ll be just fine, Eddie reminded himself. “Yo Vinnie, gimme a four count, and let’s burn this town to the ground!” Eddie yelled, his voice filled with cheerful exuberance. The cymbals rattled, as Vinnie grinned, and Eddie suddenly flew off, with a killer guitar riff. Val turned his head towards Eddie in shock, his fingers moving desperately trying to keep up with Eddie’s speed. Then came the lyrics. Eddie belted the song with all his might, and all the charm he could muster. His voice flowed from his throat like honey, each lyric sounding better than the last. (Note from the author: there are no lyrics to be read here because I am as uncreative as fuck when it comes to songwriting) Vinnie pounded away at the drums without a care in the goddamn world, and Valentino hammered away at the strings of his bass, smiling with delight. The song was done, and released by the end of the day. Eddie slept very well that night, and he dreamt of Rob. He saw Rob smiling at him, giving him a big drunken thumbs up, before he awoke suddenly, once again to the smell of pancakes. “Still trying to get Mom’s recipe right Vin?” Eddie yelled into the kitchen. “Uh huh! I think she used more baking powder in her recipe!” Vinnie responded. Eddie hoisted himself off the couch, feeling rejuvenated, and walked into the kitchen. A few days of this followed, until Eddie went to go out to get some groceries to support his brother’s cooking habits, when he found an envelope on his front porch addressed to him. Along the envelope, in beautiful gold text read: Geffen Records. Eddie’s eyes widened, as he bent down and picked up the envelope. “Yo Vin… you might want to see this!” Eddie shouted, as he opened the envelope and read: Mr. Grayson, Your recent single has displayed exemplary effort and talent. Your music has sent a massive shock throughout the local music communities, and has made its way into mainstream media. Geffen records would be honored to have you and your band, The Viper’s Strike under our label. We are prepared to offer you 50,000 dollars for you to sign to Geffen, as well as your own top of the line recording studio for you to sign to our label. Please contact us at your earliest convenience with your answer. Sincerely, Richard Stewart (on behalf of Geffen Records) Vinnie ran over, his shirt covered in flour. “Yo Vin, take a look at this” He handed the letter to Vinnie, whose eyes widened as he read it. “Sorry bro! Breakfasts’ off! I gotta call Val!” Vinnie shouted excitedly, running out of the apartment and down towards a payphone. As soon as he reached one, he dialed Val’s number: 213 225 3675. The phone rang three times before a drowsy Valentino picked up the line. “What do you want, pendejo! I just woke up you hijo de puta!” “Val.. Sorry to wake you but you gotta get down to the apartment now! We got big news!” Vincent yelled before abruptly hanging up, and dashing like a mad dog back to his apartment. Vinnie and Eddie both sat on their couch, watching the newest TV program as they heard Val’s Corvette screech to a stop on their street, followed by an angry slamming. Val burst into their apartment, the door finally giving and flying off of the hinges. “What the ever loving.. fuck was so goddamn important!” He boomed angrily, his eyes angrily fixating on Eddie, who was sitting down on the couch watching TV. Vinnie ran out of the kitchen. “Here, you gotta see this!” Vinnie handed him the letter from Geffen Records. Valentino angrily snatched it out of Vinnie’s hand, and gave it a quick look over, his eyes widening as he skimmed through the words on the page. “Woah,” Val blurted. “How are we gonna write back?” Eddie chuckled, “How the fuck do ya think?” “Are we sure this is what Rob would have wanted?” Val asked, “He wanted to earn his way to fame, not just have one good single. He didn’t want to just be handed success by some random guy,” “Your point?” Vinnie questioned, “I am sorry to be so blunt, but Rob isn’t here, and he won’t ever be. We don’t have to do things just from his vision. This is our band, not his.” The tension was thick as gravy in the seedy apartment that morning. Eddie stayed quiet, fearing that he might make things worse. “Listen, Val, we’ve already gone through enough as a band. We all miss Rob, but we can’t keep ourselves from moving forward, and taking the band in our own direction.” Vincent reasoned, through gritted teeth, gesturing with his hands. Eddie could tell then: I’ve never seen Vinnie like this before. He’s angrier than ever. “If you want to take the band in a different direction, be my guest, but I won’t overshadow our dead friend’s fucking legacy for personal fame.” Val griped, “Consider me out!” Valentino walked calmly out of the apartment, and sped away in his corvette. Eddie grimaced, and Vinnie held his head in his hands. “What the fuck just happened?” Eddie asked. “We just lost our bass player.” Vinnie said, his jaw practically on the floor, “It’s okay. We’ll figure this out,” Days, weeks, then months went by, and they heard nothing from Val. Eddie and Vinnie signed over to Geffen, and started producing new music as well as they could, but nothing felt quite right. A year later, in the brand new studio, Eddie just couldn’t take it anymore. “Val was right. All this crap, and we haven’t output a single song worth a single shit.” Eddie lamented. “Yeah… Val may have been right.” Vinnie responded solemnly. Eddie walked over to the phone nearby, and dialed Val’s number. The phone rang three times, before he picked up. “Hello? Who is this?” Val asked, his voice hoarse, like he was recovering from a massive hangover. “Hey Val… It’s me, Eddie.” “Whataya want, Eddie?” Val responded harshly. “I wanted to say, that you were fucking right. All this nice stuff we’ve got, yet not a single good song. You were right, in saying this is not what Rob would have wanted, and it’s not what we want anymore. Can we start over?” “Yes. Yes we can. You finally see my side of it.” Eddie couldn’t see it, but on the other end of the phone, Val was grinning from ear to ear. “I’ll be there soon! Have everything fuckin’ ready! I don’t want to come back to some shit show!” The phone went silent. And though Val couldn’t see it, Eddie was now grinning from ear to ear.

Yvonne (someone's grandmother), was a more than beautiful soul whose heart stood in a rainbow of love toward others. She gave birth to 11 children and 2 died at a very young age. Her loss crushed her for years after, one had a young family. The family lived in poverty and in a shack on Elm Street, Epping, NH—three rooms filled with beds shared by 11 children. There was a potbellied stove to heat the shack in winter, a pump sink in what was supposed to be the kitchen, and a two-seater outhouse in the backyard. The outside of the shack siding was made up of green shingles. To this writer it was hideous, but it kept the family safe from the elements. Arthur, Yvonne's husband, a crude Frenchman, was a drunk with an iron fist aimed at his family. He drank all the income away which rendered them extremely poor. Though strict, there was a heart in there somewhere. Some Days good others bad the family grasped for freedom from him. It was the era of Vietnam and there were 5 sons in this family and two were given draft cards. One son was eliminated due to kidney failure. The youngest son was the only one of 5 sons to hold a draft card. He was only 18, still a boy who was shipped into war as thousands of US boys. The US was only supposed to police Vietnam, but it turned into a war ground. The youngest son, Richard was petrified to go and fight on foreign ground. He tried to evade but did not win and was sent soon after to Vietnam. Yvonne was lost she could not protect Richard from the US Government, and war. My uncle was an awesome young man with dark hair and eyes, he always had a girl with him. Richard never worked before Vietnam. I recallect he loved baseball and often played. I believe my grandmother spoiled him, he was her last child. He lifted me over his head and threw me into the air. He walked me to the gas station, down the street for ice cream, soda, and candy. I had the greatest time being with him. This writer is the Granddaughter of Yvonne my beautiful grandmother who suffered and who found the strength to believe Richard would make it back home. She carried the strength to make it throughout his days in Vietnam, a mother who walked through the fire for her child. Deeply depressed, the news was her Hail Mary throughout Richard's service in the Army. recall, being on her lap watching Walter Cronkite on the CBS news channel. He was the main news broadcaster for the war. I felt so close to my grandmother this was my one-on-one time with her. I could feel her heartbeat, her anxiety, her suppression all boggled inside her being, there were times I held her as tight as I could, I was just 5 years old. We sat in her favorite rocker, an old creaky rocker. This rocker had a wooden frame and armrests. The seat and backrest were decorated with a yellow and orange flower pattern which was cloth material. She always placed a pillow up on the seat. As a child, I often was fidgety on her lap, and at times my eyes would shut leading me into sleep, but I remained forever on her lap. Yvonne had silky white hair with the greatest blue eyes, one could own. Perfume was her best friend, I loved its aroma. She always had a smile on her beautiful face, there were a few times she did not wear that smile when unfortunate events took place, while my uncle was in the war. I am sure when 2 of her children passed away and while she was dying. There is this yearning inside, I carry to have her back in this life again. As I sat on my grandmother's lap in that chair watching the news, I studied a bunch of numbers on the right, upper corner of the TV screen. In my adult years, I found out what those numbers meant. It was the death toll of the Vietnamese, I believe the toll was a way to convince the US citizens of the US possibly winning the war. In that rocking chair, we rocked miles in one place. The chair sure got its use and more. This was a time of mixed feelings for me. I loved the hugs and falling asleep on my grandmother it was, however bittersweet. My grandmother was suffering, my uncle was serving his country. I remember feeling melancholy at 5 years old. Directly, I sensed trouble without understanding why. Realizing through my adult brain now I did what I could I stayed with Yvonne in her most trying times. I know this was special to her cause she had me to hold and I reciprocally. No one talked to her or spent time with her. They may have said something in passing but that was it. The man she married was never there he would rather drink. I am so cherished to have been there for her, shame no one else did. Richard did 3 terms in the war and was decorated. Upon arriving home there was not much of a welcoming. The term warmongers was being used. There was also a mixed conflict about killing civilians, also. The welcome was a bittersweet one. He passed away many years later of pancreatic cancer. Before he passed the family had a gathering in his honor. I saw him smile and he hugged everyone. He was also celebrating himself as he appeared very happy. Not too long after he passed, with no trumpets blowing or firing of riffles. In the funeral home, his uniform hung respectfully, there were collages in view. Many veterans appeared and saluted his uniform for he was cremated. As Walter Cronkite would say after his broadcast, “And that’s the way it is.

The sun was starting to set and the gray dreariness of early winter was coming in as Jeremy snubbed out the last of his cigarettes. He stood for a moment at the doors of one of the buildings in some nondescript industrial park of the design district. Behind the glass doors lay an admission he wasn’t quite ready for. He waited a minute hoping for anyone else to show up and perhaps offer him another cigarette to further delay, but no one else showed. After another round of listless pacing, he finally entered and took his seat in the circle. A few minutes later he entered again. Then again. And again another four times. “Hello. My name is Jeremy and I am an addict” “Hello Jeremy”, said his five clones. The rest of the NA meeting sat stunned as Jeremy began his story. Seeing a clone was a somewhat novel experience for most people. Seeing five clones all together in one room attending a Narcotics Anonymous meeting was an entirely new experience for the human race and that was sure to strain these brave pioneer's ability to uphold the anonymous nature of the group. Jeremy advised the group that it is generally considered a bad idea to clone yourself in the middle of a stimulant-induced episode of psychosis. That being said, bad ideas are particularly attractive when one is in said state and Jeremy didn’t need to worry about hitting rock bottom as his father's Silicon Valley money had done a great deal to cushion his several previous visits to the ground floor. The money also allows you to visit less than reputable South American cloning clinics and convince them that despite the odor of ammonia currently emanating from every pore on your body, dilated pupils, and generally manic behavior it is actually a very good idea for the clinic to let you clone yourself to avoid a possible assassination attempt; that a lack of knowledge as to who exactly might be planning said assassination keeps them safe and the evidence provided by coincidences that you only you have noticed is quite sufficient. Unfortunately for Jeremy and his living trust, a clone is an exact copy of you and the exact moment you uploaded your consciousness into the not entirely above-board soul gate. That means a clone born from a methamphetamine-addicted brain inherits the methamphetamine addiction along with all the accompanying delusions and paranoia. Clone one begets clone two. Clone two begets clone three. Clone three begets clone four who despite coming in at half size is not given a discount. Half-sized clone four begets clone five. Clone Five discovers there’s no more money left to beget Clone Six and now has to figure out how to find five copies of himself and figure this whole thing out. The meeting spilled out into the evening as everyone except the clones quickly found the evening extremely monotonous after the third clone had gotten through the same cloning story. No one came to meet any of the Jeremys, instead keeping their heads low and scurrying off into the night like roaches when the lights turned on. The five clones huddled up, bumming smokes from clone 4, and attempted to put their heads together and decide the next steps. The six Jeremys silently stood puffing, no one daring to be the first to suggest a plan. The next step, it was decided, could wait until after dinner and so they sat off to find a diner and get their lives together. The Bronze Anvil's wait staff could hardly believe their eyes when six identical versions of Jeremy walked in. The lead Jeremy, the cleanest and least haggard-looking of the five, stepped forward and asked for a table. The entire restaurant stared as the host walked them to the back room, the ideal place for such a distracting group. Murmurs in the kitchen started shortly after. Clones were high society, a backup for the wealthy. They ate caviar and drank champagne, not jalapeno poppers and light beers at happy hour prices. The Jeremys took their places at the table in the back, four on one side and one at the head. The sixth Jeremy had gone to the restroom when they arrived and was now considered by all clones to have snuck out. The dinner was more awkward than originally anticipated. It was much harder to make any small talk when each member had the same memories and disposition to every topic. They all agreed that their issues likely began with their father and his absence from their lives and that the drive to make clones was due to the lack of siblings and the general isolation they experienced as a child. It was agreed they were dealt a rough hand in life but we’re all prepared to put in the work to turn their lives around. Small details such as identification and other documents were dismissed as their father could easily assist them with that. After all, it was the least he could do for his son. In an embarrassing display, the five of them barely managed to scrounge up enough money to pay for the dinner. The waitress had assured them it was fine if they couldn’t pay and the manager was also just as eager to have them leave the premises. They noticed most tables had left now and the lead Jeremy took that as a sign that perhaps it was time to leave. In the cool night air, they once again indulged in clone four’s cigarettes, each clone plus Jeremy assuring him that they would get him back next time. A plan was set to attend the meeting next week and each clone went their separate ways in the night, all united in the secret knowledge that they would not be attending next week as they had now been absolved of all sins thanks to their meal of self-discovery. Later that evening their father would receive five identical calls asking for just a bit of money and one call from the county jail. The meeting the following week would be filled with tales of the clones seeking out the members hoping to score and the conclusion that all six were banned from future meetings.

I was on the hunt for a new bookshelf. After two bum trips to thrift stores that didn’t have what I was looking for, I settled on a discount furniture outlet on the edge of town. It was flanked by cheap hotels and gas stations, a place as dismal as its surroundings. I steered into the pothole-ridden lot to see only one other car, parked near the entrance. The store itself was a simple brick slab, efficient and undecorated. I imagined some representative of the store, a heavy-set guy in his forties, saying in a cheaply filmed advert, “We pass the savings onto you!” I entered through the automatic doors and was greeted by easily thirty square yards of furniture, with an unmanned register tucked, almost as if it was hiding, in the far corner to my left. On one of the display couches near the sliding doors, a woman sat, scribbling away in a notebook that rested on her lap. She looked as if she could have been wearing a wig, but I couldn’t tell. Her gaze met mine, and her eyes darted down to the notebook, where she jotted another note. I eased past her, spotting some shelves lined up against the wall in the distance. The one that caught my eye (a small white shelf with a gold-hinged drawer at its bottom) was crammed in among the other second-hand and tarnished woodwork. Near the shelves, a greasy-haired boy of maybe eighteen was assembling a dresser, armed with a screwdriver and poring over the instruction manual. He looked puzzled in his band t-shirt and jeans, so I assumed he wasn’t an employee. I tried picking up the shelf, to carry it to the register, but it was bolted down and wouldn’t budge. I glanced around the store. No sign of an employee, and the greasy-haired kid didn’t even look up at me, so I didn’t bother asking him. I turned to see a pair of twins staring at me. They were identical twin sisters with dull blue eyes, one with her hair dyed candy apple red, the other black-haired, maybe in their early twenties. They wore matching tie-dye t-shirts. “Can we help you?” the black-haired twin mumbled. “Say it louder, so he can *hear* you,” a voice commanded from somewhere between the aisles. A tall older woman appeared, the owner of the voice. Her short, teased-up hair and thickly laid makeup gave her a constantly startled expression. She may have even had some Botox injections. “Yeah, I’m just trying to buy this shelf,” I said, not sure who to address. Just then a young man trotted up, in a work uniform, to my relief. “You finding everything okay?” he said. He had cropped hair and glasses, with an athletic build on a short frame. “Uh, yeah, I’d like to buy this bookshelf please,” I responded. He tried to pick up the shelf, but failed as I did. “Hold on a second,” he said, as he ran over to the greasy-haired builder and borrowed his screwdriver. He unbolted the shelf, and the twins hefted it up and carried it in the direction of the register, with myself, the employee, and the twins’ handler following behind. “So do you all work here?” I asked, to no one in particular. “No, we’re just volunteers,” the handler answered for all of them. While the employee was ringing me up, the twins didn’t rest the shelf on the counter. They held it dutifully aloft as I checked out. “I know you said this is a bookshelf, but it’s technically a dresser,” the employee said, after typing a few things on the store’s computer. “We have a whole section of bookshelves over there. Also, this one’s a display model. We could get you a new one in the box if you want.” “No, this one’s fine,” I said, wanting to end the twins’ certain misery. I paid in cash. “Which car is yours?” the black-haired twin asked, which I found odd, considering I was the only customer. I noticed the woman on the couch, glaring at me and writing in her notebook. I pointed out my car and they hauled it across the parking lot. I hurried up to beat them and unlocked the trunk. They plunked the bookshelf clumsily in and looked up at me with a smile. Were they expecting a tip? I got into my car, and the black-haired twin signaled for me to roll down the window. “Are you coming to the thing?” she said. “The… thing?” I answered, puzzled. “On Monday,” she said. “Uh…” It was Friday. I had no idea what she meant. “We work Monday to Friday, so…” the red-haired twin said, trailing off, and they both walked away. I drove home in a daze, unsure of exactly what had just happened. I pulled up to my apartment and killed the engine. Hopping up to open the door, and make way for the bookshelf, I was almost to the curb when I dropped my keys. They landed for a tantalizing moment on the sewer grate before slipping down into the murky brown water below. My neighbor, a man about my age who recently shot himself in the leg in a supposed suicide attempt, hobbled over and tried to help me fish them out with a magnet on a string, but it was no use. The keys must have been embedded in the muck and leaves that surely formed a layer at the bottom. He said I’d have to call a locksmith, and it was going to cost me. There was no way I was going in that fetid, dank, disgusting shit-colored water. I braced myself for a financial blow and arranged for a mobile locksmith to meet me there. They said it would be a half hour. Thirty minutes went by, during which I paced around and killed time on my phone. I called them again. Apparently, they had only one person out working, as the other had called in sick. He was out on a job, but he would be there in another thirty minutes. Just as I was about to call them again, a white van pulled up behind my car. Out stepped the twins from earlier. They bobbed over to me, lifted me up by my armpits, and carried me over to the sewer grate. The red-haired twin lifted the grate, then they both lowered me down into the sewer. The black-haired twin replaced the grate with a heavy clang, while the other got something out of the van. From my vantage point in the sewer, all I could see was flying sparks, when I realized they were welding the grate to its metal frame. “Don’t forget. Monday,” the black-haired twin said. They got into the van and drove off, leaving me knee-deep in brown slop. I fished around for a while with my feet, and finally heard a faint clinking. I clenched my eyes shut and plunged my hand into the water, trying not to think of what composed the slime I was sifting through. I felt the keys and snatched them up. I’d been holding my breath as if I was underwater. But there they were, muddied and dripping in my palm. The only thing I could think to do was call my landlord. She wasn’t exactly unattractive, but not the type you’d leap over a table at either. Her hair was usually unkempt and poofy, the color of a dog with mixed breeding, a kind of pale brown. After a few minutes, she called down to me from above. I explained what had happened, and she insisted I give her my keys and she would take care of it. Seeing as I was trapped, I obeyed. She grabbed them and seemed to have gone away, since she didn’t answer my cries. The curve of a pipe jutted out of the enclosure I was standing in, and from its bottom I noticed tiny bubbles rising to the surface. A small, amphibious-looking creature, something between an iguana and an otter, followed in their wake. It raised its head just above the surface of the water. “Follow me,” it said. Before I could question how, I looked down to see that I had taken the same form as the creature. “We’re going to get your keys back,” it said, sinking back into the water, into the pipe below, and I plunged in behind it. I followed it through a labyrinth of pipes and passageways, the filthy canals under the earth, taking quickly to my new body. I found I could glide swiftly through the water. I saw many others like us as I followed my newfound guide. We finally started heading upward and emerged in the bathroom of one of the apartments in the complex. I heard the sound of a television blaring and my landlord’s laughter in the other room. The bathroom adjoined the kitchen (just like in my apartment) and on the table I saw a pile of keys that nearly covered its surface. I dug around in the pile, trying not to alert my landlord. I hit paydirt and we slithered out the open window, heading for my apartment. I had to leap up and hang off the doorknob to insert the key. I turned the knob with my free hand (paw? claw?) and swung it triumphantly open. There in the middle of my living room floor sat the bookshelf I had gotten earlier. I found that my appliances and furniture no longer suited me. I was too small to use them, though I did enjoy a hot bath, joined by my guide. I asked it when I would return to my human form. It responded by telling me I was no longer human, and that this change was irreversible. I thought the pile of keys at my landlord’s must account for all the others I saw in the sewers. “What are we?” I asked my guide. “Do we even need names?” it asked me cryptically. “Were you always like this, or did you change as well?” “I was human once. And like you, a resident of this complex.” “When did you change?” “A few days ago.” “Why is this happening?” “I overheard some people talking about it. They said it was some de-population incentive. And that the government intends to use us somehow.” “Use us how?” “They didn’t say, but I imagine they might use us for assassinations or something.” “Assassinations?” “Think about it. We could get in just about anywhere.” “I’m not killing anyone.” “I’m not saying you will, but we should be on the lookout for any official-looking types. And get this. They said that it’s actually a virus doing this to us.” “But what about my landlord?” “Apparently certain people have been granted immunity, and it’s their duty to see the virus spread as quickly as possible. I guess if most of the population turned into—this, it would be nothing for them to bring about some big change. Maybe a new regime, it’s hard to say.” “There has to be some way for us to resist. We’ll be so large in number, it would be simple to overtake them.” “Not with this virus. It kills your morale.” “Well it didn’t kill mine,” I said, fuming a little. Something seemed to click in my companion’s head, and as he quickly scurried out of my apartment, I realized I was alone for the first time since my transformation. I stood on the sink and examined my funny little body in the mirror. The sleek, scaly body and narrow limbs; the thin, tapering tail. I thought I’d explore the sewer system and see if I could recruit the others into my newly hatched insurrection. But before I could get far, I noticed two of the creatures (two of my kind, had I forgotten so soon?) heading straight for me. They wore sunglasses and tiny tailored suits. “You need to come with us,” one of them said. I broke away to flee them, guessing my guide had ratted me out, but the other agent grabbed me by the tail. He produced two zip-ties from a pocket in his sport coat and bound my arms and legs. They slipped a pole under my lashings and carried me off through the sewers like a freshly slain pig for a beachside roast. When the others saw me, they averted their eyes. The agents took me to a bare cell somewhere in the maze of pipes and tunnels, where I was held for two days. On the dawn of the third day, I was hoodwinked with a black sack and taken by boat to an unknown location. All I heard was the oars dipping in and out of the water, which nearly lulled me to sleep. I was corralled up a series of pipes until my feet struck linoleum. I heard a door open as they shoved me into a large room, judging by the echoes of my footsteps. My hood was removed, and I knew right away I was back at the store where I bought the bookshelf. But all the furniture had been cleared out. The windows had been boarded up, and the only light was a small fire that burned within a stone urn at the center of the room. Around the fire, dozens of my kind were seated on the floor, arranged in a circle. Next to the urn was a stone slab, like something a vampire would sleep on. The crowd was silent, and I saw that all of them were bound at the wrist. I was forced down onto the floor with the rest of them. Two black-robed figures emerged from the bathroom and approached the altar. They stood before us in the center of the circle and lowered their hoods. It was the twins. The red-haired twin pointed at one of the seated spectators. “Arise,” she commanded. It rose and laid itself on the stone slab. The black-haired twin produced an ornate ebony dagger, and sliced open the belly of the offering, the sacrifice, starting at the base of the neck and fileting down to the base of its tail. The red-haired twin reached into the gaping incision and withdrew from the innards a blood-drenched plank of wood. The two agents who brought me here rushed up and fetched the piece of wood and attached it to an incomplete and similarly blood-soaked bookshelf, almost identical to the one that now sat in my apartment, which I now noticed was sitting next to the urn. I saw that only a single piece was needed to complete it. And somehow, I knew that I was next. But my fate was far worse. For my “transgressions against my race,” by plotting an uprising, I was sentenced to return to my human form (by way of an injected cure) and serve the same purpose as my landlord: spreading the virus. I was a devoted worker, and soon nearly everyone in the area had undergone the change.

The sun had already climbed halfway up the sky by the time Jack Smith shuffled into the kitchen, still in his pajamas. There was no morning rush to get ready for work, no briefcase to grab, no peck on the cheek for Lara as he dashed out the door. Today, like the days before it since the layoff, began without purpose. Jack was still grappling with the shock of losing his job. Just last week, he was a software developer at a bustling tech startup; now, he was just another statistic in the rising tide of layoffs. Disbelief and frustration gnawed at him, mingling with a creeping sense of inadequacy. In the living room, Lara was on her laptop, her brow furrowed in concentration. She looked up, her eyes locking with Jack's, and her face brightened. “I found something,” she said, a spark of excitement in her voice. It was a contest, one offering a year of all-expenses-paid living in a brand-new, state-of-the-art neighborhood. To Lara, it seemed like a sign, a beacon of hope for a fresh start. Jack listened as Lara explained the details. These contests were a dime a dozen, always promising more than they delivered. Yet, as he watched Zoe and Leo lean in, hanging on their mother’s every word, he felt his resolve waver. Leo was talking animatedly about the new friends he would make and the adventures Zoe would have. Seeing their excitement, Jack found it hard to maintain his skepticism. Mia, the oldest daughter, wandered into the living room, her camera slung over her shoulder. “What’s going on?” she asked, her tone a mix of curiosity and disinterest. “Mom found a contest,” Zoe chirped. “We could win a whole year of free living in a new neighborhood!” Mia raised an eyebrow. “Sounds too good to be true.” Lara smiled, undeterred. “It’s worth a shot. Besides, it could be a fun adventure.” Later, Lara pulled Jack aside to show him the almost completed contest application. All it needed was Jack to add his email and hit submit. The hopeful glances from Zoe and Leo, paired with Lara’s unwavering optimism, nudged him toward agreement. With a resigned sigh, he entered his email and clicked the submit button. They tried to make a small ceremony of it, injecting a bit of festivity into their precarious situation. That evening, under the vast expanse of the starry sky, Jack found himself alone in the backyard, his thoughts heavy. He needed something—anything—to jolt him from this rut. “Time to step up,” he muttered to himself, a personal call to action more than a wish for divine intervention. As he turned to walk back inside, his phone vibrated with a new email notification. He paused, pulling out his phone as he reached the door. The email was not merely a confirmation of entry but an announcement: “Congratulations! You have won the contest! Welcome to your new home.” Jack stared at the screen, a mix of disbelief and cautious hope stirring within him as he stepped back into the house, where a new path was set before him and his family. At dinner, Jack decided to share the news. The family gathered around the table, and he cleared his throat. “I have some news,” he began, trying to keep his tone steady. “We won the contest.” The room fell silent for a moment before erupting in excitement. Zoe and Leo cheered, Lara’s eyes sparkled with relief, and even Mia managed a genuine smile. “What does it mean, Dad?” Leo asked, his eyes wide with curiosity. “It means,” Jack said, “that for the next year, all our expenses are covered. Food, housing, everything. We get a fresh start in a new neighborhood.” The family buzzed with excitement, their spirits lifted by the prospect of a new beginning. As they finished their meal, the sense of hope and anticipation filled the room, setting the stage for the adventures to come. The morning of the move arrived with a buzz of activity. Jack and Lara were up early, making last-minute preparations. The contest organizers had sent a professional moving crew, and they arrived promptly at 8 AM. They were asked to fill out a quick form to let them know where to put all the boxes in the new home. Once that was complete, the crew, dressed in sleek, perfectly pressed uniforms, moved very efficiently. Every box fit perfectly, no wasted space, as if each item had been precisely measured and packed by a computer. Before the moving crew left, they gave Jack a pre-programmed GPS to get to their new home. Jack watched in awe as the crew packed their belongings with military precision. “This is incredible,” he remarked to Lara, who nodded, trying to keep track of everything. Zoe, meanwhile, was struggling with her own emotions. She was excited about the new opportunities but deeply saddened to leave behind her best friend, Ava. The night before, Zoe and Ava had shared a tearful goodbye, promising to keep in touch and visit each other. Today, Zoe was distracted, frequently glancing at her phone for messages from Ava. Mia, the oldest daughter, packed her art supplies with a mix of reluctance and sarcasm. “This place better not be lame,” she muttered, fitting her brushes and canvases into a box that seemed designed just for them. She snapped a final picture of her empty room, capturing the memory of her old life. Leo, in contrast, was bubbling with excitement. He couldn't wait to see the sports facilities in the new neighborhood, as promised by the email. He talked non-stop about the new friends he would make and the adventures awaiting him. As the family drove to their new home, the mood was a mix of excitement and melancholy. Zoe sat quietly, lost in thought about what she was leaving behind. Mia was withdrawn, listening to music and occasionally snapping pictures of the passing scenery, which she found unnervingly symmetrical and picturesque. Leo, on the other hand, chattered enthusiastically about the new neighborhood. It was about an eight-hour drive. After a few stops for gas and bathroom breaks, they were almost at their new home. As the GPS estimated arrival time was less than an hour, Jack had just driven into a tunnel, and it suddenly got really dark. Even with the headlights on, he could barely see much beyond the front of the car. He was driving slow and cautiously. The darkness and rhythm of driving made everyone kind of sleepy. Everyone was yawning. Jack was fighting sleep pretty hard, but one long blink later, they were out of the tunnel and less than ten minutes from their new home. When they arrived, they found their new house already set up, thanks to the moving crew. Everything was in its place, perfect. The crew had just left, making the transition unsettling in its smoothness. Their first night in the new home was a mix of emotions. Zoe struggled to sleep, feeling the loss of her old life acutely in the unfamiliar surroundings of her perfectly arranged new room. Jack and Lara tried to settle in, but the underlying sense of unease lingered. Mia sat at her window, editing the photos she had taken that day. Her mind wandering. Driving into town, she took a handful of pictures, and they all looked like they could be the front of a Better Homes and Gardens magazine. She thought she would really have to look beyond the exterior of this place to find interesting things. Jack, lying in bed, felt a strange mix of hope and skepticism. The convenience of the move and the perfection of their new home were almost too good to be true. As he drifted off to sleep, he couldn't stop thinking about the job prospects he would find in this new town. As Mia reviewed her photos that night, she thought she caught a glimpse of something odd outside her window—a shadow maybe. She shook her head, blaming the stress of the move and her imagination. The next morning, the Smith family woke up to their first full day in the new neighborhood. The house was bathed in sunlight, and everything seemed perfect. In the mail, they received a mandatory neighborhood meetup at the local community center at 4:00 PM for a mayoral celebration, but there would be events all day and all types of activities to sign up for. Jack and Lara decided to take the kids on a walk to explore their surroundings as they headed to the community center. They strolled down the streets, marveling at the perfectly manicured lawns and uniformly pristine houses. It was like walking through a real-life postcard. They soon found themselves at the community center, where various clubs and activities were advertised on a large bulletin board. Mia noticed a flier for a community art class and decided to check it out. It was happening in just an hour. “Mom, Dad, I am going to walk around and then check out this art thing in a little bit. I will be back before 4 for the mayoral ceremony.” Meanwhile, Leo was eager to dive into the local sports scene. He found a sign-up sheet for football tryouts at the community center. His excitement was palpable as he scribbled his name down. The idea of playing on a new team thrilled him, and he couldn't wait for the tryouts to begin. There were other kids his age that were signing up as well. They all stood around, introduced themselves, and talked about where they were from and their sports interests. Zoe, both nervous and excited about starting at a new high school, saw there was an orientation for new high school students just after lunch. Zoe explained she would like to attend. Lara said she would go with her. Later that day, Mia found herself in a bright, airy studio, greeted by the warm and welcoming atmosphere. There she met Alex, a quirky guy about her age who introduced himself as a huge art enthusiast. During their conversation, Alex made several amusing mistakes about art history, like confusing Leonardo da Vinci with modern artists or attributing a famous Van Gogh painting to Picasso. Mia found these slip-ups endearing, assuming he was trying to impress her. She appreciated his genuine enthusiasm for art. Jack decided to look into job opportunities and attended a local tech meetup, with Leo tagging along. He was surprised by the advanced nature of the projects discussed, such as developing software to predict human emotions. One job posting required "30 years of software development experience," which Jack found odd but intriguing. Another attendee at the meetup encouraged him to apply anyway, mentioning that companies often exaggerate requirements. Lara, always eager to get involved in the community, joined a gardening club she saw advertised. The first meeting was scheduled for the following week, and she was excited about the prospect of contributing to the community’s picturesque charm. At school orientation, the school was modern, with advanced technology integrated into every classroom. Zoe was impressed by the curriculum, which included courses like "Applied Quantum Mechanics" alongside traditional subjects. She felt a mix of curiosity and anticipation, looking forward to the new challenges. That evening at 4:00 PM, the Smiths attended a community meeting at the town hall, where they met the town's eccentric mayor, Mr. Hubble. He was overly enthusiastic about maintaining the town’s picturesque charm and spearheaded initiatives like "Pretend You Are a Pirate Day" that the entire town had to participate in. He let them know it was contractual as part of the contest rules. His eccentric nature added to the surreal atmosphere of the town. The Smiths got home and debriefed the day over dinner. Jack talked about the handful of jobs he applied for. Mia talked about making a new friend and the art class, Leo talked about all the football things he will do, and Zoe was excited about school and its STEM program but maybe not home economics so much. Lara shared her excitement about joining the gardening club and attending her first meeting. It was a good day, full of possibilities in this great new town. Mia reviewed her photos, catching glimpses of strange anomalies. Shadows moved unnaturally, and reflections didn’t match the surroundings. She dismissed it as stress but couldn't shake the feeling something was off. Leo attended his first football practice. The players were overly cautious, and the equipment seemed advanced beyond normal standards. Leo shrugged it off, focusing on making new friends and enjoying the game. Zoe continued her summer science project with her new friend, Jenna. They discovered an anomaly in the data, sparking their curiosity. They decided to investigate further, planning experiments to uncover the truth. Jack’s job search led him to an interview. The questions were strange, focusing on obscure technologies and requiring extensive experience. Despite this, Jack impressed the interviewers and was offered a position on the spot. Lara attended her first gardening club meeting. One of the members, Veronica, made a slip-up, mentioning a “biome simulation” when discussing plant growth. Lara brushed it off but made a mental note to stay observant. The family gathered for dinner, discussing their day’s events. Mia mentioned the oddities in her photos, Zoe shared her scientific discoveries, Leo talked about the strange football practice, and Jack recounted his unusual interview. Lara remained quiet, pondering Veronica’s comment. The Smiths began to settle into their new lives, noticing peculiarities in their everyday experiences. Jack enjoyed his new job, despite the unusual projects and colleagues who seemed oddly detached from reality. He once joked about the peculiar job postings, only for his coworker to respond with a blank stare and a rehearsed laugh. Lara’s gardening club became a source of amusement. The club's members were overly enthusiastic about synchronized gardening techniques, often breaking into impromptu choreographed movements while tending to their plants. Lara found it both entertaining and bizarre but played along to blend in. Mia’s art class provided endless amusement. Alex continued to make humorous blunders, like mispronouncing “Degas” as “Degah” and mistaking a Monet for a Matisse. During a nude drawing class, Alex accidentally set up his easel facing the wrong direction and spent the entire session sketching the wall. Mia couldn’t help but chuckle, finding his antics endearing in a strange way. Leo’s football games were a spectacle. The opposing teams, comprised of other neighborhood kids, played with exaggerated caution. The balls defied physics, curving in impossible arcs and bouncing unpredictably. Leo scored goals effortlessly, becoming a local sports hero. He also joined the school band, discovering a love for the drums and impressing everyone with his natural talent. Zoe’s scientific curiosity led her to more discoveries. She and Jenna found that certain materials in the neighborhood exhibited unusual properties, like emitting light when touched. They conducted experiments, trying to understand the anomalies, and documented their findings in a detailed journal. The town’s annual Founders’ Day arrived, filled with festivities and a sense of unease. The Smiths attended, enjoying the perfect weather and seamless organization. Suddenly, a blackout occurred, revealing hidden cameras and advanced technology embedded in the town’s infrastructure. Panic spread among the residents. The mayor, Mr. Hubble, tried to calm everyone, but the truth was undeniable. The Smiths, along with other families, demanded answers. A private meeting was arranged with the town’s producer. In a hidden underground facility, the producer revealed the truth: the neighborhood was an elaborate experiment conducted by aliens. The goal was to study human behavior in a controlled environment, blending Earth culture with advanced alien technology. The Smiths were shocked but intrigued. They had thrived in this environment, discovering new interests and strengthening their family bonds. The producer offered them a choice: continue living in the neighborhood, fully aware of its true nature, or return to their previous lives with a substantial monetary reward. After a family discussion, the Smiths decided to stay. They wanted to see where this new adventure would take them, embracing the unknown and the opportunity to explore the boundaries of their reality. With the truth revealed, the Smiths settled into their new roles. Jack excelled at his job, working on cutting-edge projects. Lara became a prominent member of the gardening club, sharing Earth’s botanical knowledge with the alien researchers. Leo thrived in sports, forming strong bonds with his teammates and enjoying the advanced training equipment. Zoe’s scientific curiosity led her to groundbreaking discoveries, making her a valued member of the town’s research team. Mia continued her photography, documenting the strange and beautiful aspects of their new reality. She developed a close friendship with Alex, who revealed his true identity as an alien observer. Together, they explored the artistic and cultural intersections between their worlds. The family gathered for dinner each evening, sharing their experiences and discoveries. They had embraced their new reality, finding joy and purpose in the unexpected twists of their journey. As the year progressed, the producer announced the end of the season and the start of a new one. The Smiths were now co-creators, contributing ideas for the next phase of the experiment. They introduced new customs and holidays, blending Earth traditions with alien innovations. Their story was broadcast across the galaxy, captivating audiences and sparking curiosity about human resilience and adaptability. The Smiths had become pioneers, bridging the gap between worlds and showing that even in the most controlled environments, the human spirit could thrive and flourish.

"Oye Chaval." Hey Kid. I’m sitting on a synth-crete block, overlooking the city a stone throw away from the winding highway. I smoke, while the taxi driver fixes a flat. The power cell converted beetle he drives, tops out at 60 mph and although it makes for a pleasant scenic drive, it means being stuck behind semi's full of trash or scrap metal as the driver forces the wore out engine up the turns of the mountains while we digest the headache- inducing fumes the semis pump back to us. One of these scrap trucks dropped a bent metal pipe and the wheel of the beetle ate it. The driver dragged the car for another mile before stopping at the road side market. "Chaval." I turn to face the voice and see a man standing arms length away, holding a cup from the coffee kiosk. For a second I think this man wants to sit next to me so I move my bag and set it by my feet, but he remains standing and I hear the rubbing of his synthetic coat against coat. I glance up at him and see his head cocked to the side in a ultra polite way as if examining me. "You remember me?" He asks. In English then in Spanish. His Spanish accent is very pronounced. Fast and full of lisps on the S's. Its strange to hear Spanish in this part of the world. After six months my ear has grown accustomed to the squeak and pip of asiatic languages. "Sorry I don't." I want to repeat this in spanish but it might come across as sarcastic. He nods and sips his coffee. I have forgotten about my cigarette and I tap the ash before taking a drag. The man is bearded, the kind of beard you see on philosophers and rabbis. He's wearing a baseball cap under his hood, presumably to fend off the micro drizzle, the mist of the mountains. A thin Moncler coat, the color of green grapes is unbuttoned and he looks very London-y. Complete with the fitted Levis and Adidas. but his look is worn and not intentional. He simply woke and dressed. No thought put into his outfit. I turn to the taxi driver, putting tools back in the boot. He gives me a signal that means he will be ready momentarily, thumb and forefinger held closely together and a reassuring smile. I see an older model BMW parked between the coffee kiosk and a noodle stand. That must be his. I wonder what a spaniard is doing in this part of Asia. For them the world begins and ends in Spain. The spaniard has not left, he shifts his view to the city down below, clasping his sunglasses down to his pocket and sighing deeply like a tourist ready to throw his hands out for the typical Facebook photo. There is a smile on his face and now I'm curious. "You really don't remember me?" He asks again. This time he speaks english. A suave European accent. Not a stuffy London one, more international, like a film star. I want to remember him. The voice. I might have met him in Spain when I was there for a year. He's build like a bouncer, strong though his coat. Maybe he kicked me out of a club in Madrid and I was too high to remember his face, but he remembered mine. I might have bought Molly from him. For all i know I could have slept with his wife. I just shake my head and look forward. He sits and pulls his hood down. The salt and pepper in his beard extends to the thick hair under his cap and my mind stutters, struggling to remember. "Soy yo, Paco." Its me, Paco. He holds his hand out. He thinks I'm messing with him, pretending to not remember. The heat from the cigarette burning down to the filter begins to hurt my fingers and I flick it. Taking the rough hand offered, my mind still a blank on this man. All the drugs I used in the past five years make my brain sluggish as i push my memory into overdrive. Nothing. But then he helps me. "El Puerto, Dos Mil Diez." The port, 2010. Vallarta? memories falls like sandbags on my shoulders. I know who he is instantly. Mexico. Five years ago. It feels like my childhood. I pull my hand away, I set it in my lap, but imagine it flipping the clasp on the bag at my feet and digging through the clothes folded there to the bottom where the prayer shawl I bought in Jerusalem is. It holds the remainder of my cash and passport along with the notebook full of names and email addresses with spoken promises to contact. "Would you gift me one?" He asks. Eyeing at the pack of cigarettes in my front coat pocket. I move my hand to the crumpled cigarette pack, wishing it was touching the shawl and grasping the cold metal under the slick booklet of my American passport instead. "Paco. I remember now." I add some surprise to my voice, I can't tell if he buys it or not. I don't really care, Im trying to figure out how he found me, more importantly why. I hand him the lighter imagining it as the oiled magazine loaded with all seven rounds I have, clicking snugly into the handle of the small Norinco type 59 I traded to a Heroin dealer in Saigon, which also happens to be wrapped in the same prayer shawl as my passport. Now would be the perfect moment, I think, as both of his hands are occupied lighting up. But the moment passes and all I can do is smile. "Tanto tiempo sin verte." I say. Long time, No see. He nods gravely, smoke escaping his mouth in a peculiar way as if he is chewing it. I light my fifth cigarette that morning and we sit and smoke like old friends.

The girl had learned to bind her breasts and harden her voice, to live like a boy in a city that cared nothing for her. She wore a boy's robe of faded grey, over brown breeches tucked in black boots, and her hair, dark as a raven's wing, was pulled into a messy knot. She stood by the wall at the end of a narrow alley, watching the crowded street with a thief's eye. The morning breeze carried the scent of buns, steaming and sweet, from the stall across the street. Her mouth watered and her fingers twitched for them, but she held herself back. She was no longer a petty thief. The martial arts she had learned from her Shifu had given her the courage to take from those who had more than they needed. The big fish, the fat cats, the ones who flaunted their wealth like banners. And so, she watched and waited, and moments later she was rewarded. Her big fish arrived in the form of a haughty noble lady. Miss Ding by name, the eldest daughter of the Marquess of Jiao. One would think that Miss Ding, having been robbed many times by the girl's nimble fingers, would have learned to hide her purse better, but she never did. The purse was, as always, dangling from her belt. The girl spied four guards trailing Miss Ding. But they were no threat — their mistress had a passion for shopping. Every stall and shop beckoned her like a moth to a flame, and as always, she had made the guards carry her acquisitions. They staggered and panted under the weight of boxes and bundles, and the girl was certain that these men secretly wished for a thief to snatch their mistress's purse, if only to end her buying spree, and spare them from adding more burdens to their backs. And fortunate for them, their pleas were about to be answered. The girl waited until Miss Ding stopped at a stall that sold animal-shaped sculptures. She feigned interest in them too, and edged closer to Miss Ding's side. With one hand, she slipped the purse from Miss Ding's belt, and with the other hand, she picked up a wooden sparrow. "What a fine sparrow," she exclaimed, holding it to her eye. The merchant grinned, "A lucky bird, young sir," he said, "It will bring you joy and peace." Miss Ding turned her head and saw the sparrow in the girl's hand. She scowled and snatched it away. "Hey! That's mine!" the girl protested, pretending to be offended. "Yours?" Miss Ding sneered. "You haven't paid for it yet." "I saw it first," the girl said. "Can you even afford it?" Miss Ding asked as she looked the girl over with disdain. "You!" the girl feigned anger. "You! What?" Miss Ding challenged. The girl huffed and turned to leave. She heard Miss Ding's voice behind her: "What a shameless beggar." The girl did not look back. She did not care. She only felt the satisfying weight in her palm.