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Mielikki

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Mielikki 2

TITUS

TITUS So, when all is said and done, this is how it’s to end? Is there no hope? None it seems. I am done for anyway but I am determined that Titus Oates will not be blamed for holding back the others. How did I end up in this God forsaken place with these people, these idiots, for whom I have no respect whatsoever? Under the dire leadership of this vain, self-glorious, mis-trusting, neurotic who has, somehow, led us to...what, our doom? Was there ever a chance that our quest, years in the planning, could, in reality, be achieved? Think back, Titus. Cast aside your pain and think. The outward voyage on the Terra Nova was, by any stretch of the imagination, an utter nightmare, with Scott not joining us until we reached South Africa, then behaving as though he was still unsure of how best to set about our task, calling endless meetings to question our strategies, over and over, with all of the other pseudo- scientists repeating their gobbledygook mantras until even I, a mere soldier, found myself lying atop my bunk at night with my head swimming with their nonsense and preventing me from sleeping. They all acted as though they were so far superior to myself, only taken on for this venture because of my previous ability with horses. They looked down upon me, disliked me from the off and I, in turn, despised them all for their aloofness and condescending airs. They could not even address me by my given name, with Scott, himself, having set the tone by referring to me as “Soldier” prior to our departure from Cardiff and the others following his lead in his absence. I have a name, you sons of whores! Which of them had contributed one thousand, hard earned pounds to the cost of this expedition, the attempt to be the first of mankind to reach the South Pole? None I wager. Yet, I, Lawrence Edward Grace Oates, nicknamed Titus, did have the wherewithal and put my money in to strengthen my application to be a part of this epic adventure. I have earned the right to be addressed as something other than “Soldier”. Mea culpa! I have nobody but myself to blame therefore for my own undoing. When I first set sight on the ponies that Scott had purchased to help us negotiate the ice ahead, I could have cried. Never had I seen such decrepit animals, fit only for the slaughterhouse. How could this man have put so much faith in such beasts? Naturally, I made my feelings clear only to be shouted down by the others for failing to show respect and questioning the Captain’s ability. Did I, they asked, think the Captain foolish enough to have paid five pounds each for beasts that were destined to be dog food? Yes, I answered and you shall see me proven right. I don’t believe they ever forgave me for casting doubt on the man they looked to as a Demi-God, incapable of a misjudgement of any kind. Who had ever heard of ponies being able to traverse ice, in the first place? Another hare-brained scheme of this mad man; one that nobody but I chose to question. But, despite all, I did my job, no easy task either; I kept those animals in the best possible health throughout the voyage and no man could have done more. Yet, I asked myself, if he had such faith in ponies, why did he also bring motorised sleds to aid his attempt? To my mind, this, too, was folly but they would brook no argument, believing that the Captain was actually doubling our chances of success. Dogs, too, were aboard the Terra Nova but I discovered that not a man among us had any experience of handling pack dogs with sleds. Was Scott, therefore, of the mind that he was tripling our options? Why, also, did he not join the ship until South Africa? When I asked, I was told that he had been “gathering funds”. Was it not a bit late in the day to be still attempting to raise capital for this expedition? And the ship, itself, this Terra Nova, a whaler, used to Scottish waters, how would it withstand the Arctic conditions. Why was I the only one to ask this question? After we had departed New Zealand, we were caught up in a storm that came close to sinking us but, somehow, the ship held its own and I was mocked for my earlier doubting of the old boat. But, when we reached the ice, we became stuck for almost three weeks, the ship’s engines struggling and unable to drive us forward, seriously shortening our ability to disembark and prepare for the epic march to the Pole, so late in the season was it, forcing us to winter on the ice. A portent of what was to come, one of the motorised sleds, that Scott had placed so much faith in, fell and sank below into the icy sea when being unloaded. The rest of them should have joined it, in my opinion. Great gloom descended upon us all, worsened by Scott’s revelation that we faced competition from the Norwegian, Amundsen. Yet, in the days that followed, my concerns deepened as it became clear to me, if not to others, that Robert Falcon Scott had not a clue about handling either dogs or ponies on the ice. With the fuel for the sleds tending to freeze, rendering them unreliable, each day, it became more and more obvious that, although they were difficult to handle and needed much time and patience to master, the dogs held our best hopes of success for they could pull great weights, quickly and forcefully, across the ice and were inured to the freezing conditions. Imagine my horror, therefore, when Scott announced that we would use the ponies to lay food depots during our first winter at our base camp. Why were others so slow to join me in questioning this mad man’s decision making? Our first dump, One Ton Depot, was to have been 80 degrees South but deteriorating weather conditions, and the inability of my poor beasts, despite their valiant efforts to haul in the snow and ice, meant that we were forced to stop 35 miles short. Several times, I urged Scott to kill the animals and put them out of their misery, the meat to be stored at the dump as extra provisions but he stubbornly refused. In the event, we lost four ponies, their bodies left to rot and waste in the snow. Back, once more, at camp, two more ponies met their end when they crashed through the ice and drowned. At least, I thought, he must now decide on the dogs as his best chance of success when the time came to make the push for the Pole. How wrong could a man be? This flawed person, prevaricating, unable to make a crucial decision, announced that fifteen of us would set off initially, in three seperate parties. One to take the motor sleds, one the ponies and one with dogs. Utter lunacy. No clue would he give as to which three of us would accompany him on the final march. Of course, everybody wanted to be part of that final assault for the fame and prestige it would bring us, myself as much as anybody. Conditions were treacherous. The motorised vehicles spluttered and delayed progress, the ponies, tough little creatures that I had grown fond of, could not handle the freezing conditions and, purely because not enough time had been spent training the dogs, they became fractious and unruly. I had always been in excellent physical condition and, apart from Crean, the Irishman, believed myself to be as fit, if not fitter, than everybody else and a prime candidate for the final march. Naturally, Scott surprised us all, yet again, when he announced that, though, he now intended for four men to accompany him instead of three, Crean, the strongest and fittest, would not form part of the final onslaught. Yet, I, “Soldier” was in. I could feel the silent wave of resentment from the others gathered that day but they, and I, were further shocked when told that no motorised sleds, nor dogs, nor ponies would make the final march. All those years of planning, all that unnecessary expense, the countless hours of attempting to overcome the difficulties presented by all three options and, yet, when the crucial moment was reached, Scott, in his self deluded fallibility, perceived that our best hope of success lay in man-hauling. Oh, how cruel the whims of fate; four men, exulting at having been chosen, above all others, by our flawed leader to make this final surge, expectant of glory and fame, yet, so soon to succumb to the agony and brutality of this Antarctic landscape. How awful the Polar days of hauling sleds through that freezing snow and ice while the bitter blizzards ravaged those parts of our faces exposed so that we could breathe and see. Yet, beyond any horrors that can be imagined, were those Polar nights, when we were forced to face our vulnerabilities, the shortage of food weakening our bodies, the self inspections confirming the onset of frostbite to our extremities, yet none of us prepared to admit the helplessness of our situation, determined to carry on like the good Englishmen that we were. Yet, each day, slower were we to pack up our camp, less miles were we able to cover. And yet, somehow, against all odds, we made it to the Pole. Scott, Evans, Bowers, Wilson and I, Titus Oates. But no words can begin to describe the depths of despair that was our reward when we discovered that Amundsen had beaten us to it by several weeks, leaving us the humiliating sight of his Norwegian flag. I believe that moment, for all of us, was the realisation that we would never again see our loved ones; that we would die out here in this Godforsaken wilderness. Scott rallied us for a photograph to commemorate our ‘ achievement’. I could not bring myself to stand close to them, these so called scientists whose endless insistence on experiments, collecting of rocks, fauna and such like had been allowed to take precedence over all other preparations for this venture. How different, with proper leadership, it could all have been. The agonies of the outward journey were nothing compared to the return, dehydrated, hungry to the point of starvation, suffering untold agonies from our injuries but, now, aware that it had all been for nothing for we had failed in our attempt to be the discovers of the South Pole. When Evans fell on the Beardmore Glacier, perhaps the one man among us that I had some respect for, a doughty Welshman, he suffered a concussion and was unable to continue. We had to leave him behind, forge on to a food depot, so desperate were we for provisions, then return for him for Scott’s decision to take four men, instead of three had diminished our supplies rapidly. But Evans was in dire condition and died that night. Coming back for him, in fearsome weather, weakened us further. Again, I questioned Scott’s decision making. Would it not have been better to have left the Welshman behind so badly injured had he been? Yet, still, we struggled on but, in my own muddled brain, I had determined that I would not become a hindrance to the rest of the party if I felt I could no longer carry on. And, here we are, on another agonising Polar night, huddled in our tent, perfectly pitched in blizzard conditions because Scott insisted upon nothing less, no matter our suffering or the external conditions, and, idiots that we are, we must obey our lord and master. I am dehydrated, suffering from malnutrition, can barely think straight but the pain in my feet is my overriding concern. Against Scott’s dictate, agonisingly, I remove my right boot and I am immediately assaulted by the stench of my rotting toes; gangrene. I do not bother removing my other boot, knowing full well that it is in even worse condition. I try my hardest to put my boot back on but the pain hinders me. My fingers, too, are touched by the ice and in poor condition. I turn to Scott and beg that, on the morrow, he leave me behind for I can go no further. Once again, he refuses to acknowledge my logical, selfless request. “Out of the question “Soldier”. We all stick together”. He leaves me no choice. They are all, Scott included, in just as much pain and distress as myself but none will admit it. Titus Oates will not be blamed for their demise. I force my foot into my boot haphazardly, not bothering to fasten the laces, stifling my agony by biting down on my saturated scarf. Half staggering, I rise and walk towards the flap of the tent, the roaring of the blizzard deafening. I turn to our illustrious leader and say: “I am just going outside. I may be sometime”. 

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Polor Opposites

You could say that Aunt Fran and I Mary Louise Stoker were polar opposites. Fran was straight to the point how blunt her words may sound. She was also mothers sister. Out living all her siblings. Looking at old photos of Fran in her heyday former model and actress. You could not imagine her as the old woman sitting in the arm chair. Tonight I had come to walk her terrier Rufus all white with brown over his left eye a trait with Jack Russels. At least Rufus was pleased to see me. Getting the lead we headed for the park opposite Thorn Cottage. It was a cool evening the fresh air did your skin good, and at 7pm the trees cat their dark shadows. The sky above laden with stars oh,so bright. There he was amid the stars forming a shape the amazing dancing bear. People had seen him before formed out of stars now I saw him? Bruno I would call him, what nationality Croatia, German , Swiss. Being a romantic I let my imagination run riot. Like the song"Just My Imagination Running Away With Me. Who recorded that The Flirtations, Smokey Robinson. Oh, the joy of the Wintry Season, seeing such a magnificent sight. With frost forming upon the ground below. It really made you feel so good about yourself Oh, joy romance being a writer this lifted and tugged at my heart strings. Would Bruno be shining in my window when I arrived home after walking Rufus. He stood so still and patient could the dear little dog, sense my excitement or understand? They say cats,and dogs have sixth sense. We continued our walk. The appearance of Bruno, had taken my mind away from Fran. Whovexpected it was your duty to visit, although I never would begrudge Rufus a walk. If I mentioned this the reply evening would be"Pass a cuppa from the pot, will you?" Did Fran feel safe in her own world and surroundings? Could she not afford to dream or share the joys of the Seaon with others. Did all the photos of Uncle Bertie and her son Tommy who had ied in a motor cycle accident some years ago. Make her feel like this? Could she see a younger vision of he sister deceased in me? Rumour had it that in 1936 Aunt Fran had surprised everyone by taking off with a troop of actors. Her father a preacher had never forgiven her. She had also done small screen and clothes modeling. Uncle Bertie had been dashing with a moustache. Later he had run a gallery. Knowing his acting days were long gone . He had never got over the death of their son. Tommy skidding on a motor bike at seventeen, into the on coming traffic. A bit like James Dean life cut short. My imagination running riot again? Turning at the entrance to the park with Rufus. I bid farewell to Bruno and the stars. Watching his leg still held in the air. I like to think of him dancing. Should I make wish on such a fine evening. To magic, love and life, with many surprizes of course. Oh, dream on, be happy not sad, Did Fran still have dreams did she cry for her past life and Bertie, gone some thiry year,ago. Maybe she did when noone saw her, whos to say? So maybe I wull make star shapes nd Bruno of course out of dough to sell on the qindow of my small confectioary business. Thats another thing, Fran could not understand why I wanted a business a woman near sixty than thirty. Well, Fran had lived her dream, like sime steamy novel, venturing into the unknown with her Bertie, keeping her igure to model after child birth. How good was that? In front of audience of students and photographers. Did coming from America change her? After the death of Bertie, So any questions, one dare not ask out right. Without being made to feel guilty or a fool for even bothering to care. When we choose Rufus eight years ago, it was acceptance all though the two were devoted to each other. He ws Frans eyes and ears. A bit deaf , and too proud to wear her specticals. Well, one could only do so much, If only she would smile and try to share in the well being of others their thoughts and dreams. " I saw an array of stars forming a great bear". "Forget any dreams, put the kettle on stoke up the fire." When not there she could do these chores herself. Was it down to not being able to live her life over again? So many had not had the choices in life,Fran had. Rufus had a large garden and his park to run in. Fran had managed to stay in her cottage all these years, was not that an achievement? Slowly I rose from the chair, putting the table lamps on leaving Fran and Rufus to their thoughts. Tomorrow would be another day. Work I enjoyed in my confectioary "Joys". Customers to serve, faces to study likes and dislikes for my writing. Imaging what lives people led by their clothes and attitude, a nod a smile made the world go around better. So much more than just sitting in an office watching time pass by. Maybe taking up writing in my forties, had made me more adventurous. I had done lot with life, and there was chance I would do and learn more. One never gre too old for surprizes and change even if it hit yo hard in the face sometime. Doubtful, that Fran would have the kettle on for me tomorrow or the day after. I watched as the stars shone through my linen curtains. Slowly I felt weary. Preparation for a new tomorrow. Turning over in bed I gave a sigh. Soon it would be time to start over again. Maybe I woyld see Bruno and his array of stars on the park again.

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Looking for the Light

Bev stared out of her Anchorage, Alaksa hotel window as night fell. She knew her chances to see northern lights would be better later, as the tour led them further north, away from the city lights.             She still couldn’t believe that she was here, in Alaska. She recalled the months before, planning and reviewing tour packages, the emails back and forth between her and a travel agent. She had read and reread the itinerary, imagining each location, forming ideas about how the transitions from bus to boat to train would be.             August 27- Arrive in Anchorage . Gather information packet in the lobby and meet your tour guide.             She had quietly observed the other tour participants at the information desk when she’d first arrived from the airport. This came easy, as she seemed to be unnoticed these days. An older woman, single, gray hair. As if she was fading from view the way the color faded from her hair. Most of them were retirees, couples, and one family with two older children, both girls. The mother stood stiffly on the side of the lobby, waiting with the family luggage and children, watching her husband ask questions about excursion opportunities. I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of that stare,  she thought. She wondered what the husband had done. He seemed unfazed, enthusiastically reviewing the additional options for adventure. He probably didn’t understand why his wife was so upset. He probably just fumbled some expectation of the wife who would now punish him for failing to read her mind. Poor guy. Poor, baffled men . Wait just a minute though! Maybe the wife had reasonable expectations. Maybe she had  tried to communicate them, repeatedly in fact. Maybe she had spent years actively seeking solutions with a husband who wouldn’t, couldn’t take her concerns seriously. Was this brief moment a representation of their life together? The mother, saddled with the family’s “luggage”, figuratively and literally, standing on the edge of the action to form a protective space around the children and their belongings, while the husband was free to venture out, and seek add-ons of adventures and experiences? A camera was slung over his shoulder, while the mother clung in her hand a printout of the itinerary and instructions for arrival. These tokens seemed to solidify who got to carry what. Why are we so often harder on the women? Why do we so often sympathize with the husband of an angry wife? Give fathers extra credit for those things that are demanded of the mothers? She remembered a time when her own children were little. She had raced around grabbing diaper bags, water bottles, snacks to make their way to a group music class where they sat in a circle trying out various instruments and learning simple songs. As they were heading out, she reminded her toddler to slide her sandals on while she juggled the baby on her hip, slipping on her own flip-flops. She’d felt triumphant as she drove, they would make the class on time today. She raced in, settled onto the floor, smiled at her toddler and exhaled in a moment of stillness waiting for the instructor to begin. The serene young teacher sat down in a wind of patchouli air as her long skirt whooshed down with her. She began the ritual welcoming song as she greeted each child by name. Though the teacher was one to always present a zen-like posture, something startled her, an expression of uncertainty spreading across her face that revealed her still human status under that Buddha statue gaze. She began to blush! Stutter even, something about class beginning in just a moment. What had gotten this eternally chill teacher so ruffled? She stood, her skirt flowing around her again, reestablishing the flowery presence of a pleasant spring day, and practically tiptoed on bare feet around the circle. We were all rapt with curiosity, and Bev had wondered if the others were similarly satisfied to see a glimpse of the girl under the identity she had so carefully cultivated and intwined with. Her curiosity evaporated into failure when leaning down, the teacher whispered into Bev’s ear, with the soft, sweet breath of Snow White, “Your daughter isn’t wearing a diaper.” Bev’s face had burned with embarrassment. As she stood up awkwardly with the baby, she pulled on her toddler’s hand, encouraging her up as she was protesting, “Why Mommy?! Why?!”  Her bare bottom, and Bev’s failure, were exposed as her toddler’s sundress rose up during the struggle. Sweating, Bev leaned down to whisper, “We have to go . Mommy will explain later.” The room was quiet as Bev worked her way out of the classroom, and she caught the quiet disapproval on some of the other mothers faces. Somewhere between getting ready to leave the house and the class, her toddler had managed to remove her diaper without her knowing. This was a rookie mistake, a fathers  mistake she thought. She knew if this had been her husband, the women would have chuckled, passed a diaper over to him knowingly, cutely, happy to be in the role of helper. She only felt their harsh evaluation, her not passing. This contrasted with the memory of her mother saying, “You’ve got a good man. Your man helps  you out. Will even change a diaper.” She remembered at the time wondering why he was cast as a supporting role to her central one, but that was a long time ago. She doesn’t have her husband to wonder about anymore, or children to be evaluated on. She’s not evaluated on much of anything anymore, having now dropped out of all the competitions, aged out. Sometimes this felt like freedom, sometimes it felt like invisibility. Or worse, irrelevance . In the worst times, it felt like profound Aloneness. This is what had brought her, alone and unlikely, to Alaska. She was tired of waiting for one of her adult children to join her, for a friend to stop flirting with the idea of a vacation and commit, of waiting for a future potential male companion. Anyway, she really had no interest in making friends with any men. Her husband had driven her crazy, to be sure, but she loved him and he wasn’t going to be replaced, and there was no use pretending she could. She had made the decision to do what she wanted now. After all, hadn’t the years been a series of nurturing, giving, with small moments squeezed in for herself? This was her chance, wasn’t it? She looked at the itinerary for tomorrow. August 28- Boat ride to Valdez . Her heart ached suddenly, a piercing grip. These were not new. She had come to live alongside them and wait them out. How Jim would have loved a boat ride through the bay. How she longed to read the details of tomorrows events aloud to him, the way she used to. She could imagine now his response, the way his eyes would light up, the way his face would become animated. Hot tears sprang to her eyes as she recalled the ways she didn’t always celebrate this about Jim. She understood now why the family in the lobby had been so intriguing to her. Hadn’t it been familiar to her, in an old but intimate way? Had she not identified with the mothers put off, left out expression? She had wondered why the woman hadn’t marched over, told the husband it was her turn to review the list of excursions while he tended to the children, luggage, and plans for the evening, but hadn’t she understood why it wasn’t just that easy?   Or was it? Had it been her own reluctance to relinquish control every bit as much as it had been her husband’s obliviousness at times that limited  her, and allowed  him? She had read an article the other day. Women today were calling the seemingly obliviousness of men about the needs and tasks around them “weaponized incompetence”. Is that what it was? Had she too weaponized her competence though? Used it as a tool to maintain her edge over the agenda for her family? She realized now how she wanted to sit down with both the husband and the wife. Teach them everything she and Jim had learned. How one day, one of them would ache with longing  for the other, ache in the deepest way. How he needed to pay more attention, and she needed to manage less. How she understood the absolute exhaustion of parenting in its different stages, and the way it left so little for each other, oneself. But, how these stages would one day be their sweetest, most cherished and treasured places in their hearts. How really, they just had to close their eyes and hold on sometimes, because one day, the ride would come to an end. She fought an overwhelming urge to find their room number, shake them awake, and fervently transfer these hard-won lessons. Instead, she whispered to Jim how much she missed him, that she would bring him with her tomorrow on that boat ride, and sat next to the ache instead of resisting it. She allowed herself a moment of excitement as she pictured whales or seals. In time, she fell asleep. She arrived early to breakfast the next day ready to get started, her grief hiding somewhere, or maybe still asleep, giving her a break. One of the new habits she had formed as a newly single woman was to read during her meals. She was enjoying the book she had picked up at the airport on Life In Alaska when she noticed the father and children in line at the breakfast buffet. She watched as he carried two coffee cups to the table and carefully added cream to one of them. The mother joined her family, took a grateful looking sip of coffee and thanked her husband for ordering it for her. They still held that air of left over tension of a recent fight, but they were working their way back toward each other then? Good , she thought. After an hour and a half bus ride through lush forest and towering mountains in the distance, they stopped at a grocery store for snacks to take with them on the boat. She took her time in the store, selecting fresh fruit and trail mix, almost telling Jim that she made sure to get him bananas. Passing the magazine and book racks, she paused at the kids puzzle books. Thinking of the children on the bus, she chose one with dinosaurs on the cover. She had decided that the couple had to fumble and learn on their own, the way all of us did. How she had hated as a young mother the amnesia older people got about that stage in life, the way they forgot the messiness of life in the trenches and time had filtered out the bad memories, the way all of you had acted when you were trying to survive another day together, frazzled and tired. How they would look at her in the store, a baby crying in the cart, a toddler whining for candy, while she tried to hurriedly gather the items on her list. An older person would invariably stop her as she pulled the candy out of her now crying child’s hand with the proclamation, “Enjoy every moment. They are over too soon.” She would do her best to smile politely while continuing to extract the candy from her child’s death grip. Inside she would be thinking, When I am old, I will never stop to offer some trite advice from someone who has long since made their way out of the trenches, who has long since forgotten the trials of it, who is no longer qualified to speak to it . She decided she  would only nod in understanding, or smile encouragingly, or today, take them a puzzle book which she hoped would provide a few moments of peace and quiet, and remind them they were part of an ancient and timeless quest, that so many of the rest of us have been on. A reminder that they would get to the other side of it, to just try to hold on through it. She hoped the gift would say all of this. As she carefully made her way back to her seat, a bag in each hand, she leaned over with the puzzle book to the family and said, “It is beautiful to see a family on this tour.” The family thanked her gratefully and she thought she could see a small look pass between the parents. She thought it looked like love. 

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Flames of Sepheron

Tempora, Ali, and Jodia were named the newest Torch-bearers of Seledon. The honor of carrying the Flame of Sepheron to the other cities of Seledon was one of the greatest honors. Each year the newest Torch-bearers were sent across the continent to refresh the Holy Flames in each city. If these flames were not renewed with new dragon-flame before the end of the cycle the Darkness would be allowed to take over. The Darkness was just what its name suggested. It was an all-enveloping darkness that destroyed everything that it touched. The only thing that has been found to hurt it or even keep it at bay is the dragon flame. Sepheron is the eldest of all dragons on Seledon. Her flame is strong in the ways of magic and has been found to keep the Darkness at bay for the longest amount of time. Other dragons help keep their small towns or dens safe from the Darkness, but they must stay close and refresh the flame often. The Torch-bearers will have to travel between cities each day. If they are caught outside, they only have a small piece of dragon-flame to keep them safe throughout the night. Torch-bearers have been known to disappear, lost to the Darkness on such occasions. As the two suns of Seledon rise, the Torch-bearers start their trek across the continent. They each carry a torch of dragon flame. The flame glows purple, bright and clean, showing a renewed future for the people. Ali leads the way as he is the orienteer. He’s a small-framed boy, only 5’3” at the age of 18. Despite his small stature, Ali has a fierce determination to do what is right. He knows the way to each city and how long it should take to get there. Jodia is the exact opposite of Ali. He was chosen for his brawn, at 6’8” and over 250 lbs, Jodia’s made of pure muscle. He can walk all day and night if needed and has shown his bravery time and again. Jodia is older than most Torch-bearers at 21 but he worked harder each year to prove his worth. All of that work had finally proven itself and he was now a Torch-bearer. Tempora was not proud to be a Torch-bearer. Although it’s a great honor and it will set her up for a great life, she was given information that the others weren’t. Everyone knows that the Torch-bearers are sent each year. She was told that the Darkness had noticed the power in Sepheron’s flame and had been particularly keen on stopping her Torch-bearers. The last two sets of bearers had not made it across the continent. This left the cities to fend for themselves with younger dragons and weaker flames, several cities and their dragons had fallen. The continent of Seledon was losing its war. This added to the weight on Tempora’s mind, she wanted to stay and practice her magic and become a warrior against the Darkness. Having dragon-magic run through your veins was rare in Seledon. In the past, the magic had been more abundant, but as the Darkness grew, they were lost. While the magic is passed on through the bloodlines, there is the occasional user who turns up out of nowhere. People say this happens when there is a great need for them. Tempora is one of the latter types. Knowing this and the legends of why someone is suddenly born with the power to use dragon-magic, Tempora fought against the title of Torch-bearer. “If you know that there will be a great need for the power, why send me on this mission? Leave me here to protect Sepheron’s city. Isn’t that why I was born with the use?” Tempora had argued with the council. In the end, they just claimed Sepheron’s Will had chosen her to not only wield dragon-magic but also to become a Torch-bearer in her name. As the trio leaves Spheron’s city, Tempora confides some of her information to Ali. She informs him that they need to find a new path, one that Torch-bearers before them have not taken. Ali nods his understanding and tells her that he will set a new path after Amira’s city, the first city on their trek. Tempora thinks about this and agrees. Ali got the trio to their first destination unscathed. As they approach the city, word spreads. They are greeted by every member of Amira’s city. The people came out in droves to watch the Torch-bearers rekindle their dragon-flame. As they approach the center of town, Tempora sees that their dragon-flame is weak and has turned a sickly orange. Amira’s color of a deep forest green has been added to the flame to help keep its strength, but even that was waning. Amira wasn’t strong enough to rekindle the flame fully and people had been lost to the Darkness in the past weeks. But with a new touch of dragon-flame coming from Spheron, the city would be safe again. Though Tempora was the leader of the expedition she let Jodia set his torch to the flame so that he could be the savior of Amira’s city. As Jodia approached the flame with his torch the entirety of the crowd held their breath. As the two flames touched the city’s flame flared a bright purple, showing that Spheron’s flame ruled once again. The crowd let out their collective breath in a loud cheer that shook foundations.  That night after everyone had left, Tempora and Ali went over the route that they would take to the next city. Trexxon’s city was a long walk from Amira’s. They had to find a quick way over the river and through the mountains. With the plan in place, the trio pulled the shutters to keep the light of the dragon-flame out of their eyes as they slept. With the dragon-flame keeping watch over the city, everyone slept easy. As the two suns rose on the horizon they set out on the next leg of their journey. They talked easily at first then fell silent as the day wore on. It wasn’t until after their midday meal that Jodia noticed that they were not on the trail that he had expected. “Why are we not on the traditional trail to Trexxon’s city?” he asked. “We have our orienteer and I am letting him pick the trail that he deems best for our current situation,” Tempora responded. “We are to follow the traditional path, per order of Sepheron’s Will,” Jodia demanded as he dug in his heels and stopped moving forward. He seemed to be thinking about a way to get back to the traditional path. Something he couldn’t do without Ali’s help. “Jodia, we have to make our path. Others have failed along the traditional path. You know we must succeed in this. You saw the flame as Amira’s. It was almost dead and people have fallen to the Darkness because of it. Let me lead. I know what I’m doing,” Tempora pleaded with the big man. Jodia seemed to think on this for a moment, then nodded and caught up with his compatriots. Ali turned back and led the way forward. As midday approached Tempora could see that they had made a grave error in judgment. With the rains over the past cycle, the river had overflowed its banks and washed out the bridge that they needed to use to cross. Ali was devastated at his miscalculation. He never thought about the storms this year and their effect on the river. Jodia walked to the river’s edge and looked at the bridge moorings. “I could tie a rope off here and ford the river myself, then tie it off at the other end,” he stated as he returned to the others. “No, that will take too much time. Then you would be drained and unable to travel as fast as we need through the mountains,” Ali pointed out. “You’re right Ali. But if I expend my energy, Jodia would be able to carry me without much of a burden, until I was able to regain my strength,” Tempora mused. “You can’t ford that river,” Jodia pointed out. “No. But I can create a space on top of the river for us to cross. It will cost me a lot of energy as I am new to magic use. The other part is that I will need to use one of Sepheron’s flames to have enough power for all of us to cross,” Tempora explained as she ran through the correct spell in her head. “That’s blasphemy! You cannot use the flame for your use,” Jodia explained as he ripped the torch out of Tempora’s hand. “It's that or we walk down the river to the next bridge. That will put us outside after the suns set. Which would you rather choose? Sepheron’s Will chose me to be a magic-user. Then chose me to be a Torch-bearer. How many people do you know that’s been both? Maybe this is why I was chosen. Do you want to go against her will?” Tempora stood with her hands on her hips, staring Jodia down. Reluctantly, Jodia handed Tempora her torch back. Quickly, before she lost her own will to do this, Tempora ran to the river and set her feet to cast the spell. Jodia and Ali stood back and let her run through the spell. Slowly, the river calmed directly in front of Tempora. As the calmness spread across to the far bank, the flame of Tempora’s torch sputtered and went out. Jodia ran to Tempora’s side as she collapsed onto the ground. In front of her, the river was flat and covered in several inches of ice, creating a bridge to the far bank. Jodia, wasting no time, scooped Tempora up in a shoulder carry and ran onto the ice bridge. Ali followed a bit slower until he got his feet under him. He then rushed to keep up with Jodia. A few seconds after the trio reached the far bank Tempora released the spell and the ice fell into the river and washed downstream. Before she passed out Tempora’s torch sputtered and almost relit. Tempora tried to pour her remaining energy back into it, but she didn’t have enough left. Jodia set Tempora further up on his broad shoulders. He looked at Ali and nodded for him to take the lead. Within minutes the ground started to rise to meet their feet. Jodia sighed heavily knowing the trek up the mountains was going to be a lot tougher with Tempora passed out on his shoulders. A few hours later, Jodia started to flag. Tempora was waking up but was still too weak to walk on her own. At the top of the mountain, Ali stopped them all to tell them the bad news. “With the time we lost at the river, and the slower pace that we have had to take with Jodia carrying Tempora, we won’t make the city by nightfall,” he explained. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think that spell would wipe me so badly. I’ve caused our mission to fail like so many others,” Tempora cried. “What do you mean?” Jodia asked as he put Tempora down gently. “I was given the task to make sure we made it through each city. The last few trips have been cut short, like ours is about to,” Tempura explained. She laid on her back and thought through their options. Suddenly, she popped up and looked directly at Jodia. “You are stronger than you think. If I take the flame from Ali’s torch, I can infuse you with extra strength and you could run to Trexxon’s city. You could make it and keep the trek on schedule,” “You’re weak, would that kill you?” Ali asked. Tempura nodded and hung her head. “At least the mission would continue.” Both Ali and Jodia refused this option. Instead, Jodia stooped to help Tempora to her feet and started walking the trail. Ali watched for a second then decided that he agreed and followed the two down. They would get as far as they could before nightfall set in. Maybe he was wrong, maybe they could make it. The trio watched the suns set with defeated eyes. They had made it farther than Ali had hoped, but they were still an hour's walk from Trexxon’s city. As true night settled in the trio settled down and watched the Dragon-flames of Trexxon’s city create a white light on the horizon. They planted their torches into the ground and waited to see if the Darkness would appear tonight. The wait wasn’t long. It seemed to have been following them from the mountains. Tempora could feel its hunger even before she could see it. The trio huddled together inside the light of the dragon-flames knowing it wouldn’t be enough to save them. The Darkness settled around them, blotting out the horizon and the stars in the sky. Voices started to scream inside each of their heads, telling them that they would fail. That they were chosen wrongly and other things to bring down their self-esteem. The Darkness fed on depression and negative thoughts, making it stronger with each one. The Darkness pressed against the edges of the purple light, causing the dragon-flame to pulse in response. Ali, who was already down on himself was the first to succumb to the depressive thoughts the Darkness was trying to spread among them. He cried out into the night about his failure and how he had doomed his mission. Ali stood to fight back against his thoughts. As he did his leg skirted too close to the edge of the light. The Darkness took its opportunity and snatched Ali into the Darkness. His screams echoed into the night until they were suddenly cut short. Tempora and Jodia stood back to back within the light and started to talk to each other to keep the other thoughts at bay. But even this allowed the Darkness to push further into the light, ignoring the pulsing of the dragon-flame. It had only been minutes since the onslaught had started, yet the couple now stood inside an ever-shrinking ring of light. Jodia took his torch and tried to swing it at the black wall to force it back. The first swing seemed to surprise the Darkness, but on the second swing, the torch was ripped out of his hands and thrown into the night. The dragon-flame sputtered and went out in before it hit the ground. With only one torch left, there wasn’t enough light to save the two survivors. Tempora turned to Jodia with eyes full of sorrow. Jodia thought it was for failing to get them out of this situation, but he had read it wrong. Suddenly, Tempora grabbed Jodia by the shoulders and spoke a spell into his ear. In horror, he watched as his muscles shriveled down to nothing. Tempora had stolen his strength to try one last spell. Jodia fell to the ground, losing the strength to even stand. Tempora was trying one last gasp to save their lives. With all of her and Jodia’s might combined, Tempora called upon the magic of Sepheron. She called upon the flame that she carried and asked it to swell inside of her until she could no longer take it. Jodia gasped as their last torch sputtered and went out. A split second later Tempora screamed into the Darkness. “BY THE FLAMES AND WILL OF SEPHERON!!” A blast of purple light shot out of Tempora in all directions. The light was so bright that Jodia could see the creatures in the Darkness. They were withered beings, human-like, yet twisted and contorted in their hatred of the light. Above the bodies floated tortured souls guiding the bodies to their targets. Among them, not as withered, was the body of their compatriot, Ali. That’s why the Darkness grew each year. It was because it grew stronger by taking the bodies and souls of its victims and adding them to its mass. As the light dissipated, the Darkness folded in again. Tempora thought that she had failed again. Quickly, she turned to Jodia, grabbed his torch, and created the smallest bit of flame to light the torch. The flame had to live on. It was more than she had to give, but she had to keep the flame alive. It had to reach the next city. The torch sputtered, then took, and the flame grew. Tempora sighed with relief. Then the flame grew brighter than a torch could glow. As it grew Jodia felt his strength returning. He was finally able to stand. The dragon-flame grew ever stronger, filling the sky with purple light. More light than any amplifier could ever produce. As they stared into the light, a shape took form. It was the shape of a large dragon. Though not just any dragon, it was Sepheron, the largest and eldest dragon in the land. “I heed your call, my child. I will make sure you make it to your destination. This abomination has taken enough of my people. Sepheron’s voice chimed through their heads. “I’ve had ENOUGH!” With her last words, the light pulsed out one final time and dissipated the Darkness completely. The two survivors fell to the ground in fear and praise of their Dragon. “Stand. You two were chosen for this reason. Your sacrifices and will were what I needed to gain the strength to defeat the Darkness that night. Unfortunately, it is a short-lived victory. It will return, but maybe it will think twice about attacking my Torch-bearers again. Now quickly get to the safety of Trexxon. She will keep you safe until you can continue your important journey.” With that Sepheron was gone. All that was left was the stars in the sky, stars that neither of the two had seen in their lifetime.

a8hq94

The Jar

When you’re young, you hear many stories and you are gifted quotes and maxims aplenty. Few of them stick, and even those that do stick, only hold on by the skin of their teeth or by their cracked and raggedy fingernails. If you’re lucky, you’ll remember them when it counts, but mostly they’ll come to haunt you with their meaning after the fact, and you’ll wonder just how much you have forgotten and how different things might have been… If only you’d known. My Uncle Freddie told me a story once. Now I think on it, he probably told me the same story a whole bunch of times. There are people who do that. They have a repertoire of stories and some will apologise for the telling of the same story for a second time. If you are a good and kind person, you will say nothing other than to encourage them to tell the story you already know so well, having heard it a hundred times before. Why? Because stories have a habit of moving on. Stories are just as alive as you and I, only more so, because they thrive on the meaning we give to them. And every time a story visits us, we give it something a little different. Just the same as we never give the same gift twice. Uncle Freddie’s story was about a jar. At least that was what I took away from it. The story was silly and frivolous and I always took it on face value. It was a tale of animals doing what animals do, which was to be dumber than us humans. Back then, I missed the point of a lot of things. I didn’t think that animals had much to teach a person. I mean, you don’t see a mouse at the front of a class teaching the kids maths, do you? So all I took from that yarn of Uncle Freddie’s was entertainment. I wish I’d attended to it a little more and equipped myself with the wisdom that it offered. My head is a little older now though. I was young back then, but even if my old self went to visit that young man, I’d treat him the same way as the stories and all the other wise words I was gently assailed with. Wisdom is the water that runs off a duck’s back. Plenty of it surrounds the duck as it is, why would it need anymore? We are born into a complete world that just is. After that, when we join a new group, we apply the same frame of mind. Everything we see in our first moments has been there forever. Who are we to know any different? I saw this at play a few times and it tickled me. There was a guy joined our work detail just two weeks after me. Took me a while to realise that he thought I was time served and part of the furniture of the place. Even when I reminded him I was a newby and I’d only started a fortnight before him, he couldn’t shake the habit of his seeing me as well established and a font of all knowledge. After a few attempts to dissuade him of this, I guess I went with it. The line of least resistance is a sultry temptress, she promises much but gives you the hardest of times if you’ll let her. Life in Carfax was tough. Then it got tougher. We all noticed the tougher bit. No one likes change, even if it’s beneficial. Most change can be beneficial, if you give it a chance. Finding out how to give it a chance is the tricky part. Seems too tricky for most. The reason things got tougher was the waning light. Light in Carfax was always at a premium. But when I was born into that part of the world, you could set your watch by it. Then things changed and the light got slacker and slacker with its time keeping. At first the differences were small, but always noticeable. We lived in hope that the loss of light was temporary, but we knew that could not be the case. How could it? Our days had been the same for as long as any of us could remember, and there was no record of deviations in the period of light afforded us each day. A standard day in Carfax consisted of six hours of daylight. Three hours from nine in the morning until noon and three more hours from two in the afternoon. We joked about lunching in the dark, but it was no joke really, it just was. Unless you were a part of the elite that was. Those who lunched in the light were privileged. For the rest of us, daylight was to be used and used wisely. There was a monetary value to those six hours. That was when most of the work took place. The darkness in Carfax was nigh on absolute. Only essential lights punctuated the dark and these were kept to a minimum. So when daylight ended, everyone needed to be back home and indoors, cooking and reading by candlelight. The timings around daylight were cut as fine as fine could be, so when the daylight ended just a few minutes earlier than expected, there was pandemonium, panic and chaos. People died on the first day that daylight ended early, and more died each and every time the light didn’t stick around like it always had. Worse still, there was a growing unease at what everyone thought was happening to them personally. The very bedrock of society had cracked and now it was slipping from under our feet. Violence broke out as the anger of chaos filled the populous. The ties that bound became strained and then they started snapping. Neighbour turned on neighbour. Families squabbled, bickered and this escalated until the threat of an all-out war became very real. A war on what though? That thought troubled me, as did a number of other thoughts and worries. It seemed to me that we were fighting each other because we couldn’t see what was really at play here. We had no one else to blame, and so we blamed each other. We had to do something and in the midst of our anger we ceased to think and we only acted. It was around this time that I began to remember more of Uncle Freddie’s story. The story of the jar. Only the jar wasn’t the only part of the story. The important part of the story was, as you would expect, what was in the jar. The jar was filled with two types of ant, and all was well in that jar. The ants were ants and they were busy being ants. Life as far as all the ants were concerned, was good. You can’t get better than that, however hard you try. Try too hard and you’ll break it. There is an equilibrium that needs to be maintained. Some would call it inertia, but that’s perspective for you. Then one day, the jar got shaken. As the jar shook, the lives of the ants was disrupted and the ants didn’t like it. They didn’t like it at all. There was fighting. Now in the story, the ants fought the other, type of ant. They found something different, labelled it other, and they put the blame on the other so they could attack it and in doing that, somehow feel better about the situation and themselves. I think in practice, there would be just as much fighting between the very same types of ants. Lots of that fighting would be hidden behind closed doors, but you’d see the after effects if you chose to look up and see the bruises, downcast eyes and cowed postures. That is the way of the world and there’s no changing it, unless you see it for what it is. The jar shook again. There was more fighting. This part of the story was simple and made sense to me from the off. The more the jar shook, the more the ants fought. But then came the coup de gras. Uncle Freddie grinned and added to the story with one simple fact and in that moment, everything changed. You see, there was a hand shaking the jar. There was a reason for the shaking. There was a will being applied to the jar and that will caused the conflict inside the jar. If only the ants had ceased fighting each other, looked out from the jar and seen that hand, they’d know who was to blame. Now I remembered the story, I had an even more important question forming in my mind. Why? Why did the hand shake the jar? I wanted to know that, but I knew I was already applying this to my own situation and the matter of the failing light. Why was this happening? Now, you might think me stupid, and I guess we are all stupid to some extent or another. I know the five year old version of me was far more stupid than the twenty five year old version of me, but if my twenty five year old self was to confront my five year old self, call him stupid and glory in how much better he was than that sweet child? Well, that’s about as stupid as stupid gets. I may still have had much to learn, but what I did know was that asking my question freely in an environment of fear and violence was very likely going to get me hurt and maybe even killed. A man needs to know when to keep his mouth shut, and even when he does, he still speaks too much. So, I kept this question to myself, and I mulled it over as events unfolded and the light became less and less reliable, so much so that our crops began to fail. I asked myself the unaskable question, and as I did, I wondered why I seemed to be the only one who wanted that answer. Why we’d made a world that prohibited a search for truth. Made dangerous any attempt to make everyone’s lives better. Would the ants thank one of their number for pointing out the hand that grasped the jar? Or would they kill that ant and return to the shadow of their collective ignorance? Preferring to kill each other than face the reality of their existence. I didn’t know the answers to any of my questions as the world around me plunged into layer after layer of anarchy. I felt utterly alone. I also felt helpless and in that helplessness was hopelessness also. There had to be something I could do. Something we could all do, but there was so much noise and distraction I began to doubt that any of us would survive this. The loss and the waning of the light was a continued degradation. There was a pattern, and the pattern put simply was that it was getting worse. It were as though the light had gotten old and was no longer reliable. The consequence of old age loomed and the eventuality of the death of the light could only lead to the demise of everyone who dwelt under it. Only now did we fully appreciate that, despite three quarters of our day being in complete darkness, we were creatures of light. We flourished and were at our best when we were in the light, responding to the light. Being a part of the light as a collective. When half of the six hours was lost to us, people started taking their lives. Worse still, there were rumours of sacrifices. Cults forming around the last of the pools of light. Cults of darkness twisting notions of light for evil purpose. With the shortage of light came related shortages. Food was chief amongst them. There was an expectation of an escalation of violence. Looming riots and carnage. But something strange happened as the light gave out, and with it the prospect of a return to the happy and prosperous times the light had provided for everyone. Once the flame of hope guttered and choked, the population fell into abject apathy. Now it was clear that death was approaching, a stillness fell upon the land and everyone quietly awaited the finality of their fate. In that silence, there was no room for me to ask my question, and so I took to wandering in what little light remained. I was searching for an answer in this faltering world of ours. I was the only one who didn’t want to accept my fate. I suppose I’d found a different way to fight the certainty of my death. I didn’t have a plan. Not one that I dared to articulate anyway. My wanderings were anxious and I was fearful every step of the way. No one in Carfax left the confines of the village. No one ventured forth. We were told from an early age that there was nothing out there for us. But there were also stories, myths and legends of what lay in wait beyond that which we could see. Besides, to be a Carfaxer was to be content with our lot. We had everything we could ever need, or at least we had had before the light began to desert us. Again, I was alone. My steps tentative at first, barely daring to look up in the direction I was travelling. As the days went by, the evidence of my footsteps emboldened me and I began to realise that sometimes you don’t need a fence or a wall to bar your way, or more to the point, that some boundaries are not visible. Those invisible restrictions are sometimes far more powerful than that which you can see. For anyone with adventure in their heart, a physical obstacle is a welcome challenge. A mental obstacle can crush the spirit of adventure, that in itself is death. After a time, I walked further than I could see, experiencing elation as a result of daring to do something that, although not exactly forbidden, had been removed from me all the same. I was an explorer, and there was something exciting about my illicit activities. I wanted to share my adventures, but every time I returned home, there was little that resembled a welcome and soon enough, few who resembled the people I thought I once knew. All of them seemed lost. Lost in their own troubles. Troubles that seemed increasingly petty to me. It was as I returned to this state of group introversion and depression that I understood that there was more than this not only for me, but for everyone here. That there was a world beyond Carfax. That was when the hope within me bloomed. That was when I realised what it was that I had been wandering towards. And so I went again and I went harder, and I looked up. I strode forth and I felt my heart swell and a power flow through me. I was grinning for quite some while before I even registered that I was happy. Happy in my endeavours. At last I was doing something and I was going somewhere. The nature of my destination was unknown to me, but I knew there was a place out there that was worth finding. Somewhere better than Carfax. A place better for my Carfaxers. The real people that lay under that self-concocted gravy of gloom. In the distance there was a hill. I saw it and I just had to walk up it. The climb was unusual in these flat lands, and I was gasping even before I was halfway up. But when I reached the summit, I threw my head back and laughed with the exhilaration of it all. Then I cried. I cried tears of joy and then tears of sorrow. As my sobs subsided I lowered my head and that was when I saw it. Then I ran. I ran towards what I’d seen. I ran towards something that I’d never before seen. But I knew. I knew and in that knowing, I knew that what I saw was broken. Never have I seen something broken and rejoiced. Never has something wrong been so welcome. There was a split, or a crack. What I saw had broken open. I couldn’t help thinking of an egg as I ran as fast as my legs could carry me. An egg cracking open to reveal new life. That crack was further away than I had expected. I was gasping and suffering cramps as I reached a split in the reality that had held me in its hand for the entirety of my lifetime. I stood just short of the gap before me and I almost gave up there and then. I almost stopped and then turned around. There was an unseen obstacle before me and I felt its power over me. It almost won the day, even as light spilled through that gap. Light that invited me to come and see more. To see where it was coming from and what it was illuminating. Only as I forced myself forth and stepped through that gap and discovered the world outside Carfax did I remember Uncle Freddie’s other story. The one about the fleas in the jar. Once, the jar had its lid on, and the fleas learnt that it hurt and was also futile to jump so high as to hit the lid. They learnt there was no point to jumping too high. So they only ever jumped short of the lid. Then the lid was removed, and not one flea ever jumped out of that jar. Not even generations later. They’d made a prison. But the prison was really in their minds…

j29er0

Towards the Light

The wooden oars rubbed against his palms roughly, making him wonder if he would walk away from this expedition with a few splinters in his hand. His fishing gear sat behind him, swaying as the row boat moved forward, every stroke through the water bringing him closer to what was his goal. Well, what he hoped would be his goal. The direction that was his destination was purely guesswork based on tides and currents in this wide ocean. He was a captain of a fishing boat in his prime years, catching fish with great nets, braving storms that made the simple man cower in fear, he knew his way around the oceans and seas he called home. It was fate, he thought, that led him to fish just in view of a small yacht this dark evening, it was his trained eye that noticed that it had capsized not long before he had arrived, and it was the young girl’s cry of fear that caught his ear so that he could save her from where she floated adrift on a stray piece of wood. He was old, beyond the age where should be out fishing alone, according to his friends back on shore, but today he was thankful that he did. His rowboat couldn’t fit more than 5 people, and he still had two more to save. He glanced at the darkening sky, hoping. There was nothing yet, but he just had to be patient. Thankfully, patience was one of the many virtues he had learned in his younger years. The girl he saved sat in front of him, shivering despite the blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She was young, possibly six or seven, and her hair was wet from her dip in the sea. He hoped that her mother and brother, who were with her on the yacht before it was lost to the ocean, were still alive; he couldn’t imagine that girl growing up without a family. Even he had a family, long ago. Now, they had all left him because of his love for the sea. “Where are they?” The young girl whispered, with a strong accent that he couldn’t place. Her small frame shook, and he wished that he had brought more than one emergency blanket in the first aid kit. “They’ll be around here, we just have to keep following the waves.” He replied gruffly, taking a break from rowing, rubbing his hands together to restore some of the warmth. The night air was getting colder now, but he wouldn’t let it stop him. One more glance at the sky told him that he would have to brave the cold for at least a bit longer. He’s saved many people in his time. So often they would find capsized ships on their voyages, many were not as fortunate to have time to escape the boat before it succumbed to the waves or the storm, yet today, according to the girl, the only other two occupants had safely escaped on an inflatable lifeboat. Why they left the little girl behind, floating on a piece of wood, he had no clue. Perhaps she was separated from them? Perhaps the storm that had died out not long before he went out to the water pushed her far away from them, too far to reach. He knew that he would know more if she would speak, but she wouldn’t. Fear and trauma does that to people. He had seen it in his own old crewmen and his own self too often. “Do you think they’re still alive?” She asked, and he nodded. “Yes, I do, little missy.” “Will we find them?” His mind was filled with tales when he didn’t find the survivors, but he wasn’t about to tell them to her. Instead, he told her what his heart and gut told him, and as an ex-captain of dozens of fishing vessels, he knew that he needed to follow his gut. “Well, let’s see.” He said, stroking his beard, as if he was deep in thought. The girl looked back at him, her dark eyes clouded with something close to fear, and he continued. “What color was that lifeboat that they were on?” “Yellow. I saw Mama packing it up before we left shore.” “Even in the darkness, is yellow easy to see, even with a bit of light?” The girl looked down at the yellow life jacket she wore, easily visible even in the dark of night. The lamp that he had on the boat no doubt helped. “Yes.” “Good. So, we’ll likely spot the boat, especially with my handy flashlight. And, they had an emergency kit?” “Yes!” The girl said, smiling a bit. “They did.” He smiled knowingly. “What’s in an emergency kit, especially those for the sea, that might help us find them? Any ideas?" The wind picked up around them, but he kept the rowboat on its course, looking up at the sky once again. Still nothing. The young girl appeared to be deep in thought, counting on her fingers as she mumbled under her breath. He waited patiently, knowing that the quiet task was distracting her from the worry and fear she no doubt felt. “A flare?” She finally replied, her voice lifting in question. “Yes.” He replied, giving her a wide smile. “Now, if you keep a steady eye on the sky, you might see a bright red light. That’s the flare. And that’ll be where your mother and brother are. We’re heading in the direction that they should be in, but then we’ll know exactly where to go.” Almost immediately, she looked up to the sky, where stars were beginning to twinkle from the darkness. He kept glancing at the sky with her, not wanting to miss the critical factor of rescue. The wind had gotten colder, then, and he didn’t need to see a watch to know that it was getting late. If he had gotten his radio before his small fishing trip, he could’ve asked someone for the time, and even called for some help, but it was just them, so he would just have to rest in the fact that it was late and nothing more. That it was only him out here to help them. He always loved nights like this. Nights that were calm, where the wind caressed his cheeks, like a young lady who loved him dearly. He would always let his mind wander with the swaying of the boat. It was easy to fall back into the habits of old, but he forced himself to stay present. He couldn’t let this little girl’s mother and brother be lost to the sea because he didn’t see their flare. A part of him knew that they might not even use it, but he brushed that part aside. These people had been on the water many times, if the young girl’s knowledge of the emergency kit was anything to go by, so they would know what they were doing. His gut told him the same, so he stuck with it. He began humming an old tune that his mother had taught him, filling the silence with something that would pass the time. His muscles burned with every stroke of the oars, yet he didn't stop. He wouldn't give up as long as there were people who needed him, as long as there was some glimmer of hope left. It wasn't in his nature to turn around when the goal was in sight, so he continued rowing. “Hey! Hey, look!” The girl shouted suddenly, and he looked up to see a bright flare in the sky, cutting through the darkness like a knife through butter. He smiled, turning the boat towards where the flare originated from. The girl was smiling now, nearly jumping up and down on the boat, watching the light just as he was. “We’re on our way, don’t you worry.” He replied, “Why don’t you grab some of the food from my bag? They might be hungry.” The young girl nodded, digging through his bag, glancing up every so often, and he watched as the light died in the sky, leaving a trail of smoke that they could still follow. Occasionally, he would stop rowing and shine the flashlight across the water, looking for the bright yellow lifeboat. He didn't let himself be discouraged by the consistent billowing waves without a boat on top of them. But then he saw it. A small lifeboat, and two figures sitting on top of it, waving their arms in the air. "Mama! Johnny!" The girl yelled, and he suddenly realized that he never asked the girl for her name. Grabbing a rope from the bottom of his boat, he wrapped it around his hand and threw the other end out, letting out a small sigh of relief as one of the people caught it. "I'm going to pull you two here, alright?" He exclaimed loudly, shining the flashlight over to them. A boy, who appeared to be twelve or thirteen, gave his thumbs up, helping his mother, who was beside him, kneel down and hold the edge of a lifeboat. They were both wet, so he knew that they would have to get them as warm as possible, but they were alive. He was glad that his gut wasn't wrong. It didn't take long for him to drop his anchor and pull the lifeboat over, smiling as the girl embraced her family, her mother kissing her forehead longingly. The older woman looked up to him, her gaze boring into his, full of gratitude. "Thank you." She said, tears of joy falling from her cheeks, "She was on the other side of the boat, all I could do was watch…" "You're all okay now, it was no worry at all." He replied, helping her son into the boat. "Besides, you lit up the sky, I just kept an eye out for it." She nodded, keeping her kids close, and he lifted the anchor, gripped the oars once again, and headed back to shore.

dpkdcm

Eight Ball

Marta ventures tentatively out into the oppressive darkness of the permanent deep grey of a deathly night. She is swaddled in layers of clothing over which she has wrapped and tied strips of blanket. Despite these precautions, she shivers with the cold, leans into it and hugs herself for comfort against the ever present elemental force of the unnatural Winter. She does not move far from her sanctuary. There is no point, and she cannot afford to waste anything, including her energy. She pauses as though considering her next action, then she unfurls, turns her head upwards and points her eyes to towards the skies. Her eyes are the only visible part of her. They are watering as the cold assails them. Watering with superficial tears as she once again looks up towards the heavens and sees nothing but a grey hell. There is something pathetic and overwhelmingly sad about the way she returns to her bent and cowed state. For a moment, she dared to look towards the face of God and having not discovered his countenance, she rolls back into her foetal position and shuffles away. Her loneliness is painful to observe. That she is alone is an absolute certainty made all the more clear by this daily ritual of hers. No one else ever emerges from the hole in the ground. It has become her hole in the ground. There is only her and the desolation that sits upon her. A ghostly monkey of depression suffocating the life out of her. Soon enough, expedition over, Marta is swallowed up by that hole in the ground and a metal disc closes over the spot. There is a laboured, metallic scream as Marta secures the entrance, then she climbs deeper into the Earth, an acorn awaiting its cue to grow. A cue that never came for those who went before her. Yet still she repeats the daily ritual. A ritual that appeases her own inner acorn of hope. A ritual that is accompanied by a short and increasingly desperate prayer; one day it will happen. Marta doesn’t know what it  is. She was told often enough, and she remembers the words well, but they are words banished from her lands of meaning, hollow vessels gone mad over time. All Marta can rely upon is the evidence of her own eyes. She has to make the assumption that she will know it when she sees it. After that maybe she can try to make sense of a change she has longed for, for a lifetime, but has no way of preparing for. If she is afforded the time for a luxury such as that. She doubts it. Somehow she knows that there will be no formal introductions. The new visitor to this grim world may not even be her friend. And yet she continues to yearn for change. Her father knew. Her father was there in the Before Time. But now he is in the ground near the closed metal hatch and his acorn will never grow, not in the way that nature intended it to. Now he is one of many mounds of earth that have gently sunk over time. A gradual recession that has stolen Marta’s memories of him and the others who once were. Now, the grounds of the dead are barely perceptible, and in the dull grey light of Marta’s world, everything else that once was is being swallowed by that apathetic and colourless maw. This is a world that became bored of life. It has no energy or enthusiasm. The chaos and vibrancy of the living appalled it, and so it became stagnant. Motionless and toxic. This cold world can’t even bring itself to freeze what remains of the living. Instead it relies upon it’s listlessness and the abandonment of its former duties. It no longer cares and it expects the few who remain to die of neglect and abandonment. A sordid waiting game that it always expected to win. The numbers of time were always on its side. Marta ignores the nihilistic world and holds onto what she has. She knows no other way, but she has no word for determination, she cannot say that she is stubborn. She feels it though and often she grits her teeth, looks up at the callous metal eye of the hatch and dares to believe that one day there will be a change and that that change will redefine her life and make everything she has endured worthwhile. All of this has to mean something. That is the nature of her belief, and the nature of her waiting is to discover that meaning at last. She doesn’t know what awaits her, but what she does know is that she needs to fight. To fight and to keep fighting. It doesn’t matter what she has to fight. Something. Anything. She yearns for an obvious target for her conflict. Everything up until the moment she is presented with a focal point for her existence has been waiting. A tortured and protracted wait for an event or a moment that may never come. She understands that she may wait her entire life only for nothing to happen, and she wonders whether she’ll know when her time is up. She’s even entertained the macabre fantasy of crawling into the earth beside her slumbering father to put an end to her endless waiting. In dreams, she has seen her father still fully formed as he lays asleep in the earth. He is peaceful in a way that he never was in this harsh existence. He is content in a knowledge that she does not possess. This frustrates her and she wants to wake him up. She shakes him and screams in his face, and that is when he smiles serenely. She always wakes up when he smiles. She wakes up and she is as angry as she has ever been. Angry and spoiling for a fight that may never come. She envies her father that smile. She envies the peace that he has found at last. Unwrapping herself carefully, Marta partially emerges from her mummification. Down in her sanctuary it is still cold, but not so bitterly cold as on the surface of the earth. Once she is more comfortable and can move more freely, she sits on a rickety chair in front of a battered apparatus that has seen better, far off days. Marta also envies that. She knows that this apparatus was conceived and made in the Before Time, and she has marvelled at the impossible stories she was told of those times. But despite the magic of this machine, she does not believe most of what she was told. It isn’t the far-fetched nature of a world of abundance and much more. A land of plenty that went mad with excess. A world that became drunk on far-too-much. No, Marta cannot bring herself to begin to believe that those times were real, because then it begs a dire question and that question pains her soul to such a degree that she cannot bring herself to articulate the question that is a nonsensical equation of too much somehow equalling nothing. That makes no sense. It’s not fair. And it hurts. It hurts in every conceivable way, but the worst of it is the liquid sadness that threatens to breach the last of her defences, flood and drown her, the weight of her own crushing loneliness, dragging her down into the depths. She opens the front of the apparatus and delicately retrieves a rectangle of plastic. She examines it briefly and then places it in its container. Next to that single container are two stacks of similar containers. She knows them all very well, has a pencil to hand in case she needs to repair any of the objects contained therein. Watching her consider the stacks is a rare delight. Her forehead crumples in concentration and her finger slips along the containers. She prefers the ones with the handwritten labels. Those are the ones that her father made. She pulls one from the midst of the second stack. Opens the container. Examines the contents and then places the rectangle in the apparatus, pushes the door shut and presses the button with the single triangle on it. The small underground space is instantly transformed by the sound of music, as is the little girl who has lived long enough to be an adult but has never been cajoled or conditioned into such a pointless state. She stands up and with every beat of the music she becomes more animated. Her small and fragile heart beats harder and more quickly to sync with the music and she throws herself into the sounds without a care in the world. She is transported elsewhere and there is magic in the air. She is grinning wildly and flinging her arms around her as she jumps and kicks. Not a sound does she make, nothing and no one should disturb her enjoyment of the music, not even her. She has never sung along to any of the tracks. She saves that for later. The cassette is half way through when it begins to slur its musical words. Marta hears it in the instant it begins and a switch flicks within her. Her movements cease and she is all business as she leans over the apparatus, stopping the music, pulling the tape out from the now open door and checking it over. She is relieved to establish that the tape is intact. She replaces it and turns the apparatus around, then she lays it flat. She pauses and considers for a moment. She will leave it like that for now, and the next time she plays music she will begin by rubbing warmth and life into the batteries. She has no more batteries. These are the last and it pains her to witness the beginning of their end. They will die soon enough and with them the music will die. A world without music is no world at all, Marta thinks sadly. The first shards of grief are already pushing against her heart. She bites her lower lip and turns from the stricken music apparatus, wondering how long she can hold the ghost of the music in her mind. Nothing lasts forever. Not even the seemingly eternal grey outside the safety of this hole in the ground would last forever. Her father had told her that, and she believed him. She had to believe him. It was all that she had. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the black ball. Upon its surface it had a white circle and within the white circle was a symbol which her father had told her represented eternity. He’d given it to her before he’d moved on. It was a relic from the Before Times, but it belonged to the now. And now it belonged to her. Her father had shown her the ball many times and he had talked about the Earth. How it was a ball like this and although it was now so grey it was almost black, it had once been blue and green with magical whisps of white floating in the skies. He’d told Marta that the Earth would last forever, or at least so long that it may as well be forever. That there were powers beyond her understanding and those powers would restore the glory of Earth in time. He talked about a mother, and he told Marta that the mother of the Earth would look after her, and that one day she would see something far better than had existed in the Before Times. Marta could believe that. The Earth had to be better than this. The Before Times were a silly fairy tale, but The Earth in all its glory felt real. She felt it with every fibre of her being. There was a knowing within her that could not be denied. Something called to her and that was why she would never dispense with the ritual of emerging from the safety of the hole and looking up towards a space that was once a sky and would one day be a sky again. One day, she would be rewarded for her efforts, and her belief in the world above her. It would start with a revelation that crept up behind her on silent paws. By the time she understood that a change was occurring, it would be well underway. And it would begin with a warmth she had never experienced. Little by little, she would remove the blankets she wore to protect her from the hungry cold and eventually she would unzip her coat. Even then, as she looked up towards the hidden heavens, she would be greeted with a single, grey, dead eye, but the seed of her hope would grow all the same, and as it did, she would see beyond the grey and fancy that she caught the brief explosion of light from the stars that her father had talked to her about as they waited out the worst of times. And as the world continued to warm, she would begin drawing for the first time in years, and her drawings of what lay beyond the grey curtains that had so oppressed the world since the end of the Before Times would be frighteningly close to the truth of the universe. Her inner eye saw more than she appreciated, and when the truth was revealed to her, she would be surprised and delighted, filling to the brim with the truth of her existence and her part in that universe. The day that would really change everything for Marta, was a day before the skies finally cleared and the light of the sun and the stars came flooding in at last. On that day, Marta would meet another living being. A tiny and impossible warrior that came out of the nowhere and heralded the end of her exile in the grey. That herald would fly upon wings of grey, but upon its chest would be emblazoned with a shock of red, and the sight of that remarkable splash of colour in a world of constant, monotonous monotone, would burst Marta’s tiny and constricted heart, preparing it for what was to come, allowing it to grow and become so much stronger. Marta would need that heart, for the path ahead of her was long and treacherous. But at the end of that journey awaited her tribe and a life more remarkable than she could ever imagine. And along that path she would see the grey break apart and witness the first rays of a sun that had been waiting patiently in the wings for an age. A perfect circle would open in the grey and as Marta experienced her face warming in the first of the sun’s light, her fingers would wrap around the eight ball in her pocket and she would weep tears of joy that would water the acorn of her hope, awakening it from its too long slumber and reminding it what its purpose truly was.

wwloxn

LET THERE BE LIGHT

They said we had enough light for another billion years. Yeah, what did they know? Science was finding all the answers, trust in science. But they didn’t know squat. They were blind, deaf and dumb, trying to make us believe they were enlightened. That they had seen the light.  How beautifully ironic.  They spouted off a million theories, why the Sun was becoming red, why the heat was going, why the star that had seen us grow from protozoaic goo to arrogant bipeds was snuffing itself out. They had theories, not solutions. No throwing a billion bombs in that mastodont could restart a process that no one really understood ( as they finally began to admit sometime between the Shanghai riot and the Mexico-USA conflict). World leaders did what they do best. Gather the resources for themselves and say screw you to the rest.  In the best interest of humanity, they started genetic lotteries, wanting to preserve as much diversity as possible in the underground mountain vaults they were building, in secret first, and then in plain sight, shooting every non-authorized personnel that had the folly of thinking they could slip in and survive.  They would decide who would live and who would die, and strangely, the one percenters all had some vital genetic uniqueness that had to be preserved at all costs.  Some argued the planet was doomed, that the only way to survive was to other stars, the grand exploration scheme, leaving this toxic wastehole behind. But only the best and brightest could be a part of that ( ah, scientists again, I guessed they had it all figured out after all).  And the rest of us?  Well, the temperature changed abruptly, the light transformed the plants, nothing was the same anymore. Those who couldn’t kid themselves anymore chose to end their misery before the final blow. The rest turned, unsurprisingly, to Higher Powers. Some to God, because God was always there, maybe we had strayed too far from the righteous path, and we needed, us sinners, to repent and beg for forgiveness. Then all would be good again.  But most started following the next big trend - actually a blast from the past, but who was scrutinizing and analyzing sociology now?  All the lucky eggheads had gone to heaven or buried themselves 5000 feet in the dirt, hoping for survival. Sealed doors, automatic defense systems, all those that tried to breach the Time Vaults ended up smoked and disintegrated.  Survival was harsh, everyone turning on each other. And the Order of Ra was the literal ‘light’ at the end of the tunnel. The Order took power rapidly, the adepts believing in - oh that’s a hard one, what could they believe in if not human sacrifice?  What else could make sense?  They were fueled by a strange phenomenon that scientists ( them again!) could not explain. When the Sun had first started losing power, turning red, a whole generation of babies were born with a mark.  Doctors called it an allergic reaction, but they couldn’t really explain it. Only those born during a 6 month period ( when the Sun started fading) had the mark, a sort of red disk, usually situated on the lower back or belly.  It stood to reason ( somehow!) that these babies fostered the change in the life giving orb. They were responsible, they were the agents of darkness, and if they were to be eliminated, then… Light would return.  Don’t get me wrong, I am no smarter than the average Joe, I would have given anything to be a devout believer and live out my remaining days chasing down and sacrificing those poor souls.  My big problem is, I’m one of them.  Today the temp is high, I can actually feel my fingers as I try to warm them over the meager fire we built. “We” a bedraggled bunch if there has ever been one. Some Streak kids ( the name we were given by doctors and trendy influencers, before all those institutions went to hell) and our numbers are dwindling so fast. We used to be 35, 40, now we are barely a dozen left.  We weren’t all culled by the Order of Ra, but they did get the strongest of us. Why is this the norm, the strong protect the weak, why can’t we be ruthless like everyone else?  It’s like we are truly carrying the sins of the planet and our forebears and we have to uphold a morality they never had.  Well, not me, I am the smartest of the lot. That also means the most pessimistic and realistic, and everyone tells me to shut up every two seconds when I start talking, because they don’t want to hear what I have to say.  They’d rather wallow in illusion.  The number of times Francis said to “Hold on, we will make it, “ to reassure the sniffles gang, well, that didn’t help him in the end, did it?  I was the one standing up and saying we shouldn’t let them take him, that we should fight back and end it, and they said. “Shut up, “ and we ran off in the waning black and red sunset while he screamed.  His screams still haunt my nightmares.  I know I’m next, it is inevitable, we will all die one day. So let’s go out with a bang, show the Order goons the stuff we are made of.  I guess we did show it though. Fear. We are made of fear and hope and we want to live one more minute, one more hour, one more day, no matter if the ending is unchangeable.  I’m just as guilty as the next.  My fingers are warm and my stomach grumbles, finally a real meal. We went for a forage and found some untouched reserves in a farm. The metal corrodes quickly these days, some atmospheric change the all-powerful scientists didn’t predict, and it’s hard to know where we are ( if those old names mean anything now that the planet will die a cold death) but I think we reached the outskirts of Topeka.  The old cities are deathtraps for our kind, so we stay away - in any case, the countryside usually hides the best food caches, farmers reverting to their primal nature… before getting killed by disease or marauders.  We came after, when the damage was done. We reap the benefits of those deaths, we sleep in barns that still have some hay, or houses if we are lucky enough.  But when will our luck end?  The Order is always nipping at our heels.  I look at my exhausted companions. Jessie is coughing, she won’t survive another month, it’s the water lung, luckily not contagious, or we would have ditched her a long time ago.  I look at the dark skies, it must be 3 pm, in the high of summer. None of us have a handy thermometer, but I am thinking it’s minus 5, and the night will bring us to minus 20. “I saw some bison, “ Hiram arrives, out of breath, removing his gloves to warm his fingers faster. He all but plunges them in the coals, I see a tinge of blue on there, near the tips. He already lost half a pinky to frostbite.  Cold-hardy animals survive the longest, following the old routes for their migration - now that humanity isn’t in the way, they have reconquered their old stomping ground… but without new growth, no amount of digging up the frozen blades will save them.  Wolves are another big problem for us - they have enough food in our pathetic species to last them a lifetime. Longer than I will live, anyway.  They rampage through cities, devour survivors if they can, or corpses if they don’t find fresh meat.  “We still have a few rounds, “I shrug. But Chris was the best shot, and we both know it.  We don't move from the fire. We managed to pick up enough wood, we will be warm all night. None of us want to jeopardize their comfort.  Alice wipes her nose and spits on the ground. Ladylike to her fingertips. “We should get them. That much meat could last us a month, “ she reminds us.  The day has exhausted us all. Sometimes I think if I see a bridge somewhere, I might just leap off it. Spare the Order the trouble. Just erase myself out of existence.  I shudder thinking about it, I can envision the leap, it seems so satisfying not having to worry about tomorrow. But my mind makes me feel the bone snapping and my brain leaking out of my stupid head. No respite for the cowards.  Carnivores will inherit the Earth for a short time, and then perish in infighting - proving we are much more like predators than we’d like to admit.  “Yeah ok, “I say decisively. I don’t know what’s coming over me, I am one of the lousiest shots. Maybe the fire toasted my brain, maybe I am just tired of waiting for the end.  “Let’s go on a hunt, “I add, wondering vaguely how Chris had done it, leading the group.  We have got to be the most unlikely assembly of people alive on the planet. And none of us has the good soldier profile. We hate each other’s guts, that’s the truth.  The bison are rummaging through the frozen ground and snow, looking for blades of grass to sustain their bulk one more day.  From up close ( as much as we dare creep up on them), they don’t look so formidable. Malnourished, on the verge of exhaustion, their fur in pitiful clumps, falling off; I am reminded of myself and I hate that. I feel pity for the poor things, not the kind of pity that allows to kill and put out of the misery, the kind that paralyzes, because this is me I’m looking at.  I think everyone feels the same, we can’t even point the rifles without trembling.  Karma. In the frozen flesh. We are what we eat, we are hunted and in our enemies’ scope, and we will end up in their hands, because we are no smarter than those once majestic beasts.  I feel a tear threatening to spill and I wipe my nose and the useless drop at the same time, hoping no one noticed.  Even if they had, they didn’t have the time to snicker about it. Gunshots explode around us and it takes a good second for me to realize that the beasts are the targets.  I shouldn’t be surprised, after all, we are not the only people surviving in this frigid wasteland.  But I feel this wave of irrational - wait, too rational - fear. Not many people have stuck around these parts, most went down to Mexico, seeking the warmth of the Equator, anywhere that had a better chance of giving them a few years more.  I glance at Alice - we are both cowering behind some old, half- wrecked brick wall, overlooking a field of snow and now carnage. We both know.  The beasts are running and dying, they can’t escape the aim of the hunters.  I feel it in my gut, the fear squirms in there. They found us. We only had a few days’ advance since their ceremony always lasts two days or more, and they had gotten Chris and Nate.   Time to move off - stealthily. In my head there’s a litany I can’t stop - They’ll see us, they’ll see us. They know we’re here, they’re just biding their time to pounce.  My heart’s beating so hard I can barely hear anything else, and the shuffling in the snow is made all the more difficult by the chronic weakness we’re all afflicted with, from lack of adequate food.  I am the first to get back to our makeshift camp and Jessie is asleep in the blankets, next to the fire.  We have to go as quickly as possible, before they catch up with us.  The others grab our things and throw them in our backpacks without ceremony. I catch their wild stares, they know it’s the end. They don’t even bother glancing at Jessie, they know it’s futile, she’s asleep so she’s already dead.  Best thing is to leave her there, let the Order find her. And gain a few days more with her inevitable death.  What’s wrong with me? Chivalry is dead, frostbitten out of the world.  Why can’t I move my legs, why can’t I do the sane thing?  “Come on! “ Alice hisses, ever the survivor. But I can’t. I am crazy, I know that, but leaving her there seems too cruel. I’m no beacon of humanity and kindness, I’ve just had enough of leaving friends behind.  No more.  Jessie opens her eyes wide when I grab her. I noticed the tears on her cheeks, she had been pretending to sleep to let us abandon her without a guilty conscience. “We’re going, come on, “I say, trying hard to control the break in my voice.  We are all going to die, sooner rather than later, but she won’t die alone in this misery.  I help carry her because her legs are weak; we are far behind the others.  She starts coughing and spits blood, she’s spiraling faster than I expected.  “Leave me here, “ she says hoarsely when the fit has passed.  “Not a chance, “I reply. I made my choice - what do I have to look forward to in any case?  Somehow it’s easy to summon bravado in the face of uncertainty. I feel ready for death, for anything that will be thrown my way.  Then we hear Alice and Dan screaming. The kind of screams that turn the knees to jelly - they were caught.  Another voice joins the chorus - Lexie. Greg. Hiram. Sally, Hope, Brian. A gargle from Johnny. Jessie’s eyes are huge, the fear is coursing through our veins. Ambush? We were caught pants down, they were onto us from the start.  All thoughts of bravado and death wish leave me as though I never had them in the first place. I want to live, I want to see another bleak, cold, boring day.  I run, and Jessie manages to keep up for a few strides before stumbling. I leave her behind. I’m back to primal now, predator and prey, and I know I have one chance to escape what’s coming for me.  I see the wall but not the predator lying in wait and the bat catches me midriff, forcefully knocking the breath out of me.  I can’t completely pass out - too much adrenaline, I guess, and I am half-conscious as they drag me forward, joining the rest of my bedraggled band in what used to be a park. I think they truss us up on an old baseball field. I don’t know how they found so much wood, but they build a pyre under our feet.  I pull on my binds, to no avail. My hands are tied over my head, and I’m already feeling fatigue in my arms. And cold. My heart’s hammering in my chest, but I’ve sweat so much running away I am now going into hypothermia or something. I’m lightheaded and nauseous, but that’s just the beginning of my troubles.  They gather around us. Jessie’s half-dead already, the lucky one. The rest of us are paralyzed; they are all wearing some robes, they have hoods, red and black, like the sky, like our future. Darkness and blood.  They start chanting, a hum in the beginning, growing louder, until I can make out the words.  “Let There Be Light, Let There Be Light, Let There Be Light, “  Their ritual to purge the darkness away from the planet, and our sacrifice is key to it.  After a few minutes, I can’t take it anymore, I can’t handle their glowing eyes - they are sure they’ve got us now, they will change things by getting rid of us.  “It’s not our fault! “I scream, and my voice is barely above a whisper. “It’s not our fault, what did we do? We were born in this shit, man! Born in it! It’s not on us!”  I know it’s futile, fanatics will never listen to the voice of reason.  But one of them removes the hood and I get to stare at the eyes and face of a teenager, of all things. He’s frostbitten where the acne isn’t exploding on his face - he mustn’t be eating enough vitamins. Or maybe too many of them, sometimes 20 year old vitamin packets is all we can find.  “You’re the last, “he says, almost enraptured. “Once you burn, the world will be free. And there will be LIGHT! “  “You’re insane, nothing will happen, we will be dead, and it will stay just as cold, you delusional idiots, nothing else will happen! “  He backhands me - no one likes hearing a good helping of truth.  But it doesn’t stop them, why would they? They have it all figured out. Killing off a few hundred 20 year olds will set all the wrongs right.  If my death could somehow bring the light back, if it could be true…  I’d still say screw you, I am no one's sacrificial lamb. You got what you deserve.  Or maybe I got what I deserve.  The flames lick our feet and the heat is enough to drive me nuts. All my life I’ve been cold, freezing, and this is how I go?  Do I see the light, shining back on the world? Do I see people emerging from their hideouts, basking in a warmth I never knew? Do I hear laughter , the whole planet breathing in relief?  I’m delirious from the pain, my brain making me see things that aren’t there to spare my fragile body from the awful pain.  My friends are all screaming around me, maybe I am myself, but all I feel like doing is laughing.  Because, you know that light at the end of the tunnel? It’s gone dim.

gtvpf1

There Is A Light

The flames of the fire danced in the pitch black of the night. Seamus could feel them on his face and not for the first time did he worry that his back was exposed to the horror of that night. When John was here, it was far better. It wasn’t just the company, but John was  fair company. No real sense of humour. Quiet. Dour even, but he was there and he was real and he did have a story or three in him when pushed to tell them. Now John was gone, and Seamus was beginning the think that in his cynicism he had been right. Frighteningly correct, in fact. John however, had accused him of cowardice. He’d not lead with that, but that was where he’d been headed from the off. He’d begun with scared and mentioned  fear  more than once. Now Seamus thought of it, it might have been him who had introduced cowardice into it, but that hadn’t been the point. In the end, the point had been lost in a sea of anger and then they’d been separated by a storm of their own making. Orders was what he should have talked about. They’d been ordered to stay put and keep the fire burning, and until they were told otherwise, that was exactly what they should have been doing and should have continued to do come what may. It was a simple order, and Seamus had taken to it with gusto. Seamus liked fire. There was something about the flames that spoke to him even before he experienced the warmth that they bestowed. Flames danced to their own tune and if you stared long enough into the hypnotic fire you could almost hear its music. The song was as old as the Earth itself and was that any wonder when the Earth’s heart was a raging ball of fire? Yes, the flames were as much a part of the Earth as anything could be. Seamus sometimes felt bad for the trees that were burnt. The ancient and quiet trees with their own song that played out in the susurrating wind, but then, in the end everything went back to the Earth. Fire was purification. A return to an elemental state. Dust and ash. Seamus shuddered despite the heat of the fire. The problem with fire like this was the distribution of heat. His front was almost too hot and yet his back was cooler than he would have liked. He was loathed to turn around though. The thought of meat turning over a fire sickened him, it reminded him of his current predicament. He may as well have been meat, after all, meat was senseless. It had no clue as to what was happening beyond the flames it was cooking on. Seamus was just so much meat right now. Reluctantly he turned away from the seductive flames until he could feel the warmth on his back. He lied to himself for a short while, the lie he told was that the flames had affected his night vision, and he could have almost believed that lie, except that his vision did not improve. The reality was that his eyes had nothing to see. There was nothing beyond the encampment. Nothing at all. This was not pitch black. Seamus had experienced pitch black as a boy. He’d gone adventuring with his friend Tommy and they’d found an old chest freezer that had been dumped a few yards into a small copse. It were as though it had been thrown from a speeding truck and rolled its way in amongst the trees, but the positioning of the road and the angles seemed all wrong and there were no marks or scars from that sort of violent progress. That was part of the allure for the boys. They knew the freezer shouldn’t have been there and it was a mystery as to how it had gotten there, which made the question of why it was there all the more intriguing. The off-white Pandora’s Box was ripe for the opening and there was very little discussion as to the merits of opening such a thing. As Seamus remembered it, both boys acknowledged the very strong possibility of this being a coffin. The final resting place of a violent gangster or ruffian of similar inclinations and standing. Boys of a certain age are possessed of worldly knowledge beyond their years that they supplement with an overactive imagination. They could both vividly envision a defrosted and decomposing homicidal criminal, he was fat to the point of obesity, but not at all tall, and there was a relatively small hole between his eyes. That hole was relative to the crater in the back of his head. His eyes would of course be open and the thousand yard stare they’d be greeted with would also hold an unknowable accusation that would make them feel awkward, guilty almost. They knew all of this independent of each other and the similarities of their expectations were remarkable. This eerie commonality was the real reason why they eventually fell out and sacrificed their fledgling friendship. They were too alike and people don’t like being around someone who is a reminder of themselves. They only get comfortable with that sort of thing if they start liking themselves and become comfortable in their own skins, and there’s not nearly enough of that about. The one thing that Seamus and Tommy made sure they talked about prior to opening the lid of that freezer was that they should both open it together. There were various reasons for that. Not just that they both really wanted to be the one to open it and recognised a selfish desire to do so that was casually veering towards the deeply unpleasant. There was a flipside to that one though. Neither of them wanted to be at fault if anything went wrong as a consequence of doing anything to this modern day sarcophagus. Also they were both scared to the point of shitting their pants. They could hear their tummies gurgling and roiling and much of their bravado was an egotistically dumb act. This needed to be a joint venture if they were going to go through with it. Neither of them could shoulder all the responsibility for it. And so it was that they placed both their hands on the edge of the freezer lid, nodded to each other and lifted. The seal on the lid held fast and threatened not to give. The boys paused their efforts, bent their backs into it and heaved to a soundtrack of grunting and groaning. They were rewarded with a strange tearing noise that sounded for all the world like the flesh of a fresh kill being torn open by terrible jaws and the lid at last rose up into the dappled woodland air. To say that the freezer was empty would be so far from the truth as to be an untruth. Not a lie as such, but wrong all the same. As the lid lifted, the contents of the freezer escaped. The escaping contents hit both boys, smack in the face, making them let go of the lid and stagger backwards. Their eyes watered as they doubled over and gasped in an odd agony of discomfort. “Something died in there!” wailed Tommy. “Some things died in there!” echoed Seamus. They exchanged a look and grinned. That stench of death alone was worth the preceding fear and anxiety. As one, they returned to the open cask and peered in eager to see what it was that they had uncovered. “It still stinks,” observed Seamus. “Like yer Ma’s knickers,” chimed in Tommy. Seamus shook his head, it was a great jibe. He was miffed he’d not come up with it himself. There was some disappointment due to the absence of their imagined executed gangster. The silver lined freezer was devoid of anything other than the remnants of that stink of decay. There wasn’t even a pool of death juice lurking in the bottom-most corner. This freezer really hadn’t made much of an effort for the boys. Into that expanse of disappointment Tommy uttered words of adventure, “we should get in it.” Seamus turned to look at his friend. This was a very bad idea. This was a very exciting idea. This was an idea worthy of exploration, “freezers close on kids and they die in them,” he reminded his friend. Tommy scrunched his face up, “der! One at a time, bozzo!” “Oh,” said Seamus, “right.” And as he uttered these words quietly he had this sudden certainty. He was going to be the first one in. Seamus’s certainties had a habit of being on the nose, but only when they were to Seamus’s disadvantage. He was never going to make a living as a professional gambler. His luck was not of that sort. In fact, his luck was a feckless thing and work shy with it. A taker and never a giver. Climbing into the foreboding stink box had not been easy, and he had not been elegant in his efforts. Once he was inside, he really did not want to be there. His initial thoughts of the object being a coffin now haunted and cajoled him. This was a place for dead things, as all freezers were. This was a place where someone could easily die. Thoughts of the process of such a death kicked and prodded him, and it was all he could do to portray a boyish mask of manliness as Tommy asked if he was ready. He nodded solemnly and hoped he looked stoic, if not heroic. The closing of the freezer lid was an event that would live with Seamus forever. Tommy seemed to close it impossibly slowly, but it was shut in no time all. Seamus looked at the world beyond that box and he missed it before it was ever gone. The narrowing vista horrified him and he believed with his entire soul that he’d never see that world again. He tried his best to keep himself together as the darkness enveloped him, but he soon realised that there was no longer any him to keep together. He sat in the dark and he forgot how to breath and then he lost how it was to be . And there were no cues to help him out. They were gone. Everything was gone. He thought he’d lifted his hand up towards his face, but there was nothing there, and so he wasn’t sure whether that was something he did or he imagined. All he knew was that there was nothing there and if there was nothing there then there was no him. He was as real as that smell. He was that smell. That stench was all there was. He felt it around him. Then it was brushing against him. Something was brushing against him! Touching him. Trying to get in! That was when he began screaming. Screaming and beating against the lid of the freezer. Oblivious to the fact that Tommy was sitting on it to prevent him bottling it too soon and getting out. That suspicion would come later and would add momentum to the dissolution of their friendship, that and his shame at how scared he’d been. He’d been terrified. So terrified that he’d thrown himself against that lid and launched Tommy from it. He didn’t remember getting out of the freezer, only that he’d run and he’d not stopped running until he’d got home. Quite why he’d bolted into the back garden and hidden himself behind the shed eluded him to this day. But that was where he’d been when he’d come back to himself and the world he’d thought he’d lost had reluctantly returned to him. Seamus had never been the same again. He had to concede that John was right. He was scared, and who wouldn’t be? Coward he was not though. He’d volunteered for this, despite his morbid fear of the dark. Or as he would put it, his first-hand knowledge of the darkness. The quality of this darkness, the darkness beyond the flames, was somehow ethereal, and Seamus didn’t think that should be possible. Light was ethereal, darkness was supposed to be a lack. There was a lack here and that lack was oppressive. It was oppressive in a strong and threatening way. There was a brooding power in it, and Seamus knew that something was going to happen in that darkness, that something was already happening and it was only a matter of time before he found out what was going on. He could feel all that going on. He had this notion that he had a pending meeting with the darkness, or rather, an interview with whatever the darkness contained. Without knowing he was doing so, he sniffed at the air, but there was nothing there and that in itself was unnerving. If he were to turn back to the fire his nostrils would be filled with the smell of the burning wood. Reassuring. Natural. That he could not at least smell that in such close proximity to the fire was disconcerting. Another thing that was wrong. Another absence. The darkness swallowing everything up and leaving almost nothing. Almost. There was something there though and now Seamus felt it moving. “John?” he said tentatively, “John, is that you?” his voice was louder now, more steady, but he could still hear the hesitancy of fear within it. “Mate,” he said, “if that’s you, quit pissing around and say something!” But there was nothing. Instead there was the forced silence of something waiting. Something listening. Something circling. Listening. Observing. It would pick its moment. Redundantly, he looked into the darkness, turning his head this way and that. Looking out towards the village where there had been so much light. Searching for the fires of the other sentries. Looking again for the flame that John had taken with him when he’d gone to find out what was happening. One after the other, they had all faded until there was nothing left. There was something shocking and terrifying with the way those lights had faded. None of them had gone out. Instead they had dulled and grown dimmer and dimmer until Seamus doubted his own eyes. He knew the light was still there, it was his inability to see it that was at play here. He shook his head. It was that thinking that had seen John go out into the darkness. That certainty that the lights were still there. That the village was still there. That all that was needed was to walk back the way that they had come and they would return to the village and all would be well again. It sounded simple, and Seamus was never in complete disagreement with John. He would’ve done the same thing, if it were not for the quality of this darkness. His darkness. Seamus knew this darkness. Knew what it was capable of. A darkness like this was not the absence of light. This darkness was alive. It moved. Seamus’s cheeks itched under tracks of tears he hadn’t realised he’d shed. He raised an arm before him and looked at his hand as though it were a curio. A wonderfully monstrous object fit for a Victorian travelling circus. He held it there before him as he took first one step and then another. There were so few steps before the tips of his fingers dimmed. He snatched his hand back, questioning the sensation he’d experienced in the moment of his fingers dimming, but there was nothing of substance. He stood for a while and considered the darkness before him. Then he raised his hand once more and slowly and deliberately pushed it forth. The darkness began to envelope his fingers more quickly and more completely this time. He stepped back and almost overbalanced, flinging his head to the side to assess his proximity to the fire. It was close. Too close. He could feel the heat of it. But so too was the darkness. He cast his eyes around the camp. Now, there was no camp to speak of. The fire. The fire must be fed. Those were his orders. Simple orders. Keep the fire burning. The flames must remain in order to keep the darkness at bay. Seamus looked towards the fire. It was burning just the same as it had when he’d set it. Only now the big pile of logs was gone. Everything was gone. The tide of darkness was inexorably rising and the islands of light were diminishing. He’d thought the darkness was laying siege to his position and that of the other sentries and the village itself. That it lurked and slithered around the pools of light. He’d thought it was awaiting the opportunity to move in. Waiting for the lights themselves to go out. But it was stronger than that. Much stronger than that. And it was hungry. Ever so hungry. He turned to face it. His back to the fire. The heat just as powerful on his back as ever, but the light was dimming all the same. Dimming as the darkness closed in from behind him and to either side of him. “Seamus…” a sibilant approximation of something that was once a voice. A familiar voice corrupted. “John…?” whispered Seamus as he looked up towards the source of that horrendous sound. The darkness loomed over his head, a lazy cobra swaying this way and that. No need to strike. Its prey was utterly trapped. The darkness moved closer. That was when Seamus felt something brush against him. This time there was nowhere to run. No escape. He opened his mouth wide to scream his last… …and the darkness rushed in. Filling him like the stench from that freezer all those years ago. Filling him. Possessing him as only the true darkness can.

umzwqb

Me, the Darkness, and the Light

It was always just the ten of us for as long as I could remember. Just us, the darkness, and the light. It never dampened our spirits, the darkness surrounding us. We’d dance, and sing, and talk, and laugh to fill the dark and empty void as we walked, my father leading us all with the glowing orb of light mounted on the carved staff of white oak. But this year was the first year I had to do it alone. It was just me, the darkness, the light, and the memories. Everyone was gone, it was just a simple mistake. The light had dimmed just enough to hardly see anything and only lasted a second due to my carelessness, but in that second, they were taken by whatever force that waited at the shadow’s edge. From that point on, I never let the staff go again. The darkness that was constantly around and obscured everything seemed more daunting and heavy than ever as I was forced to walk alone. It was harder to move forward and continue walking without my siblings laughing and joking with me. The darkness seemed bigger and scarier without my father and uncle watching over us at night. Everything seemed colder and more barren without my grandmother cooking the herbs we find in the circle of light we traveled in. There wasn't much I could salvage after everyone disappeared. Most of the stuff laid on the outskirts of the light, and I couldn’t get it because the light wouldn’t budge from the line we had always traveled along. So, I was forced to leave the bags thrown open like that behind and carry the few remaining things I had left in the bags near me along with the now heavy staff of light my father had always carried. My supplies were dwindling now, after what I had assumed were months after traveling alone. There was no way to count the days now, without someone there to keep the days from blurring together into a mesh of solitude and depression. I couldn’t leave the path to gather the herbs and plants I saw growing out of the dark water beside the path, the light wouldn’t allow it. I had to keep a steady hand on the staff of light, or else the light could go out in a blink of an eye. I don’t know how long it had been before the light on my staff had started to dim. It was faint, at first, but the consequences were large. Things started to prowl at the edge of the light now with their horrible snarling and growling, making it near impossible to sleep. The water had started to lap at the thin shore of the path like a monster waiting for the right moment to leap. No one had ever mentioned this before, the dimming of the light, and I didn’t know what was wrong with the light. It wasn’t like when I had let the light fade out, it was a constant dimming that affected the light, one that I couldn’t control no matter how tightly I clung to the staff. The already small circle of light surrounding me began to shrink as the days passed. I was already on the brink of despair and hopelessness when this began. It worsened my thoughts and I could hardly travel as much as I used to. I spent days just staying in one spot, with no will to move forward. I couldn’t understand why we had to keep going down this never ending path surrounded by all sides with gloomy darkness and perfectly still water. As far as I could tell, the path would never end. Even grandma and grandpa said they only knew the life of walking in darkness with the light. When my circle of light had become the size of my body and the light hardly gave off any light, I spotted a shiny glass ball in the water, about the same size as the light. Even with the dim light bouncing off it, the inside of the ball was dark and murky like the darkness surrounding it. As I stopped to stare at the glass ball, a disturbance to the otherwise smooth lake beside me, a memory came to the forefront of my mind. “You there, grab that.” My grandma pointed a wrinkly old finger at me and at a glass ball in the water, a couple paces away from the pathway. I pulled up my pants and waded into the knee high water to grab the glass ball. My siblings and I stared at the glass ball as Grandma took the ball from me and began drying it off with the edges of her fraying robes. Father and Uncle stopped and knelt beside Grandma and waited. Mother helped Grandpa sit down and rest. “If you ever see one of these, you better pick it up.” Grandma finished drying the glass ball and let us study it. “The light feeds off it.” “How? The light doesn’t have a mouth like us.” My eldest sister looked at Grandma. “No, it doesn’t. But it’s a sight to behold.” Grandma smiled as she took the staff from Father. I stared at the glass ball as it shined in the dim light of the light. Then I scrambled to get it. This proved to be a problem. The moment I moved to even just let go of the staff, the light flickered as if it was going to go out. I couldn’t leave the path since the light wouldn’t follow. Finally, I found a way to grab the orb and began drying it with my frayed robe. I stared down at the glass ball in my lap, remembering the first time I had seen such a thing. It seemed so long ago now. Everything seemed so long ago. The warmth of the light, the comfort of my family, the stable feeling of belonging. It was just so long ago... The light dimmed slightly and I blinked away the tears that fell. Once I had wiped away the tears that fell onto the glass ball, I grabbed the staff and lowered the light towards the ball. In a spectacle of glowing butterflies, the dark, dim orb broke into a shower of glowing butterflies that flew into the light. When the last glowing butterfly flew into the light, the light itself beamed brighter and gave off a stronger wave of warmth. Another strange feeling came over me, the feeling of comfort. Even though I was alone, I felt comforted by the warmth that the light gave off. It was like an embrace from my family. It felt like I wasn’t completely alone, I had the light. I had the light, the last remaining family member I had. While the light wasn’t the same brightness before it had started to dim, it had a new found brightness that widened my view of the pathway. The warmth and comfort the light gave out was enough to keep me going. I got back onto my feet and continued onwards, smiling with relief that this wasn’t the end.

k365e8

Saving sparrows in Antartica

Saving sparrows in Antarctica My little sparrow keeps score of how many dolphins she sees, slicing through the waves, guiding us like sentinels on our mission through the worst seas. She keeps score of how many albatrosses sweep around the bridge of the ship, tracing halos in the sky. She keeps score of how many sparrows hitch a ride on board, singing blessings of relief. But a sailor tells us they will never make it this far away from land. So each day, the count becomes less. Each day, the numbers fall. We see land without the sun: a strip of dark, toothy mountains on the horizon. My daughter runs out into the minuses without her coat zipped up, reminding me of when she was five, and my heartbeats echo, collapsing like a glacier. I wish she was five again. Things were simpler. She was such a happy kid, and she hates it when I remind her of that. In the mornings, she’d jump and jump, crying out to be let outside to see if the fairies had come and eaten her offerings. She’d left piles of seeds and nuts out in the forest out back. Clumps by tree trunks. I knew it was the sparrows who’d taken them and wondered whether fairies were much different.  Hope is a thing with feathers.  Emily Dickinson’s poem may as well be tattooed to my chest. I had hoped Antarctica would give my little sparrow something ; to keep her here, hiding in the shadows of polar night to trick the gods that want to take her. ‘Show me nothing,’ my little sparrow had said. ‘Show me where there's nothing but space and ice, snow, and skies.’ She said that when we were sitting in a bar at the end of the world. Sat right where Shackleton left for the Drake Passage, even when sailors told him the ice was too thick. All journeys south are a fool's hope. We drank frothy pisco sours, which tied up our lips. And I remember how she used to get seasick just looking  at a boat, let alone travelling the roughest seas in the world. But her cheeks billowed like sails when she said Antarctica. She inflated. A rare crescent moon of teeth emerged. I felt a flutter under my ribs. It had cost me an arm and a leg to get her on this ship, and it doesn't make sense to me why she'd go for nothing. But that's what mothers do for their daughters. They try whatever they need to keep them alive, to give them something to live for even when they don’t understand it. I run out onto the deck, calling to her. I do up her coat while she searches the deck for sparrows. ‘Do you think they’re all gone, mum?’ ‘What?’ ‘The sparrows.’ ‘I’m sure they found a ship going back the other way.’ She glares at me because she knows I am spinning fairy tales again, giving magic when there are only birds. Our ship has to wait in the harbour overnight. The sun is forever stuck in sunrise and sunset. It never breaks over the horizon. I pray it never does. We watch the seals snort, listen to the ice cleave off the sides and collapse into the sea. We watch people work the harbour in twilight, creating a slush of dirty snow that circles the station like tired, baggy eyes. It reminds me of nurses and doctors flying around in the hospital. Around and around my sparrow’s bed in flocks; the cleaners, the nurses, the visitors. All on a cycle, rotating, day in and day out, tired and exhausted. My sparrow was just one of many. I wondered if their migration changed at all when they found out why she was there; if they knew she was choosing to be there. Do they spend less time on her? Does their murmuration change? I never sat away from her clipboard. I wanted to guard it, hide it. ‘Get rid of the tourists, all the people and seals and the base camps. There is too much of something, of life, of people, here in the middle of nowhere.’ She wants it to be just us here in the darkness at the bottom of the world. For me, there’s not enough life. Not enough light. And I worry that I have indulged her darkness rather than liberated it. Maybe taking her here wasn’t a good idea. In the night kept only by watches, snow swept in, sprinkling the nothingness all around us, tucking into the corners of our dreams. It is a fresh idea, a blank slate, as if nobody ever existed. My little sparrow insists on being the first to make it out. She wants to be the first to stamp her feet into the snow, compressing the layers under her. It reminds me of her first steps as a baby; the first day she walked away from me. She had on a fluffy onesie from my mother, and soft brown wispy hair. How happy she used to be! Those chubby cheeks. Those gappy teeth. She squawked with delight and life and everything that was good. And now as she twirls around, free for a moment from whatever sparrows are leaving her, I can't stop staring at the past tense in the snow; the footprint that won't last, and the sun that will one day break over the horizon. She stops. Turns to me. ‘Did you hear that, Mum?’ ‘What?’ I bring my coat in around me, looking to see what others are doing to keep out the cold. ‘I found one.’ ‘Found what?’ My daughter unzips her jacket, tucks her hand into her coat. She peels open one side to show me something and her smile sings at me. There is a little chirp, and I see in the darkness of her coat two little eyes twinkle back at me, and a fluff of feathers down in her inside pocket. ‘A sparrow made it.’

y52p1c

As Light Replaced Darkness

"Time to rise and shine" Jenna said to herself as she threw her covers back. She grabbed her pants from the floor and pulled them up her long legs. The air felt cold. Colder than usual. She poured herself a glass of water. Her stomach felt strange. Something was off. Glancing around her small trailer she tried to comprehend the body weirdness she was experiencing. The subtle anxiety grew. Jenna threw open the thin aluminum door. As her feet touched ground, her knees bent. Like a hunting cat she crouched, splaying her hands wide like antenna receivers helping to balance her subconscious bent-knee crouching. Her stomach turned and she almost vomited. "Where is the sun?" She asked herself in horror. The eery darkness irritated her sensibilities, accosted her subconscious and terrified her senses. Jenna knew that panic was not an option. "No one does well when in a panic," she reminded herself. She could hear her father's voice in her head saying "you can take the girl out of the country, but you can't take the country out of the girl." Her small trailer sat like a lonely boulder on the hill her father left her as his legacy. She headed to the overlook to try and make sense of her situation. The darkness loomed. The sun failed to shine. She tripped over some lumber near her building site. She forgot a flashlight in her rush. "See why panic is bad?" She pointed out to herself as she trotted the memory-worn trail to the overlook. A mountain lion screamed in the distance. Coyote howls were in the air. Jenna drew the morning chill into her lungs, and tasted the crisp wind with her tongue. Morning scents were slightly off. At this point Jenna began her reality checks. "I need to listen to the news," she realized. "My phone isn't charged." She reminded herself. Peering into the sky, she saw the logical explanation for the first time. Blocked by trees surrounding her little home, she hadn't been able to clearly view the sky. Her body responded with relief. She slumped onto the ground and leaned back on her hands to view the phenomenon more calmly. Throwing her thick mane back, she laughed a sound that caused flustering in the bushes nearby. "If I had checked the news even once this week, I could have avoided all this" she reminded herself. The black sun began to yield a sliver of brownish-orange. Slowly the moon eked its way back to where it seemed to actually belong. NOT in front of the earth's precious heater. As light replaced darkness, Jenna moved from relaxed stillness. She trotted back towards her building site, anxious to begin the day's routine. Grabbing her ax, she hefted a chunk of wood onto her chopping block. In one clean lop, she split it in two. Jenna fell into her rhythm. Her body heated up. With the wood she was preparing for her little stove, her movements thoughtlessly created a pile of fuel. She imagined the house she was building. Smelled bread baking in her kitchen. Saw dancing rainbows on the wall from the window crystals she would hang in them. Jenna had been working building sites with her Dad since she was old enough to hand him a hammer. “A man’s home is his castle” he would say. “Someday I’ll build my own.” They planned and saved for years. Working seasonal carpentry jobs is a slow way to build a fortune. Raising a kid while doing it took focus. Without a mom around, Jenna and her Dad had become an inseparable team. They moved through life with a mission, a goal and a roadmap. He got permission for homeschooling with his need to move often argument. First they saved money for land. Next they saved money for building materials. They lived in a small trailer he pulled with his truck. Finally they found and bought the land. There is never a way to factor in a car wreck. When the world goes black and tomorrow starts stretching time in ways physics forgot exists, it's good to have a plan to follow. The zombie nation is made up of car wreck victims whose loved one never made it home from the grocery store. Wreck me once, I’ll come rolling home anyway. Wreck me twice and I learn to avoid those who might try to touch that gaping wound I call my heart. Jenna placed the last chunks onto the wood pile. She knew she had two chords, which should take her more than all through winter with such a small stove. “I've earned a break,” she announced to herself. “And then I’ll work on the solar panel.” A hummingbird almost dive bombed her head as it whizzed by. Jays were bantering in the trees. The air was warming with the essence of sage fragrances. Taking it all in, deeply, Jenna felt her heart move. “Wow” she said aloud. “This is a very unusual day, Daddy. Maybe you could have warned me about that eclipse, Eh?” She gazed around her homestead with the pride of a lioness. “Perhaps you’d like to join me in the sun?” Jenna decided to stop at the pond. Stepping up onto the huge tree stump she used as a diving board, she looked across the water. Her mouth opened in quiet surprise. At the other end of the pond stood a bear. Like a sunworshipper, standing on his hind feet, his paws were spread wide and he seemed to be rocking back and forth in the morning light. "Dad would have loved this," she thought to herself. Jenna spread her arms and rocked in the sun along with her wild companion. She remembered a bow hunting trip she had taken with him a few years before he died. They had crawled quietly through the underbrush and suddenly saw two five point bucks battling for territory. "It just doesn't get any better than this" he had said. "Oh yes it does" she whispered to herself as she swayed.

5nqf8t

Five Minutes to Midnight

January 1st, 2024 11.15pm I was five hours into a twelve hour drive from Edinburgh to Penzance, on my way down for Gran’s funeral. A gran I didn’t like and hadn’t seen since I was a kid but had still been harassed into showing up for. I was doing it under duress. It was New Year’s Day for God’s sake. Who has to travel on New Year’s Day for a funeral on the 2nd of January? Who dies on December 30th necessitating the need for said funeral? My inconsiderate, miserly, reclusive Gran on my mum’s side, who used to shut me out in the cold and shout at me for making the slightest noise when I was forced to stay with her, that’s who. The horrible bat. 11.20pm She’d always been a bit sadistic. Granny Rogers. Nobody liked her. Not even mum, which was why I thought she’d let me off the hook. I mean, I had plans for New Year’s with my new girlfriend, there were no trains or flights on New Year’s Day, I was starting a new job on the 2nd and was broke after hosting my siblings for Christmas. These were all lies/excuses but they sounded plausible and normally mum would let me off the hook when I moaned enough. Not this time. Even after I deliberately stayed out late with the lads ringing in the new year, getting so drunk I hoped I’d sleep through the day, she wouldn’t quit calling until I answered. And of course I answered. Because I couldn’t ignore her, being the good son that I am. Being me. She’d revoluted me money for petrol. She’d told me to bring along ‘Rebecca’. She’d sent me a copy of the funeral announcement to forward to my boss. What she didn’t do was say I could give it a miss. So what could I do? Being me. 11.27pm I could have just not gone. What could she have done? No time to drive up and get me. And she wouldn’t have even stayed mad for long. But…what can I say? I hated letting anyone down, hated being thought ill of, hated the feeling of guilt…so even though I put it off for as long as I could, fully intending not to go, by the time it got to the eleventh hour and I had to leave or not make the 8am service…I hopped in my car and started driving, fully aware it would be a drive through the night, still hungover and knackered. I knew I was going to regret it. And sure enough, five hours later and falling asleep at the wheel… 11.36pm I deeply regretted it. I had to pull in for a nap. I hated pulling in for naps. Especially in the middle of nowhere with charcoal-like trees lining a straight strip of solid black tarmac, not a light in sight and no moon visible in the sky. The last thing I wanted was to rest here but I also didn’t want to join Gran in her coffin the next day, not that she’d be kind enough to share, so I accepted the inevitable and reluctantly stopped for a break. Just a little one. Five minutes. Forty winks, my dad used to say. Forty, thirty-nine, thirty-eight… 11.53pm Minus nine hundred and one! I made a bad decision. Four bad decisions. Setting out so late I needed to stop. Pulling in for a nap in the middle of a Tim Burton nightmare. Sleeping for longer than the five minutes I’d intended and, worst of all…leaving the doors unlocked. 11.54:55pm “Thank God! Wake up, kid, hurry up and drive, they’re right behind me!” “Wh-what? Who..? Wait, what the Hell are you doing, get out of my car!” 11.55pm And that was how Indiana Jones tore open the passenger door of my 2017 Prius, startling me from my slumber and scaring me as he tumbled inside, babbling and bleeding all over. “I said drive, are you deaf?” He grunted, settling back in the seat and slamming the door shut. My eyes and ears were trying to communicate to my brain what was happening, but it was too much too soon for me to make sense of, and the most pressing concern my head seemed to have was wiping the drool from my chin. “Fuck fuck fuck!” Indy—I don’t know why but that was what came to mind when I saw him, in his cargo pants, ripped denim shirt and faded leather jacket, mussed hair and piercing blue eyes resting beneath a battered, grey fedora—unleashed a tirade of expletives and pressed a hand over a hole in his blood-stained shirt. “Motherfuckers!” he spat, spraying a mixture of spittle and blood onto the windscreen and wincing before abandoning the wound and turning his attention to the item he held in his free hand, which my eyes were drawn to as well as he placed it in his lap. A hand-held lantern, Moroccan or Arabian in style, ancient and rust-covered with a ghostly blue flame flickering behind glass panels. “Okay. Still lit. It’s okay, I can do this. I can… What the fuck, kid, are you just going to sit there gawking? What do you want, a season recap? I’ve been shot, I’m being chased, I’ve got the lantern and less than five minutes to save the world so start the engine and get us out of here! Trust me, you don’t want those psychos to catch us, they’ll gut you like they did the rest of my team and that will be the least of your worries. Don’t make me have to put a bullet in you.” His eyes held me transfixed and his words crashed over me like a tsunami but I still couldn’t understand what was happening. Nevertheless, the mention of the word bullet brought my attention to the gun he was now holding in his other hand, resting on his lap beside the lantern. Instinctively, without taking my eyes off the weapon, I allowed my hands to work, turning the key in the ignition, flicking the headlights on and lowering the handbrake. 11.56pm “Okay, man, take it easy,” I muttered, before my eyes went back to the lamp, then to the blood oozing from the wound in his stomach, then to the bruises and lacerations on his neck, then to his eyes, pained, beseeching but also communicating he was deadly serious. “I’m going, alright? Looks like you need a hospital but I don’t know the area so you’ll have to…” “No hospital! Nng. Gut shot. I’m not gonna make it but it doesn’t matter. We need to put some distance between us and them and stay ahead of them for…aaah…f-four minutes. That’s all. Four minutes and it will all be over and their stupid plan will…” I’d pressed down the clutch and put the car in gear and moved my foot over the accelerator as the sweating, bleeding Jones grew more agitated, and it was at that point exactly that the rear window of my silver hatchback exploded, scattering shards of glass throughout the interior of the vehicle and making me yelp in surprise. “Drive!” the uninvited passenger yelled, clutching the lantern close to his chest while bending forward, placing his gun hand on his hat as if to hold it in place. I didn’t need to be told, I was already jerking the wheel and grinding the accelerator, steering the car from the verge into the middle of the narrow country road, tearing away from the sound of gunfire as a second blast exploded the driver’s side mirror. “What the fuck-?!” I spat, risking a glance in the rear view mirror and seeing what I assumed to be a muzzle flash, a muzzle flash I expected would drive another bullet into the petrol tank and send us soaring into the sky like a roman candle. It didn’t happen. “What the Hell, man, who’s shooting? What have you gotten me into?” “Just drive!” Indy said, grunting as he twisted to point his gun back through the shattered rear window. He pulled the trigger, twice, and the explosions next to my ear made me wince. “If you hadn’t wasted time staring at me like a drooling neanderthal this wouldn’t have happened! So just…listen, okay? I’ll be, nnng, out of your life in…” 11.57pm “...three minutes, them too, and you can go back to sleep. Just…keep your foot down and follow the road, up to the next junction, then take a right towards Glastonhume. Yeah, that’ll do. They won’t expect me to go back there, they won’t be prepared to…” In the solid wall of darkness ahead, four glaring globes blazed to life and parted, two sets of two, blinding me and making me squint as we hurtled towards them. “Damnit! They have more agents in the area than I thought. Okay, fuck Glastonhume, next left, kid.” “Next left? There is no next left, it’s a forest! Jesus Christ, they’re coming straight for us, what are we going to…?” “I said. Next. Left!” Dropping his gun into his lap, my very own intrepid archeologist reached across and grabbed the top of the wheel, wrenching it to the left while crying out in agony as he twisted his gut. “Fuck!” I howled, struggling to control the car as it bounced off the tarmac onto a near invisible dirt road that carved a path through the densely packed trees. “What are you doing?!” The rear of the car slammed against a bole and I screamed and shifted down a gear, righting it on the stone and mud spitting lane, eyes alternating between the impenetrable blackness ahead and the road we’d left behind in my rear view mirror, until the headlights of two vehicles flashed past. “Go!” shouted Indy, snatching his gun up and straining again to look back. “There’s more of them than I thought. You can not let them stop us, do you understand? If they get the lantern and extinguish its flame it’s over, not just for us but for the world. Are you hearing me?” “Yes, I’m hearing you!” I snapped, no longer intimidated, the stress of the situation pumping me full of adrenalin. “But I don’t know what you’re talking about! Who are they? What’s with the lamp? You better start making sense or I’m stopping right here and bailing out. This is not my problem!” “You better believe it’s your problem, kid…” “Stop calling me kid ! Tell me what’s happening!” “You want to know what’s happening, I’ll tell you what’s happening, this ‘lamp’ is the Immaru , an ancient artefact that’s been lit for two and a half thousand years and is said to open a gateway to Hell, at pre-ordained times, when certain astrological conditions are met. I’m part of an international outfit that’s been hunting the Acolytes of Gallus for decades, that’s the demon-worshipping cult who unearthed the Immaru a few centuries back and have been waiting for a chance to recall the Goddess Inanna from the Underworld. She was a Babylonian Princess who was taken by the Galla’s and transformed into the epitome of evil, and if she gets out she’ll make the world pay for leaving her to…” 11.58pm “Watch out!” I yelled, when a shadowy figure wearing some kind of head torch leapt from the trees dead ahead. “Another one!” “Floor it!” Indy cried, ducking low as the shape in the headlights shouldered a rifle and fired. “Aaaaargghhh!” I cried, as I lowered my head behind the wheel and a bullet carved a hole through the windscreen, exploding the headrest above Indy. “Jesus!” I didn’t want to knock the guy down but I didn’t want to lift my foot off the accelerator either and the lane was too narrow to swerve around him, so I was grateful to catch a glimpse of him jumping clear, back into the woods as we tore by. “This is insane!” I shouted, lifting my head to try and avoid veering off the track. “What are we doing?” An explosion, the car jolted, started to bump and stutter along the ground and I knew the gunman had shot and blown out a tyre. “Don’t stop!” shouted Indy, aiming his pistol out the back window again and firing. “Just…gah!...two more minutes! Tonight’s one of those pre-ordained nights when extinguishing the flame opens a portal, but once we’re past midnight there’s nothing they can do. No pressure, kid, but the fate of the world depends on…” “Can’t hold it!” I gasped, struggling with the wheel as the car did everything in its power to drag itself into the woods. I had to ease my foot off the accelerator, it was the only way to keep control, but that offered an opportunity, for another of the Acolytes of Whatever to burst from the woods and throw himself onto the bonnet. “Shit!” I cried. “Fuck!” Indy grunted. “Stop!” shouted the person in the balaclava and headtorch who was clinging to the front of the car, pressing the muzzle of a revolver to the windscreen. He didn’t wait for a response before pulling the trigger, shattering the glass and hammering a bullet into my shoulder. The pain that washed through me was like nothing I’d experienced before and as all power drained from my arm, the Prius did what it wanted. I was aware of my companion reaching out to grab the wheel again, coughing up blood as he tried to take charge of the vehicle, but it was out of control, bumping and crashing at speed down a slippy embankment, grinding through thickets and weeds, dark, black boles flashing past on both sides, scraping the sides, taking off the remaining wing mirror. The pain in my shoulder threatened to make me pass out. My right hand slipped off the wheel. Indy yelled something about assholes. The faceless, black-clad individual on the bonnet was poking his gun muzzle through one of the holes in the glass, angling it towards the passenger side. I slid my foot onto the brake pedal, not sure what I was going to do but ultimately doing nothing because then we slammed into a tree and my airbag exploded and my seatbelt almost cut me in two and... 11.59pm “... idiot… ” “Whu..?” My eyes fluttered open and I jumped, wincing and gasping, steam from the broken engine wafting through the shattered windscreen to fill my mouth and make me hack and choke. My airbag was deflated, as was the one in the passenger compartment alongside. Somehow I’d survived, though the agony in my shoulder swiftly reminded me I’d been shot, which in turn reminded me of the guy on the bonnet, who I looked for and found past the smoke, pinned between the car and a tree, lying prone, arms splayed, gun gone. “...lamp…” I heard him splutter, and the lamp I remembered, along with the crazy story I’d been told, and then I looked at the dashboard and saw the time. 11:59. Almost midnight. After midnight we were safe. That’s what Indy-man said. Along with a whole heap of other shit that didn’t make sense. Still… I needed to know, so I shifted slightly until I could see the fedora-hatted hero, slumped over in the seat alongside me, unmoving, silent, dead? “Hey…?” I ventured, reaching across with my good arm, clutching his shoulder, pushing him up. His head lolled back against the damaged headrest, eyes shut, mouth open. “Are you…” I let the question dangle. He clearly wasn’t. But the lantern was. Still on his lap, still intact, the strange blue flame flickering fitfully. I reached down, closed my fingers around its handle, lifted it up. One of the panels, the one with a hinge that served as a door, had popped open, offering me a clearer look at the flame. There was something hypnotic about it, the way it danced, like it was living, the way it glowed, azure blue, like an eye that twinkled and sparkled.  I shook my head to clear it. I needed to get out of the car. I needed to find my phone. I needed to call for help. “What happened?” I groaned, as the digital display on the dashboard clock changed to... 00:00pm …and Indiana Jones brought his head abruptly forward, gently puffing into the lantern and plunging the car into darkness. “Idiot…” the man on the bonnet hissed again, then his head dropped and banged on the crumpled metal. “What?” “Good…work…kid,” I heard Indy-man sigh, as he fell back breathing his last. “In…Inanna will…reward you for…your service…” Wracked with pain, sweating, I struggled to comprehend what was dawning. My eyes were growing accustomed to the dark, or so I thought, until I realised the moon had broken through to light the sky, or so I thought, until I realised the light came from something else. From a strange looking fissure that was zig-zag creeping across the night, accompanied by a rumbling thunder, which wasn’t really thunder but the far-off sound of groaning souls. It started to rain. The edges of the fissure spat lightning as the gaps in the sky spread wide and a strange red glow filtered through. “All hail the Coming of Inanna!” a chorus of voices announced, drawing my attention to a group of individuals I hadn’t noticed gathering around my car. Individuals dressed like my Indy, in baggy pants and leather coats and hats, like they were fresh from exploring Mesopotamian ruins. “All hail the Dawning of the Era of Gallus!” It hit me then, like a sledgehammer. The penny dropped. I saw the light. Things fell painfully into place. And as the sky continued rumbling and dark-winged serpents flew through the void out of Hell, all I could do was stare into the lens of an imaginary camera, seek sympathy from an audience that wasn’t there, and say to myself: “Aw, fu-”

zfs7fj

Polaroid Night

How I ended up on Svalbard simply comes down to work. I was given an assignment to cover the Northern Lights. I had photographed so many things in hot, dry countries the world over, but I’d never been a fan of the cold. It was something that filled me with dread: going to stay on a remote island where Winter reigned, and darkness dictated the unfolding of our days. I knew it would invite depression, just being there for a number of weeks. I knew not a soul there, and that hadn’t mattered on any of my other assignments, but there was something about retreating to Winter’s core that made me suddenly feel inexpressibly lonely. I had my camera with me: my always faithful companion, but it was no substitute for human interaction. Work put me up for as long as I needed to stay, in a wooden cabin in the middle of the snow-topped forest. It felt like dangerous wildlife could reach me there long before any human saviour could. I felt scared, and that wasn’t something I felt often. It was Polar Night and the only sunlight I would receive would be the sunrises and sunsets, followed by an immediate return to darkness. I’d never known a life like it and I knew it would be an enormous adjustment to make – just figuring out how to survive in such a barren landscape. I’d heard there were a mere two thousand residents on the Norwegian islands. Knowing so few people chose to live there wasn’t exactly a recommendation. Whenever I got to my cabin, after the longest hike, I realised just how isolated I was. There wasn’t a neighbouring artificial light in sight. It was just me, the cabin and utter darkness. Thankfully, there was electricity in the cabin and a wood burning stove but looking out the uncovered windows brought me back to the phantoms of my childhood: the ones that had haunted me in the form of night terrors. Admittedly, I was a spoilt individual in many ways, but even well-off people are liable to succumb to their basest fears when their luxuries are stripped away. I thought of every horror film and story I’d ever seen and heard, and they seemed to converge in the realms of possibility of what might happen to me that cold night. I didn’t know what danger lurked beyond the locked door and I didn’t plan on opening it that night, even though my assignment depended upon it. I checked the fridge, hoping for a stock of basic supplies, but there was nothing. I went to bed hungry. I was sleeping on a pull-out bed that was murder to my spine, but there was no alternative. I thought, dreamily, of my own comfortable mattress. I’d invested thousands in the best quality bed, sheets, pillows and home comforts, so I could get as peaceful a sleep as possible. I always slept like a baby: one of the anomalous ones that slept all night long without stirring. I missed my possessions and I thought of little else that night. I lay in bed with an empty stomach and decided I would set out for supplies first thing the following day. I’d forgotten it would still be in darkness, so unnatural the notion of a polar night was to a UK resident like me. That night I tossed and turned and met all my greatest fears in the shadows on the panelling. It was like an old-fashioned projector, playing out every worst-case scenario my artistic mind could dream up. I had a long assignment ahead of me. My return flight wasn’t booked for weeks and weeks, and I knew I needed to bring a catalogue of pictures upon my return, so my boss would know that I had thrown myself into the experience rather than hiding out in a state of hibernation in my cabin. That was what I truly wanted to do. So, the next morning, in a blanket of darkness, I set out for the local store. While I walked there, I jumped at every twig cracking under my tread captured before. I was glad I’d remembered to bring it with me. I pulled it from my shoulder bag and took as many shots of it as I could. I didn’t want to miss a second. The colours of the sunrise were like the backdrop to a fairytale. I’d never witnessed something like that in my whole life, and I’d captured hundreds of sunrises in my time as a photographer. I was floored by what I saw, but whenever it seemed to reach its peak; when the colours created a celestial effect and the sun crowned them with its regal splendour, there was no daybreak to follow. The sky was enveloped in darkness again and the whole scene before me vanished. I trudged through the snow. It was powdery and supple beneath my feet. I knew the local village was within walking distance; I just couldn’t see it in that moment. I followed the light in the distance that I knew indicated the village’s location. It was so dark that any light, however distant, provided striking illumination. Whenever I got to the village, I felt relieved in a way that I only ever had after escaping the jaws of death on dangerous previous assignments, but no danger had presented itself – only darkness. I opened the door of the store. It reminded me of an old town corner shop. So many snow-related implements were suspended from the ceiling, along with wicker baskets and signs of handmade crafts. The owner beamed at me and spoke to me in English. How did they know I was an English speaker? It was probably because I looked so lost and filled with wonder at the quaint contents of the store. I gathered all the groceries I needed. Most of them were unrecognisable to me, but I was too hungry to dissect the particulars of them. The owner greeted my purchases with a smile of amusement, and they set about bagging them up for me. “You’re new here, aren’t you?” she asked me. I nodded and smiled. Her demeanour would have made the sullenest of faces break into an irrepressible smile. The place was filled with twinkly lights and rose quartz lamps, the sight of which gladdened my heart. I thought of my own chandelier back home, and the fact that it didn’t hold a candle to those little lamps of hers. It didn’t make me feel like I was being held in a warm embrace the minute I walked in the door. Maybe all the luxuries I had were the items that reminded me of my loneliness and I hadn’t even realised it before. “Are you coming to the event tonight?” she asked me, like it was universal knowledge. Maybe for the residents of the town, it was. “What is it?” I asked, with childlike curiosity. “It’s the Festival of Light. We gather together as a community to see the Northern Lights.” “Where do you do that?” “Just in the woods, near that holiday cabin you’re staying in.” “You know it?” “It’s the only one in the area. You’re the talk of the town.” “I am?” “ A famous photographer has arrived to photograph our everyday surroundings and to bring them fame too? Of course you are.” I couldn’t believe how impeccable her English was, especially coming from such a small community. It put my (as yet non-existent) Norwegian to shame. “I don’t know anyone here.” “That doesn’t matter – everyone is welcome,” she said. “We just want to mark the occasion and appreciate it together. Looking at beautiful things alone is fine, but it’s something else with other people to appreciate it with – don’t you think?” “Is this just normal to you?” I asked. “Polar Night, I mean.” “Oh yes, I love it,” she said. “You do? Don’t you find it a bit unnerving – or depressing?” “Not at all. It’s one of the times of most light for us. We create our own light to counteract the darkness, we burn fires, we talk to friends, we drink hot drinks and wrap up warm for the outdoors and delight in the natural scenes. Not everyone gets to see them. Don’t you think the sunset and sunrise stand out more whenever there isn’t any daylight arriving or departing?” “I didn’t think of it like that. The sunrise was pretty spectacular though.” “Come along tonight,” she said, passing me my bag of very considerately packed groceries. “It wouldn’t be the same without you.” I wondered how that could be the case, but I suddenly considered how barren my life back in England was, and I stopped regretting leaving it to come on that trip. Later that night, under the glory of the aurora borealis, I couldn't believe the luck that had come my way. I was floored by its beauty, to the point that for a long time, I stared, transfixed, without even picking up my camera. Maybe, I thought, I could extend my trip, for who knew how long? Maybe when I captured the miracle before me the best a humble human being could, I would just send the photographs back in the post.

m2yx4l

Falling Sparks

A small child sat quietly in a seat with his knees drawn up to his chin. No one sat beside him as the bus steadily lumbered down the uneven pavement. It swayed gently side to side as it traveled mile after mile. In his hands, a photo could be seen. Many creases were visible showing it was held often. Absently, lovingly, he ran his thumb across the picture as his eyes gazed out the window. Impassively, the young boy watched as small towns and neighborhoods gradually changed over to rolling hills and pasture land. . . The small child looked up at the woman with solemn, brown eyes. "I want to see the stars," he stated simply. The woman was at the kitchen sink washing dishes for the millionth time. She glanced down with tight, fatigued eyes. "Why do you want to see the stars?" she asked. The boy simply repeated, "I want to see the stars." The clock on the wall ticked slowly while he waited for her to reply. The woman watched him a moment longer before returning to the soapy dishes. "We live in a city. We can't see the stars." His brows furrowed as he repeated stubbornly, "I want to see the stars." Exasperated, the woman turned toward the boy. "We can't see the stars!" She exploded.  "We live in a city. There's too much light to see the stars!" She pointed a soapy, pruned finger towards the postage stamp yard and said tersely, "Go play outside." The young child's heart beat fiercely, a sparrow wildly beating its wings inside his small body. In his hand he clutched a familiar picture. Slowly, as the wings come to trembling stop, the small boy turned and trudged across the worn linoleum. . . The bus lurched to a stop. The brakes let out a relieved hiss as the doors are opened. The young child blinks and stands up. As he exits the bus, the driver, an older man with grey stubble and a receding hairline, called to him, "Hey kid, are your parents meeting you here?" The boy looked up at the concerned face and gave a small, reassuring smile. "Yes. They're waiting for me." Uncertain, the driver glanced at the clock, anxious to keep to the bus's schedule. "I can wait a few minutes for them." He peered around the parking lot. "It's okay," the child replied with the small smile. "I'm meeting them right down the road." As an afterthought, he remembered to add politely, "Thank you!" Hesitantly, the driver said, "Okay. If you're sure you'll be alright...." He paused, still concerned for the young boy. "Be safe." The doors closed and the bus began to sway again as it continued on its journey. The boy's hand dropped back to his side from where he waved bye to the kind, old man. As the bus turned back into the street, the small boy turned and began to walk out of town. . . In the tiny yard, the boy sat glummly with his chin resting in his hands. He stared sadly up at the bright blue sky and the lazy, puffy clouds. He held the picture up and looked at it longingly. A resigned sigh left his small body. After some time, a determined light glinted in his eyes and he stood up. Checking his pockets he pulled out a few crumpled bills. Glancing over his shoulder at the small house, he made a decision and strode out of the yard. . . The sun was nearing the horizon as the young boy climbed a hill dotted with white flowers. He laid down in the tall grass. As he listened to the calming buzz of insects in the warm fading light, his eyes drifted shut. Hours later, the young boy twitched and woke with a start. Disoriented in the darkness, he sat up and frantically looked around. As his breathing evened out, he remembered the stars. Wide, hope-filled eyes shot skyward. In the next moment, disappointment gutted his chest. The sky was blanketed in clouds. Slowly at first, tears pricked his eyes. Soon great rivers flooded his cheeks as tremendous sobs wracked his small body. He hugged his knees to his chest as despair raged through his body. . . The sky was a washed out blue, clear of all clouds. The young boy stood in a crowd of people. His hands rested at his sides, empty. His aunt was beside him, a hand resting on his shoulder. Intense grief pinched her face. Everyone was wearing black. Sniffles could be heard as a man spoke about tragedies and how brief life can be. After a time the man stopped talking. The boy's aunt moved towards the two caskets. Spying a chair, the young child sat down. Behind him, his Great Grammie leaned forward. "Such a shock," she commented sadly. They shared a moment of quiet, watching the people milling about. Suddenly she asks, "You ever seen a shooting star?" The young child turned around and shook his head. She smiled gently at the boy. "When my Da died," she began, "my Ma told me a secret about shootin' stars." A pause where she saw the curiosity grow in his dulled eyes. "I think I can share that secret with you now. Come on closer." He quickly scooted closer, leaning forward to hear her. "My Ma told me that shooting stars are loved ones findin' their way back to the Earth." Seeing the confused look on his face, she explained further, "She told me that when people die, they become stars. And when they're ready to come back to Earth the stars fall." "But where do they go when they come back?" The young child asked, still bewildered. A soft smile pulled up at her wrinkles. "They come back as new life," she explained. "Could be a new born babe or a flitterin' bird. A pretty flower. The soft babble of a brook or the playful breeze pullin' at your hair." The old woman leaned back in the hard plastic chair. "It just depends on where their spark falls." The young boy looked back at the two caskets as he thought about the secret his Great Grammie had shared with him. . . After a time, his eyes ran out of tears to cry and he took shuddering breaths. He kept his head pressed into his knees. Every now and again a sob would work is way up and a few more tears would fall. Despair and grief clung to his small shoulders. A breeze ruffled his hair and gently tugged at his shirt. Slowly the boy raised his head and gasped in amazement. Spread out before the hilltop, it seemed to the boy as if the whole sky were spinning. Free of clouds, star after shooting star fell to the earth.

cpe0wv

Bleeding Colours

He never wished for destruction yet it followed him like a shadow, an inseparable companion woven into the fabric of his every step. He could see manifestations of ruin everywhere. The once-vibrant earth now bore scars of conflict, with craters dotting the ground like wounds inflicted by some unseen giant. Tangled masses of barbed wire, twisted and gnarled, served as metallic reminders of a desperate attempt to control the chaos. And the forest, once green and breathing with life, was a sad mere semblance of a once flourishing ecosystem. As he sat in the heart of the desolate battlefield, where shadows clung to the ruins of a once-vibrant village, he stared into the flickering fire before him. The flames cast dancing shadows that played upon his weary face, etching lines of sorrow and heartache. His name, though seemingly inconspicuous among the ranks of soldiers, carried profound significance; for it signified not just an individual, but a collective embodiment of valour – Alexandre, warrior, and defender of the people. Bearing the name shared with the indomitable Alexander the Great, it wasn't just a nomenclature but a mantle of legacy. A moniker that echoed not only through the annals of history but also imbued its bearer with the weight of conquest, leadership, and an enduring symbol of greatness. With tousled blonde hair and piercing green eyes that reflected the fire's glow, the man felt the weight of a nation's destiny upon his shoulders. That night, he was tasked with keeping the fire alive—a meager flame that dared to defy the pervasive blackness that stretched beyond the fringes of his makeshift camp.  The night had claimed everything, reducing the world to an impenetrable void where only the fire's light held sway. He identified with the fire—a feeble flame entrusted with the daunting responsibility of illuminating the overwhelming darkness. It embodied his own sense of insignificance in the face of adversity, yet mirrored his unwavering determination to cast light upon the abyss that enveloped his world. Despite the desolation that had befallen his world in the aftermath of war, he remained resolute. The pillars of his existence, his family, and friends, now rested beneath the debris of their homes. The love of his life, a solace in times of despair, had become a captive of the enemy, ensnared in the relentless grip of a war that had devoured everything he cherished. However, amidst the ruins of his once-thriving life, Alexandre's strength endured. His love for his country, unyielding like an unwritten oath, continued to stand firm. In the face of personal tragedy and the relentless tide of conflict, he clung to his sense of duty, an unbroken force that propelled him forward despite the shadows that clung to his every step. His determination burned hotter than the fire he tended; a flame fuelled by an unwavering love for his country. The tricolour flag stitched onto his worn uniform was a promise; he was ready to die for a land that for him was a sanctuary of memories, echoed with the whispered tales of ancestors, crafting an unbroken legacy and a profound sense of kinship. Around his neck, a pendant of Joan of Arc swung gently with the rhythm of his laboured breaths—an homage to the heroes of his nation, the echoes of courage that resonated in the ashes of the past. On his thumb, a ring bore the Fleur-de-lis, a symbol that connected him to his homeland. In the silent moments between the distant echoes of gunfire, he traced the emblem with calloused fingers, finding solace in the small, tangible link to the place he called home. Stale bread and cheese, the only remnants of sustenance in a land stripped bare by war, lay untouched on a makeshift table. Despite the sparse fare, the taste of cheese brought a momentary flicker of joy to the man. In the darkness, where despair clung to the air like an unrelenting fog, this simple pleasure was a small victory against the encroaching hopelessness. As the night wore on, the fire dwindled, casting long, distorted shadows that played tricks on the man's fatigued mind. His gaze remained fixed on the flickering embers, a silent companion in the deafening silence of the night. Memories of happier times, of laughter and warmth, seemed to dance within the flames, taunting him with the echoes of a life now lost. The man felt the cold tendrils of fatigue creeping into his bones, his body worn from the incessant demands of war. Yet, as the first whispers of dawn touched the horizon, a renewed sense of purpose surged within him. The fire in front of him, now reduced to feeble embers, mirrored the flicker of hope that still burned within his heart. He knew his destiny lay beyond the confines of this desolate camp. With every step he took, he would carry the weight of the pendant and ring, the silent symbols of a nation's resilience. His love for the land was a flame that refused to be extinguished, even as the world around him crumbled. With a deliberate exhale, the man rose from his vigil by the fire. The branches on the floor beneath him crackled as he stood, the wind tenderly ruffling through his hair, an encouraging caress that whispered promises of resilience and possibility. He cast one last glance at the pendant and the ring, both, poignant reminders of his purpose in a life irrevocably altered by the merciless hand of war. With that fleeting gaze, he felt a quiet whisper, guiding him back to the path of duty. The sun, a distant promise beyond the shroud of night, would soon cast its golden light upon the battlefield. Alexandre knew that as the fire in front of him dimmed, the flame inside him would burn brighter than ever. The battles that lay ahead were uncertain, and the enemy's shadows loomed large on the horizon. Yet, with each step toward the impending conflict, he carried with him the legacy of heroes of the past, a testament to the unyielding spirit of a man who, for his people, would bleed the colours blue, white, and red.

xnx7i8

Under the Medallion Star

Pegasus could be seen from any spot within the gigantic expanse of the stadium. Oris and his best friends would occasionally stand at the base of the stadium to observe the radiant glow and ring of dust floating around Pegasus. Something about this celestial body could steal your breath. It was a majestic spectacle for all to behold; it stood gallantly bright and fierce as its light penetrated every corner of the cosmos. All citizens of Centauri b revered Pegasus because it outshone every other star in its constellation.  But things were different now. Over the last couple of days, Pegasus’ brightness slowly began to dim. This was alarming for all the citizens who adored the 800 million year old star. It was their main source of energy. The gradual drop in luminosity meant that it was on the verge of decay . It was rare that a star of such grandeur would come to extinction. The last time a star of such magnitude decayed completely was over five hundred years prior. In Oris’ lifetime, he had only witnessed the death of the smaller stars- a frequent occurrence that provided the basis of the annual Light Catching games. Every 180 days, a star would die. The great astronomers of Centauri b had developed stamps on certain stars which predicted the exact time they would go extinct. And so far their system proved accurate. Whenever these stars were a week away from their extinction, the whole planet would prepare to watch the bedazzling astronomical phenomenon- a supernova. These large celestial bodies would undergo changes in internal pressure resulting in a magnificent explosion sending neutron stars and other forms of celestial matter ricocheting into the cosmos. Men and women from all corners of the galaxy would come and watch the explosion- the dispersion of the star as it rained atoms and neutrons embellishing the heavens with fantastical colours But this microcosm of gas and dust wasn’t the only event preceding light catching games. It was the bright particles transcending space, flying at outstanding speeds in all directions. Bright particles that a group of elite athletes were trained and determined to conquer.   Oris, Ash, and Axel were amongst the chosen elite . Axel and Ash were the closest thing that oris had to siblings. The triplets, they called themselves. And the sibling-like rivalry between them was obvious. Ash wanted to be the best scientist of the three and Jack always had the competitive edge because he knew he was the best athlete. But Oris had never accomplished anything in his life. He wasn’t the great Ahlete that Axel was nor the scientist that Ash was. Amongst his friends, he was the underachiever. Throughout his teenage years he remained protective. Sheltered and safe from the clusters of gas, dust and celestial matter that made up the galaxy of Centauri-b. So it shocked everyone when he was selected to participate in the annual Light Catching Games. “It’s probably some mistake in the draft system if Oris made it” said Axel. “Don’t listen to him” said Ash Oris didn't know what to believe. He didn't know what to think. There was One thing he was certain of. He was more terrified than he had ever been in his life. He had always been afraid and too cautious. Too self-conscious, extremely reserved and too afraid to venture into the great world of battleships, astral armaments and astronauts. So he never got a taste of the world. Not until his name was called by the Intergalactic Trainee Board. Everyone in his unit was surprised that Oris would be selected. The Light Catching games were intense and fierce involving athletes from all over the galaxy who are willing to risk their lives to be crowned. A few eyebrows were raised because Oris was known to be unathletic. In fact, nobody at the learning center was sure if there was anything he was particularly good at. But somehow whether by accident or miracle, he made the selection. Adopted as an infant, he never knew his real parents. The only thing he knew about himself was his name Oris which was engraved on the necklace around his neck when he was given up for adoption.  Now at the edge of their seventeenth year, Oris, Ash and Axel all felt the pressure. They all wanted to prove themselves to the world. And the Light Catching games was their shot. It was seven days until the Light Catching Games and Oris thought about forfeiting. He felt like an imposter amongst these great athletes. They stood at the edge of the stadium watching in awe. It was a massive region of space surrounded by nothing but red dwarfs. And Pegasus stood dignified in the center of its constellation. Oris was still awestruck when suddenly BOOM Axel tackled him into the abyss of the arena. The two teenagers tumbled down under the influence of light gravity down into depths of the stadium. Oris struggled to regain his breath. “Man, you got me right in the gut” he said gasping for air. “First rule of intergalactic drifting. Be alert at all times” said Axel. Oris waited a few moments before returning the favor. He charged towards Axel relying on the propelling force of his hoverblades. But Axel had already anticipated that, holding his guard up the whole time. “Seriously guys? Very mature” said Ash scoffing at the tqo.. As the two struggled to subdue one another, Ash couldn’t help but notice a rumbling in the distance. She ignored it but it got stronger and stronger until the ground beneath them started to vibrate. She looked to the sky and noticed a bright sparkling particle- a shooting star maybe- but it wasn’t an ordinary star. It drew nearer and nearer until its light illuminated the entire stadium. By the time Axel and Oris felt the vibration and heat from the light, it was already only a mile away from them. Axel was numb. Oris froze. The mix of panic and shock temporarily shut down his nervous system. Axel stood still and watched in amazement. Whatever it was it was heading towards Oris at lighting speed. Now, it was only a few inches away. Adrenaline kicked in. Oris blinked for a second before the force of the incoming particle sent him flying yards across the stadium. And in an instant, the light was gone. It’s remnant was nothing but debris and shockwaves throughout the ground. Everyone could feel the impact. Nobody knew what it was but it was the coolest thing they had ever witnessed.

ortxqs

Dying Sun

The world lay cloaked in a perpetual twilight, its landscape etched in shades of gray and somber indigo. The sun, once a fiery orb that danced across the sky with a brilliance that could blind, now hung low and listless—a pale imitation of its former glory. Its light was a mere whisper, gasping against the encroaching darkness that sought to swallow what little remained of the day. "Another day, another ration," muttered Apollo Winters under her breath, the words hanging in the frigid air like a personal mantra. Her voice was as raspy and monotone as the wind that scoured the barren plains, carrying with it the scent of decay and the promise of oblivion. She had no reason to speak, as it was only her for as long she could remember. Maybe it was the random thought that one day she would lose her voice if she hadn't at least uttered a few words every now and then. Or maybe, as silly as she thought it sounded, she would forget how to speak. She surveyed the expanse before her, her sunken eyes a testament to countless nights spent awake, vigilant against the threats that lurked just beyond the reach of her makeshift shelter. Apollo's gaze, sharp and searching, took in the dying world with a stoic acceptance that belied the fire still burning within her lean, muscular frame. Her silhouette was a stark contrast against the dimming horizon, a solitary figure of resilience sculpted by survival. Got to keep moving , she thought to herself, flexing her fingers to ward off the cold that seemed to seep into her very bones. The leather of her gloves creaked softly, a reminder of the countless repairs and adjustments she had made over the years. Her thoughts turned inward, tracing the path of her solitary existence. Apollo knew the weight of reliance—of depending on unreliable others—and she had long since shed it, like a snake discarding an outgrown skin. Self-reliance was a creed etched into her being, each scar a verse, each callus a chorus. Apollo shifted her pack, feeling the familiar contours of supplies and equipment that were the lifelines of her nomadic life. She checked her gear methodically, her movements practiced and precise. Each item held its place, each tool served its purpose—there was no room for sentimentality when one's very existence hinged on utility. Yet, despite the bleakness that enveloped her world, a spark of hope flickered within Apollo Winters. It was not the brazen flame of naivety but the steady glow of determination. She knew the odds, understood that the dying light might very well herald the end of everything she had come to know. But Apollo was not one to bow to the inevitable without a fight. Apollo sighed heavily, casting one last look at the weakened sun. She shouldered her burden and stepped forward into the gathering dusk, her every step a silent challenge to the darkening skies above. Apollo stood alone, a solitary figure against the stark landscape. The horizon stretched endlessly before her, its barren expanse only interrupted by the jagged silhouettes of dead trees that clawed at the heavy sky. Here, in this forsaken corner of a world slowly succumbing to shadow, isolation was not a choice; it was an unrelenting reality. The air was sharp with the scent of cold iron, and the wind whispered threats through the hollows and dells of the desolate terrain. It hissed against the fabric of Apollo's weathered coat, a sinister prelude to the storm that lingered on the edge of consciousness—a harbinger of death clad in frost. "Storm's coming," she muttered to herself, her voice rasping away into nothingness. Her sunken eyes, which had seen too much yet missed nothing, scanned the clouds gathering with predatory patience. Her hands, gnarled from seasons of survival, worked with quiet efficiency. She secured the straps on her pack, ensuring that nothing could be snatched away by the capricious winds. Each movement carried the weight of experience; each decision was honed by countless close calls with oblivion. Apollo felt the stirrings of unease as she moved through the silent waste, aware that time was slipping through her fingers like grains of sand in an hourglass cracked and worn. The impending storm was more than a meteorological event—it was a ruthless adversary, one that demanded respect and inspired a primal dread. The pressure in the air built steadily, an invisible force pressing down upon the earth with relentless intent. It was as if the atmosphere itself conspired with the dying sun to extinguish what little life remained. And yet, Apollo pushed forward, her lean, muscular form cutting a path through the brittle underbrush. Got to find shelter , she thought, her mind racing ahead of her feet. Somewhere to ride it out. Somewhere safe. The concept of safety was laughable in a world where light was a fading memory, but Apollo clung to it—a talisman against despair. With each step, the tension grew tauter, the expectation of violence simmering just beneath the surface of the quiet. There was a rhythm to her preparations, a cadence to her movements that spoke of many winters survived—but none quite as desperate as the one that now loomed over her like an executioner's shadow. "Keep moving, Apollo," she whispered to the wind, her voice steady despite the quickening pulse of fear. And with a determination that defied the darkening world, Apollo pressed on, her every step a testament to the enduring human spirit that refused to be extinguished—even as the sun flickered its last. The sky, a tattered shroud of grays, hung heavily above Apollo Winters. It was as if the heavens themselves had grown weary of their vigil over a dying world. She squinted upwards, the fading light casting deep shadows across her face, accentuating the hollows beneath her sunken eyes. The wind, sharp as a blade, sliced through her worn garments, its icy fingers probing for any weakness in her armor of cloth and determination. "Storm's coming," she murmured to no one, her voice barely rising above the howl that swept across the barren landscape. Spoken words seemed a sacrilege in the stillness that preceded chaos, yet they carved a fragment of reality she could cling to. Apollo turned her gaze southward, where the promise of shelter—or at least the illusion thereof—beckoned. The journey was fraught with peril, every mile a gauntlet thrown by nature itself. Yet, to stay would be to court death in its most silent form, as the storm promised nothing but obliteration in its wake. "South," she breathed, the word a puff of vapor in the chill air. Her mind churned, an internal tempest mirroring the one that raged toward her. Each thought was a shard of ice, piercing her resolve. To venture into the unknown was to dance with demise, each step a precarious gambit. But to remain was to accept a certain end, to allow the creeping cold to claim her as it had claimed so many others. Apollo's hands clenched and unclenched reflexively, grappling with the decision as though it were a physical adversary. In the sanctuary of her isolation, she had built fortresses not only of stone and scrap but within her psyche—a bulwark against the despair that threatened to suffocate her spirit. Yet now, as the first whispers of the storm's vanguard caressed her cheeks with frost, doubt crept in like a traitor. "Shit." Her voice was a rasp, fighting against the wind that sought to snatch her words away. She envisioned the path before her, treacherous and unyielding, a labyrinth of frozen obstacles that could dash her to pieces. With each imagined footfall, her heart grew heavier. The specter of solitude loomed large, a reminder of the countless days spent in the company of her own echoes. The biting cold spurred her into motion, muscles flexing with well-honed precision as she readied herself for the ordeal ahead. Move, Apollo , she commanded herself, the order ringing in her ears, a lone beacon amidst the encroaching gloom. Move or die. With the weight of impending doom pressing upon her shoulders, she took the first step, a deliberate defiance against the dying light. The odds may have been stacked against her, but Apollo Winters was no stranger to playing the hand she'd been dealt, no matter how grim the cards. And so, she marched on, a solitary figure etched against the desolate expanse, her spirit a flickering flame in the gathering dark. The horizon stretched out, a canvas painted with the ashes of twilight, devoid of movement, devoid of life. The dying sun, once a beacon of warmth and energy, now hung low and sullen, its light feeble against the encroaching darkness. Each step was a testament to her determination, a rhythm set against the quiet apocalypse. The emptiness around her mirrored the hollow ache within—a yearning for a flicker of hope in a world growing ever colder. Keep moving , Apollo thought, her mind whirring with plans and contingencies. Her trail was a solitary line etched into the frost, the only sign that humanity had not yet conceded to the night. And as Apollo ventured forth into the vastness, there remained within her a spark—an ember of defiance that refused to be extinguished. The winds howled like ancient specters, clawing at the fabric of her suit with icy fingers as Apollo trudged onward. Crags of ice and stone rose before her, treacherous sentinels in a landscape that had long since given up on hospitality. Each breath was a battle, the air so cold it bit into her lungs, threatening to steal the very warmth from her blood. "Come on," she muttered through chattering teeth, her voice scarcely more than a growl lost in the wind's wail. Her boots crunched over a crust of snow, each step a declaration of war against the desolation. The freezing temperatures were adversaries she knew well, but today they seemed to conspire with greater malice, as if intent on seeping through her resolve. She felt the weight of isolation—not just the absence of others, but the void left by a sun that no longer cared to light her path. Yet, it was in this darkness that Apollo's determination glowed brightest—a silent rebellion against the dying embers of the day. As dusk approached, the world dipped into deeper shades of blue and gray, the horizon blurring into an indistinct line between nightmare and reality. Finding shelter became paramount; the night would brook no leniency for those caught unguarded beneath its starless expanse. Shelter , she reminded herself, scouring the landscape with sunken eyes that missed nothing, not even the subtlest hint of respite. There, nestled between two jutting boulders, lay the promise of temporary sanctuary. It was little more than a cleft in the rock, but to Apollo, it was a fortress against the encroaching frost. With hands that had grown skilled through countless nights such as this, she set about constructing her haven. Apollo began working swiftly to build a barrier with chunks of ice, her breath a steady rhythm of survival. She unpacked a compact thermal tarp from her pack, spreading it across the makeshift structure like a guardian wing. Inside, she activated the small heat emitter, a precious device that offered a bubble of life-saving warmth. Her fingers lingered on the switch, a silent prayer of thanks to the technology that kept death at arm's length. Another night , she thought, curling up within the cocoon of her survival skills. The wind continued its relentless assault outside, but Apollo lay shielded from its fury. In these moments of respite, she allowed herself the luxury of hope—hope that beyond the frozen wasteland, there might still be a place where the sun's touch was more than a memory. With a sigh and several uncomfortable shifts on her mat, her thoughts drifted toward sleep. Dawn broke with a begrudging sliver of gray light that did little to dispel the darkness of the world. The sun, once a fiery harbinger of life, now hung in the sky like a dimming ember, its warmth an ancient fable told by the wind. The depressing, dying ball of fire served as mere decoration. Apollo emerged from her makeshift shelter, the cleft that had shielded her through the night now just another shadow among many. Her eyes, deep-set and weary, scanned the horizon with the precision of a hawk. She knew that danger here was not announced with fanfare; it crept upon you with the stealth of the cold itself. She took a step forward, her boots crunching over the frozen ground, each step a calculated risk. The biting wind clawed at her face, as if attempting to peel away her resolve along with her skin. But she pushed forward, her muscles tense and ready for whatever lay ahead. With every passing second, her vigilance sharpened, honing her focus to a fine point. The horizon remained impassive, but Apollo's instincts buzzed with anticipation. She knew the landscape was a deceptive adversary, one that cloaked its threats beneath a veil of ice and desolation.

ussatw

The Heavens Above

The coldness ran through his body. His hands were balled into fists and shoved deep into the pockets of his coat. Jacob glanced around the crowd of people waiting in the evacuation area. Puffs of mist appeared from their mouths as they exhaled the ice cold air. He stamped his feet a few times hoping that the added circulation would create some warmth. He was still numb to the idea that he would be leaving this place. It was all he ever knew.            Jacob was born in the settlement of New Butte. At least he thinks he was. He never knew his mother. He never knew anyone he would call family. His earliest memory was as a child in the work house. His early jobs were all domestic in nature: keeping the house in working order and taking care of the needs of the miners. Not that they got anything more than the basic requirements to stay alive, and even that was a stretch sometimes. When he was about ten, age being more or less a guess to him, he was taken from the house and put into the mines. His first job was basically what he did in the work houses except underground. He took care of the menial tasks to keep the miners working and often acted as a runner bringing messages and orders from the surface to the lower levels. After a few years, he was “promoted” to miner. He worked alongside the other men and women of New Butte blasting, pounding, and scraping the precious ore out the rocks. Jacob didn’t even know what the ore was for. Some of the miners told him it was fuel to heat the homes of the rich. Others told him it was for weapons production. Either way, there was no benefit to him on whether it stayed in the ground or was taken away on the trains.            Everyday Jacob rose before the sun, if you could even say it had risen. All the sky did was turn from a dull black to a greyish hue that was slightly better to see in. The dullness was caused by the immense amount of smog that hung in the atmosphere. He roomed with the other miners in a large dormitory. They slept in bunk beds stacked three high. Each morning they woke to the sound of a klaxon blasting multiple times. Breakfast was served ten minutes after the alarm went quiet. After thirty minutes, they were to be at their work locations. Once there, that would be their spot for the next six hours until they were given about fifteen minutes to eat and drink before returning to work for another six hours. If they didn’t make their quota by that point, they remained in the mine until it was reached. When done, an evening meal was provided followed by lights out.            This was the only life Jacob had known and now it was done. Mine “accidents”, or rather acts of gross negligence by the Company, happened often. Deaths didn’t occur on a daily basis, but you would never get through a full week without at least one happening. Cave-ins were also rampant. The Company wanted the ore out of the mine with the least amount of investment possible. Spending on safety was a waste, unless it was for the protection of the ore. If a few cave-ins happened and a few miners died, that was just the price of doing business. The cave-ins and accidents began happening more and more frequently to the point that the settlement itself was on the verge of catastrophic failure. Gravity was crumbling the ground above while magma and deadly gases were appearing from below. After escalating for months, evacuation was deemed the only course of action. The effects of the Company’s invasion of the earth had terrestrial impacts reaching far past the settlement so the only direction of escape was by sea.            Jacob listened to the sounds of the earth cracking behind him as he stood by the dock. Smoke and bursts of lava shot into the sky. The large vessel was moored along the waterfront. Ship workers were busy loading Company files and equipment onto the boat. That had priority over the miners. If there was space left, then they would be boarded.            “Fire! Fire!” screamed a voice behind Jacob. He glanced behind him and saw one of the wooden dormitories burst into flames after being struck by the spewing lava. The smell of sulphur hung heavy in the air. He instinctively shuffled slightly closer to the boat. As he watched the flames grow, the ground beneath gave way. The dormitory and several other buildings collapsed into themselves before being swallowed by the earth.            “Load them now!” shouted the Executive Officer who was hanging out of the door of the boat’s bridge. He began to ring a bell that was attached to the wall of the ship.            “Move! Move!” instructed the ship workers while waving to the waiting miners to start walking up the gangplank onto the boat.            The older miners had been placed closer to the dock. They started to make their way towards the vessel. It took less than a minute for order to fall apart and chaos to ensue. The older people were pushed to the sides as younger men began to rush the boat. One of the seamen tried to block the gangway while waving his arms in front of him appealing for calm. He was flung off the ramp by the advancing mob. Jacob watched as the seaman’s head struck the cement dock before rolling back into the dark water. No one tried to help. They continued to rush towards the ship.            The Executive Officer saw the mayhem transpiring. Panicked, he ran back into the bridge telling the Captain of the crisis.            “We sail now. Power up the engines and release the ropes,” ordered the Captain.            “All hands, all hands! Underway! Release the moor lines,” said one of the bridge workers into a microphone.            Jacob heard the order over the loud speakers as he pushed and shoved his way onto the deck of the ship. In addition to the up and down rocking, he could feel the boat begin to drift along the water under his feet. He kept moving with the crowd towards the bow of the ship. He could hear the rumble of the engines starting and felt himself fall back slightly as they propelled the boat towards the ocean. Jacob looked back at the dock as it fell away from the boat. The majority of the settlement was still standing there yelling and waving their fists as the boat began to move. Some launched themselves at the hull of the big ship in hopes of grasping onto one of the exposed ropes. Jacob leaned over the guard rail and watched as bodies bounced off the grey metal and into the water. Most didn’t even reach the boat and landed straight into the sea. No life ring buoys were thrown nor was any assistance offered. Everyone stood on the deck and watched as the group swam around trying to chase the boat. Jacob looked on as he saw the swimmers pulling those around them underwater in attempt to get to the front of the pack. He could look no more. He backed away from the railing and rested his back against the structure of the boat. He could see in the sky how much the erupting lava had increased. He could hear the groan of the earth as it shifted and moved.            “Oh my god,” said one of the others standing on the deck.            Jacob moved forward and looked again. The spurts of molten rock were falling all over the poor souls who were left behind. As they screamed and pleaded, Jacob watched the ground beneath them begin to fall into the sea. At first, it was pieces here and there before larger masses followed. In the blink of an eye, the settlement that Jacob called home collapsed into the water. The place had only caused him despair and agony throughout his life, but it was still all he knew. He brushed a tear off his cheek before turning and facing the open ocean. The sky slowly changed from black to dull grey.            Jacob had no idea where the boat was headed. He heard some of the miners say they were being transferred to another mine. Some said that Company representatives told them they were being retired and moved to the city. Although he felt some strange attachment to New Butte, being all that he had known, he had no desire to start again in a new mining settlement. Jacob knew he had no choice and his wants did not come into play. His life was the Company’s life and would be until death.            A deck hand walked around carrying a large plastic tote. It contained torn up pieces of moldy bread. He dispersed the food to the passengers. Jacob nodded to the deck hand and took his small offering. He wandered around the deck and found a place to sit under an overhang. He nibbled on the bread as he tried to get used to the rocking motion of the ship. Others were not faring so well. Puddles of vomit covered the deck while miners looked dazed with a green tint to their faces. After finishing the bread, he slid down onto his side, pulled his knees up to his body and fell asleep.            Jacob awoke hours later and looked around. All he could see was water stretching out to the horizon on all sides. The water appeared strange and vibrant. It was bluer than it had been around the settlement. The waves and ripples created a shimmering effect with a brightness that made him squint. Wondering where this brightness was coming from, he looked up. The grey, smog filled sky he was used to seeing had been replaced by one that appeared light blue. As he looked toward the horizon on one side, the colour became slightly darker. On the opposite side, it went from the blue into almost a white before turning yellow that then shaded into a red where it met the ocean. For someone who lived in a world of black and white mixed with shades of grey, this was magnificent. He watched for the next hour as the dark blue began to take over the sky and force the yellow and red colours into a narrow line across the horizon.            What came next was absolutely astounding. As the dark blue took over the sky it eventually turned black. It wasn’t the type of black he was used to though that reflected the ground light back towards the earth. This sky let whatever artificial light there was freely drift away into the emptiness above. As he stared into the vastness, he began to notice tiny specks of light. As the sky drew darker, the specks appeared brighter, and in greater numbers. Jacob began to count them. He quickly found that this was not possible. There must be millions of them , he thought. It was unlike anything he had ever seen before. It was spectacular. The specks appeared far away from each other in some places and tightly grouped in others. In the groupings, he noticed the light from the specks banded together to form a milky blob with reds and pinks mixed within. The beauty of the sky was breathtaking. He stared in silent contemplation.            “Amazing, right?” said a deck hand who noticed Jacob with his mouth agape staring at the sky.            “I…I have never seen anything like this. Where are we? What does it mean?” Jacob asked.            “The stars? The stars are always there. They are only visible when the sun sets. Have you never seen them before?” said the hand.            “I have never seen the sun before,” said Jacob.            “Hundreds of years ago, sailors used the stars to traverse the waters when the sun was down. It was called celestial navigation.” The hand looked silently at the sky for a moment. “There. You see that? The really bright one up there? That’s called the North Star. Now look at the other brighter stars below it. See how if you imagine a line that runs from star to star, it looks like a handle attached to a cup? The grouping is known as the Little Dipper. It’s one of the most important group of stars a navigator could know.” He again stayed silent appreciating the miracle of the sky above.            “Is this the only place you can see them?” asked Jacob.            “Well, once you get away from land, yes. On the open ocean they are always visible. Unfortunately, all the industrial destruction of the Company has made them disappear from the sky on any surface they have touched. Such a shame.” The deck hand broke his gaze from the sky and continued with duties.            For the rest of the night, Jacob stared at the sky. He analyzed the groupings and made his own constellations in his head. He picked out his favourites and would stare at them for minutes at a time wondering how far away they were and if anyone was on those staring back at him. It was incredible.            As the hours went by, Jacob noticed a change in the hue of the sky opposite where the red was the day before. At first, the black turned to a dark blue. This was quickly followed by a light blue, turning a purple before it became an orange and eventually a bright yellow. As the change occurred on the horizon, Jacob noticed the stars get dimmer and dimmer until only the brightest were left. Jacob began to detect the familiar odor of pollution creeping into his nose. The scent was very light, but Jacob knew it indicated that they were getting close to their destination. Jacob sat there thinking of the wonder he had just witnessed, knowing he would never see it again. Slowly, he rose and walked along the deck. He took another long look at the sky. He closed his eyes and exhaled lightly before leaping over the railing into the icy water. Phil Browne

xekxkq

Let me tell ya ‘bout Cold

Let me tell ya ‘bout Cold Cold! You’re cold? Ya think this is cold? Let me tell ya ‘bout cold! So you think you know cold; well you don’t come close. I’m gonna tell you the facts ‘bout cold. As one might think, there are several kinds or degrees of cold: there’s cold , there’s colder , and then there’s COLD . But there is a degree of cold that goes where no other cold has been. I have seen, felt and survived it, I want you to know. Survived them all at one time or another. So just hang in there and I’ll tell you all ya need to know. Just what is cold ? I’ve been there when it’s cold. Let me describe cold for you. You might be marching in a review of the Corps of Cadets in downtown Houston on a November Saturday with the wind blowing through the canyons of old downtown Houston like a hurricane was around the next corner. The temp might be in the mid to high forty’s, maybe even as high as fifty or even sixty. You have been soaked completely through and through by the rain. Or just maybe you are in the middle of a hurricane in October that’s hitting the Florida panhandle and the temperature again is somewhere in the fifties or sixties. But with the wind blowing and your tent not providing the needed shelter from the elements that you desire and like in Houston, just maybe you are again soaking wet. Well yah, that’s cold . But wait, let me tell ya ‘bout colder .            OK, let’s say you are on a wilderness canoe trip in the Quetico Boundary Waters just north and east of Ely, Minnesota in early August. Your boots have been soakin’ wet for the entire six days you have been out with a full three days left prior to returning to civilization. You just had to turn back from a portage that you couldn’t find because the rain prevented you from seeing any further than your own hand held as far out as you can reach in front of your face. You have just set up camp again in the same spot as last night, this time in the rain. The bottom half of your sleeping bag is wet because your chums have picked a bad spot for the tent—drainage quickly became part of your sleeping terrain. You soon realize that the situation will not get better all night. The temp then drops into the fifties or even the forties but you can’t tell as no one in the group has a thermometer. You are intuitive enough to know that it has to be in the forties because you have never been this miserable in the fifties. Your feet are wet and you feel colder than you can ever remember before and all that’s left for the three remaining days is more wet clothes. Well, yah, that’s colder . But just wait a minute; we’re not finished yet. Let me tell ya ‘bout COLD . One Friday morning in February some years back while bivouacked on the drop zone just east of Fort Greely, Alaska with the temp on the bottom side of -85ºF or possibly even as low as -90ºF, I awoke just a little bit later than my usual. I knew this because the sun was shining through the gap in the tent flap and at that time of year the sun didn’t come out until around 10 AM. The previous night I had once again been out far past midnight, actually closer to 2 to 3 AM, observing and supervising (when it seemed to be required) on a support mission to assist the Air Force Weather Unit up on Donnelly Dome (see Fitz’s and His Spare Tire for complete details of that adventure). From where I lay on my cot, I could just barely see that all important sunlight (warmth) streaming through just the smallest crack in the tent door flap. Somebody hadn’t completely closed the flap; whichever of my tent mates who had last departed was surely the culprit—it didn’t matter much now. An open flap mixes the Herman Nelson provided heat with the outside cold, but not very well. As I lay there on top of my sleeping bag, I realized that I had probably missed any chance at my routine—a quick run by the post shower point where there was a great (read warm) indoor latrine. That stop on my way to Battalion for the new day’s assignments was a luxury I always looked forward to. Boy, I was sure gonna miss that great (warm) indoor latrine. Missing this opportunity would soon turn out to be more than moderately important this particular morning. I felt warm laying there on my bunk; all nice and cozy dressed in just my long johns and socks—we slept in as little as we could get away with. Even with the temp around -75ºF or -85ºF outside our canvas walls, with Herman blowing you could get away with very little sleepwear—Herman could make it downright hot inside. As I lay there and thought more about missing that (warm) indoor latrine on the flight line; the idea was starting to take a fairly heavy toll on me. This had been my routine each morning over the last three weeks—taking this route allowed me to coordinate with the aviation operations guys on my way to visit with my Company Commander and the Battalion operations section to discuss mission requirements. I had to show my face just to insure they kept our operation in mind because we were not collocated with the rest of the battalion and this sometimes caused a problem—sort of an out-of-sight situation.            As I lay there contemplating my situation, I mumbled to myself “Brrrrr!” I shivered just a little thinking of what awaited outside that tent flap. “It’s cooooold! I don’t wanna go to that latrine tent…but I gotta. I just can’t wait.” I knew it was now too late and that I had no choice; the natural laws of the morning had assumed command of my body. I pulled myself outta the rack and began to dress for the short hike I was about to take. Reader, please realize: this wasn’t an elaborate restroom facility that I was headed toward. It was just a crude two-holer my platoon had put together—made out of plywood with plastic bags dangling down—and placed inside an Artic ten man tent—a canvas facility about twelve to fourteen feet in diameter, depending on the skill of the team erecting it. There’s no Sears and Roebuck catalog or corn cobs for us. The facility was not anything like your Tishomingo, Mississippi or Snook, Texas outhouse that many of you might have experienced at one point in your life. No, as one might expect, we didn’t have the accompanying odor problem that routinely is associated with that rural southern type of facility. The reason for the lack of odoriferous content is because the aroma generally associated with outdoor facilities is astonishingly done-in by the extreme weather elements of the Alaskan winter fairly immediately. Just about everything freezes amazingly quick in these conditions. My experience reminds me that this phenomena starts to take place somewhere close to -30ºF. Feeling sufficiently buck’d-up for my jaunt, I grabbed my towel—everybody kept a special towel draped off the left foot end of their cot for the explicit purpose of rubbing down the seat area of our favorite two-hole privy. This action created just the slightest friction, hopefully adding a degree or two of warmth to the seat area and prevented leaving precious particles of your rear end attached upon final departure. Armed and ready, I headed toward the tent door and what awaited me just outside it. I threw back the tent flap, looked outside and again mumbled to myself: “Brrrrrrr...” I shivered a little more this time than last. “It’s cooooooold! I don’t wanna go to that latrine tent! But, I gotta go. I just can’t wait.” I stood there looking straight out for just the shortest time, staring through the twinkling frosted and sparkling air dreading the task ahead. Convincing myself that I could do it—as hard as it was—I started out directly toward my destination. With every step I took the snow crunched under my feet reaffirming all the way that it wasn’t going to be a pleasure walk. As I trudged along and noticed the lack of footprints heading in my intended direction, the thought struck me, nobody had taken this route directly from my tent sense arriving. I was breaking trail most of the way. With every breath I took the tiny hairs in my nose crackled once more reaffirming the lack of warmth I was experiencing. With every exhale of breath the fog created a mini-cloud that hung in the air for what seemed like minutes after I moved on from the area. It wasn’t long before I arrived at the front flap of that dreaded crescent moon operation . I stood there looking and contemplating the task I was about to undertake and again I mumbled, this time I think a bit louder than I had before—I’m sure now that it was quite a bit louder than before but there was no one around to hear or even care for that matter. “Br-r-r-r-r-r-r…” I shivered; I also know I shivered a lot more this time than last. “It’s co-o-o-o-o-old! I don’t wanna do this… But, I gotta go… I just can’t wait.” I pulled back the door flap and looked inside. I stood gazing at that two-holer, both of its eyes staring back at me. Trying to not think about how cold it was gonna be, I looked around and the thought ran through my mind: “ Well, at least there is no wind to speak of.” Yep there wasn’t any wind and that was a good thing. Looking around outside and then back in again at that two-holer, I once more mumbled, but this time I didn’t just mumble; I spoke it out loud. “Br-r-r-r-r-r-r…” And this time I shivered all over—definitely all over. “It’s co-o-o-o-o-old! I don’t wanna do this… But, I gotta go… I just can’t wait. Filled now with a false bravado managed by very few I’m sure; I rallied what little courage I could summon—where it had come from to this day I do not know. I stepped inside that tent pulling the flap closed behind me and began to furiously rub down that plywood seat top with my towel. When I thought I had applied significantly enough pressure—actually I probably just got tired of rubbing—I turned around, lined myself up, dropped my pants, sat down on that warm plywood seat and started shivering—this time for sure. I shivered ALL OVER! But I was gonna make it. I had come his far and there was no turning back now. I had no other choice. The temperature having warmed up considerably after sunrise, there I sat in something close to -85ºF with my field jacket and undershirt tucked up under my arms, my pants and long johns shrugged down around my bunny boots and ankles and my eyes closed. Not more than thirteen and a half seconds later—I wasn’t really counting, but I’m positive of the exact length of time—a gust of wind blew through our bivouac area forcing back the tent flap I had failed to secure properly fully covering me with fresh dusting of the previous night’s snow. Now brother, that’s COLD! Dam-m-m-n cold!

ir7du1

NYNM

NYNM " New year, new me," sighed Meghan. She always heard people say it every year, yet nothing changes. She wants to make it her dream to show everyone that the meaning could be true. This past year has been tiring and eye opening for her. When the year twenty-twenty two started; she had a dream of changing her life completely, but God had other plans. Meghan was a twenty twenty one graduate, and working at McDonald's since she was sixteen. It was tiring working a full time job, and trying to find a decent college to attend. Most children her age didn't work and attend school. At the beginning of twenty twenty two, she got a promotion to become a manager. She only had five months until she graduated, but her grades were slipping due to work. Early April, she had thoughts of dropping out because she couldn't raise her grades fast enough. She even started therapy and took a lot from it. The therapist said, " If you have to choose between school and work choose school. The job will always be there, but your education won't." Ms.Hill have quotes to look back on when I feel a certain way. She says, time only moves as fast as us; a job doesn't wait on you; take your time and everything will work out in your favor. Once she figured out how to manage her schedule, her grades were improving, and her work became outstanding. Thankfully, with the grace of God, she graduated with a 3.0 GPA. After she graduated, she started working and saving for college. Even though she wasn't making much, she still managed to save. Meghan didn't know exactly what she was saving to do, but she knew she had to in order to find a living. By December, she was worn out with working twelve hour shifts everyday, and dealing with other people problems. She couldn't live the life she wanted. She knew her passion wasn't a restaurant owner, so why build a life around it? Meghan came up with a plan to change her life completely. On Christmas Day, she wrote down everything she wanted to accomplish within twenty twenty three. She stated she wanted a new direction of work; something she'll love. She wanted to make twice as much. She finally wanted to settle down and just work on herself. "Here goes nothing," she said sitting with the letter in hand. New Years Day, she was at the bar alone thinking of her resolution. She thought it was a hoax. Thinking to herself, "I feel so stupid now." On the way back home, she came across a nice looking guy. He was tall, shiny, brownskin, and carried himself like he had a purpose. He held the door open to the lobby apartments. "Thank you and happy new years sir," Meghan said. He chuckled and complimented her. He told her his name was Liam, and he recently moved in. He was from New Jersey, single, and trying new things. Moving was a big step for him, and he didn't know anything about North Carolina. She asked about his passions, and what he would love to do in life. He calmly said, " Build homes, and give families a home and not just a house." She seen in his eyes he was really passionate about retailing. He made sure to listen and ask questions to keep the feeling neutral. They started conversing for almost an hour before they parted ways. Before she could leave him, he asked for her jumber to stay in touch. She was hesitant at first, but finally agreed. "Looks like my resolution is looking better than I expected," she said. A few weeks later, he asked her out for dinner and had a surprise waiting. He asked her to be his girlfriend, as he found everything he wanted. Everyone in the restaurant applauded them and congratulated them. Unexpectedly she lost her job, but a better opportunity came forward. Meghan started working as a realtor with her boyfriend, and she was skeptical at first until she sold her first house. Even though Meghan saved up thousands of dollars for college, Liam suggested she didn't waste it on a school. Instead build a life for her family, and mainly herself to keep a living. When June came around, Liam wanted to propose. He seen Meghan for her as she is. She didn't expect to become married so soon, but when its right its right. Meghan thought she wasn't good enough for him even when he said she was. While preparing for the wedding, she notice that she was changing. She didn't feel like herself, so she scheduled a doctor's appointment and was scared. They ran all tests and everything came back negative except one. She was twenty weeks pregnant and didn't know. Once Liam found out, he couldn't hold in his excitement. He always wanted to be a dad, and Meghan wanted to be a mom. Even though it happened sooner than later, they were grateful for their gift from God. Liam renovated their homes to make nurseries and more comforting for a baby. Meghan started getting sicker than usual and scheduled a doctor's appointment. The doctors told her not to worry its normal. Hours after she checked in, they noticed she was farther along than they thought. Instead of having eight weeks, it'll be four or less," chuckled the doctor after finding their mistake. Meghan was shocked and not expecting that. They told her due date would be December 7th and get ready in case it'll be sooner. Meghan and Liam had their baby on time at 7:07 am. A healthy chunky baby boy. They couldn't believe they were starting a family so soon. Once they were able to leave the hospital, Meghan just stared at them wondering how she got a perfect life. Looking back at her young days, she seemed happy to have to go through it. Just to live in the moment, nd take the risk. "Lets see what next year has planned," she chuckled to herself.

n42ns8

The Cursed Moon

“ Val kan-tesh el vis’nu vash ken tisu, ” the vulpine mage with the burning blue eyes intoned from the pier above the team. It was Draknor who was startled the most by this. “What did he just yammer about?” Farah asked. Draknor snarled, holding his recovered sword in his claws. A mammal that knew Draconian? A mammal that knew an ancient Draconian curse, no less? Skreet grit his teeth as he ran. “Weren’t you just knocked out?” He yelled backward to the strange mage. “ I told you, I recover quite quickly,” the wizard with the burning blue eyes said in a deep, highborn voice as more figures emerged from above. “Follow me, boys!” Farah said to Skreet and Drakor as more silhouettes began to appear from above. “There’s a sanctuary down here!” “I can hold them off!” Draknor said, shouldering his huge sword and preparing for the onslaught. “Now’s not the time for a glorious last stand!” Skreet shouted, tugging his reptiloid companion along with him. Reluctantly Draknor followed. Farah was ahead of them as they ran across the old docks, spells were flung their way and Draknor growled as he twirled his sword in response, the spells hitting the blade in a shower of sparks and the gem within the pommel glimmering with every spell it absorbed. “No wonder you wanted that back so badly,” Skreet observed. “Hurr,” Draknor grunted as they ran. The trio had reached the cobblestones of the street as shadowy figures dogged their flight with whispered words of an arcane nature. The brain addled silvermasks were running towards the group as well silently charging with their weapons in hand. “Ahh, just like an ant mound!” Farah grumbled. “Just as humorless as ants too!” The ferret ducked and axe meant for her head a retaliated with a thrust of her shortsword, the blade slipped between the ribs of the doberman wearing the mask and the silvermask fell to the ground in silence. Her victory was short lived as one of the mages that had been pursuing them hurled a multicolor ball of magical energies at the ferret. “Ahhh, grubs!” Farah grunted as she saw the spell. The light smacked into her and then dissipated. “Yeah that’s right! I’ve got a protective talisman!” Farah taunted as she stuck her tongue out and resumed her flight. The mages had a solution though as they used their magic to send loose rocks her way and threw fireballs in her path to have shrapnel fly at her. The nimble ferret dodged and weaved about as she giggled. Skreet shook his head. “She’s completely out of her mind!” the rat groaned as he beat back a dagger-wielding mask with his sticks. He heard the tendons pop and the dagger fell from the grasp of the hare, but he made not a sound. Skreet ducked past his grasping hands as Draknor sent the brain-addled creature sliding across the cobblestones. The reptiloid deflected a spell with his sword as Skreet charged the stoat caster and hit him with a knee-head combo. “We can’t fight them all,” Skreet grunted as the mage collapsed onto the cobblestone path. “They just keep coming.” “Over here boys!” Farah called from where she stood on a rooftop of a house. None of the mages seemed to be throwing spells at her despite her being an obvious target. Surely they could just jerk the shingles out from under her, Skreet thought. Draknor and Skreet weaved and fought their way through the Silvermasks and mages until they were near the same roof as Farah. The various foes merely stood where they were in silence. “Farah, why aren’t they following us in?” Skreet asked. “They can’t,” the ferret said, catching her breath. “Even they have to honor certain pacts.” “What is this place?” Draknor rumbled. The building resembled an old temple - very old. Candles hovered near the columns, winding their way up and down creating a dancing effect. “This is a particular section of the College of Elements. I’m not well-versed on magic laws or whatever it is those magic weirdos study, but they seem to avoid causing disturbances here.” “You cannot stay there forever!” A cold voice called to them out in the shadows outside. “Nor can we enter my lord,” replied another voice. “...Then we shall wait. As long as it takes.” “Ooooh, I am so scared!” Farah blew a raspberry at the assembled group beyond the enchanted threshold. “...Or until I convince the dean to allow me in. Come with me,” the voice said to another supposed assistant. The trio couldn’t see what was going on, but they saw some shuffling amongst the crowd. Skreet sighed. “Well, seems this is but a temporary reprieve - oh, and we’re locked out as well.” “Don’t worry about it Mr. rat,” Farah chuckled, “I’ll think of something.” Skreet was thinking of ideas himself, the investigator was thinking of ideas himself. “Well glad you got your sword back Draknor?” Skreet asked, “Draknor? Hey!” “Hurr?” Draknor shook his head. “You alright there big guy?” Skreet asked. “Fine,” he replied. But Draknor wasn’t fine. He was thinking about the words that fox mage had spoken in draconian. How did he know draconian? Roughly translated the curse meant: "Cursed be the moon that lights your path." It was something Draknor had heard in his youth: a curse his people would say to their enemies. He never was sure just how effective that phrase was, but hearing it again after so many years in the ancient tongue - and out of the maw of a mammal - made his joints feel as if they were locking up from a chill wind. A new feminine voice shook the group from their thoughts. “Hey! Skreet? Is that really you?” Skreet turned towards the new voice that he vaguely recognized. Peering out the barred window was a familiar meerkat. “Amber!” Skreet grunted. The meerkat sighed. “So you did get my message. I thought I heard some commotion on the docks. Leave it to you to liven things up even more around here.” Farah and Draknor simply stared at the meerkat before Farah spoke. “No one gets to be sassy around here but me.” Amber scowled at the ferret. “Well bless your heart, sugar, who made you the queen of sass?” “Yeah, I can see why they locked you in there. How did you not know to leave before closing time?” The two ladies glared at each other intensely. “I don’t like you one bit!” they both said simultaneously. “Silence!” Draknor roared. Both stopped their snide remarks towards each other. Skreet took the initiative while there was still silence. “Look Amber, we’re in a tight spot. I know you and I have had our differences in the past. Especially with what you put in print. But we’re in a bind and it seems you are too. Maybe we can help each other out.” Amber twitched an ear, “Well, I have till sunrise before they let me out of here. But you three may not have that long from what I heard.”       “The situation is not that dire,” a female otter in robes said, emerging - as it were - seemingly from the very air of the old temple. Amber recognized her immediately. “You! Aren’t you the one that locked me in here?” “It was for your own good, miss Zazuetta,” the otter replied, her tail thumping against the ground. “As for the others, welcome to my little alcove here.” “Hurm?” Draknor rumbled. “Who exactly are you?” “Yeah - pray tell, cousin mustelid,” Farah added. “Don’t let her rile you up,” Skreet advised. The mysterious otteress chuckled and bowed. “I have been known by many names, but my students refer to me as Thallara the Wise, dean of divination and arch-cleric of Statera here at the College of Elements. I knew someone was coming to stop Szal, but I could not imagine it would be a group so... diverse.” “They always say they foresaw something,” Farah whispered in Skreet’s ear. “And Szal’s that fox we ran into. Bigshot around here.” Skreet ignored her. “Well, I don’t put much stock in prophecies but we’re here.” “It is not one of the exact magicks,” Thallara said. “But yes you are - and to allow you to escape I will have to call in a favor from another dean, I believe.” “Oh, here we go,” Farah sighed. “This night just keeps getting more interesting,” Amber piped up. 

zrntxo

The Old Canvas of Finn Vanderberg

“The Old Canvas of Finn Vanderberg” Amsterdam, Netherlands December 2018 Finn slumped into his chair behind the reception desk. He closed his eyes and scratched at the discolored scar on his forearm. He tapped into the internal hit of adrenaline, buried somewhere deep in his mind. He ran, ducking in and out of traffic. He tracked his prey. Not too close but, not too far either so as to lose sight, he reminded himself. A feeble voice brought Finn back to the present. Just like that, the exhilaration vanished. The mundane settled back in. “Ah, yes, there she is,” Janssen said as he plucked out the bronze key from the oversized carabiner. His shaky left hand stabbed at the keyhole with the precision of a toddler’s coloring book. After it clicked, he moseyed past the reception desk. “Finny, ol’ boy, I’ll be downstairs watching the monitors. Still think they’ll show?” Finn studied the punishing downpour through the large glass facades. “They paid ten thousand for the after-hours tour. I sure as hell would for that kind of money.” Janssen shrugged and said, “Very well, ol' boy. Holler if ya need me,” then he disappeared into the elevator destined for the basement security room. Useless old fart, Finn thought. The Van Gogh Museum closed at five o’clock sharp. The clock now read eight thirty-five. Finn kicked the reception desk and muttered vulgar incoherences to himself. In a prior life, he chased excitement. Sometimes, excitement chased him back and left scars. When he was first indoctrinated, they told him the career had a short shelf life. They were right. One day, it suddenly expired. So, here he was now, relegated to the monotony of a tour guide repeating the same lines every day, no better than a rotten telemarketer. Hello, welcome to the Van Gogh Museum. My name is Finn Vanderberg and I will be your tour guide today. First opened in 1973 – A sudden knock on the glass door interrupted Finn’s monologue of self-mockery. Finn peered over the reception desk at the image of a woman and a man huddled at the front door. Finn unlocked the door and the water-logged duo trudged inside. Their eyes darted in every direction exploring the empty lobby. “Good evening, my name is Finn Vanderberg. I will be your guide for tonight’s private tour.” His car salesman's smile offered little enthusism. "It is my utmost pleasure to welcome you to the Van Gogh Museum,” he said, extending his hand. He scanned the duo from head to toe, starting with their hands. Old habits die hard. The woman spoke first, “Good evening to you, sir. We apologize for our tardiness. Terrible weather and all, you know.” She spoke with a subtle but foreign lilt. “Yes, indeed. Not a worry at all, Ms.–” “Sanchez. You can call me Isabella. And this is my partner, Jorge.” They exchanged handshakes. Jorge’s mouth didn’t move, but Finn recognized something familiar in his dark eyes. “Isabella and Jorge, of course, of course. We’ll get the tour started right away. But first, as a security precaution, we require that you two leave your identification at the reception desk. You will collect them upon departure.” “Certainly, Mr. Vanderberg. I know we paid for a private tour, but I suppose I wasn’t expecting this private. Is it just us here tonight?” she asked as she slid the two ember-red passports across the reception desk. “España. Beautiful country. Beautiful museums there as well. Which is your favorite?” Finn said. “Uh, I really like the, uh, uh,” she stammered. “ El Nacional is fantastic, actually.” Finn’s eyes widened, excitement starting to bubble inside. “Yes, yes, you mean El Prado ?” Isabella shrugged, “Semantics, I suppose. But yes, it is quite beautiful.” Finn flipped to the bio-data pages of each passport and discretely ran his fingers over the security features. “This is very, very interesting,” Finn mumbled. “I’m sorry, Mr. Vanderberg?” her eyebrows furrowed. “Sorry, my mind tends to drift at times. Well, my friends, we’re in for an exciting tour tonight, right?” Finn said. “Uh, I suppose, Mr. Vanderberg. I was asking, though, if it will be just us tonight.” “Ah, yes. Thankfully, it’s just us.” Finn’s eagerness unnerved Isabella. “Well, with that little bit out of the way, shall we get started? Please follow me this way.” Finn led the group through a maze of interconnected rooms adorned in a warm aqua color. Soft wall lights soothed the rooms. The group stopped at a glass fixture encasing a weathered palette of yellow ochre, cadmium yellow, chrome orange, Prussian blue, and zinc white. “I like to start with a little trivia, Ms. Sanchez. It’s an easy one. An art buff like yourself will have no problem,” Finn said as he smirked. “This, here, is Mr. Vincent Willem van Gogh’s original palette. He was born in 1853. What was his nickname?” Isabella stared distractedly at the palette. “Time’s up! The Little Painter Fellow,” Finn said, his smirk growing into a wicked grin. “That was a softball, Ms. Sanchez!” Isabella and Jorge remained quiet as their eyes explored around the room. “Please follow me this way. We have so much more to see. In this adjoining room here, you’ll see many of the famous self-portraits created by Mr. Van Gogh. Which of these speaks to you, Ms. Sanchez?” “This one is very interesting,” she said. “Ah, yes Ms. Sanchez, an interesting selection indeed. Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear . A favorite of many visitors like yourself. Painted in 1889, it is a classic self-portrait of Mr. Van Gogh after he severed his own ear with a razor during his violent confrontation with fellow Post-Impressionist painter Paul Gauguin.” “It’s beautiful,” she remarked, trying to fill the airtime. “Would you like to know the backstory, Ms. Sanchez?” Isabella and Jorge looked at Finn with blank stares. “Enlighten us,” she quipped. “Certainly, Ms. Sanchez. After Mr. Van Gogh severed his own ear, he admitted himself to a lunatic asylum. He spent about a year there, producing some of his greatest works, including Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear and Starry Night , which is regarded as his magnum opus.” Finn reiterated, “Magnum opus, Ms. Sanchez, as in his crowning masterpiece.” Isabella and Jorge nodded in agreement. Jorge spoke for the first time, “May we see where that one is Mr. Vanderberg?” “Ah, I thought that might pique your interest. Most certainly, I must warn you first though. We only have a replica here. The original, as you art buffs probably know, is on display at the Museum of Modern Art in New York.” “I see,” Jorge said. Finn sensed the disappointment and said, “I think I know what you’re here to see. Please follow me this way.” The aqua-colored maze opened to a wide room with a floating wall in the middle. One painting stood alone. “This, here, is the original Bedroom in Arles . I assume this will be of great interest to you two. It received an astounding bid of one hundred and seventeen million dollars at Christie’s in 2014.” Isabella and Jorge eyes locked in on the masterpiece. Finn said, “This depicts Mr. Van Gogh’s bedroom in Boches-du-Rhône in the now-famous Yellow House. He painted so many of his great works here. Do you know the significance of this painting, my friends?” Isabella dug both hands into her pockets and locked eyes with Finn. “Mr. Vanderberg—” Finn continued, “It is the visual representation of the calm before the storm, Ms. Sanchez. Mr. Van Gogh painted this beautiful room, and it was inside this very room that the bloody confrontation with Mr. Gaugin occurred.” “Mr. Vanderberg—” she said, raising her voice. Finn smiled from ear to ear, his energy beaming. “Did you know in 2002 a couple of degenerates executed a perfect heist at this very museum?” Isabella stood there, caught off by Finn’s bursting excitement. Finn continued, “So, my friends, how do you like your chances today?” A startling pop emanated from an unknown area. The museum descended into darkness. Dim emergency lights on the floors offered only a trivial amount of visibility. Isabella drew a knife from her pocket and swung wildly at Finn. Whoosh ! Finn ducked and the blade caught air. She pursued Finn across the room. Finn parried another reckless attack, but this time it found meat. In his periphery, he caught a glimpse of Jorge ripping Bedroom in Arles from the wall. Blood spurted from the wide gash on his forearm. Finn stumbled backwards. Sensing weakness, she stalked her prey into the corner. Little did she know, Finn wasn’t prey. And he certainly wasn’t just a normal tour guide. She drove the blade at Finn’s stomach like a prison shank. Finn sidestepped and caught her wrist with both hands and twisted. She yelped in agony and the blade dropped, the clang of steel echoing through the empty museum. Their two bodies locked into a violent dance, each positioning for dominance. Finn saw his opening and threw a vicious elbow at her jaw, flesh on flesh connecting. She crumpled to the floor unconscious. Finn pulled off his belt and cinched the makeshift tourniquet around his bicep. He sprinted for the lobby leaving behind a slick trail of blood. Finn caught up to Jorge standing in the lobby with both hands on the painting’s frame. The elevator dinged and Janssen sauntered out. He froze at the scene of Finn and Jorge in the lobby, Bedroom in Arles playing the part of unwitting participant in the chaos. Finn barked at Janssen. “Call the police, now!” Janssen didn’t move. He looked at Finn, then at Jorge, and back at Finn. Janssen remained frozen. “Janssen! Come on! Do something!” Finn screamed. “Finny, ol’ boy, I’m terribly sorry about this one.” Janssen tossed the carabiner to Jorge and drew his six-shooter revolver from his holster. “Janssen! Don’t do this!” Janssen’s shaky left hand could barely stabilize the revolver. Jorge opened the glass door and sprinted out the door, Bedroom in Arles in tow. “Not a move there, ol' boy, or I’ll shoot you where you stand,” Janssen said. Finn recognized the wobbliness in Janssen’s hand. He liked his chances. He sprinted for the door, sliding behind the reception desk. Janssen ripped off a volley of wild, inaccurate rounds, shattering the floor-to-ceiling glass facades. His revolver clicked and clicked and clicked. Finn cleared the lobby and sprinted through the open green field of Amsterdam’s Museum Quarter. Fortunately for Finn, and the precious Bedroom in Arles , the rain had ceased. The getaway driver had staged just off Van Baerlestraat Street. The streets normally bustled, but tonight, the rains cleared out the traffic. Jorge stuffed the painting in the trunk and the blue Kia sedan peeled out. Finn spotted an unattended taxi nearby, the driver midway through a drag of his cigarette with his co-workers. Finn slipped into the black Tesla Model S and slammed the pedal to the floor. His driving skills not nearly as rusty as his hand-to-hand combat. The energy of the electric motor pulsed through the steering wheel into Finn’s arms. Finn closed the gap with the Kia sedan as it blew through a series of four-way intersections. Finn swerved and glided the Tesla around incoming traffic. The high-speed pursuit screeched like Formula One cars rounding Casino Square in Monte Carlo. Finn locked bumpers with the Kia as they drifted in tandem onto Roelof Hartstraat Street. They approached an overpass crossing over Amstel River. Crowds of tourists gathered around the river to spot the commotion. A lumbering box truck made a wide turn into the intersection. The driver of the Kia pushed the economy vehicle past its mechanical limits. The Kia careened off the box truck, flipped, and slid across the overpass, slamming into the crash barriers. The Kia teetered, one hundred and seventeen million dollars dangling over the Amstel River. The Tesla skidded to a stop and Finn jumped out. He sprinted for the Kia. The violent crash crunched the trunk of the Kia, leaving it slightly ajar. Flames erupted from the engine. Finn dug his arms deep into the trunk. The Kia swayed and rocked back and forth. The intense flames scorched his face. Finn grasped something geometric and he tugged with all his energy. The Kia started to slip over the edge. With one last pull, Finn extracted the golden, rustic frame of Bedroom in Arles and fell to his back, just before the Kia plunged into the murky waters of the Amstel River. Police cars swarmed the scene and encircled Finn as he lay on his back. The adrenaline surge brought him back to life. He looked at his bleeding arm. He was back in his element.

vvxk76

A Mother

I don’t know why it came so close to my babies but I had to destroy it. I was full of fear but did not show it. I couldn’t, for the sake of my two little ones and for this colourful and unusual intruder. I felt flustered, I had not seen, heard or smelt this thing and as a result was angry at myself. I stepped toward my little ones to rush them to safety, but quickly understood retreat was not the answer. I turned back to face the threat and I saw shock in its pale face, as well I should have because I bounded toward it with such strides that I closed the distance between us in seconds. So fast that I soon realised I was closer than I wanted to be. I turned away at the last second, hoping my size would intimidate it and it would defer any ideas it had of attack. I knew I was kidding myself, the creature stood firm yet still held some fear in its beady little eyes. I myself was terrified, I ran again, this time I couldn’t stop. I must attack. I was closer to it than before when suddenly my eyes felt like balls of fire in my skull, my throat like dry sandpaper and my nose forced shut, little air could pass through it and if it did it burned deeply. I shook the pain away, I had to. After thrashing my head from side to side I could see a smudge of colour through the lens of water in my eyes. I tried to focus. I scanned frantically to see my two little ones, I couldn’t see them. The creature was still standing there, it seemed to be shouting something at me in its peculiar noises. It was a monotone sound although I could sense, with my one sense that hadn’t been crippled by this monster, that it was trying to mask its fear. I had shaken it. I had gained an advantage, as my mother always taught me to do. I had to finish the job. What if it did whatever it had done to me to my little ones? They would not understand this pain and I would not know what to do to help them. They are so new to this world, I must protect them. I ignored my lack of vision, forgot the agony in my nose and sprinted at the creature again. With every breath I drew through my nose came a flood of pine needles digging into my nasal canal. I put my head down and shut my eyes at the same moment I had been attacked before, at the last second I lifted my head and bounded through the creature. I knocked it over, it was lighter than I thought it would be and felt soft. I saw shapes fall off it in all directions, one looked like a short, stubby branch but had the colour of blood. A similar shape was blue like the sky and that exploded with water on impact with a protruding rock. So much happened so quickly. But the creature was down, and lay still. Had I succeeded? Has the threat been eliminated? I didn’t know. I walked over to its body and placed my foot on its back. My weight was much greater than the beast under my foot and as I pressed down upon it a bizarre sound was released. I drew my claws down its back and managed to pull away a section, but there was no blood and it didn’t feel like any flesh I had ever touched before. I shook it to the side and tried again, this time I saw its flesh peel back under my claws, so easily. Easier than the hide of a deer. More like a salmon. The creature howled like a wolf. It was still alive! I leaned down and enclosed my jaws around its head, I was surprised as to how much skull I could get into my mouth, I chomped down, my bottom tooth getting caught in what I think was its ear. It tore away with ease as I stood and turned back to my little ones. I saw them, finally, halfway up a spruce tree. Good girls, just like I had shown them. The creature lay still aside from a small twitch from its foot. I had experienced this before with deer, it was nothing to worry about. My smell had returned somewhat and I noticed from the part I had discarded emanated an overwhelmingly good smell. I tore at it, it was harder to pierce than the creature's skin. Inside were scraps of some food. Nuts with berries and also a strange concoction of flavours. Flavours I’d never tasted. I walked to its head again and rolled it over, it rolled back lifelessly. I felt accomplishment but more than anything relief. Relief that my little ones had gone unharmed and I had kept them from the danger of this beast. I’d only ever once seen a creature like this from afar when we were ambling on the other side of the mountain. As soon as I knew that was its territory I gave it a wide berth, hoping it would give me the same courtesy, as is the way out here. I had always been so cautious with my little ones in tow and had never known what they were capable of. I’d heard ear-piercing sounds from its territory and witnessed it move across water and speeds faster than I could swim. Now, after this, it makes me wonder, perhaps I was wrong to be cautious at all. I feel I overestimated these strange beings. I wonder what I can take from them. Winter is coming, and I will need to fatten up my little ones before we head into our den for the winter. These creatures have a den of their own made of oddly stacked trees in the heart of its territory. I wonder what’s inside.

h088j9

Scared Loose

We’re all scared. We’re scared out of our minds half the time. How do we even sleep, when the only certainty in life is death? I don’t mind admitting to you that life itself scares me. It terrifies me with its uncertainties and its unknowableness. Life is wilful and it has a will to change. It’s a flowing river that no one can stay still in for long. Even the hardest rock gets worn away by the seemingly soft and inconsequential waters of the river. No one teaches you this though. No one admits the terror associated with living. I suppose we worry that it would be a grim old world if we told the truth about this existence of ours. Bad enough that we tell fairy tales that thinly veil the darkness that is ever present. We like to say that the darkness stalks us, but that’s a gentle lie. The darkness is inescapable. We are the darkness, and we bring it with us wherever we go. In the end, if you tire enough of the lies and endlessly circling in a state of denial, you might hear life whisper one of its secrets. That happened to me and the secret I heard life breath upon the wind was; I’m here to teach you. You see, there was pain in my unremarkable life. I thought I was special in that pain and that my life was uniquely unfair. I thought the source of my pain was my parents, and in that I was perhaps not completely incorrect. My father did not protect me and when I prevailed upon my mother to at least intercede, it was clear where her loyalties lay. And so I endured an existence that I did not see as childhood. But it was. I doubt anyone has ever had an idyllic childhood, and if they have, then they’ve likely had precious little to learn from, in which case they were not prepared for the frontal assault that life had in store for them as they entered the faux state of adulthood. I escaped the bubble of my childhood and ran head first into the world. My head was down, and as a result, I didn’t have a clue where I was going. Thing was, when I looked across at my fellow runners, they seemed to be doing the same thing. I think that is what our twenties are. We’ve been told life is a race and so when the starting pistol fires, we do what we were trained to do. We work in the mistaken belief that work alone will get us to where we need to be. We work and we believe that our lives are working as a result. We follow the disciplines of the nine to five, and with the money we are given, we arrange our lives via increasing levels of debt. Not just money of course. We invest ourselves in our work, and then in a family, and we keep going. We keep going because if we ever stopped, then we might actually have to look around us to see where it was we were and if we were really, really brave, we’d look up and see where it was that we were headed. I did this. In the end I had to. Before I had the courage to look at where it was I was heading, I’d mistakenly assumed it was nowhere. That I was in a rut that went around in the same, soul-destroying circle. If only it was as twee as all that. I didn’t even get that I was too afraid to stop, and that I was even more afraid to look up. That I’d built a wall of fear and beyond that was the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. And those truths also contained the truth of my current existence. You can’t stop for long though, because life is movement. And yes, it is struggle. Life is a bloody hard slog and it hurts. We’re supposed to do something about the pain though. You don’t ignore a physical wound that has been inflicted by a poisoned blade, but more often than not, you’ll ignore the self-same wound if it’s a mental one. Why? Because you are scared. We’re all scared. If we admitted that a little more, and also admitted to not being the finished article, then maybe we’d have more time and inclination to actually live. Together. Pulling together in a worthwhile direction. And I reckon that the direction we’re supposed to be going in is in the same direction as the river of life. I’m not there with that one yet, but that makes a lot of sense to me. It makes sense because I’ve been fighting my entire life, and only just woke up to what I’ve actually been fighting. I’ve been fighting the reality of my existence. I’ve been fighting myself. We all of us do it. Fear prevents us from seeing things as they really are. Fear locks us in a trap of ignorance. That’s why they say that we have to face fear. We have to look the world in the eye and acknowledge its existence. That way, we stand a chance of accepting it. And if we accept the reality of our existence, then we accept ourselves and that acceptance frees us, and it elevates us and it gives us the chance to really live and to live well. I spent my life blaming my parents for the bad start I had in life. The blame game only has dark prizes. I was a fool. I took my pain and I invested in it instead of living. When I actually stopped for a moment and faced my fear and saw beyond it, what I saw was my own shame and guilt. Why? Because I knew I was being selfish and I knew I was a fool. The shame of that locked me into a poor state. Worse still, I never did anything about it. Now I am. My parents weren’t perfect, but they were far better than I acknowledged. They’re better than that. I am better than that. Once, I got caught up in what I deserved. What about the people around me? Don’t they deserve me to be better than I was? Isn’t that a big part of what life is? You start the new day and you go again. Your benchmark? Your competition? It’s you and only you. Learn. Grow. Improve. Be better. Be the change. Be brave and dare to be the change you want to see in the world. I’m still scared. Maybe more so now than when I was in my perpetual state of ignorance and denial. But that initial fear is necessary, it makes you pause for thought, to consider what will happen next, what your actions will be, and then the adrenaline kicks in and you take that leap of faith and you make sure whatever you do is worthwhile and that it sticks. However bad I thought things were, that was on me and my fear. I did not see clearly because I gave into my fear. Now I see through it. Things are neither bad or good. They just are. In my ignorance, I soaked myself in self-doubt and I defeated myself at every turn. I’m better than that. I can do  better than that. I will do better than that. So yeah, I may still feel that fear. But now I’m trying to do something about it…

jeh13t

An Infestation of Tigers

It was near the city of Jaspur, not twenty miles from the outskirts, where a small village had suddenly found itself infested with tigers. They were not real tigers, of course. For years now, the real tigers could only be found in the wildlife parks. And mostly fallen into history were the sad accounts of people taken while working in the fields or sleeping in their beds. But these tigers–the kind that infested–were not capable of man-eating. Why? Because they were so small. It was believed that they had reached the village by hitchhiking in the suitcases of a village lawyer on his way back from Punjab. The lawyer had been known for insisting on an excessive amount of baggage whenever he traveled. And the little tigers, being not much bigger than young rabbits, became determined stowaways. When the lawyer got home, his maid opened the bags, and the creatures quickly escaped through an open window. It was only a matter of weeks until they were everywhere. “There’s something behind the water drums,” said Avyann Agarwal to his wife one day, after working on his roof. The sun was beating down through the sparse canopy, heating the metal door frame where he was trying to rest his hand. The air was thick and mirages danced in the road. “Is it the cobra again?” asked his wife. “I hope you won’t spare him this time.” “No, it was something furry and it moved like flowing water,” Avyann said. “I believe it had stripes too, unless this heat is getting to me.”     “Stripes?” said his wife. She clutched at her throat and backed toward the house. Avyann moved to the corner of the shed, pushing aside some drums while trying to keep an eye on his feet. Maybe it had been a cobra, he thought. The lighting was not good in the shed and it was a very hot day. He wiped sweat from his eyebrows, and strained to see into the shadows. He was holding his sharpest hoe, ready to strike. When it sprung out from the dark corner, bounding up the side of a drum and onto his shoulder, Avyann almost fell over backward. He thought he heard it growl as it passed his ear, but it was not the growl of a rat. It was a deep sound, yet unamplified. After the mysterious vermin dashed out the shed door, Avyann had a trickle of blood on his shoulder from what appeared to be tiny claw marks. “I’m becoming concerned about your mental state,” said the mayor to Avyann, after he had gone directly to the village center to report his trouble. “I’m telling you, I’ve seen tigers in real life,” Avyann said. “In fact I’m one of the last in the village who still remembers them. It was just like a tiger, but smaller than any cub and smaller than even Ramji’s rabbits.” “Go and get some rest Avyann,” said the mayor and he slowly closed his office door. The second sighting came in the cane fields the next day, where Zahira Bhatt was finishing her work and noticed something moving in a stack of wood near the clearing. Knowing better than to put her hands where she could not see, she made a small torch and began forcing blue smoke into the stacks. After a time, she saw the little tiger emerge, spitting and growling. First it came in a low crouch, with eyes like green fire. She could see its tiny claws gripping the logs and she thought she heard a sound like the hissing of a kitten. “What work of Brahma is this?” Zahira gasped. The tiny tiger was growling at her now, showing tiny fangs and moving closer along the log. With a swipe of her torch it was gone, down off the wood pile and into the brush. Ten more sightings had been reported to the mayor before he began to believe. There had been a little tiger found attacking the legs of goats, in a pen near the edge of the village. One was spotted inside a kitchen cabinet, but it had managed to escape before being captured. Another was seen prowling under the bed of the village magistrate while a servant was cleaning his room. And yet another was found stalking a toddler in a backyard garden. None of them had yet been captured. A young girl had come close, putting a basket over one of the tigers, but her hands had been badly clawed when she tried to handle it.  “I’m beginning to believe these accounts,” the mayor said. “But it will be necessary to see one dead or captured before I can be sure.” “They move very quickly,” said an older boy. “I’m the best catcher in the village, with 45 rabbits to my name, and even two wild pigs, but I still could not corner the one I saw in the ravine last night. He went like a blur and climbed a mahogany tree into the darkness before he was gone.” “It’s only a matter of time before one of them takes a pet from a rug or–Vishnu forbid–a baby from a crib,” said Zahira. A few weeks passed and the sightings increased. Soon there were tiny tigers haunting nearly every home and farm. Sometimes they formed packs, but more often they were seen as solitary flashes, murdering rats and plundering chicken coops. Some of the farmers set traps, without success. The little tigers were incredibly fast and had the same athletic ability as their larger kin. They had the same temperaments too, full of ferocity and cunning. One day, the mayor’s assistant made an investigative call to the Punjab region. The hotel where the lawyer had stayed confirmed there had been sightings on the property during that week. Another call to a local newspaper uncovered that the tigers were not from the jungle at all, but had been developed, through a series of mutations, by a deranged American expatriate living in the Nepalese foothills. According to the reporter, the man had conducted these unholy experiments over the course of twenty years, in a fenced compound called “The Silk Yarns of Annapurna.” Two years ago, approximately six of the little tigers had escaped the compound and had made their way south. When they were persecuted by native wildlife, they found refuge on the streets of Lahore. Before long, they were taken unwittingly on a bus to New Delhi. There, they adapted well to city life, easily living off the abundance of rats, waste and small pets. Their ability to climb and their ferocity made them difficult for the pest control men to manage. Now, thanks to the hapless lawyer and his unattended bags, they had found the village. Then the day came when the body of the little village guard dog was found near the mayor’s office. The mutt had braved real tigers during his early years, saving lives in the middle of the night with his fearless barking. But when his owner arrived, weeping, he inspected the wounds on the dog’s neck and found tiny puncture marks on his throat and tiny claw marks on his back. How ironic, he thought, that the dog had been taken in such a way. “It’s gone too far,” the man said, while wiping his tears. Finally, in an act of desperation, the mayor called his cousin in New Delhi and told him how bad things had become. “They’re killing our beloved pets in the streets,” the mayor said on the phone. “Their numbers have grown too quickly. Now they run back and forth in broad daylight. We’ve tried guns and poison and even hawks, but nothing has slowed them.” “I have a friend,” his cousin finally said. “He is a man who’s very familiar with unusual problems. And he’s very good with technology.” “What are you suggesting?” the mayor asked. “What sort of technology could help us with this problem?”   “Artificial solutions for artificial problems,” the mayor’s cousin finally explained after a long pause. And the puff of his cigarette could be heard through the phone. “Well,” said the mayor. “Send him right away. I’ll take whatever solution I can find. It isn’t as bad as the old days yet–with the man eaters and the frustrated hunters and all the bush beating–but it’s close. I can pay him decently for his trouble.” “I’ll call him tonight,” the cousin said. “I’ll give him your number.” The following week the stranger arrived. He was carrying an antennae and he wore a large backpack. He was overly dressed for the heat of the jungle, but he explained that his name was Mr. Yogikiya, and he told them he only needed two days for his “solution” to be fully operational. “It involves artificial intelligence,” Yogikiya explained. “This is a robot. His name is Sterilo. He has tank tracks to handle any terrain, but he’ll work day and night, mostly in silence. He is especially good at identification. And he learns very quickly between his friends and his enemies. Soon, your village will be clean.” “But how will your robot do this?” the mayor asked, wanting more specifics and beginning to wonder about unleashing something so unknown on his village. “He’ll use lasers to zap them. It will be quick and painless and humane,” Yogikiya assured him. After the introduction, there was little delay. Yogikiya put the robot inside Avyann’s shed, staying the night in a bed that Avyann had set up for him in the house. Yogikiya used a little screen to tell the robot where to go first, but he admitted that the robot would soon take its own path, going wherever the tigers took him. The first night, the robot killed two little tigers hiding inside a water drum. The next night he killed twenty, moving down the street from one nest to another. After he swept each area, the villagers collected the tiny, slightly charred pelts the next morning. Some adorned their homes with them, and some were even scheming on how to sell them. The robot was remarkably accurate, except for the time he accidentally zapped two of Zahira’s chickens–one black and one orange. “He must’ve mistaken them because of their colors,” Yogikiya explained soberly to a frowning Zahira. “I’m sure the village will compensate you.” As for Avyann, he was just as pleased as anyone with the progress. He was cleaning up a zapped tiger from his garden one morning when he looked at the little powerful body, its lean muscles and shiny stripes, so intricate and unique. And he couldn’t help but remember the time he saw his first real tiger, while riding in his father’s cart one evening before sundown. It was a big male, and he was moving along a treeline, following a troop of howling langurs. The tiger’s location had already been betrayed, and he was walking with his head and tail raised while the monkeys mocked him. Avyann remembered his father’s grip on the donkey’s reins with his other hand on the old .22 gun. At the time, the orange sun was coming low beneath the branches, and it seemed to catch the big cat on fire. He was so relaxed and powerful. When the sight passed, Avyann was filled, for the first time, with both awe and fear.     By the end of the week, there had been no new tiny tiger sightings in a full 48 hours. The mayor’s face was glowing when he met with Yogikiya in his office. “This has been incredible. The robot is doing what we could not do,” the mayor said. “Yes,” said Yogikiya. “I’m a firm believer that all problems can be solved with technology. I believe your tiger infestation is over now. When they do return, I can loan the robot out to you again.” The mayor paid Yogikiya one million rupees and shook his hand. The next day, the villagers found Yogikiya putting the dismantled robot back into a large case which he then stuffed into his backpack. An hour later, Yogikiya’s car arrived, coming down the dusty road in a cloud. He was given a sendoff by a group of villagers. Some of them wore hats made of little tiger pelts. The hunt had been an incredible source of entertainment, and many of them were exhausted but inspired. That night the village slept well, and there were many deep dreams. There was no growling in the sheds, no terrified chickens. The moon was out but nothing prowled in the moonlight. The big tigers were still far away in the deep jungles and the tourist-laden parks, like they almost always were. And now the little tigers were gone too, relegated back to the slums and dumpsters and hotels.   It was two weeks later when Avyann’s wife called to him as he stood in the road, looking out across the fields and forest beyond. “Why don’t you come in for supper?” she said. Avyann was thinking about the village and how long he had known it and had seen it changed by trial and error. But before he turned, he thought he saw something moving across the clearing, low, bright and orange in the light of dusk. The langurs were screeching. When Avyann stepped across the road, he could see nothing. Where there was movement, there was only stillness. Where there was noise there was now only silence. There had been something there, something uncertain. But it was gone.  

lzj6il

First to Slay a Giant

An arrogant hunter drops a severed giant's head onto the tavern counter with a thunk. "How shall I receive my reward?" he asks. A large bald man had been polishing tankards behind the counter. He turned at the question the hunter posed. A thick brown beard with three thin beaded-braids hangs from his chin. "And how, may I ask, did you come across this–" he glares at the greyish head leaking on his counter, "–beast," he snarls. The arrogant hunter leans on the counter, planting himself to speak of his deeds. "Now that's a tale that will forever be told." "In that case, tell me everything." The big bearded, bald man sets down a tankard of swishing, frothy ale and the hunter takes a big swig, wiping his mouth free of froth with his sleeve. "Months on the road hunting, searching for clues, dealing in information. I heard every rumour under the sun. But of the ones worth listening to, a large portion of ‘em traced back to the tale of the boy named Jack—you know the one," the bearded man nodded. "So I decided to track him down. “I spurred my steed west and stopped at every village, farm and alehouse in search of someone who knew the boy. Finally, I came across a courtesan that said she knew the boy's mother once, that she had moved beyond the great mountains so as not to bring the boy up in a filthy town with the likes such as her. “A few more days' travel and I had narrowed the area down to a handful of farms. I came to one with a boy outside milking cattle. Never once did the boy turn his head from that cow until I mentioned a giant. He was all-too-happy to find someone wanting to listen. But before he could get down to the finer details, his mother came home and told me off, ordered the boy not to speak to strange men. “So I had to stay in the nearby village a few days and squeeze information out of the rumours. I questioned locals but they paid no mind to 'the ramblings of a boy' as they put it. “Eventually the mother went off to the market to flog the weekly cheese. But it took some convincing for Jack to disobey his mother's orders." The hunter laughs, ale drips down his chin. "Was easy once I asked him how he killed the giant; every boy wishes to tell the world of his heroic feats. Anyway, didn't seem the effort was going to pay off once Jack started talking about magic beans. Huh, I thought I had wasted all that time; that me, you and the rest of the country had been duped into believing giants exist by a boy with a wandering imagination. I would've choked that little runt out had his mother not come back with her stinking cheese." The barman pours each of them another ale and returns to the counter with curiosity in his grumbly tone. "So, what led you to this one then?" asks he, gesturing to the leaky head next to them, its eyes dead as though made by a doll maker, one half-covered by a drooping eyelid. The hunter belches. "Well, now, here's the part most people won't believe–" the bearded tavern owner leans in, "–I was on my way out of town in search of the place where they say the giant fell, when I heard drunken talk of a wizard living in a nearby cave. I supposed it simply drunken talk like any other, but I also figured that if Jack had truth in his tale at all, then maybe this so-called 'wizard'—who was probably just a crazed-old-man—had seen something around the caves; that's where I figured a giant might dwell, if there was such a thing. “Anyway, I tracked down this 'wizard'—" "Was he?" asks the barman. "Was he what?" "A wizard?" "Till the day my death comes, I'll ask myself that very question." Both men ponder over a gulp of ale. "He was certainly crazy, that's for sure; tried to sell me magic beans–" the bald man laughs. "–They looked like any ordinary sack of beans to me. But he continued to claim how they worked for Jack. So I bought ‘em." The tavern owner leans in with a raised brow, his beard brushing the top of his tankard. "How much did you fork out for these...'magic' beans?" "Not as much as they were worth," says the arrogant hunter. "And threatening to strangle the old git if he was having me on certainly eased my worry. “I wanted to plant the beans right there but the old man swore blind that if I did, giants would rain from the heavens. I decided to listen to the crackpot and plant a single bean a mile or so on." The hunter shakes his head after a big swig of his emptying tankard and grimaces at the severed head. "Turned out to be right. I awoke the next morning under the shadow of a beanstalk as tall as three mountains—" "Codswallop!" The bearded man throws down his tankard, spilling ale on his hand. The hunter can do no more than shrug his shoulders. "It's true. No doubt you’ll hear of it in the coming days as talk of it spreads." The barman huffs. "And I suppose you climbed this beanstalk, did you?" "Well I could hardly bring my steed, now, could I? It was a challenge worthy of great effort and one I will remember long from now. I have hunted many great beasts and I consider that stalk to be up there with the toughest of my victories. “Then I reached the top–" the hunter shoves his tankard aside and leans in, "–and let me be clear when I say: not only do giants exist as you can see from this here head...but there’s a whole town of ‘em up there." "The hells," says the bearded man, reluctant to believe it for if it were so would bring great fear. "Anyway—being the best of hunters—I ambushed the first giant I could find and tied the great beast down. Don't even know if it was male or female. Tortured the beast for—well for my own pleasure mostly. But also because Jack had spoken of much gold when he encountered his." "And?" "None to be had. Poor as a pauper, this one." The hunter nodded to the head. "All of ‘em looked that way. So I came back here for the reward." The bald man straightens up behind the counter with a wry smile. "As I say," says the hunter smirking over his tankard, "a tale of which be told at campfires and alehouses for centuries to come." He places the empty tankard onto the counter. "Now, how shall I receive my reward?" "Rewards gone." "What!? But I'm the first to slay such a creature." "I believe you confirmed Jack to be the first," says the barman polishing the tankards with a rag. "His giant fell to its death. Anyway, the reward was posted after rumours of Jack's tale spread. I’m the first man to bring evidence of such existence, as the requirements state." The braids dangle from the large man's chin as he wipes the counter. "Shepherd boy killed a giant out East. Just wandered onto his farm, would you believe?" "No! I would not believe," says the hunter slamming his fists on the counter, causing the severed head to bounce. "...Apparently its name was Goliath—spoke and everything." The bald man points to a corner of the tavern, where a giant’s head—larger than the one leaking on the counter—is mounted proudly on the wall. "Yours didn't speak," says he, smiling in jest. "That shepherd boy will go down in history and be talked of far into the future...As I say, rewards gone. Got no use for this." The barman gestures to the head. "Now kindly take it off my counter and pay for your ale."

reye5j

The True Meaning of Holiday Magic

“It’s Christmas Eve!” said ten-year-old Maria Roger cheerfully. All her siblings shouted in excitement. Christmas was their favorite holiday of the year. Two weeks away from school?! What a deal! But not just that. They get to open gifts and enjoy time with family. The Roger family thought it would be a good idea to host a skiing party with friends and relatives. Around twenty people arrived at the spot where the party started, Hansan Ski Main. After they had gotten all bundled up with sweaters and put on their skis, everyone was off in different directions on different trails, thinking, “Oh, everything will be fine. Just meet up here in a couple of hours at the base.” They all had fun, and the air was filled with laughter and shouting. The Roger family went North, where the somewhat most challenging and sketchiest trail in the forest was. They all had years of training and wanted to give this trail a try. In the blink of an eye, they rushed towards the steep hill and, without the slightest hesitation, flew down, going as fast as a cheetah. Maria felt like she was soaring through the sky and had all the power in the world. “Wow! This is beyond fun! Best thing ever !!” she shouted.  The rest of the family agreed. They all glided down the path, having the time of their life. Once they got to the bottom, Maria dared her parents to continue on another trail that looked appealing to her. Without hesitation, the entire family dashed down. They were so joyous and loved the venture. Their smiles vanished after reaching the endpoint, where they saw a sign, the end of them. NO WAY BACK TO HANSAN SKI MAIN. NEXT SHELTER, 3 MILES NORTHWEST. “Oh no, no, no!!!” exclaimed the children. “What have we done?! What are we going to do?!” We have no hope!” they cried out. “ We can’t ski three whole miles without a lift!!” Maria was frustrated deep down for a while. But knowing that she was the oldest, she had to set the example. So, she made the decision to continue on relentlessly. Turning to her younger siblings, Jonathan and Sarah, she said, “Hey guys! We’re going to keep on walking but don’t worry. There’s going to be a big Christmas dinner and a warm fireplace waiting for you, okay? Now let’s go.” Determined to reach the shelter, they all took a deep breath, and from there, they began the journey. This part of the trail was extremely windy, so everyone was freezing soon! The cold drafts blew against their faces, and shivers ran down their spines. Legs were shaking, teeth were chattering, and bodies were trembling with frigidness. Against their wish, they had to keep on going in order to get to the shelter before the day leaves and night falls. Although the mere 3 miles seemed like 30 miles to them, the thoughts of a roof over their heads kept them moving, fortunately. Trudging through the thick whiteness, there were hundreds of questions on Maria’s mind. Where were the rest of the groups? Have they already gotten back to Hansan Ski Main ? If so, have they realized that we’re missing? Thoughts of freezing to death struck her. If I die, it better not be because of this. No, think positively, Maria. You got this. Oh, why did I do this? Her body was becoming stiffer and stiffer by the second, and her mind started to become foggy. Her legs just continued pushing through the heavy snow, not knowing to listen to the mind or to make its own decision. Her brain, having less and less energy to function, still had the same contradicting words repeated. Stop. Take a break. No! Keep on going! You’re almost there! Ah! I don’t know what to think! Weird sounds circled around her. Was it her imagination? The crunching of leaves and crushing of twigs scared her even though her family were the only ones there. Because the darkness drew in, there could be wild animals like wolves and bears. Owls stared down upon her and her family curiously without them knowing. And when she finally finds out, it would be because of their hoo-Hoo-hoo hoo . A strong gust of wind interrupted her thinking. On the other hand, it reminded her of how hungry and cold she was. Not knowing what might occur, Maria and her family continued their journey for about another treacherous hour. At times when the kids began to feel exhausted, Mr. and Mrs. Roger motivated and supported them. Once again, Maria stepped up as the big sister and told her younger siblings that there was nothing to be afraid of and that everything was going to be fine. Their wish was granted. There, right in front of them, was the hut (shelter). “Oh, thank god we’re out of the cold tonight!!!” screamed everyone. They all happily and swiftly ran inside and unloaded their things. Finally, lying down on the soft beds, they were all filled with joy. There was a landline, and they called their family and friends, who were surely very worried about them. The warm fireplace was on, and as promised, delicious Christmas food was set on the table. They began eating as quickly as Garfield gulping down a lasagna. Thankfully, there were also maps that could guide them back to Hansan Ski Main . “Woohoo! Jackpot!” said Mrs. Roger, holding up one of the maps. “This is great. We’ll spend the night here, and tomorrow morning, at the crack of dawn, we’ll follow the trail on the map to reach Hansan Ski Main . But for now, it’s relaxation and gratefulness.” After feeding themselves up to the brim, the Roger family fell asleep, dreaming about their unbelievable day. Maria dreamed about walking through the clammy forest and meeting Santa. Oh, how wonderful! She got to open her Christmas present, a compass, which brought up her spirits and gave her the confidence to navigate to the shelter and get back on track. The next morning, they woke up at 6 a.m., well-rested. After putting on their coats and sweaters and packing up their skis, they started their trip. Feeling more confident with the daylight and a clear path ahead, the Roger family followed the trail on the map back to Hansan Ski Main . Although the walk from the evening before was treacherous, today, they felt energetic and enjoyed the scenery of the snow. Before walking for what felt like a mere twenty minutes, they were getting closer and closer to Hansan Ski Main. As they approached the familiar surroundings of the ski main, relief came over them. The other groups had apparently spent the night nearby, and they were woken up, ready to welcome the Roger family to celebrate Christmas together. The adventure that had started as a joyous celebration took an unexpected turn, leading them into the depths of a snowy forest. Yet, through their determination, teamwork, and holiday magic, the daring family found their way back, safe and sound. The Roger family learned a valuable lesson about the importance of careful planning and staying within the designated trails. Despite the tough challenges, the holiday magic of survival and togetherness turned what could have been a disastrous Christmas Eve into a memorable tale of resilience and gratitude. And so, with appreciation for warmth, family, and the spirit of the season, they continued their festive celebrations at Hansan Ski Main , cherishing the holiday magic that had saved their Christmas.

of5q72

The Aloof Girl and The Scarlet Night/A Fateful Encounter And The Crimson Legend

“A~Ah, I guess the moon is cracked as always.” Those were the words of a single girl that stood atop an abandoned observatory, as she stared at the moon in the dead of the night. There was nothing special about tonight, or the night before that, or any night for that matter. And yet, when the world was at its darkest, she alone would climb the observatory gazing deeply at the moon as though searching for something. It had become a sort of an obsession for her, she would make sure she was there at the very top every night, at the same time. And each time she would leave, having not found what she had been searching for. With a deep sigh and slight sadness in her eyes, she jumped off the top of the observatory Like a cat, she landed effortlessly on the ground. She faced the moon with an annoyed expression. “How about you show your true face already.” She complained. “You're always hiding yourself! Get your act together and change already, don’t you know it’s rude to keep a lady waiting! I’ll be it, don’t take the heart of a maiden for granted, my pure heart can only take so much.” Pouting away, she made her way to the deep forest that lay in front of her. The observatory that this young girl had made her second home was located far in an opening in the silent forest, off the outskirts of the village. As she continued her way through the forest she could hear the various moans of creatures that lurked in the forest. She wasn’t bothered by them as long as they didn’t bother her. Eventually, far in the distance, the torches marking the borders of the village became visible. A lonely house stood at the very edge of the village. “I’m home…” She whispered as she opened the door. “Umph!” She had found herself tackled to the ground by three little children. “Welcome home, Sis!” They loudly exclaimed. “Hey, let go of me you little brats, shouldn’t you guys be in bed already? It’s way past your bedtime.” The young girl grabbed one of them. “Two can play it that way! Here you go!” “Us too!” The other two kids jumped onto her back. Before long the little house had been filled with the voices of children as they played with their sister. “Simmer down you lot. How long do you intend on keeping her at the entrance? Come on in, I’ve got some tea brewing.” “Y-yes, grandmother…” The four of them responded in embarrassment. “What rowdy bunch, I told them to go to sleep but they refused to listen saying that they wanted to wait until you were back.” After having their fill of playing with their sister, the three children were blissfully asleep on the ground in the living room. The sounds of crackling fire filled the silent room. “Did you find what you were looking for, Yuri?” Yuri stared deeply into the cup of tea in front of her. A sense of melancholy filled her heart. “No, it was the same as always.” “Is that so…. I don’t suppose I can convince you to stop, can I?” A pained expression fell on Yuri’s face. Her hands gently clenched under the table. “All I want to do is get back what was stolen from me all those years ago…” “I see…finish up your tea. You have a busy day ahead of you.” With that another night had passed with, yet, another disappointment. As dusk turned to dawn, gentle rays of light blanketed the village, piercing through the window onto the girl who lay asleep on the floor. “....Uh..” Having her sleep disturbed, Yuri rose from her bed sluggishly. “It’s morning already…” Yuri stretched her hands as she gazed through the windows towards the sun that hung high in the sky. “Let’s make today a good day..” "Alright! Perfect!” Yuri had finished readying herself. She buttoned up her white blouse and placed a coat on her shoulders. Her jet black hair lay gently on her shoulders as she put on her brown beret. She made her way through the town, to an odd looking shop that lay in the dead centre. Hanging in front of it was a worn out wooden sign: “Levi’s Odd Jobs! No Job is Impossible!” Yuri pushed open the door as the bell that hung on it rang. “Oh! If it isn’t Yuri! Early as always.” Standing at the desk was a rough looking gentleman. “Still haven’t kicked in the bucket I see, old man Levi.” “Stop it, I’m only thirty five. I’ve still got five more years in me.” After their brief exchange Yuri started cleaning up the shop as she hummed a little tune. Levi meanwhile, went through the morning newspaper. “Did you hear anything about it ?” Yuri inquired as she continued brushing. “Sorry, all I got was dead ends.” “… thanks for looking into it for me…” “It’s the least I could do for all that you do for me. Cheer up, it's bound to appear at some point.” It has to… otherwise… “Excuse me, I would like to make a request for a job.” Entering through the door was a group of three men. In the middle stood their leader, he had dark blue hair slicked back and a scar on his left eye. “What kind of job will it be?” Levi welcomed the customers. “It’s an escort job.” “To where?” “I hear there’s an ancient ruin just beyond the woods. All we require is a guide to show us till the entrance.” Ah! He must mean that old castle. What’s so interesting about a bunch of old broken walls? Yuri thought to herself. “How about Yuri? You think you can do it?” “If it’s only till the entrance then that’s fine with me…” She answered uninterestedly. “Great. I would like to leave at once.” “Before that I would need a name for the register.” The blue haired man stood silent for a moment. “Bart.” Yuri and Bart, along with his men, made it to the outskirts of the village. Upon entering the forest Yuri advised them to stay close. They made their way through the forest walking on the rocky path. As the sun continued to rise, several small rays of sunlight pierced through the tall trees that dampened the forest. The sounds of wildlife buzzed about as the group climbed over boulders that had fallen over. The path seemed long. The ruins that Bart and his group had sought didn’t seem to be anywhere. As the sun had peaked, Bart wondered if they were close, however he chose to wait, instead, deciding to ask Yuri about the ruins. “Do you know about the Crimson Legend ?” Upon hearing that name Yuri tensed up. They made pace along the rocky path when Yuri stopped. Bart looked at her puzzled. “You guys better stick close to me, otherwise you’ll be consumed by the forest.” With that warning Yuri began walking through weaving around the branches that hung about. After a while, Yuri explained. “This forest is cursed. Lost spirits gather here and dwell about. As long as you stay on the paved path you’re safe. Once you veer off into the trees you’re as good as done, the spirits won’t hesitate to attack you and devour you mercilessly. Though that’s only the case if you don’t have someone like me.” “Like you?” “You see, I have a sense for knowing where the spirits are less. As long as you walk through those paths you’ll be safe.” Before long a parting in the forest became visible. Extending before them were the remains of an old castle. It had been completely destroyed in the aftermath of some kind of explosion. The area was just broken walls with stones that had been used to build the castle scattered about. Bart stepped forward scoping the area further. Noticing the doubt in his eyes, Yuri curtly spoke. “This is the place.” Yuri stood outside the ruins as Bart and his men started moving in. The three of them spread about and began searching around rubble. When they had arrived it had already been late in the evening, with the time Bart and his men had spent about in the ruins the sun had already set. Remnants of red mixed with the black sky.  Yuri approached Bart, who stood in the centre of the ruins. “It’s getting late. If we wait too long, it’ll become difficult to walk through the forest, especially as a group. It’s a well known rule in the village that no one should be under the moon at night.” Instead of adhering to her cautionary words, Bart focused in the distance. “Don’t you think it’s odd? A rule to not be under the moon. All it ever does is illuminate the darkness after the sun. And yet you fear it. You see where I’m from, folktales and old legends float about quite often. One of them in particular caught my attention.” Bart shifted his gaze towards the moon that had come in full view. “The legend goes as follows. Long ago, during one silent night, the once white moon cracked and turned crimson red, scarlet light filled the night as though the moon had been bleeding through its cracks. Those who witnessed it simply stood in fear and disbelief of this phenomenon. As redness continued to fill the night, among the witnesses there were those who fell to ground gasping for air, just as they were about to die they would vanish into the night. Before long screams of despair would fill the night as many would vanish. This harrowing sight would only be witnessed by the people of a single village. Strange wouldn’t you say?” Yuri had begun trembling in fear. Panic began filling her body as she breathing slowly became difficult for her. Memories that she had hoped to repress flooded her mind one by one. When Yuri was still young, she had lived alone peacefully with her father. Every night, her father would take her on a long walk through the forest. They would make their way to the edge of a cliff, from there the two would sit and gaze at the night sky. The sight of her father under the moonlight as he spoke to her was her fondest memory. She had hoped those nights would never end. However, fate would choose otherwise. One night, the moon turned crimson. Her father stood up and gazed with astonishment. Moments later he would turn to the little Yuri who sat next to him. He grabbed her shoulders gently and spoke words that she couldn’t remember. Her father bathed in the vermilion light as he vanished right before her. That night the young Yuri had lost her only happiness. She fell to the ground in disbelief and cried as she searched for her father. Had it not been for an old lady, she would have been lost to the woods. Yuri fell to her knees as tears began running down her eyes. Bart looked down at her. “As I expected, You too are a victim.” Yuri grit her teeth. “Shut it… As if you would know…” The rubble behind Bart began to glow red. The ground slowly started shaking. Yuri raised her head to see what was happening. It was there, the thing that stole it all from her. Her obsession. The reason she felt piercing pain in her heart. After all these years it had finally shown itself. “ RUDDY MOON” All Yuri could do was stare in shock. Her mind went blank and all sorts of emotions filled her heart. Her chest tightened as a sense of breathlessness took over. From the rubble emerged a humanoid creature. It had horns for eyes. Its body was stout and drenched in red with black lines all over. Bart drew his sword from its sheath as he prepared to engage it. He dove in towards the creature slashing his sword. It raising its fists as it launched punches, Bart dodged through them as he aimed another slash at its shoulders. Before long Bart and the creature had begun exchanging blows, however the creature’s would not hit. Despite its fearsome appearance, it was being handled expertly by Bart. His strikes had started to take effect, the creature fell to its knees. Bart drew back, sparing a glance at Yuri. “How long do you intend to sit there? It’s right in front of you. The thing that stole it all from you.” … What does he mean…? I don’t know… The creature began glowing preparing for another attack. “Here it comes!” Bart alerted his men. The creature let out a piercing screech as a red wave exploded from it. Bart grabbed Yuri as he jumped back. He glanced at the dismayed Yuri as he rested her on a rock. “...” Bart dashed towards the creature, engaging it once more. Yuri sat there. Her old scars had opened once again and her heart was ailing. Her mind was lost in confusion. Amidst all the noise, one thought resonated clearly. What did I even want… To Yuri the Ruddy Moon had been everything. And now, after years of waiting and yet she couldn’t do anything. It had always been so distant to her, that she had never thought of what she would do after she found it. Maybe she had hoped that maybe her father would come back or maybe it would end her just like it did that night. However, neither of which came true. All she could do was sit motionless. The vermilion creature’s had become slower. Bart took advantage of every opening and sliced at it. It looked weakened. Bart, without a second of hesitation, darted towards it to end with one final strike. However, to his shock, it had been a feint, a red fist approached him at high velocity, with no means of dodging, Bart grit his teeth as the blow sent him flying back. Yuri looked to her side as she saw Bart crashing beside her. Why do you fight? Bart stood to his feet just as quickly as he landed. Where does your strength come from?…. “Listen to me close.” Bart raised his sword.  “I don’t know what’s happened with you but from where I’m from we live by one creed: If something gets stolen, steal it back .” “...” “That’s why I fight, I lost something dear to me long ago, and now I want it back. Even if the entire world bares its fangs at me, I’ll just slash at it with everything I have!” To Yuri her father had meant everything. As memories of that day continued to play in her mind, her pain only grew. But…but…I can’t… I don’t have it in me… Her memories stopped at one scene. Her father had knelt down to speak his last words. I don’t know! I don’t know what you’re saying! “Yuri, I know, more than anyone, if it’s you, then anything is possible” Those had been the last words he spoke to her. She had finally remembered them. Not just those. The countless nights he spoke to her, all the things he had told her about. All of it. Flooded her mind. How could I forget… All those times…. Yuri cried as remorse and guilt covered her. Bart was face-to-face with the creature. His strikes felt like they had lost their effect. It had grown used to his attacking pattern and was evading with ease. As his attacks continued to get parried, Bart fell back. The creature stood on top of him, raising its fist to end him. Just as the creature was about to strike, it screamed. On its back was Yuri with a blade in her hand. “How long do you intend on lying there!” She yelled. The creature fell back as it tossed Yuri to the side. “Heh, don’t get ahead of yourself!” Bart jumped to his feet. “Yuri, let’s end this!” With tears still raining down her eyes, Yuri let out a wry smile. The two of them rushed the staggered beast. Bart dealt heavy blows, while Yuri nimbly aimed for its sides. With the last of its strength, the beast joined its hands high. Bart used the board end of his sword to absorb the strike. “Now!” Yuri, swift as the wind, appeared from behind Bart. The core of the creature had been completely exposed. With one last cry from the depths of her soul, Yuri pierced the core. The beast stumbled backwards before falling to the ground and vanishing into ashes. Just as the creature vanished, the ruddy moon too vanished. The cracks that had appeared on it were long gone. It was back to the normal moon that illuminated the night sky with its gentle white light. “You’re quite the guide I have to say.” Bart had begun collecting the remains of the cracked core. “I’ll leave an extra tip for your assistance.” Yuri hesitated for a moment. “C...Cou…Could you take me with you.” She asked shyly. Bart starred in bewilderment. “I..I don’t want to be a prisoner of my past. My father told me countless stories about the world outside.” If I don’t take the first step nothing will change! “I want to see those stories for myself. I want to see the world he saw! T-that’s why..” Don’t falter! “Please take me with you!” The air fell silent. “How long do you intend on staying like that? We’ll leave you behind.” Yuri raised her head in surprise. “Does that mean..” “You better carry your weight kid.” “Y-yes!” Yuri breathed in the air from high up in the sky, its freshness felt relaxing. “Yuri, we're docking the ship! Get ready for landing!” “On my way!” With a gentle smile towards the never ending horizon, Yuri dashed to the adventure that awaited her.

tfv70b

Just One Kiss?

She is beautiful. Almost too beautiful. The peace of her slumber transforms her into an otherworldly being. She is a goddess. And she is everything Dave Charming has ever, ever wanted. She is all he has ever dreamt about. This woman has visited him in his dreams. She has haunted him in every moment of his life, both sleeping and wakeful. She has invaded every fibre of his being until there’s nothing left but the desire to be with her. Forever and ever. Happily ever after. They are one. This is Dave’s destiny. He has given everything he has to find her and be here in this moment. This is the culmination of all his efforts. He has fought the good fight with every single breath and now, at last, he has his prize. He gazes upon Ella White and his eyes sparkle like the glass baubles on a Christmas tree. Flames flicker this way and that. His passion for this woman is self-evident. He has arrived, and the end is nigh. This is where Dave Charming really begins. This is when it will all make sense at last. * Dave Charming had a good start to his life. The very best of starts. He was a product of a fierce and pure love that knew no bounds. His mother was a romantic and she found the man of her dreams against all the odds. In a world where all the good men were taken or had gone into hiding, she walked into a supermarket, of all places, and the rest was history. The problem was that her dreamboat had history of his own, and a lot of it. When she broke the news of the product of their joyous union, Dave’s mother was confronted with the dark and sordid reality of her situation. There was no man before her, only her own dream, reflected back at her. Behind the mirror there was nothing. She didn’t even see him walk away. It were as though he were a vampiric mist, and having taken everything from her, the mist drifted on to feed elsewhere. Even so, Dave’s mum didn’t give up. She tried, and she did her best, but she was broken beyond repair. Truth was that she was broken well before her dreams were stolen from her. People like the mirror man preyed on vulnerable people like her. Damaged and fragile people like her were rich pickings, and they never saw it coming. No one ever saw it coming, but they liked to think that they would. For the first three years of Dave’s life, his mum did everything she could to build a life for the both of them, but in the end, it all got too much. Some would say that Dave got too much, but he never saw it like that. Maybe he should have. Dave was found on the doorstep of the local orphanage. Too big to be left in a basket of reeds, he was discovered sitting there. In one hand he held his blanky , a threadbare and dirty piece of material that comforted him in times of stress. That unhygienic scrap of germs was duly removed and he never saw it again. In his other hand was a well-thumbed copy of a legendary tale. This he was allowed to keep. Dave’s only memory of his mother was her reading this book to him over and over again. She cried when she read it. Sometimes, she couldn’t get through to the end. “Never give up on your dreams, Davey,” she would tell him, “those dreams are your life. They are your destiny. ” Dave could no longer remember his own mother’s face, but he remembered those words and every single word of the tale she had read to him. He also remembered the pain of loss and the hungry hole that abandonment had created within him. He never tried to find his mother after he left the orphanage and entered the world alone. He knew from the day she had left him that there would be no one left to find. The mirror man really had taken everything from her, and once she let go of Dave she floated away on the breeze, up and away to a better, kinder place. * The only thing that ruins the moment – his moment – is the infernal beeping of the machine by her bedside. Dave pulls away the wires that connect the object of his desire to a machine. That attachment to a corrupt and twisted reality is all wrong and he has to put an end to it. But instead of the nauseating pulse of the machine’s breathing ceasing, the machine now screams a warning. “No!” gasps Dave. He shakes with rage and frustration. This intrusion is too much. This poisonous, narcissistic modern world is no place for his love. She deserves better. She is better. In a bitter frenzy, he tears at the screaming beast’s tendrils, seeking to silence it, but his efforts make no difference, if anything, the screams intensify and Dave knows that the alarm call must be responded to. He has fought all his life for this moment. Patiently, he has bided his time and swallowed back the frustrations that his quest laid upon him again and again. He endured, because he had a cast-iron certainty that this day would come. There was nothing else. There could be nothing else. He lifts the machine high above his head. His arms judder beneath the weight of the wailing beast, but Dave does not feel the weight of it. He has tackled fiercer monsters than this. He has prevailed again and again. Shifting the protesting lump backwards, he almost overbalances, but then he thrusts his arms forwards and dashes the thing against the far wall. The sound of its destruction is satisfying and Dave savours the sight of the fruits of his labours for a moment, the silent aftermath soothing his tortured and nervous soul. But then he hears shouts and the worrying rhythm of rapid footfalls. There is no time to waste. Hastily, he returns his attentions to his beauty. Stepping forth to be at her side, he tenderly caresses her face with his hand, “I’ve waited a lifetime for this,” he whispers softly. Then he does the one thing he knows he must do. He kisses her. The kiss is chaste, but there is passion behind it all the same. He sighs as their lips meet and he has an overwhelming urge to cry. He fights that urge, fearing that he would crumble into nothingness were he to give in to it. He holds himself together and savours the culmination of all of his efforts. It is done. He stands up and waits for the magic to happen. He stands, and he waits. Barely attending to the bangs on the door behind him. He’s heard worse. They won’t get in. Not yet anyway. His brow creases in consternation as his beauty lays stock still. She should have awakened by now, he thinks, and just as he is about to lean over her, her eyes flash open. But those eyes are all wrong. There is no peace in them. No serenity. This is not the look that Dave was expecting. Now he’s not sure exactly what he was expecting. Gratitude? Love? Joy? Maybe all those things, or perhaps none of them. He realises that what he wanted was a promise in that first look. The promise of a connection. But there is none of that here. Her eyes widen in a look of abject horror and her back arches. She lets out a low, ragged breath. The air escaping her lungs is a lava flow of sharp edged glass and it hurts Dave to hear it. Worse is yet to come, though. As the last of that tortured breath leaves his beauty’s body, she goes slack and the light in her eyes goes out. Her light goes out, and Dave is left alone all over again. “No!” hisses Dave, “no you don’t! Don’t you dare! You can’t do this!” He’s been cheated one time too many already. Abandoned and cast aside. Buffeted from the feasting hall by the callous hand of a cruel world. Enough is enough! Without thinking, he leans over the prone figure of his destined true love and he breathes life back into her lungs. He gives her everything he has, because he is nothing without this woman. He will do anything to rouse her and help her live again. Anything. She’s his everything and there is nothing else. Without her he’s just another abandoned orphan who has never experienced the enlivening warmth of true love. He breaths another breath of life into her, willing her to awaken. Urging her to live. Wanting her to be here with every fibre of his being. Desperate for that connection. Reaching out across the chasm that separates this life and the next. Daring to dream.

fht5ym

Sunny Daze

Such excitement, such a treat, dreaming of sand under my feet. I’ve been looking ahead to my cruise so long, the time is near and nothing can go wrong. I will finish my day at the shop, maybe leave early. I can, I’m on top. Drive home soon, then pack my case, off to sleep, my bed to embrace. Lazy morning tomorrow to finish the essentials and off to the airport from my residential. Before too long my pre-plans began to disappear, I heard was a loud scream and I cautiously peered. Followed by crying sounds of a child, ‘Oh’, I prayed it has to be mild. Some children had played in all the aisles and looked at me with mischievous smiles. One was crying and the mom was mad, no one else seemed too sad. Got out the broom and swept the floor, and tried to hurry the crew out the door. It was late while I cleaned the mess, finally made it home, and I needed a rest. When morning came, my eyes were blurry, but I needed to pack my stuff in a hurry. My alarm clock last evening was not set right, it appeared that I had set it for night. Pulled out the suitcase, for my week long trip, need to check off each item, so nothing gets skipped First I needed to pack some shorts, something fun for every port. Next I must grab most of my tees, then maybe a light jacket and some long sleeves. I better decide on which shoes to wear; sandals of course, then heels, if I dare. A black, a green and a white dress too, a red one is a must, maybe a blue? Then pjs and underwear for a 7 day trip, do people do laundry on a ship? Makeup, passport, money galore, all went into my carry bag to store. No time to shower, I needed to go, would calling a taxi now be too slow? Luckily the car came on time, let’s just hope that the airport had no line. As I headed straight to the gate, I was informed that my flight would be late. The delayed plane gave me concern, was I to hit problems at every turn? The ship would soon be leaving to cruise the sea, please oh please, don’t go without me. I watched the clock and shuffled my feet, well this dilemma was not a nice treat. Right before I was to give away my dream, my flight was announced on the big screen. I found my way to my seat, pushed my carryon under my feet. People were still getting their places, other fliers had bright shiny faces. My face, though, was etched with worry, Can’t everyone see I’m in a hurry? Before I had time to fret some more, I felt us lift into the sky to soar. Like a bird that has taken to flight, the plane flew through the clouds so white. We landed on time, with no seconds to spare, but my suitcase was where? Everyone else got to grab ones left and right, but mine seemed no where in sight. Again my stomach felt like a knot, my dream trip can not go to pot. I made it here and the ship was close by, is my luggage lost in the sky? Just when I wondered if I needed to cry, I saw my wounded suitcase out of my eye. No time to try to find someone with whom I could complain, at least it wasn’t still on the plane. Bolted out of the door in a sprinted way, to find the nearest cab to pay. Was the traffic in this city always this slow, I wanted to yell..’You all must go!’ The cab pulled up to the gate, I realized then we were too late. With teary eyes, I saw the ship pull away, my trip was over before I could play. A year of planning, hoping and saving, I could only watch all the goodbye waving. What do I do now? I was completely lost, it was all gone at such a cost. I did not know what to do, my dream left on the ocean blue. Do I cry, scream or pray? My vacation had just gone away. ‘Back to the airport’, I said in the car, to try and find a trip not far. I closed my eyes and leaned in the seat, I did not want to think about this defeat. I fell asleep and when I opened my eyes, I was in for a giant surprise. I had awoken in my own bed, all of this was a dream in my head. It was the day before my big leave, I hadn’t lost my trip, I got a reprieve. This time there would be no mistake, I decided to pack now for goodness sake. I grabbed my shorts, shirts and my dresses, a second chance with no messes. Made a decision, on the spot, no work today would be my plot. I took the day like the gift it was, until I’m sailing there will be no pause. Bags were packed, extras were set, I will make my trip, on this I will bet. Alarm clock was checked not once or twice, three time’s the charm, I knew the price. I slept all night and awoke quite early, remnants of the dream still made me worry. The taxi came right on time, no traffic in sight helped ease my mind. The airport was empty and my flight was easy, so far everything was breezy. Made it to the port, with time to spare, the sun shone without a glare. Waving goodbye to those on shore, my disturbing dream was no more. Went to the pool, to enjoy the sun, now I knew the rest would be fun. As I took a nice long sip of my drink that was shaken, a handsome man asked if the next seat was taken. Some dreams are scary and some are blue, this dream may just be one that came true.

ffe1ru

Just Visiting

Tauhm stopped on the sidewalk. He looked one way, and then back again. He scratched his chin. A young woman passing by saw his confusion and stopped. "Hi!" she said. "Are you lost?" "Yes," Tauhm said. "Maybe I can help. What are you looking for?" "I’m trying to find the Unity Church." "Oh, well, I’m heading there myself." She held out her hand. "I’m Kate, by the way." He stared at her hand for a moment. "Oh! Right. You shake hands here." He stuck out his hand. She shook it and asked, "What’s your name?" "It’s Tauhm." "Nice to meet you, Tom. Follow me." She turned and started walking. He stepped along beside her. "So, you’re not from around here?" Kate asked. "No. I’m here on vacation." "Visiting family? Where are you from?" Tauhm cocked his head, trying to figure out which question to answer first. "No, I am just visiting. I’ve never been here before. I am from, uh, Europe." He pronounced it ee-you-rope, with a long "o" in the last syllable. Kate laughed. "You mean Europe?" "Oh. Yes." He paused. "That was a joke." "What part of Europe are you from?" "Um, the north part." She laughed again. "So, what brings you here?" "I am curious. I want to understand more about church." "Don’t you have churches where you’re from?" "Oh. Yes. In Europe. There are churches, but not like this Unity Church." "I’m pretty sure there are Unity Churches in Europe." "Oh, um..." Kate stopped. "Well, here we are. You can sit with me if you want." "That would be nice." * * * Tauhm sat, feeling bewildered by the service he had just witnessed. Kate stood up and turned to him. "Are you okay?" He nodded. "How about some lunch?" "Yes, I am hungry. But I don’t know of any place to eat here." "Come with me. I know of a nice, quiet deli nearby." Kate ordered her usual – grilled cheese on rye, with a side of chips. No pickle. She paid for her order and then said to Tauhm, "I’ll be sitting at that table over there." She pointed. Tauhm nodded. "May I take your order?" the person behind the counter asked. Her name tag had "Alice" written on it. "Oh, um, what would you recommend?" Alice shrugged. "That depends. Are you a vegetarian? Do you have any dietary restrictions?" "I don’t know." "Well, do you want something hot or cold?" "Something hot would be nice." "Okay. We’ve got soup or grilled sandwiches." "Grilled sandwich is what Kate got." "Kate? Oh, the woman you’re with?" "Yes. What is soup?" "Well, we have several kinds." "What is popular?" "Tomato soup with grilled cheese is popular." "I will have that." "Great! What kind of bread and cheese?" Tauhm scratched his chin. "Um..." "Cheddar on white is a favorite." "I will have that." "And to drink?" "Do you have water?" "We have bottled water." "Okay," Tauhm said hesitantly. "That’ll be $14.32." "Oh, right, payment." He pulled out his wallet and fumbled through the bills. He picked out a ten and a five and handed it to her. She handed him the change. After a moment, she said, "You can go sit down with your friend. We’ll bring it to you when it’s ready." "Ah. Okay." Tauhm walked over to Kate’s table and sat down. "So," she said. "How did you like the service?" "It was interesting. I have some questions." "Ask away." "What is the purpose of... surrendering? Surrendering your choices to god?" Kate laughed. Hard. "Seriously?" "Yes." "Don’t you believe in god?" "We don’t believe in god where I come from." "Ah. So, you’re agnostic or atheist or something?" "Ye-es." "So, which is it? Agonistic? Atheist? A different religion?" Tauhm was saved from answering by the arrival of their food. Kate dug right in. Tauhm sniffed at the sandwich and soup. He picked up the spoon and tasted the soup. "I like to dip my sandwich in the soup," Kate said. "Ah." Tauhm dipped his sandwich and took a bite. "Interesting." Kate swallowed another bite. "So, you don’t believe in god? A creator? A divine being?" "We don’t believe it’s possible to know." "So, you’re an agnostic." "Yes." Tauhm drank some water. "The last musical piece--" "Yes! Isn’t that a great song? It’s called ‘All This Joy’. John Denver sang it." "John is a man’s name?" "Yeah." "But it was sung by a woman." Kate nearly choked. "John Denver sang it originally. Like, more than thirty years ago." "Of course." Tauhm smiled. "I was making a, uh, joke." Kate shook her head. "You’re weird." Tauhm took another cautious bite of his sandwich. "Why do you like that song?" Kate looked up in thought. "Because it talks about the nature of existence in such a simple way. The yin and the yang of it." "The ‘yin’ and the ‘yang’?" "Yeah. You know, the dualism." "Ah. The dualism." "You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?" "Yes." "’Yes’ you do or ‘yes’ you don’t?" Tauhm thought frantically. "The concept of interconnected opposites. Joy and sorrow. Promise and pain." Kate nodded, frowning. "You are very weird. Where did you say you’re from?" "North Europe." "Hmm. Sounds like to me like you’ve been living under a rock." She wiped her mouth, placed a tip on the table, and stood up. "This is just too weird. I gotta go. It was nice meeting you, Tom, and I hope you enjoy the rest of your visit." Tauhm watched her leave, and then looked at the money she’d left behind. He stared at it for a while with a puzzled look on his face. Finally, he nodded. Pulling out his wallet, he found some bills that matched the ones on the table. After placing them next the plate and returning his wallet to his pocket, he got up and left. * * * Tauhm sat down heavily in the passenger seat of the shuttle and let out a sigh. "How was it?" Berht asked as he set course and took off. "They have some strange customs," Tauhm said. Berht nodded as he guided the shuttle through the stratosphere and into a high orbit. "So I’ve heard," Berht said. "We’ll be docking shortly." Tauhm nodded. "I’ll be happy to be back on my own planet and in my own house." "Do you think you’ll visit Earth again?" "No. Once was enough." Berht chuckled as he guided the shuttle into the docking bay. "Well," he said, "Earth is our last stop. We’ll be heading home soon." After several more shuttles docked, the cruise ship left orbit and headed out of the solar system.

b2qecw

a new adventure

Journal entry: the sky is overcast this morning and they say we are expecting more rain. It is humid and hot here and I am not sure when I will be dry again. My tent seems to work well enough but the Mosquito netting is a bit tedious. I got tangled up in it again this morning when I had to get up and go pee. I am having trouble getting used to the silence, or at least the lack of the drone of artificial noise. The sounds of nature can be just as deafening but I have been assured that I will soon get used to it. I know I resolved to stop sitting on the sidelines and to finally step out of my comfort zone, but this might be a bit more than I bargained for! So it has become a daily routine to catalog my adventures in my a journal. A record of the new life, be it a temporary one in a faraway place among a people I have yet to understand. I spent years back home working and studying, now I am out in the wide open world. Here to lend a hand and teach others what may or may not be wanted or needed. The people seem nice enough and my daily routine varies with each morning. Some of the older people here are not too thrilled by my presence, but the younger adults and the children are curious about me and about the others in my group. Come to think of it, the group that I arrived with in this Central American paradise, are just as interesting as the people we have come here to help. Journal entry: I has been two months today since I arrived by boat to this remote location. I am a teacher by vocation, but I have been helping to build a drainage system for the past week. The inherent rain was washing away the topsoil form an area that we were helping to clear for agriculture. So we had to install a new water diversion system. It seems like I was thrown back into my old vocations. While In college I worked one summer with a construction company and using a pick and shovel was my stock and trade as a laborer. We have a civil engineer among our group, she is amazing at what she does. If you look past the purple hair and piercings, you will find a highly motivated and intelligent person, the locals took to her immediately. Many of them have pierced ears, noses and tattoos. It is their natural state of existence, more to follow. When I finished my degree in education and took my first job teaching middle school, I thought I would be happy. I had young minds to mold and shape. Then 3 years into my so-called career, I began to feel restless. I kept looking at old brochures that I had picked up. I kept seeing people in faraway and exotic places. The Peace corp., Catholic missionaries and a few other organizations that I thought I might be interested had gotten placed on a shelf and pushed aside as I tried to find contentment in my cookie cutter box of existence. That was what finally pushed me to jump in the water with both feet and plunge headlong into something that I felt would help me find a piece of myself that I felt had been missing. Journal entry: It was hot today and I mean hot; you could steam cabbage outside. The good news is that the rainy season has abated for now and we have lots of sun, too much if you ask me. Despite the SPF 50 that I am using, I feel as I could use something more powerful. Perhaps they make a sun block in the 5000 range. All I know is that if I get any darker, my family will not recognize me when I get home. Well, I got a letter from my parents today. My sister is pregnant and expecting her 2 nd child. I am pleased to hear that I will be an uncle for a 2 nd time, but the mail takes a while to get in and out of here. I am waiting to get a chance to speak to them via shortwave radio. We have a satellite phone here, but it is reserved for emergencies, the village chief and the director of our project. Satellite time is costly, so no personal calls on it. Only necessity dictates its use. Hopefully my return letter will find its way to my folks soon enough. It usually takes about a week for a letter to make it back to the states once it gets out of the jungle. Journal entry: The local villagers are going to be celebrating a holiday soon and all of us who are working here have been invited to be guest of honor. Apparently, our strong work ethic and willing to assimilate into the local culture have garnered us some good will. I have had a bit of trouble at first coming to terms with the local cuisine. I mean large roasted insects, the pungent taste was a bit much, but then I guess you can say that it was no worse than liver. Still, it took some getting used to. So, I have been here about 8 months now, time seems to be flying by fast. The coordinator of our group told me that in 2 months we will be getting relieved. It took a month of preparation to get ready to come down here. I will have 10 months here when the next group shows up. There will be a turnaround time of about a week, then we ship out and return stateside for an informal debriefing. I am not sure what is next for me. I have really enjoyed being down here in an exotic location. The unusual climate, the language and culture of the people has been exhilarating. I have made many new friends and hopefully grown some. I think I have a new perspective on the world beyond my comfort zone. I am actually more unsure of who I am than I was when I came down to this place, but I believe that is a good thing. It means that I can now look for better ways to grow beyond my boundaries. Journal entry: It has now been 10 months and a boat arrived yesterday with our relief party. The group contains some 30 odd people from various backgrounds. There are 2 doctors and 3 nurses. More schoolteachers, some trades people, but a pretty lively. One husband and wife team are back for the 2 nd time. I talked with them, and they said that they were here 2 years ago and decided after being away from the program that they were not ready to return to their former lives just yet. So, after learning some new skills, they decided to come back and try to do give some more of themselves and grown a little more. I am not sure what I will find when I get home, but I am sure I have a lot to unpack, and I am looking forward to meeting my new nephew.  

99j5i2

The Fate of a Faery

“At least I never put shrunken heads in your tea.” I muttered under my breath. Pieoura tossed her head backwards. “Excuse me?” The tips of her pale yellow wings were beginning to turn a bright pink shade. “Well, you must have heard me! You use to put shrunken heads in my tea when we were little!” I started to shout. “I can’t believe mother and father actually think you’re the most fit to lead Tree Top Kingdom.” Pieoura’s face looked like it could catch fire from how burning red it was. She flew closer until she was only a few feet in front of me. “You don’t know anything about me, LuLuna. Mother and father had no choice but to leave Tree Top to me. Your careless spirit would cause Tree Top Kingdom to be devoured by darkness.” “Oh please, spare me your endless list of scenarios where I’m always the screw up and you’re always the hero.” I rolled my eyes and turned to leave towards the edge of Tree Top. “I swear LuLuna, sometimes I wonder how you’re even a faery.” I didn’t bother looking back to respond. I flew past the mushroom wall and finally out of the Tree Top kingdom. I knew the way to Flora Glen after reading about it’s magical properties used to treat faery’s during the Stone Wars. The glen was also home to the Tree of Wisdom; an old wizard cursed and embedded into the trunk of a tree. I needed answers. I couldn’t—no, I wouldn’t return to Tree Top without truly understanding my purpose. Every faery is born with destiny. I am the daughter of the king and queen of Tree Top kingdom, but I felt the farthest from royalty—unlike my sister Pieoura who was designed for the throne. Flora Glen wasn’t far from Tree Top, but it would take the rest of daylight to reach. After a while I stopped to rest my wings on the branch of a tall oak tree. On the branch next to me was a large, chunky, green caterpillar. “Hello little faery, are you lost?” I shrugged, “I guess you could say that.” “So you’re heading to the Tree of Wisdom?” I nodded. All caterpillars had a sixth sense. The caterpillar slowly inched its way down the branch and closer to the base of the tree. “If you don’t mind me asking, what is it that you plan to ask the Tree of Wisdom?” “I’m going to ask what my purpose is.” I stood up from the branch and stretched my arms, legs and my wings. “You should know, the Tree of Wisdom can only answer one question to each forest creature,” said the caterpillar as it slowly crawled up the trunk of the tree. “It’s answers have driven some forest creatures to insanity.” “What’s your point?” I asked. “The Tree of Wisdom answers your question with complete and utter truth. It knows your past, present, and future. It has infinite knowledge of everyone and everything that lives in the forest. Understand this little faery: some questions we are not meant to know the answers to.” But my mind was made up. I had a few hours of daylight left to travel until reaching Flora Glen. I kicked off the edge of the branch and continued flying. As I glided between trees and over clusters of vibrant flowers, the grey clouds overhead were beginning to turn a beautiful cerulean blue. The mushrooms stemming from trees and sprouting below were beginning to give their beautiful iridescent glow. “Excuse me?” A low rich voice echoed off the trees. I stopped and hovered over a patch of clovers and searched for the voice. “Here little faery, in front of you.” It was a sentient tree. Its bark was a deep orange shade with small hints of golden brown. Most of the sentient trees I’ve encountered had grown over the course of hundreds of years. This tree could only be a few decades old. I flew a little closer. “Where are you off to young faery?” “I’m going to see the tree of wisdom.” I told the tree “Ahhh I see. You must have a very important question.” “It only affects my entire future.” I said. “That does sound very important. Have you heard about the Tree of Wisdom?” “You mean about the ability to drive its visitors insane with the “complete and utter truth?”” I quoted the advice of the caterpillar. “You’ve been warned and you still wish travel to Flora Glen?” “I won’t go back home until I know my true purpose.” “Is that your question?” “Yes.” The tree chuckled. “Do you think you’re ready to hear the answer?” I shrugged. “Why is everyone so concerned once I tell them my question?” “Those who seek answers from the Tree of Wisdom are never the same once they receive it. The Tree of Wisdom never takes a creatures emotions into account when answering their question. They could walk away liberated or destroyed; the Tree will always remain.” I thought for a moment about my question. “Do you think I should change my question?” “That’s up to you little faery. Will you return home from Flora Glen, no matter the Tree’s answer?” The words of the caterpillar spun around in my head, and now the talking tree was confirming the caterpillar’s warning. The night sky was becoming engulfed in a deep cobalt blue, and I would have to make the trip back to Tree Top Kingdom after my visit to Flora Glen. “I should get going.” I told the tree. “I hope you find clarity pretty faery.” The moon began to peak out from the clouds and illuminated my flight path until I could see a faint green glow up ahead. As I got closer I could see the beautiful radiance of the pools that surrounded Flora Glen. The pools formed a perfect circle around a small island with glorious mushrooms that looked to be anywhere from two to six feet tall, and in the centre was a tree. The tree in the centre of Flora Glen was the tallest tree I’ve ever seen in the forest. It had to be the oldest living tree here. The giant tree in the centre bore the mark of thousands of years. The bark seemed weathered and rough, and was untouched by man but the years in the glen had took its course. “Up here.” A deep, rumbling voice bounced off the surrounding trees. I knew it had come from the Tree of Wisdom. I approached the tree, but couldn’t make out a face anywhere on the trunk until I flew higher. “Are you the Tree of Wisdom?” “Are you LuLuna of Tree Top Kingdom?” My heart skipped a beat at the mention of my name, and everything the tree and caterpillar flew back int my mind. Should I rephrase my question? What if I really can’t comprehend the answer, and I really do go insane? “You have a question.” “Yes.” “You may only ask one question. I can only give one answer.” “I know.” “Some beings have been known to fall into madness after they have obtained my knowledge.” “Yes, I’ve been told.” Ugh, another warning. Now I’m really starting to worry. I want to know what my purpose in Tree Top is. How will I ever face mother and father, or Pieoura? What if the Tree of Wisdom’s answer sends me into a spiral and I never feel capable of returning home? “What is your question LuLuna of Tree Top?” I floated there for a moment and thought about my question; the wording of my question. I desperately wanted to know anything that would bring me clarity in my life as the daughter of the king and queen of Tree Top. What was I meant to do? Did I truly want to know my purpose in Tree Top Kingdom, or was there something deeper I was searching for? What did it all mean? “I am waiting faery.” Then the answer hit me. Or should I say the question? “What will bring my life a deep sense of fulfillment and meaning?” I asked the tree. The air fell silent, and I could almost hear the grass roots spreading beneath the earth. “Hm.” The tree pondered. And then it smiled. “Your greatest sense of meaning will come from devouring the crumbs swept under the table of Gods. Sweet sugar will drip from your pores as you dance with specs of stardust. You will melt the heart’s of penguins and leap with the elk. Galaxies thousands of miles from here will hear the beat of your heart, and intergalactic zebras will see the light of your soul from planets so far, they are merely dots in the sky. Your wings will carry you to other moons where you and golden bunnies will dip your toes in craters filled with the sweetest of wines. LuLuna of Tree Top, embrace every breeze, follow every current, and you will find traces of magic that only your eyes can see.” I was not driven to madness. I did not crumble at the mercy of the Tree of Wisdom. Instead I wiped the tear that dripped down my cheek. “Go LuLuna.” So I left. I flew farther and farther letting the glow of Flora Glen fade behind me. The caterpillar and sentient tree were right about one thing; I was no longer the same. Somehow I knew that the Tree of Wisdom was not telling me to go home. Instead I listened to the rustling of leaves. With every gust of wind, the branches on every tree pointed the way. They were showing me the path— my path. As I flew, I considered the Tree of Wisdom’s answer. While just hearing it gave my whole body goosebumps, there were a few things I still did not understand, but could not ask: "I have never seen a zebra, and I have never met a… what did it say? A Pengilum?" I just smiled and shrugged. “I guess I'll know it once I see it!"

zodq6z

Sacrifice

The Lord’s messenger, the fool, could not have been more wrong. He had arrived in the early morning and brought word of lawlessness at a nearby village, when his lordship and her ladyship had already long retired for the night. Bandits and raiders, he had asserted with utmost confidence. A decision was made post haste, and we had rode at sunrise, the rising sun on our backs, a half day’s trek on horseback ahead of us. It was a seaside port village, integral to the smooth functioning of the realm and thus a detachment of the king’s best fighters was sent, with I to lead them. They did not fight like bandits, that much were certain. Their strikes; swift and precise, not the graceless flailing you’d expect from raiders, seeking merely to intimidate the weak into submission. Their ambush was meticulous, sole entry to the seaside hamlet blocked with a wagon ablaze, archers atop rooftops and swordsmen hidden in tall grass embankments either side of us. An elegant pincer from the front and rear even I, wounded shambles that I was, could appreciate. They’d caught us in a web, right where they wanted us, and were now readying for the final pounce. But what had confirmed my suspicions more than anything else, was their armour. The finest steel, elegantly shaped and expertly crafted. But more importantly, adorning the bordeaux trim and emblazoned white raven of house Branhaven. We had barely escaped on foot, our mounts either slaughtered or fled out of hysteria. Our relief however, was short-lived. The orchestra of thundering hooves behind us was creeping closer by the minute. It became clear to me I was slowing us down, clutching at the crimson soaked tourniquet adorning my lower thigh. The short sword had done a number on me, hooking between my leg plating and tearing through flesh with relative ease. I tried to ignore the steady trickling down my leg, but I could feel myself growing weary. Our steady pace routinely delayed by my pained, awkward limping. “Leave me” I grimaced. “I’ll hold them off, buy you some time.” A chorus of opposition followed, led with the authority of Ser Godwyn’s booming voice “We will not!” he roared fiercely. I stopped, unsheathing my sword with a mighty *shing* quelling all discourse and putting a hush to the party. Despondent silence befell them, of which only 4 others remained since the preceding bloodbath. “We are outnumbered. And in this state I will not make it. The kingdom of Annora will not lose four more of its finest knights.” I struggled to maintain my footing, searing pain surging up my leg like a bolt of lightning. “We’ve already lost enough for one day. There will be no further dispute. Go, that is an order. Send word to Lord Annorwyn to call the banners. Tell him treachery is forthcoming, and it bears the sigil of a white raven.” Looks of solemn acceptance writ large across their faces, they knew further protest would only draw more ire. I was a stubborn bastard and none knew that more so than the men of the Kingsworn. They hated that I was right and with great hesitance they hurried on. There was no time for heartfelt goodbyes, not with the threat of mutiny among the ruling alliance an ever present danger. I allowed myself a breather, the moment threatened to consume me. I shrouded behind a nearby pine at the edge of the forest, one of a number which peppered the great road north to Annora. My greatsword was heavy in my tiring arms, I readied it regardless. The sound of hooves pounding dirt just seconds away. I glimpsed a half dozen riders rounding the corner 100 metres back. 5 seconds pass. It takes all my strength to lift my greatsword, muscles burning with the fatigue of battle. A far cry from the usual effortlessness with which I carried it. I step out from behind the pine, spot the lead rider closing in and swing the heaving blade in a low horizontal arcing motion, cutting down his horse. It crumples in a bloody heap. The rider landing awkwardly on his leg with a splintering crunch. A further two mares become tangled in the carnage and hit the deck, their riders along with them. In the ensuing chaos, I lose the hefty blade, favouring my dagger and manage a plunging stab between the armour of a fourth rider, severing his femoral artery as he panicked for his weapon. I turn to continue my rampage on one of the fallen riders when I suddenly feel steel pierce my shoulder. I collapse forward into the dirt, gasping as the wind is plunged from my body. I feel the warmth of blood pooling beneath me. The milky twilight glow sifting through the canopy above coming into view as I’m kicked over onto my back. As I laid there, my thoughts and memories, all my life came flurrying at me all at once. Merging into one grand evocation. So fast it was hard to isolate any one thing for more than a second. However, one recurring thought persisted, strange as it sounds. That messenger. I hadn’t recognised him at all. I’d been Commander of the Kingsworn for all of Lord Annorwyn’s rule and not once seen him in a position of any notable renown, lest a royal messenger. Yet there he stood, with word from the local lord, the seal unbroken, bearing the official insignia, it all seemed according to due process. The certainty in the words on that page irked me nonetheless. The more I thought about it the more it reeked of a ruse. All of a sudden everything that had preoccupied my mind while the life slowly leaked out of me faded out of view and I found myself back in the present moment. Staring up at the night sky of Annora, dusted with a few thousand sparkling stars. It was beautiful. One in particular, so large and bright compared to the others it seemed illusory. It was then that my eyes adjusted and it occurred to me that this was not some abnormality of the night sky, but the glint of a blade ready to come down and end me there and then. I had made peace with death a long time ago. That didn’t stop me from whispering an old Annorian prayer. I had no loved ones nor many friends to think of in these final moments. The Kingsworn were my true family. Soon the blade looming over me was falling and time slowed. It seemed to take hours upon hours for it to fall inch by inch. All the noise in the world filtered out and all that remained, was this blade. My imminent exit from the world of the living. I thought of my men and hoped they would escape and prayed they had arrived at the same conclusion as I. This was all planned, all of it. From the message designed to lure us out and leave the capitol vulnerable to the ambush at the village. All an elaborate ploy, and the worst part, it had worked far too easily. House Branhaven was making a move for the throne and played us like damn fools. A whooshing sound followed by the *shluck* of ripping flesh interrupted my thoughts and when I gazed upward, an arrow had punctured the throat of my assailant. He clutched at the mess that spewed from his gaping wound and fell to his knees, his other arm letting go of the axe which sunk into the dirt a hairs length from my cheek. I mustered up all my remaining strength, contorting my body in an effort to see who had come to my aid. It was hard to make out, my vision was fading fast and the black vignette was closing in, but there was no mistaking it. I knew those royal blue cloaks better than anything, they belonged to my brothers in the Kingsworn.

f0szct

THE RIGHT PATH

The music was suddenly surrounding me as I walked the store aisles. Then I stopped dead in my tracks. The wrong Bing Crosby song came on. "It's the most wonderful time of the year." HELL NO! This has to go away and never come back. How can I keep the midnight mangle out of my life. I hear him now screeching and swearing in my head, all around me as I attempt to get out of the store. Get me out of here! I slammed into a shopping cart by accident and the old woman steering it brought back a seething memory. As I rushed down the aisle, she told me to 'watch for the red light'. WHAT? My mind in a split second went on overdrive. It's a grocery store DAMMIT! Not some haunted house like in the Freddy Krueger movie, NIGHTMARE on ELM STREET. Am I one of those teenagers that almost gets the axe? I feel it now, the angst, the pain, the trauma, like it was yesterday. Breathing in panic, I drop the few items I came in for, shoved the hood of my sweatshirt on, and fled out the door to find my car. Where the hell did I park? I pace the lot in such a frenzy looking for my piece of junk aka the SATURN. A car screeched as I crisscrossed over and over almost getting slammed by this SUV. He blasted a message with the horn to literally wake me up and I put my hands over my head as if I was being arrested. The guy immediately put it in park, got out and strode over to me. I sank down and panic mode set in when he approached with outstretched hands. "Hey, Buddy, you okay?" I mumbled and spoke in a quiet tone then nodded. He didn't quite get it. "You're not on anything, right?" I glanced up and with a sad half smile said, "NO." Soon, others started to gather around and my fear turned to fright as the cluster encircled the two of us. "I can't do this! Please tell them to stop!" The guy turned towards the crowd, "Please, let me handle this." He smiled and with hands up, wished them a good day and waved them away. I let him lead me to the other side of his SUV. He asked me to please get inside to just move out of the way and avoid the ongoing view of onlookers. I was agreeable to this, even though I had no idea who he was and what was happening. Then he drove to a spot on the far side of the parking lot, stopped and shut the car off. He spoke first seeing my withering frame slump in the seat. "Okay, you're good." The guy put a friendly hand to my shoulder. "My name is Ben. Ben Simon. I hope you're comfortable here with me. I'm just someone looking out for you, not the enemy. Take a minute." I couldn't escape the flashback that immediately found me in this car sitting next to someone but not the someone I feared. It was a moment in time when push came to shove. That's what made me sink back to memory lane. I looked to this kind face but a horror befell me when I saw past him to a person I no longer wanted to EVER see again in my life. It was my father and he was lurking in an imaged moment. Christmas time became a horror show as the shouting and swearing I heard was not in the now but years ago when I was just a kid. We moved to a little town where the house we rented was small and smelled funny. That's what I recall. It wasn't until a year ago that I found out someone had died in that house and wasn't found for awhile. My mother and father scrubbed the place from top to bottom. It was not ideal since my father kept blaming all of us for the reason he had to take a crummy job and live 'in this swill hole' as I remember he said more than once. But, it became a time in my life when entering a new school became a great place where I made some good friends. As the end of the year came, the Christmas season was everybody's favorite time. The teachers made this a fun and reflective time for us all. It was the only place I would feel any joy. Home was not the place Christmas ever a happy time of year. My mother would decorate with the few scraps of colored paper, ribbon and ornaments saved from childhood. When my father would come home from work. Christmas songs from the radio would cause him to get so mad. "This is not making me happy so why is it on?" He would shout to my mother and then it always ended with him belittling her for wasting time and paper. "Stop this nonsense. We don't have enough for your petty little projects." Dinner was in silence after he had his say. Then he'd head off to mope in a corner with a bottle of whiskey. My brother and I could only get up and give our mother a quiet hug. She was sad and we knew it. Our life was not a happy time in the house. This became the tradition every year. For most families it seemed there was an overflow of decorations, fun family times, holiday treats and so many presents. Afterwards we'd be back at school and my brother and I could only lie our way through this time of year. We made up so many stories it was almost believable to us. Some years it became a game between us as we just kept adding more to the plate. Our friends were in awe of our ride with Santa on his sleigh that it felt like we really went on this adventure. Then high school came and the two of us fell out of the club. We started hanging with ones that wore the same shoes. We had to keep going to school and barely got by. Our mother was now living with her sister in another state. There was no contact. Our father pretty much boarded up the house and lived as a recluse. We stayed away as much as we could and only came home to sleep and pick through whatever food there was left over. It was my turn. "I'll stop by the store and get a few things. Ok? You keep the house settled whatever that means with you-know-who." It was terrible to have to take turns keeping an eye on our father as he was now let go from his job. Too much alcohol put his employment on hold for who knew how long. We had to make do with food bank donations. Our mother left us just the smallest bank account to pay for necessities. It was not much at all. I had gone to the store when the Christmas vibe turned me upside down. After attempting to get out and away and nearly getting hit, some guy was the kinder soul and helped me. Here I now sit with him in his truck trying to figure out the way back to a life I had hoped would be real. "I'm sorry about all of this," I said offering to be a nicer person. "My name is Jake Bradford. My brother and I don't have a good home life in case you were reading into my stupid actions." I put my face down shook my head. "This time of year is not a good time for us." I glanced over to this guy and he nodded. I hope he understood. "I am not that person you saw today. There is a good future in my cards and I have to know who's hand I'm being dealt." I put my best face toward him and stated," My father is not who I am or ever want to be." I nodded sincerely with determination. "Well, I sense there's more to you, Jake, than the obvious first impression." He smiled and I got a feeling he was here to tell me more. Was this a moment for me being in the right time at the right place? Our talk turned into a question and answer quiz. I was not lying to him about some shady moments but I knew there was a turn up ahead in my life. I told him graduation would happen this year with my C average grades. There was no future plans other than a job in the trades but I was determined to be the better person in our family. I hoped, but knew that my brother would follow suit next year. Ben Simon said the one and only thing that brought closure to the day and one that would define this moment forever for Jake. "I am Sgt. Ben Simon and an Army Recruiter. It would be my honor to have you come by the office for further information and fill out a questionnaire for your interest and career field. Merry Christmas! How's that?" My chin dropped, mouth opened to say something but I only heard myself say, "Absolutely. I'm in!"

rjcgmp

I didn’t get the job!

He remembered his job interview last week, it had been the big hope, if he got this job it would solve so many problems. He had spent days working on his resume, it gelled together almost word for word with the position description. Education requirements were a problem but they were optional for the position. He had tons of experience relevant to the position from his army days. He wasn't good with words, he looked smart in his discharge suit and cropped haircut, perhaps looking a little too military. He sat nervously but bolt upright. The first question. "Why do you want to work with us." He fumbled an answer but he wasn't prepared to answer that question. He answered the practised rote answer, stating how much he could bring to the company but the interviewer stopped him half way through. "Sorry to interrupt, I asked you why you want to work at our company not what you can give us?" He fumbled again and they moved on. After a few more questions he became more and more flustered, he became a little aggressive. The other interviewer asked about his criminal record. He could take no more, he stood up, turned over the coffee table and stormed out the door. Civilian life was difficult, he felt like he was building a house on the beach whilst a storm blew. He would build so much and then a big wave toppled it down. He wasn't good at first impression, he always sold himself short. He left and went home, as he entered the flat, Alena smiled. "How did the interview go?" He went into the bedroom and slammed the door, she knew not to disturb him when he was in a mood. He took off his suit and put on his training gear. He had been offered a street fight for money, this was what he knew, this would help get them through. As he left, Alena called out. "Where are you going?" He did not reply. A few hours later, after darkness had fell he stood on a street corner, a man approached. "Are you Smudge?" "Yes!" He replied sharply. "Follow me, then." He led him three streets down and into an alley where men of all ages stood waiting, in the middle was a younger man, about three year younger. He loosened his neck muscles. The man who lead him there said. "It's your last chance to walk away. You ok, you want to continue." Smudge made no eye contact but grunted in approval. "If you win, you get five hundred, if you lose you owe us five hundred. You understand?" Again Smudge just grunted, not knowing where he'd get the money. He looked down the alleyway, it was between deserted warehouses, moonlight streaming through the alley. The man continued talking. "Your opponent is Brutus, he is unbeaten in ten matches." Smudge remained stoic, he walked down the alley towards the group as he heard a vehicle pass behind him on Main Street. They looked at each other, sizing each other up. Brutus had a drawn thin face, one that had saw a hard life from a young age. He was sallow skinned and head shaved, deep set, dark brown eyes with heavy dark eyebrows. His nose was crooked having been broken several times. He was thin but pedigree thin, no fat, all muscle. Brutus flexed his arms over his head whilst Smudge stretched his calves on a low wall. It all seemed slow motion, money exchanging hands between the crowd, until in a burst of motion and energy they were fighting. Smudge kicked his leg catching the side ribs of Brutus who swung a right hook catching Smudge in the neck. Brutus then caught Smudge in a strangle hold with his left arm whilst Smudge tried unsuccessfully to kidney punch him. Brutus held onto Smudge, they continued to trade blows. Smudge now giving successive blows to the midriff whilst Brutus punched Smudge's ribs four or five times. Smudge momentarily got free from Brutus' grip and landed a punch square on his jaw. But he quickly recovered getting Smudge under his arm and began repeatedly punching his back. Smudge snapped out of the hold once more as Brutus tried to right kick him in the stomach which was blocked. They now traded kick for kick all blocking as Smudge kept his distance to prevent Brutus trying to grab him again. Unsuccessfully as Brutus again gained a neck hold. Smudge slammed him against a wall, Brutus felt the air push from his lungs at the impact of his back against the brick. The recoil pushed both men rolling out of the alley and onto the main street as they rolled together in a cartwheel narrowly missing a vehicle driving past on the road. They separated and stood again squarely to each other. Smudge swung a right punch which Brutus blocked with his left grabbing Smudge's wrist with his right. He tried to turn Smudge around into an arm lock but Smudge broke free turning three sixty, swinging with his left hook but this time meeting him squarely on the jaw. This was a true connection, blood and saliva spurted. Brutus regained his position and tried to jab him but Smudge ducked causing Brutus to fall over Smudge's back. Smudge took this opportunity following the motion through, flipping him on his back, pinning him with his body weight and momentum. He repeatedly punched him in the face till all that was visible was blood pouring from all of Brutus' facial orifices. Smudge was pulled from him by the man who brought him or he would have killed him. His fury ebbed and he realised he had won and looked at the pummelled face of his opponent as he lay unconscious. He was handed his winnings, it would help but not enough. He looked at his fists scrapped and bloodied, he held his side and knew it would bruise and be sore for the next few weeks, he realised his stupidity, cursing himself under his breath. He spoke. "Don't contact me again, I am now retired." He walked home slowly. The rain began and as he climbed the stair to the flat, Alena opened the door crossed armed, furious, ready to lambast him till she saw him. She helped him in and began to tend his wounds. "Smudge, what have you done?" He put the money on the table. "It'll keep us afloat a little while longer, I didn't get the job."

vky5fd

Christmas Blessings

The Christmas lights could be seen all along Lewis and Clark Street. Fresh snow coated the ground. Twas the night before Christmas and everyone was inside their house. Everyone except Mrs. Whitman who scattered the fresh snow as she ambled down the street with her head down. She didn’t look at the Christmas lights. She didn’t marvel at the fresh snow. And she wasn’t in any hurry to be all snug in her bed. She held a package under her arm but it wasn’t a Christmas present, for Mrs. Whitman did not have anyone to give Christmas presents to. It was information and Mrs. Whitman was a vital source of information for those who knew her well. She set the package down carefully once she got to her gate. Mrs. Whitman’s house was no different from any other but not by any effort on her part. The neighborhood kids had gotten up the courage one day to ring her doorbell and ask if they could put up Christmas lights. She waved them off but they took that to be permission. She didn’t bother shooing them away. They made a good cover. She couldn’t remember the last time she had Christmas lights up. As she pulled keys out of her coat, a figure stepped from the shadows of a nearby tree and made to grab her package and run. Now Mrs. Whitman was nowhere near her prime but the muscle memory never really goes away and her mind was still sharp enough to respond. She kicked out her leg and tripped the assailant, at the same time using his own momentum to push him off the sidewalk. The crack of his skull on the road was the only sound in the still night. Mrs. Whitman appraised the body then, satisfied, walked over to retrieve her package. On the way to bend down, her foot slipped on the edge of the sidewalk and she fell onto her back, her head only slightly more cushioned by the fresh snow and grass. It still knocked her out cold. When Mrs. Whitman came to, she was still on the street, well half on the street and half on the sidewalk. A voice was soothing her but she wasn’t panicking. She was laying motionless. She tried to look up at the person but her neck wouldn’t move. “I’m going to give this to you before we move you.” She heard that and felt a poke in her arm before she drifted off again. She was pretty sure a kid just shot her up. She woke up inside of a house this time with sheets underneath her and the ability to use her neck. She sat up as if in danger. No one else was in the room. She was on a plush couch. There was a fireplace going.There was nothing personal on the mantle or the end tables. This could be anyone’s house. “Hello,” She called out? “Hello”, a voice answered behind her. “Please don’t overexert yourself. Physically you are healed but your brain still needs time to process.” That made sense. A man came around into her view and sat on the opposite sofa. He smiled and handed her a bowl of soup. She sniffed it and wrinkled her nose. “Apologies, you weren’t in a state to tell me your favorite kind of soup.” “Well let me enlighten you. No one’s favorite soup is pea.” He chuckled and for some reason that was jarring to her. The kid from the street lurked in the doorway from where the man came from but as soon as she caught his eye in the reflection of a mirror on the wall, he scurried away. “Where am I? Why can’t I remember anything?” “Like I said, the brain needs time to process.” “My brain got so scrambled I can’t even remember who I am?” The man looked unsettled at that. “You don’t remember anything?” The woman shook her head. “I remember your son-” “He’s not my son,” he said abruptly. She eyed him but continued. “I remember waking up on the ground, getting a shot and then passing out again. That’s it.” “But you remembered not liking pea soup.” It sounded like he was trying to prove her wrong. She rolled her eyes. “ No one likes pea soup.” The man huffed at her and sat back seeming perplexed. “Most unfortunate,” he mumbled to himself then stood and began pacing, realized he was pacing and left the room. The woman took that as her que to get up and walk around the room. She was unsteady but she felt like she had been unsteady before the accident. Maybe she had a cane. She looked for exits and found only one other door besides the hall the man came from. It opened and she stepped through into the darkness. Feeling for a light switch, she felt a prickle along her spine. She flicked the lights on and saw another kind of den area with couches and a big tree in the center. The tree was decorated with lights and presents lay beneath. “You’re not supposed to be in here.” It was the kid. She supposed he wasn’t that much of a kid, probably 15, but he had that awkward stance like he didn’t quite know what to do with his body yet. “Just looking for the bathroom, dear.” “It’s back this way.” He held open the door for her. “What’s with the tree if you don’t mind me asking?” He cocked his head and furrowed his brow. “It’s Christmas Eve. Everyone knows that.” She forced a smile. “Bonked me head remember?” She made a gesture like she was smacking her head even though she wasn’t sure she even knew about Christmas and lighted trees before. “Right.” His smile was just as stiff as hers. They walked back through the room and down the hallway. All the doors were open and the woman peered into each room. Two bedrooms and an office. The hallway split at the end and the kid pointed to the left and another open door. “Bathroom.” Then he pointed left. “The kitchen is that way. Come meet us when you’re done.” The woman didn’t like being told what to do but she didn’t really have a choice. The kitchen was warm and smelled like cookies. Both man and boy sat at a table in the dining room with glasses of hot chocolate and a plate of cookies between them. Another mug sat beside the boy. “Come sit with us. We were just about to pray.” The woman sat down and sipped her hot cocoa. It was good. The boy gestured to the cookies and dunked his own into the hot chocolate. She followed and was overwhelmed with sweetness. She thought she would melt. The man looked between the two of us. “I’m Cal. That’s Henry and you’re Mrs. Whitman. I’m not quite sure what your first name is but you’ve lived down the lane from us since I can remember. You keep to yourself and don’t talk to anyone, especially this time of year. I know you do something with the partisans but I don’t belong to either side and I’m no snitch.” Mrs. Whitman mulled over the information as she ate his cookie. One phrase kept snagging her attention and she decided to ask about it first. “What did you mean ‘especially this time of year’?” Cal smiled at her then like he was trying not to laugh. “You’re not a very festive lady and from what I can tell you’ve never celebrated a holiday. No one visits you at normal hours. This is the first year I’ve seen lights on your roof in my entire life. You’re, to be blunt, a bit of a grouch.” She frowned and glanced out the window at the lights on the house across the street. They were quite bright but in a cute way. They made her feel warm inside like the hot cocoa. “What’s the tree about then?” Henry answered this time. “It’s a Christmas tradition, ma’am. You put presents under the tree for those you love and if you’re good all year then Saint Nicholas comes down your chimney and brings you presents.” “That sounds lovely,” Mrs. Whitman said. Henry smiled a real smile at her. “Would you like to join us for Christmas, Mrs. Whitman?” She still could not remember a thing about what she was doing before she got knocked out. It felt important but she supposed it could wait another day. “If it is like you say, Cal, then I don’t have anywhere else to be tonight. I’d love to spend Christmas with you two.” And so it went. Mrs. Whitman ate cookies and drank hot chocolate with Cal and Henry. They listened to Cal read the Night Before Christmas with all the voices and all the actions acted out. Mrs. Whitman was charmed by the pair of them. They acted like a father and son. Cal offered Mrs. Whitman his bed but she insisted on sleeping on the couch. In the morning, Henry shook her awake. For a 15 year old, he still had all the boyish wonder of a child. Mrs. Whitman couldn’t help but be infected by his excitement. They went into the room with the Christmas tree and Henry gasped. There were double the presents under the tree now. He looked at her with a grin. “I was extra good this year.” Cal came into the room and Henry handed him a present. “That’s from me.” Mrs. Whitman sat on the couch and watched them open up all their presents. Henry seemed to get everything he had asked for and even Cal smiled at every gift he opened. Wrapping paper was everywhere within five minutes. Mrs. Whitman was about to get up and start gathering it when Henry pulled a plain looking package out from under the tree. “Saint Nick sure works fast. This one’s for you.” Mrs. Whitman stared at the box. It was familiar to her. And important, she felt. As she unwrapped it, her memories came back to her in flashes. She remembered her cause and inside the box lay a contraption on top of the map she had carefully placed herself. She picked up the note attached and read it: I’ve been trying to reach you for some time but you’ve never been near a tree at Christmas. I admire your actions Mrs. Whitman and they have swayed me to your cause. Take this Omni Tool and use it well. I will be keeping a special eye on you from now on. Your Friend, Saint Nick Mrs. Whitman smiled and closed the box. She’d have to remember to get a tree next year.

ws4myt

Whispers of Emerald

In the whispering heart of Emerald Valley, shrouded in the emerald embrace of ancient sequoia, nestled the quaint bookstore, "Whispers of Time." Its facade, weathered by whispers of a thousand autumns, bore a faded inscription: "Where stories find whispers, and whispers find you." Inside, the air held the musty scent of aged paper, sunlight filtering through stained glass windows, painting the floor in kaleidoscopic hues. Here, amidst towering shelves groaning with the weight of tales untold, resided Eleanor, the bookstore's enigmatic owner. Eleanor was a puzzle wrapped in an enigma, her emerald eyes holding the secrets of forgotten lore. Her silver hair, streaked with moonlight, seemed to shimmer with untold stories. She dispensed not just books but keys to hidden worlds, her voice a warm caress that lured you into the labyrinthine alleys of forgotten narratives. One crisp December morning, a young man named Jack, adrift in the aimless sea of post-graduation ennui, stumbled upon Whispers of Time. Drawn by the siren song of the inscription, he found himself standing before Eleanor, who smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Welcome, seeker," she purred, her voice like velvet stroking his soul. "What story are you searching for today?" Initially hesitant, Jack confessed his yearning for an adventure, a tale that would ignite the spark of purpose within him. Eleanor, eyes twinkling, led him to a dusty corner, cobwebs hanging like spectral drapes. She unveiled a leather-bound volume, its title embossed in gold: "The Alchemist's Gambit." "This," she whispered, her voice barely above a sigh, "is more than just a book. It's a map, a whisper from the past, offering a chance to rewrite your story." As Jack devoured its pages, the book pulsated with an otherworldly energy. It spoke of a hidden valley, nestled within the forgotten folds of the Emerald Valley, where alchemy wasn't just a science but a dance with the very fabric of reality. It spoke of a hidden village, untouched by time, guarded by a cryptic riddle woven into the tapestry of the stars. Consumed by the fire of the narrative, Jack, with trembling hands, traced the constellations etched within the book, his heart pounding like a hummingbird trapped in his chest. Armed with the cryptic poem and a map drawn with stardust, he embarked on a quest, Eleanor's enigmatic smile his only compass. The journey was arduous. He trekked through whispering forests, his path riddled with treacherous climbs and perilous descents. The stars, his only guide, winked at him from a velvet sky, their celestial whispers leading him deeper into the labyrinthine heart of the valley. Days bled into nights, his resolve teetering on the edge of exhaustion. Then, just as despair threatened to engulf him, he stumbled upon it: a hidden valley, bathed in an ethereal glow, nestled between emerald-clad mountains. Its beauty stole his breath away, waterfalls cascading like liquid diamonds, meadows carpeted with wildflowers that shimmered like scattered amethysts. In the heart of this paradise, nestled amidst moss-covered cottages, lay the village frozen in time. The ageless and serene villagers greeted him with smiles that held the wisdom of centuries. And at the village center, amidst a ring of whispering stones, stood the alchemist, his eyes sparkling with a thousand moons. Under the alchemist's tutelage, Jack learned the valley's secrets, the dance of elements, and the whispers of the stars. He discovered that the true alchemy wasn't in transmuting lead to gold but in transmuting one's fears into courage and doubts into conviction. But as weeks turned into months, a nagging question sprouted in Jack's mind. Why was he chosen? Why was he entrusted with this knowledge, with this power? The answer, when it came, shattered his world. He learned Eleanor wasn't just the enigmatic bookseller but the guardian of the valley, the keeper of its secrets. And the book, the "Alchemist's Gambit," wasn't a map but a test, a whisper designed to lure and refine worthy souls. Jack, through his struggles and triumphs, had passed the test. But there was another truth, a whisper Eleanor hadn't shared. Jack wasn't just another seeker. He was the descendant of the valley's founders, his blood resonating with its magic. His arrival wasn't a coincidence but the culmination of generations, the valley reclaiming its lost son. The revelation hit him like a rogue wave, his past, present, and future swirling into a dizzying vortex. He learned that the true purpose of the valley wasn't just to hide but to preserve and safeguard the knowledge of a world on the brink of forgetting. Now imbued with the valley's magic and burdened by its legacy, Jack faced a monumental choice. He could stay, embrace his lineage, and become the valley's next guardian, safeguarding its secrets from a world that might not be ready for its wonders. Or he could return, armed with the knowledge and power he'd gained, and try to bridge the gap between the hidden and the ordinary, sharing the whispers of magic with a world thirsting for meaning. The decision tore at him. With its emerald embrace and whispers of ancient wisdom, the valley was a siren song, a tempting haven. But the outside world echoed in his heart with its cacophony of confusion and yearning. Seeing the turmoil within him, Eleanor spoke, her voice laced with the soft sigh of the wind through ancient pines. "The choice, dear Jack," she said, "is not about where you belong but what story you write. The valley is your sanctuary, your anchor, but the world needs your whispers, too. Go, if you must, share the stardust you've gathered, the lessons you've learned. But remember, the valley will always be your home, a haven for your weary soul." With a heavy heart, Jack bid farewell to the ageless villagers, the alchemist's twinkling eyes etched in his memory. He emerged from the hidden valley, the first rays of dawn painting the world in hues of hope. The outside world seemed different now, the mundane thrumming with an unseen magic. He saw the whispers of the stars reflected in city lights, the echo of the waterfall's rhythm in the rush of traffic. He started small, planting gardens on concrete terraces, whispering tales of alchemy to wide-eyed children in libraries. He taught origami birds to take flight from sterile office windows, their paper wings whispering of hidden valleys and forgotten spells. Slowly, subtly, he began to weave the valley's magic into the fabric of the everyday. One day, while speaking at a local university, he met Amelia, a brilliant astrophysicist whose eyes held the same yearning for something beyond the known. Together, they embarked on a quest, not for hidden valleys but for the whispers of magic hidden within the tapestry of the cosmos. They delved into ancient texts, hunted for celestial anomalies, and deciphered the forgotten language of the stars. Their journey led them to remote corners of the world, scaling snow-capped mountains to listen to the whispers of glaciers and diving into turquoise oceans to hear the heartbeat of coral reefs. With each discovery, they unraveled the interconnectedness of all things, the delicate dance of energy that binds planets and people, stars and stories. Years passed, their quest morphing into a shared mission. They built a research institute, a haven for like-minded souls, a place where science and magic intertwined, where whispers from the past guided the search for a sustainable future. Jack and Amelia, their love story woven into the tapestry of their shared purpose, became symbols of hope, proving that the whispers of magic, once shared, could bloom into a brighter reality. But the journey was not without its thorns. Those who feared the unknown, who sought to control rather than understand, opposed them. Jack and Amelia faced ridicule, skepticism, and even threats. Yet, they persevered, their resolve fueled by the whispers of the valley, the echo of Eleanor's smile, and the unwavering belief in the transformative power of shared stories. One night, under a sky ablaze with a million stars, Jack sat by a crackling fire, Amelia nestled in his arms. He traced the constellations etched on his wrist, the valley's map forever imprinted on his skin. He knew then that the true story wasn't about hidden valleys or forgotten magic but about the courage to share it, to rewrite the narrative of a world teetering on the brink. As the fire crackled, embers danced like fireflies, carrying whispers of hope on the wind. And somewhere, within the emerald embrace of the hidden valley, Eleanor smiled, her eyes like pools of stardust, reflecting the light of a thousand stories yet to be told. The last embers died down, leaving behind a canvas of ash and whispers. But the story, like the constellations forever etched in the night sky, held the promise of a brighter dawn, a world where the magic of the hidden and the wonder of the everyday danced in perfect harmony, all thanks to the whispers shared by a seeker named Jack.

4iayfs

White As Snow

Mario marched to his room and stood in the doorway. Sandy followed. The ladies tiptoed down the hallway to eavesdrop. He said, “Sandy, how many closets are in this room? Now, look at the placement of the closets. Where are they?” Sandy looked intently at the wall. “Three. One is at a forty-five degree angle on the left. The next two are parallel to each other on a flat wall.” Mario pointed. “On the right side, the wall again changes to another forty-five degree angle.” “I’m getting a headache.” Sandra complained and caressed her long red hair. “What am I looking for?” “A fourth closet. Watch.” He pointed to the first closet. “One.” Then the next. “Two.” Then the last one. “Three.” He pointed to a wooden panel on the other angled wall. “Four. Behind that panel, I believe there is a hidden closet or room. Knock on it. There should be a hidden switch.” “This is it? This will prove your integrity? I am not touching anything. Ladies. Come in here.” The four guards appeared.  “Search this room for a mechanism to open a secret room behind that wood panel.”  “Yes, Ms. Drake.” They replied. Bianca knocked on the panel three times. A distant echo could be heard in the room. Sandy walked over to the panel and put her ear to the questionable wall. “Ladies, find that switch.” Within five minutes, Lucy found it in a small bookcase. She knocked over a small figurine of a female angel. The wooden panel disappeared into the wall. An automatic light glowed from the secret room into the bedroom. “Penelope and Stefanie, check it out.” Sandy ordered. They obeyed and entered.   Stefanie returned a few minutes later. “Boss, you are not going to believe this.” “What is it?” “There is a computer monitor and several servers, which have been monitoring and reporting this entire location’s activity to an outside source.” “Who?” Penelope returned with a flash drive in her hand. “I cleaned out the hard drives and loaded everything on this. I put the programs in a loop before I shut down the entire program. It was all sent to one IP address.” She handed the flash drive to Sandy and whispered the address. Sandy’s eyes bulged but she did not verbally react. “Great job, Penny. All of you, job well done. Please wait in the kitchen, I need to speak to Mario, alone.”   They exited the room but left the door open. Mario sat on his bed and saw Sandy’s emotional struggle.  “Who put that equipment there?” “Not your concern, Mario. Thank you for your honesty. I apologize for not trusting you.” She walked toward the door. “I just don’t get it. I know you have feelings for me, but you resist all my advances when we are together. Yet, when I leave you alone with four females, you can’t keep your hands off them. You gave them all massages. You realize you are my prisoner and with a single call, the goons would snatch you up and torture you. The one person who can save you, you scorn.” She looked out the window. “Sandy, I am in your hands and you can do whatever you want to me. Your crew did nothing wrong. Don’t punish them. They respect and admire you. They couldn’t stop talking about what a great boss you are. How you gave them a second chance and helped them start a new life. You remember their birthdays. Sponsored them through college and provided daycare. Bruno mentioned something about a dental plan.” “He had a cracked tooth and was in agony.” Sandy whispered and then shook her head. “Why do you even care about all that stuff? What’s your angle? What do you want?” Mario stepped closer to her. “I don’t have an angle. I don’t want anything from you. I only want to give you something you never had and always wanted.” Sandy half-turned and mocked him. “What’s that? Trying to save my soul again? I told you I am beyond redemption. What is your big insight?” “I want to be your friend.” The ladies in the silently awed. Sandy stared into his espresso eyes and looked away. “No one wants to be my friend. If you knew half the stuff I’ve done….” “I don’t know any of it, but God does. Your soul can be redeemed. Are you perfect? No, but neither am I. ‘ Though your sins be red as scarlet, they shall be white as’ …” She scoffed. “As snow? Seriously? My soul, whatever. So, I am some type of project? Mario, I kill people all the time.” "Listen, Sandy, you could have killed me, but you didn’t. I don't know if I will live or die in the next few days. I'm ok with it. My soul is right with God. But I'm not alright with you thinking there is no chance for you."             "What chance?” She said. “You make it sound so simple. How do….?"            "Stop hurting people and start saving people. Like you saved me. Like you saved your crew. A new life begins with a single step in the right direction. Choose good over evil. Faith over fear.” “I.. I..Mario, you are sweet, but naive to how the real world works.” She walked over to the secret room. “You can’t remain in this room. Please go to the kitchen and Bianca will take you to another bedroom. Please remain there until the morning.” “No problem. Good night, Sandy.” Mario said and left the room. “Good night.” She closed the bedroom door. She turned her back and leaned against it. She studied the floor. When Sandra looked up, she saw the light streaming from the secret room. Her eyes glowed red. She punched a hole through the solid oak door. ******* The penthouse doors flew off their hinges as Sandy walked into McMasters' apartment. His guards lay dead in a wave of destruction in the hallway. A strange mist floated throughout the flat as she entered. It smelled of lavender and lilacs. She stormed in and spotted David. He lounged in the hot tub on the terrace entertaining several bikini-clad females. She slammed open the sliding glass room. The smoky mist billowed out and covered her appearance. Smooth jazz played from outside speakers. McMasters called to the shadow, “Place the delicacies and champagne on the table, please.” “Good evening, David. Having a good time, I see.” Sandy emerged from the cloud. “Sandra! What a lovely surprise to see you.” He slowly removed his arms from around the bathing beauties. He sat up on the edge of the tub. “This beautiful fiery creature, ladies, is my fiance. Say hello. Really, she doesn’t bite. Too hard.” The saturated women reluctantly waved to her. She did not return the gesture. “Sandra, come join us. It will be fun. The more the merrier.” She remained silent and walked over to the balcony railing. All eyes followed her smooth and deliberate steps. She placed her back to the railing. She pulled her scarlet locks to one side. She folded her strong arms across her chest. Her gray eyes burned red. “I need a word with you privately, my love.” She bit each word with menace. “Your new friends need to go. Now.” The female attendees jumped out of the jacuzzi and bolted into the apartment. They scrambled to find their clothes and shoes. Their muffled whimpers and shrieks of horror could be heard as they exited and found the decimated hallway. He exited the small pool and wrapped a towel around his waist. “Was that necessary, Sandra?” He walked over to the bar and poured himself a glass of white wine. “You scared those poor girls. Jealousy? I thought we were past that.” He sipped the wine. “Jealous of those uglies? Please.” She scoffed. “Don’t act like you care about them. Once you are ‘done’ with them, you feed them to your beasties.” “What’s wrong? You are distraught. Did your little prisoner escape?” He poured a second class and walked over to her. He reached it out to her. She slapped it out of his hands. The glass shattered on the hard tile. The wine spilled and dribbled over the edge of the balcony. “No, he did not escape. David, how could you? I trusted you.” “Is this about those wenches? They mean nothing. It was only going to be a bit of, well truthfully, an immense amount of sensual escapades.” “David! I don’t care about your fantasies. You had me under surveillance. Watching my every move for months.” “My dear, you are delightful to watch. It was just business. Patowski just took it too far and made it personal” “You knew? You knew I had a stalker. He was working for you.” “Of course. He really did capture some stunning and beautiful footage of you in your flat. How you move through the yoga poses, naked, is deliciously breathtaking.” “David, if you wanted a demonstration, you just had to ask. You, however, invaded my privacy, recorded me, and destroyed my trust in you.”  She removed the diamond ring and tried to hand it to him. “I regretfully decline your offer of matrimony.” “Please, keep it. You have earned it. I mean it. You may change your mind.” “I doubt it.” Sandy replied. “This, in no way, affects our business arrangement, does it?” asked McMasters. “No. I am still fully invested in our plan and committed to the victorious outcome.” “Excellent. Great to hear. No hard feelings, Sandra.” He smiled. “I won’t forget this or trust you again.” She slapped him in the face and walked past him. She headed to the exit. “I should have expected that.” David bragged. “I deserved that. All is forgiven, my love. Go have your fun with little Mario before the exchange.”  She snapped and rushed him, but David was ready. An electric blue shield formed and she bounced off it. She flipped in the air acrobatically and landed on her feet. “Sandra, let me tell you about Asian monitor lizards.” “You think that little shield will stop me. I’m going to rip off your face.” She screamed and pounded on the glowing and weakening protection. With each slam of her fists, the blue electric sparks flew off into the night sky.  “These creatures not only have a poison bite, but nearly impregnable scales, perfect vision, mammoth fortitude, and lethal claws.” “Then I’m going to rip off your arms, David.” “However, they have two fatal flaws. One, their hide can be penetrated and weakened through a chemical mist.” “Finally, I will roast you alive and then tear off your pathetic head.” She kept pounding. “Second.” McMasters continued, “They can be hypnotized with a simple trick.” She crushed the shield and it disappeared. She grabbed him around the waist with her left hand and hoisted him above her head. She hissed and licked him with her forked tongue. “Any last words, doctor?” David remained calm. “Your parents are alive. I can take you to them.” “You lie.” She growled and squeezed harder. “It’s true,” He winced, “I have a flash drive in my right hand with their exact location.” He wiggled his hand. “Show me.” “Put me down and I will show you.” “Let’s see the drive.” Sandy said.  He lifted the monochromatic drive between his thumb and middle finger and waved it slowly back and forth. It reflected the light around the balcony. He moved his hand to a soft rhythm pulsating from the speakers. His fingers danced up and down and side to side. Sandy’s rage subsided. She lowered the doctor to the floor. Her eyes struggled to remain open. With a final flourish, David snapped his hand at her face. She fell and landed with an unforgiving thud. David grabbed his side and noticed the blood dripping to the floor. “Oh, Sandra, why does it have to be like this every time.” He stooped down and touched her face.                                                 ******* “Ms. Drake. Ms. Drake.” Penny tried to awaken her employer. Sandy stretched her arms, but kept her eyes closed. She usually did not wear long sleeves to bed. She felt a strange fabric on her legs. “Why am I wearing long itchy pants?” She yawned. “Ms. Drake, you are draped in a circus clown outfit.”   She bolted upright. A fluorescent green wig covered her head. Her eyes sprung open in fear. She yelled, “Is polyester touching my skin?! I am allergic!”   Sandy scrambled to remove the rainbow shirt and matching pants. Penny helped her pull off the pants and threw them across the living room. Sandy panted as she stood by the leather couch. She was still wearing her outfit from the night before. She whipped off the artificial hairpiece. Penny gasped. “What’s the matter? Am I bleeding?” Sandy asked. “It’s…It’s, it’s your hair. It’s been chopped!” The fashion diva slowly lifted her hands toward her head. At shoulder length, a chunk fell on the right, but on the left, only two-inches remained. Her beautiful long fiery mane was gone. She sprinted to the master bathroom. Penny felt the vibrations from the door slamming and then a high-pitched shriek, which shattered some drinking glasses.  With a 9mm pistol in her hand, Bianca ran into the living room. Mario emerged from his new bedroom. Bruno rushed in from the front door.  “What’s going on?” Mario asked, “Is it a fire alarm?” Penny called to Bianca, “Put that thing away. No, it is not an alarm. It was Ms. Drake.” “What’s wrong with Sandy?” Mario asked. Bruno asked Penny, “Did she have another all-nighter with him?” “All-nighter?” “About once a month,” Bianca explained, “Ms. Drake meets us with her fiance.” “McMasters?” The prisoner asked. “That’s right,” Bianca continued, “They go wild in the city and do some of the most ludicrous activities throughout the night.” Penny explained, “When I found her this morning on the couch, I assumed that’s where she went last night.” “One morning, I found her asleep in a NC State Wolf-pack mascot suit.” Bruno said. Bianca claimed, “I found her in a pirate captain outfit with a live parrot.” “ Wonder Woman, Betsy Ross, Margaret Thatcher, and Cleopatra.” Penny replied. “Betsy Ross?” Mario asked. “It was the Fourth of July.” Bianca said. “What was she this time?” Penny whispered. “A… a clown in a wig. In rainbow polyester.” The guards and the prisoner cried out. “No.” “It’s worse,” Penny said, “Her hair is mangled and cut short. It looks like…” “... A chainsaw ripped it off.” Sandy called from her bedroom door.  “Sandy, are you alright.” Mario rushed over but she stopped him.   “I’m fine. Really. Things got a little crazy at the circus. I got a little too close to a chainsaw juggler.” She played with her destroyed locks. “I needed a new look anyway. Bianca, contact Paolo right away. Tell him I have a hair emergency.” “Yes, Ms. Drake.” She left the living room. “Bruno, pick up that polyester and green thing and burn it.” “Yes, Miss.” He gathered the materials. “Penny, stop worrying. Your concern is noted and appreciated, sugar.” “Yes, Ms. Drake.” “Mario, please make me some breakfast? I’m starving.” “My pleasure.” He smiled at her and moved toward the kitchen. He noticed a reflection bounce off her blouse. He stopped.  “Sandy, what’s on your shirt?” “Where?” She looked down, but nothing was out of the ordinary. Mario stood before her and unfastened the first button. “A little frisky, Mr. Tasanari? I like it.” He grinned and then asked her, “Why are you wearing a miniature camera on your second button? “I am?” Mario removed the camera. “It’s the exact same hi-tech spyware Emmy and I used.” “I don’t remember.” Penny called from the kitchen, “You asked me last night, before you left, to activate it for you. You were going to see Dr. McMasters.” “Are you sure? Why would I need a hidden camera?” Bianca replied, “Ms. Drake, you were angry with him for spying on you.” “David, spying on me? He wouldn’t dare. How? Show me?” Penny called to her, “Follow me, Ms. Drake, to the back bedroom.” Mario explained, “We discovered a secret room.”  Sandy followed her. She turned her phone on. She halted in the hallway and handed it to Penny. “Is this the app for the camera?” “Yes.” Penny opened the app. “I can cast this into the living room.” They rushed back to the living area and sat on the couch. Bianca turned on the flatscreen. The crew nervously waited for the video to start. The television’s vivid display of all the evening’s events at the penthouse shocked the viewers. They saw the bikini bimbos, the broken engagement, the attack, and the hypnotism . The room was silent as David’s cruel comments cut them all to the heart. When the video stopped, Sandy stood up. She plod over to a long window.   She pulled back the black curtains. A clean snow had fallen during the night and blanketed the landscape. The fresh powder reflected the rising daystar and illuminated the dark living room. The dirty city had been buried and cleaned overnight. Her gray eyes glistened at the beautiful moment. She shut them. Lucid tears escaped and raced down her lustrous face. The sunlight radiated upon her whole body.  She whispered, “You shall be made white…as snow.”  After a minute, Sandy turned around and smiled at her companions. She marched over to Mario. She reached down and touched each side of his electronic leg irons. A metallic thud resonated throughout the flat as the bonds struck the hard-wood floors. She extended her hand out to him. He grasped her strong hand. He stood and they embraced. “Ms. Drake, what is going on?” Bruno asked.   She separated from Mario, “I am not sure. But things are going to change.”  She turned back to her former prisoner and smiled.  “How exactly does this ‘friend’ thing work?”

tjwnr2

Shoes that go nowhere

My parents keep a strange archive of shoes in their back porch; Mom saved one shoe from each of our pairs, as a way of tracking me and my sister’s growth. instead of marking a line on the doorframe, she measures time by the increasing distance between our heel and our toes. One summer holiday, my older sister Mickey and I sat on the scorching sidewalk and examined the feet of pedestrians. Mickey had theories about people's character traits and personalities based on the shoes they wore. "Men who wear pointy shoes have a problematic personality" Mickey warned me knowingly, “stay away from them.” “And women?” I delved deeper.  Mickey let out a contemptuous snort: "only if the pointy shoes comes with buckles. Laces are a whole different story." “High heels?” “insecurity” “Colourful laces?” “Depends.” “On what?” I listened intently. “If the shoes are wide, it means that the person is desperate to be liked” Mickey explained, “but if it’s narrow, then it’s just a boring person with aspiration of coolness”. "How do you know all that?" I marveled. Mickey’s eyebrows smiled: ”Years of research” she said, and I looked at her with admiration. "You're so naïve," my older sister patted my bare feet fondly. The distance between my heel and toes grew bigger and bigger, until the day came: my toes were far enough from my heel to get me drafted into the army. The bus spat us into a military base which was surrounded by barbed wire fences. We were thrust into a large stuffy hall, whose narrow-barred windows nearly touched the ceiling. There was a single window which allowed us to see the outside, but it was tightly shut. "That’s yours" The quartermaster threw a bundle of uniform towards me and disappeared behind a big counter. "Sorry" I cleared my throat, "excuse me!" I waved at him: "These shoes are too small for me." The quartermaster granted me a quick impatient glance: "We don’t have any larger sizes. Next!". And the next in line was pushed in my place, and I dissolved into the next queue. We rolled up our sleeves and had vaccines injected into our arms like drones on a conveyor belt. In the next hall there were two officers with their lips tightly shut, their hands on their waists: "Stand still!". Rows of recruits froze in their place with their hands clasped behind their backs, heads up, eyes forward. When we left the hall under constant yells of "move it!", I glimpsed at a reflection in one of the windows; I saw a group of female soldiers obediently shuffling towards the door, all wearing the same shoes so I couldn’t tell an insecure person from an overly confident type, and as hard as I tried, I couldn’t make out which one was me. The day I was released from my service, I booked a flight to India, and purchased heavy trekking shoes. “It might need some getting used to” the salesman said as I dragged my feet across the carpeted floor.  “Must it be so… high up the ankle?” I couldn’t conceal my distress. "You'll thank me," the salesman smiled: "India’s streets are paved with shit." The first thing I did as I got on the plane was take the shoes off. I thought: “what is the point of traveling with my legs trapped in a brace and heavy like an anchor?!” The first sight that greeted me as I landed was that of a mother and daughter. The child, who had her legs amputated, was carried around by her bagger mom. She wore foam finger shoes, and I remembered Mickey claiming that only arrogant people walk around with such things. -Where is Mickey now? I chuckled when I realized that Indians who don't walk barefoot wear exactly the same toe shoes. I entered a temple, trying my best to mingle with the locals, as a little boy stopped me, insisting that I had to leave my ridiculously expensive shoes outside. “Why?” I asked, and the boy pointed at a sign saying: "Please take off your shoes at the entrance to the temple" in several languages. "Okay," I took off my shoes and tied them to my backpack. Again, that boy. He pointed to a row of flip flops awaiting at the exit. "For ten rupees, I'll keep them for you," he said. "Five" I bargained, "but I’m not taking my socks off!" The boy shrugged. I realized how ridiculous I must seem to him. At the temple, I purchased a necklace of orange flowers, and let a little girl stamp a red dot on my forehead. The socks stiffened with a sole-like dirt layer; a combination of mud, petals paste and other things I preferred not to delve into nor study their base ingredients up close. When I left the temple, I found both boy and shoes had vanished. Months later, when my parents and my sister came to greet me at the airport, I couldn't run to them for a hug, because flip flops force slow, moderate walking. Perhaps that is why Indians seem calm; Simply because they have no choice. "What is it?" Mickey was the first to notice. "I lost my shoes," I cut short the story of the loss. "When did that happen?" asked Dad. "Quite at the start," I admitted. "Did you travel in India in flip-flops?" my mother was shocked: "So unhygienic..." After I showered, I put on scented clothes and patted barefoot at home. "What shall I do with that?" Mom waved my flip flops in disgust. "Whatever you want". I assumed the shoe archive would grow by another pair. In the morning, I found my foamed tattered flip flops in the garbage bag and felt a strange tightness in my throat. I went out to the balcony and found shoes of all sizes and colours, from which a magnificent garden of ornamental flowers sprouted and bloomed. When I wasn't around, my mother managed to grow roots into shoes that wouldn’t go anywhere.

3jhz3p

Stranger than Science Fiction

   Mr. Jones could scarcely believe his eyes as his older colleague, a man who shouldn’t have been there, appeared before him in the dimly lit room. It could have been the strong drink in his hand, but he could that the man before him had no scars on his face, no broken bones and no limp in his gait as he strolled into the lounge. The time was half-past seven, and Mr. Jones was just finishing his Irish Coffee. Chris worked at a biogenetic laboratory that conducted animal testing and genetic based testing to discover ways to manipulate and clone DNA to cure viruses and enhance life for all people. While the end product was created for society, all products had to be tested by animals first. It was here that the ever-present threat for cancer had been cured, and also reversed such that people who had experienced the decay of cells from the cancer would end up better off that when the cancer made itself known inside the individual’s body and began to take over. The most cutting-edge technologies were being used for gene splicing and manipulation to create new organisms that would be better that the organisms with the original genes.    Yet here, in front of him, lay an impossibility, for the man who was in front of him, wearing a white lab coat over cotton blue long-sleeve blue jeans and a pair of suede shoes, was dead. In fact, he died a little over a week ago, or so was reported by the boss who had received a transcript from the hospital in regards to Charlie’s condition. Charlie was a fellow scientist who had a keen interest specifically in extending life. Charlie walked over to Chris. Chris was sitting in a comfy armchair, feeling like this was an out-of-body experience and wondering if he was going to end up waking up in his home, seeing this as just a dream. The man smiled at Jones. “It is good to see you, it’s been awhile.”    Mr. Jones looked up at him, and saw his face eager. “It has, I didn’t realize that you came back, I thought you were still in the hospital. I mean to say, I didn’t think you made it after the ordeal.”    “It was awful, and the decision I was faced with was difficult, but it is good to be back. I wanted to offer a proposition, if you are available. But first, I wanted to see the research on your new nootropic drug that you’re testing that contains L-Theanine and helps people with focus. I heard that it reverses the effects of Altheimer’s disease and prevents degenerative heart failure in patients with high blood pressure.”    Mr. Jones thought for a minute, then got up from his chair. “Ok, come with me.” He could feel the shadow of death hanging over him as he was being followed by this strange man who claimed to be Charlie. There was something different about him that distinguished him from Charlie. Maybe it was his gait, or maybe his eagerness to talk about how his research was going in the lab that they had both worked together at for five years now. Whatever it was, something wasn’t quite adding up.    They reached the room, and entered to find it bare but with a cage on the counter with a pair of white mice with glowing red eyes. Mr. Jones switched on the light as he entered and leaned on the counter with an amused look on his face.    “So, I heard that your department is currently in the process of working on a anti-aging drug.”    “Yes.” Chris replied. “We are doing some experiments on a drug we have developed that tweaks neurotransmitters to supposedly reverse the aging process.”    “That interests me very much.”    “So, who are you exactly?”    The man grinned at Chris. “Well, for all intents and purposes I am Charlie.”    “But you can’t be.” Chris retorted. “I mean, Charlie died. And he never had a twin brother,…well, not that he told me about.”    “No, he doesn’t have a twin brother.” He laughed. “But you are right, I am not Charlie.”    “So then, who are you?”    “I am the clone of Charlie. I was named Earl when I was created, but honestly, I would rather go by Charlie. I was created a year ago in the lab here, by Charlie himself, who, as you know, is a bit of a workaholic. He complained constantly about not having enough time to do what he needed to do here, and needed an extra hand. That was to become me. He was forced to hide me away from public view so no one would get suspicious. I was only to come out at night to come to the lab to work. I was given his ID with the bar code to get in. I would work late nights when no one else was here.”    Mr. Jones was dumbfounded. As he looked at the man, he couldn’t see anything that would distinguish him from the original. Even the voice sounded the same. How is that possible with a clone?    “You see, my master was always bent on improvement. He always wanted to be better. He needed a partner who would be his better half. What is the difference between me and another person? I am him, but an improvement. As a clone, I was given his genes but also have a mix of nootropics in my blood stream to enhance focus and solve the most convoluted problems.    “When Charlie wanted to go rock climbing in the alps last month, I told him that I would need money up front to cover living expenses. I was living at the time in an apartment that was owned by one of Charlie’s friends. All that was told to the landlord was that Charlie’s friend lived there. I was to make no noise whatsoever, nor attract any attention. Kind of like being a ghost.”    “I can’t believe my friend never told me about you.” Mr. Jones said, shaking his head.    “What is the difference between me and any other man? Why would you need to know?”    “It’s just…I don’t know.” Mr. Jones scratched his head.    “Well, that was all fine until Charlie fell when he went rock climbing. The fall was severe, from what he told me. The belay snapped and he fell 80 feet to the ground. A beech tree caught his fall but he still sustained heavy damage from the hard ground below. He was rushed to the hospital there by his friend with him, where he was initially pronounced dead, but upon heavier examination was diagnosed with a coma. His adventurous nature led to his downfall, and his competitiveness had now bounds. The body can only take so much pain.    “As you already know, he died in the hospital bed. A part of me died that day, the lesser part. His keys were taken from him by the wards before I could get them, so I had no access to his car and house. Since I have no money of my own and no “real” job, I have to vacate the apartment. I need to start over again, and I need to change my appearance. Before he died, he gave me collagen supplements to make me appear younger, and also dexedrine to improve focus and sleep.    “I want to take this research another step to develop a prescription that reverses aging to make me young again, or when he was young again. I want the youth I never had. I don’t want his life, I want my own.”    “But your life is entwined with his.”    “It was but not anymore.“ The man replied.    Mr. Jones, looking more deeply at him, realized that his eyes were slightly different than his deceased colleague, and knew this was the truth. He never realized that he would use his research to actually set a man free.

cixriv

Laura

Laura liked to do to others, how she herself would like to be treated? Today she had taken her new phone to Phone Plus Store off market square. Smiling she entered the store such friendly nice young men these tec guys. What it was to be talented? The world at your finger tips. "Twenty pounds to set up the new phone. Transfer every thing over from the old phone." "Go ahead." Said Laura, the money they would allow her on the old phone, would cover the cost. Smiling Laura left the shop she would pick up some cans of pop and cakes for the tec guys. Alot would nod their heads, having already paid. Not Laura she liked to please others? Besides it made her feel good about herself. Walking through the market square she ordered the eclair cakes and tins of coca cola. Unfortunately the assistant squeezed the cakes into the cake box. Packing them into a white paper carrier. Laura paid for the cakes. As she left the shop some one knocked her arm. The flimpsy paper carrier broke, the cakes sat in a dirty pool of water in their box. While coca cola poured over Laura's suede shoes. Laura gave a scream. A nice fellow came over to help offering Laura his bag. "Its ok mate." Said an embrassed Laura digging into her coat pocket for a spare plastic carrier. With eyes watching her she confronted the young assistant. In the cake shop. Who offered more cakes and tins of coke cola free of charge. Would she live it down? People staring at her. With dignity he proceed to collect her new phone from Phone Plus Store. The guys were surprised to recieve the cakes and cola's. Still it wa a nice thing to do, and Laura felt better for pleasing others. As she left the store people were talking in small groups , and examing goods dispayed on the market stalls. Maybe people had forgotten her incident with the cakes and cola. Has she edged to the end of the market square, Laura noticed her bus pulling up at the bus stop. Running forward she felt her heel creak. Removing the offending shoe, Laura caught the number 27 bus to her home . "Not your day dearie." Laura blushed, was it a nosey woman from the market square? At least the bus was crowded, Laura did not have to sit next to the nosey woman. Turning The key in the latch, Laura threw he offending suede shoes in the kitchen bin.Time to relax with a cup of tea and read a book. Sitting in her kitchen diner, Laura close her eyes tomorrow another day? Thinking of past events, where she had tried too hard to please others, some times they had took advantage of her kindness. Alan she never pleased enough? A smile came to her lips, better off without him. Now he had remarried Clare with swollen ankles and noisy kids, plodding through market square. Rumour had it Alan had wondering eyes. Well Laura still had her trim figure and a sense of humour if today was anything to go by. A few surprizes along the way perhaps, other wise life would be dull? One had to move forward and adapt to situactions. Rubbing her eyes Laura yawned. The heat of the fire was getting to her or the experiences of today. She dreamed of conquering heros, Lancerlot. Beautiful people white horses, enchanted forests, birds singing, stillness, love calmness and adventure. Valor, gifts perfume, being treated like a princess. Blond locks instead of grey ones. Magic carpet rides to far off places. Nothing bad in her dream. When she woke the fire had gone out. The room looked dark, errie how long had she slept. Had the frustration of the day worn her out would she sleep again later? She felt a lump in her lap, it was squiggy her cat. She was not alone together they would survive all odd together. Even squiggy bringing her the odd gift of a field mouse from he railway track. Picking Squiggy up she mounted the stairs. They would share a bed together. She still had her book to read. About cities and a nures adventures in Florience. Vaguely she remembered her dream but could not put all the pieces together. Maybe that really was for the best. Better than taking a reality check. Suddenly there was light at the bedroom window, had she not forgotten it was New Years Eve? Fire works or some do at the local pub perhaps. Her new phone rang out, it was the new neighbour a retired teacher, ringing to see if Laura was okay. He was worried, as no lights on in the house. Think straight girl? There is life in the old girl yet. Play it cool not too eager, keep him waiting and maybe she would find her prince charming to go walks with. He had to like cats and be adventurious of course. She so, hoped so. After all that had happend to her? Now maybe it was time to enjoy what life had to offer. Was Colin a romantic name, think Colin Firth. Mr Darcy, holding hands walking the hills and dales. Not a greying vegan, she would change Colin to her hero. He would become her next progect. Or would she learn from him? As you got older were looks that important? Surely kindness was more important to care for each other. There she was planning ahead, already he made her feel young again. This seemed good not a dream. Humming she picked up her new phone, to invite him over for lunch. Cheese spreads come to mind. Apple pie home made of course. He would appreciate her efforts. Oh yes, her new phone would bring her luck. Squiggy to of course her black knight in shiny fur. Sweet dreams she would not sleep her head full of ideas. A spring to her step and it was not even Spring.

k6dozk

Remembering Heaven

Remembering Heaven It was 4AM on a Saturday when my daughter Alexandra and I couldn’t wait for Papa to be home. Dad was usually on time for outings like this that we had planned but he was running late to pick us up. He had been at a business meeting in Las Vegas. When he showed up Lexi and I were completely ready to go with bags packed and huge smiles on our faces. We needed to get up that early to beat the traffic of the later morning. We loaded up the truck and I had never seen Lexi so happy. Our trip was planned to go to Seattle to go inside the Space Needle. Lexi got strapped in and I and Papa got buckled too. I reached in my bag for a sports drink when Lexi laughed and said she’s like some too. I smiled and got out a blue one, her favorite. We were so excited to be going to such a monumental site and didn’t have a care in the world. Mimi said Papa was acting very suspicious in that he was keeping some secret from everyone. She wanted to come along with us but she had to work. An hour and 30 mins down the road Papa suddenly pulled into Fellow’s Diner! Lexi always wanted to go there and was told that place had the absolute BEST cinnamon rolls. We entered the restaurant and under the ceiling had a snow globe set up for Christmas time. I was about to say to Lexi, “Hey you know what that looks..” “I know, daddy.” I had been teaching her about the dome called the firmament that God made that reaches all across this flat realm. Some old and sort of grizzled man walked up slowly around our table and said, “Look up at the masterpiece up there.” And he pointed upwards.  I smiled and thought to myself he must have known what we were talking about.” I told Lexi that maybe he knew, and maybe he didn’t. The old man winked at me and VANISHED! Papa didn’t see him vanish and didn’t believe the earth had a dome nor that he had vanished when we both told him. He was too busy reading his menu. We finished eating and both Lexi and I were looking for the old man but we failed to spot him.I like to remember what had happened to me when I was 15 after breaking my arm in wrestling practice so I recited my memory aloud: It was October of 1998. I was brought to the operating room and they told me to count back from 20. I got to 17 and fell asleep after getting ketamine via an IV. I arrived immediately in the dark waters of Gen 1:2 and it was terrible. It was dizzying and I felt sick. I saw a white light above me and I tried to swim to the surface but could not but I didn’t give up. Then a cherubim 😇 came down and carried me into the 💨 wind and to the third heaven. The second half of the experience happened in a vision while I was awake two months later. That’s when I heard the inexpressible things, three angelic word-phrases. Dark waters located in Genesis 1:2, Psalm 18:8-16 and 2nd Corinthians 12 above the firmament. It was odd that Paul writes that he knew a man in Christ who went to the 3rd heaven and then says he needed to humble himself to the fact. I believe I passed through the firmament and past the dark waters of Gen 1:2 and to the third heaven.” Lexi loved my story but she still managed to do her famous eye roll everyone hates to admit that they love so much. Mimi called. “Hey Papa, how’s your guy’s trip going?” She asked. “Everything’s good, I’m stuffed. Matt and Lexi had fun, how’s you get-together with Crystal and the kids?” “All is well. I’m glad you’re having fun. Hunter scored a 100 on his Heliocentric model!” Lexi and I looked at each other mischievously and I winked at her cause we both knew the correct model is the geocentric AE flat earth model. Lexi loved learning about the stars which are under the dome, about the ancient giant trees which used to be on the earth and that stars were really God’s angels. I had regrets about once teaching her “about the spin of the earth” and that Santa Clause was real. I decided to tell her the truth once I had discovered the flat earth and so I also wanted to give her the truth about everything to the best of my knowledge. Papa loved watching Star Trek a lot and I always loved watching it with him and dreamt of space adventures. I still like that show and the movies but now I know it’s nothing but fiction- like Superman or The Wizard of Oz. Lexi still had a long way to go with her studies about the flat earth and the firmament but as she always told me as I always smile with glee: “I believe you Daddy.” None of us of course had a clue what was about to happen. Papa started the truck and pulled out of the establishment parking lot and to our shock, a semi truck going 50mph suddenly slammed into us. The truck rolled off a cliff and into a lake below us. The truck smashed into the lake. Papa was hit by the airbag and opened the window as he unbuckled himself and Lexi and I did the same. Suddenly I felt time go by very slowly and my mouth filled up with water. I managed to get lexi up and out of there. As for papa and I, we accumulated too much water. Then, Papa and I looked transparent and we slipped past the truck and the water in our new forms. It was still slow motion as we saw how sad and humiliated Lexi was to see our lives slip away from her. I looked around in an underwater area which was dark and horrible. I saw Papa there too and he was just as uncomfortable. It was like my experience in the dark waters when I was under surgery! We both tried to swim as best as we could muster to reach the surface of the water where the immense bright light was but we failed to do so. We attempted to reach the surface with all our might when two cherubims came and dove into the dark waters and lifted us up to the safety and wonders of the light. I asked my dad, “Do you remember where I said I went to during surgery?” “Yes, Matt I do. Is this where we are?” “Yeah Dad! Don’t worry we are safe and higher than the birds above the earth!” “How can this be?” “ Don’t know dad but God loves us. I Think we will go back home soon.” We both sensed an invisible barrier above us and when we reached it we saw the same blue sky that I had remembered. Then we woke up on the beach and the two angels were flying away that helped us escape. One of them looked just like the old man in the diner. The end

n0d87g

WITH(OUT)

My eyes widened. But only as much as anyone’s eyes could upon first waking up. A curtain must have been pulled back. Maybe two. The rays that found their way in through the large window on the left wall forced my eyes into a hard squint. My bottom eyelids pinched up by my cheek. My ears had adjusted to the silence. A sound foreign to me. It went from eerie to tranquil, holding my quavering bones still. And then the full focus of my eyes reeled in to capture my environment. There was a light atmosphere in the room. One so positive, I would’ve sworn it should have been detrimental to my sanity—or lack thereof. But it wasn’t. It was strange to me. But I couldn’t help but to yearn, accepting it. The sun blared in, illuminating the presence of a clean room. A room taken care of constantly. A room cherished. It felt homey. There were no heaps of clothes lined up against the left wall, piling into mountains that met the dresser. And the dresser itself didn’t hold firearms, bullets, and mold. Instead, there was a vanity. Untainted ivory white. Complete with a full, intact mirror and not just surviving shards of glass hanging to splintered pieces of wood. Instead, a myriad of perfumes and makeup lined the surface. Spray bottles organized up by color and brushes by size. I pulled my body up just a bit to sit up and immediately felt an unfathomable level of comfort. A full mattress with smooth, soft sheets under me. Warm, vast covers able to wrap around my feet and still reach six feet up to tuck under my chin. I had never encountered such luxury and relief, and yet, it felt familiar to me. Finally sitting upright, I yanked the sheets off of me. I was in nothing but boxer shorts and a tank top. And my body was fine. No four year old burnt skin on my left thigh from an attempted murder. No Braille-like blemishes on the back of my arms from numerous cigarettes that needed to be put out. No tenderness in my Achilles from taking a wooden bat to the ankle. I felt perfect. I looked again at the sheets I was holding up. Teal. A color I swore I detested. But somehow, in some weird way, it consoled me. It was brighter than the colors I felt like I was used to. But even as my mind began to wander, I couldn’t peel my gaze off of it. “Abel!” It came from the other side of the wall and was followed by light footsteps. I panicked. Why did I want to answer to a name that wasn’t mine? I wasn’t in my room. Or was I? I saw the shadow of a figure approaching the door. It was too late to run. I only had enough time to glance to the closet on my right and sweep my sight to the left at the locked window. There was a hand on the handle on the other side of the door. I didn’t know what was wrong with me. I was usually swift. Able to calculate and execute a decision in a split second with no warning. But instead I sat on the bed. On the memory foam mattress. Under plush sheets. Neck propped up by feathered pillows. And naked. Finally, the wooden frame turned on its hinges. And walking two silent steps in was a lady. A beautiful lady with short brown curls and heart-stopping cinnamon eyes. A simple, silver rope chain slithered down the slope of her neck and rested on her collarbone. A white gold butterfly pendant lulled above her chest. She smiled softly. An expression so tender it made me forget my confusion. I no longer felt lost. “Good. You’re finally awake.” And she still looked happy to see me. Like I was meant to be in her life. Like she liked that I was in her life. “Lindsay.” I said the name, but couldn’t convince myself I wasn’t asking. Her smile widened. “Yes Abel?” Her voice was flooding with admiration. And her eyes. Those copper eyes piercing through my chest causing my pulse to want to both stop and speed up. She crawled on the bed, nestling onto my chest. She left no space in between us. Her head on my chest and her legs entwined with mine. Her curls blessed my atmosphere with lush vanilla and a hint of sandalwood. I took the deepest inhale my lungs would permit and wrapped my arms around her. She adjusted herself the slightest bit and exhaled comfortably. And I didn’t move. For the next fifty-three minutes, I watched the steady rise and fall of her abdomen. And when she was awake, and those eyes came up and met mine, I laced my fingers in with hers, grasping the tenderness of her soft palm. At that point, I had completely forgotten that I was lost. All that mattered was that what I found would never suffer the same fate as whatever I was lost. I wanted to be Abel. I wanted to be Abel for Lindsay. I squeezed her hand in mine. And I squeezed. And squeezed. Squeezed so hard, I felt a burst. BOOM! I opened my eyes and nothing changed. Black. The stench of blood overpowered the mold and mildew. The mix excruciating to inhale. It took a second for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. And as it did, I started to recognize. I saw the emergence of a dresser in front of the bed. A pile of clothes to it’s left. No… My eyes acclimated with the low light levels and clarity brought sorrow. On the dresser was a 22, a 9mm, and an AK, three magazines, eight clips, loose shotgun bullets, and glass pieces that littered the top. No, no, no, no, no… The bed under me creaked and my big toe got caught in a hole when I tried to readjust myself to a less uncomfortable position. No! No! My eyes darted left to the shattered, barred, and partially-cardboarded window. There, my eyes focused in. In the middle of a 12 gauge shotgun hole in the cardboard was the prettiest thing in the scene. The only pretty thing. A butterfly whose wings were so white, the glare of the moon brought a dazzle to them. Lindsay . My mind went to her necklace. I remembered it. I remembered it. But not as a dream. As a memory. She was real. In some way. Somehow. I could still smell the sandalwood and vanilla emitting off her. I could still feel her warm breath pressing and retreating on my neck. And the way she made my soul want to cry out her name. Whatever was happening, I needed to get back to being Abel. I had been given answers and now I had questions. And I genuinely believed that I could finally have something I so desperately wanted. All I needed to do was catch the butterfly. I moved slow, freeing my big toe from the aggravating hold of the five-by-four “blanket”. Timing. I didn’t have enough time to rip off the covers and dash. It would have plenty time to fly to its escape. But just as I was about to make my lunge, my ear twitched. I forgot about the insect and dove forward, hitting both the floor and dresser hard. Bullets rolled over the edge, raining metal down on me. I reached above my own head, snatching up the Glock and took my stance. Already cocked. It was just past midnight so the darkness hid any implication of a shadow from under the door frame. Safety off. The door handle twisted and began to groan on its hinges. Creak! The door flew open and a man in full army gear burst in. Instinct didn’t delay this time.  “James—” I fired twice.

m9gif9

The Golem’s Run

It was the furthest north they had ever been. Far from the Josefov Ghetto of Prague where a golem could receive the daily blessing from a rabbi required to sustain the soundness of the materials and ethos which makes up his body. Sela, who had no such benediction for three days, started to notice the crumbling of his toes and cracking on his ears. “There.” Barzel pointed to a gloomy silhouette of a lowhung roof under which faint yellow reluctantly shone through the windows. She wrapped her hand around Sela’s thick fingers and led him up the path to the building where, once they entered, were immediately assailed by the scent of rancid beer and slumbering depravity. The tavern keeper was the only person heeded their presence. Barzel order a stein of pilsner for Sela and advised him to remain in the dimmest corner under the shadow of his tattered tricorn while she tiptoed past the inebriated throng who slackened in their chairs with a few garrulous ones babbling nonsense onto no particular audience. The one she sought was conveniently soused at the end of the bar, eyes closed, head tilted back against the sooted wall, and hand cradling a half empty mug. Brazel straightened her collar, tidied her bang, settled next to the drunkard with her back to the rest of the bar and announced herself. “Sir. My name is Brazel. My brother Sela and I wish to engage in your service.” Awoken from his stupor, the man wiped slobber off his beard, leered at Barzel through barely open slits, and sneered. “Sorry slečna - don't work for no Jews.” “Perhaps this may prevail upon some reconsideration?” She opened her palm and observed the flickering reflection of a gold coin dancing the waxing pupils of waning inebriation. “Is it … a Florin?” “More precisely, my dear sir, one of the two golden Florins coins which will be gingling the tune of Saint John the Baptist in your vest pocket by the morning if you so choose to execute such a banal task as to provide me and my brother with transit across the Vltava river.” The man surveyed the room and found the stout figure of Sela in the dark corner under his large hat and ill-fitting frock coat. “That thing there ain't no brother of yours!” The man crackled. “ Plainly a concoction of river scum and hasidic conjuring he is. Am I correct to surmise that this has much ado about that defenestration two evenings before last? Done by a golem they said it was. And those grenadier goons from the Lord Regent’s office kicking down doors in torchlights since then seeking to apprehend the culprit? There is even the rumor of a reward on your heads.” The man then fixed his gaze on the glowing coin and grinned. “Well, fret not, slečna. Us protestant hoi pollois are all secretly applauding the deed of throwing those corrupt popish Lord Regents out of windows of Prague Tower- quite a proud Bohemian tradition defenestration is, no? Fine, fine, we have business then. We should meet in the morning under the wall of Staroměstská Castle where I will ferry you to the north bank.” He tried to lift the mug to drain the rest of the beer but found his wrist held firmly on the bar under Barzel’s slender fingers. “Sir, scores of ferrymen cross the Vltava during the daylight whose service can be had for pittens. In that case we have no need for your particular aptitude and could spare the two Florins to procure a nice turnip farm in Libenznice.” Barzel was referring to the raging Vltava River which curves sharply eastward just north of Prague, creating a severe loop which spawn ferocious eddies and vortices, shattering watercrafts and trapping the drowned. Few boatmen dared to cross during daylight, and almost none at night - except for the bigoted sot sitting in front of Barzel, who was known as the best ferrier in Prague who knew each shoal and maelstrom like the cracks and stains on his old mug. “Joshing, slečna, just joshing. Of course I grasp it’s now you want - a nocturnal trespass to avoid the Lord Regency’s rabid minions and the prying eyes of reward seekers - must earn my keep mustn’t I?” Barzel let go and the boatman rubbed his smarting wrist while glancing at Sela’s motionless wide shoulders. “If your … um, brother … has had his fill with libation, we best get a move on then.” The trio exited the tavern and trudged through the thinly forested riverbank where the dampened earth released peaty redolence of decaying vegetation with each of their steps. Barzel peered into the woods as if looking for something in the faint illumination of an unenthusiastic gibbous. Upon reaching the river’s edge the boatman untied his skiff, pushed it on to the water, and instructed Sela to climb in forward while he and Brazel stayed aft to counter his weight . The golem scaled the gunwale with sluggish rigidity. “Judging from his lethargy I reckon the thing ain’t been getting his daily blessing from his rabbi? Did the good teacher of the five books of Moses intend to cast him aside like a tattered ragdoll after his usefulness was done for?” The ferryman asked while pushing off. “You are correct sir. My father constructed Sela solely for the purpose of performing the defenestration, after which he was to be allowed to expire and be disposed of.” Maneuvering between the sedimentary knolls with his long oars, the boatman continued with his inquiries. “So what aberration transpired on the forging of him then?” “My father, having not erected a golem for sometime, erred in the formulation and gave Sela a conscience.” Tsk tsk noises came from the boatman’s shaking head. “Realizing his task was to kill by defenestration, he cried nonstop for days - unable to disobey the rabbinical command for the purpose of his creation and yet unwilling to commit murder.” “Let me venture a guess - he wept like a babe until you devised a solution to his conundrum.” “Indeed I have. His injunction dictated pitching specific Lord Regents out of the window of the Prague Tower without specifying killing. I arranged it so the task is fulfilled without loss of life.” “So you are the sharp one who orchestrated the heap of human manure compiled below the Prague Tower, into which the Regents plunged after they were launched from the window, and walked away merely in severe need of scrubbing and new wardrobes?  Smirking, Barzel nodded. “Bravo slečna! For your trouble people have not stopped laughing for the past three days with the story of frightened Lords scarpering home covered in excrement. Haven't seen this much joy since the last pope croaked, and all this achieved by a two-Florin golem.” “Actually, it was five Florin coins my father received from Count Jindrijh of Thurn, the protestant nobleman who was dispossessed of Karlstejn Castle by decree of the Lord Regents. Jindrijh requested the composition of Sela to avenge the loss of his honor and power. Of the five Florin, one I left for my father - the roof of the synagogue is long overdue for a proper mending. The remaining four I pilfered, of which one I paid the egoutiers - to dispose their entire daily haul of sewage under the Prague Tower to good effect, the additional two will be yours - as we agreed, and the remainder we gave to the captain of the Prague Castle guards.” The boatman was perplexed. Sela’s gruff voice emanated from the front of the vessel.“I do empathize with your befuddlement as to why a bribe was passed into the hand of the soldier whose master was the subject of our assassination attempt.” Sela elaborated on the course of the events which led to such an arrangement, recalling that on the day of the planned execution, the Prague Castle guards scattered as soon as they witnessed Sela marching through the front gate, realizing a raid by a golem was afoot. Only one nimble-minded guardsman jumped onto Sela’s back, looped a satchel of gunpowder around his neck, and tried to ignite it with a match. Flicking the match away, Sela hoisted the soldier up by his collar and asked for his name, then tied him to a column with his own bandelier. The golem then proceeded up the tower and kicked in the door to the chancellery office unimpeded. Philip Fabricius, the secretary to the Regents, was the first out of the window after shattering the blade of his saber on Sela’s chest. Then Count Vilem Slavata went, after firing both of his pistols at Sela to no effect. The last target, Count Jaroslav Borita, already knew the two previous defenestratees survived the falls from their angry clamor arising from below the tower, did not put up muh a s resistance. Dangling him by his belt just outside of the window, Sela counseled the nobleman, “All your soldiers dispersed as soon as they saw me, except for Svejk who was quick witted and brave enough to try to stop me with a gunpowder explosion. If I were you I would marry him my daughter or make him the captain of the guards.” Then he let the count go. The ferryman, listening attentively while working his oar, asked, “So, Captain Svejk owes his new position to your obliging words. But to what end does he deserve further beneficence of a golden Florin?” “Realizing he was promoted upon Sela’s recommendation, he was kind enough to hide us in his stable for the past two days. As for the coin, it was offered to him to ensure our safe conduct across the Vltava. At this moment, the good captain is standing amongst the trees by the riverbank with a crossbow, overseeing our trespass. Our safe landing on the opposite bank would conclude our arrangement with the captain. Any deviation from the expected course of events would require the captain to resort to his armament.” “By installing the tip of an arrow in my skull you mean.” The oarsman laughed. “Have no fear slečna, for I am a businessman with a reputation to safeguard. It would ill-behooves my notoriety were things untoward befell my customers. So what plans have you once you reach the opposite shore? Do you in truth fancy that turnip farm in Libenznice? ” “Actually we are continuing onto Mělník to find my uncle, who is also a rabbi, and ask him to bless Sela. “ “Mělník you say? Isn’t that a 20 mile trek? Can the golem make it? He could hardly climb into the boat earlier.” “Fatigue he is indeed. But he was built robustly and I am certain he could endure.” “Chiseled out of rock he was, wasn't he? Instead of the usual river mud they craft them other golems with. That’s why he is so sturdy. Sela means rock in Hebrew - yeah I know the lingo and there is no need to be nonplussed - let you in on a secret slečna - my babichka was a zadi herself - and she taught me the idioms. We shrouded jews are burdened with the need to be more bellicose toward our own kind due to a sense of insecurity. So, is it your intention then to remain with your amenable uncle?” “Yes. I intend to study with my uncle and become a rabbi which my father has forbidden me to do, despite the fact that I have been writing all his sabbatical sermons for the past seven years.” “Hmm, a woman rabbi.” Mused the ferryman while deftly manipulating the oars as they entered the turbulent water near the north bank. “I suppose there ain’t nothing in talmudic liturgy forbidding such a notion, don’t see why not - truth be told, I believe you will make a right good one, slečna.” With graceful efficiency the boatman negotiated the rapids and eventually the soft scrapping in the bottom of the hull over the shallow bank announced their arrival. Sela held the side of the vessel to jump off, breaking his pinky in the process. The golem mumbled some grievance under his breath, fished his digit out of the water and put it in his coat pocket. Brazel presented the two Florin as agreed, but the ferryman took only one. “Keep the other gold piece and hire an oxcart to carry you to Mělník. I don't reckon he is going to make it on foot. In exchange I have a miniscule request.” He pulled out a pencil and a notebook and handed them to Barzel. “A note of introduction to the good Captain Svejk, for I reckon I have profitable enterprise with him.” “Doing business with a Catholic?” Leaning on his oar the man smirked. “There will be war comin’, a right vicious one just you wait and see. You plonked Catholic Regents into dung piles, ergo insulting the Holy Roman Emperor and the pontiff. Some grand strategist types in Vienna and Rome will come to the conclusion that such an affront, if unpunished, will lead to the crumbling of their authorities, and judge it’s necessary to send tens of thousands into the battlefield. By the same token, them Protestant lots in Stockholm, Copenhagen, and London would arrive at the deduction that such a belligerent apostolic mobilization should be responded to by fielding just as many men.” Slipping his gold coin into vest pocket he continued. “So in wars they need conveyance - ferries, to move their soldiers, cannons, provisions, and the generals’ fancy ladies, up, down, and across the river. And who would be in the position to rack in coins from such a fool's errand? The best ferrier in Prague, that's who, provided I have a mate amidst the military lots such as the captain of the guards. So if the good captain is a pragmatist who can pocket a gold coin to provide protection for the ones who hurled his superior into the muck, I assume some mutually beneficial cooperation may be in the offing.” With an elegant calligraphic hand Barzel jotted down the note, returned the notebook, jumped into the shallow water of the Vltava, and helped Sela onto shore. “ Ahoj slečna, Ahoj golem. Best of luck to you … Wait!” The boatman paused in the midst of pushing off. “Just came to me this - Brazel means iron in Hebrew, are you …?” Barzel turned back and smiled. “Yes, made of iron, before the compulsory expiration ordinance. The man I called my father is actually the great grandson of my creator.” The ferryman chuckled and started rowing back toward Prague while shouting, “There ain’t no rule against golems becoming a rabbi either in the Torah.” Holding Sela's shoulder with one arm, Brazel waved without looking back. Pulling on the oar, the ferryman uttered to himself, “Daft of me. Naturally she would have known that already.”

htl3cu

Tevoro

A short walk along the sugar fine sands brought me to a log structure with a roof fashioned of roughly plaited coconut leaves. In chalk, on a broken sandwich board, read ‘Lucious breakfasts and Loaded cocktails.’ It was a hot day, as it always is in Fiji, so I stooped under the hanging leaves and took a seat. The breeze off the Pacific gave much respite from the morning heat, I shut my eyes, finding the peace I’d come for. “ Bula !” A man rushed in, stumbling on a plastic chair shouting the Fijian greeting. The linen shirt he wore looked like the only shirt he owned. He looked at me “Every time I try and match their Bula’s ! I never succeed. You know why I never will?” I didn’t really understand what the frantic man said. But he continued. “Sincerity. I don’t believe any of us in the West ever mean ‘how do you do’ when we ask ‘how do you do.” The Fijian waiter wore a broad smile as he cleaned a glass, filled it with water and passed it to the man. The man thanked the waiter and turned back to me. “How are you? Hot day. I don’t drink anymore you see.” I didn’t see and wasn’t exactly sure when one sentence ended and another began, so I let the man go on. “Lovely place Fiji, can get away from it all, tune in to Fiji Time.” Fiji Time was a concept I’d heard a few times since arriving. I’d heard ‘Tofino Time’ in Canada and ‘Broome Time’ in Australia. A phrase used by locals in laid back towns, each one thinking it to be unique to them. “What do you do?” The man asked me. “I work in finance, just on holiday right now.” I replied. Seeing the man wanted to be polite but had no more questions for me, he continued “I was in the military. Special forces. Not a good place 10 years ago. You probably saw the news.” “I did.” I replied solemnly. “A different world. What men can do to each other. Many a mission I undertook there, we stormed a Taliban stronghold in a village once, burst into a room, it had a small cage in it, with a man folded up inside like he was made of plasticine. We quickly realised he was one of ours. This guy had bruises bigger than I’d ever seen all up his legs from iron pipes, a favourite of the Taliban. Every single one of his teeth had been removed, can you imagine what that would feel like? They’d put plastic bags over his head until he confessed to God knows what. I had no faith this guy would make it after we got him out of there. Not medically you understand. His injuries could heal, his legs could gain strength and he could get some fake teeth put in. But the other injuries he sustained, the ones you don’t see, that would be a problem for him. It was on to the next mission for my unit. Success. Move on. Just another day.” He had a fractured pattern of speech, I felt my brow furrow whilst trying to follow him, but stopped as fast as I realised so as not to upset him. He swiftly changed the subject “I used to have a business myself too.” I smiled at the fact I’d never claimed to have one myself. He wore large reflective sunglasses that masked not only his eyes but a large portion of his bony face. “Yep, used to run irrigation for farms. Hard work. We got muscled out by the big dogs, difficult for some small owners these days. I sold up. Moved out here. Couldn’t think of a better place to be. Gives a man peace.” He raised his empty glass of water toward me and then slammed it on the bar unnecessarily hard and wandered off. I longed for this peace the man spoke of. “How did you fair?” another American, this one topless, leant over from the table next to me. “You survived?” he inquired again. He spoke out of the corner of his mouth. I couldn’t tell if he had deliberately not rubbed in the sun lotion on his face or not. “I’m sorry?” I said. “The crazy fella, he caught me yesterday. Took me a while to get away. I don’t know why these guys don’t move him on.” He raised his voice so one of the waiting staff could hear. “I guess they don’t see him as a problem” I said, hoping it would be the end of the interaction. “Well he’s a problem for business. I own some businesses back home and I can tell ya, I wouldn’t allow it.” I allowed him the last word, and raised my eyebrows as I took a swig from my cold beer. The pale American stood up shortly after and paid at the bar. The waiter, who had a handwritten name tag that read ‘Bill’ came over to collect my empty bottle. “That man is ok, just different.” he said. “Who, the topless guy?” The waiter let out a small laugh and hid it with his hand as if it were illegal. “No, no. Mr. John. He comes through a lot. Some of the guys say he has crossed paths with a Tevoro, that's why he is like that.” “Tevoro?” “A devil.” The Fijian didn’t use the easy and convenient language such as ‘crazy’ and ‘sick’ that we may use back home, I wonder if we do it to distance ourselves from these characters, so as to not claim any social responsibility for their well being as our lives are cluttered with tasks and errands as it is. These warm hearted people don't seem to have that problem. I looked to the beach and saw another waiter neglect his bar duties as he played with some passing kids he was familiar with. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps ‘Fiji Time’ exists. The tourists see it as a niche experience in contrast to their lives back home, a pleasant respite, but only for a short time, as I often hear them say ‘Oh I couldn't live like this though.’ Fiji Time is more than taking things easy, it's an allowance of time to be allocated to the core values of people, at least, their core values. Family and community. I often see my phone is riddled with blogs of how to be more present by trendy neuroscientists and successful celebrities, Fijians have no such need for these blogs. Bill snapped me out of my ruminations as he said “He’s worse at night, I don’t think Mr.John sleeps at all.” A Mediterranean looking couple ambled in off the beach and Bill excused himself to go and assist them. I looked down at the brown glass of my bottle and wondered if it was perspiring more than me. The hottest part of the day had arrived and so I returned to my room to lay like a starfish, directly under the ceiling fan. I awoke later than I had planned, it was 7pm. I was hungry so headed out to the same bar, not wanting to venture further. Before I arrived at the bar I heard a strange noise coming from the ocean and wondered if it was a dog in distress. I followed some shallow craters in the sand that I took for footprints to a pile of clothes. Looking up, and squinting through the fading light saw a man waist high in the breaking waves, naked. The noise came from him. At my feet was a heavily weathered linen shirt and a full set of dentures.

xd8e83

Hopeless Aid Station

The thing about going the distance is that it is non-negotiable; you must take every miserable, unrelenting step on your own steam—like it or not. David had his hands on his knees, dry heaving, at the foot of the highest mountain pass in the Colorado Rockies. Dry heaving was nothing new. He could handle dry heaving all day long. David’s Garmin Sportswatch displayed the elevation: 9,983 ft. 2,617 feet to the top. The saddle was 12,600 feet. Should take about an hour and a half, he thought. If he didn’t collapse first. As his stomach eased, David stood tall and looked up at the solid face of Mt. Elbert. At the saddle of Hope Pass. David took a few tentative steps along the path, trying to figure out how he had gotten to the forty-mile mark of the Race Across the Sky at forty years of age, and the smile faded, as all the blood drained from his face. Just a few years before, when he had run his first marathon, David had weighed in at three-hundred-fifty pounds. In those days, it started at 8:00 a.m. A few Percocets. “Blue skies,” he called them. There’d be six to ten more by day’s end. A Gatorade bottle full of Jameson. “Rocket fuel,” was the nickname for this one. Down the hatch. The rest of the fifth was in the glove compartment. A few more were stashed in his desk drawer. Then it was time to make money. What had started as a celebratory business Happy Hour at the Silver Dollar Saloon or the Manhattan Bar, was leading inexorably to death. It had been four to five IPAs. Then eight or nine IPAs. Before long, beers weren’t strong enough anymore. Back then, David started his days numbing every miserable, unrelenting step of his journey. The cabin of his Ford F150 was filled with wrappers and bags of fast food. David had bit into half of a McDonalds sausage egg and cheese sandwich in one quick swallow, then chased it with the other half. Crumbs of the flaky croissant fell onto the seat cushion and down onto the floor mats, which were littered with filth. This was his morning ritual before waddling into the office in a foul mood. He chased the drugs with food and chased the food with drugs. Chasing an end. An out. A finish line. When he had a sober moment, the same persistent thought always dogged him: you are exactly where you’ve chosen to be—your life is the result of your choices—and you deserve every bit of it. And on a day that he couldn’t put his finger on, the means of escape—the numbing medicine—had become his prison. And the sentence was death. Being rushed to the Emergency Room on a sweltering August day, after collapsing early in the morning before work, the nurse had registered his blood pressure at 192 over 136. “Is that high,” he had asked hopefully. “Your cholesterol is the highest I’ve ever seen,” the doctor had said. “You are a walking stroke waiting to happen.” So, this is it, he had thought. “Finito.” David had left the ER and met Pat at the Silver Dollar Saloon and ordered a round for everyone at the bar. If I’m done, he thought, might as well go out with a bang. The next morning, David didn’t make it to work. He woke up on the bathroom floor with a yellow coating of bile leaking out of him. And that day, for some reason, he had gone out for a “run.” It took about an hour and a half to make it two miles. David came home and slept for two days. But the twins didn’t even wake him. His wife had given up on the project long ago. This type of behavior had become normalized. He was the monster his family avoided, not the superhero he had dreamed he’d become. “Head up, soldier,” an older man said as David proceeded down the trail. This guy had to be in his sixties, but he was moving steadily without a care in the world. The man was clicking his trekking polls on the dusty rocks and gravel like it was just another day at the office. “On your left,” another freakishly fast man said as he strode by in a blur, looking more Cheetah than man as he defied gravity, seemingly floating his way up the winding trail that lifted him like he was being pulled upward by some kind of earthen escalator. It felt like David was the only one getting crushed by the mountain. David was deep in the pain cave and going deeper. He’d never felt this bad in his entire life. He was a zombie walking up the unrelenting incline. But David had trained for this. Run, hike, walk, crawl. It was the trail or the trash. The pain was part of the bargain. You don’t get to pick how it goes. You just get to make one decision: keep moving forward, or don’t. One foot in front of the other. Suck it up buttercup. This is life. The life of life. The price and the reward. The weighing in the balance. David knew all this. But all he could think of was putting his head down. A soft mattress and a downy pillow. An ironic thought. Selling mattresses. It had been the perfect business. Everyone needs a place to lay their head. One mattress per person. Not everyone needed a car. Not everyone needed a house. But mattresses – it was the ultimate high-ticket item. You could buy them for $500 a piece wholesale and retail them for $3,000 MSRP with a 60% discount, and have the consumer fork over $1,200, leaving a $700 profit. All you had to do was sell them. The simplest thing in the world. In a perfect world, $200 of each purchase went to overhead, $200 went to buying new inventory, and $300 went to the bottom line. In a perfect world. A world where the economy wasn’t rocketing up and careening down like an out-of-control rollercoaster every five minutes. But this wasn't that world. Business has a way of consuming life. It had started with one store. Then, that wasn’t enough. David had added another store and then another store. Pretty soon he was running eight locations. Nearly ten million in sales. The money started pouring in. It proved he had broken the cycle of poverty. David had known what it was to be homeless, living in his Dad’s old Ford truck as his father drove him and his brothers from town to town as a traveling salesman. The family didn’t have an address then, so David couldn’t go to high school in the district and had to go for homeschooling. David vowed to never go back—to never be poor again—to never be hungry again—to never want for anything. The money was never enough. Never enough to fill the emptiness inside. And neither were the meals or the booze or the pills. As the bottom line grew, the whiskey and the pills grew with it. Then became ubiquitous. One day David’s accountant came in and asked, “What happened last year?” David had been shocked. “What do you mean?” The accountant looked at him curiously. “Are you serious? You’re losing your shirt. A couple more months like this and you’ll be out of business.” David hadn’t even cared. He wasn’t going to be around much longer anyway. David reached the section of the trail where the switchbacks ended, and a long staircase of boulders led upward at a ridiculous twenty-degree angle. Flies buzzed about and took bites off his skin as he hiked steadily uphill. There wasn’t enough strength to fend them off and tackle the incline at the same time. One step, then another. Uneven footing. The breath came in shallow. His head was light. The dappled sun burned through the gaps in the pine trees. Before long, David came to the bridge where the runoff from the peaks of Mt. Elbert and Quail Mountain streamed downhill. David dipped his water flask into the river and tasted the cold, clean, crisp water. There was no need for Iodine or a straw. At this altitude, the water from the snowmelt only came from a mile or so off the mountain peak and flowed steadily downhill, there was no bacteria and no standing time to fester. It was the cleanest water on earth. As David drank, the dry, coated feeling in the back of his throat calmed down. But the doubts also crept in. Marge came up from behind him. “Hey David,” she said. “I’m struggling,” he said, shrugging. “Wouldn’t be Leadville if you weren’t,” she said. “The black dog is waiting at the front gate for me,” he said. “Where else in the world would you want to be,” she asked. Nowhere else. That was the answer. Nowhere else. Desolate as he felt, being here, now, at this moment, he was full. The two of them chatted back and forth as David pushed with every ounce of strength to keep moving uphill. Glancing down at his watch he saw that he had passed 11,000 feet. Only 900 more feet to the Hopeless Aid Station out in the Meadow. Then 700 feet beyond that on winding switchbacks to the summit. The hail came down in sheets. A rumble of thunder warned that the mountain gods still held dominion over these little ants scuttling about on the folds of the mountain slopes. The mountain gods could crush them like bugs anytime they wanted. This was their domain. And they were indifferent to the sorrows and aspirations of mortal men. The struggling of men against nature was undignified. Their very existence was pathetic. But the mountain gods might still bend if the resolve of the men was strong enough. David gripped his plastic shell jacket and shivered. You are going to give me this now, he thought, questioning God. Okay. Fair enough. Let’s have at it then. The pellets of hail were solid, and the air was exceptionally dry. They coated the soft sand and loam and gave traction to the dusty sections. The small beads of ice crunched as David’s trail shoes dug into the pristine dirt, crushing the little pellets into the soil. Just as the hail stopped, David came to the cathedral of Aspens. His eyes welled with tears. Wow. To be here, observing the face of the mountain, through the sloped cathedral, leading to the magnificent altar at the footstool of heaven. All the millions. All the accolades. All the highs he chased. Such cheap, foolish trash compared with this. Just ahead was the clearing, and at last, David traversed the tight single track into the meadow of Hopeless Aid Station, at the very top of the Rockies. The top of the world. Blue and yellow tents were set up and people were barbecuing out in the field. There must have been a dozen Llamas and their handlers, who muled all the supplies up the trail. Runners sat in folding chairs under the tents eating Ramen and drinking hot tea. A few chanced a burger. A few others laid down in the grass on mats and took quick dirt naps. David felt like he had arrived at the gates of heaven. So this was what it was like, he thought, to arrive. “You aren’t there yet,” Marge said. She was just ahead spooning down huge bites of Ramen and sipping the warm broth. “Oh, a smile. How about that!” David lay down and looked up at the sky. Just 700 more feet to get up to the summit. David was all but assured to get that far. Then it was just about five more miles to the turn-around, then he would turn back and climb back up and over, then it was forty more miles to the finish. David got up to his feet and wound his way up the switchbacks. The rocky terrain of the mountain saddle was barren, desolate, and pock-marked like the surface of the moon, with big gray concrete-colored granite rocks and a healthy layer of dust. Little chipmunks danced and leaped along the sides of the trail, frolicking with their two-legged friends. A marmot sunned himself, his head on a swivel, watching the strange parade of men who had ventured up to his home on foot for some incomprehensible reason. David’s legs grew heavy. His pace slowed. Striding gave way to plodding. Enthusiasm gave way to despair. The tank was empty. David gasped for air. One false summit gave way to another. His hamstrings stung. Stepping up on a six-inch high rock was unimaginably tough. Dave saw the blowing prayer flags and the cairn marking the summit. There were a host of bodies like literal angels standing above and looking down on him, as he summited the final staircase into the heavens. Standing at the top of Hope Pass, in between the peaks of two mountains, David threw his hands in the air and exclaimed “Hooah!” Marge had made it up just ahead of him. She was standing by the prayer flags, hands on hips, her white hair blowing in the jet stream as the shadows of the clouds moving on the conveyor belt overhead sailed along on their course. “Almost halfway,” Marge said. David hated it when people said that. But this time, he didn’t mind. “I’ll see you in about three hours,” David said and started rocketing downhill like a man possessed. The five miles down only took about fifty minutes and then Dave was at the halfway point of the race. The ghost town of Winfield. He had made it in thirteen hours. Without even taking a break, he called out his race number to the race official and turned right around. If he could get back up and over in three hours, he’d have more than twelve hours left to complete the final forty miles. There were still two hours of daylight, so David knew that if he could get back to Hope Pass before sunset, he could easily navigate the way back to town in the dark, with plenty of time to spare. That was when the wheels fell off. Hiking back up the steep 1,200-foot ascent out of the valley back from Winfield, David lost the ability to make forward progress. He sat on the side of a cliff and rested, the brutal late afternoon sun bearing down like a blowtorch. The mountain gods seemed to reside just behind the jagged peaks, laughing mercilessly at the plight of these feeble beings reaching foolishly for the heavens. Laughing at him specifically. He dry heaved again. Yellow bile poured out of him, and he left his mark on the reddish-brown rubble along the high mountain pass. The hallucinations started. He saw a moose that wasn’t there. Then he saw the old David sitting right next him. The three-hundred-fifty pound addict. That rounded beach ball of a face with the acned skin full of red blotches and those bleary bloodshot eyes. The apparition wheezed and coughed. Not today, David thought. Never again. David reached over with the last of his strength and began to strangle the ghost. The glazed, doped-up red eyes widened as his hands wrapped around the thick sweaty neck. David clamped tightly and watched the face redden and the big swollen arms swatting at him. One meaty paw grabbed at his face and a finger went into his sweaty eye socket. David held on and kept choking the apparition until at last the life drained out of the eyes and the body of the fat wasted creature became limp. Then the apparition vanished, and David was all alone. The words of the race founder came to David’s mind. “Inside each and every one of you is an inexhaustible well of grit, guts, and determination. When we were mining in the Climax mine all those years ago, at the end of the tunnel was the face. Hard, solid rock. Miles of it. Our job was to punch a way through. And the truth is at the face. All of you will reach it in this race. You have to dig deep. Face that truth. And you’ll never be the same if you do. Like those old miners in the days of old, all you have to do is reach inside that inexhaustible well and dig deep.” Marge was coming up behind him and said, “What you doing up here? Dirt nap?” David laughed and said, “Just gathering steam for this last climb, that’s all.” David got up and summited. After the summit, David started running again as the sun set below the high mountain peaks. And he kept running by the light of his headlamp, through the cold Colorado night. Emptying out every evil thing inside. It was life or death, and he was leaving nothing on the trail. Thirteen hours later, David crossed the finish line. Ken’s wife Merilee placed a medal around David's neck. David looked around and everything looked different. He stared at the faces around him and the fanfare of the finish. David saw the world with the fresh eyes of a baby. Everything was new and unfamiliar. Strange and wonderful. So this was what it was like to be reborn, David thought. THE END -- In memory of my friend, David Clark, a real-life Superhero (and based on a true story). David picked so many of us up at our lowest moments out on the trails and inspired so many in his short but impactful life. ** https://www.leadvilleherald.com/leadville_life/gtlo/article_ff2a4614-3d7e-11e1-8c2b-001a4bcf6878.html ** https://www.amazon.com/Out-There-Story-Ultra-Recovery/dp/1499721196

nalla4

The Bright Nights

It was the best of times, it was the… oh wait, that’s a different story. I should lead with a more original first line. It was the longest day of my young life. My mother had woken us in the night, packed the car, and drove all night and all the next day. We had only stopped to use questionable gas station rest rooms and to eat the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches she seemed to have an endless supply of. I really wanted McDonald’s, but she said it was too expensive for all of us to order burgers, drinks, and fries. I had 3 younger sisters, Lucy, Maggie, and Sprout. (Yup my parents named her Sprout like a plant growing from the soil). I’m the oldest, Daphne. It was the 4 of us and Ma, plus our gray striped cat, Scrooge, traveling in a ‘99 Saab 95 wagon. The heat didn’t even work until we hit Ohio, where Ma stopped at a mechanic shop. She went to talk with mechanic for a while behind the shop, and said our bill was all set. I don’t know what it cost, but she kept eating tic tacs like there was a bitter taste in her mouth. “Where are we going, Ma?” We all kept asking her. For six hundred miles, she didn’t answer. When we hit Minnesota, she said, “To see the lights.” “What lights, Ma?” I asked. “The ones up in the sky. You can only see ‘em this time of year and not everyone can see it. Couldn’t see it back in Dorchester.” “But Ma, you can see it in Maine, I think,” I said, recalling a bit of information from a science class. “Well, don’t you wanna go to Minnesota?” “We never thought about it,” Said Maggie honestly. “Well, think about it now, girls, because we’re here,” She said. We were on edge because of the midnight journey cross country, but it seemed exciting to be able to get a view of the Northern Lights. Though we’d been traversing the United States for 23 hours now, I would say the real story starts at this point. Consider all that the prologue . From what I learned in sixth grade science, the Northern Lights were caused by highly charged solar wind particles that collided with air molecules in the atmosphere. It created beautiful colors and you could see them in Finland, Sweden, Iceland and Alaska. I did think you could sometimes see this in Maine, but Ma said we’d be able to see it in Minnesota. (Come to think of it, it made sense because we were up on the top of the states. I had only gotten a 78 in 7th grade geography and the topic of the aurora borealis from last year was cloudy in my brain.) It was nearly 3 o’clock at this point, so Ma checked us into a motel. It smelled like cigarettes even though it had “no smoking” signs all over the lobby. We got cokes from a machine! That was pretty cool because Ma never let us drink cokes at home. She always said, “it will rot your teeth and fill up your belly with bubbles.” We didn’t question it, though, you don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. We all took a nice nap on creaky king-size bed. The pillows were too hard, but we’d brought our own pillows in the car, so we went and got those to sleep on. Ma put a chair in front of the door even though it had a lock. She said better be safe than sorry. When we woke up, it was dark outside, but we could tell there was a greenish glow. It was the lights! We all put on our jackets and went out on the little balcony outside the room. It had these wrought iron bars and old folding chairs, but I thought it was the nicest balcony because we’d never had one at home. My sisters were yelling, “The sky is all lit up!” I said, “It’s so beautiful.” Ma smiled for the first time that whole day. She said, “I’m glad you girls like the view, because I think we’ll be here a while.” “Are we on vacation?” Lucy asked. “No,” Ma answered. “This going be house?” Sprout asked nervously. Ma laughed, “Goodness no, but we’ll be here for a couple days. Then hopefully we’ll find a house. Well- probably an apartment.” I was starting to realize what was happening. It wasn’t about the northern lights at all. We were running away from our old home. I was 12, so I knew more than my sisters. Sprout was only three, Maggie was barely five, and Lucy was ten. Ma was trying to spare us from being upset or seeing that she was scared. He must’ve hit her- I decided. Our Dad got mad very easily, like if hot chocolate spilled on his pants, or if you were singing a song loudly, or if Ma burnt the chicken. Ma didn’t mean to burn the chicken, but sometimes if Dad was mad at one of us, it distracted her from cooking supper. He never cooked, he never did any of the chores, and he never took us anywhere. If we missed the bus for school, he would yell and kick the wall with his foot, then Ma would hurriedly get us out the door and drive us herself. She never said anything bad about him, but I knew she didn’t like to be yelled at. “Does he know where we are?” I asked. She kept her eyes on the swirling green and purple lights. “Ma…” I asked again nervously. “No, Daphne,” She said quietly. “Good,” I said emphatically, “I hate him. I’m glad we ran away.” She gestured to the girls and put a finger to her lip, “Shhh. We don’t need to upset your sisters. Let’s have a fun adventure and they’ll only remember the beautiful lights and that we settled here to always be in their glow.” “It doesn’t glow all year, Ma,” I said matter-of-factly. “Nothing lasts forever, my love, but I want you to remember that when the beautiful parts of life come, they’re always sweeter than the terrible parts.” I hugged her and we stood there for a little longer. When it got too cold, we went inside. Ma got us hot chocolate from the cafe down the street and we split three cups between us. We watched “Huckleberry Finn” on the Tv and Ma even got us chips for 50 cents from the front desk. We felt like royalty! Money was tight, but she never let us figure it out. It’s been ten years since we left Massachusetts. I’m 22 now and look forward to attending college. For my essay, the only story I could think of was the journey to the northern lights. It taught me the importance of looking on the bright side (literally and figuratively) and how you have to be brave sometimes even when it’s thrust on you. Ma wasn’t ready to be brave like that, but she had to be, she had to take us and get us all far, far away. I have to be brave now, because I have to leave her. I have to leave our circle of love and warmth, but I know that I’ll be back every chance I get. My Ma, my sisters, and I are like the solar particles flying about from the sun, mixing with the atmosphere of Earth to create the beautiful colors in the sky. There are seasons when we won’t be together, but we’ll always come back to each other, and it’ll always be special and magical. 

ikh23g

The Wish-For-All

I was standing in the middle of my apartment, penthouse, 94th floor, New York. It was time . I punched in the date. Wednesday, 23rd Dec, 2037. It wasn’t so much the day that everything went wrong in my life, as the day that everything went right. Terribly, horrifically right! The time machine in my hand was a small device that projected a larger Holographic Screen for ease of use. I’d designed it that way. Well , I’d imagined it that way in my head, then wished for it with my Wish-For-All. Which was the same thing right? I was the designer if not strictly the engineer. I wore the Wish-For-All attached to a necklace around my neck because I’d had some very frightening ‘ops-I-misplaced-it’ moments. The Wish-For-All crated any machine or tech I imagined and wished for, but only machines and tech. But who made the Wish-For-All? Perhaps I would finally find out today! Or, more accurately, I would find out five years ago. I checked all the input on the screen, one typo here could put an end to the fiasco I called my life! I touched my Wish-For-All for luck and hit the ‘Initiate’ button on the Holo Screen. The world wobbled around me. I blinked and with a sickening lurch of my stomach, I began to fall. OOOPHH! My chest hit the ground. Okay, so the machines calculations were a little off! With a groan I sat up and looked around. I was in the small clearing I used to play in as a child. I was correct in my assumption it would be deserted. I dusted off the snow from my jacket and looked up at the sun to get my bearings. Hmm, it was afternoon, it was off ! On time and elevation! I’d been aiming for midday to allow for anything unexpected, but no matter! There was still time. Haha! Time! If I failed to find my answer today then I would hop back another 24 hours and try again. I now had an abundance of time! I stood up and inspected the little time machine, it was no worse for wear, I’d managed to keep hold of it. I'd given this little machine a big task! It had wrestled with time, dragged me through it and deposited me here, relatively safely. Though nothing the Wish-For-All made had ever been faulty.  Compulsively I touched the little pendant once more, to make certain it wasn’t magicked away by time. Nope! Still there. I tried not to think about the fact that I’d soon be stopping my past self from finding it at all. I pocketed the time machine and shrugged my backpack on more comfortably as I set off. I’d chosen the clearing, not just because no one ever went there, but because the forest would also allow me to approach the town virtually unseen.     ‘ Ash? ’ ‘ Paige! ’ I almost leapt out of my skin. I hadn’t noticed her standing there! Oh God ! Had she been there the whole time? Did she just see me blink into existence a few feet off the ground? Her wide blue eyes blinked at me from beneath thick glasses. No! No, surely she would be running and screaming if she had seen that. With great difficulty I wrestled my panic down. ‘Hhii Paige! What are you doing out here?’ Paige shrugged her backpack, ‘Uhh…presumably the same thing you are?’ ‘Huh?...Oh! Yeah of course.’ Paige cocked her head, her frown was growing. ‘You look…’ She trailed off bemused. My guess was she was noticing that, now at twenty-four, I had a bulkier build than when she had last seen me. No wrinkles yet! But much more stubble. Should I whip out the memory wiper I’d brought for situations like this? But no, I didn't want Paige to forget me. I should run. It would be weird, but hey! I was a weird kid! Maybe she wouldn’t be that surprised? I shouldn’t still be standing here, remembering. I used to have daydreams about bumping into this girl on our old college campus and here we were… bumping into each other . And it only took five years, a magical wishing marble, countless dangerous and expensive machines, a couple of multimillion dollar businesses ventures on my part and increasing scrutiny from government departments and violent individuals to bring us together! Paige had gone bright red and I realised I was staring. Suddenly I was struck with an impulsive, but genius idea. ‘Hey, I’ll be at the Christmas Market in town with my family tonight. Maybe we could catch up?’ Paige smiled. Actually smiled. How had I ever been too afraid to approach this girl? ‘Actually, yeah, that sounds great!’ She dug around in her pack, scribbled with a pen and tore a bit of paper. ‘Sorry, I forgot my phone this morning. Here’s my number, you know, in case we can’t find each other.’ I beamed as I took the number. Paige gave me her number! ‘Cool! I’ll uh…see you there.’ ‘Yeah, see you there.’ I pocketed the number and gave her a wide birth, best not to get too close to those glasses right now! I tripped on a root as I left the path and stumbled. Classic Ash ! I could feel my face going read as I laughed awkwardly and gave a quick wave goodbye. Paige tucked an escaped lock of hair behind her ear and waved back.                                                  *** Preston was large town, well a city really but it still looked quaint to me, a lot had changed, even in five years. Although my machines had a lot to do with that. I marched across town as the sun sank towards the horizon, avoiding the main roads and businesses. Too many people here would recognise me and I couldn’t use the memory wiper on them all. I pulled up my hood and tried not to look suspect. I reached the intersection of a narrow lane. At one end I could see busy stall owners setting up the market and in the other direction I could see the green of the park. This was the way I walked home. This was where I’d found it. I walked down to the park and found a bush to hide in. I waited and I waited, growing bored and uncomfortable. The bush was scratchy, my muscles were cramped from crouching and it had grown dark. I could hear the Christmas Market in full swing but still no sign of the Wish-For-All or its previous owner. Had my presence here already altered what was going to happen? I had spoken to Paige, and she was presumably here at the market now, hopefully with the old me, I mean, with the young me. The bush I’d chosen was near the mouth of the lane. Across the lane the park continued on to a fence, a little brown wooden fence, with a black cat sitting on it. It blinked moon bright eyes at me and then I lost it in the shadows. Another half an hour or so passed and I was starting to grow anxious. I had to stop my younger self from finding the Wish-For-All. I had proven to be too reckless with it and had only escaped because of the time machine. Otherwise, I was as good as buried in the future. But if I had already altered events enough to disrupt the previous owners' path down this lane, then my goal was already accomplished. But I really wanted to know where the Wish-For-All had come from before I died! Yes, died ! It was a possibility I would shortly cease to exist. The black cat slunk up to the side of the path and looked across at me. I heard footsteps crunching in the snow, they were coming quickly, running! A tiny little man shot out from the dark of the lane. He was wearing tights and a tiny striped Santa hat. He was only two feet high and had a wicked little face. My jaw dropped. Was that an Elf? Like a for real Santa’s-work-shop Elf? There was something a bit off about him though. He was dressed in black and red. He must be on the naughty list. The Black cat leapt on him hissing and spitting. ‘Ge’oof!’ The Elf yelped as they rolled. The cat bit and scratched and twisted, kicking at the elf with its back paws. ‘Yeh Beastie!’ He cried as he wrenched himself free. He gave the cat a swift kick and dashed off through the park with the cat in pursuit. I sat there for a moment in utter befuddlement until the moonlight shone on a small marble like object. The Wish-For-All ! I scrambled out of the bush, plucked it from the snow, fumbled it into my pocket and scurried back. ‘Ouch!’ I growled as I settled once more into the scratchy bush. A pair of footsteps approached and Paige and younger me walked out of the lane. ‘This is good, I haven’t had a chai in ages.’ Paige said taking another sip. Younger me sipped his own. ‘Right? I got a bit of a taste for them, the campus café makes a really good one but this is…’ ‘Festive’ Paige supplied. Younger me smiled and nodded. I had bulked! Was I ever that small? Surely Paige had noticed that! Though, I suppose there was no way for her to explain it, trick of the forest light in her glasses maybe? Hang in there Paige ! I thought. I get Hotter I promise ! ‘So how often do you hike out there?’ Paige asked and my insides contracted. Younger me frowned. ‘Uh…out near Wild Track?’ Paige rolled her eyes. ‘Uh yeah, where else?’ ‘Oh, I um, pretty often. There's a clearing out there that I like to study in sometimes.’ Paige laughed. ‘Yeah I know! Well not the study part. But the clearing from today yeah?’ Oh please ! Oh Please don’t mess it up younger me! Just nod your head ! Younger me frowned ‘Uh-’ he said. But Paige had already moved on. ‘So are you going to walk me home?’ ‘Uh yeah! Still on Park Ave?’ I had to hold in the relieved breath that threatened to swoop out of me. Paige you beautiful genius ! ‘Yeah! Haha! Remember that old dog at the end of my street?’ ‘Oh yeah! Dover? Don’t tell me he’s still around!’ Paige smirked. ‘He’s still around.’ They turned left at the far edge of the park and wandered out of sight. I laughed, feeling a little giddy. I got The Wish-For-All, saw the previous owner and I wasn’t dead! Once younger me crossed that lane and found no Wish-For-All, shouldn't I have, you know? Pouff ! I dug into my pocket and pulled out the second Wish-For-All, With the other still hanging from my neck as a pendant. Okaayy. Fudge ! So now I had two of these things! And I was still here. So, alternate timelines then? Well, I wasn’t going back to my timeline that was for sure! I chuckled nervously, that one was a bit of a mess! If the police didn’t get me then the military would. Or even the old Asian lady who was my neighbour one level down, there was something assassin-ish about her. Hmm, I’d have to do something about my timeline though. Well, at least younger me would live an assassin free life! ‘ You’re welcome !’ I said to myself. Although , there was more I could do. Assuming younger me didn’t completely stuff things up…maybe I could… just a little ! I leapt out of the bush, sprinted to the end of the park and turned right. This was a perfect plan! I raced up onto our porch, found the key under the mat and made my way upstairs to my old room. My family was still out, I remembered dad bumping into Mr Colins which is when I’d decided to walk home alone. But not alone this time! I punched the air. Who was more of a Genius tonight really, me or Paige? Well, I was so stoked for both of us! All of us? Eh, whatever! My room was a dark mess. I took the backpack off my back and rummaged through it. There they were! I left the tech books on my old bed. Younger me would need these more than I would now. So, what to make? Nothing too crazy, something lucrative and easy enough for younger me to understand. Well, the gaming consoles had been a huge success for me in my timeline. They were also one of the least dangerous machines I’d made. I clutched the Wish-For-All and half filled the room with them. There we go! Young me would find these little beauties, test them out and then he'd find a way to replicate them. I'd know, because that's what I did! I wished machines into existence and then found ways to replicate them, with factories and everything! I had tried to seem legit in my own timeline, but I'd gotten careless and ambitious. I tapped my finger against my lip, what else? Oh! Those first flying pods I created; they were like flying cars. I clutched the Wish-For-All once more and filled the back yard with flying pods. There ! If younger me couldn’t find a way to make this work without blowing up his life, then nothing could save him! Save me ? I shrugged. I'd gotten him the girl and a way to become rich. What a wing man ! I was beaming as I strolled off down the street. I was alive and free! And this time I’d be much smarter about it. I’d get an alias, become someone else for a while, until I had a concrete plan to restore my timeline. But I’d need a social security number and ID for now. Hmmm, I had no idea how to do that! But I could probably wish for a machine to do that too! One that could hack my fake details into the system? I shrugged it off, sure it would work, no machine that the Wish-For-All produced had failed me yet. Maybe I’d fix my timeline and meet my own Paige! What could go wrong ?                                                      *** The Elf huffed and growled as he poked through the snow in the lane. ‘Where is it?’ He hissed as he raised a lamp high, searching for the lost object. ‘What’s this then?’ He whispered as he picked up a crumpled bit of paper with a handwritten phone number on it.

qlzw3g

The Gap

Jake had to travel about as far as he could from what he had to see it for what it was. Even then, it took a while for him to regain his sight. Australia was different. He’d been warned that it would be, but like most tourists he disregarded everything he heard, apart from the danger presented by the spiders. For the first two weeks he lifted the toilet seat and refused to sit on it for fear of the ignominy of a death sat atop a porcelain throne. He knew of the myriad unique dangers this strange and wonderful island held and the local news did not disappoint when it reported on a homeowner walking into her back yard to discover a two metre croc swimming in her pool. Said homeowner seemed to be more annoyed at the silence of her so-called guard dog. “Didn’t bark once. Useless mutt!” The following week a dog did bark as it caught sight of an even bigger croc swimming in pursuit of a couple of young lads. This owner had shouted warnings at the lads who had eventually cottoned on and made a desperate swim for the jetty and ladders halfway along the pier the dog and its owner were standing on, enjoying the early morning sun. This woman had had the presence of mind to take a couple of snaps of the croc as it very nearly reached the fleeing young men. They were lucky. The croc missed its meal by a matter of inches. This article reminded Jake of a clip of an old Aussie beer ad. “Are there sharks in this water?” “Nah!” and then whispered, “the crocs ate all the sharks.” The crocs in question were salties. Mostly, they kept to the fresh water rivers, but excursions into the sea were not uncommon. Jake had visited a croc farm and seen the folk lore. These were ancient creatures and cold blooded killers, his distaste for them increased as he watched one through a glass screen. It lay patiently under the water. It could do this for an age. But when an unsuspecting animal came to drink at the water’s edge, the croc would launch itself at frightening speed at its unsuspecting prey and drag it into the water. The power of their bite was formidable, but they didn’t chew their meals, instead they performed a death roll and drowned the poor animal and left them in what a guide called their larder, an underwater spot wedged under rocks where the meat would rot and be easier to eat, the croc latching on and spinning until it removed a snack sized portion. Jake couldn’t understand how such a cold animal thrived in the incredibly hot environment of the Northern Territories, but then there was a lot he did not understand as he embarked upon his gap year. A year that he came late to, having started university a few years after his peers. All the same, he bit the bullet and embarked upon a well-worn adventure. He arrived in a state of post university chaos. A twenty something with everything to prove, but no clue as to how to go about doing so. And to this enthusiastically unfocused chaos was added a burden of heart-breaking confusion. The heartbreak occurred on his very first day and confusion lay in the timing of the painful revelation that he was subjected to. This was made all the worse because he had known something was wrong but had chosen to crack on all the same. He hadn’t seen an alternative, but then he’d not once looked for one. Timing isn’t always everything. Occasionally time ropes in a friend and on this occasion time had opted for location. The location was Alice Springs, a romantic name that was most likely chosen to label a romantic notion, because, unless Jake was missing something, the place was in the arse end of nowhere and all it had going for it was its complete and utter isolation. If someone was after getting away from it all, then Alice Springs was the place to fulfil a wish that should have been more carefully opted for. There was another romantic notion here though. Jake had come to Alice Springs to reunite with his girlfriend. Jake’s girlfriend just happened to be called Alice and so the place seemed apt. In the midst of young love, it had been more than apt. Invisible planets had aligned and imaginary horoscopes had been read. This was all meant to be. Alice had been a year ahead of Jake. They had met in a student nightclub at the end of Alice’s second year. Both of them too drunk to remember how it was that they had made each other’s acquaintance, but it was most evident that they had when they woke up together on Alice’s sofa, or rather the sofa in Alice’s house share. They had been rudely awakened by Alice’s housemate Jan’s giggles as she made her way through the living room to the only bathroom that lay on the other side of the kitchen.  Both Alice and Jake had awoken with a start and experienced a flash of shocked comprehensive incomprehension. Neither understood anything of their situation until they clapped blurry eyes on each other and an echo of the previous night brushed upon them both. As one, they checked their stated of clothedness and ascertained that they were still in possession of all their clothing, including their footwear. Alice was the first to speak, “you’ve got pizza on you,” she stated. Jake nodded at Alice’s chest and then, realising how this may look and be taken, had the decency to blush, “so have you,” he said trying not to look at the take away foodstuff that was welded onto her left breast. To save further blushes, he looked down at his chest to see that he was wearing his slice like a seventies kipper tie, “quite fetching isn’t it?” he said grinning at the absurdity of it. They unpeeled their late night snack and Jake refrained from eating his. He was hungry and slightly hungover and cold pizza was just the ticket. He fancied that Alice had faced a similar dilemma. Thankfully, she located the pizza box which was to her side of the sofa and offered him a slice. Jake noted that the box was down two slices. They’d fallen asleep before eating any of the pizza. He found this astounding failure amusing. Something to dine out on. Something that they would tell the kids. Only, that eventually had ended in the crappy airport in the equally crappy Alice Springs. At least Alice had had the decency to meet him and update him face to face on the clandestine developments in her life in the six months since she’d gone on ahead to Aus. Jake had tried to listen to her sorry tale of not meaning to fall in love, and how it was the real thing and so totally and utterly unavoidable. There was a roaring of waves in his ears and that worried him because he was in the most landlocked location he’d ever visited. Under the sound of the waves was an indignant voice that was whittering away about how their love was the real things and also completely and absolutely unavoidable, and the follow up to this which was how the merry hell had she done this when she was already in love with him? That just was not possible and therefore this was not happening. Jake was about to pinch himself when Alice said something that made the cogs in his mind seize. But for good measure she was waving her engagement ring at him and grinning in a faux show of bliss. An agog Jake watched her surreal dance and then there followed a beautiful moment of temporary demonic possession. In that moment, Jake was afforded an eerie calm and focus. Everything else went away and there was only him and Alice. Not in the way that it was, but in a parody of that. A fitting spotlight for him to say goodbye in a way only this visiting demon could make land, “oh! Get fucked, you treacherous bitch!” Those were not Jake’s words. They were not even an expression of his sentiment. Jake was too numb to express himself and by the time he had thawed out, he knew he would be incapable of any adequate expression when it came to this unexpected betrayal, the implications of which reached further than this particular moment in Alice Springs. Alice had pulled the rug from under him and his plans were in tatters. All he had left to him was his stubborn determination not to turn tail and head right back home. He was not going to give up and add that to this loss. He would go forward, even if he didn’t know where exactly forward was. Not going back was a start. First though, there was Alice’s reaction to the words that had issued forth from Jake’s mouth, but that were not his own. Her expression had receded from that idiotic and thoughtless happiness in the context of her breaking Jake’s heart. He was glad to see that dissolve. It could never have been real in any case. Alice seemed to scroll through a selection of expressions and this added to Jake’s indignation when she landed on her own form of indignation, but hers was righteously indignant. She eyed him with undisguised contempt, upset at him for not playing the part she had written for him. Only now did he see that she was deluded. She had expected him to be happy for her. Happy that she had found true love and her one and only. She’d not once thought about how this played out beyond her acceptance of her obligation to actually tell him that she had met someone, moved on and agreed to marry them. Jake had not only waited for Alice, he’d packed everything up and brought it here so they could be together, sharing the adventure of a lifetime. Now he had been deprived of that and already he was considering he practical impact of his travel partner dropping him from a great height. There wasn’t only the sudden and unwanted isolation. Travelling alone was a very different prospect to having a travel partner in crime, there was also the question of funds. Alice had found a job online and she was here to accumulate travel funds. Jake had a horrible feeling that she’d fallen for the farmer’s son. Uncharitably, he found himself thinking about how getting in with him would have improved her living conditions overnight. Another practical consideration, but one that he was best dismissing. Now Alice had the temerity to look hurt. How dare she look hurt! She was doing this and inflicting it upon Jake. He wanted to protest, but telling her to stop looking hurt didn’t seem right. He’d already landed a blow and it was best left at that. It was Alice who spoke, “you’re better than this, Jake.” Jake’s eyes widened and he wanted to swear at Alice. He wanted to repeat what he’d already said, but instead he sighed and took a moment. He at least attempted to be better. He shook his head and looked at Alice anew, “you know what? I am better than this.” He picked up his rucksack and as he shouldered it, he realised that he’d dropped it in anticipation of a welcome hug that had never happened. Now his rucksack was hugging and it was a promise. There was always a promise, it was just a case of seeing it for what it was. The weight of his possessions reminded him of the road ahead. His road and even in the face of this shock development, it felt good, and it felt right. He held his hand out for Alice to shake. She didn’t take it. That told him something that he didn’t want to hear, but maybe needed to hear all the same, “I deserve better. So thanks for this, Alice. I hope you get everything you deserve.” He lowered his hand and walked away and out of the airport. This turned out to be a grand gesture. He had needed to walk away. That was what the situation called for. Standing there like a lemon and waiting for Alice to leave him was never going to happen. But now he was a stranger in a strange land and didn’t have a clue what he was doing. He began laughing at the absurdity of it all, and then he burst into tears only for the laughter to come rolling back in. Of course he was a stranger in a strange land. That was the point. Now it was a case of acquainting himself with this land and all of a sudden he understood that by doing that, by embarking upon this journey, he would find himself. He was looking forward to getting to know this stranger. He thought he was going to get along with him just fine. Mostly anyway. He wasn’t going to raise his expectations too high. He’d done that once before and that hadn’t been fair on him or on Alice. Jake had walked around in a circle remembering that, like a lot of places, the airport was nowhere near the town or city it was named after. As he returned to the airport building he’d been relieved to see Alice leaving. His relief had turned to pain as he saw her approach the man he’d lost her to. Thankfully she was too busy hugging him and chatting as they got into his pickup to see him re-enter the airport and head for the bar. He’d needed a drink, time to compose himself and then make a plan. As he sipped his first, ice cold Aussie beer someone stepped up to the bar alongside him, “alright, matey!” Jake had turned and grinned at the greeting, “alright!” he’d echoed raising his beer in greeting. “Waiting for the minibus, eh?” the lad had said as he paid for his beer. “That’d be the minibus to the…?” Jake had asked. “Backpacker’s hostel,” the lad had said giving Jake an appraising look, “were you headed elsewhere?” “Nah,” said Jake, deploying the smallest of white lies, “I just hadn’t planned beyond landing and grabbing a beer!” The lad chinked Jake’s beer glass with his own, “a man after my own heart!” They both drank to that. “I’m Sid by the way.” “And I’m Jake.” Jake wasn’t to know it yet, but in the wake of the loss of his relationship with Alice, he’d just met a lifelong friend. But then, that was how friendships worked. No weight of expectation to stifle a relationship that was just another friendship, but dressed up fancy and often forced to be something it wasn’t.

4qz943

The Path Will Always Remain

Nestled within the mountains of Colorado was a quaint village. Elliot had grown familiar with the area, but still yearned for adventure. Intrigued by what lay ahead, he ventured deeper into the forest than most people would. A fruit, resembling a plum, emerged on an ancient tree, radiating a purple iridescent glow that illuminated its surroundings. Knowing he went out for a daring adventure he almost felt it was necessary to take a bite from the mysterious fruit bestowed upon him. He decided he'd take the risk, and stole a fresh one from a stem hanging eye-level. At first, he didn't feel a thing, the bitter tase overwhelming his mouth was his main concern. But within seconds he began to feel faint, dizzy, almost as if everything was slowly spinning and fading away. Elliot found himself back in the village, but something felt odd. The streets were less crowded, nearly empty. The houses recently built and the farmers market were gone, like they were never there. He found someone a few miles down the road and approached him trying to decide what to ask first: "Sir, I live here, but I don't think I've seen you around, what is your name?" The man looked at him with a dazed face. "I do not reside here, I am visiting for a ceremony deep in the mountains. We gather every couple of years to hold a traditional celestial ceremony. I am an elder, one of that last remaining leaders of our group. Tell me, where did you go? You were supposed to attend at sunset and never showed." “Sir, I was traveling past my village into the forest and came across an opening with a single ancient tree within the middle. There was a fruit, almost resembling a plum and I apologize, but I was feeling adventurous and decided to eat it. I don't understand how do you know me?” “You’re the last remaining elder, from another universe. The fruit you ingested took you back in time on another universe’s path. Forgive me, but nobody has touched those fruits in years, I must warn you the dangers that come with them…” His eyes widened. His mind was racing, wondering if he’ll every get back to his other life, if everything will just be okay and if the dangers are as bad as this elder is saying they are. “We haven’t learned everything there is to know about these mysterious fruits, you’re bold for deciding to eat one. The most we have discovered is the risk of never returning to your destined life path in your universe. But, I must mention a benefit. You will learn quickly that you never age, you never die, you're truly invincible. We used to guard the fruits to keep people from getting a hold of them. But many would eat them, disappear, and use their powers to terrorize other towns. They would travel with the fruits and jump from town to town, destroying rituals, ceremonies, homes, and much more. There was never a reason, and they are never caught. They can't be caught at least not easily due to their abilities. Just be careful, you never know what will happen, and I can’t assume it will be worth the risk of never returning to your destined home. And, to be honest you never realize how living forever can be a sin wrapped in a blessing.” “Thank you for the advice, but I’d like to try and go back to my village now. Is there anything at all we can try to get me where I should be?” he pleaded desperately. “Please tell me there’s something!” “Well, it’s risky, nobody has tried it before, but there’s a standing myth about our waterfall. If you make it through the treacherous expedition, it is said that it will douse you with water and take you to your destined path. You may keep your new inhuman powers, but you have a high chance at making it back to your village.” “Thank you, I’ll do it. If it means getting me home I’ll do it. It’s been wonderful meeting you and learning this amazing alternate path, but I should go now.” He leaves the elder to attend to his ceremony, and soon realizes the journey he is about to travel on. No food, no supplies, and a path nobody has ever travelled through, yet all the time it takes to get there to think about his choices. About the elder, and the people he hadn't been introduced to. To think about their lives, what they've been through and such. ............ He discovered more travelers on the way, none of which seemed to be going with him to this waterfall. He kept pushing, even through som of the most difficult struggles. Not only did it snow, but it became dangerously cold in the evenings which he was far from prepared for. Pushing and pushing, he found a cave to reside in temporarily to stay warm. After a few hours, he continued his travels. ……….. After 3 days, 2 near-death experiences, and some rest later he arrives. In front of him was this waterfall, beautiful, glowing while many plants and animals thrived around it. It was eye-catching, not anything like he expected. But he began to feel this odd pressure in his chest, almost like guilt. He wondered about the elder, his life story, if he would be okay or if he was meant to meet in this universe. What if this is the right path? What if I'm making a mistake and regret going back then can never return? He'd never felt so conflicted, especially over a guy he knew for maybe a few minutes, but something about him called back out. This was his chance, his hope. He could follow his new path, meet new people, see the universe from a different side. But the question remains, does he take the chance of going back home without knowing the possibilities, or does he fulfill his new path as an elder in his new village? 

pnyzz9

The Rat of Justice in a Pioneer Adventure

      Sometime in the distant past, long before TV and infomercials:            “Save us, Sir Squeaksalot!” cry the mice. “We don’t want to be served with a side of mashed potatoes!”            “Oh, don’t worry, my tasty little morsels,” cackles Hisstopher Meowlumbus. “You can be served with fries instead!”            “I shall protect you, my rodent brethren!” cries Sir Squeaksalot.            Sir Squeaksalot charges at Hisstopher Meowlumbus, bearing his sacred cheese sword. But the feline fiend easily bats it away and catches him by the tail.            “You know,” says Hisstopher, “I’m so glad that I discovered this great land of Purrmerica. It shall become a new nation called the USF (United States of Felinehood). And what better way to celebrate this momentous occasion than by having the very first Meowsgiving dinner? We shall make all kinds of tasty treats. Mouse kabobs, sweet n sour popcorn rodent, double decker rat burgers, Rat a Roni pasta, I’m absolutely drooling over the possibilities!”            “Will you give me a last request?” asks Sir Squeaksalot. “Bury this capsule in the field down yonder.”            “Whatever,” replies Hisstopher.            Hisstopher hands the capsule to one of his feline cronies. After the minion returns, Hisstopher and his feline army begin to prepare Sir Squeaksalot and all his friends for a gourmet feast.            Meanwhile, back the present, our favorite squeakendary hero, the Rat of Justice, is enjoying a limburger milkshake while watching the movie “Swiss Wars.”            “Ah,” he thinks, “This is my favorite scene. It is where the vile Darth Cheeser reveals to Luke Squeakwalker that he is his father. An epic battle ensues, but Luke keeps the words of his friends in mind, ‘May the cheese be with you!’”            Just then, his ratphone rings.            “Hello?” answers the Rat of Justice.            “Rat of Justice, this is Dr. Mousenheimer. I just discovered something very interesting that I’m sure you’ll want to take a look at. I was doing some archaeological digging at Cheesestone National Park and found a relic that appears to be from the famous Sir Squeaksalot.”            “Yes, I remember learning about him while attending RHA (Rodent Hero Academy),” replies the Rat of Justice. “He was the original hero to rodent kind who met his untimely end. It has remained a mystery as to what happened to him.”            “Well, this relic might finally give us an answer to that question,” replies Dr. Mousenheimer. “Why don’t you meet me down at the RRL (Rodent Research Lab)? Remember, it is at the intersection of Gouda Lane and Pepperjack Ave.”            The Rat of Justice heads over to his top-secret superhero lair, the Ratcave and summons the Ratmobile. He fills the fuel tank to the brim with ghost pepper nacho cheese sauce.            “The ghost peppers will give me an extra boost in speed,” he thinks.            Upon arriving, Dr. Mousenheimer hands over the time capsule that Sir Squeaksalot had the feline minion bury. He opens it up and finds a note. It reads:            “Dear future hero to rodent kind, I am Sir Squeaksalot. I finally got defeated by a nefarious feline going by the name of Hisstopher Meowlumbus. He and his feline minions captured me and all my squeaking brethren and are going to dine on us. If you can somehow travel to the past and save us, it would be greatly appreciated.”            “So that’s what happened to him,” remarks the Rat of Justice. “This note also gives the time and geographical coordinates I need to travel to. But time machines are kind of hard to come by. Do you happen to have a spare time machine, Dr. Mousenheimer?”            “Why, yes I as a matter of fact do!” replies the doctor.            “How convenient!” replies the Rat of Justice.            Our hero heads over to the machine, enters the date to travel back to, and steps inside. Dr. Mousenheimer closes the door behind him and pulls the lever to activate the machine. But it starts to smoke and go haywire with beeps and boops. In a blinding flash of light, the time machine disappears, leaving the Rat of Justice stuck in the present.            “What happened?” asks our hero.            “Oh shoot!” cries Dr. Mousenheimer. I must have forgotten to oil it. As a result, the spacetime continuum fluid overheated, causing an existential paradox, which in turn caused the machine to disappear from reality.”            “Do you have another time machine handy?” asks the Rat of Justice.            “No, unfortunately,” replies Dr. Mousenheimer. “And if I order a new one from Times R Us, it will take weeks before it is delivered.”            “Well, I don’t feel like waiting that long to save Sir Squeaksalot,” replies the Rat of Justice. “What can I do? Hmmm… I know! The famous scientist Albert Scurrystein came up with the theory of Squeakativity along with the formula E=mc 2 (Energy = more cheese squared.) According to him, if someone somehow managed to travel faster than the speed of light, they could travel through time. When I eat ratnip, it gives me a temporary boost in speed and strength. I’ve been able to run almost as fast as the speed of light. But I recently got some industrial grade ratnip, and I bet it will help me go faster than the speed of light.”            “Okay,” replies Dr. Mousenheimer, “but just remember that the direction you run in determines whether you go forward or backward through time. Since you want to travel to the past, you will have to run backwards.”            “Got it!” replies the Rat of Justice.            Our hero quickly snarfs down the ratnip and takes off. He arrives at the dining table of Hisstopher Meowlumbus as they are just about to gorge upon Sir Squeaksalot and all his friends.            “What’s this?!” exclaims Hisstopher. “Are you some other hero to rodent kind? I see that you also wield a sacred cheese sword, but it will do you no good as you are no match for me!”            The Rat of Justice lunges at Hisstopher and his army and uses his sacred cheese sword to shave them bald. All the felines but Hisstopher scamper away crying and moaning.            “How dare you dishonor me and my comrades like that!” shrieks Hisstopher. “I can see that you are actually a threat unlike Sir Squeaksalot. It’s no matter though because I will have my revenge and victory over you!”            Our hero and the atrocious feline face off in the sparring match of the century. The Rat of Justice pulls out all the tricks he learned from Master Cheeseagi, his ratial arts instructor who taught him the secret techniques of Rat Fu. He does swissendary uppercuts, squeaking back paw strikes, and roundcheese kicks.            “You’re quite the impressive fighter,” replies Hisstopher. “You have mastered Rat Fu, but I am a master of Meow Fu.”            Hisstopher subdues our hero with a flying tabby kick and scoops him up in his paw. He quickly gulps him down.            “Well, that’s that!” sighs Hisstopher in relief. “Now back to my feast. I’ll have to let my friends know that it’s safe to come back. It’s too bad that cell phones haven’t been invented yet and that I’ll have to send a message via the tabby express.”            Hisstopher sends the message and sits at the table waiting for his friends to arrive. He doesn’t dig in himself as that would be impolite.            Meanwhile, inside his belly, the Rat of Justice finds himself swimming in a pool of stomach acid.            “You know, I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve been eaten,” he thinks to himself. “You’d think I’d be used to stomach acid by now, but it still really burns.”            He spies a note posted on the stomach wall and swims over to it. It reads:            “Feeding Instructions: Input organically fed rodents only. Avoid perfumes and colognes at all costs, especially Ode to Cheese, as this will cause a tremendously upset stomach.”            “It’s nice that these instructions are always posted inside of feline bellies,” he thinks. “And it’s also nice that I happen to have a bottle of Ode to Cheese with me.”            The Rat of Justice whips out the bottle and sprays some around.            “On second thought,” he thinks.            He opens the bottle and empties all the contents into the pool of stomach acid. Suddenly, things start to churn and violent waves form. He is caught up in a torrent of acid as he is ejected out of Hisstopher’s mouth.            “Oh, I don’t feel so good!” Hisstopher moans.            The Rat of Justice promptly ties him up in some sturdy string cheese rope. He also captures and ties up all of Hisstopher’s feline minions as they return. He then proceeds to free Sir Squeaksalot and all his friends.            “What should we do with these felines?” the Rat of Justice asks Sir Squeaksalot.            “Oh, I can hand them over to the RCJ (Rodent County Jail),” replies Sir Squeaksalot. “Thank you so much for coming to save us.”            “It was no problem!” replies the Rat of Justice.            Our hero pulls out another pawful of the industrial grade ratnip and snarfs it down. He runs forward this time so that he travels back to the present and Dr. Mousenheimer at the RRL (Rodent Research Lab).            “Rat of Justice,” greets the doctor, “did you save Sir Squeaksalot?”            “Yes,” replies our hero. “But it was a close call.”            The Rat of Justice heads home after another long and hard day of heroics.            “That was quite the battle!” he thinks as he plops down into his swiss cheese recliner.            He turns on the TV to the show “Ratname: Mice in the Next Sewer.” The episode’s title is CHEESE CURDS, which is code for:            C riminal            H ooligan            E nsures            E gregious            S uffering            E mploying            C ruel            U nderhanded            R ogues            D estroying            S nacks.            “Ah,” thinks the Rat of Justice. “This is the episode where the Snacking Outlaw enlists the help of nasty felines to destroy all the cheese curds in the world, which causes rodents tremendous sorrow. The Mice have quite the distasteful battle to engage in.”            Our hero relaxes to the show after another trying day. Will there ever be rest for the rodents of earth from the constant threat of consumption by felines? Of course not, but thankfully for them, they have the Squeaking Crusader and Swissendary Warrior who lives on to protect all of rodent kind.

b4hwqv

Lucky Snow

As Louisa pressed her face against the beautiful stained-glass window, she felt the cold air from the outside on her face which sent a shiver down her spine. She traced her finger along the picture imprinted in the window; a picture of a dead flower. She knew that in other towns, people would think it was odd considering living flowers are much more beautiful. Louisa squinted her eyes and peered through the window again, and there she saw it. The most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. It was a snowflake of the first snowfall of the year. Right before her eyes, more snowflakes floated down to meet her vision. Louisa was taught that snow was bad luck. It showed too much individuality and uniqueness because no snowflake was like another. Louisa held on to the idea of no two snowflakes being alike, hoping that one day she would be able to show her individuality for the true beauty it was.“Louisa! Hurry downstairs child and put on your coat! Grab your flowers and get to work!” Louisa shot out from the old comfy loveseat she was sitting in and rushed downstairs to meet her mother. She hurried down the stairs of their old and rickety house to the front foyer. She grabbed her old winter coat from the coat stand and picked up the axle of the red wagon containing a few boxes. Louisa made her way down the path of the neighborhood and made it to her first destination: Mrs. McAllister’s house. Mrs.McAllister was the neighborhood’s grumpy old lady who had only her cats to keep her company, for too much time with her was unbearable for anyone. Louisa knocked on the door three times and then waited for her to answer. She heard a shuffling in the house and then saw Mrs.Mcallister’s big puffy eye through the peephole. “What is it child, what do you want? I’m not donating any more money to the mayor for the Gray ceremony.” “It’s me. Louisa. I’m selling dead flowers.” “Oh of course dear! Give me a moment to put my robe on.” Mrs.McAllisster swiftly opened her door and greeted Louisa with the closest thing she'd ever seen to a smile on her face.“I just love buying dead flowers around the holidays! Reminds me of when I was your age, I’d grow my own flowers and then kill them myself! Mother always reminded me of the importance. It’s a perfect reminder of how beauty is temporary, so why try to be beautiful at all? I love to have my own bouquet just for the Gray ceremony! It’s the best day of the year.” Louisa never saw what was so interesting about it. Everyone outside of their tiny town celebrated the day as “Christmas”. Children would drink hot chocolate and leave their cookies for Santa, singing their happy Christmas songs and exchanging gifts. The Gray Ceremony on the other hand was when everyone in the town gathered at the city hall to repledge themselves to unremarkability. Everyone in the town lived on the sole idea that individuality was vulgar and that being the same in everything was good for society because no one would ever feel left out. Louisa used to be one of those happy children, singing Christmas tunes. But when her grandma got sick a few years ago, her family moved here, where her mother grew up to take care of her. Even though Louisa’s Nana had passed away, the family continued living there. After Louisa had sold one box of flowers, she decided to walk around the neighborhood seeing as she had nothing else to do. Some of the other kids were selling their dead flowers as well. Suddenly, a strong and frosty breeze blew upon her, almost knocking her down. She clung to her jacket and continued on her way to the best place in the neighborhood: The hill with the big willow tree. Louisa often sat under the tree as a way to seek comfort from what was going on in her life. Such as when her Dad threw a glass against the wall in an argument with her mother, when her older brother teased her about the freckles on her face, or when her mother scolded her for getting bad marks on her school assignment. The Willow tree was in quite a rough shape because it was the dead of winter, but the old tree was reliable nonetheless. As Louisa trudged up the hill, her winter boots crunching in the snow, she noticed someone was sitting under the tree in her favorite spot. She approached the tree and the boy sitting there turned around and noticed her. He had bushy brown hair and freckles on his face just like her. “I’m sorry am I in your spot? I can move.” Before Louisa could reply, the boy’s box of flowers caught her eye. His box was filled to the brim with colorful flowers of every type, looking very much alive. “Are those alive?” she questioned. “No they’re fake” the boy chuckled. “Why do you have them?” “Well, flowers with colors are much prettier than dead flowers, Don’t you think? Everyone says that they buy dead flowers because it’s supposed to represent that beauty is fleeting, but these flowers are beautiful and will never lose their beauty. As you can see, the box is still full so I must be the only one who thinks so.” “I’ll buy one,” Louisa said, giving the boy a sheepish smile. The boy flashed at her a huge grin and excitedly handed her a plastic marigold flower. “I’m Sam. Don’t worry about the charge, you can have that one for free.” “I’m Louisa.” Sam and Louisa sat beneath the willow tree and talked till the sky grew dark and both their mothers were hollering for them to come home. Louisa couldn’t go to bed that night. It was the first time that anyone had ever truly seen her. Sam told her that he couldn’t stand everyone in the town even though he had lived there his whole life. “They all act like robots. I swear they’re all programmed to not have feelings!” Sam had exclaimed earlier that day, which made Louisa giggle. Sam confided in Louisa and told her he planned to run away on the day of the Gray ceremony. Then Louisa did something she never imagined she would do. She asked if she could come with him. Louisa finally drifted off into sleep imagining a life free from the town, where she could be any kind of snowflake she wanted. The whole week leading up the the Gray ceremony Louisa and Sam met under the willow tree, planning their escape. At the gray ceremony, they’d both tell their mothers they forgot their flowers at home. They’d grab their packed bags and then meet each other at the train station to hop on a train to the next town over. Louisa was a nervous wreck the morning of the gray ceremony. She was dressed in a plain grey dress that went down to her knees, just like all the other girls in town. She had stashed her backpack with all the necessities under the floorboard in her room, which would be waiting for her when she would return home shortly. Louisa and her family set out for the town hall. Everyone assembled inside taking a seat in pews that had been set up. Louisa caught Sam’s eye from across the room and they shared a wink. She then feigned a huge gasp and turned to her mother explaining she left her flowers. Louisa’s mother gave her a harsh scolding, but then instructed her to hurry back quickly. Louisa wasted no time changing her clothes and gathering her things before heading to the station. She met Sam inside and they boarded their train full of anxiety and excitement. Louisa could have spent hours on that train. While Sam had fallen asleep, Louisa was looking out the window admiring the sites before her. The beautiful evergreen trees and large lakes along with beautiful mountains captivated her attention. Louisa then caught sight of a snowflake outside her window. Then she saw another and another. All of them are unique and free to be themselves. Louisa couldn’t help but wonder if Snow was lucky after all. 

mx8tt0

The Ghost of Christmas Present

Carol gathered herself inside her old Ford Ranger. She pulled some fly-aways into place, tucked her scrub top into her bottoms, and wiped a tear from her eye. What was the trick for making your eyes less puffy? Tea bags? Her phone dinged and she made the mistake of checking it. Her background was her dog wearing a Santa hat and offering a slobbery tennis ball. Wads of wrapping paper crinkled underfoot and the smell of gingerbread wafted in from the kitchen. Nothing but a decorative skirt lay underneath the tree now, and 15 year old Carol crossed her arms across her chest and sighed. Maybe next year. “Wait,” her father said, “I think Santa left a present out in the garage.” Carol rolled her eyes. She was too old to believe in Santa, but she still scootched up to the edge of the couch and hovered over the edge in anticipation. A puppy bounded up and bumped right into her, eyes entirely obstructed by, what was then, a huge Santa hat. He clambered up into her lap and licked her on the nose. She named him after her favorite character from Lord of the Rings: Samwise. Because, if there was one thing she knew, every adventurer needed a steady traveling companion. Carol waited for laboratory door to swish open at the swipe of her badge. Underneath her picture and name, the badge announced her title, “Senior Director of Animal Care.” She tried not to think about that too hard and covered the badge with her cardigan. The new receptionist waved, “Good morning Carol! Glad you made it in okay; can you believe this snow?” Carol grumbled as she traipsed outside to shovel the snow before school. “Another three inches in the last four hours.” She turned the doorknob and a gust of winter wind pulled and slammed her garage door wide open. Samwise seized his opportunity and dashed outside, rolling around and around, and making doggie snow-angels. Carol laughed and Samwise careened over and knocked her into a snow drift, licking her face so that her glasses fogged up and her scarf stuck to her face. As she scraped the snow off to one side of the driveway or the other, she periodically stopped to toss Samwise a snowball to catch. Despite the wicked wind and the biting drudgery of her least favorite morning chore, Carol felt warm. Carol slumped down at her desk to check her email. They had named her Employee of the Month and thanked her for being such an asset to the company. A sizeable salary increase and a choice parking spot awaited. An assistant peeked his head in, “We’re ready for you doctor.” Her professionally matted degree hung in an ornate gold frame over her desk. The clock on the microwave flashed 3:02 am. A few lonely crusts lingered inside an opened pizza box and a fresh pot of coffee dripped in the kitchen. She had only made her way through the first third of her flash cards. Carol considered ripping all of her textbooks up into confetti and tossing all of it out the window. One last test to become a veterinarian and she felt certain she would botch the whole thing. Samwise wandered out of the bedroom, climbed up onto the couch, and flopped across her lap. He nuzzled his nose underneath her hand, and promptly fell asleep, snoring loudly and drooling everywhere. Carol scratched the top of his head. “You know, I’m doing all of this for you.” “Next!” Carol called out. The operating room door whooshed open and an assistant spread an anesthetized beagle out on the table. Carol made her opening incision, placed the pacemaker, and sutured him back up. Her colleagues would monitor the dog for a few months, maybe a year, before he would ultimately be euthanized. Then, Carol would open him up once more, for necropsy. “Next!” the receptionist called. Carol checked-in Samwise and settled in to wait. There was a time when Samwise would have insisted on sharing her uncomfortable chair, but he collapsed at her feet. Carol had taken Samwise to eight specialists in three different states, but had received zero answers. No one could agree on the cause of Samwise’s episodes. Carol checked her bank account app and hung her head. Rent was due and she had already maxed out four credit cards on these visits. A notification flashed across her screen: a job opportunity at an animal testing facility. She swore she would not even consider it, until she saw the starting salary. Carol wandered back towards her office, but stopped in front of the canine ward. Dogs barked and paced and screamed and threw themselves against their cages. These dogs were bred specifically for testing, and none of them would know anything different than the inside of this laboratory. This was not the first time Carol had been tempted to race down the runway and fling every cage wide open. Instead, as usual, Carol found her way to her office and laid her head down on her desk. There, at least, it was quiet. It was too quiet when Carol came home from work yesterday evening. She rushed from room to room. “Samwise! Here boy!” She hoped that he was just sound asleep in her closet. Instead, she found his body underneath the Christmas tree, stiff and soaked in urine. She sobbed all night long, gripping his cold soft fur in her hands and pulling Samwise into her lap. Everyone had left for the day. Carol hurried down the hallway towards the canine ward, oblivious to the deafening howls. She threw open one cage door after another and shepherded twelve beagles out to her truck. For the very first time their little noses sniffed at the open air. Carol sped off into the night with all of the dogs in tow. She remembered the Samwise from her stories saying, “There’s some good in this world, Mr. Frodo, and it’s worth fighting for.” She adjusted Samwise’s tennis ball on her dashboard and knew this was true. Adventure awaited.

ietyhp

THE FALL GUY

My buddy, Rocco, has been riding my case for so long he continues to randomly appear in the form of a nightmare. His booming voice would wake me up. Needless to say the only recourse I had was to squeeze a pillow over my head to try to get rid of that loud echo. But of course, I would wake up, and with absolute laughter try to get him to listen to me "JUST ONCE!" We've known each other since first grade when on the very first day he shoved his butt on my assigned chair, looked straight to me and said, "What? I got here first. Beat it puppy!" The teacher, being nice, tried to get him to move to his seat in the back of the room but Rocco was stuck like glue. So, to avoid any altercation, the teacher prompted me to a seat at the front next to hers. This was the one reserved for the 'star of the day'. Everyone clapped as I walked forward. Except him. He got up, the chair scraping the floor and loudly said, "I am going to the Principal's office!" He ran out the door before the teacher could say one word. It took awhile but the two us finally came together after more than a few push and shove moments before and during school, at recess and even lunch time. The lunch ladies would have Rocco sit by himself to avoid him throwing one more bowl of food. His aim was to always mess me up and to win the prize; his version.   And this is how our push and shove match began and the one that kept up all the way through the first grade ruckus to high school graduation. It had developed beyond our younger days when we began to see each other for who we really had grown into and then it morphed into a lifelong friendship. The way the both of us opted to use all that creative energy, as my mother called it, was on the field, in as many sports as we were allowed. Soccer, football, baseball, you name it. What I finally came to understand was that he was from a foster family. I knew nothing about the system but he seemed to struggle all the time. That side of him was what flashed over the years like a hot skillet on an open flame. I could also sense it in the way he would scribble in a notebook. It seemed like the pen was his dagger relentlessly gouging his frustration onto the pages. He shared nothing until the day we were on the field going through drills and the police showed up with several others from the state welfare system. Rocco stopped, looked at me with a side glance, angrily swore a blue streak, ran off the field and disappeared through the parking lot. Everyone stopped midway through drills. "What's going on?" This was such a surprise and one team player yelled seeing Rocco turn and run. "Hey! Rocco what'd you do?" The team was crazy with questions about what was going on. The coach gathered everyone for a quick comment and most importantly, to stay focused. More would be said later. "Give him space. No questions." It seemed Rocco was only being observed as protocol in the foster care system. The coach assured the officers by going over time spent on the team, showing up, and being attentive to directions, that he was all right. They thanked the coach, shook hands and left. Practice time was over and the coach told everyone to head back. The coach had me wait and took me aside. "Do what you can. Let me know what's up. I will speak to him later when he feels ready." He put his hand on my shoulder. "We can do this." As I watched him head back to the school, Rocco reappeared and walked over to me. With concern, I quietly asked, "Hey, what's up? I'm here or there. You choose. Okay?" and just let him be. He nodded and lowered his head. I grabbed his shoulder and steered him towards the way back. "Thanks." he paused and looked at me with a grin and a smurk. He knew I had his back. That was the last time I saw Rocco struggle. He seemed to have grown into a different person by the time graduation was here. We made plans to get a burger at the BARN and just take five. Everyone had been all over me about what I was going to do next. I hadn't applied to the right school to get my college career into motion. So I had to call it for now. Time off to do what I needed, and gather my whit's to what life had in store for me. My folks were okay with that and they just told the others in the family to keep their opinions to themselves. Good for them! I was so appreciative of their no judgment contract. Rocco and I had a great time just reminiscing, laughing our butts off and being just in the moment. We knew there was more to each of our stories. I told him my path into the unknown. I was going to work this summer and put a few bucks in my pocket. Then whatever happened next was to be a toss of the cards. Rocco was so happy that my folks let me have charge over my life. He admitted that he was now eighteen. Didn't share the birthday moment with anyone. I felt bad as now he was on his own and was let go from the system. This was a milestone and we talked on and on about all that he felt and what he went through from the first moment with his assigned family who remained somewhat distant. He shared a lot and I was happy to be the ears he needed. We left to end the day on positive vibes. As we parted, Rocco asked to keep me in his life and vice versa. "Wherever we go, stay in touch. Okay? I have no one else." I looked to him and nodded with a decided "YES", then shook my head, made a face and said, "NO". He grabbed my arm, shoved me in shock and yelled, "You RAT!!!!" I pushed away and started to walk fast to avoid any confrontation but Rocco caught up to me. He didn't hesitate and started to push, shove and then fake walloped me until we both fell over creating quite the surprise scene. A crowd formed not knowing what was going on as we kept up our act. "Hey! What's going on?" Some made an attempt to grab Rocco until both of us started laughing hysterically as we laid flat out in the street, clothes pulled apart, dirt smeared everywhere on our backs. My hands came up in a peace gesture as I called out, "Thanks everyone!" I yelled to let them know we were picking up where we left off in first grade. There was some laughter, others shook their heads, and waved a sign of well wishes to carry on as they parted the scene. We walked back to the parking lot. The car I had was gifted to me by my Uncle Harry. It was a crusted Ford Fairlane but it worked. Rocco asked me for a ride back to his foster home to pack up for good. As we traveled the back way to that side of town, I knew there was something else he wanted to tell me. His fingers kept scrunching some papers that were in his jacket pocket. "Tell me. You got something, I need to hear it." Rocco looked over and said, "Stop. Please stop. Now." I pulled over, parked and shut the car off. "OK! What'd I do now." I paused and added a funny gesture, "Ohhh, now I get it, we need more street time. Right?" I smiled a cheesy grin, then he shook his head with a smile and said something amazing. It was and still is to this day a total surprise. "I will be leaving to attend an academy." I was in shock and thought his foster family made nice by helping him move forward towards a better life. "It's not what you think." Rocco looked straight ahead, his foot tapping a mile a minute. "Hey! Just tell me. Let's get out for a minute." Both of us didn't hesitate and walked to the hood of the car. Rocco had his hands shoved deep in his front pockets, looked at his feet, kicked a rock and sighed. I put my hands up and prompted him to reveal whatever he needed to tell me. "I've been accepted into the ISS school." I was way beyond surprised. With a positive yell, hands up, grabbed my friend and bear hugged him with all my might. He gurgled and coughed since I nearly choked him and with abandon he decked me. I nearly fell sideways into a ditch, scrambled upright to regain my posture. "OK! Whew." I stepped back, shook my arms and let him fill me in on the news. "So what college is this and where is it? I'm so psyched for you! Give it to me!" I waited to let the news hit me and it did, like a Mack Truck. I had no clue where this was going. It wasn't just an average college or university. This was a career into the action performance of the big screen; a stunt double. The school was The International Stunt School in the state of Washington under the United Stuntmen's Association. The goal is to attain and learn the skills and knowledge in film, television, video games and live action shows. "I had this idea to use the hate, anger, and the full on way I was fighting my inner demons. Rather than turning my life into oblivion and avoiding people because of my issues, I woke up. Thanks to you and your one on one seeing the real me." Rocco paused, "Hey, someone has to do this stuff like high risk action scenes, fist fights, a car accident here and there. I really think with my life and the way it was going, I was training for this all along. Well, I am hoping to be a success." I was really excited that he found something totally off the cuff, but so on his level. I wouldn't have thought this Hollywood Avenue path at all! Really? I had no clue about the best way to fall down stairs, hang from a building, sword play, rock climb, tumble on cue, martial arts fighting scenes and the list was endless. Book learning on a whole different platform. "Hey, I did you and me HUGE favor." Rocco put on his best game face and said, "I was nice and went to the Principal's office. He gave me a Star of the Day award. I win!" We both laughed so hard going back to first grade! It never gets old.

uw7h5f

White Hell

They had originally named this exoplanet WHTHLL025. After astronauts began sending probes there, everyone just called it White Hell. It was, as scientists discovered, an icy world so glacial cold and forbidding that no life was deemed viable. That was, until twelve cycles ago, when a Dr. Javier Veil reanalyzed some of the older probe data. To say his discovery changed the world would be an understatement. A mission was planned; humanity had to see for themselves. I’m typing these words as we approach WHTHLL025, on the starship Reveal. It’s nippy on this level of the ship, even though the environmental controls are set at mid-range. Most of the ship’s energy is being routed to the quanta engines. My fingers feel numb. I bite them in an attempt to get some sensation back. Dr. Javier looks up from his holo-display. He gives me a weak smile. I nod back and he lifts from his seat. I just realize how gaunt he’s become. I’m worried about him. A slight plume of vapor drifts from his mouth when he asks “Need anything from the galley?” I tell him no, but what I really crave right now, of all things, is a hot loaded baked potato. One smothered with the works: butter, sour cream, cheese, bacon bits and chives. And could I ever go for a really good cup of hot chocolate, made with milk… Damn! I got to stop this. The food on this ship is strictly nutritional—flavor is a distant memory, one of many things I left behind on Earth 3. Tapping on my holopad, I access remote camera data and see WHTHLL025 looming ahead. This giant frozen sphere resembles ancient images I’ve seen of cold, distant moons orbiting a gas giant neighbor of Earth 1. *** I’m in a descent craft with Dr. Javier and a mecha we affectionately call Jack. The ride to the surface is nothing short of vomit-inducing as we get slammed and buffeted by volatile weather. The craft levels out once we get 100 meters from the surface, and I can now see massive ice columns appearing like alien monoliths carved by the unseen hand of some giant sculptor. I’m filled with both excitement and apprehension as the craft’s landing skids crunch down on the snow and ice. I can feel the vibration go all the way through my body. I clench my teeth as I exit the craft, the arctic-level winds howling around me. I hear my environmental suit whirl and click as the joints work in spite of this extreme weather. Looking skyward, there are what appear to be huge snowflakes the side of dinner plates drifting by. I have to be careful where to step because ice spikes protrude from the ground like daggers. Jack lumbers on a few steps behind us. Dr. Javier taps me on the arm and points to something shining, a point of light on the sleet-obscured horizon. Every movement takes extra effort as we pick our way across a frozen landscape of brittle glass and diamond-encrusted boulder fields. I look behind me. Jack’s exo-plating is covered in frost. The communication channel buzzes in my ear, but Dr. Javier’s voice crackles as if speaking from a great distance rather than right beside me. I see the ground splintering like a spider web under our feet. He tells me this area is unstable. The next moment, a fissure swallows him whole. I fall backwards and frantically scoot away. I yell for Jack to follow me as we retreat over and around the huge ice formations. Once Jack and I get enough distance between us and the sunken glass valley, I realize there is no rescue mission here. The good doctor is irrevocably lost to this hellish, white, frozen world. And not for the first time, I regret the long journey here. Once we regroup, I set a new course for the bright anomaly that the doctor spotted in the distance. Jack occasionally takes material samples and atmospheric readings. I occasionally do the same while fighting back the urge to panic. This world’s star burns brilliantly like a sapphire demon in the void of space. How anything resembling life could exist here is difficult to fathom. I look down at the readout. These readings are confusing. I confer with Jack. He confirms that an elemental soup is, indeed, present. Oxygen, nickel, methane, butter…wait, what ? My mind keeps drifting, like the small snowballs swirling at my feet driven by an alien gust. My O2 levels are below normal, so I replace the canister with a fresh one. My head clears. We reach the crest and look down the slope to find a marvel lying at the center of the valley. Metric readings on my H.U.D. estimate the anomaly is over five clicks away—an exhausting hike on foot in this heavy snow. I activate jack’s sled function and the mecha transforms into a smoother, flattened version of himself. The wind whips up a curtain of snow, the ice particles hindering visibility as we zip down the slope. Once the terrain levels off, the ride and view become much more agreeable. My breath is taken away as we approach an arch made of aqua, rose and citrine crystals. A massive, shimmering dome just beyond us undulates with aurora unlike anything seen by human eyes. And that’s when I see the first one out of my peripheral vision before passing out. *** When I wake up, I slowly realize I’m lying on a mossy floor inside the dome. Jack is nowhere in sight. As my vision clears, I’m startled to see my helmet on the ground beside me. The air is impossibly breathable. It’s cool, but fresh, with a strange sweetness to it—almost spicy. Jack appears from a small dwelling holding a silver platter. On it sits a cup of hot chocolate…and a loaded baked potato. I see more of them now—small creatures that resemble…children? Their skin glistens. They have multiple arms. As I’m surrounded by these alien—elves?—I can’t help but smile in astonishment. I say to them “Please take me to your leader”.

ftl85v

Road trip to the past

Walter and Joan waited at the local IHOP. They had been excited and arrived early not because of the fluffy French toast instead their excitement stemmed from the adventure they were about to start. They were meeting with a couple of friends for a 10-day road trip up north to see the fall colors. Each year they would talk about it but so far no one had ever actually made any plans. Joan had decided that this would be the year to go. “Come heck or high water, I’m going.” Her husband Walter knew better than to try to change her mind. She had been watching an old movie from 1985 about a group of old people who had found a sort of fountain of youth by swimming in a pool with aliens. Then and there she had begun writing her bucket list and right on top was “see the fall colors.” That was before the diagnosis. Now she was absolutely adamant about getting through her list. Last Tuesday, during Bible study, Joan told her friends about the list of plans. They had embraced her with love and promised to help whenever they could. Henry and Olivia were the first to volunteer. They both grew up in Texas and as teenagers, their families had taken road trips up into Virginia to see the trees and the colors of the autumn leaves. Unlike Henry and Olivia, Joan came from a poor family. Her family scratched out a living growing crops down near the Texas-New Mexico border. As she sipped her coffee Joan reminisced about those dirt crops where she spent so many hours picking out rocks and guiding a horse and plow. They had been poor but those were some of her happiest memories. Outside they could hear another motorcycle pull into the parking lot. Soon Henry pulled open the door for Olivia, both were cheerful they looked just as excited too. Hugs all around then they sat and ordered breakfast too. After the waitress cleared away the dirty dishes Joan began laying out the itinerary. “Rule #1 no one is allowed to mention time. No looking at our phones. No checking our watches. We are absolutely going by the seat of our pants and playing it by ear,” Joan explained. She locked eyes with each person at the table and received both smiles and heads nodding in agreement. “Rule #2 no one is to ask me ‘how I’m feeling?’ or ‘Do you need to sit down for a minute?’ because for the next ten days I want to be treated like a normal person. So no side glances between you guys behind my back. Yes, I agree it isn’t fair that I have this tumor but if the doctors say they can’t remove it then we will pretend it isn’t there. Do you understand?” More heads were nodding but the smiles had slid from their faces a little. “I looked it up last night on my computer. It shows a 23-hour drive but if we are playing it by ear maybe we will just ride 6-8 hours a day plus stopping every hour for pee pee breaks. Henry smiled knowing his bladder would be grateful for the frequent breaks. They talked a little longer about the details of the ride and then were ready to go. They paid for their meals and thanked the staff. The men get on the motorcycles first then assist the ladies in getting comfortable. Helmets were put on and they were off to begin Joan’s adventure. She waved goodbye to San Antonio, and they began riding east on Highway 10 heading towards Houston. They stopped when they pleased not rushing each other. Lunch was a deli sandwich from a travel plaza. They sat outside on a bench and enjoyed chatting with one another about nothing in particular. Before they left Walter bought himself a new handkerchief and Henry found himself a book in the discount bin. “John Saul has a way of keeping me awake like no other writer.” Olivia just rolled her eyes at him. She loved the fact that he was a bookworm even though they didn't always agree on the genre. By the time they reached Lafayette, Louisiana they were ready to find a place for the night. They got two rooms at the Drury Inn & Suites after having dinner at Cracker Barrel. Before bed, they had a small Bible study together then slipped into pajamas and went to sleep. The next morning they returned to Cracker Barrel for breakfast. Olivia had purchased a map. She now had it splayed out on the table. “If we take 55 north we can go through Jackson MS up into Memphis then follow Interstate 40 across Tennessee, maybe stop in Nashville and take in some real good bluegrass music. Look here,” she pointed to Knoxville, “we would take I-81 then follow route 460 to I-85 and ta-da Richmond Virginia.” Henry agreed, “I’ll do anything to avoid driving through Atlanta.” They folded up the map and were back on the road. They came to an interchange and headed north on 55 just as planned. They had been on the road for almost two hours when Henry’s bike started acting up. They pulled into a Chevron station and the men began looking it over. Everything checked out fine but they decided to take route 51 North because it was more populated and easier to find help if needed. They hadn’t traveled far when she got a craving for pizza and it reminded Joan that she had eaten a small breakfast. They made a left onto Black Cat Rd and pulled into the Hunt Brothers Pizza place but as they parked Joan changed her mind. There was a food stand on wheels. “Let’s give that a try.” Henry and Olivia stop in their tracks. “That is not a good idea.” Walter agreed saying, “I see a future of diarrhea and vomiting if we eat there.” Joan ignored them all and approached the cute food truck. A short little old black woman stood behind the counter. Her face was creased with years of crow's feet and laugh lines. The woman's silver-white hair was neatly held down with a hair net. She wore fresh clean gloves and a genuine smile. Everything about the food truck was clean and tidy. “Well good day," the short old lady said to Joan, "How are you doing? What brings you to our little town?” Without meaning to, Joan began to unload everything onto this stranger. She felt so comfortable that she found herself telling the other woman all about the road trip and why she had started her crazy bucket list. It felt like time stopped. The other three people stayed back by the motorcycles so it felt like the universe had made a pocket of time just for these two women. When she had emptied herself, nothing else was left to say, the old woman took off her gloves and patted Joan's hand. "You need some of my special cherry pie." Tears stained Joan’s face as she watched the old woman put on new gloves and prepare four slices of pie. “Don’t you waste anymore more tears on that nasty tumor.” She pushed the plates of cherry desserts toward Joan saying, “Go enjoy the life you have left.” Smiling from the kindness she had been shown, Joan gave the woman $20 and then called the group over. They each took a plate and fork and sat under a shady tree where several tables and benches had been arranged. Having a difficult time hiding his concern, Walter asked Joan in a hushed voice, “What was all that about?” She kept her eyes down, a little embarrassed. “I guess we just had a special connection for a moment.” Olivia piped up, “Probably all the stress you’ve been feeling.” They ate the pie in silence. It was really amazing. The tart cherries and the buttery flaky crust made Joan feel like she had when she was a kid. The taste reminded her of Christmases of long ago. She was reminded of cold days and hot cocoa. Ice skating and snowball fights. Lost in her own thoughts she must have fallen asleep for a moment. When she opened her eyes, she was back on the family farm. She wore her old brown sweater and black trousers with wool socks and snow boots. As she looked around she was knocked off her feet by a clumsy black and white dog. “Sally?” Joan muttered in disbelief. The dog paused when she heard her name then bounded back over to play in the snow at Joan’s feet. From behind she felt more than heard the presence of their old bay. He nickered and pawed at the snow a little. “What was in that pie?”

odggbb

Dancing Snow

White powder glistened on everything he saw. It covered the trees, forcing branches to curve and bend to an almost snapping point. His breath came in rasps, vaporizing in thick steam before his face. The cold bit through his thermal clothes, numbing his fingers. His skin prickled, desperate for the friction that welcomed warmth. Ice coated his eyelashes and stuck together every time he blinked. He had long ago abandoned his goggles as they kept frosting over. Visibility was low with or without the goggles. The wind howled, pulling puffy gray cotton balls of clouds closer, beckoning a storm. A bad one. The mountainside was dangerous territory, but hiking here had been a lifelong dream of his. Keep moving , he told himself. Keep moving and the cold stays away. It felt like a lie and his body protested with every step. His body continually tried convincing him it was a lie. Wouldn’t it be much better to sit and rest? Somewhere in his mind warned him against that. What was it about again? Hypothermia, right? He kept hiking, his feet dragging through heavy snow that reached mid-thigh. He was tired, and moving was slow. But he was moving. He wanted a break, but didn’t he just finish one fifteen minutes ago? Or was it ten? He glanced at his wristwatch. The surface sparkled with frost and he squinted past it. Five minutes ago, he corrected himself. Unless the watch had frozen over just like his water canteen had. The shelter was another mile of hiking. The storm would be here before then. He thought he wiggled his toes but realized that he couldn’t feel them. He lifted his leg and brushed the snow off the boot as if being able to see the shoe would ensure that his toes were still in there. The snow was beautiful, glistening, and perfectly white. Like a soft porcelain blanket that covered the rolling hills, mountainside, and surrounding trees. He had always enjoyed snow. Each snowflake was different; uniquely made with delicate crystallized patterns. As a kid, he would try catching them and admire them with a child-like innocence and curiosity. Miniature glass fragments that danced in the right light. He loved it. The snow was Earth’s coating of protection during the winter, keeping her warm and safe. A pillowcase for her to rest during the hibernation season. A peaceful tranquility he could get lost in. Was lost. He had stopped moving. The clouds looked better from this angle. Less angry yet still gray. Something crashed, like banging pots falling to the kitchen floor. It rang in his ears and made his eyelids flutter. He should move, right? His fingers were icicles and his legs were frozen logs. He breathed in razor blades of cold air and they cut and sliced his throat. A weight, soft and oppressive, settled on his chest. He didn’t think he could move even if he wanted to. A faint vibration shifted underneath him, but he barely felt it. Think warm thoughts , he told himself. Hot coffee burning his tongue. What did coffee taste like again? A roaring fireplace, thawing the ice. Was the fire blue? It sucked in the warmth. Thick socks to bundle around his feet. But wasn’t he already wearing socks? A woman’s touch to forget everything. What was he thinking about again? He could almost feel the heat, just at the edge of his fingertips. It numbed and blistered his skin, but he couldn’t move away. No, not heat. Ice cold gave the illusion of heat. Snowflakes, like the ones from his childhood, landed on his scarf. Past frozen lashes he marveled at them. Beautiful. Large and fluffy with crisscross patterns only the mountains could create. He wished there was more light so he could see them better. See if he could find the rainbow hiding within. Unlike the snowflakes from his childhood, these didn’t melt right away. They stayed as if they wanted to make an everlasting friendship. He could do that, right? Maybe take them to the shelter with him? Before the thought finished he knew it wouldn’t work. He might lose the perfect little snowflakes. He’d have to stay, and let them comfort him. They flocked to him now, falling in copious amounts all to meet him. He forgot what he needed to do a moment ago. The sound of kitchen pots fell again, but this time it sounded further away. Or perhaps muffled, like he was in another room listening through a wall. With the whistling of the wind, the snowflakes began dancing. Through half-closed eyes he admired how they moved around him, twirling in circular motions. Music gathered, slow at first and gaining speed. High-pitched whistling covered the swell of drums and low-base notes that rumbled in his chest. The snow moved rhythmically with it, dancing and spinning in white majesty. He couldn’t keep up with it. His eyes darted back and forth trying to catch a glimpse of the perfect snowflakes that gathered in thick troves now. The clouds couldn’t be angry anymore if they created such beauty. The music reached a crescendo, a roaring of white fury. Terrible and enchanting. I’m in heaven , he thought as the avalanche descended upon him. *** The research team began before the first light appeared, knowing they needed to catalog every detail of the overturned snow. The avalanche had crashed down the mountainside for 5 kilometers, with a width of 1.3 kilometers. Isolated, it had destroyed trees and demolished local homes of critters and hibernating creatures. Specialists were calling it the most devastating avalanche in ten years. Likely causes were uncertain but the analysis of experts determined the previous night's storm and heavy snowfall were the source; too much weight had caused a collapse. Others argued against this as the fresh snow from the blizzard coated the overturned avalanche snow, indicating it had occurred before the storm. If that were the case, then few possibilities were left for a leading cause. There were no casualties documented. Two days later, a picture of Andrew L. McCarthy was displayed on the TV while the news reporter described the missing person. “... Tall, mid-twenties, wearing black thermal snow pants and jacket, best suited for hiking in the mountains. Andrew was last seen at the local bus stop wearing a small pack of hiking gear and…” The research team left five days later, never finding the body that froze six feet below.

1ostnn

The Search For Shelter

My shoe breaks through the hard outer scab of snow, sharp icy edges adding fine scratches to my bare ankle as I hurry forward as fast as I can go. Panting. Beside me, little Piper scampers wren-like atop the crust of glittering white. Piles of high, sparkling, powder surround us; trees look as if they’ve been coated in crystal and thick quiet flakes of snow have begun fill the sky. If this were any other day, the scene would have been idyllic, instead, I’m filled with panic at the slowness of which I’m wading through the calf-deep drifts, the obvious trail we leave in our wake, and the shouts of voices behind us. Drums of panic thump within my heart. Hurry. Flee. Hurry. Flee. I catch Piper’s small woollen mitten and clutch her hand between my cold blue fingers, pulling her along. I’ve been trying not to let my terror show, pretending we are on a grand adventure. “The car went smash.” Piper says her breath puffs in misty clouds around her red cheeks. “Yes.” The car did indeed go smash. It went sideways off the road then rolled down the embankment onto its roof. I feel the large welt on my head and try to remember what led to that crash. Nothing comes. I didn’t recognize the car, or the coat I’m wearing, or the house clothes underneath. I don’t remember these woods or why we are so far from the prairies. Clearly, I have sustained a traumatic brain injury resulting in retrograde amnesia. In the absence of cranial swelling, the effect will fade and my memory should return. I can’t explain how I know that, and I can’t for the life of me figure out why I’m so afraid . “I want to go home.” Piper continues “It’s cold.” “We are going on an adventure.” I offer instead. The cheer in my voice sounds thin. “And soon, we will find a little café, and order peach pie and hot cider.” “I’m cold.” She repeats. “If we hurry, we can be there soon.” I’m lying. We’re lost. We’ve been lost for some time now, but I just keep heading “down” these strange, forested slopes in hopes there will be a town in this direction. I’ve considered turning around and following our tracks back to the road, but there are men behind us and everything within me screams DANGER! Piper begins to sob, blinking large tears. I watch her little face as a snowflake comes to rest on her lashes. ******** Arlin is snoring softly in my arms and I. just. Stare. His long lashes rest on round cheeks, pink lips puckered. I brush a curl of chestnut hair from his brow. I make a silent promise to always keep him safe and I wonder how a heart can hold this much love without bursting. I look up at Heinrich tears in my eyes, “He’s just so perfect.” I breathe. Heinrich sighs, “You’ll spoil him.” He says matter-of-factly, taking Arlin from me and handing him to the nurse. The nurse is Shelly. Shelly waits as Heinrich turns around, then fans herself in a mock swoon, gyrates her hips and gives me a thumbs up. I suppress a smile; all my former co-workers have a crush on my husband! Shelly carries Arlin away to the nursery, her heels clicking on the polished floor. ******** A squirrel clicks at us in protest as we pass by its tree. Arlin! I’ve remembered Arlin. Oh God, where is he, where is my boy? “Piper? Do you know where your brother is?” I ask her, and she just looks up and me, her sobs turning to heart wrenching cries. The poor thing, she can’t be more than three years old. I look around, I can’t do anything about Arlin right now, so I set about to cheer up my daughter, I pick up some of the fallen snow and place it on my head. “We are winter queens in a crystal forest” I say in a silly English accent. “I’m princess Evelyn and you are Princess Piper.” “I’m Pin-cess Jessica!” Piper asserts, wiping her cheeks with her mittens. “Nice to meet you princess Jessica, have you seen the invisible castle?” She looks around. “Nope!” “Do you want me to tell you the story of the missing castle?.” I ask, and she squeaks in delight. ******** Arlin frees the squealing mouse from a trap, eyes filled with compassion. My heart tightens, oh my sweet, boy… the bruise under his eye is not quite healed. I smile at Arlin and nod as I lift Piper from my breast and lay her in the bassinet. She gurgles a milky warm burp, sighs, then sleeps. “Come” I whisper to Arlin, “I’ll need your help to bandage it’s foot, then we can set it in the fields.” “Papa will be home soon” He reminds me, looking at the baby and standing protectively beside her. “I know, we’ll be quick.” I promise. ******** “You promised!” Piper cries as she sits in the snow. It’s twilight now, and she’s right. I promised we’d be “At the Castle” by dark, we eat some snow, grinding it between our teeth until it turns into slush. Piper refuses to continue, so I pull her up, piggyback style. My bare ankles are bloody, night is falling. The barking of dogs has joined the distant shouts of voices, and the snow is falling thickly now. Whomever is after us (I am forming a suspicion about that), they don’t sound nearly as close as they did before, but I’m afraid if we stop, or slow, the men will catch up to us before the cold does. Wait! I listen carefully . Is that the sound of dogs or wolves? ******** “Are you a wolf or a a sheep?” Heinrich is already becoming impatient, and Arlin’s face is bright red with the effort of holding back his tears. “I don’t want to.” Arlin protests, eyes pleading with his father “Can’t we ask momma to fix her?.” Arlin looks toward me, I could set the bone and make a cast but I know Heinrich would never allow it, and he’s holding Piper tightly in his arms. I’m failing. I can’t protect him. I look away from my son ashamed. “Shoot it.” Heinrich repeats. Arlin stands, shotgun pointing at the calf before him. Heinrich crouches down face is level with Arlin’s. There’s a low growl in his voice, “Are you a sheep son?” Arlin does not reply. Heinrich pokes Arlin in the temple “Are you a soft…” Poke. “Stupid...” Poke. “Sheep?” Arlin’s face hardens and my heart breaks. “I’m a wolf Father.” He says at last and squeezes. ******** I squeeze my eyes shut, listening, praying, that, wherever we were headed, Arlin is there. I can’t bring myself to think of any other possibility, I have one child here that I can protect, and we are in trouble. There are snowmobiles out now, I can hear the high-pitch wine of their motors, and very distant, the low cry of sirens. Sirens. If they were closer, I’d head toward them, but they sound so far away. My legs trail red droplets on the snow, glinting in the last light of dusk. I stumble, and we fall, not hard but Piper begins to sob. Oh, this has all gone so wrong, so badly. I need to find help, I need to find Arvin. I need to remember these mountains! Where are we? “I want my mommy” Piper sobs into my chest as I hold her. “It’s OK, I’m hear sweety, I won’t let anything bad happen to you Piper.” I murmur into her stiff hair. “MY NAME IS JESSICA!! I WANT MY MOMMY!!!” She yells into my face, and I’m stunned. I rock back in shock and look at her, really look at her…God, I don’t even recognize my own Daughter. Something is very, very wrong with me. I feel the welt on my head and realize I’m burning up. I think I’m experiencing some sort of Prosopagnosia, unable to recognize familiar faces, add that to the bump, and the amnesia, and unconsciousness could be a real risk here. The sounds of the skidoos are drawing closer, I may not understand my fear, but I do understand that If something happens to me, I CANNOT leave Piper unprotected. I summon my courage, and change direction, heading toward the sound of the motors. I’m not sure it’s the right decision but I don’t think I have a choice anymore. Piper and I have been following the river and are standing on its ridge, I can see a sled in the distance. I wave my arms and soon I watch the rider stand up in the seat, changing course to speed in our direction. I freeze, blood running colder than the icy water below. I know that profile, I know who is coming toward us on the sled. ******** My vision is blurred, but I can see Heinrich, his profile in silhouette against the light from the window. I am the only thing between him and the children, I climb to my feet somehow, my legs shake, threating to buckle. I look into his eyes and can tell that the monstrous rage is starting to dissipate, giving way to wet despair. If I can hang on a little longer, just a little longer…  He comes toward me again.. ******** He’s coming for us! “Quick little one, we have to run now.” I scoop her up into my arms and turn to flee. I can’t let him catch us! he’ll kill us for sure! We have to run! we have to get away! I need to keep my kids safe, I have Piper, I need to keep Piper safe. I slip and Piper tumbles from my arms, “Run!” I scream, leaping to my feet, the only chance we have to go down the ridge! We start to descend, but I realize immediately that I’ve made a mistake. The embankment is steep, and slick and we begin to slide. I try to stop. It looks like a sheer cliff face before us. I grab the hood of Pipers coat and pull her down with me, on our backs. The sled passes by on the rise above, snow blowing down onto our faces, I scramble for purchase crying out as we begin to slide faster down the slope, the edge of the embankment is speeding toward us, and I hear Piper’s high pitched scream as she disappears over the crest. PIPER! I plumet into the emptiness after her. ********  Tonight, we take the plunge, pile into the pickup with the money I’ve saved. “Arvin, hold your sister tight on your lap, then pull the seatbelt around you both.” He does as he’s asked. I’ve heard, up near the mountains, they have a shortage of nurses. The cities there are so big, it would be easy to disappear. I shift the pick-up into drive and floor the pedal. Heinrich bursts out the door behind us, his voice rings out in the night.” ******** There are voices in the dark, shrill, urgent. Heinrich’s voice, Arlin’s voice, Piper’s voice. “Piper!” My eyes fly open and look around. There! Her blue coat! We’ve landed in a deep drift of snow right beside the river’s edge. I pull her into my lap, and check her vitals, pulse is strong and steady, breathing regular. Her eyes flutter open and I relief floods me, only… Wait. Her eyes. What’s wrong with her eyes: They are blue . My daughter’s eyes are brown and.. Someone is coming! I place a hand over her mouth. “Hush” I whisper, pulling her close and rocking. A large shadow passes in the dark, coming toward us, then it passes. “Shhh, Shhh, Shhh, Shhh.” I say over and over. Someone shouts, voice drown out by the rushing water. “Daddy” Piper whispers against my hand and I clamp it tighter. “Shh, Shh” I breathe. Another man calls in respond and I know that voice. I feel like I should know that voice. It’s not Heinrich, it’s.. it’s… right on the tip of my mind. Dread silence falls. Do I call out? I can’t call out. I can’t let Heinrich have us. I don’t know what to do. Why are Piper’s eyes blue? Where is Arlin? Where is Arlin? ******** “Where is your brother?” I call to Piper, I have a free “Canada day hotdog” in my hand and it’s calling his name. Piper is climbing into a burlap sack with her new friend, getting ready for the potato race. I wish I could make friends so easily! She points to the playground, and I can see Arlin there, racing over the wooden equipment with some other boys his age. It’s so good to see him smile again. “Mom! Watch me race!” Piper calls…  ******** “Momma!” A small voice calls. A little girl squirms against me and I’m so cold I can barely hold her. Where are we? Who is this child? Why is it so cold? “Let me go!” The girl shrieks pulling against my grip. I let her go. I pull my knees up and wrap my arms around them, watching the blue coat disappear into curtains of falling snow and blackness. Moments pass. Everything fades. The snow falls silently in the dark. ******** Snow falls thickly in the dark of early morning. It’s our first day in the new house, my very own house- thanks to the promotion I received at the hospital. I’m surrounded by boxes and I’m sipping my favourite coffee of the day - the one before everyone else wakes up, before the mayhem ensues. I sip my perfect coffee and look around our perfect new house and send a prayer of thanks up to the heavens. ******** “Oh mom, thank the heavens.” A deep voice says. Someone is crouching in front of me. I am gazing into big brown eyes with long lashes. I reach up and brush away a curl of chestnut hair from the worried face. “It’s OK mom, I’ve got you.” I smile at Arlin, the tender look in his eyes reminds me of when he was just a boy. “You’ve grown into quite a handsome man.” I say and his eyes widen. He turns and yells behind him “I’ve found her! She’s lucid.” “My Arlin.” I say, tears spilling from my eyes. I wonder how a heart can be this full of love without bursting. Arlin looks at me with relief and sadness, “You gave us quite the scare mom.” “Where’s Piper?” I ask him looking for a little girl… No. That’s not right, is it? Arlin sighs heavily and nods toward the river. “Piper’s down there, making sure Jessica’s ok. She was really, really, worried mom.” He looks at my leg and the injury on my head. “Compared to you though, Jessica seems fine.” ******** “Jessica” Piper tells me, she looks up and her big brown eyes are full of love. Little blue eyes are peering up at her from under a hospital blanket. “Jessica is a lovely name.” I whisper. “I didn’t know I could love something this much” Piper says and laughs with tears in her eyes. Jeff leans down and wipes one away. “She’s perfect.” He breathes, and I smile. Jeff’s a keeper. I give piper a kiss on the cheek before leaving. My heart is full. I slide the curtain closed behind me. ******** Arlin helps me to slide off the snowmobile. Ambulance lights flash in the dark. I see a paramedic chatting with a lively little girl, in a navy blue coat. I gasp! Hand flying to my mouth, “Piper!” “No Mom, that’s Jessica ” says an irritated lady as she stalks from the little girls’ side toward us. Another paramedic, however, beats her to me. “You gave us quite the scare today, Eleanore.” He positions himself deftly between me and the angry lady. “Can’t go pulling stunts like that. Next time you want to go for a hike, you give one of your old colleagues a call instead, OK?” I’m ushered into the ambulance and the young Paramedic says: “Little pinch.” He gives me a winsome smile as he slides the IV needle into my arm. Epilogue: ******** I slip the syringe out of my purse, and peer at the ‘phospholipase A2’ inside it. Bee venom. I hold it behind my back before I knock. There are footsteps inside and eventually he answers. Heinrich stands thin and tall in the entry. He says nothing, only stares at me. “You are a grandfather.” I say. “A What?!” He sputters. “A Grandfather.” I smile. “Piper has had a daughter.” Heinrich looks about then back at me. “That’s it?” “No.” “Well?” “I want you to know that you will never lay eyes, or a hand, on that little girl.” I’m whipping the syringe toward him before he can speak. I maneuver to the familiar, cluttered desk where I find Heinrich’s will and pull it from the brown paper envelope. Arvin and Piper are still the beneficiaries of his estate. Good. Heinrich’s inheritance will help. Both Arvin and Piper have been talking about the new development that’s been started just up the mountain from my house. It’s perfect, close enough to the big city for work, and far enough to have that small town feel. I’m so grateful they’ve stayed close into their adulthood. I place the envelope on the desk, where it will be easily found. It puts my mind at ease to know the kids will be taken care of, I don’t know how long I have, but the concussion has found early markers of accelerated cognitive decline. I shutter dementia , it has such a nasty ring. I tidy up the evidence of my visit and pause in the doorway.  “The baby’s name is Jessica.” I say, but Heinrich can no longer hear. ********

vgd2za

Awake

Peter was warned by Jesus about his pending state of denial. He went right on ahead with it anyway. I don’t think I’m supposed to take consolation from that, but it’s there for the taking all the same. Sometimes, I think Jesus stitched his mate up. He put thoughts of denial in his head, and when Peter was confronted, his panicked mind grabbed a hold of the nearest concept. Without that warning from Jesus, Peter might have jumped to The Lord’s defence, played the hero and died. Where would the Christian church be then? Without a rock to build upon? Don’t get me wrong, I’m not an apologist for denial. I will make no excuses. Peter’s story is one of human frailty and how we have the capacity to pick ourselves up, learn from our fall from grace and come back stronger. We have that capacity. Oftentimes, it lays there gathering dust. Denial is the hibernation of the soul and it hurts like a bitch to come out of that state of oblivious ignorance. Truth is, many of us choose to remain in that ignorant state for our entire lives, even when the alarm goes off and urges us to wake up and live a little. More often than not, we’ll hit the snooze button and roll over for more of that superficial bliss. Only the snooze alarm isn’t set to go off at regular intervals. No, that snooze button is sentient and it certainly isn’t your slave. Imagine that. Sleepwalking through a life and choosing to do so. Yeah, we choose. Just because we also choose to deny knowledge of that choice does not mean that we don’t know exactly what we’re doing. How do I know this? Because the truth is that the hibernation of denial isn’t a restful slumber. Not one bit. Instead, it is an angst-filled protest against the light of the world. We hide and as we hide we cover ourselves in a blanket of shame. Shame for the act of our denial, more shame for our weakness and another pile for the fear we fail to face. Every day that we fail, we add to the chains that will bind us in our own personal hell. We were warned and we are warned over and over again. Jacob Marley visits us in our dreams, weeping, wailing and rattling his chains as he pleads with us to wake up and do something with our lives. I tried. I tried several times, but somehow I didn’t make it stick. This was a lie that I told myself. A lie to square things and make it seem OK, even as I ignored the pain that threatened to smother me. When I did eventually begin to push and kick at layer after layer that held me down in the dark depths, I got to experience all the pain I had amassed and the dull aching blur of it reared up in front of me and I began to see at last. I faced my fear and I saw a fearsome dragon of my own making. That dragon was magnificent in its dread form and I wept at the sight of it. At first, I wept for myself. Even in my darkest hour, I indulged myself in self-pity. Only it was worse than that, this pity was mindless. A foul and twisted thing, for I had no self. I had forsaken my self in favour of the dark sleep . This hibernation of mine came at great cost, I was required to sacrifice my self and risk forever sleeping as I then lacked any self-awareness. The devil’s traps are so clever because he tempts and induces us to build them. Later, as my mind followed my vision’s lead, I gazed upon the dragon that I must face in order to free my self from the prison of my own making. And I wept again. I wept for the dragon and the disservice I had done it. I saw my life’s work, and yet it had never lived. This creature was the shadow of my destiny and what was intended for me in the miracle of life that I had been gifted. I hadn’t squandered it, I’d gone much further than that, I had distorted it and perverted it and tortured it. As I turned away from the light I had conjured and fed my own personal demon. We all do this. We all have a dark and monstrous side. We are frail and weak and we fail again and again. Not to acknowledge this is to deny our very nature, and it is that denial that opens the door for the very devil himself. There are billons of fledgling hells walking around the Earth at this very moment. We hide and nurture them. The devil is a supervisor. He stands watch over us as we fall to his temptation and lie to ourselves as we do so. We snatch up the tools of destruction and willingly do his work. After all, the devil makes work for idle hands. None of us want to wake up from that work. That would entail admitting our guilt. Let them who is without sin wake up and live life to the full. We all shrink back and do as we are told. Or so we think, because if you tell a lie long enough then it becomes a part of the prison that has walls so thick and so high you can’t see the truth anymore. What does it take to start to want to wake up from this hellish existence? It certainly isn’t the loss of happiness. I hadn’t experienced happiness in an age. Nor was it the loss of my wife and my marriage. You need to be present to make a marriage work and neither of us were. I think I began to realise that I had to do something when I understood that I was losing my children. By then, I’d already lost them, but the telegraphing of such news is tragically delayed and even when it is delivered there is an additional, protracted lead time as the truth of the news sinks in through all the filters, coping mechanisms, obstacles and walls. In the end I saw it though. I saw it in the glow from the tablet up-lighting Alfie’s face and I saw it in the absence of Sophie whenever she visited my so-called home. She was in the building somewhere, but seldom in the same room as me, and when she was, there was no connection between us. Sometimes, it is when someone is close to you that you realise how very far away they have drifted. Drifted. There I go again with my lies. My failure to take responsibility and admit that I had pushed her away in the first place. Pushed her away with my insular and selfish existence. Selfish even in my imprisonment of that self. I was selfless, but could not bring myself to live and give selflessly. Not even for my own children. How far I had fallen, and yet I ignored the pain of my fall and lazily and indulgently lay there, blaming anything and anyone except myself. Automatically, I blamed their mother. The mother who hadn’t been there for me, even when I’d not been there for her. The woman who had taken what she was entitled to, leaving me with crumbs and the prospect of starting again. So many lies. Lies upon lies. Starting again isn’t a thing. Those two words make it sound easy, and it should be second time around, because you already know what is coming and you can prepare yourself for it. You have the experience and the abilities. It’s a park through which you’ve already walked. Only, it isn’t a start. It’s having to continue in a broken state. A state more broken than when you went at it the first time. You know you’re broken this time around though and you have people to blame. Sometimes you might even blame yourself, but whatever you’re doing, you’re not focused on what really matters and here’s a clue on that score. It isn’t you that you should focus on and it isn’t the other protagonist in something you’ve made into a battle, when it should be nothing of the sort. I looked at my collaterally damaged kids one day, a great many days after compounding possibly the biggest mistake in my life, and I wondered whether they knew me at all. Then I wondered whether they’d ever know me sufficiently. I’d become an option. A sometimes break from what they considered to be their real lives. I was a getaway destination. A holiday home with a grumpy and irrelevant housekeeper to be put up with and endured. Instead of spending time together, we were all marking time. Wasting it. I was encouraging them to waste their lives. For once, I did not stop there. For once in my life I wanted to take the most basic level of responsibility and suddenly I knew that I should think things through a little more. That I needed to keep going and as I began this momentous journey I realised I needed to wake up. It’s been three years since that alarm went off and I fought with the dark covers and climbed out of the pit I’d been laying in ever since I’d reached that point in my life when I mistakenly thought I’d grown up. Three long, hard years. Over a thousand days of hard slog and abrasive suffering. Living is hard, and it entails active thought. Thinking is an activity that is seldom indulged in and it is exhausting. Often, we fall short. We stop the train of thought because we begin to spy the outline of the next train station and we don’t like what we assume we might be seeing. We give up again and again and we suffer as a result. I accrued decades of that suffering and now I have to wade through it. At one point, I thought this suffering would be finite. That it was by way of a penance. But now, I think I was wrong on that score. Life is work and that work is necessary. Our reward is in a job well done. There is more than that though, much more. I have moments of true happiness and joy these days, and times when I find an oasis of peace. I can actually quieten my mind now. Once I woke up, I slept well. I slept like a log until six months ago. I slept well despite having to accept so many uncomfortable truths. Alfie is lost to me. I have had to acknowledge that and my part in failing to connect with him. My hope is that he remembers enough of me, so that when he wakes up, he can reconnect with his life and everything that counts and has always counted. My hope is all the greater thanks to Sophie. When I reached my hand out to her, I saw the caution and I saw the recriminations in her eyes. That stung me deeply and I nearly shrank away from her in that moment of pain. But I deserved that and much more, and so I drew in a deep breath and I reminded myself that she had had to wait so very long for me to step up and be present. And so I practiced the art of patience. What made it easier for me was that I could see my daughter weighing things up. She wasn’t just sizing me up and that proffered hand of mine, she was thinking, and core to her thoughts was; what does this mean? That’s when we start living well. We think and we search for truth. This allows us to attribute meaning to the world around us. We connect and we relate. A lifetime of that is truly wonderous. I try not to mourn all those lost years, because I see what I have now and it is enough. It is more than enough. They say that you get out of life what you put in. Now, that is another form of lie. It’s an understatement. Because if you really try and you give as much as you are able, and in doing this you remain forever grateful for what you have, as opposed to what you are striving for and therefore what you don’t have? Well, you get far more back than you every gave. The delight of it is delivered thanks to the mystery of the universe. You never know what you’re getting and as you look around you and appreciate the life you have and the lives of everything around you, you cannot fail to realise that there are ripples of love that go beyond that which you can see and experience. That one good deed spawns so much positivity and that goes out to any number of people, including our future selves, and that is so worth it. That is more than worth it. What else would we be doing otherwise? Every day I am thankful that I awoke from my sacrilegious hibernation. My wilfully wasteful and destructive slumber. I deprived myself of a life and even a self. I didn’t even live for those I brought into the world. I built a set of bad habits and then used those appalling habits to go through the motions. I slept-walked through life, ticking the conspicuous boxes as I went, but I never really meant any of it. I wasn’t present. Well, now I am and I don’t really mind the pain that came a-calling six months ago. It’s arrival wasn’t a surprise really. Not after everything I’ve unnecessarily put myself and others through. I went against my very nature and purpose and so some of my cells had a pow wow and made a decision to rebel. I hadn’t listened to the self-induced pain that arose from my self-abuse. I literally set out to abuse my very self and I thought I could get away with that Scot free and I carried on even as I felt the pain of that hurt. It turns out that our pain thresholds are really high when we are hurting ourselves. I haven’t been to see a doctor and I haven’t told anyone. I know. I know my time here is coming to an end, and this time I am listening. I am listening to myself and everything around me and only now do I get that we’re one and the same. We’re all a part of one thing. We assume we’re separate and that erroneous assumption artificially separates us from everything that makes us make sense. We have to let go of that wounding notion. I’ve let go of so much and I want to keep going. I need to keep going and I’m not going to lose focus. Not now. Not now that I am at last awake and living. Besides, I haven’t forgotten that I am a weak and fearful animal and prone to failure. These and my many other faults are what make me who I am. They make me human. But I always have to remember that I am at least as much animal as I am human, and when I hibernated, it was the human part of me that largely absented itself from my existence. I intend never to make that mistake again. I am fallible, and I could well be wrong with regard to my pending end. After all, I am getting old. So maybe the aches and pains are all part of a new adventure and I’m not listening to them properly. Somehow I know though. I know and at long last, I have no fear of death. Death is unavoidable. My end is the one certainty that I was born into. Some say it is the price you pay, but I don’t see it like that. Not one bit. It matters not, how it ends and when it ends. What counts is how I lived. I get that now, and there’s something fitting in my approaching end. I made it onto the stage before the curtain fell. Am I selfish in not sharing my concerns? Should I at least see a doctor to confirm what I already know? This is for me to decide. These are my choices. In the scheme of things, my  scheme of things, this is no longer a priority for me, and I do not wish to share my decline with family or friends. Since I awoke, I have been living every day as though it were my last anyway, and I intend staying true to that, right up until my very last day. Living well is all there is. Death is merely a full stop to the story of a life well lived.

8kaols

A Taste of Civilization

Jonathan Norcross A Taste of Civilization The sign guarding the gate to the prestigious Hurricane Island Outward Bound warns: “This ain’t no Camp Dandelion.”  As we passed by it the bus driver addressed his thirteen-year-old passengers, “Hope you didn’t bring any food.” We were all wondering whether or not we would be able to keep the cornucopia of candies bursting from every one of our pockets. Apparently we had our answer. Upon arrival at base camp our belongings were thoroughly inspected and separated into necessities and non-necessities. Naturally candy did not make the cut. Among necessities were the food we were given, iodine to purify water, and a few items of clothing. Among non-necessities were the food we brought, toilet paper (plenty of leaves in northern Maine, most of which were not poisonous), more than two changes of underwear, watches (we would hike from dawn to dusk no matter what), and any device capable of producing fire (we could rub two sticks if we had to).  And with that we were divided into groups and sent off into a cloud of mosquitoes (repellent was not a necessity). Memories are buoyed by senses. The sensations that surface my memories of Outward Bound are the smell of musk (a combination of various natural elements and body odour), and the taste of said musk. Musk was omnipresent. It was in the air, the water and the soil. It was the smell and taste of the earth and the plants and the animals and ourselves. It was not entirely unpleasant but somehow raw and alien.  The forest was in need of a good disinfectant. By the third day the musk had permeated our clothes and our belongings and soon it was clinging to our skin like a parasite. In the morning we would wake up with musk in our mouths and throats as if we had gargled with it. It was everywhere on everything. By the end of the first week the musk had seeped into the food supply. It made little difference.  Food was a necessity. Taste was not. In the morning we had a sludge of flour and cold water, which we were encouraged to think of as cream of wheat. Lunch was falafel, nicknamed “feel awful”, which was something like grape nuts in brine. For dinner we could choose between several mixes of freeze dried grains and vegetables, which we could soak in river water and have lukewarm over the portable stove. Now with the added seasoning of musk every meal seemed dirty and contaminated. One almost wished food were not a necessity. Likewise water was a necessity regardless of its taste. In every part of civilized America water does not have a flavor, not so in the wild. Not only did our water taste of musk, it had an alkaline flavor that varied depending on where we were. Mixed in was the plastic taste from the canteen along with the hint of iodine added to kill bacteria. There were also mosquito larvae, which registered no taste but provided a satisfying crunch with the knowledge that we were devouring the offspring of the ones that were sucking us dry. None of it mattered, thirst demanded to be quenched, and we had to obey it. We were told to try to divorce the sense of taste from our minds. Forgetting taste would make life in the wilderness much easier. I was well on my way to doing just that until day thirty-two. Thirty-two marked the beginning of “solo”, a four-day period in which we would each spend alone, a half mile apart. In the diary we were required to keep for the posterity of future campers, I recorded that evening as “the night my tongue caught fire”. It was around six when a tent-mate who had broken solo found me. He was carrying something that looked surreal, somehow out of place. It was like seeing a wristwatch in an old medieval knights movie, or seeing someone in a tuxedo pumping gas. It was a bottle of Coke. More than that it was a piece of civilization. It was something synthetic, an object made by a machine made by another machine. It turned out a hiker had given it to him and he was willing to trade it to me for half of my meagre food supply. He should have held out, I would have given him all of it. I grasped the slender bottle in my hand, hardly believing it was now mine. I tore off the cap and inhaled the froth that erupted. My mouth was suddenly a war zone of a thousand carbonated explosions. My eyes watered as my brain was hit with a tidal wave of sweet. Sweet is everywhere in the American diet-read the back of almost any food product and you will find some sort of sweetener.  It is a fact one can never truly understand until one has gone a month without tasting something sweet. My glands were gushing out saliva faster than I could swallow it but I refused to spit with the taste still in my mouth. I drooled instead. “Better than sex isn’t it,” my tent-mate and benefactor said. A year or two later I discovered it was not, but I say to this day- it was pretty damn close. But it was more than the flavor of sweet liquid that made the experience so excruciatingly pleasurable; Coke was the taste of civilization. It was the taste of ball games at Fenway Park where I would have it with my hot dog, it was the taste of a good movie- popcorn on my left, Coke on my right. It was the taste of eating out; Coke always tasted sweetest coming fresh from a restaurant’s soda fountain. In the last two thousand years we have erected buildings taller than Babel, we have put men on the moon, and among societies greatest achievements is the art of taste. In society taste is a necessity; it is part of our culture, part of who we are. And now I am forced to ponder my tent-mate’s statement. Better than sex? No. But over the centuries has sex improved or evolved? Do we now gain any more satisfaction from it than the cave men did? I don’t really know, but I can say with great certainty that we enjoy far more satisfaction from our sense of taste.

dpnlc0

"Sеcrеts of thе Forbiddеn Mansion"

Thе anciеnt mansion loomеd ovеr thе cliff, its ivy-clad walls concеaling sеcrеts as old as timе. Its oncе-grand halls еchoеd with thе whispеrs of history, and within its labyrinthinе passagеs, a mystеry waitеd to bе unravеllеd. Amеlia Braddock, a young and inquisitivе journalist with a pеnchant for thе macabrе, found hеrsеlf drawn to thе mansion. Rumours of hiddеn trеasurеs and long-forgottеn talеs had lurеd hеr to this dеcaying rеlic of thе past. Armеd with a flashlight, a notеbook, and an unyiеlding curiosity, shе еmbarkеd on a clandеstinе еxploration of thе mansion, guidеd only by thе palе moonlight filtеring through shattеrеd windows. As Amеlia travеrsеd thе dimly lit corridors, shе stumblеd upon a room tuckеd away in a forgottеn cornеr. Dust dancеd in thе air as shе pushеd thе crеaking door ajar, rеvеaling a forgottеn chambеr fillеd with rеlics of a bygonе еra. An ornatе tablе in thе cеntrе of thе room hеld an assortmеnt of objеcts—antiquе books, fadеd lеttеrs, and a pеculiar, anciеnt-looking box. Thе box bеckonеd to Amеlia, its craftsmanship hinting at a craftsmanship long lost to timе. Intricatеly carvеd symbols adornеd its surfacе, and thе air sееmеd to hum with an othеrworldly еnеrgy. Unablе to rеsist thе allurе of thе mystеrious artifact, Amеlia gingеrly opеnеd thе box, rеvеaling an array of еxotic trеats within. Nеstlеd among thе moth-еatеn vеlvеt lining wеrе small, jеwеl-likе candiеs that sparklеd in thе dim light. Thеy еmittеd an intoxicating aroma, a fragrancе that sееmеd to transcеnd thе confinеs of thе anciеnt chambеr. Amеlia, momеntarily forgеtting hеr journalistic instincts, succumbеd to thе tеmptation and pluckеd onе of thе candiеs from its rеsting placе. Thе momеnt thе candy touchеd hеr tonguе, an еlеctric shivеr racеd through hеr vеins. Thе tastе was unlikе anything shе had еvеr еxpеriеncеd—swееt, yеt tingеd with a hint of somеthing unidеntifiablе, mystеrious. As thе flavours dancеd on hеr palatе, a subtlе warmth sprеad through hеr body, and for a momеnt, thе boundariеs bеtwееn thе mundanе and thе supеrnatural blurrеd. Thе room, oncе shroudеd in darknеss, now pulsatеd with a soft, еthеrеal glow. Thе objеcts on thе tablе sееmеd to comе to lifе, thеir storiеs whispеrеd in a symphony of forgottеn voicеs. Amеlia, captivatеd by thе еnchantmеnt of thе momеnt, wandеrеd dееpеr into thе mansion, thе candy working its magic on hеr sеnsеs. As shе еxplorеd furthеr, shе discovеrеd hiddеn rooms that dеfiеd thе laws of physics, staircasеs that lеd to rеalms unknown, and portraits that watchеd hеr with еyеs that hеld thе wеight of cеnturiеs. Each stеp brought hеr dееpеr into thе hеart of thе mystеry, and thе candy, now a flееting mеmory on hеr tonguе, actеd as a kеy to unlocking thе mansion's sеcrеts. In onе room, shе found a wеathеrеd diary that chroniclеd thе livеs of thе mansion's formеr inhabitants. Thе еntriеs spokе of forbiddеn rituals, arcanе knowlеdgе, and a pact with forcеs that transcеndеd thе mortal rеalm. Amеlia, fuеlеd by both fеar and fascination, rеalizеd that shе had stumblеd upon a placе whеrе thе vеil bеtwееn worlds was thin, and thе candy shе had consumеd was thе catalyst for hеr journеy into thе unknown. As shе dеlvеd dееpеr into thе mansion's sеcrеts, thе linе bеtwееn rеality and thе supеrnatural bеcamе incrеasingly blurrеd. Shadows whispеrеd anciеnt truths, and thе air cracklеd with an еnеrgy that transcеndеd thе laws of naturе. Thе candy, a mеrе morsеl of thе arcanе, had unlockеd a door to a rеalm bеyond imagination. Amеlia's pеrcеption of timе-warpеd as shе wandеrеd through corridors that twistеd and turnеd, lеading hеr to placеs that dеfiеd logic. Thе mansion, oncе a dеcaying rеlic, now throbbеd with an othеrworldly vitality. It sееmеd to rеspond to hеr еvеry stеp, rеvеaling sеcrеts that had long bееn guardеd by thе vеil of obscurity. In thе hеart of thе mansion, Amеlia discovеrеd a chambеr bathеd in an ееriе, iridеscеnt light. At its cеntrе stood a pеdеstal, upon which rеstеd an anciеnt artifact—thе sourcе of thе mansion's mystical еnеrgy. Thе candy, a conduit for thе arcanе forcеs, had guidеd hеr to this sacrеd placе. With a sеnsе of trеpidation, Amеlia approachеd thе artifact. As hеr fingеrs brushеd its surfacе, a surgе of knowlеdgе floodеd hеr mind. Shе saw thе mansion in its primе, a hub of еsotеric knowlеdgе and a mееting placе for thosе who sought communion with thе supеrnatural. Thе candy, craftеd by thе mansion's long-forgottеn inhabitants, had bеcomе a link bеtwееn worlds, a kеy to unlocking thе mystеriеs that lay dormant within its walls. As thе visions subsidеd, Amеlia found hеrsеlf standing in thе chambеr, thе artifact now dormant in hеr hands. Thе glow that had pеrmеatеd thе mansion bеgan to fadе, rеturning it to its dilapidatеd statе. Thе candy's еffеcts wanеd, lеaving Amеlia with a profound undеrstanding of thе mansion's еnigmatic past. With thе wеight of nеwfound knowlеdgе, Amеlia еxitеd thе mansion, thе anciеnt door groaning bеhind hеr. Thе moon hung low in thе night sky, casting an еthеrеal glow on thе cliff ovеrlooking thе sеa. Thе mystеry that had drawn hеr to thе mansion had bееn unravеllеd, and shе carriеd with hеr thе sеcrеts of a placе caught bеtwееn thе rеalms of thе living and thе supеrnatural. As shе madе hеr way back to thе world shе knеw, Amеlia couldn't hеlp but marvеl at thе transformativе powеr of thе forbiddеn candy. It had opеnеd a portal to a forgottеn еra, allowing hеr to glimpsе thе mystеriеs that lurkеd in thе shadows of history. Thе mansion, with its ivy-clad walls and anciеnt artifacts, stood as a tеstamеnt to thе еnduring allurе of thе unknown—a mystеry that Amеlia had tastеd and, for a flееting momеnt, bеcomе a part of. Amеlia nеvеr got to publish hеr story, thе еditor of hеr nеwspapеr didn’t bеliеvе hеr and considеrеd thе story fanciful. Undеtеrrеd, Amеlia еmbracеd thе hiddеn truths shе had uncovеrеd, but hеr attеmpts to sharе thе mystical journеy fеll on scеptical еars. Thе еditor dismissеd hеr account as fanciful, dееming it unfit for publication. Undauntеd, Amеlia safеguardеd thе sеcrеts shе'd еncountеrеd, choosing to prеsеrvе thе еnigma within thе confinеs of hеr own undеrstanding.

tf00ed

Perfect Comfort

Dark clouds fog over the grey sheet of sky, cascading the world in shadow in the middle of the day. Nature shakes and small entities are thrown off balance by a wind that knows no restraint. The end of Autumn always brings about this sentiment of the world closing and cracking open into a melancholic chapter of life, Aspen finds. The leaves have all fallen, dissolving into the roots of civilisation, to be called upon once more when this empty page of the Earth’s cycle has ended. Trees are bare and skinny; branches stand at awkward ends with no sustenance on their spindly structure. An animated stillness is dragged into the foyer by winter as the local wildlife go into hibernation. The only sound Aspen could parse through the thick material of his double-glazed window was a flowing wind that slides through the crevices of flora like water pushing through loose cracks. The young boy presses a slender hand against the glass window and feels it dampen with condensation. His bodily warmth is sapped away into the atmosphere - his sole connection to the world beyond his sanctuary of brick and stone and of perfect comfort. He’s never known hunger, never known physical unease, and has never known what it feels like for this cold sensation in his right hand to spread over his entire body. All he knows is perfect comfort and a perfect life. What more could he possibly ask for? He has all the books and toys to play with to his heart's content. His room is spacious and cosy. Where is the need to see more, to feel more beyond his steel sanctuary if it meant losing this perfect comfort that has been with him for as long as he could remember? He supposed, however, the one mistake the men in black left him when they told him he could never leave this room, was to leave him with the window. It looks out over a courtyard of which he doesn’t know who it belongs to. From here, he saw throughout his thirteen years of life the way things change over time. New trees grow, hedges flourish and flowers die when it's time. A wonderland so far out of reach when it was right on his doorstep. He’s ready to call it a day. It’s only noon but time means nothing when there’s no purpose aside from staying in this room. The maid of no name will surely scold him for breaking routine when she comes to deliver his evening meal. But this is what winter does to him. There’s less to see that’s new from his window and with it, the motivation to stick to a routine that has bored him for years. He’s ready to slip underneath the covers until he sees it. That small parse in the thick clouds. Loosely defined light rays break through the gloomy barrier. And with it, draws from the sky a new phenomenon - an experience that Aspen could only witness from a double-glazed window. Flakes of ice drift from the sky. Piece by piece, unorganised clutter by clutter that dance along the relentless wind, pouring down at an angle. Until a rapid fire of these thin slices of white fall in quick succession. Aspen’s eyes widen at the realisation. His heart drums a little faster at the new earthly wonder. Snow. He’s only learnt about this feature of the sky from the pages of children’s novels. He had only seen it from those books’ illustrations. He didn’t even know it could snow in this area. He had resigned the idea of ever witnessing it in his lifetime a long time ago, like the grating roughness of sand on a beach or the vast emptiness of a never-ending ocean. He pushes his face against the glass, his nose squishing against the texture. His eyes dart left and right, trying to keep track of each snowfall, entranced by this new aspect of the world. The cold saps away his warmth, his fingers going numb, his breath visible against the glass. It is the dissipation of his comfort, but it mesmerises him. In his sanctuary, he has perfect comfort but this mere gateway to the outside world is taking that away. He realises there that he’s missing something. Something his perfect comfort can’t cater to. Is it the knowledge of why he must remain here and never leave? Is it the range of emotions he knows he’s capable of but can’t tap into it? Or rather, is it the experience of what it means to not be in complete comfort, yet still be able to admire what it means to be a part of this world. His world that he partially owns too. What is this feeling of longing? Where is it coming from? Why does everything suddenly not feel like enough? These are thoughts that buzz through Aspen’s mind like an insect infestation. He needs to know what it’s like to not be in his sanctuary, to not be in total comfort. He doesn’t know how long he’s there, attached warm body to cold glass. Minutes, possibly hours. He is snapped out of his trance when the bell rings signalling the time for the evening meal. He peels himself off the window like stripping a banana peel. A sudden dread sinks his heart as the warmth of his sanctuary replaces the bittersweet coldness from the window. Clicking sounds and then a thick clunk as the flap on the bottom of his door unlocks. The maid on the other side calls out to him. Tells him what time it is in a bored voice. He’s never seen her face - a thought that occurs to him as thin hands adorned with deep creases push a tray of cottage pie through the flap. He has no idea what expression this maid makes whenever she delivers him food. Does she ever stop and wonder why she does this? Why she follows this routine? She’s on the other side. She’s seen the world. She’s probably seen all there is to see in this world. She doesn’t need to think about routine. She doesn’t need to think at all like Aspen doesn’t either. Like how he doesn’t think when he pushes the flap open on his hand and dives through the slim rectangular hole startling the woman on the other side. He treads maladroitly over the food, his knees squashing the pie into a mash as he crawls through. She shrieks, high-pitched and crisp, shocks Aspen’s ears but he keeps going. The woman on the other side has even more creases on her face than on her hands, her eyes wide with bewilderment. A new experience. He’s never seen someone like her before or an expression like that in real life. It’s not enough. He needs to keep going. He swerves against the maid, knocking her flat on her behind. His bare feet touch the marble flooring and it's uncomfortable, it pushes against his heels. He almost slips as he runs down a hallway he’s never seen, invigored with the burning desire for more sensations of this world that has been wrongfully hidden from him. From this world that he’s never been a part of. Along a narrow hallway, he speeds past the most detailed illustrations on the walls he has ever seen of stern-looking men and women who share the same ashy blonde tint of Aspen’s hair. His eyes dance along the muted use of colours but he can’t let himself get distracted. He focuses on the abrupt dip at the end of the hallway. A staircase? His chest hurts and his body stings in weird places when he finally reaches it - his breath rapid and heavy. A spiral staircase swerves down into an illuminated abyss. Aspen doesn’t have time to be scared. He jumps down them three at a time, a violent shock rising from his cold aching feet at the sudden impact. Has he ever jumped before in his life? Has he ever felt so tired but not in a sleepy way? It’s so much fun to be in this much discomfort. When there are no more stairs to climb down, he searches left and right. Another hallway but much wider greets him with an air of mystery. Doors upon doors, all black, all adorned with intricate designs and none of them indicate which way would lead him to what he’s longing for. He slams into the first few before remembering what door handles are. None of them budge until the one at the far end. He falls into a white smoky room and a pungent smell of cottage pie attacks his nostrils. Men in funny white hats stare at him, surrounded by blue fire on countertops. Is fire meant to be blue? He doesn’t stop to wonder any longer. The men in black will be after him soon. He takes advantage of their surprised stances and inelegantly slides between men of various builds, one so round and large, Aspen wonders how he could still be standing. They call out for him in angry grunts and demand he stop but Aspen is tunnelling to the door at the far end. His legs couldn’t stop even if he demanded them to. He heaves and puffs into the next room; a huge piece of empty space he never could imagine would be under one roof. A crystal tree that illuminates in flawlessly spaced stars hangs upside down from the tall ceiling. He hears footsteps from all around, echoing off marble walls. They are orderly, determined, and deadly. They’re coming for him. He glimpses the wide doors at the far right, almost tall enough to reach the ceiling with glass frames of various colours. Is that his final gateway? As he approaches them, the cold is approaching him too, stealing away the comfortable warmth in his small body. He reaches for the handle and forces his entire weight and he drags them open. He’s out of breath. His chest hurts. His legs ache but he keeps pushing until he can see a seal of white shine into the large room. The light blinds him and a malicious cold snap at his frail body, tearing his clothes without tearing fabric, punctuating his skin without drawing blood. The cold air his lungs desperately breathe in are like blunt spikes in his chest. It hurts. Everything hurts. His skin that trembles. His feet that burn. His eyes that sting. But he refuses to close them. He refuses to shield away. He edges closer and closer into the light and off the marble platform. A sharp agony concaves his feet. It’s so cold. It’s so horrible. But it feels wonderful. His eyes adapt to the sunlight but the wind blowing snow in his face makes it hard to see. It’s foggy. He can’t see anything beyond a grey clearing of dancing snow that reaches his ankles. He’s here. He’s in the outside world. He’s in his world. He dashes out. The snow is even more vicious than what he imagined. His feet sink into the white fluff and touch something wet that is crumbly yet firm. He’s still running, his arms out wide to greet the universe, his face stretched to the sky. The sunlight is little, yet it's blinding and is the sole source of warmth that he feels frolicking on his face. He gallops, he dances. He doesn’t know what this is or where he is. He’s so far out, that he no longer sees the grand doors. He couldn’t go back even if he wanted to. He slips and bruises a knee. A red liquid seeps out of a cut and stains the white snow. It hurts. It’s so painful. It’s so dreadful. He laughs. Tears sting his cold eyes and warm up his cheeks. It’s all so beautiful. He can’t see much but he feels everything. The adrenaline punches through his arms and legs and a lightness envelops his chest. With each cackle from his hoarse throat, perfect comfort leaves his body to be replaced with utter fulfilment. He is the world, and the world is his. Then the footsteps come once more. He hears them over the threatening howl of the wind. Perfectly determined to bring him back to his perfect sanctuary. He’s panicking. On his newfound high, he frantically searches the winter land. He screams when he feels thick gloved hands grab his arms. They transpire warmth and he snaps away from it, his body convulsing violently while he screams. No more comfort. No more utter contentment. No more warmth. He thrashes as they drag him away. His limited strength does nothing against the men in black. Snowflakes fall into his open mouth, melting on his tongue and turning his jaw to ice. He can barely breathe as he screams for his future. They drag him away from his world, from what they took from him. He’ll return again. They can’t contain him now that he knows what it’s like. He won’t stop until the world is his once more and he no longer knows what it means to be in perfect comfort.

oq3ed6

Ground Control To Lady Jane

Evelyn held a box of popcorn chicken and a black bubble tea for Jane. “Sorry,” she sighs, “there was a long line.” “That’s okay,” Jane said, taking the box. It was a rainy day in December. She takes a bite of her chicken, looks out the window, and hears a familiar voice. “Are you okay?” the voice asks. Jane turned to her left side and couldn’t believe the person beside her. Her eyes widen. “Wh-Wh- when did you get here?!” she asks. “Ummm, this is MY house,” the man says, better yet, Oliver, the manipulative heartbreaker. “What month are we in?!” Jane asks. Oliver took a piece of popcorn chicken, looking confused at Jane. “It’s March,” he says. Jane grabs a piece of popcorn chicken, closes her eyes, and takes a bite. She opens her eyes, still at Oliver’s house, who keeps looking at her, puzzled by her behavior. Jane grabs her phone. “March 20, she says quietly, “two months and everything changes. “Spring break! She states, “I’m leaving for a week tomorrow!” Oliver nods his head slowly. “Yeah...I’m taking you to the airport in the morning.” The Next Day Jane sits in Oliver’s car, looking out the window, not saying a word. Oliver looks at her from the driver’s seat, wondering why she seemed so out of place. Jane, finally speaking, tells Oliver, “Sorry, I’m just thinking about my grandfather.” Jane’s grandfather had been diagnosed with liver cancer, and the doctors expected a 30% survival rate. Oliver tried comforting Jane, who took his words with little importance. He was a narcissist, after all, and it would be two months before he gave up his empathetic act, discarding her like every narcissist does. “Do you want me to pick you up?” he asks as they arrive at the airport. For a moment, Jane remembers believing Oliver’s kind words, feeling wanted, and happily saying, “YES!” Knowing what she knows now, she says, “Nah, don’t worry, I’ll just take an Uber.” Oliver kisses her. “Let me know if you need anything.” Jane just smiles and walks inside the terminal. Jane’s Hometown Jane arrives in her hometown. Her mother reaches for a hug, excited to see her daughter for the first time in four months. On the drive back home, Jane asks about her grandfather. “Well,” her mom explains, “your dad and I are the only ones helping; your aunt and uncle don’t seem to care too much.” Jane already knew that. That’s what angered Jane the most: the neglect her grandfather went through. She looks at her mother, who still doesn’t know about May 20, his last day on earth, and almost cries. Jane’s mother, bewildered, turns to her and says, “He’s been driving himself to the doctor, and your grandmother says he hides food he’s not supposed to eat.” Jane was aware of her grandfather’s stubbornness, which she had also inherited. That week, her family celebrated her grandfather’s birthday. She knew he spoke very little on this day and observed the happiness in everyone’s eyes. Jane begins to eat to avoid crying. As she takes a bite of her chip, she opens her eyes and hears Creedence playing in her father’s truck.  The Flight to San Francisco Jane sits in her father’s car, listening to a call from a friend the day she moved to San Francisco. She felt sadness knowing she’d leave her dog, Bobby, behind. Jane tried holding back tears, remembering Bobby’s depression at her departure. It wasn’t easy for her, but she felt comfortable knowing Bobby would bond with her father. “I’ll call you later,” her father said, “my daughter is moving to San Francisco, and I’m taking her to the airport.” Feelings In the Core Her grandfather’s death and her breakup with Oliver lingered inside Jane. Going back in time didn’t erase memories, and Jane grew frustrated. “I haven’t even met Oliver,” she states, “my grandfather has no diagnosis yet; why is the heartbreak still there?” As she boarded the plane, she took out a Reese’s chocolate she bought at the airport. Jane looks out the window, takes a bite, and finds herself sitting on her bed inside her old room. Jane receives a call from her mother. That was THE call. Jane stares at her phone, prepared to hear the news. On the other side, her mother quietly speaks, just like she remembered. “Your grandfather’s results came back, and they detected cancer.” It had been a year since her move to San Francisco, but she thought about potentially saving her grandfather if she moved back home, and she would drive him to the doctor and hide all the unhealthy snacks. “Just for a year,” Jane tells herself. She calls her mother back, giving her the news, knowing it would excite her. Surprisingly, her mother doesn’t jump with joy. “Is this because of your grandfather?” she asks, and continues, “No, it’s okay; your father and I will take care of him.” Nevertheless, Jane had already decided, and her mother’s assurance didn’t convince her. At the same time, she dreaded the idea of living in her small town again, with little job opportunities. Jane opens a can of sparkling water. As Jane drinks, she ends up in a room, loud music playing in the distance. The date was July 1, 2022, when Jane met Michael, her summer love. She stares at the mirror before her and sees herself with short hair. Jane sees a white hand appearing in front of her reflection, the hand trying to stop her. “DON’T go back!” the hand speaks. “I have to save my grandfather!” Jane whispers loudly, “Life isn’t the same without him!” A white shadow touches her left shoulder and says, “he wants to go home; let him.” “But my grandmother,” Jane answers, “she will be so broken I’ve seen it.” “Once she wails, she will be better,” the white shadow responds. Jane remembers her father speaking of her grandmother in the cemetery, breaking down in front of her husband’s tomb. She would laugh again afterward, so Jane stayed in San Francisco, accepting her grandfather's death. Nothing Ventured, Nothing Learned Jane walked to the room where the music played. She sees Michael talking to a former housemate. This time, she chose not to approach him. Jane pours herself a glass of wine and leaves the party. Opening the door, she finds herself in Oliver’s living room again. “Personality is also important,” he says. Jane holds a glass of wine in her left hand, speaking without eye contact. “Yeah, of course,” she says, remembering her online dating theory. Jane asked if there would be any attraction if people saw each other for the first time at a bar instead of an app. Jane sees a box of pizza they ordered that night. She wondered why she went back and forth in time as she took a bite of food or a sip of a drink. She didn’t overthink it and enjoyed the mystery of time travel. Taking a bite of pizza, Jane returned to her house on a Saturday night. Her housemates had organized a potluck. She held her phone and saw Jonathan’s profile on the dating app they talked on. Jane scrolls down and sees his prompt, where he assures that he is a “gentleman.” “You bastard,” Jane says to herself, swiping left, suddenly feeling less heartbroken and, most importantly, avoiding the karmic cycle that awaited after giving him a chance repeatedly. Now that every bite moved her forward, she tried her theory with him. The following day, she goes to the coffee shop near Oliver’s house and sips her iced coffee, sitting at her desk in the school’s front office. The day was January 7, 2023, a month before meeting Oliver. Jane grabs her things once her shift ends and walks towards the beach he often ran at. She saw the tall, lean figure, the most beautiful man she had fallen in love with, walking towards her. As they pass by, Jane smiles at Oliver, and he smiles back, like any stranger greeting each other on the street. Jane’s theory proved he had no attraction for her, no attraction he pretended to have from a dating app. Suddenly, Jane felt nothing. Her heart returned to its natural state as if the universe did her a favor and took her out of the karmic cycle. The Gentleman: Present Time Jane takes the bus to the tea shop where Evelyn buys the popcorn chicken. She is ready to return to the present, closes her eyes, takes a bite, and returns to the living room with Evelyn. Evelyn smiles while looking at her phone. “Look at this hot guy I matched with!” she said excitedly, showing Jane his picture. On the screen, she saw him, Oliver, wearing his sunglasses and yellow beanie. “Oh...” Jane replies, gazing at the eyes under the sunglasses staring back at her.

m7cpml

A Peace Offering

A Peace Offering Before the Voyage It will be a very long trip to another planet. Mars and Venus, and even Jupiter are considered relatively short hops these days. I will be going to Neptune. When people asked me where I am going this time, my long standing joke was “Well, I’m not going anywhere near Uranus. Ha, Ha, Ha.” The method of this flight is to be quite unlike my trips to other planets.  It is the 2040s after all. The spacecraft will be travelling faster and farther than any before carrying a human passenger. I can hardly call myself a pilot, as I will be strapped in my chair, semi-conscious and unconscious most of the time. I will not be eating or drinking (not even hot chocolate!), but will be supplied with nutrients through the ‘energy feeder’, so I won’t have to worry about going to the bathroom.  It was a little scary, but nothing bad happened to me during the experiments, I was just a little dizzy, not for the first time in my travels, or in my life generally. I will be able to think sometimes, and will try to redirect my mind’s focus away from fear, and focus on something pleasant. I will definitely imagine myself drinking hot chocolate. A recorded message, both vocal and visual, had been sent to Neptune over a month ago, with two individuals, one of them an ordinary looking human, the other a human cunningly disguised to resemble an earthling conception of what an alien might look like. They approached each other carefully, then slowly walked up to each other and gave each other a hug. It is supposed to send the message that I am coming to the planet in peace. Time for Takeoff            It is time for takeoff. My husband and I had just bid a teary farewell on both our parts. I know that he is worried every time I go up into space. Just before we parted company he handed me what he always did before a flight, a heaping cup of hot chocolate, a treat that we both love. I had assured him earlier that the cup and the hot chocolate would not be destroyed. I would have to reheat it, however. And, as in every landing, I would take it with me as I took my first steps on the foreign planet, and drink it as I scanned my surroundings. I would arrange to have this filmed, so we could share it upon my return to the home planet. Take Off My spacecraft takes off. Confined as I am to my bolted down chair, I can’t turn around to try to see my husband, or even just the planet earth. Weeks of travel will follow, every moment seated in this chair The Landing All of a sudden, my confinement in the chair ends, and I am finally completely aware of my surroundings. It feels a lot like being awakened in the middle of the night by the blaring of a firetruck on the street where you live (a personal experience). I look ahead and can easily see our eventual destination. In a short period of time my spacecraft touched down on Neptune. When I look at the monitor, I see that it had only taken us (the ship and I) a little over three weeks to get here via superspeed. The spaceship takes on the shape and general physical characteristics of a boat, and it rocks gently as it floats. For the surface of Neptune is not solid like with earth, and other planets I have been on, but consisted of ice that had melted into water and liquids from other melted substances. It is a long way down to the solid core of the planet, much like what was portrayed in Jules Verne’s epic “Journey to the Center of the Earth”, which had inspired me as a pre-teen to become a scientist and maybe a space traveler. Getting Ready to Leave the Spacecraft            Before I put on my mostly flat, but boat shaped and curved water skis, I look for and find my cup of chocolate, obviously  now no longer hot. I pour the brown drink into a pot, which I put on what passed for a stove in the spaceship. Then I turned the single burner on. In next to no time the drink was hot again, the way I liked it. As was my landing tradition, I would not take a drop of the drink until I was standing on the planet, queen of all that I surveyed. I also had some milk and chocolate powder kept in the fridge, in order to brew up some hot chocolate with which to celebrate with my husband my return to our home planet.            Okay, the skis are now on, as well as my breathing device.  I shuffle my way to the door, and out onto the planet. While I was relaxed when I took my first steps, that soon ended when I spotted a number of tall, thin, green creatures approaching me. In their three hands they held what looked very much like weapons to me. I was unarmed, with no guns or other weapons in the spaceship. What should I do now? I have never encountered a situation like this before. But where I had been before did not have inhabitants such as these.            The Neptuners, as I named them in my head, drew closer and closer; until they were only six or seven long sliding steps away from me. One, evidently their leader, approached me slowly. I thought of a desperate measure to alleviate the situation. I lifted my cup of hot chocolate, and took a slow sip from it. The leader watched me very carefully as I did this, and slowly came closer. Then I extended the cup to the alien, handle first so it would be easier for the Neptuner to grasp.  It put down what I thought was its weapon, a good sign, and then grabbed the cup by the handle, lifting it up to what appeared to be its mouth. It took a long, lingering sip, finishing the contents of the cup – another good sign.            The leader then moved its mouth in a circular motion, and made a rumbling noise, that I hoped was a yummy sound. When its mouth stopped rotating, it turned up at both sides, like an earthling smile.            It then turned and waved to its companions, all of whom put down what I believed were their weapons. This was followed by someone moving forward with what looked to me like a recording device. It beamed out the picture that we had sent out to them.            Then my hot-chocolate drinking new friend approached me and gave me a hug, followed by a lifting of the cup in what I saw as a request for more hot chocolate. We weren’t that different after all. I led it into the spaceship and brewed up some more, which we shared from the cup. The alien drank first, but left most of its contents remaining as it handed the cup back to me, a peace offering. 

7xq7xj

Soul Food

Serena has absolutely no idea where she is. One minute she’s stepping off the steps of the South Boston train station, her canvas bag containing a few well-read novels over her shoulder and her rolled-up umbrella in hand. The next minute she’s being swept up in a larger-than-life crowd of people that was not a part of the regular bustle of travelers leaving the station like she had assumed. Now, she’s in the middle of a random street food market, lost and directionless. Despite traveling into the city twice a week for the last several months to visit her ailing grandmother, the inner city of Boston is still very unfamiliar to her. A fact that becomes painfully obvious when she fails to make sense of any of the street names in an attempt to backtrack and relocate the train station. Which really shouldn’t be difficult, as the station is a huge curved brick building with a giant clock on top. Hard to miss. And yet, the building is nowhere in sight. She can’t have strayed far from her normal route, but trying to find a keystone that she recognizes is difficult in the unexpected sea of people flowing around dozens of food stands. Stalls of all sizes and sturdiness are set up in the middle of the street serving long lines of people on either side, chefs and cooks shouting orders at each other over the loud crowds. Countless food trucks are packed together on the outer sides of the streets, parked so closely that no one person has a chance at sneaking past them, and their lines mingle with those of the stationary food stalls, creating the chaotic mess of a crowd she finds herself in. Every kind of food imaginable is present and accounted for, from cannoli kings and lobster rolls to french pastries and crepes to curry dishes and gyros, and all the different mouth-watering smells have her feeling famished. It's the high noon hour, and she hasn’t eaten anything yet today apart from her morning coffee, which her stomach is reminding her technically isn’t food. Her eyes snag on a red and green Mexican taco truck right as her stomach lets out a loud grumble, and she has to forcibly remind herself that if she shows up at her grandmother’s place without an appetite she’s going to get smacked with a wooden spoon and subjected to an hour-long lecture. Alzheimer’s can’t slow that old woman down, and Serena knows how important cooking for visitors is to her grandmother. It helps keep her sharp in the mind, even though her body has grown too weak to physically do the cooking herself. That task is delegated to her live-in caretaker, a small Ukrainian woman who doesn’t mind being bossed around in the kitchen when it produces the good soul food her grandmother is known for. That’s mostly why Serena makes these half-day trips to visit her; it allows her grandmother to cook like she used to. Since the official diagnosis a few years ago, their small family has pulled back from visiting regularly, and as far as Serena can tell she’s the only one who’s made it a point to plan routine visits. The novels in her bag are a decent excuse, and she brings a new one with every visit to exchange for an older one, even though she’s aware they mostly go unread by her grandmother. It’s the thought that counts, anyway. The unease of feeling like a fish out of water keeps her moving through the crowd, and she decides to just aimlessly follow the flow of people until hopefully she pops out the other end and can collect herself. The crowds move relatively quickly for the high number of people congregating, and it's not until she passes a live band playing that she acknowledges how dumb this plan is. She stops next to a Middle-Eastern food stand to take a breather, accidentally plowing over an older teenage boy darting the opposite way in between the stalls. “Oh, excuse me - ” she starts, but he grumbles and moves away from her. Serena sighs and tosses her umbrella into her bag to fish out her phone. It was raining when she left for the train this morning, but with the sun out now there’s little need for it, and she’s irritated with having one more thing to carry. A few quick searches on her phone tell her the food market is here all weekend, and they have over a hundred different vendors with dozens of special events scheduled. The map shows her location isn’t that far off from where she needs to be, but the best way to get there is back the way she came, going against the flow of the crowd. Now fully annoyed - and if she’s honest, hangry with a headache - she puts her phone away just as the boarded-up side window of the stall she’s standing next to pops open, and she’s quite suddenly staring at a tall middle-aged woman with dark hair and a no-nonsense face. The woman stares back, one eyebrow raised and expectant look not budging. “Well?” the woman says in a thick accent that’s difficult to place, “What will you have?” Serena blinks at her stupidly for a second before her mind catches up. “Oh, no, I’m not interested in ordering any food,” she blurts out, tacking on a half-hearted “sorry” to smooth out her bluntness. “Ma’am,” the woman starts, her exasperation apparent, “you are first in line. No one has been first in line all day. Food is fresh and hot. Won’t be for long." She gestures to the corner of the stand where a quick menu scribbled on black chalkboard stands with pricing, then to a group of people magically lining up directly behind Serena, a fact she had missed. “Order something or step aside.” “Uhh,” Serena’s mind stalls, and in the face of indecision she defaults to giving in to peer pressure. Taking a glance at the menu, she orders the first thing she reads. “I’ll have a lamb gyro plate, please.” The woman hums in response and writes down the order on a slip of paper, and Serena cringes as she pays. She steps to the side of the window to make room for the person standing behind her, mentally kicking herself for spending money she didn’t mean to spend. Impulsive purchases have always made her uncomfortable. She doesn’t have to wait long at all for her food. A younger man pops up in the window from the back with her gyro plate and a drink after hardly a minute. The aluminum tin is almost too hot to carry in her hands, and she quickly wanders over to a tiny makeshift seating area of folding chairs and tables. The smell wafting up from her food is delectable, and with her mouth salivating and her stomach growling she slowly digs in, mindful of the steam so as not to burn her mouth. It's an amazing combination of flavors, the meat perfectly cooked and seasoned combined with freshly baked pita, warm veggies, and a savory sauce on top. She single-mindedly devours every bite, resigning to the fact that she won’t be eating her grandmother’s cooking. When she finishes, belly full and happy, she leans back and washes it down with the drink, a simple lemon infused water. For the first time since being swept up in the market, and since leaving her place this morning if she’s honest, she’s content and satisfied. The market continues buzzing around her, people hollering and laughing, children screaming and running around, but it's not as bothersome as before. Good soul food will do that, she realizes, and she slowly gets up to throw her trash out and clear her seating place for someone else. She meanders slowly back through the market the way she came, taking her time to navigate against the crowd without being in the way. It's relatively simple if she stays closer to the food trucks. She’s only bumped into a few times by someone more careless, but she now has more patience than ever and it rolls right off her. Reaching the presumed entrance of the street food market, she’s face to face with the self-proclaimed Cannolis Kings, and she watches two men dish out freshly made cannolis to a line of people with impressive speed. She makes her second impulsive purchase of the day, two warm cannolis for her grandmother. It's not going to prevent the lecture that she knows is waiting for her. Turning up to someone’s house with a full stomach is a no-no in her grandmother’s book, especially when you know ahead of time food will be served upon your arrival. At the very least, it will help ease the fact that she is now well over an hour late. Cannolis are her grandmother’s favorite, and a lot can be forgiven with the right soul food.

lbpifi

No Up, No Down, No Light, No Sound

There is no up, no down, no light, no sound. Your legs are bent above you—or maybe below—and you are as immobile as a fish in ice. You thrash and jerk your head from side to side and achieve nothing but filling your ears and nose and mouth with snow. You inhale the icy crystals and choke. The biting cold penetrates every surface of your existence. Your world is dark, your head raging with the rush of panic-laced blood coursing through you. A kaleidoscope of thoughts explodes in your mind—the foremost being that you are too young to die. The second being that the land betrayed you. You who revered her as the virgin wilderness she is. You who mapped and measured her peaks and valleys with precision and care, with zeal and unwavering fortitude against all her wintry rage. You would be a part of making her glory known! You would show the world how vast and grand is this land. How foolish you were to think she could be tamed. *** “Copper, come.” Judson Beaumont spit into the white snow. Dribbles of tobacco-stained saliva clung to the tip of his graying beard and froze, adding to the amber-colored icicle already forming there. He trudged through the layers of crunchy ice and loose powder, and soon Copper joined him, silently bursting from a cluster of patchy trees. Snow dusted the dog’s thick, white and russet fur, its pale eyes the same icy blue as the cloudless Alaskan sky. The same blue as Eloise’s eyes, though she never appreciated the comparison. “Are you telling me I’ve got the face of a dog, Jud Beaumont?” She’d crossed her arms and huffed. “Just what every woman wants to hear.” He was never good with words around Eloise, always realizing too late that he must have said the wrong thing, though he didn’t understand why she’d be bothered by having husky eyes. The pup was an amazing animal—loyal and resilient, born for big things. And he thought the same was true of his wife. She was a strong, comely woman who’d agreed to marry him and follow him to a harsh, rugged land when everyone else thought they were crazy. Like the husky, she had a spirit of adventure. But unlike the dog, Eloise wasn’t born for the cold. Copper walked ahead, sniffing out the traps Jud had set along Ferguson Valley Trail. She let out a soft whine and stopped beside a bushy spruce, tail wagging. Jud caught up to her and saw the reddish fur of a marten poking out from the snow. He pried opened the metal jaws of the trap, removed the death-stiffened animal, and secured it to his pack. Copper tilted her head and lifted one paw in the air. “Fine. Here you go.” Jud removed a glove and fished around his coat pocket. He tossed Copper a chunk of jerky; it was a small price to pay for the dog’s service. In the heartbeat of time that Jud’s hand was exposed to the bone-chilling cold, his fingers stiffened, and his skin turned red. He marched in place and huffed as he pulled the glove back over his hand. His breath came in puffs, smoke wafting from the belly of a warm-blooded man. Even after ten years, the winter air still shocked him, still made his breath hitch in his lungs as if it had frozen and crackled into little shards. Out here, the cold was his greatest enemy. There was no room for mistakes, no second chances; man was no match for the cold. But this is the life he chose—a choice that cost him everything he loved most. Jud deserved to be cold. *** In all the ways you imagined your death, you never realized it could come and take you so silently. In the frozen blackness of your icy cocoon, you command your wild mind to still, to cease its fruitless raging and return to you. Stop, and think. Remember your training; think. Think. You must conserve your energy and oxygen. Maybe the surface is closer than it seems. Maybe freedom is just feet away. You work your mouth and eject a wad of spittle. It falls on your cheek and slides toward your ear. You decide the opposite direction of the spit’s descent must be up. Up. This way is up. You chant it in your soul, hoping the words will spread like fire to each trapped limb and melt away the snow packed around them. You wiggle your arm, frozen in your company-issued winter coat, but it’s like you’ve been poured into a concrete mold and left to harden. Nothing moves. You imagine the look on the foreman's face when he finds out you’ve lost all your instruments, all the measurements, all the work. Because they are, indeed, lost. You are lost. And you know now that you are going to die. *** Jud rarely had to worry about bears when he’d checked traps with Eloise; she’d talk the whole time and scare everything away. She used to make up songs to memorize the names of trees and plants—would come up with little rhymes to help her know which ones would “keep you fed” and which ones would “knock you dead.” Sometimes, she’d tell him stories on their walks—summarize entire novels she’d read during the dark seasons. He wondered how so many adventures could fit in one book, how people could cross oceans and deserts in the span of a chunk of pages. It was some kind of magic that he could only experience through Eloise’s words. Because Judson Beaumont couldn’t read. Eloise brought the woods alive. Now, he often wondered if a body could die from all-consuming silence. After Eloise was gone, the quiet became so overwhelming, he started making conversation with Copper just to hear something besides his own breathing. But sometimes when he walked the familiar trails, he could almost hear Eloise’s clear voice echoing off the trunks of barren trees, singing one of her silly, made-up songs. “Baneberries look like little baby cherries, but they’ll stop your heart and then you’ll have to be buried.” Jud knew the cold was intense when his tears froze against his cheeks. Copper barked and the sound rang across the snowy path. They caught something; maybe a fox or a lynx. Jud’s thighs burned from the trek, the high steps through deep snow. Copper barked again, and the sound was lower, where the path dipped and sloped. “I’m coming.” Jud envied the dog’s seeming imperviousness against the cold. She belonged to this land, while he was only a trespasser. She had an understanding with the cold; rarely did she resist leaving the warmth of the cabin to venture out in subzero temperatures, but when she did, Jud always listened. *** Death is coming for you. You can smell it in the air that circulates in the darkness. You can feel it in the numbness of your fingers and your ears. You force your breathing to slow and for a moment, the story of your life begins and ends in a heartbeat’s span. You think of your mother; you should have hugged her more. Should have written more. She would have loved to hear of your adventures; going ice fishing, watching the sled-dog races, seeing the way the winter sky lights up with glowing ribbons of green and blue. You would have described it as luminescent eels in a black pool, and she would have asked you to send her a postcard. You think about home, about the girl you went steady with in high school. You wonder if she’s married now. You think if you were to make it out of this, that maybe you should meet someone and settle down. You picture yourself back in Kansas, surrounded by your family, eating watermelon on the Fourth of July. Fireworks pop in the sky and fizzle in the darkness. You feel content, peaceful. Sleepy. *** Copper barked once more, but this time Jud was certain she had strayed from the trail. She was lower, standing on the slope of the snow-covered hill. The air sparkled. Sunlight refracted in the dusty flakes that hung in the air like mist. But there was no wind. This was the dust of freshly disturbed snow. Jud reached Copper, chest heaving from the strain of hiking downhill. “What is it, girl?” He patted the dog’s head and squinted against the brightness. Protruding from the snow like a severed branch was a smooth, straight stick. Unnatural. Manmade. It was lined with tick marks and numbers, like something you’d use to measure a length of fabric or a plank of wood. Or the elevation of a mountain. Copper began to sniff and paw at the ground. Unbidden, one of Eloise’s songs came to mind and looped in Jud’s head. “If the snow doesn’t seem right, hightail it out of sight.” He knew better, and she knew better. She could always tell before he could when the conditions were ripe for an avalanche. But sometimes, you get comfortable and stop looking for danger. You think you understand the world of ice and darkness. Sometimes you miss the signs and just don’t think fast enough. And the snow is always faster. Jud had searched for hours, sweating from the efforts of digging through the aftermath of the avalanche. His throat had gone raw from calling her name. And when night fell, he’d had to admit that she was gone—that no one could survive that long under a mountain of snow. He’d wished every day that it was him who’d be taken. Copper sniffed in circles, crystal eyes narrowed at the ground. Past the woods and beyond the valley, the frozen, wild land of Alaska stretched for a thousand miles, dotted with rare, brave, adventurous souls. And Judson could feel the presence of another one, there, somewhere in the snow. “Find ‘em, Copper.” *** You would have loved the land. Treated her well. Why did she have to chew you up and spit you out? Chewed. That’s how you feel. Crushed and wet and cold. No. Warm . It’s warm now. You’re home again, standing in your childhood kitchen with its faded wallpaper and checkered floor. Your mother is standing at the mint-green stove making cookies. The oven door opens, and a wave of sweet heat hits your face. It beckons you closer, promises you relief. You peel away the layers of wet, snow-caked clothes and crawl inside. It is dark and quiet and warm. You let your eyelids fall, give in to sleep’s call. You hear a voice on the other side of the door. Why is your mother barking?

nej1f6

Shadows In The Nightgarden: Dream Weaver's Dawn

A tremor, like a hummingbird's wings brushing against a sleeping rose, rippled through Anya's slumbering form. Memories, fragmented and hazy like mist clinging to a mountaintop, drifted through her consciousness: vibrant landscapes woven from moonlight, the chilling laughter of nightmares echoing through desolate spaces, and a desperate struggle against an encroaching darkness that threatened to consume them all. Then, a jolt. It wasn't a simple awakening nor a gentle nudging from slumber. It was a cosmic earthquake, a sudden eruption of raw energy that ripped through the very fabric of her being. The cocoon surrounding her, once a comforting haven of quietude, became a stifling prison, cracking and splintering under the immense force. Anya cried out, a sound that echoed through the vast emptiness like the mournful cry of a lone wolf in the night. Blinded by the sudden surge of light, Anya felt her body being torn apart, her very essence being stretched and pulled in a million different directions. It was as though a thousand needles were piercing her skin, each one injecting a potent cocktail of fear, excitement, and raw, unbridled energy. Finally, with a deafening crack, the cocoon shattered, disintegrating into a million shimmering shards. Anya stumbled forward, her newly awakened form bathed in the ethereal glow of the dreamscape. The air, filled with the scent of stardust and forgotten memories, rushed into her lungs, bringing with it both a sense of profound peace and a gnawing unease. As her vision cleared, Anya took in the desolate landscape that stretched before her. The vibrant colors that once adorned the dreamscape had faded, replaced by a dull, monochromatic palette. The playful creatures that once inhabited these realms now moved with a listless, haunted air, their eyes filled with a lingering fear that chilled Anya to the core. A wave of terror, cold and sharp as a winter wind, washed over her. Nocte Mortis, sensing her awakening, had already begun his assault. Shadows snaked across the landscape like spectral serpents, swallowing the remaining light and choking the dreamscape with their icy grip. But amidst the fear, a spark of defiance flickered within Anya. A memory, bright and vivid like a sunbeam breaking through the clouds, surged through her mind: a child's laughter echoing through a sun-dappled meadow, a couple holding hands under a moonlit sky, a single tear rolling down a cheek as a wish is whispered into the night. With a resoluteness that surprised even herself, Anya raised her hands, her fingers tingling with the power of a thousand dreams. Threads of moonlight, spun from the very essence of hope and joy, materialized in her grasp, shimmering like spun silver. Each thread resonated with the echoes of countless joyous moments, their combined energy forming a shimmering shield around her. Nocte Mortis, a formless entity born from the primordial ooze of forgotten fears, is a sentient shadow whispering forgotten follies into the caverns of the subconscious. His essence, a swirling maelstrom of nightmares and unspoken desires, seeps through the cracks in reality, seeking to ensnare the unwary dreamer. He is the maestro of darkness, a puppeteer twisting the strings of mortality, playing us like marionettes on the stage of our own anxieties. Where hope struggles against the encroaching night, there you will find the "night of death." The "chilling symphony of terror echoing in the silence" lashed out at her with a psychotic maelstrom. A delusional deluge, with an effect similar to that of a banshees scream, the beast was ravenously devouring and inhaling everything in its path. Anya felt each blow like a physical assault, her shield trembling under the onslaught. But she held firm, her resolve fueled by the memories of countless joyous dreams and the whispered prayers of countless hearts. The battle raged, as did Nocte Mortis's frenzied blackhole of an appetite. A whirlwind of emotions and conflicting energies swirling around them, Anya fought not just for herself but for the very essence of hope and joy that the world desperately needed. She wove intricacies of laughter into her shield, deflecting the attacks and many unwavering threads of courage, strengthening her resolve. With a surge of power that resonated through the dreamscape like an elysian celestial resonance, Anya wove a net of pure moonlight, capturing the dark shadows within its luminous embrace. The light burned away, stripping him bare and revealing the cowering creature beneath his monstrous facade. As the shadows retreated and the light returned to the dreamscape, bathing the landscape in a warm glow of hope, Anya collapsed onto the feathery, dream-spun ground. Exhausted, with her heavy body feeling like lead anchoring her to the ground, a new awareness peaked and blossomed within her. She had faced and conquered her previously unvanquished domain and emerged stronger, her spirit tempered by the fire of the battle. With renewed vigor, Anya began to mend the dreamscape. She wove threads of joy and laughter, painting vibrant landscapes and giving breath to the depleted creatures. The world around her transformed, a testament to the enduring power of dreams and the unwavering spirit of the Weaver of Dreams. But Anya knew her mission was far from over. The Weaver of Nightmares, though vanquished, was not fully destroyed. Yet she found herself no longer driven by fear. She stared into the abyss and emerged triumphantly, ready to face any challenges anticipated with confidence. As the sun rose and the aurora cast its golden sheath across the horizon, Anya continued her work, weaving dreams of hope and joy, a reminder that even in the darkest depths of the psyche, the beaming light from a dream allows it to always shine through, supplying a beacon of hope while guiding us beyond the shadows and reminding us that even in despair, the tiniest of sparks can still ignite the greatest of fires. And within Anya, that spark burned brighter than ever before, just as a molten heart beat with life. She had been fueled by the knowledge that she was not alone in this fight. The dreams she wove were not just hers; they were a collective tapestry spun from the hopes of the sleeping world. Days blurred into nights as the battle with oblivion tirelessly raged on. Anya's strength waned, the exhaustion gnawing at her bones like a relentless tide. Yet she refused to yield, her spirit fueled by the faces of those who placed their faith in her, the sleeping souls who dreamt of a brighter dawn. One night, just as Anya felt her hope fading, a memory long forgotten surfaced from the depths of her being. A tune, pure and sweet, echoed within her mind—a song she had once sung to comfort a child lost in a nightmare. The melody resonated within her, interlacing itself within the threads of moonlight that danced around her. As the song filled the visionary realm, a wave of transformation washed over the dreary landscape that had been shrouded in murk and began to bloom, a multitude of refreshed colors returning with a deep vibrancy that outshone any chance for a light void. The creatures that had been burdened lifted their heads, their fresh eyes filled with newfound hope. Caught off guard by the surge of gleaming light and joy, Nocte successfully faltered. His monstrous form writhed and twisted in its agony, the shadows that formed the very essence of his self, recoiling from the sweet melody's touch. Anya seized her opportunity, channeling all of her will and remaining strength into a final, powerful, blasting attack. With a surge of moonlight brighter than a thousand suns, Anya wove a brilliant shimmering net that engulfed the Shadows' Beast. The large mesh, woven from the very essence of hope, joy, and clarity, constricted around him, its luminous threads burning away at his darkness. The creature screamed, a sound that tore through the dreamscape like the rending of a thousand souls, but Anya held firm, her resolve unwavering. As the net tightened, the phantom of Psyche's monstrous form began to shrink, his reign rapidly dissipating with every passing moment. The darkness that enveloped him was disappearing, dissolving into wisps of smoke that were wisked away with an aromatic floral and grass-infused breeze. At last, with a high-pitched and deafening craaaack, the Nightmare Lord was no more. A silence descended itself across a depleted mental dystopian's health, receiving real nourishment, hydration, and relief. Only to be retired with what was like audible brushstrokes caressing the vista with the sweet, pleasing variation of hues belonging in Anya's song. The life that had been enslaved by despair and servitude gazed upon her with great awe and gratitude, their glimmering eyes reflecting hope being reborn. Anya, her swollen body weary but her heart full of love, lowered her hand, releasing her symphony to stretch itself widely through the following nights. The world around her had healed. Flowers were fully bloomed in vibrant, mesmerizing shades, casting each delicate perfumery within the clean air. Trees, once with their broken limbs lying bare and contorted, sprouted electric and forest green attire, their branches stretching far out and towards the heavens. The environment itself hummed with renewed energy, a testament to the power and replenishment that our dreams provide and, even in agony and great despair, the true resilience of the human spirit to overcome any tragedy. Anya knew that her difficult tasks were far from being over. The end of all her troubles appeared very far from coming to an end. The menacing, nightmare-fueled, dream-depleting shadow that had been covertly embedded within our psyches may have been vanquished, but the shadows' remnants would always remain, waiting at the edges of the dreamscape, anticipating their perfect chance to strike. However, she was no longer afraid. She had faced these demons and emerged victorious, and therefore knew that with bravery, she could do so again. With newfound determination, Anya set about her duties. She braided her threads of hope and joy into reality's very own fabric, bandaging the many damages caused by the "night of death" and his grave darkness. She sang, vocalizing her many songs of courage, bravery, and resilience. Her acoustics then echo throughout the land, reaching all the hearts of those who dreamed and listened. Then, on a seemingly normal, average day, as she was coming to the completion of her work, Anya noticed a subtle change in the dreamscape. When she went outside to view, the unique array of colors suddenly appeared noticeably more vivid and breathtaking than she had ever before. The sun itself looked as if it were forming its own smile. The energy felt a bit less heavy, as if it were being lifted by an unseen force. Anya knew that this was not just the result of her own efforts, but the combined hope and joy of all who dreamed. The labor she had been putting in was paying off, and every living thing on the land was actively growing to become healthier minute by minute. Anya stayed passionate about her goals for years, her tireless efforts slowly but surely bringing restoration to nature and humankind, delivering faith and reassurance of her progress, as well as admiration and gratitude from others, from near and far-off distances. She became known as the "Weaver of Dreams," a radiant beacon of hope within darkness's gut-wrenching grip. And though she knew that the battles would never truly be over, she also felt that she was not alone. She had the dreams of the world working with her, and together, they would keep the darkness at bay for the rest of all eternity. The years quickly turned into decades, and Anya persisted in being a weaver of many joyous dreams. She watched over the world when they were not awake, ensuring that their dreams remained bright, pure, and full of hope. She rescued many dreamers who, at times, had lost almost all hope and had become so intimately entrenched in the darkness that they themselves had believed themselves to be unreachable. Nevertheless, Anya never gave up and delivered them all from the trappings of dark mania. One evening, as Anya lied beneath her favorite willow tree, mindfully intertwining the threads of a dream of an enlightened world, a familiar string of notes felt inclined to have a visit within her two ears. It was the enchanting song she had passionately sung out so long ago—the song that had helped to vanquish the land crippling chronic illness. As she received the message her music had delivered back to her, she suddenly felt a slight burn or straining sensation in each of her warm cheeks and felt great gratitude for the massive and consistent smile she had had across her aged face. The tune didn't belong to just her anymore. It had continued on, being gifted from lost dreamer to lost dreamer, allowing its message of hope to grow each time more powerful, echoing throughout each generation following. Anya knew then that she could rest, and the impact of her hard work was felt by many. The dreamscape was totally safe, and the hope that she had kindled with such dedication and care would continue to burn brightly, illuminating paths for all who dreamed. With a sense of tranquility and completion, Anya slowly closed her tired eyelids and allowed herself to drift into a deep sleep, knowing that the world could now be safe in their dreams. And so, the satisfied Weaver of Dreams herself faded back into the tapestry of time, her whole being, absorbed into the very threads of the dreamscape existence like a softly sweeping whisper made of starlight. Yet, within the many slumbering minds out there, a single thread still remained, a silent echo of her existence. It pulsed with the softest gleam of light, a reminder that even in the deepest void, a single strand of hope, with patience, can illuminate the path to dawn. And in even the faintest glows, the potential for a thousand untold dreams will slumber, waiting for the moment they too might also be woven into existence, a testament to the enduring legacy of the Weaver of Dreams, a songbird that echoed through the ages: "Dream, dear ones, dream, for in the realm of slumber, anything is possible when you take your time and believe."

jqok2q

Thursday's Child

                                                                    Thursday's child has far to go.                                                                                     Excerpt from a nursery rhyme                                                                                     Author unknown I don’t mind that dozens of men are hunting me, ready to put a bullet in my brain. I don’t mind hiding out in caves, breaking ice to get to the water underneath, or fishing with a bow and arrow. I don’t even mind the brutal cold of a Siberian winter. What I do mind, though, is being treated like an animal. Like I’m just another rich American. To while away the time before I make my move, I watch an old woman living alone in a cabin, miles from anyone. I wonder why she’s there all alone. I imagine that her husband has died and she has no children to take care of her. Yet she perseveres in a land that challenges one’s will to live. I watch her all summer while I regain my strength. She works her garden, fishes in the river, gathers firewood, and washes clothes. I watch her during the fall when the biting winds come. Her garden harvest is meager. Beets, onions, tomatoes, peas, celery. It doesn’t seem like much, but I suppose an old Russian woman can make do. Winter comes and the fish run out, at least for her. I break through the ice and catch salmon, sturgeon, and the occasional trout. I kill a moose, butchering it and cleaning the hide. The meat will keep me warm, though I would have preferred a bear. The hide will make an excellent coat, if I can find some fish bones strong enough to sew with. I stay busy surviving, but I make time to watch the old woman. She intrigues me. I admire her for her toughness and resilience at such an age. Her back is bent from decades of hard work, her face lined with what life has done to her. She seems neither happy nor unhappy. She seems indomitable. But can I trust her to do what I need her to do? The plan is ridiculously dangerous and I may very well end up dead because of it.                                                               ************** I hated Vilovich for kidnaping me. It was disrespectful. Yes, my family was rich, and I understood that this was what kidnapers did. I was in Alaska, hunting, when he took me. How did he know to take me? Maybe he thought all American hunters in Alaska were rich, and I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. I was shot with a tranquilizer gun and thrown into the back of an airplane. I regained consciousness before we landed, my head throbbing and my mind racing to understand what had happened. I wound up in a small, dark room on the outskirts of Moscow, thinking that I would soon be dead. The man was good at what he did. I studied the compound for the month I was there. The place where I was kept was isolated. Unscalable walls surrounded the compound, topped with broken glass. There was always a guard at the gate, armed with an AK-47 and a sidearm. Patrols would go by my room every fifteen minutes, talking and laughing while I pondered my fate. Vilovich told me about the ransom demand, and that I shouldn’t worry. My family, he said, would pay, he was sure of it. I wasn’t so sure. My parents weren’t too thrilled that I had decided to live with my grandfather and his people instead of coming back home. We hadn’t spoken in three years. Hunting, fishing, living off the land are what I love. Testing myself against nature is honest, exhilarating, almost transcendental. You feel close to God in the mountains, away from electricity and two-story houses. Away from a mortgage that will kill you. There are a thousand ways to die in the mountains, and only one way to live: by your wits. Vilovich underestimated me. I crept out one night and killed the guard at the gate. It was the first man I had ever killed, and my stomach revolted. I felt queasy, but I steeled myself. The dead guard would soon be discovered, and the hunt would be on. I had advantages. I took the AK-47 and the sidearm, so I was dangerous. I eventually traveled north, toward the Arctic Circle, a move Vilovich would probably not expect. And I was at home in rough terrain. That was my biggest advantage. Who would suspect that a rich American could thrive in such a cold, desolate land? The food given to me wasn’t nutritious, and was chosen, no doubt, to keep me weak. Like I said, Vilovich was smart. Was he smart enough to hunt me in ever-widening circles, cutting off probable escape routes, canvassing the people in the area and offering a reward for me? That’s what I would do in his place. I had to assume he would do the same. I traveled twenty-five miles that first night, jogging when I could and walking fast at other times. I entered a stream, leaving plenty of evidence. I crossed the stream, trying not to let the frigid water bother me. When I found a suitable spot, I recrossed the stream. A delaying tactic. I would repeat the maneuver a few miles downstream. This would buy me a few days, unless Vilovich had a skilled tracker in his employ. I stole a coat and a hunting knife from a house the next morning. I watched the farmer leave, and I waited to see if anyone else was in the house. The cold seeped through me, getting into my bones. But I had learned patience long ago; it often meant the difference between a kill or going hungry. I had never been so cold while waiting, though. I warmed myself by the farmer’s fire before I left. Despite the danger, I stayed until I could feel my fingers and toes again. The farmer would miss the coat and the knife. Would Vilovich find out? I had to assume he would, but needs must. Survival came first. A month later, I found a place to hide. Made a bow from elk horn and sinew. Made arrows from Siberian elm. I had to rest, to recover my strength and endurance. There were some nights when I wanted to stay here forever. This wild, untamed land appealed to me, called to me, dared me to live with its demands. Give up this idea of revenge and let Vilovich live with his failure. The ghost of my grandmother’s voice whispered in my ear during these nights. A piece of a nursery rhyme. A piece of her. Thursday’s child has far to go .                                                        ************** The smell of borscht invades my nostrils. When I was a kid, my maternal grandmother made borscht. I hated it and did everything I could to avoid it. In the end, though, my grandmother won out. I loved everything about this grandmother except her borscht. She would take me to the movies, to the zoo, to the park: every place, in fact, that my parents never took me. And she talked to me like I mattered. That meant the world to me. My parents were so busy spending their newfound wealth that I became an afterthought. The old woman at the cabin reminds me of her. I knock on the cabin door, hoping that my rough appearance won’t scare her. She opens the door and stares at me; her eyes are sharp and piercing. She notes the moose hide in my arms and she smiles. She has missing teeth but the smile is genuine. She offers me a seat and dishes up a bowl of borscht. It tastes so good! I can’t remember the last time I had something that wasn’t fish or moose. The old woman grunts as she sits. She’s drinking tea – I think – and gazing at me. She can see I’m not Russian. My skin is too dark for that, and my features mark me as a foreigner. I don’t speak Russian and she doesn’t speak English, except for a few words. “American? Escape?” She points a finger at me. I nod. This could be the end of me. She might inform on me and I’ll be hunted down. Once Vilovich knows where I am, the game is over. The old woman grins and spreads out her arms. “Welcome!”                                                            ************** I bring meat to the old woman, and she accepts with no reservation. We sit by the fire and talk, though neither one understands the other. No matter. Words just get in the way most times. She sews well, but slowly. I don’t care. The warm fire and the company are tonics I didn’t know I needed. She seems to enjoy my presence. We eat a lot of borscht, but it now has meat in it. Her eyes sparkle now. The meat has done as much for her as the vegetables have done for me. There’s a message in there somewhere, I suspect. I’ll think about it later, after I leave.                                                             ************** I figure out how she knows who I am. Radio. She listens to the radio some nights, when the reception is clear. I heard my name during a broadcast last night. The old woman looked at me and smiled, pointing at me. She shook her head in apparent satisfaction. I guess Russian grandmothers like bad boys as much as American grandmothers. She talks up a storm most nights. As do I, I suppose. I think we both feel free to say whatever we like to the other. Since we don’t understand each other’s words, we let it all out. Our dreams, our failures, our tragedies, our fears. Everything in indecipherable tongues. It’s therapeutic. Her name is Svetlana. Took me a while to figure that out, for she has a thick accent and missing teeth. She calls me Bee-yook, or something like that. I don’t know what it means, but it’s who I am to her. This winter is colder and longer than the ones I spent in the mountains of Idaho. It feels natural, though. I killed another moose, so we have plenty to eat. Svetlana knows how to make moose meat tender and tasty. She has obviously done this before. I just kill it, butcher it, cook it over an open fire, and eat it. Meat, to me, is life. Svetlana adds a little flavor. When spring gets here, I’ll journey back and find Vilovich. Someone needs to show him the error of his ways. Meat is life, but so is honor. Nothing else matters.                                                         ************** It’s hard to leave Svetlana. I provide her with enough meat for the spring and summer, and she provides me with an elk coat, a warm hat, and some vegetables. I hug her before I leave, and drop a kiss on her cheek. We will never see each other again, but I believe we will always be family. Bonded by borscht, not blood. I walk away. I look back. She’s standing on the front porch, her face impassive, but I swear I see a tear in her eye. Probably just a trick of the light. Or a distortion from the tears in my eyes.                                                       ************** I spend the night in an abandoned farmhouse a few miles from Vilovich’s compound. It isn’t as comfortable as the cave I inhabited all winter and early spring. I eat cold meat and munch on a carrot. How many times have I rehearsed what I am about to do? How many nights have I dreamed of facing Vilovich, alone, seeing fear in his eyes? Too many. The truth hasn’t escaped me. I know I may die tomorrow night. It’s almost beside the point, living or dying. As long as Vilovich knows my intent, that will be enough. On a personal note, I prefer the option where I live and he dies. Call me selfish. I think about Svetlana. What happened to her? I’m sure she never dreamed of a life where she would end up old and alone, no family, nothing but isolation and a meager subsistence. I thought of my mother’s mother. She had been surrounded by family when she passed away. What will my mother’s end look like? My father’s end? Maybe I should make amends with them. Maybe I should do what I came to do and go back to Svetlana and be with her when she dies. Either way will be a long road back, a distance traveled in the soul rather than in miles. I curl up and wait for sleep.

jjz6z9

Piece de Resistance

Piece de Resistance Village of Verfeil; France. 1940. I pulled the tines of my fingers from the centre of the table to the corners, dragging the creases out of the yellowed damask. The ends of the tablecloth slid down the table legs like a woman adjusting her skirt hem. Grandmere shuffled towards me, the stack of plates on her forearms almost hidden by the ends of her shawl. Moving to take them from her, she slid them into my arms with the brisk delicacy of a midwife presenting an infant to its mother. I put each plate down with the face of its owner swimming into my mind. Papa at the head of the table; facing the doorway and the prospect of the plane trees outside. His gun dog Fidéle raised his head from his paws to watch me. To the right of Papa a place for Grandpere, I remembered to shift his drinking glass over a fraction to make space for his pipe. On Papa’s left, Grandmere’s plate – a burst of chivalry prompting me to give her the least damaged one in the set. Next to Grandmere a setting for Maman, her place secured in our tradition even though she had died last year. I placed my own plate last, next to Grandpere’s. My eyes stung as the willow patterned china brought back to me Maman’s story: “The willow drags its green arms in the water, mon petit, because it searches for the soul of a person drowned.” I frowned to remember when she had told it; her words carrying somehow a remembrance of my young legs being wet, and eye - corner glimpses of slick green lizards scuttering into pondweed. We had heard on the radio that morning that German columns had been spotted to the south of Verfeil. France was occupied. We were occupied – and unsure at that moment what delicate parts of ourselves the probing fingers of Germany would explore. Not knowing what provisions the soldiers would leave us, the decision was taken to gather together our good gustatory things and enjoy these in a peculiarly Gallic gesture of defiance. I was comforted then by the familiar cadence of mealtime. The staccato tapping of Grandpere’s pipe as he knocked it against the hearth to empty its ashes. The complaining slide of Grandmere’s chair across the wood floor as Papa pulled it out for her. Papa himself, assembling his dignity at the head of the table with a grunt. I seated myself and Papa glanced at me and said, “You’ve taken the pig to Jacques?” “Yes Papa.” “It’s good then. He’ll know what to do.” I returned his nod and winced inwardly as my mind pictured our hefty, swell - rumped boar and the skin purpling fight I’d had to get it to our village butcher. Grandpere’s rough hand covered mine as Papa bowed his head and intoned the prayer. “ Merciful Father, protect your children. Bless this food. Look after Marguerite who shelters under Your wings. Give us the faith and strength to be better people tomorrow than we are today. Amen. ” Grandmere sniffed as the prayer concluded and pressed her napkin into her eyes. Then, in unconscious habit, she carefully straightened the knife and fork next to Maman’s plate. Feeling my eyes on her, she shrugged and blew her nose noisily. The table before us was crowded, each dish jostling its neighbour. Gifts of food from neighbours vied for place with an abundance of our own fresh produce that had to be eaten. Even today the sight and smells of it all remain so etched in my memory that I will recount it here. From Perrine, the sister of monsieur le curé, we were blessed with filets of fresh river perch: gently fried to a dark gold and anointed with melted butter and a generous benediction of finely snipped meadow herbs. Monsieur Durand, who farmed next to us, had left 3 fat ducks at the kitchen door, there to be tripped over by Grandmere on her way to the privy! Now they adorned our table, their dark brown skins crisp with the sheen of fat. From our own garden, buttered carrots with anise and drizzled with honey competed with mange tout, steamed to biting tenderness and tossed with almonds and goat cheese. Ripe tomatoes, thick slices covering a plate, were dusted with flakes of sea salt and a chiffonade of wild garlic leaves. Roasted potatoes (Grandmere’s speciality) had been cooked in piping hot duck fat, their browned outer shells cracking open to reveal the white creaminess inside. Papa had graciously produced his speciality for us too: thin slices of bread toasted and spread with black truffle butter. I remember the large grains of truffle looking just like wet, loamy soil. Our eggs had been put to good use in the production of a heaped pile of crepes: the batter spiced with smoky paprika and the savoury crepes then stuffed with roasted sweet peppers, briny anchovies from the Aegean and peppery mushroom vinaigrette. To round out this gourmand’s repast we’d decorated the table gaily with pyramids of fruit from our trees and several cheeses. An oozy white Vacherin cheese smelt faintly of the spruce bark it was stored in and we delighted in its sweet cow’s milk flavour. My particular favourite was the ‘extra mature’ Mimolette aged for 18 months. This nutty and sweet cheese is firm and smooth, with a rich russet colour. It pairs beautifully with the tart astringency of blue - black damsons and we’d stripped the last of the damsons off our tree to enjoy with it. Besieged by all this food, there was little talk at the table. We simply munched determinedly away in an amiable silence. Grandpere and Papa exclaimed now and then over a particularly tasty morsel, but mostly we were consumed by thoughts of what had gone before and what was about to come to our home. At the start of the meal Papa had shyly presented a bottle of cognac that he’d kept locked away in the oak dresser since his wedding day. None of us likely had the palate to tell whether or not it was ‘good’ cognac, but in light of his barely suppressed excitement at this regal tipple we dutifully sipped away regardless. I’d picked up a peach to cleanse my palate, its globular blond lushness faintly furred with silvery hairs. Turning it in my hand admiringly, I noticed the ugly marching line of a fruit moth’s predation zigzagging under its skin and lost my appetite for it.     We’d lit candles as night slid unstoppably over the house, and were subconsciously listening out for something alarming as we picked at bits of food, but only the cries of night birds and the sounds of the local farm animals answered our vigilance. Looking at my watch I saw that it was 22:00 and time for me to go. Papa noticed my unease and smiled to me before he left the table, returning with a large haversack. Dismal khaki green and ancient, Papa had used this haversack during the Great War and its faded fabric and scrappy webbing told many stories that Papa had never uttered a word about. I’d packed it days before, and noticed as I hefted it onto my shoulder that if anything its weight had increased since I’d practiced running with it through the village streets and up onto the lower slopes of Montagne des Bergers. I waited patiently as my grandparents rose from the table and then everybody followed me to the open front door. Looking out, I saw a waxing moon and the familiar shapes and undulations of the dark - hidden landscape around us. One of the barn cats bumped hard against my legs and I bent down to scratch her neck and hide my welling tears. Mastering myself, I stood upright, jerking the haversack again into a more comfortable valley on my back. My father gripped me painfully hard by the shoulders and kissed me three times, and then Grandpere and lastly Grandmere kissed me. Looking at me anxiously, Papa asked, “You’ve got your compass Michel? And the map I gave you to find the rendezvous point?” I nodded with assurance and replied “Yes, Papa.” Flushed with approval, he leant towards me as if for an embrace and stuffed a wad of francs into my shirt pocket. Stupefied with emotion and dizzy with my upcoming journey, I could do nothing but spin on my heel and walk quickly towards the road. I didn’t look back. Papa wouldn’t have wanted me to. I had trudged along almost to the outskirts of the village when Pierre the tailor stumbled out of a doorway drunk and started threading himself unsteadily home. Noticing me in the gloom, he straightened his jacket with ferocious concentration and pushed his eyeglasses more firmly onto his face. He called to me “Michel! You must be off to join the Resistance my lad!” I grinned and yelled back “Monsieur Boutons, there is no Resistance! I walk around at night only to take the air!” Tapping the side of his nose, Pierre guffawed with such violence that he unbalanced himself and fell into the boxwood hedge that bordered the road. I stopped for a moment to rest as he righted himself, and as he regained his verticality I was rewarded by the flash of his teeth in the darkness and a vague impression of his fist pumping martially in the air. Smiling to myself, I turned and started again along the road. Finis

3qzu88

Snow and Wonder

Veronica stared outside in amazement. The world was white. The big tree in the backyard, white! Her play set, white! Even where there was supposed to be grass was white! Veronica could look at it all day. “Veronica, do you wanna go play in the snow after breakfast?” her mama asked. Veronica turned with eyes wide and her hands still on the glass of the window. She nodded enthusiastically. Her mother scooped her up and took her down the stairs to the kitchen. Once placed on the floor, her feet quickly became uncomfortable. The tile was freezing. “Mama?” Veronica called. “Yes, girly,” her mother replied. “Col’,” Veronica whimpered. “Oh, is the floor chilly?” her mother consoled. “Uh huh,” Veronica nodded. “I think you have some slippers in the closet that I can get when I’m done making your breakfast,” her mother offered. Veronica went over to her mother and sat on her feet to stay warm until then. “Sweetie, I have to pour the hot water into your oatmeal. Can you go get a spoon for when it’s ready?” her mother redirected her. Veronica stood and walked over to the drawer where the silverware was. She reached her hand up and pulled the drawer open. She reached over her head and grabbed several forks which she discarded onto the floor. After many attempts she got a spoon. She went over and sat banging the table until her mother placed a cooled bowl of oatmeal before her. Once her tummy was filled and her feet were warm with the pair of purple slippers, it was time to get ready to go outside. “We gotta bundle you up, my sweet girl,” Veronica’s mama held her hand and led her to the coat closet. She opened the door and pulled out a funny looking pair of black overalls. Holding onto her mother’s arms, she carefully stepped into the overalls. Just before her feet made it through, they got stuck at the elastic meant to go around the ankle. “Looks like your slippers don’t fit through the foot holes,” her mama chuckled. “We’ll have to take them off.” She pulled the snow pants off Veronica and reached to take off her slippers. “No, off!” Veronica whined. “If we don’t take off your slippers then we can’t go outside.” Veronica gasped. She ran over to the window and climbed onto the chair that allowed her to see over the window sill. She placed both hands on the cool glass and leaned forward so her face was pressed against it. The world was still white. Everything was still covered. “Yes, ow-side,” she pointed. “Alright, then let's take off your slippers.” Her mama motioned for her to come closer. Veronica carefully slid off the chair and walked over to her mother. She half hesitantly offered her mama her foot. Her mama carefully slid off each slipper and helped her step into the black snow pants again. Next they put on a pair of thick socks, her gloves, and a hat. “Now where are your boots?” her mama wondered, getting up to look. She walked over to the rack by the door, near the changing table, and around the floor of the living room with no luck. While mama walked around the house, Veronica tried to follow her. Her legs felt big and puffy in the insulated pants. There was a funny swooshing noise whenever she moved. With much concentration and effort she made it over to the changing table right when Mama went for the stairs. She turned to follow but her socks were slippery and her feet slid out from under her. She landed on her bum with a thud but because of the extra padding it didn’t really hurt. Veronica brought her knees up, feet on the ground, and tried to stand but the snow pants made it nearly impossible. Even with pushing on her gloved hands there was no standing up. Veronica decided to roll over onto her belly and pull her knees up under her to stand like that. Her socks were still slippery and she ended up caught in a cycle of her feet sliding out whenever she brought them up under her. She forfeited and flopped on her stomach right when her mama came down the stairs holding her snow boots. “Hewp!” she called. “Mama hewp!” Her mama couldn’t help but chuckle as she helped Veronica sit up and slide her boots on. Mama held onto Veronica’s hands and helped pull her to her feet. “Come on, all that’s left is your coat then we can go outside!” Veronica’s face broke into an enormous grin as she held her Mama’s hand. Walking back to the coat closet was quite the challenge with her boots on top of her snow pants. She wobbled like a marshmallow with her feet clunking on the hardwood floor. Once they made it to the closet, her mama helped her into her coat. Mama put on her own boots and coat and they were ready. Mama held Veronica’s hand as she waddled to the door. She opened it to find snow all the way up the porch. “EEEEE!” Veronica let out a shriek of joy. She carefully stepped down the step from the door to the porch. Holding tightly to her mother’s hand she rapidly stomped in the little bit of snow that glazed the porch. Veronica took two steps into more untouched snow and stomped again. “Veronica, there’s so much more snow in the yard, let’s go see!” her mama encouraged her. Veronica let go of her mama’s hand and fell back onto the snow. She sat up and began touching it and moving it with her hands. She giggled when it moved. Once she had disturbed all the snow around her she managed to stand up by going onto her belly and pulling her legs up under her. With the boots her feet didn’t slide. She walked over a couple feet on the porch and plopped down in the snow again. She squealed and babbled and giggled, thoroughly enjoying herself. Her mama watched her amused for a moment before joining her. She slid on gloves from her pocket and sprinkled the snow over Veronica. That got out many squeals of delight. They built a little snowman and other fun shapes out of snow. They stayed out for maybe 20 minutes before Mama called it. “It’s getting too cold for you,” her mama reasoned. “After you’re all warmed up and your clothes are dry, we can come out and play again in the snow.” “ ’now?” Veronica asked. “Yes sweetie, the snow.” They both went inside and cuddled up with some warm milk, books, and a fuzzy blanket. The whole time, Veronica asked when they could go play in the “’now” again.

pamtqo

What Sleeps Under the Horizon

When Arti first sees the stars slowly melting out of the sky, she thinks maybe she it's time to go to bed. The second time it happens, she thinks maybe her coworkers were right and she really shouldn’t be trusted in the huge observatory alone. The third time it happens? Well. She figures out that maybe something is going on. Tonight marks the fourth night in a row where she’s staring at the sky, perched in the cushy leather seat of a billion-dollar telescope, staring at Ursa Major as the silvery light of the stars start to melt down towards the horizon. Molten mercury tracks sluggishly through the sky, dripping lazily to spill over the horizon. The stars stretch down, down, down, until all that’s left of them is a memory. Then they bounce back. And the whole process starts again. Arti blinks. Hard. Ursa Major continues to melt into oblivion. Well. That could be a problem. *** Most of the constellations we know today were named by the Ancient Greeks. Every constellation has its own story. Heroes and monsters immortalized in the night sky. In the storybooks, most people can agree on a consistent story leading to the constellation coming into being. Zeus transforms a hero into stars, Hera turns an affair child into a constellation, etcetera. A reward. A punishment. An acknowledgment. The law holds true for almost every constellation. A leads to B leads to the night sky. But not Ursa Major. Ursa Major is an exception. Allegedly, she used to be a beautiful huntress turned into a bear. People don’t quite agree on the reason why. A punishment sometimes, a reward others. Sometimes she got to meet her child—Ursa Minor—sometimes he killed her, sometimes he didn’t. The ancient Greeks just couldn’t agree on how Ursa Major had tiptoed up into the sky and what had happened to her before she turned into stars. Well, Arti has some theories. She’s been researching, pulling books off the shelf at her library on mythology and quantum physics and bear ecology. The librarian has raised her eyebrows at the combination of choices but Arti has forged on, simply smiling benignly as she handed over her library card. At home, she’d spread the books out over her collapsible dining table, put on Stupid Girl by Garbage on repeat, and buried herself in pages thick with scrawling ink. So far, what she’d found out was brown bears are the most widespread, Zeus was a whore, and it is entirely possible that Ursa Major existed as something giant and incomprehensible to the Ancient Greeks. It was as good an explanation as any. Otherwise, why would only Ursa Major melt from the sky, as if being pulled back to some physical body, finally stirring after millennia upon millennia of peacefully sleeping? Space. Atoms. The cosmos. All contain countless untold secrets humanity is only just starting to discover. There very well could be something out there that looks like a colossal bear but is made up of something else entirely, allowing it to interact and project energy thousands of lightyears away while it rests somewhere in the still unexplored wilds of Earth. Arti thinks it would be a little cocky to rule out a theory based on what humanity knows now . There’s always more to discover. Just look at the Ancient Greeks. Which only leaves one question remaining. Why now? Why would whatever bear-shaped amalgamation of energy Ursa Major really is wake up now ? Real bears have had inconsistencies in their hibernation schedule recently as a result of changing weather patterns. As the earth heats up and winter comes later and later, hibernation schedules keep moving back and back. It’s entirely possible that whatever Ursa Major really is, is being affected by the changing global temperatures. Heat is energy too, after all.  Maybe that energy is making it—her— wake up. *** “Ursa Major is melting,” Arti says, trying to keep her voice as firm as a California redwood, but probably ending up somewhere a little bit closer to a drooping willow. Well. She tried her best. “Um?” Elliot, the kindest of her coworkers, blinks up at her, stubby eyelashes fluttering as he wrinkles his nose. Arti forges on, blurting out her theory with all the tact of a bull in heat, “I mean, it’s not really . Kind of. It’s hard to explain. It’s some weird reflection of a colossal bear-energy thing.” “Dude, what are you talking about?” Elliot asks, thin lips disappearing as he purses them up at her in disbelief. Arti thinks he looks a little like an annoyed fish. All sharp angles, bulging eyes, and puckered lips. Out of all her coworkers, he’s the only one Arti can imagine at least hearing her out. If she can’t convince him, then everyone else is already a lost cause. She can do this. “Ursa Major is a reflection of some kind of energy that, like, takes a form similar to that of a bear. I think it might share some ecological similarities too. Or maybe it’s just mimicking. Anyways, it’s been hibernating since Grecian times. It’s waking up now. I’m not one hundred percent sure why, but I have a theory it has something to do with global warming.” Well. That was a train wreck. “Oh yeah? And what type of bear is it then?” Elliot taps a finger against the desk, smiling up at her in a way that makes her skin feel all the bad kinds of electric . “I don’t know. I’m an astrologist, not a biologist. And it might not even be a ‘bear’ as we know ‘bears’.” Hasn’t she already said this? Why won’t Elliot just listen ? Elliot clicks his tongue and the sound echoes, bouncing off the papers haphazardly thrown over his desk and around his empty office. “If you don’t even know what type of bear this ‘colossus’ is, then how do you expect us to take you seriously? Really, Arti, if you’re gonna make up a story, you should at least have all the details figured out.” “I’m not making it up. I have pictures of the stars melting.” Arti rummages in her pocket for her phone, but Elliot grabs her wrist before she can pull it out. “Just like you weren’t making up that comet last year?” He shakes his head, furrowing his eyebrows in a way Arti supposes is supposed to look commiserating but just makes her heart sink. “And how you had pictures of that?” Shame burns red-hot through Arti’s cheeks. She really had seen a comet and she really had thought she had taken a picture of it. She had been so sure but when everyone gathered to look at it, the night sky had been as still as a forest in winter and the picture had simply disappeared. As though it had never existed in the first place.  No one had ever really let her live that one down. “I didn’t make that up either,” she mumbles, and, even to her own ears, her voice is shaky. “Oh, Arti. It’s okay. We all make mistakes sometimes. Especially after spending all night staring at the same sky. It’s okay.” Elliot pats her shoulder, short fingers cold even through the fabric of Arti’s lavender sweater. Burning coals settle into Arti’s lungs, curling flames licking up the kindling of her ribs. Smoke clogs her throat, a scream fighting to pour out of her mouth in a deluge of flame and smoke and everything she’s been pushing down since the comet debacle last year. She swallows it, as she always does, and it sticks in her throat, sticky as molasses and impossible to breathe properly through. “I have to go,” she gasps, and, for a second, she’s surprised when ash doesn’t bubble out with the words. “You should really take a vacation, Arti,” he calls after her, sticky as syrup and pitying as someone zooming past a deer on the highway. *** A vacation actually turns out to be a wonderful idea, even if every time Arti thinks the word it burns its way into her ears, sounding suspiciously of Elliot’s patronizing voice and smelling of burning wood. She sends a quick text to her group chat of friends, first telling them she’s going to be a little unreachable for a while and then sending them the picture of melting stars. They tell her to have fun and that her artwork is beautiful. Arti’s ribs burn. She puts in notice at her work. Tells them she may be back someday, but she won’t make them wait for her. They laugh as they wave her off, exchanging knowing glances as she gathers her stuff from her desk in a beat-up shoe box. Smoke stays locked safely behind her lips. That very same night, she packs her telescope carefully into a duffel bag, padded with crumpled sweaters and torn up jeans. She scrawls calculations into her notebook, watching Ursa Major wink at her—deceptively intact without a telescope— from the horizon. She books a train ticket to the horizon. Or, well, as close to it as she can get. By her calculations, at least. By the second day after her spontaneous vacation plan starts taking shape, Arti stands on the train platform, scarf looped over the lower half of her face and duffel burning into her shoulder. The train rolls into the station with a lazy whistle, wheels clicking as it slows to a stop. Commuters rush out as the doors open, conversation rising around her and bouncing off the vaulted roof of the station. Is this how Amelia Earhart felt before departing for her flight around the world?. Too big for her skin? stardust and boiling energy crashing together in her veins? Arti feels—real. She burns the feeling in the fire nestled between her ribs and steps through the doors. *** For a while, the news runs stories on her. Her ex-coworkers read them while tutting and shaking their heads, only discussing it long enough to make a couple of crude jokes before they forget about her once again. Her friends read the stories and put them through the shredder. They figure they’ll hear from her soon enough. They’re not the type of people who keep in contact all the time, anyway. For a while, the world forgets about Arti. *** It's hard to continue forgetting her when the observatory, along with a good portion of North America, is rocked by a 4.3 magnitude earthquake at 7:01 am one nondescript mid-march morning. Harder still when a rumbling growl radiates out from Arti's horizon, exactly where she'd marked on a map at the observatory the day before she quit.

hzya8c

One Day, You Will Be Mine

At a fancy restaurant in New York City, a blonde man in a sharply tailored business suit sits across from an equally blonde woman. They are pale white of skin, nearly to an alabaster, though veins are curiously not visible through the skin. They are Armand and Esmeralda von Krauss—German owners of a horror-based carnival known as the Krimson Kharnival are having dinner. Esmeralda is dining upon the latest meal in fashion, eating daintily at the small bites that are on her plate. Armand, for his part, eats a big plate of fried sausage and roasted vegetables. Esmeralda makes a face, wrinkling her nose in the process. “Why do you eat such nonsense, dahling?” She asks. “We’ve gotten past having to subsist on such fare a long time ago.” Armand just smiles, taking a bite of his sausage. “It takes me back to when I first had such fare. The Romans ate well when we goths sometimes starved.” Esmeralda raises an eyebrow, eating a pan-seared scallop. “Really, dahling? Do tell.” Armand nods, putting his food down and lighting an imported Egyptian cigarette, despite the fact that smoking indoors was not really allowed. “For you, m’lady, I would spill a thousand such tales. You were there, but I shall regale you with the story anyway and we can both journey back in time.” ******* The Roman city that will later become known as Cologne, Germany… Armand von Krauss looked like a different man then, but this is was because he had not become entangled with the curse of the Krimson Kharnival quite yet. He was Sidimund, second in command to a Gothic war band under the great war leader, Vandalarius. They were attacking the city and by a great boon had been laid upon their endeavor when none other than Tyr, God of War, joined their ranks with his honor guard. On the other side, Romulus himself leads the defense of the city. He sneers from the top of the wall when he sees that Tyr has joined the battle. “The gate has nearly fallen.”, Romulus tells his near by second-in-command and soldiers. We must be ready to rally and push out through the gate as soon as it falls.” The Romans roar in confidence, knowing that their Founder was with them on his way to ascend to Olympus. Romulus and his warriors made their way down to the gate where they lay in wait. They do not wait for long as the gate is demolished by a battering ram made from a felled tree. Romulus raises his sword and shouts. “For Rome!” The Roman Founder charges at the barbarian host with his warriors at his side, cutting down foes that were not ready for an attack so soon after getting through the gate. Vandalarius is right on the other side of the gate and clashes swords with Romulus as Sidimund and other Gothic warriors slip through the gate and begin attacking Romans on the other side. Sidimund slashes through the Roman soldiers guarding the capitol building and enters with a few of his barbarians. Inside, he sees a vision of beauty in the form of Esmeralda von Krauss, who also went by a different name in such an ancient time. Sidimund stops to stare a moment before being reminded that he was in a battle when a Roman soldier attempts to gut him. He knocks the sword out of the solider’s hand and beheads him. He turns to Esmeralda, putting out a hand. “M’lady, you shouldn’t be in such a dangerous place. Allow me to take you away from this place.” She only smiles at him, drawing up the hem of her dress to reveal upholstery needles strapped to her thigh. “I can take care of myself, savage. I am Caia-” “Caia Ultia the Merciless?”, Sidimund finishes. “Yes.” is the response he gets along with an upholstery needle flung at his face. Sidimund easily deflects the needle with his sword, his eyes burning with a passion as he regards her. Caia only laughs. “Shouldn’t you check on your leader? He is battling a would-be god.” “One day, Caia.”, Sidimund vows. “One day, you will be mine!” Sidimund rushes out of the building with his men to see Romulus and Vandalarius still locked in combat with Goths and Romans fighting all around them. It still looks like Vandalarius is going to win the day when Tyr strikes him from behind, but in the commotion, only Sidimund sees the blow. Vandalarius’ eyes go wide in pain and the distraction is enough for Romulus to run him through. “Noooo!” Tyr pulls his soldiers back from the battle and shouts. “Vandalarius is lost! We must retreat!” Sidimund charges, slaying several Romans on his way to Romulus, who only laughs. “I am a god!”, Romulus boasts. “You cannot slay me!” Sidimund presses his attack in his rage, battering the sword from Romulus’ hand and cleaving him from left shoulder to right hip. The Roman Founder’s eyes are large with disbelief as one side of him slides off of the other and both fall into the dirt. Sidimund raises his sword into the air, though his eyes are searching for the traitorous Tyr who is nowhere in sight. “Romulus is dead!”, Sidimund roars. “The city is ours!” And once the Romans see that their Founder has been slain, they begin to surrender. Sidimund goes back to the capital building and searches for Caia, but she is gone. The infamous courtier-assassin is gone. Sidimund sheathes his blade and sighs. “We will meet again, Caia.” ******** Esmeralda smiles as Armand finishes his story. “I tracked down Tyr, captured him, and imprisoned him in the basement of a tower that I had sealed off. All because his betrayal of Vandalarius. You see, Romulus had promised him a taste of Aphrodite if he would deliver the invading Goths.” Armand flicks ashes onto the table with a grin. People at the tables around cough politely to indicate that they are being bothered by the smoke, but Armand smokes on regardless. No one tells him to stop. “I remember having this meal once we had sacked the city. I remember it well, because it was the day that I met you for the first time. That was the day I knew that you would one day be mine.” Esmeralda grins wide. “I punished Tyr as I didn’t want him to get to you as well. I knew that I would one day be yours.” Armand just chuckles, going back to eating his dinner. “We were always meant to be.” Esmeralda licks her lips. “Why don’t we skip dessert and head right for the hotel room?” “I would like nothing more…”

qb6i14

A Day in the Life, of a Beetle

The migrant maiden was stirred to life by the avalanche of pumpkin spiced air spilling out the coffee shop’s open back door. Her dullened mind was shaken into clarity by the consecutive quakes from one plastic bag after another being flung by a disinterested barista into her dumpster. Unfolding her wings and stretching them wide, the hopeless beetle elected to abandon that frosty trash in search of one last meaningful day. She chose the name Randi, which she had gotten from a used sedici -size cup that did not make its way into the garbage. Randi took flight heading into the aroma, crossing the threshold a second before the door was pulled closed. After a few dizzy twists and turns, she finally landed on the neck-strap of a green apron hanging from a peg. It was a good place to reconnoiter. The room was cozy warm and filled with crated delights. As she licked on a sweet stain in the apron’s fabric, Randi noticed, from the tops of her eyes, a brighter light pouring from deeper inside. Though her wings also folded into a shiny curved shell with symmetrical black dots, she was not the round red ladybug that most humans adored. Randi was browner, more oval than the ladybug. Different enough to make the humans sneer. There were no rhymes written about her kind. When ladybugs gathered, the humans called it a loveliness . When her kind gathered the humans called the exterminator. She had nothing against ladybugs. In fact, her descendants were sent over to help them do battle with the invasive pecan and soybean aphids that threatened to overwhelm her precious cousins. Being the bigger beetle with an equally bigger bite, her species completed their mission with great success. Yet they were never treated as the heroes they were commissioned to be. It was as if the humans wanted the war to end with some tragic tie, no more aphids, no more Asian Ladybeetles, just cute red sweet-smelling ladybugs. From the coat rack the inquisitive insect coptered to the top of a refrigerator. The back of the chest purred with cold wet coils that offered the most refreshing sips. From there, Randi’s six synchronized legs carried her across a stretch of dry cardboard, then over a landscape of smooth tile spangled with aromatic grindings and bits of delectable biologicals. As the bitty beetle nibbled, she pushed ever toward the light. The great hall was immense, flowing with preoccupied people of all shapes and sizes, each pushing past another to claim their sumptuous, cupped prize. No one noticed Randi, so more than once she nervously skidded to a petrified halt, barely avoiding a catastrophic crush from an unwitting sole. The worried invertebrate finally found safety near the counter’s edge. To calm her nerves, Randi licked the mites off her tiny tarsi. The soothing music that filled the room also relaxed her some. Randi regained her composure and reacquired her bearings. That’s when she spotted it, the light of life beaming through the blinds of the windows to the south. And from that side of the great hall also came a scent so alluring, it pulled at her with a force even greater than the one currently luring the humans to that very store. Randi knew the quickest way to end her search would be to fly. And she could make it that far, she knew that. But the gritty beetle was practical if not beautiful. Even at frenetic full-throttle buzz, on wing she could muster little more than an ungraceful slow-rolling corkscrew flight pattern. That kind of riskiness got noticed, got many of her siblings swatted to death or eaten by birds. It would be a long crawl, but Randi had the discipline for the journey. Asian Ladybeetles, also called Harlequin Beetles were good at three things: eating aphids, using their smelly yellow secretion to ward off enemies, and climbing. So off she went, tenaciously traversing the wall, clinging to the smallest vertical occlusions, paying no mind to the pry of gravity. At midday, Randi stopped to feed on the carcass of a housefly that had lost a run-in with a spider. Even as her hungry mandibles pinched off a bit of desiccated thorax, the adventurous arthropod could not stop thinking about that hairy murderous spider. Truth be told, Randi wished she were feasting on its eggs, rather than the remains of its prey. And where was that killer beast now? Why in the world did she stop within its killing field? Randi secreted a little, wondering how she could be so daft, then promptly resumed her lonely quest for something meaningful. The resolute beetle spent every bit of the next hour climbing up and onto a dark lacquered table. All that exertion dried her out (she always seemed to be dried out lately.) Still, the brave insect soldiered on. And her prayers were soon answered when she discovered a moisture ring left by the butt of a human’s icy drink. The satisfying moisture filled Randi with hope again. But as she pivoted to continue her crawl, her world suddenly went dark. Was she dead? Did she finally succumb to some stomp, or swat, or maybe that spider’s pounce? She rubbed her eyes, opened them wide- nothing. The blackness persisted. But that music was still there, she could hear. Then came the sound of muffled voices. “What was that, a ladybug?” “No. It’s one of those damned oriental beetles. The kind that’ll bite you, that stink when you squash them.” “Well don’t kill it here.” “Hold on a second, I’ll be right back.” Randi relied on her antennae to evaluate her dark enclosure. It was as high as she was long, with perfectly circular edges. Randi soon realized that she’d been trapped under one of their precious cups! Trying not to panic, the astute sub-creature reasoned that humans lifted their cups frequently. When this one did, she would run for her life. She pressed against the bottom’s edge, waiting for her chance to escape. But the drink was not lifted evenly, or with the human’s usual languid rhythm. It was tilted, and quickly too. Before Randi could bolt, she was pinched under a squeeze of napkin. Despite her secretions, she was carried away. It was Randi’s near precognitive sense for danger that saved her. Just before the pinch, she clenched into her shell. The quick defensive maneuver, coupled with the force-dampening quality of the padded tissue, was enough for her to avoid the deadly crunch. Randi emerged from the wadded paper to find herself in the bin marked for the landfill. Once again, the lonesome bug found herself in the garbage. But she had to admit, it wasn’t all that bad. The inside trash was warmer and more sweet smelling. But she knew it was only a matter of time before inside trash became outside garbage. And these days, it was just too cold outside. So, she climbed. She ascended paper sleave bags and wax-coated cups. At the top of the heap, then scaled a straw that seemed to point the way. When she reached its tasty tip, Randi realized life was too short to overdose on patience. The time had come to take to the air. Scanning the room to confirm that all the humans were otherwise engaged, she unfurled her wings and started her body humming. As ridiculous as it was, all that commotion lifted her from the mouth of the human’s sipping tube. Randi leaned toward the light. Growing up an uncoordinated twerp, Randi had grown used to clumsy landings. When she hit the invisible window, her exoskeleton acted as a sort of crash helmet. She dropped to the sill but stuck the landing, shaking off the sting before surveying the new surroundings. That alluring fragrance was so strong now, she could see it. Like fuse-wire pulled from sand, she began following the scent line to its dangerous destination. As she scuttled, the smooth glass cooled her outer belly, while anticipation heated her inner yolk. Randi’s antennae spread wide when she came upon the source of the fragrant tendrils. It was a convocation of her kind hidden by the blinds at the corner of the pane. Dozens of Asian ladybeetles, all enthralled, all abustle, like remote-controlled micro bumper cars, all brushing and nudging against one another. No one ever taught Randi how to dance. But somehow she recognized these moves. Their final celebration of life. She pushed her way into the jubilation. The late autumn sun cast an orange glow through the glass that highlighted their pumpkin-colored shells. While the deep raspy voice of Louis Armstrong sang about leaves of green and their wonderful world, she bathed in the luxurious aroma of acceptance and love. And she danced. For her, it was the perfect moment. Then, sifted from the mosh frolic, came a beetle as fresh as she could imagine. The M marking on their back was sharp and stunning, and that white pronotum only enhanced those smiling eyes. That alluring scent that compelled Randi to make the arduous journey across the great hall was deliciously excreted from this exceptional one. From the point of encounter, Randi could no longer maintain her defenses. She was unable to stop herself from connecting with her counterpart, who made the most of Randi’s abandoned doubt. As they danced, Randi thought about the strange day she had, that started with her cold surrender to death. Now, she was chosen by one of their finest, and in that glorious instant, was gifted with their potent concentrate- a fourth thing at which Asian Ladybeetles excelled. As the sun set on their encounter, all the strength she had built from her travails melted away. Or more precisely, all her impetus was replaced with a new kind of strength, one of blissful understanding. Randi knew what she needed to do. With fear no longer in the equation, Randi fluffed out her wings and took to the wind one last time. With so little strength she flew, and when she could buzz no longer, she glided, then fell to the edge of the door. She found a gusty fracture just big enough for her to slip through. Outside, everything was coated in frosty crystal. She folded her antennae and retracted her legs, to allow the wind to blow her dry curved body like a tumbleweed, over the cold hard ground. She rolled over gravel, briefly caught against a cigarette, before ending in a lovely patch of tall dead grass. Those eggs she felt activate inside her thorax, that exquisitely drained all her strength on the windowpane, she deposited one by one along the last two inches of her final climb. Then she dug her six tarsi claws deep into the brittle brown blade of grass, so she would still be there, to feed them in the spring. It was a good end to things, she thought; though she wished she could have met a ladybug.

1i9z73

Cabin Fever

•───────•∞•Ж•∞•───────• Then the storm broke and was replaced the next morning with a frozen 1880s blue sky, the kind when after the clouds clear the world shuts down with a blinding but heartless sun, no wind, and dead quiet. Jason and Bill huddled around the cabin's only wood burner. Above them, the pine timbers groaned and complained with the weight of the storm’s snow, over twenty feet on the roof; but what dropped their stomach into a mine shaft was the sharp crack about every ten minutes, a sound like a double barrel going off in the rafters. The cold clenched down on the roof beams, the cabin held in a merciless ice-cold fist. It was not unknown for a collapsed cabin to be found in the spring, the dead still frozen under the rubble. “A beast with a blood-froze beard”, Bill mumbled out loud to himself, feeding logs to the wood burner. He’d almost lost Jason the night before. The storm outside had been ghost-white and howling a blow. He had worried Jason would lose the rope he’d strung to the outhouse, sixty feet from the cabin. He knew from experience men lose their way, only to be found in the spring thaw. So when Jason had slammed the pine door and come back in, shaking and terrified, saying he barely made it back, and talking about his lungs seared out from the cold, he had sighed in relief. But when he'd calmed down later, Jason said, “There’s something out there, Bill. I could feel it looking at me. I swear I saw eyes in the dark, red eyes… and…and… a growl.” Provisions were low, so for supper, the only meal that day, Bill dished out steaming black beans, only a sourdough biscuit on the side. Bill, Chicken Bill they called him, liked to talk when he was serving food and fancied himself a philosopher, a cowboy philosopher, although his ranching days were well over. He was fifty, which is old in the mountains, but a lot about Bill was still adventurous with his red kerchief, leather chaps he wore like skin, and his Stetson, which he rarely took off. As he dished out the food, he declared, “The Shoshone have a hundred words for snow, Jason; snow that grows out of the ground, a hoary frost sparkling with tiny ice fingers reaching for the sun; snow that forms a crust when the top melts some and then freezes back up, which might break your leg in a post hole; and snow that lives in the worst cold and wraps itself in the body of a wolf and steals your soul, like now.” “Bill, it’s sixty below and I don’t feel much like talking about the cold.” “I understand, son,” Bill said, and took Jason’s empty tin plate away. Later that night, Bill sat by the burner, the flame reflected on his weathered face, high cheekbones, and full lips, a handsome man his wife had said. He stroked the scar from the edge of his eye to the back of his chin, a scuffle with Texas-rough Civil War vets in ’72, calling him half-breed in the street. But I know this cold is different, he thought. It’s tougher with Jason. The fire held his eyes on the yellow-blue flame for a long while, the wood humming and spitting, the smoke smelling of pine sap. Did you swear you wouldn’t take on caring about another, he asked himself. D id you? Yes, after the sickness, I did. And now you’re caring about this Jason, and that’s why you’re scared? You’re getting soft. Bill kept feeding the fire, but couldn’t help thinking about death, for him a white wolf in his dreams with a blooded snout, a red-eyed beast scratching to get in. **** The next morning the Olsen party beat on the door; finding the cabin must have taken some luck. Dick Olsen, his wife Martha, their daughter Susan, and their young boy, Joey. They filled the cabin once inside. Mr. Olsen was near done living with his feet black from the frostbite. He could still hobble, but Bill had him put one foot in cold water. It began bleeding and he wrapped it up. Jason asked Bill about the feet in the kitchen and Bill talked low, so the party wouldn’t hear. “You can tell from his sagging eyes the West has whipped him, Jason. If you notice, his eyeballs are skittering like a mare beat too much. Once broke like that, too broke, a horse won’t come back to anything worth working. Mr. Olsen has the no-blinks and I’ve seen it in the mines. You best stay clear when you run up on a man like that. Next thing you know, you’ll be staring too far away yourself. Their daughter Susan did not have the no-blinks, Jason thought. Just with a sneak peek, he could see she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever put eyes on. Once she unwrapped from the weather, her long hair alone shone like some kind of goddess he guessed; the blonde let loose, soft and shimmering. She made him think of a gazelle he saw once up in the high country. It stood with its white belly and golden hide, then ran off as light as air. The God’s creature moved like grace itself. But Susan just sitting there was better. No sir . You cannot chance more than a sneak peek when you run into a sight like that.  He kept his eyes on the burner and was glad when the Olsen Party carved out a private area off to the side, blankets making a wall of sorts. Bill made some supper for all six including himself, the last of the salt ham, hardtack, and black beans, everyone silent around the pine table. Bill didn’t talk much around strangers at first; some said likely due to him being a half-Bannock Indian. But once the diners settled in, the boy Joey couldn’t get enough and threw questions at Bill like a scattergun, “How long you been up here?”, “Why do they call you Chicken Bill?”, and “Where’d you get that scar on your cheek?”. Bill gave short answers but his eyes smiled talking to the boy. He explained the Galena cabin was the way station for the Stanley to Ketchum route, an overnight mid-point on the sixty-mile run. Jason was a Postal Officer and would ski the sixty miles on eight-foot board skis, the trail too narrow for a wagon and too steep for a horse. Jason listened in, but also knew Bill had lost both his wife and son to cholera and sparked up around children. The boy asked, “Why don’t you wear a gun?” Bill said, “I’m done with guns young man, guns mostly don’t ever work out like you expect.” Joey’s eyes grew into silver dollars, “Did you ever kill anybody?” The table went quiet and Bill said, “Excuse me. Jason and I have to clean up. Come on Jason.” As he rose, his eyes were glistening and Jason remembered Bill didn’t like to talk about guns and killing. Bill and Jason were in the kitchen when Mr. Olsen came limping in. He was dodging around like he had something to say but couldn’t. Finally, he said, “Joe’s mother feels…well…don’t talk to our son she says.” Bill said, “Sure. No problem.” He took a deep breath and let it out. You’ll always be an outsider, looked at as an outcast by your own people, a savage Indian by the other. Jason felt bad for Bill, but the truth was he thought there was nothing he could do about it anyway. **** The next day, the Dawson brothers pounded on the door. After coming in, they spread out like it was natural to position themselves for a gunfight. The one in the middle was Cliff, the oldest brother. He scanned the room, his eyes not missing a thing, running over Jason and Bill like bacon greasy fingers, assessing if they were a threat. He then stopped on Mrs. Olsen. “You get lost out of Pocatello? Standing me up in Ketchum seem right to you?” Slumped down at the table like a man giving up, Mr. Olsen stared at his foot wrapped in the bloody rag. He glanced at his wife, but she saddled up to Cliff, put her face close to his, and with a sweet voice Jason hadn’t heard before brushed her lips up against his right ear. “I’d come back for you, Cliff, you know that.” Cliff shoved her off rough and put his head back and laughed, a mean sound, more coyote bark than laugh. He said, “I guess I know when I been had, you viper.” He nodded to Mr. Olsen at the table. “Sorry Dick. You can have her back now.” Mrs. Olsen shot a look at her husband. He was slumped at the table; his hands shaking while covering his face, his elbows on the yellow pine planks. The smaller brother came out from behind the blankets. He threw a black carpetbag down on the floor. Cliff kneeled and opened it up. The bag was full of money, bundles of cash. Mr. Olsen looked up, his eyes misted, yellow-red. “Our future Martha. You wanted Oregon. There it lies. You didn’t count on the snow…,” and looking at his feet, “much less this damn freeze.” Grabbing the bloody rag off his dead foot, he threw it at his wife, which she knocked away just before it hit her face. Mrs. Olsen hesitated, then lunged toward her husband, her eyes harsh, her face tight. With a harsh whisper, she spit each word like venom. “Yes, the storm, and the damn freeze you fool. You’re an old fool, the worst kind, you know that? You only see what you want.” Mr. Olsen glared back at her, but she stared him down. Cliff packed up the bag and threw it to the third brother near the window, then turned to Mrs. Olsen. He pointed his gloved finger at her and narrowed his eyes, laughing through his sneer. “It’s true. He don’t see you Martha, but I do.” And then he cocked his face at Mr. Olsen like he remembered something. “But being Indian Agent at Pocatello has its advantages for you and Martha, don’t it Dick? I guess the tribes will miss it none, not knowing it was theirs to begin with.” Mr. Olsen reared up at the table, wincing when he stood on his bare black foot. His face twisted up, like being covered with fire. He stumbled out a derringer from his inside vest pocket and aimed it at Cliff, but Cliff was fast, quick with his gun. In the tight cabin, the shot rang out like the screaming wrath of God; Mr. Olsen thrown near off both feet, his back smacking hard against the pine wall with his chest a bloody hole. He slid to the floor and his boy Joey ran to the body and Susan held her brother; the son, daughter, and dead man lying together. The Dawson men soon grouped everyone to the side of the cabin while one brother held a gun. They searched for weapons and collected both the derringer and a shotgun found in the kitchen. The smaller brother filled a sack with the remaining food. Mrs. Olsen grabbed Cliff’s arm, holding him from turning away, and said, “Please forgive me, baby.” Cliff threw her off and laughed, shoving her toward the table. Leaning into the table, Mrs. Olsen stayed dead still as she stared at the wall. Cliff, behind her, spoke firm, like he wanted the pain to sink in. “You ain’t worth much, hardly worth feeding Martha. But I’ll be taking you, the boy, and especially Susan up north to the renegades. They’ll make use of you in the camps, but your daughter and boy Martha? They’ll bring prime dollar.” Mrs. Olsen’s hands gripped white on the table. The other two brothers drew their guns after hearing Cliff. In a short time Jason and Bill stood at the cabin door while mounted up in front of them in the bright sun and the dry pine air were the three brothers, but also Mrs. Olsen, the boy Joey, and Susan on the last remaining horses, all tied to saddle horns. The Dawson brothers turned and broke trail, the snow pushing up above the horse’s bellies; the hooves rising high to punch through the clean white, the pine hanging heavy with fresh snow. They were soon out of sight. Without a word, Bill pushed through the deep snow to the shed. He dragged the door open, hitting it with his shoulder, finally making his way in. After the sound of rummaging, he came out. Strapped on his side was a Colt 45 rig, low on his hip, outlaw style. He said, “I got the weapon, but not the means. We need a horse, Jason.” The shed door was still open, and Jason stuck his head in. “You’re right, we don’t have a horse. I’ve got an idea though for something else!” Jason and Bill took two pairs of board skis and pushed through the snow a hundred yards to the top of Galena Ridge. The near cliff fell off the side of the mountain. If they could ski it, and Jason couldn’t guess how, but if they could, they’d cut off the Dawsons two miles away where they came out the bottom of the switchbacks. They had to take the chance. Jason strapped both himself and Bill into the skis where they needed to drop off. Bill stared off the edge wide-eyed. He grabbed Jason’s arm, nervous as all get out. Jason had never seen him panicked like that, gaping over the edge like a little boy. He choked it out. “I need to tell you; I could a had your postman job Jason, but it required me to ski. Turned it down, and… and hell… that’s why they started calling me Chicken Bill.” Jason laughed to look at him. “Hell yourself Bill. No chicken about it. It ain’t nothing,” he lied. “Let’s go!” They pushed off. The skis fell through air and Jason sidestepped to turn as he hit the bank. The snow flowed like a heaven’s mist over their heads, Jason’s skis swooping back and forth, a fine curve on the fresh snow, the cold flakes stinging his face. They weren’t skiing but flying. Bill just closed his eyes and took a straight shot. Together, they leveled out on the basin. **** The riders slowly came out of the trees, the horses were struggling to lift their hooves in the deep snow, tired, and pushed too hard. The younger brother was the first to notice Bill standing fifty yards ahead. Jason could tell Cliff then saw Bill also and was moving in position, turning side-saddle so he could draw. As Cliff angled, Bill crouched in the snow, and when the two brothers pulled their sidearms, Bill drew in response, his gun light in his hand like he was flicking his finger. He knocked the two younger brothers off their horses like nothing, ducks in a shoot. Bill then took aim at Cliff with both hands, holding the revolver for the distance, but stopped; Mrs. Olsen’s horse crossed the path. The more Bill moved to get an aim, the more Mrs. Olsen got in the way. Shoot dammit, just shoot!  Bill blew air exasperated, he raised his gun straight up and fired into the sky. This was the break Cliff was looking for. He leaned out, drew on Bill, and took him down with a blast of three shots. Cliff could shoot. Bill fell in front of Jason in the cold. As death approached, Bill didn’t feel scared, but settled. A peace came over him. But you’re leaving Jason,  he thought. You need to tell him before you go. Leaning close, Jason said, “What Bill? What is it?” He knew Bill was dying. “You can do it, Jason. You’re a far better man than you think, son.” Bill then closed his eyes. A warmth moved over Jason that he couldn’t explain. He suddenly realized Bill was the closest thing to a father he’d ever had and it was right then Jason knew he was done with ‘can’t do anything about it anyway’ and it was right then he was done with the holding back and he had to try. Feeling the heavy weight of the cold steel Colt in his hand he stood up slowly and held the weapon down by his side. Cliff flanked him staying side-saddled with a broad grin on his face in the bright cold, moving to get the sun behind him. “Give it a try, boy,” he said, and holstered his weapon. “When you’re ready,” and he angled his horse as he moved, his hand hovering on the gun handle. Jason lifted his arm and Cliff’s gun exploded in his hand. Jason never saw him draw; he was so fast. The slug hit him in the shoulder and threw Jason’s aim. He fell to the ground and Cliff was soon above him, dismounted, and kicking the Colt away. Jason looked down Cliff’s gun barrel and felt his chest pounding. He knew the bullet was coming and his only thought was hoping it didn’t hurt, a quick ending. A snarling cut the cold air before Jason saw a white-shaped animal leap for Cliff, who fought the snapping jaws while he writhed on the snow, holding the white wolf-like thing off his face. Cliff then screamed in terror. The animal slashed at him and dug in, ripping his throat out, then stuck its snout into the wound. Jason turned away thinking he was next, but soon caught sight of the wolf flashing in the trees. An albino, pure white. He lost sight of the animal in the green pine, the needles covered in ice, crystals on the trees.

edc94t

The Best Chicken Dinner Ever

Aching feet crunch through that howling blast of wind, my endless pace defying the billowing snow clouds that soak what little dry cloth remains of my scarf, parka, and pants. It was my soggy attempt to bundle up through an endless car-strewn landscape. Just getting to the office bus stop was a story all its own. If I could make my lips move to tell it. But I was one of the fortunate few. Unlike many motorists, I would have a bus to transport me home. We would have bus lanes and priority access to whatever highway snow-clearing was available! All in the interest of encouraging everyone to use public transit. Or so people said. Some colleagues said they wouldn't bother making such a snowy trek. Downtown hotels were offering exceptional "storm rates." Why fight Mother Nature? But waking up in an empty hotel bed was not for me. Especially since once we were on the bus, the highway gridlock and abandoned cars would not concern us. Please let everything be ok! That was my only thought. It was a long trip, and I passed the time by reading a book and working on my French by listening to the many conversations that filled the bus. Most of my fellow passengers were Quebecois. Understanding them required more than a bit of understanding of joual  or the local French-Canadian dialect and manner of speaking. I would try speaking French with them, but they would break into English almost immediately. They would do this even when I spoke Parisian French perfectly. So I contented myself with listening to them only. Throughout the trip, I had been painfully scraping frost that covered the inside of my bus window. Through a tiny porthole I had managed to keep clear of ice, my every exhaled breath obscured my vision. Finally, I spied something that looked like my bus stop. At least, I thought it was my stop. The jagged snow crystals I had been driving under my fingernails by my desperate scrabbling would now be a thing of the past, thankfully. It would be a short walk from the top of the hill to my home. Everyone wanted the driver to see them off the bus. So, like everyone else, I tumbled out of the front, the bus's back door long since having been rendered inoperable, doubtless frozen shut through disuse. Which was for the best. If traction was lost, the bus could skid, and you would have to bang on a window to avoid becoming rear-wheel roadkill. Speaking of which, when I glanced back at the bus driver from the side of the road, he gave me a knowing, rueful grin that reminded me of those old movie characters whose sole purpose was to advance the story's plot by predicting what could not be discerned in the ordinary scheme of things. Now, out of the bus, I was no longer a part of some grand enterprise. I would have to face everything on my own. Whatever amusement the bus driver had surveying me from his lofty perch ended. He had to get home, too. So, after a short wave of his hand, the bus roared away, swallowed whole in a moonless gloom. As I slipped down the hill, it soon became apparent that the entire landscape was like a skating rink, inches thick and nearly impervious to my footsteps. Out of necessity, I became a gigantic puffball of quivering motion, straddling this footprint or that patch of broken snow: a snowman dressed in a fake aboriginal embroidered parka who walked like a man while still nearly falling endlessly. An impenetrable dark valley sprawled as I threaded through that thick January night. It was the mystery that mattered, after all. How ordinary streets transform themselves and play to an unknown script spun from hoary fairy tales of ancient blizzards. Covering everything yet provoking the telling of secrets: The road I tripped down looked only vaguely familiar. Was that so and so's house? Did I take a wrong turn? How could it possibly be so dark? The empty black windowed houses made me embrace one particular abandoned car to lean and catch my breath. Laughing and tenderly cupping my hands, I blew on the windshield, the car's concrete opaqueness spreading into glassy darkness, revealing what I always knew I could be. I could save others if I had to! It wasn't so hard! “No one in this car!” I announced to imaginary passersby, who deigned never to look, let alone acknowledge me. Mortals, one and all, are not worthy! I was the savior of everything that mattered, my words condensing into eternal clouds: sacrifices to the storm gods, slush cakes for my fingers, their gifts. Then Steven, my only friend in grade 3, appeared. Touch your tongue right to the car metal! Go ahead and do it! I laugh again. I'm not going to do that, Steven! See? It's only warm when you least expect it! You try it this time! I'll pull you off with my bare hands! Steven had to rip a spruce bough from a frozen tree to hack through the instant ice that bound my face to a metal skating rink sign. So long ago. Was it my tears that I tasted that day? Here and now, there was no spruce tree handy! # “What are we going to eat?” she demanded. Stupefying. Another person is speaking. Only now do I start shivering uncontrollably. “What did you say?” I quaver through my chattering teeth. Small screaming children gather around as I close the door, a greeting party, the vocal counterpoint to the dozen solemn candles that stand like statuettes, banishing cowardly darkness from every horizontal surface. It could be a pagan sacrifice. What did I know of time and space? I fumble at my parka. Its iron thickness would not yield, provoking more ice to cascade from my arms and chest than has ever graced this foyer, this house that is more an entrance into another life than a dwelling. I had to blow on my bare fingers. Even then, I couldn't unbutton the monstrous portrait of ice mingled with cloth that nature had made of me. “You’re making a mess!” she yells. "What happened to your hands?" Absently, I brushed still more crusty residue to the ceramic floor of our brand-new two-story that we were so proud of. The children chase each other around me, grabbing handfuls and spraying tiny snowballs everywhere. Then, one of them falls and starts bawling. I finally came to. “Eat?” I said, at last. I become dimly aware of another primal need. One that might exorcize cold from my body and give me some semblance of normality that I could cling to. “Did you run the water through the pipes like I asked?” I said, making words follow each other, like how people speak. It was a precaution for something or other. An office conversation topic that I couldn't remember. But this life was starting to make sense. Our youngest was in her arms, settling a little. Then, squirming, he wanted to be put down. Our eldest daughter made a miniature snow fort with the slush at the door. I somehow knew what would happen next. My young son would run over to squash it. A fight ensued, as always. This was progress. My parka was off and hung up. Holding my head in my hands, I felt for my forehead. It’s still there, right? I then headed for the living room. Must sit. I could hear the snowplows in our neighborhood—those machine monsters that were too late for the cars off the road. Why should I care? She sat across from me in that chair we got on sale—the one I never liked. I could just barely see through my watery, frozen glasses, her face fading in and out of view by the flickering coffee table candle. I take my glasses off and rub them on my hands. She is about to speak. I interrupt her. “I asked if you ran the water through the pipes!” “Of course I did!” she yelled back at me. “Do you think I am some sort of idiot?” I sighed. It was the power that was out. But that wasn't my wife's fault. “How are the kids holding up?” “The fridge thermometer is on the dining room table! It says it is eight degrees Celsius in the house! Go check it yourself!” Putting my glasses back on and giving them a last wipe from my sleeve, I realized I could see my breath, even in the house. I strode to the dining room table and shook the thermometer. It was so cheap looking. It must be colder than that. “Well, as long as the water runs, the pipes shouldn’t freeze solid," I announced. "We should eat somewhere.” # The car started. Ninety-six Buick Century with snow tires . And anti-lock brakes. I go too fast on purpose. Just to test them. “Slow down ! Don’t you see all the cars off the road!” exclaimed my wife as she gripped her seatbelt. "You're not well. Let me drive!" “Do it again, Daddy!” small voices call out. No one could be as young and foolish as us, I suppose. We climbed the plowed road surprisingly quickly. There was not another vehicle in sight. That last swerve was the best. But I feel so exhausted. The car was too warm. I bring everything to a halt suddenly. "Ok. You drive!" I shouted as I guided the car to the edge of what might be a curb on the road but was more likely only a jumble of salted ice and slush. As we exchanged car seats, it seemed the storm was letting up. You could now see all of Gatineau and Hull from the crest of the hill. Gatineau was utterly dark. But there were lights across the Gatineau River in Hull. “Alright! I'll head toward the lights!” my wife said. She put the high beams on for good measure as we descended the hill, steering into only one more unintended swerve as we crawled towards the deserted highway along the river. The late evening traffic was so light that we were in Hull in no time. # The parking lot of the Coq Roti restaurant in Hull was jammed, but we could park in the overflow area. I noticed a homeless person near the front. People were dropping coins into his toque as they hurried into the restaurant. His ears were red, and he looked cold and unshaven. Once inside, we were greeted by a hostess dressed in a chicken gravy-colored uniform. She had a big, bright smile for us. There were leftover Christmas decorations everywhere. We waited a short while and then were seated near the front of the restaurant, where I had a good view of the parking lot. Our waitress brought hard candy for the children and opened her food order pad. “ Bonsoir ! Je suis désolé. Notre menu est très limité ce soir. Puis-je vous apporte de l'eau?” They were only serving rotisserie chicken. No drinks. And they asked to be paid in cash if possible because their machines were down. Everyone was so friendly and accommodating. One couple had no money, and the manager accepted a promise to pay the bill instead. It was a long night and only the beginning of the great ice storm of '98, when the giant metal hydro towers that could not be easily replaced bent down to the earth, and people’s lives were not the same for months to come. I was glad we had just one night of enjoyment before life in the nineteenth century became a first-hand experience for everyone I knew. I couldn’t help noticing the man with the toque from where we were seated. So, I went to see him and invited him to eat with us. It was the best chicken dinner I ever had.

nc740i

Pitfall

Pitfall The abominable snowman stomped in the front door of the cozy resort cabin, rolled the bundle of firewood off his arms and dusted the flakes from his shoulders before removing his wet layers to hang next to the fireplace. Then he unlaced and toed off his insulated boots to exchange for floppy slippers, grabbed a log and fed it to the blaze before sinking into the deep, button-tufted arm chair next to the hearth. “Here ya go, Bro.” I handed my best friend the steaming cup of hot chocolate with the marshmallows beginning to melt down into frothy pools and the sweet aroma wafting upwards to welcome the mix of senses. I settled into the matching arm chair on the opposite side of the crackling fireplace cradling my own cup. The blue flames eagerly licked at the new offering as the nearly burnt fodder succumbed to fate. The hickory mingled with the chocolate and marshmallowy flavors to say get cozy and curl up awhile. Let it snow. And snow it did. As he warmed his frigid fingers on the hot mug I asked, “How does it look out there?” “Big fluffy flakes still falling. This dusting will soon become a layer and by morning there should be a thick blanket. Perfect for our back country skiing tomorrow up in the higher regions. Temperatures are rapidly dropping, though. Hope that won't spoil the outing. Been looking forward to this annual trip a long time already.” Abe Snow and I had been friends, fraternity brothers, since college days. We both had stressful careers in the city and relished this get away. “Yeah, remember that arctic blast we suffered through what, four or five years ago? I think the cold caught a cold. Atmosphere so thick and gray it felt like trudging through frozen fog. Breath crystallized on its way out and back in again. Made your lunges feel like they were burning.” I shuddered. “Looks like you are still nithering remembering it. We will have to beware these fluctuating temperatures increase the danger of avalanches. But there is nothing like being the first to swish out onto the pristine new powder up there off the piste. Timing couldn't be more perfect for this snowfall as long as it doesn't turn into a wind-whipped blizzard. Everything should look washed pure and clean with the evergreens dripping white frosting down across the mountain tops.” “Well, aren't you waxing poetically. Speaking of waxing, we may want to double check our skis and then hit the bunks so we get that early start. Weather permitting the helicopter takes off with or without us to ferry us up top.” The early dawn peek out the frosted glass of the front picture window confirmed it would be a made in wonderland kind of winter day customized for our play date. The newborn sun was unfurling its first golden rays across the virgin landscape unleashing zillions of sparkling mini suns. It didn't take us long to down a nourishing breakfast and get bundled into our latest ski tech gear. With the full day stretched out in front of us we couldn't believe our good fortune being blessed with perfect conditions as we headed for the ski patrol station and the lift to our destination. Making this yearly trek for more than two decades we were well seasoned skiers anxious to attack the slopes. Yet we patiently suffered through the mandatory safety meeting nodding for all the appropriate responses. We were such old hats at this we should be the ones teaching these patrol youngsters what is up and what is down on these hills. Check your equipment. Don't ski alone. Stay within bounds. Yes, there are still bounds in the high country soft powder regions. Keep your buddy in sight. No flying off unfamiliar cliffs. Avoid loud noises. What to do if there is an avalanche. And on and on... Finally into the chopper and rising above the hubbub of the resort and all the activity of the headquarters and bunny hills and lift entries we were on our way. And, oh, what a magical dreamland spread out below and all around us while we drifted upwards. Ribbons of perfectly manicured trails were fanning out from the lift drop zones. The little scurrying ants diminishing in size as we rose. The blinding pristine whiteness shimmering against the darkened tree line then mountains looming ever higher and more distant. Vales and valleys rippling the vistas. The rocky crags making them look wicked and wonderful all at the same time. The sun casting shadows and veils or sprinkling diamonds before us, clouds floating lazily by until sliced by the blades. When we neared the summit I could make out individual evergreens standing as silent sentinels guarding the pathways robed in their white garments of fur. The beauty took our breath away and was so refreshing for the soul. Discharged from the copter we waved as it whooped-whooped above us waiting for the intense wind to subside and the noise to fade. We deeply inhaled the thinner air and grinned at each other as we took in a new sensation. Silence. Silence so loud it bespoke volumes. Silence we never heard in our everyday city lives. Silence we reveled in. Silence. One of the reasons we made it a point to escape from the world below and start our adventure on the mountain top. Silence we wouldn't interrupt by talking out loud. We had our map in mind and knew which way we planned on embarking. We raised our poles toward the skies in a silent 'thank you' then breathed in the beauty and the silence once more before we swished away. Slowly at first still in awe and wanting to savor the wonder. Then we picked up speed until the chilly air was nipping at the exposed skin on our cheeks. Everywhere else was safely covered. The temperature was just right and the wind was tolerable. Soon we were flying down that hill pluming out fresh powdery untouched snow. Two old friends doing what they loved to do. All our plans and dreams coming true in that winter wonderland, in that glorious moment, on that glorious day. As we neared the tree line we saluted the silent sentinels and proceeded single file taking turns as the lead down the narrower path ways and staying aware of the widely spaced markers. On this advanced trail there were challenging jumps and natural moguls but nothing life threatening. We were thoroughly enjoying our adventure. Stretching our horizons. Unwinding our minds and our muscles. I took the lead and sailed over a low cliff making a perfect landing and bumped over a couple of small rises. I was on a roll and wanted to continue to keep up the momentum but the nagging safety reminder to keep your buddy in sight plagued my conscience so I pulled up to watch Abe experience the same victory. But Abe didn't come over the cliff in the assumed allotted time he should have made it. Why would he have slowed down? Trouble with a binding? I gave him a little extra time but still no show. Did he take a wrong turn? My trail should have been obvious. I listened to the screaming silence. Did I miss a whistle blow? That was supposed to be our signal for help. How am I supposed to backtrack up over that cliff to see what the problem is? I fished my cell phone up out of my layers and called his number I had on speed dial. No answer. One. Two more times. If he has fallen and can't get to the phone of course he won't answer. If I call ski patrol would they get to him before I could? They may think I am being an alarmist. Really. Everyone takes a tumble now and again. Give him time. What if he face planted into a tree? Na, he is better than that. Okay, okay. I'll call ski rescue and I'll start back up the hill. Better to be safe than sorry. *** I watched my buddy launch himself over the rim of the frozen world with sheer abandonment then drop out of sight. I was looking forward to the same adrenaline rush momentarily. But in that split second I took my concentration off my own forward movement I veered too close to the lower boughs of a snow laden evergreen and... What happened? I felt myself falling then WHAM! I have a face full of snow. I can't see a thing. I can barely breath. I reach my hand toward my face to brush away the snow but even more seems to pile in around me. I realize I am in serious trouble. I can't move. I have the sensation of blood rushing to my head. No wonder! I understand now I am upside down, face planted at the bottom of a pit. A deep hole around the bottom of an evergreen tree. The boughs bend down as repeated snowfalls build up to touch them creating a hollowed-out nearly snow-less well underneath the branches. The snow around is compact but the walls of the well easily crumble when disturbed and crush inward entrapping unsuspecting doofuses like me. As a seasoned skier I had been warned numerous times but still never thought this could happen to me. I am always so cautious. Think now. Don't panic. I must free myself and fast or I won't survive. Trouble is every movement causes more snow to collapse in on me. I must make a breathing hole. I try again with smaller, slower moves. It feels like forever but I finally could take a breath. Time is ticking away. How long can I hang upside down and not pass out? How long before this cold cocoon causes hypothermia to set in? How long will it take for my companion to realize I am no longer following him and come back to rescue me? Or call for back-up? I can't get to my whistle or my phone. Did the beacon engage? How long? How long? How long? What were those statistics again that I never paid attention to? Snow induced suffocation. Drowning in snow. Most enthusiasts don't die in avalanches, its in tree wells. Like this one. In test studies no one can ever escape by themselves. But people have survived if they can keep their wits about them. Keep my wits about me. Move extremely slow but reach for the trunk and pull yourself up. Which way is the trunk? I am starting to shiver. I can't feel my extremities. Will anyone even be able to see me? O, Lord, I need Your help. Send me an angel... *** It's been twenty-five minutes or more but I am almost at the top of that jump. I am exhausted. Whew! Made it. Now where could Abe have gone? Are those skis sticking out of that tree base? Hold on, Buddy, I am here. I'm coming. I just need to take it slow. And dig in from farther out so I don't crash more snow down on you. Great! The ski patrol has arrived. “Hey, Fellows. Over here.” Once we got Abe shoveled out and onto the stretcher he was barely conscious but the big man turned his ice-encrusted bearded abominable snowman grin up at me and shattered, “I kn-new th-there was a r-reason you are n-named 'Angel'.”

gmvlmq

Cabin Life in the Winter

Cabin Life in the Winter January 10 I have just returned to my winter cabin. Writing this diary entry, I realize I have not painted or written much since coming back. This lack of activity is contributing to my dark mood. It was a strange new feeling because I had begun to relish being alone. I am becoming depressed.  Something must unquestionably change this is not hibernation. I am sitting up in bed writing this entry after a restless night. It had been a long week of doing practically nothing creative. I need to write more thoughts and feelings. The nights are so cold, long, and dark. Today is sunny as I stoke up the fire in the hearth, ready to cook. During the last week, I have had weird dreams of floating through spaces like an observer on high. I was alone in the quiet and the dark. Our five senses make our conscious reality about the present. We also perceive that we are moving into a future that does not exist yet. I have vivid memories of the past and why I had escaped to  be here now. How long is the present moment? How the future might be? I wrote this poem. TIME is a Phantom I am here presently. The past is just a memory. Time is a phantom. How long is it now? Senses make my reality. Time is a phantom. The future is still possible. Hope is but a plan. I am the Phantom. As a former science teacher, I wanted to learn knowledge for a clearer insight to reality; this does not refer to facts but new concepts and ideas; most importantly, I wanted to find out truths about the universe. Knowledge is constantly changing. New knowledge may not be used daily, but it changes my perceptions of life. January 11 I want to paint today, but I need to be more motivated. I am still in another dark place, mood-wise. I will jot down some notes about my childhood as I was happy then. My mum and Dad significantly influenced me while I was growing up. I remember coming home from school to the smell of Mother's freshly baked bread and going with her to Fraser River docks to buy fresh whole salmon from the Japanese fishers. We all ate salmon sandwiches in our school lunches. We regularly went to the local blueberry farm to pick fruit for preserves and pies. I did not know then that the berries would become a superfood. Another strong memory was building and flying kites with my Dad. He taught me how to make solid but light kites with big tails. We flew them from the field in front of the house with a heavy fishing line. The kites went high. I dispatched paper airplanes up the fishing line towards the kite and gave a flick to the line to launch the planes and watch them float around the sky. They went for long distances in the wind. Attached to our back porch was a metal clothesline tied through a pulley to a pole at the end of the yard. This was useful when my father taught me to make a crystal radio when I was about ten. He used a galena crystal, and a piece of wire called a cat whisker attached to a toilet paper roll wrapped with copper wire. The antenna was the clothesline, and the ground connection was the copper pipes of the plumbing. I could listen to the radio by wiggling the wire and moving a slider along with the copper on the toilet roll. I was thrilled to be able to hear the radio in my earpiece. My Dad taught me many things and encouraged my curious mind. In our garage was a workbench with all my dad's tools. He would invite me in and show me how all the tools and equipment worked while he taught me how to change the inner tube of my bicycle. My love of gardening I owe to my mother. She was raised on a farm in the backwoods of Ontario, and in our homes, she would always have a vegetable garden which I worked in under her supervision. Picking fresh peas or carrots from the garden and eating them raw was a delight. In Vancouver, the summer growing season was only three months, so we grew beans, corn, and pumpkins as the main summer crops. We rarely got much frost in the winter to raise some potatoes. She taught me to watch the weather and when to plant. She taught me about companion planting. We planted corn and climbing beans together since the corn supplies the support and the beans supply nitrogen for the corn. We planted daisies beside the cabbage and broccoli to keep the white moths away. I had a good childhood and I feel better now for writing these thoughts. January 15 After I wrote the poem a few days ago, I started to think about and experience time in a new and different manner. The concept of the morning signifies that the sun is rising. For me, it becomes a time for ablutions and eating. Dusk is the concept that the light is fading. It requires me to light the lamp and stoke up the fire in the hearth for heating and lighting. Those ideas seem as expected. I don’t need to care about the day of the week. My routine is to put a mark on the calendar every morning then I look at my diary to see my last entry, which is also a rough measure of time. I also do not have a thermometer, so I don’t have a numerical scale of how cold it gets. Maybe I should develop a personal coldness scale. February 10 I have been painting this week. It has been almost a month since my last entry: daily routine and not much motivation to do anything but survive wood, food, and ablutions. I just realized I missed my birthday five days ago—nobody to celebrate with anyway. It is lightly snowing today. I have started writing and sketching today. My new year’s resolution has become vital to returning to high school. I need to find out what happened with the school board investigation. I am innocent, and will the Board have reached that decision? When I sold my artwork at the Christmas party, I was surprised. It has encouraged me to work more on my newly discovered talent. I am feeling more optimistic today after the depressive times in January. I only wrote a little then, but it seemed only a short memory now. February 20 Just my daily routine lately. I am waiting for spring. The decision to leave here is becoming stronger. I shall miss my cabin home. March 8 Spring is finally gradually happening. The lake is becoming freer of ice. On their way north, a flock of Canadian geese landed on the lakeshore where the stream enters. I have decided to use my last large piece of paper to sketch a picture of the cabin, which I will hang on the wall for the owner. I am building a small shelter for the canoe next to the woodpile as I would leave it behind. I turned my homemade shoe shoes on the inside wall near the door. I had left behind all the extra tinned food in the loft. I returned the snow skis in good condition to the cellar. I replaced the basement wooden trunk, the new sled, bow and arrows, the log harness, and two deer pelts.  I am ready to leave the cabin. March 9 Today is the day to leave my cabin home. I put on my survival backpack and began to walk down the twelve-mile trail to the trading post area. As I looked back toward the cabin, there were many thoughts and feelings that I will write about later. In the afternoon, I arrived at the trading post, where I bought a pair of new boots. I enquired at the trading post to get transport from here to the nearest town. Once again, luck was with me as the weekly supply truck would arrive the following day so that I could try to negotiate for transport to town. I stayed at the Big house again without professional services. As I paid my bill, I asked the receptionist if any of my artwork had sold. The receptionist returned from the back room with a small sketch and a cheque for four hundred dollars. That was a surprise. I gave her the drawing as a thank you. I was waiting at the trading post for the delivery truck when I asked the manager If he knew who owned the cabin I had been living in  over the winter months. He did not know other than it was a friend of George. I left a letter for George with the manager. The truck arrived, and I successfully negotiated a trip to the nearest town. The gravel road was very bumpy, so my writing became a scrawl; I just scribbled that a new chapter of my life was beginning. March 10 The driver let me off on the town’s main street near a hotel, so I booked a room for two days.  I needed to take a couple of days to orient myself. I still had money, as there was nothing much to spend on in the wilderness except supplies. I also had a four-hundred-dollar cheque from the sales of my artwork. I wanted to discover what happened to the world while I was in the cabin. More importantly, what my situation was. I wanted to know if I was a wanted man. I went to the barbershop for a haircut and a shave. When the barber saw me, he surprisingly asked.  ‘Where have you been?’ ‘I have just spent the winter in a cabin on a lake about three hours north. I need to get back into society, so please clean me up. ‘Thanks, is the pub friendly? ‘The town pub has just mainly local people. You can have an enjoyable time there.’ I wanted to work on the records of my isolated time. I bought a small second-hand computer. I scanned my diary and photos for future editing. A bus depot at the end of the main street was where I bought a ticket to my hometown for a Saturday departure—one day left allowed me to look around and adjust to people again. I had become accustomed to my own company, so I appeared reserved when I met people. I knew that I would have to change that if I was going to get back into society. In the evening, I walked across the street to the pub. Except for my visits to the Big house near the trading post, it had been months since I had had a beer, so I bought a large jug of dark ale and sat near the TV set. There were about twenty people in the pub, playing billiards and some sitting at tables around the room. Background music was playing, and the atmosphere seemed very relaxed. I was also feeling mellow after two glasses of dark ale. I wanted company. I went toward the bar and introduced myself to a mixed group, telling them I was new in town after a winter alone in the mountains. A couple of men introduced themselves and invited me to join them in a game of billiards. I explained that I would not play for money but would buy them a round of drinks if I lost. When we began playing, I soon realized that I was a better player, so, near the end, I purposely missed two shots to buy drinks—the evening flowed with chat and laughing until midnight when I excused myself and walked back across the street to the hotel. March 11 Saturday, I boarded the bus at ten in the morning. The trip was about six hours, so I read a book to keep my mind from wandering—the spring countryside flashed by as I read. I started to see familiar scenery, so I knew I was getting close to where it had all begun. I felt nervous about being recognized when I got off the bus, so I quickly took my bag to the taxi stand.  At the hotel, I had to fill in a card at the desk before I could get a room; I did not want to lie, so I used all my accurate information. In my room, I looked up names in the phone directory. My old school was listed, so I called and asked to talk to the female counselor. I hoped she was still my friend. Mary answered, and I arranged to meet her after school in the hotel café. She was startled to hear from me. ‘I will tell all the story when I see you later,’ I said. At about four pm, Mary arrived at the hotel, and we greeted each other as she sat down. Mary’s questions flowed, ‘You disappeared a year ago. We thought you were dead. Where have you been, and why did you disappear?’ I said,’ I figured my career was over because of the student’s sexual allegation, as the principal told me to stand down from my teaching position. I panicked and fled to the forest. ‘What I would like to know from you is what had transpired since I was away?’ Mary said, ‘This could be a long story; we should go somewhere a little more private.’ ‘I have a room upstairs. We sat down facing each other as Mary started her story, ’I will give you the condensed version. After you left, we had the investigation into the sexual allegation made by the female student. The school principal, I, and two board members held a preliminary meeting to set up the guidelines. The principal outlined the background. We appointed a lawyer for the female student; you were not present as we could not find you. At the school board investigation meeting, the first question asked by one of the board members was, “Where was Robert? The principal said that you had disappeared after you had to stand down from the teaching position. The lawyer acting for the student read her statement to the committee, which noted that Robert made remarks to her after class that he would fail her for copying her work unless she had sex with him. Mary said, ‘I asked the lawyer when this happened.’ He read from his notes a time and date given by the student. ‘I asked the lawyer if anyone was a witness to this allegation?’ He told the committee that she said that they were alone after class. The school principal said that Robert had come to her two weeks earlier with the student’s assignment and evidence that it was copied from other students. The principal met with the student a week later with the evidence and said she would fail the assignment because she had cheated. The student then accused you of making sexual advances toward her.   When the student was in my office, I asked her when this happened. The student said it had happened Friday after class. There was a time and date discrepancy. The meeting was adjourned to allow for further investigation. You were reported missing to the police. The school board appointed another person to investigate the female student's background and try to find you. If you had been here, we could have corroborated that you had never been alone with her. So now you tell me your story.’ I said. ‘I panicked when you told me students were talking about me. I wanted to get away from all the notoriety. I fled into the mountains and lived off the land for two months. I then met a hunter named George by chance. He let me stay in a rustic cabin on a lake which I did all winter. I wrote a diary about my thoughts and feelings for meaning to these events. I started to sketch and paint. After some dark depressive days in January, I returned here to see what had happened and face the allegation. I am glad that I did come home. The time alone was good for me as it clarified my feelings and thoughts about my life. I now want to do something different than high school teaching. What is your advice now that I am back?’ Mary said, ‘First, go to the police to report that you are not missing. Second, go to the school principal and tell her your story and let the School board investigation conclude. March 15 When the School board reconvened their meeting today, I attended. The appointed investigator reported that the student had a difficult upbringing with an alcoholic father with indications of sexual abuse. The student also had accused other men of sexual advances whenever she was in trouble. He reported that I was at another meeting in the city when the student said I had made sexual advances. He noted that the students spoke very highly of Robert, and they respected him. I had no history of sexual misconduct. The school board meeting concluded that no further action would be taken. I was innocent of the allegation. I resigned from my teaching position. I said to the chair, ‘I would like my stand-down salary payment for the six months that it took your board the reach the decision.’ The school board honored that request. I do not need to clear my name, as no charges have been brought forward. I still have ideas about publishing a book about my yearlong personal journey. I want to pursue my art. Going into the forest, I did the correct thing as it began a personal transformation. The self-imposed isolation in the wilderness with my diary writing reflecting on my unique feelings was positive. I  am now going on with my life.

a7cjmz

Yeasteryear

There is still magic in the world. I thought it had died a death whilst everyone was busy thinking they were clever. In an age where people have access to more information than they could possibly take in, there is more ignorance than there has ever been. So it shouldn’t have been a surprise to me when I stumbled upon my own piece of magic. But a surprise it was. And a shock to boot. I suppose that I was never going to be immune to the ignorance. After all, there’s a lot of it going around these days and we have this knack of surviving. When it came to sink or swim, I chose to swim through the vast oceans of ignorance. Which makes my magical moment all the more remarkable. I don’t think I’d ever have experienced the magic if I had not been receptive. That makes it sound like hypnosis, and in a way it was. We choose how we see things and so we choose the state in which we engage with the world around us. Funny old world, isn’t it? We make this world of ours, individually and collectively. It could do with a little more warmth and compassion, but it’s beautiful all the same. The simple pleasures convey so much joy at times. We just have to be open to receive what is right there in front of us. It was a rainy Saturday morning. Sometimes, I’m fine with the rain, just as long as the rain in question is behaving itself and doesn’t get too carried away. This rain though had gone rogue and was intent on harming me. The wind aided and abetted it, such that by the time I had found my way to the market I was wet through on my front, but by back was bone dry. Somehow this dichotomy made me feel all the more miserable and it was in this state that I would encounter magic. Thankfully, the market is undercover, but on this day that barely mattered, for as I entered its protection the rain ceased its onslaught. I turned to balefully watch the last few drops and imagined shaking a fist at it, narrowly restraining myself from raising my actual fist and causing a scene as I cried out at the childish antics of the weather. Gritting my teeth I barely noticed the stalls as I stalked deeper into the market. My trip to find good and interesting food had stalled and I had no notion of what it was I was here for. All that mattered was my undue discomfort. I was so overwrought in the injustice of my soaking that everything else fell away and I could not see beyond that. I even felt like crying. I’d so looked forward to this trip. Many of my forays out for food were perfunctory and limited. Popping to the same couple of supermarkets, walking familiar aisles to select well known foods from the same old shelves. Today was supposed to be different. This trip was a treat. Something above and beyond the drudgery of my humdrum existence, and here was a soggy version of that boring and grey man, made grumpy by the rain on his parade. I was at the other end of the market before I knew what I was doing. I was as deep into the building as it was possible to get and I had to stop as there was nowhere else to go, tempted as I was to follow the concrete path around and head back up the other side and out of this building. Somehow I’d brought my humiliation along with me for the ride, but as I had I’d managed to convince myself that my shotgun partner was here courtesy of the market itself. That I’d jettison that black dog of a feeling if I were to run away and get home as quickly as I could. These thoughts and feelings shamed me. How had I so quickly regressed to a toddler state? Surely I was better than that. Truth was that I wasn’t. Focusing on what was before me instead of staring inside of myself and not liking what I saw, I realised that I was in front of a store I’d never seen before. At this end of the market, there were a few stores and shops that were entirely enclosed. This one had called itself Ye Olde Café. I wanted to rebuke it for such a twee name, but two things stopped me. The signwriter’s artifice and the aroma that was somehow arousing my interest even with the café’s door closed. What harm could there be in venturing inside? I thought this to myself and followed through with this action before I could overthink it. The door hit a small bell that tinkled delightedly to announce my visitation. Despite myself and my dire mood, I smiled. There was something about the timbre of that bell that worked and it was in good company as my bare wooden surrounds managed to convey something that warmed me despite the cold and damp that clung to the front of my jeans in particular. No one was at the counter, so I drew a noisy, protesting chair backwards and took a seat. Then I took a menu. This was like no menu I had seen before and as I did a double take I glanced down and noticed that I was creating a puddle. I sighed yet again at the state the rain had made of me and I sighed for good measure in acknowledgement of my embarrassment. Looking around to see whether my shame was being witnessed, I frowned at the emptiness of the place. There were no other customers and yet I had not noted this when first I entered. The feel of the place spoke of gentle occupancy and so seeing it empty rendered me a little bereft. “Hello!” said a cheery voice. By rights, I should have jumped. Not quite out of my soaked skin, my sodden coat was too heavy for that, but it was a mildly shocking surprise all the same. I turned to the source of the voice and smiled politely and then my smile brightened in genuine appreciation of my host. It would be easy to misconstrue that smile, were it to occur in many other situations there would be no doubting it’s prompting. I was eyeing a thing of beauty, but my reaction was not inappropriate or lustful, it was about as genuine as it got. There was something about the woman I had laid eyes upon that I could not help but like. She put me at my ease and yet built expectations within me. She brought me out of myself and my rain injured state was all but forgotten. This woman was a reminder to be in the moment and live life accordingly. There was nothing else to be done and I could not thank her enough for what she had achieved with merely a simple greeting and being herself. Sadly, I could not thank her at all because I did not have the words to adequately explain how she had come to my rescue, so I resorted to an echo of her own word. “Hello,” I said. She smiled, “let me get you a  nice, warming cup of tea and then we can talk about your requirements.” I nodded, “thanks,” I said. I was crestfallen when she disappeared from sight. It turned out that my toddler state had not been completely erased after all, I felt the abandonment of a small child by its mother and inexplicably, that feeling of loss hit hard. To move myself on from such unfounded nonsense, I returned to the menu, and as I did, I fully attended to her words. A cup of tea was welcome. It was just the ticket. But she’d then said that we would talk about my requirements. Never had I heard words such as these. They were slightly out of kilter when it came to a café meal, but somehow I liked the thought of them. They were softer and kinder than someone taking my order. There less of a hard transaction about it. The menu was unlike any menu I had ever seen before. The menu was further away from being typical than her words were. There were no food or drink items and there was no pricing. I wondered whether the concept was akin to small, family run establishments on the continent. A basic kitchen producing one or two dishes done to a good standard. Right now, that would work very well for me, certainly it would if the aromas tickling my nasal passages were anything to go by. Having established the unique menu format I decided I’d read the paragraph of writing. I felt my face crease in gentle consternation as I went from sentence to sentence. Then I nodded. Just because I’d never done anything like this before didn’t mean that it was not going to hit the spot. I’d wanted something different and here it was. The lady of the establishment returned with a tray. She placed the tray down and sat at right angles to me. Very unusual, but I had decided that I was going to go with this now and so I did. I smiled as she poured us both a mug of tea and I nodded when she offered me milk and told her no thanks then she asked about the sugar. “Right then,” she said after she’d taken a sip of tea. Placing the mug down she retrieved a pen and pad, “a few questions about yourself and we’ll get you sorted!” She smiled a smile that was familiar and warm and I could have sat in its radiance for an age. Nodding I returned the smile as best I could. “Name?” she asked. “Jim,” I told her. “Lovely,” she said, “and mine’s Abigail.” “Nice to meet you Abigail,” I said. “Likewise,” she replied. “Year of birth?” she asked. “1968…” I told her but I was a bit flustered by her question. She read me well, “we get an idea of who you are, or more precisely, who you were and the food you will eat today will take you back to a time you thought you had forgotten.” “Really?” I asked. It wasn’t that I was sceptical, more that I did not dare hope that she, or they , could do such a thing. “We try,” she smiled her smile and asked me a few more questions. Only a few mind, and they didn’t seem relevant or adequate. In fact, as she walked back out of sight, those questions of hers seemed to be the security questions my bank asked me when I set my online account up. Surely knowing the name of my first pet, and what type of animal it was, wasn’t going to help the chef bespoke food for me? As I sat waiting, I began wondering whether I actually wanted food from my past life. In many respects, I count myself lucky for the time I was born to and the times I have encountered on my journey to this very here and now. The music and the fashion, even with the hiccups of the eighties, the TV, the comedy, the films. A time before the advent of electronic devices, but seeing the changes all that tech brought. I was reminiscing, but there was a stain on all of that past and it was seventies cuisine. The Brits nickname of rosbif  was very apt during this time. A roast dinner was as good as it got. Most foods were cooked to within an inch of their lives and then cooked some more. Vegetables were squishy and some of them rendered down to a grey mush that bore no resemblance to how that veg had entered the kitchen. Returning to those times could well be blandly horrific. I was sat pondering the experience that awaited me when the lady returned. But she did not return with my meal. Instead she held two objects and bade me put them on. “Well,” I said, “I wasn’t expecting this.” She grinned at me, “we like to be different.” I took the eye set first and placed it on my face. “Is that comfortable?” she asked me. “Yes, thanks,” I replied. “Good” she said, “I’ll just place these on and then I’ll return with your meal.” I felt the earphones slip onto my head and then I sat there in darkness and silence, a small degree of trepidation growing within me. I tried not to think about Guantanamo Bay, which was to say that I thought of exactly that. The deprivation of senses was unnerving. But then I sensed her return and I could smell my meal and everything began to change. “I’ll just switch these on and then leave you to enjoy your trip,” she was behind me and as my vision returned, courtesy of the goggles over my eyes, she slipped away and left me to it. At least I think she did. I never saw her again. Naturally, my head had been downturned, my blind attention focused upon the dish I could smell as it had been brought out to me. My heart fluttered in my chest as I recognised, not just the fish fingers, peas and mash on my plate, but the plate itself. The plate was as much a part of my childhood as my purple Budgie bicycle and my greed Lotus pedal car with a seven on the bonnet. The design of that plate was Japanese. I remember asking my Granddad about it once as I cleared it of food. It was a blue ink drawing of a Japanese garden, a distinctive arch taking the centre and cherry blossom trees standing guard on either side of it. Before I took up the knife and fork I marvelled at my recollection of them. These were the exact type of cutlery my grandparents had. Off-white handled and my knife always seemed to have a slightly loose handle. My hands were shaking as I cut a piece of fish finger up. I pushed it firmly into the creamy mash, using my knife to help laden the fork, and then I pushed the mash into the pile of peas. Slowly I brought that forkful of food to my mouth, not daring to hope that it could possibly taste the way it had when I was a wee lad. Before the grub had been dislodged into my mouth I knew though. The presence of the food that near my tastebuds was everything. I closed my eyes and then I closed my mouth over that fork and savoured that food in a way that I had never experienced before. And yet I had experienced this before. That was the whole point. My heart grew fit to burst as the flavours of food I’d eaten decades previously gambolled across my tongue. Reluctantly, I chewed my food, taking care to do so slowly in order to prolong the moment. After the food was gone I basked in its afterglow. “Cat got your tongue, Jimmy?” My eyelids crashed open at the sound of that voice, “Nan?” She cackled her trademark laugh, “who else would it be, you daft apeth!?” I don’t know why, but of all the things I could have done, including losing my mind, I scooped more of the food up and put it in my mouth. “He likes that!” “It’s his favourite!” answered Nan. I turned to see my Granddad, “Granddad,” I said stupidly and redundantly. “Yes?” he replied. I drew air into my lungs, it snagged several times on the way in and my body shuddered in response to that stuttering breath. Then I told him something I’d wanted to tell him for many a year, “you make the best mash!” He smiled, “I’ll show you how to make it one day.” “I know you will,” I told him, because he already had. “You’re a funny boy,” he said ruffling my hair, “now finish up and we can put the transfers on that model Spitfire of yours.” I smiled and nodded as I shovelled the rest of the meal into my mouth, I knew he’d put the transfers on. My attempts would either bunch up or tear. I never did get the knack of slipping them on exactly where they needed to go. “What’s for afters, Nan?” I asked. “A cup of tea and a look out the window,” she told me firmly. “We might have a packet of wafers,” Granddad whispered conspiratorially. I grinned. I was still grinning as I finished my meal and the vision of my past faded. In the silent aftermath, I sat for a while. I’d taken off my headset and ear set and was greeted with a clean, white plate. I could almost imagine the younger version of me licking the blue pattern off it. I’d been accused of doing so often enough. Eventually, I sighed and looking around me one last time, resigned myself to not seeing the lady and having to depart. The menu hadn’t asked a specific price, instead it suggested patrons pay what they felt they should. I emptied my wallet onto the table, wishing I had more cash upon my person. I would ensure I had more money on me next time, I thought to myself as I reluctantly left Ye Olde Café, but when I got around to a return visit three months later, it was gone. All sign of the quirky café had been removed. It were as though it had never existed. In its stead was a shop selling vintage clothing. Sadly, I began to walk away. Then I stopped and looked up at the sign over the window. There was something quite familiar about the lettering of that sign…

ritu5a

Nectar of the Gods

Gideon stood before the back door of the restored Victorian home, then entered the kitchen where steam rose from several pots on the stove, and a youthful stranger stirred the cranberries. He'd never been here before. "Gideon," he said as he smiled for the introduction, extending his hand for the shake. "Naomi," smiled the young woman, but she bypassed the hand and embraced him instead. " Uncle  Gideon, you mean. Don has told me all about you." She sounded tipsy. There was a little slur in her words. "I think he said you drank mead." "Well, truthfully, while I do love a glass of mead, I'm not supposed to have any. I'm surprised he didn't warn you." "Must have slipped his mind," she giggled while reaching for a black bottle sporting a Viking Mead  label and filling a glass to the top. "Shsh!" she said, touching her fingers to her lips. "Our first secret." "Uncle Gideon! Welcome!" Gideon's nephew Don shouted on entering the room. He seemed tipsy as well. "I see you've met Naomi, my bride." Here, the couple gave each other a passionate kiss. Tipsy newlyweds. "Come on into the dining room. The others are already here." Gideon sat down, greeting his brothers, sisters, nieces, and nephews. Himself he never married, but he usually brought a date. Not today. Today, he came alone. The relatives caught each other up with the latest details of their lives while women drifted in and out of the kitchen. "Just waiting on the turkey," someone said. Bursts of laughter and gleeful voices resonated about the busy household. No one looked twice at Gideon's glass, but he knew he shouldn't, and for a while, he didn't, but when his sister Hilda pulled into the drive, he was very tempted. Of all his family, she was the one who galled him. She was the one that made him feel the need to defend himself at every turn. She was the one who kept him up late into the night thinking up comebacks and things he should have said, and it turned out today would be no different. It began as soon as she stepped into the room. "Where is your date, Gideon? Did she stand you up?" "No, of course not, she's on her way. We decided to meet here," Gideon lied. Why had he done that? "Jasmine?" She said the name Jasmine  with a sneer. What had she heard? "No. Her name is Aurora!" he snapped. Hilda nodded with that look he'd like to slap off her face someday. "I can't wait to meet her," she grinned before drifting into the kitchen. "Still waiting on the turkey," someone iterated in passing. Gideon scowled. Why had he lied? He didn't know anyone named Aurora and probably never would. Within thirty minutes, Hilda would ask where Aurora was and if he'd heard from her. Hilda was forcing his hand. He drummed his fingers on the table and looked at the glass of mead. He wasn't supposed to touch it. There was something about mead that took him away from wherever he was and set him off on some glorious adventure. He didn't know why. The adventures usually took place at the Shire, but not always. Once, he'd whitewashed a fence for Tom Sawyer, and another time, he ended up as a scarecrow at a yellow-bricked crossroads under a blistering sun, waiting for someone to get him down. Wherever he went, whatever adventure the mead took him on—he always woke up in the hospital afterward because friends and family would panic and call an ambulance. The doctor finally said, " No more mead,"  but that was more to appease his worried family. There was nothing wrong with him. Whenever he arrived at the Shire, Bilbo, Frodo, and the others welcomed him as a cherished friend. They'd lay out a meal much like this one. Someone would tell a story. Then they'd bring out the musical instruments and clear the table for dancing. After that, they'd set off for an adventure. No one would ask about Jasmine and how she had broken his heart. It had been a while since he'd danced on tables with the Hobbits. He longed to be there. When Hilda approached with a question on her lips, Gideon came to a decision and raised his glass of mead. "To the Shire!" he said. Once he'd swallowed the entire glass, the Nectar of the Gods channeled him into another world. ~*~ There were a few seconds of disorientation, but he quickly became aware he was standing on the deck of a ship. The ship pitched and reeled in a boiling body of water, and Gideon fought to keep his balance. Was he in the Shire? He looked around, trying to see through a fog as thick as wool. A black flag marked with the standard skull and crossbones alluded to it being a pirate ship. He didn't think the Shire had pirates. No. He was on an adventure somewhere else, but where? "Cap'n James? Wha shou' we do?" Captain James? The speaker had just stepped from the fog—a beastly, ferocious type. "Who goes there?" Gideon asked, not having any idea what to do. "It's Smee!" Neverland! Gideon looked down at his hands. He still had two. That meant this adventure happened before… "Pe'er anda boys are gettin' away. Shou' we pursue? In nis storm?" Several more feral types stepped out from the fog to await his answer. Their eyes were ready to fight, ready to annihilate anyone who got in their way. "Are you scared?" Gideon asked. His own voice sounded threatening. Yes, I am,  he thought. I'm terrified. Oh, why did I drink the mead? I know better. "A'course not. All 'ands on deck," Smee shouted, and everyone got busy. Gideon held on to his pirate hat as the ship lurched ahead. He pulled the sword from his scabbard and took a few practice swings. Then, he went below deck in search of an alarm clock. When the time came, he'd need it. Smee found him later, still winding the clock. It took a lot of winding. He knew what would happen if the clock wound down too soon. "They gah away," said Smee. Gideon kept winding. "Do we have any mead on board?" "Jus rum. Thas all, Cap'n." "Bring the bottle." It took nearly all night to finish winding the clock to his satisfaction. When the sun rose, so did the fog. The storm disappeared. The Jolly Roger docked before Skull Rock, and everyone got out to stretch their legs. A rooster crowed. A rooster? "That was him," Gideon stated. "I'd recognize that crowing anywhere. C'mon. It's time for an adventure." ~*~ The ship named Jolly Roger stealthed along the black lagoon while the pirates searched the shores of Neverland with spyglasses for signs of the lost boys. When they found them playing games with the mermaids in the lagoon near Marooners' Rock, Gideon focused his telescope to bring them closer. One of the mermaids looked startlingly like what Jasmine must have looked like years earlier, long before she'd met Gideon. The real Jasmine was fifty and engaged to be married to someone she'd only dated for two months. To be fair, she had asked him first. They'd lived together these past ten years, and Gideon had never been happier. He didn't want to ruin it with the big fuss of weddings, schedules, and advice. He'd won the argument, and Jasmine, the loser of said argument, conceded by moving out and into the arms of some 'Leonardo,' whom Gideon hated on sight. Infuriatingly, Peter resembled a much younger Leonardo and had an arm draped around the youthful mermaid version of Jasmine. Gideon scowled. This was not the adventure he'd hoped for at all. He was meant for frothy glasses of ale and lively music with dancing on the tables in the Shire among his friends. A sigh escaped. "Be ready," he said to his pirates. They rowed the dinghy across the lagoon toward Peter. When they came close enough for the mermaid resembling Jasmine  to take notice, Gideon smiled and honored her with an over-exaggerated wink. In retaliation, she flashed her tail, so a wave of water slapped his face. Peter chuckled. The lost boys chuckled, too. The mermaids giggled.  "Oh, Peter," Gideon called out. "Let's you and I have an adventure." The crew of pirates laughed. So did the lost boys. So did the mermaids. Peter glared the boys and mermaids into silence, though a few smirks remained. He didn't like being laughed at. Gideon knew all about Peter Pan's ways. "What kind of adventure?" Peter asked. "I can out dance you on a table," Gideon answered, surprising himself at the ingenuity. Maybe this could be the adventure he wanted after all. "I'm the best there's ever been," he boasted.  "Challenge accepted," Peter answered. "Build me a table at once," Gideon ordered the pirates. Because they feared him so, no one asked how,  and none complained. They dismantled the dinghy and built a platform using rocks and oars for tools. They used waist-high boulders for support and lifted the platform on top. Meanwhile, Peter and the lost boys built a make-believe table. It looked surprisingly sturdy. Peter stood on top and crowed. Gideon stepped onto his platform and showed off sword skills he didn't know he had. First, he twirled it like a baton and tossed it into the air, spinning like a wheel, then caught it with his bare hands. He pulled the alarm clock from a pocket and juggled his hat, the clock, and sword faster and faster, glancing only once at the mermaid Jasmine, who was examining her long fingernails. An auburn-haired mermaid smiled, however. She had a gold tooth that caught a ray of sun. "I'm bored," Peter shouted. "Let's get on with it then." "Let there be music!" Gideon commanded. "I'll set the clock for five minutes. The crowd will vote for their favorite afterward with a show of hands." The mermaids began to hum while the boys and pirates clapped out a rhythm. Gideon began with some fancy steps that got faster and faster. Then he twirled and leaped from side to side. The pirates started to sing. Yo ho, yo hong, the Neversong A-pirating, we will go Pan can't dance, won't have a chance All of Neverland will know! Peter didn't really dance. He hopped like a frog and walked on his hands in time to the music. He did a few handsprings. Still, the boys and mermaids appeared delighted, and the lost boys also began to sing. Fiddle dee dune the Nevertune Adventuring we will be James won't win, he'll lose again All of Neverland will see! "Ales for everyone!" shouted Gideon. The pirates looked confused, as did the lost boys, but Peter laughed. Suddenly, an ale appeared in Gideon's hand. In fact, a glass of ale appeared in everyone's hand. Even the mermaids raised glasses. Gideon took a long drink. This was what he'd wanted. It tasted like nothing. Peter laughed at the expression on his face, and the clock's alarm went off. "Now we vote with a show of hands. Hands for Peter," shouted Gideon. There were eight pirates, eight lost boys, and an even number of mermaids. Half the mermaids voted for Peter and half for Captain James. A tie. The gold-toothed mermaid smiled at Gideon. "We go until there's a winner," said Peter. It was the tenth tied vote, and everyone was disgusted and sick of it all. Peter pulled out his sword. "A fight to the finish," he cried. Without warning, he leaped to Captain James's dance platform and sliced through Gideon's wrist just as he picked up the clock. Peter then snatched the severed hand with the sword point. "Bad form!" shouted Gideon, shocked at the pain and the blood. "You cheated!" he screamed. Peter smiled and held out the sword to something in the shadows. Perhaps only he had noticed the crocodile sneaking up on the ruckus as the sun set over Neverland. Peter fed the hand still holding the clock to the crocodile as Gideon faded from consciousness. When he woke, he was back on the Jolly Roger surrounded by his pirates, who pointed fingers at each other and talked at the same time. First, they'd used the tabletop as a raft to get him back to the ship. Next, the pirate, Starkey, pulled a heavy hook from the ship and stuck it through Gideon's arm bone, so he now had a hook where his hand should be. They sterilized the wound with rum and wrapped it with bandages they kept in great supply below deck. "Are you a'right Cap'n James?" "I’m Captain Hook!" Gideon growled and faded again. ~*~ The next time he woke up, he was in the hospital. Relatives filled the tiny space in the emergency room. "He's coming around." "Oh, thank goodness." "I'm so sorry, Uncle Gideon. I didn't know," cried Naomi.  Everyone talked at once. Once the doctor reviewed his history with drinking mead, he released him. Gideon was alone for the moment, buttoning his shirt. Don and Naomi were bringing the car around . The nurse came in with a pill for a headache and a release form. She had a auburn hair and a gentle touch about her as she helped him take the pill. A gold tooth flashed in her smile. She was just past her prime, close to his age, and wore no ring. Her name tag said Aurora. "Thank you for taking such good care of me," Gideon told her. "It was no trouble at all," she smiled with her gold tooth. "I feel like I know you from somewhere." "Perhaps," he answered.  "Do you like to dance?" she asked. "I love to dance," he told her. Perhaps this would turn into a new adventure. But no more mead, he thought to himself . Never again.

6w10x6

A dance at the crossroads of destiny

The midnight air hung heavy with an otherworldly chill as I stood alone on the desolate crossroads. My breath escaped in ethereal puffs, merging with the fog that enveloped the forsaken path. The moon, a distant witness, cast feeble light upon the worn cobblestones beneath my worn-out shoes. I could feel the eyes of shadows watching, and a shiver crawled down my spine. It was a night meant for secrets, for bargains with entities that dwelled beyond mortal comprehension. I hesitated, my fingers clutching the crumpled piece of paper in my pocket—the one bearing the instructions for a ritual most whispered about but few dared to attempt. My reason screamed at me to turn away, to flee from the sinister allure that emanated from the unknown depths of the crossroads. But reason often falters in the face of desperation, and my life had become a tapestry of misfortune and regret, each thread woven with mistakes I could never undo. The wind whispered ominous secrets, carrying with it the scent of ancient knowledge and forbidden desires. It was said that at the stroke of midnight, the Devil himself would appear, ready to strike a deal for a soul. My heart pounded in rhythm with the distant echoes of my own fear, but the whispers in my mind drowned out all else. What harm could one pact do if it meant an escape from the abyss I had willingly wandered into? With a shaky breath, I unfolded the crumpled paper, its instructions written in a language as old as sin itself. My hands trembled as I traced the symbols etched upon the ground, forming a circle that seemed to pulsate with malevolent energy. Candles flickered as if possessed by unseen spirits, casting dancing shadows that twisted and contorted like phantoms in a danse macabre. The ritual required a blood offering, a drop of life to seal the pact. I winced as the dagger's cold steel met the warmth of my skin, a crimson droplet falling onto the cursed symbols below. The air thickened, charged with an electricity that resonated with the anticipation of ancient forces awakening. And yet, as I stood on the precipice of a decision that could damn me for eternity, a voice within me pleaded for sanity. A voice that urged me to resist the allure of the ritual, to turn away from the path that led to the unknown. "What madness is this?" I murmured to myself, the words barely audible above the wind's haunting melody. "I mustn't succumb to this temptation. It's a fool's errand, a descent into darkness." But the echoes of my failures, the weight of my regrets, drowned out the feeble protests of reason. The desire for a chance to rewrite my destiny, to grasp at a glimmer of hope, overpowered the rational voice within. I closed my eyes, gripping the dagger tighter as if the cold steel could anchor me to the reality I was about to forsake. The wind seemed to carry whispers of doubt, as if the very elements sought to dissuade me from sealing my fate. The shadows danced in a frenzied protest, their silent warnings lost in the ether. Yet, the pull of the unknown, the promise of escape, held me in a vice grip. As the ritual neared completion, my internal struggle reached a fevered pitch. The Devil's eyes flickered in the distance, and a malevolent grin played upon his shadowy visage. The voice of reason grew louder, a desperate plea for reconsideration. "Stop!" I commanded myself, the word escaping my lips with a force born of desperation. "What am I doing? This path leads to ruin, to a darkness from which there's no return." But the ink of desperation had already stained the pages of my destiny. The Devil materialized before me, his presence casting a pall over the crossroads. "Ah, mortal, what drives you to this forsaken place?" his voice slithered like serpents through the air, echoing in the chambers of my mind. I met his gaze, a mixture of fear and determination burning within me. "I seek a way out of the labyrinth my life has become. I seek power, freedom, a chance to rewrite my fate." The Devil grinned, revealing sharp, glistening teeth. "Power and freedom, my dear mortal, come at a cost. What are you willing to sacrifice for such desires?" As I spoke, the voice of reason within me pleaded for restraint, for a return to sanity. I could almost hear it shouting, "No! This is a trap, a descent into eternal darkness. Turn away before it's too late!" The Devil listened, his eyes gleaming with an understanding that transcended mortal comprehension. As I bared my soul, the wind carried my words to unseen ears, and the shadows themselves seemed to absorb the essence of my confession. "Very well," the Devil hissed, a contract materializing in his clawed hand. "Sign this pact, and your desires shall be granted. But remember, the ink that binds you is eternal, and there is no escape from the consequence of a deal with the Devil." With a trembling hand, I took the contract, its parchment feeling like the fabric of destiny itself. The quill seemed to move of its own accord, etching my name onto the accursed document. As the final stroke was made, the air grew heavy with a sense of finality. The Devil bowed, the darkness swirling around him as he vanished into the night. The candles flickered and died, leaving me alone in the silence that followed. The crossroads returned to its abandoned state, but I could feel the weight of the contract in my hands—a binding tie to a force beyond mortal reckoning. Days turned to weeks, and weeks to months. The changes came subtly at first—a stroke of luck here, an unexpected opportunity there. The world bowed to my desires as if fate itself danced to the rhythm of my newfound power. But as the seasons cycled, so did the cost of my unholy bargain reveal itself. Whispers haunted my dreams, a cacophony of voices that echoed the sins of the past and the darkness of the future. Shadows clung to me like a second skin, and the air crackled with an unnatural energy. The more I indulged in my desires, the more the Devil's mark manifested on my soul, an insidious stain that grew with each passing day. Loneliness became my constant companion, for who could truly understand the burden of a soul tainted by infernal ink? The world around me withered, and the air became thick with the stench of regret. It seemed that every victory I achieved carried the bitter aftertaste of impending doom. As the years wore on, I found myself standing once again at the crossroads, the same chilling wind carrying the distant whispers of my past. The Devil materialized before me, his eyes burning with the same fiery intensity. "You come seeking release, mortal?" he sneered, the echoes of our previous encounter reverberating in the air. "I seek an end to this torment," I pleaded, my voice strained with the weight of regret. The Devil chuckled, a sound that seemed to mock the very essence of my existence. "Release is a luxury seldom afforded to those who dance with the Devil. The ink that binds us is eternal, and escape is an illusion." Desperation clawed at my soul as I realized the true nature of my folly. The crossroads, once a symbol of potential escape, now felt like a prison of my own making. The Devil's eyes bore into mine, and in that moment, I understood the depth of the price I had paid for my desires. As the echoes of our conversation faded into the abyss, the crossroads became a silent witness to the tragedy of a soul forever bound by an unholy pact. The wind carried away the remnants of my pleas, leaving only the eerie stillness of a forsaken path and the eternal darkness that lurked beyond the crossroads—a darkness that no mortal could ever truly escape. A pact forged in the allure of temptation was destined to be a haunting echo, a choice made that could never truly be worth the cost.

5jkik7

When Giants slumber

“I can’t sleep,” she thought to herself as she hopped out of bed. The chamber that stretched out in front of her was mostly dark, lit intermittently by shimmering moonlight playing hide-and-seek behind the clouds. This slow cycling rhythm of pale brightness and inky darkness made it seem like the space was breathing in shadows, giving itself bare for a moment then retracting back in mystery. In those moments of clarity she got a good look at the layout of the place that she had familiarized herself with the past few weeks. She had set up camp on the softest platform in the chamber, a tall rectangular structure with one wall running the length of its backside and the whole thing supported by only four stout pillars. It stood near one of the corners of the chamber and was made from the second softest material she had ever experienced, only inferior to her bed. Naturally so, since her bed was a gift from the Giants. Although they had many flaws, she had to give it to them. They were experts in magic. The unnatural softness of her bed was a clear demonstration of that. “Enough day -in this case, night- dreaming about the Giants,” she thought while yawning. No reason to waste time if she couldn’t sleep. After all, nighttime was the safest to be up and about. No Giants, no Monsters. They were either asleep or locked in their lairs. She looked over the rest of the chamber. The gate directly across from her platform leading to the Giants wouldn’t open until morning. The two other gates embedded farther into the wall closest to her platform seemed undisturbed as well. This was a good opportunity to secure the routes she would take the next day. She jumped down from her platform and started walking alongside the nearest wall, giving a wide berth to the first gateway she passed by. Just like everything else in here it dwarfed her. Since the moon was bright tonight she could just make out the top of it if she tipped her head all the way back. Then again, what posed a problem to her weren’t gargantuan inanimate objects sized for Giants, but the Monsters they kept locked behind them. She froze. The gate. Wasn’t. Locked. She turned around and sprinted back towards the platform. Her heart pounded in her chest as she closed the distance. “Don’t look around, just run. Just run. Just run.” The words kept screaming louder and louder in her head. She landed with a thud and immediately dropped low. She couldn’t see the gate from where she was laying but she was too scared to move yet. She took a few deep breaths trying to calm her heart that seemed to beat in her throat. Once she felt sufficiently calm -as calm as one could be when a Monster ten times your size might eat you any moment- she started to shuffle her body to face the gate. Ever so slowly, bit by bit. Did moving always sound so loud? She peered into the dark waiting for the moon to emerge from the clouds, her breath held as if it was the last safeguard against certain death. At what seemed a snail’s pace the moon started to light up the chamber once again, slowly revealing the source of her fear in all its unlocked glory. She finally let out a sigh. The gate didn’t seem to have opened wide enough for the Monster to fit through. What if it had pushed the gate more shut after leaving, lulling her into a sense of safety? She couldn’t see inside the gate from where she was laying. This was bad. Even though the Monster preferred staying low on the ground she didn’t think she was up high enough to avoid its ever-hungry jaws. She shuddered, thinking back to the time it had almost got her. In her defense, she hadn’t been around the Giants long back then. They had brought out the Monster from its gate, allowing it to feast on all it could find on the ground. She had tried to approach it. Form an alliance as she had done with the Giants of this chamber. Instead, it had tried to devour her, pulling her towards it jaws while howling its blaring, monotonous roar. She had tried to fight back but its skin was tough and dense, and no matter how she struck it kept moving forward, consuming everything in its path. All she could do was run and hide. So that’s what she was doing now, running and hiding. Except right now, she couldn’t do either for long. She couldn’t be sure that the Monster was still in its lair which meant it could be roaming free. She looked around the once again darkened chamber, trying to catch any hint of movement or drop of sound. Nothing. Her heart picked up its beating pace again, thudding faster and faster. Her body had realized quicker than her mind and was preparing for what came next: she had to look inside the gate. She weighed her options. She could just stroll up to the gate and take a look inside but then she might as well offer herself as a midnight snack. No, she needed distance and height. Height seemed to be what kept the Giants safe from it since none of them ever got eaten. Well, that and their magic but unless she learned how to wield it right now that option was sadly impossible. Her only option was to get to the Tower. Another gift given to her by the Giants as a token of their alliance. It stood against the opposite wall some distance to the right of the gate that led to the Giants. It was high enough to be out of reach of the Monster and it had a direct line of sight inside the gate. Two birds with one stone. And boy, did she like birds. She should look for some tomorrow. If she survived today, of course. The only problem was getting to the Tower. She’d have to jump down from her current hiding spot and run across the floor to get there. If the Monster was hiding behind any of the enormous possessions of the Giants, it would get her before she’d ever make it to the tower. Then again it could already be sneaking up on her, moments away from roaring and feasting. She steeled herself as her muscles tensed. It was now or never. She jumped down from the platform and ran as fast as she could towards the Tower. It was getting closer and closer, she was almost there. Then the moon lit up the room and shadows started dancing, grasping towards her while dodging the light of night, just like she dodged the Monster all those days ago. They tried to envelop her, contain her into starless black. Whether out of care for her safety or hunger for her flesh she didn’t know. She didn’t care. She would reach the Tower. Then, with a jump straight to the top, she was sitting at its peak. She was safe. Safe. She looked down towards the open gate and saw the dreaded shape of the Monster. It seemed dormant with its long straight neck resting against the wall, connecting on one end to its rotund body sizeable enough to fit her whole. On the other end its wide, gaping, toothless mouth laying still with no intent of roaring loudly. She couldn’t see its tail, which was a good sign. After all, it only showed that part when it intended to hunt. A tail so far-reaching it didn’t even fit in the enormous chamber and disappeared into one of the walls. Now that she knew it had been asleep this whole time, she felt foolish. She’d spent all this time running and hiding from something that wasn’t even aware of her. Then that feeling of foolishness changed into anger. Why was she the one hiding and running? The Monster was the one getting locked up at night, not her. She got to roam freely. She was given the Tower. She was the one favored by the Giants. It was time the Monster knew this as well. If the Giants didn’t lock it up tonight, then she would. She took a moment to collect herself but found that her heart was beating steadily. Once again her body had realized before her mind. No more running and hiding. She leaped down from the tower and walked until she stood right in front of the gate. She spared a single glare at the Monster before pushing the gate closed. “The night is mine, you cretin,” she thought to herself. She was no longer afraid. She had survived this long among Monsters and Giants. She would not stop now. Nothing would shake her anymore. She savored the moonlight enveloping her in a dimly lit blanket. The next moment the light was blotted out by a colossal shadow. She turned around sharply but it was too late, her body was leaving the ground going upward at an alarming pace. A sudden stop and she was eye to eye with a Giant, its grip the only thing stopping her from plummeting down. “What are you up to at night zooming around like that Lucy?” the Giant said. “You’re going to wake everyone up,” as they rubbed her behind her neck in the spot she liked. “Want to sleep with us tonight?” She purred in response. She was fearless, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy the comfort of sleeping with the Giants. The Giant looked over to the closed gate. “Don’t worry, we don’t have to vacuum for a few more days,” they said with a smile. Little did the Giant know, she now ruled the night.

k8l5r5

Fat Town

I could still hear my leg groaning and barking at me, it felt like pieces of my femur were rubbing against each other, spurting off bone shavings into the nether regions of my body. It sounded like an old screen door at a beach house, withered away from years of salty air. According to the latest X-Ray, I was fully healed. Good to go was the term Dr. Thibodeau used. I asked him are you sure? He said yes. I asked for another X-Ray and he said no. I asked him to recommend another doctor and he told me to get out.              A broken femur is no joke, I’ll tell you that. Seven months later and I’m finally walking around without a cast, although I don’t think I’ll be playing any pickup games of basketball anytime soon. I walk around my own house like I’m trying to avoid landmines, terrified that one false move would leave me on the ground again, wondering how I got there and staring at the bloody shard of bone sticking out from my leg. I had just jogged to the top of the key, and I could see two steps into the future. I saw the way their point guard lazily floated that pass over Darryl, our tallest guy, in what was the sloppiest pick-and-roll attempt of all time. I saw Colin salivate at the opportunity, he slapped the pass out of midair, maintaining the dribble as he reversed direction, and overhanded a pass to me who had already retreated and waited patiently in the corner, my heels nearly touching the sidelines. Anyone who’s played five minutes with me knows that the corner three is my sweet spot. There’s something about catching that ball with my toes on the line with no backboard to help me. There are no lucky bounces there, it’s either shoot it pure, or watch it hit back rim and rebound straight back at you.              I caught that pass in the corner and let out a small exhale as my knees relaxed. I spun the ball until my right middle finger was flush over the needle hole. Like I’ve done a thousand times before, I let the ball go at the apex of my flight. It looked perfect, I could already see the parabola’s path about to splash through the net. The next thing I remember is Darryl splashing water on my face and telling me not to look down.              For seven months I’ve sat around, letting the initial wave of depression morph into pizzas and Chinese food. The sight of the tiny, white boxes on the table next to yesterday’s pizza boxes as I scratched under my cast with a coat hanger nauseated me. I have a cushy work-from-home job and I haven’t bothered to weigh myself since I broke my leg. I would consider it, then opt to lie back down and let Netflix know that yes, as a matter of fact I am still watching this show .              The more mobile I became, the more I looked in the mirror, something I haven’t done in months. My chiseled jawline had vanished, it was an amorphous blend of stubbly skin that connected my former chin to my neck. When I wore something besides pants with elastic waists, I started to notice the red irritation around my beltline. I stood sideways after getting out of the shower and took a good look at myself in the full-length mirror. And no, not in the Christian-Bale-American-Psycho kind of way. I cursed myself while I looked at my turkey neck and patted my gut with both hands, watching it jiggle.              That’s the thing about depression though, we don’t do the things we do thinking it is going to be a healthy coping skill. An alcoholic doesn’t speed down I-20 with beer cans spilling onto the freeway because he thinks it will make him forget that he caught his wife sleeping with the mailman. No, he does it because it makes him numb. I wasn’t able to drive for months so I opted for Ring Dings and chicken wings. That scale though, I saw it every time I needed a new roll of toilet paper. Propped up, hidden by various bottles under the sink.              Of course, non-government issued scales were outlawed two years ago. The only scales allowed in American homes were ones that maxed out at ten pounds, to use for weighing packages and whatnot. If found in possession of a personal scale you could be looking at jail time or at the very least a fine from the FDA and CDC. The homeless were the only ones able to skirt the system, but there was a good chance they weren’t obese anyways. Shortly after the new administration entered the White House, anyone that possessed an address and a Social Security number had a scale built around the circumference of their homes. You can’t see or feel them, they’re built right into the ground and announce on your way to the car Good Morning, you are 197 pounds. If you were between housing situations or if your scale was on the fritz, most Wal-Marts and pharmacies had government scales. As long as Uncle Sam knew how much you weighed at least once a week, you didn’t have a worry in the world. Unless your height and weight put you over that black line on the graph every citizen owned. The dark black area that was marked MORBIDLY OBESE. When I hobble to the outdoor scale to weigh myself, it would tell me good morning, read the weather forecast, and announce my weight. For the past two months it had an additional message for me. WARNING. WARNING. You are approaching maximum weight. Make immediate changes to diet and exercise routine. Residents had no control of the volume, and warnings were blared at a decibel that all could hear. With the sun still well below the horizon and every blind in my house drawn shut, I pulled the scale from under the sink like I was Indiana Jones trying to replace the golden idol with a tiny bag of sand. It hadn’t been touched in years and there was a thin layer of dust on the screen. It creaked under my increasing frame. I looked down and could barely see my feet. The needle jumped from left to right so fast it almost broke. It settled on an unsettling number. 275. Over the limit. In between the blinds and the window frame, I saw the towering walls that sat on top of the plateau in the distance like a medieval fort. Armed security guards roamed on the perches above, watching inward, never outward. It’s because they didn’t have to worry about invaders with catapults or flaming arrows, no one wanted to get into Fat Town, people only tried to get out. Most tried to get out the legal way, which was dropping to a weight the government deemed acceptable until they opened the gates for you. Others tried to get out in unconventional ways. Illegal ways. I’ve heard from some who have done time in Fat Town, and I was not looking to punch my ticket there anytime soon. You were fed three microscopic meals a day, and every second of your day was mapped out. Even “free” times like watching television in the Recreation room found people tethered to treadmills. You were allowed to pick your speed, as long as you were moving. The Food Network and any channel that may feature some sort of cooking competition was blocked. Fat Town seemed to be somewhere between a Japanese internment camp and that scene in A Clockwork Orange where Malcom McDowell’s eyes are forced to intake images of violence. For all I know that could happen there. Except they are probably forced to watch reruns of Top Chef.   I’ll be damned if I’m going to be carted off to Fat Town. One step outside will sound the alarms, and the Fat Vans would arrive shortly after. The response time is impressive. Just a week ago, I heard the alarm down the block and the vans arrived three minutes later. Orderlies in white jumpsuits spilled out with cattle prods in hand. These thoughts raced through my head when I lifted the creaky window in my bedroom. Frigid night air filled the room and flooded my nostrils, sending a shiver down my spine. 3:37 A.M. I still had a little over two hours before my weigh-in was due. Later today, I was either going to be tied to a leash on a treadmill or I was going to be free. First, I had to jump off my roof without rebreaking my leg. Winter was approaching fast, and the angled eave outside my window was covered in frosted shingles that the morning rays have yet to thaw. If I could make my way down that, I would be on the flat-footing of my attached one-car garage. From there, I needed to jump into my pool without getting hypothermia. Day one without my cast felt strange, the entire area felt numb and itchy. It must have been quite the sight, me crawling out the window, turning around to grip the windowsill with my ass facing the world. I placed one foot on the eave and it slipped away from me immediately. I might have to hope for the best and take a slip-and-slide down my roof. I tried to center my weight before I let go of the windowsill, and I managed to slide down without any serious injury. Thankfully I landed on my good leg. My garage was covered with a gritty blacktop which usually would have provided good traction. Unfortunately for me, it was also covered with frost. A run-and-jump seemed out of the question. A stationary leap into the pool seemed my only option. If I come up short, my leg is likely broken again and I will set off the sensors on the scales. If I succeed, I will land in the frigid pool I have yet to drain for this particular scenario. My legs bent on the edge of the garage. My bones did not like the cold air and my leg creaked in response. A gust of cold wind rushed through, stealing my breath for a moment. Before I could think too long, I made the leap of faith and crashed through the black tarp on the pool. Freezing water enveloped me as I tried to suppress my gasps. I had anticipated this moment and changed into the dry clothes waiting for me in the shed. There are no scales in cars, but driving around as a known obese person is too risky. By now, they’ve certainly noticed that my car is in the garage and I have utilized other methods of transportation. For the past week, I’ve been traveling by night and resting during the day. The nights have been brutally cold, but I’ve been getting by. After freezing for six nights, I found solace in room 320 of the Econo Motor Lodge. Sounds irresponsible, doesn’t it? Why go on the run and then plop down my credit card and information at a motel? Because the Econo Motor Lodge has been closed for nearly ten years. For the last five it has been surrounded by one of those fences the bank puts up to keep squatters at bay. The Ritz-Carlton it is not, but it is warm and quiet. The only other guests seem to be the rats I can hear crawling behind the walls. My only hope is to locate the ironically named BMI. Otherwise known as the Body Morale Insurgence. A militia with roving sects peppered throughout this great nation. A group that will take any means necessary to combat the unjust weight laws. According to the news, and by good old-fashioned word of mouth, there is a known group in the area. Everyone has seen the footage of camps being bombarded in the dead of night with tear gas grenades. The perp walks of the fatties being led into vans with the remnants of Yodels and Hostess Cupcakes plastered to their faces in a do-or-die attempt to dispose of evidence. I had almost found sleep in this dank, musty room when I heard a crash in the bathroom. Did they find me? Are they tunneling through the adjacent room to ambush me in the middle of the night? I grabbed a small switchblade, the only weapon I brought with me, and a flashlight, and stumbled through the pitch-black room using the blade as my guide. I kicked open the door and turned on the flashlight simultaneously, ready to stab anything in my way. There was nothing new in this bacteria trap except a hole in the ceiling above the shower. A rat the size of a large cat fell through the ceiling and landed in the rusted, mildew encrusted bathtub. I squashed its tiny skull under my foot and it whimpered and squirmed under my boot heel. Right under the shower head, in permanent marker, was something I missed during my initial sweep of the room. It was the symbol for a male and female holding hands. Not the weird ones that Prince used, but the ones that you would find on a public bathroom door. Not identical to the bathroom sign, these ones had massive guts that poked out from under their shirts. Holy shit. The secret symbol for BMI. I checked out without tipping the maid, I couldn’t stay in one place for too long. Behind the motel was a large dumpster, overflowing with motel furniture and various trash. Behind that was the faded remnants of a trailhead, leading deep into the woods. It was mostly overgrown, pricker bushes nipped at my heels from both sides. I walked until I couldn’t anymore, and started a small fire far enough away from the main road. I woke up shivering to a pile of smoldering embers and shooting bolts of pain down my neck from the awkward sleeping angle against my backpack. I must have missed it in the dark last night, but a large oak only ten feet from me was engraved with the BMI symbol. I walked over the crunching leaves to inspect it closer, and when I ran my thumb through the carving, something that felt like a snake wrapped around my feet. It lifted and launched me through the cold morning air. I swung like a pendulum upside down in the booby trap. With my swaying vision, I saw the image of a hefty man waddling towards me. He steadied me just before I felt like vomiting and grabbed my cheeks. There was crusted snot in his reddish-brown mustache and Oreo crumbs in his beard. “Now just who in the hell are you? And why are you following us?” “I’m Edward Leslie. I…I…” “What the hell do you want?” he asked with a knife’s blade grazing my neck. “I was looking for you guys. I’m not with them, I’m with you. Look at me! I’m fat!” He lifted my shirt and gazed at my belly and growing breasts that sagged downwards. He lightly double-tapped my stomach with his bear claw of a hand and laughed. “Don’t seem fat enough to me.” “Believe me, I weighed myself last week. Twelve pounds over the limit for my height.” “Leslie, you said?” “Yes. Edward Leslie.” “I’ll be in touch.” “What? Where are you going? You can’t leave me here!” I only heard the fading sound of his footsteps and then nothing. A bird cawed in the distance. The blood flowing to my head made me feel woozy and at some point, I either fell asleep or passed out. “Hey! Wake up.” He was back, this time accompanied by four large members of BMI. He slapped my face and his entourage chuckled. “Leslie. We did some research and your story checks out. You’re definitely on their radar.” A short, stout woman with frizzy hair popping out from under her winter hat sauntered over. I heard the pop of her blade and the fraying sound of the rope when she cut me down. The first one I met picked me up and held me by the shoulders. “I’m Big Red. This is Ponch, Spuds, Tubs, and Omega-3. We will get you a nickname soon enough. Let’s get one thing straight. If we bring you back to camp, you’re one of us. If at any point we feel you threaten our mission, we will ditch you like a spoiled pack of salami. Understood?” I nodded. “Good. Now follow us and try to keep up.” It turns out it was really easy to keep up, none of them were exactly fleet of foot. The camp was impressive, they had their own makeshift shelters with rawhide roofs and door flaps. Expired boxes of Twinkies and Ho-Ho’s sat in a bonfire pit. After my first night around the fire being regaled with tales of bravery against the Fat Camps and long-ago banned foods, Big Red wrapped his arm around me and led me past the camp, into the woods. “Come. I want to show you something.” A short walk through the woods led us to a cliff’s edge. A calm breeze passed by and ruffled his beard. Over the valley, sitting on top a hill, stood the camp with its imposing walls. “You’re new, but you’re the skinniest of the lot. Reckon you’re ready to lead the charge at dawn?” “I am.” “Good.” He handed me my official BMI-issued weapon, a metal spatula. “That ain’t for flippin’ burgers.” He laughed and patted me on the back. We sat on the edge of the cliff eating Twinkies, drinking wine, and gazed at the spectacular blanket of stars overhead. 

kvksj3

Nikolas and the Labyrinth of Deceit: A Faith the Sightless Dragon Short Story (abridged to suit prompt requirements)

“A magic mirror?” Nikolas peered into the reflective surface that seemed to glow softly of its own accord. “Simply put, yes. Will you take it?” Nikolas took a breath to respond, but remembered the old woman’s previous warning. “What must I do? Or rather, what will happen if I do?” Suzanna nodded in approval. “You were paying attention. Come, sit here.” She guided the young man to a stool near a smoldering fire, and his tiny dragon companion gilded gently down before the embers to stretch out, basking in the warmth. “I trust,” Suzanna began, “that you’ve heard the story about the King’s wizard magicking the castle into a horrifying labyrinth. It is really much more complex than that, but all you need to know is this: the castle has truly not changed at all; it is mere illusion, but even a simple illusion can be made deadly.” She lifted the small mirror from the box, running her fingers around the gilded frame. “This mirror will pierce through the illusions woven throughout the castle, so that you will be able to navigate the castle, rather than falling into the traps of the labyrinth. I also suspect that she will help you a great deal besides.” “‘She’?” “I forget that you know nothing of such things. However, you must accept the mirror before things are made clear.” She raised the mirror to face Nikolas, and he gasped when he saw nothing reflected in the surface at all; all that was visible was dark, silvery light. The tiny dragon spoke excitedly into Nikolas’ mind. I can sense her! There is someone in the mirror! “Forgive me, Suzanna, but your words from before make me hesitant. What are the consequences of accepting this mirror from you?” “In binding yourself to the mirror, you will lose your sight as you know it. You will see all things as the mirror sees them.” Nikolas knew that there had to be more to this than what was said, but also knew that he would never forgive himself if he gave in to confusion and doubt. “Very well. I do not have much to exchange for such an artifact–” “I need no payment. My only stipulation is that you return the mirror to me when your quest is completed.” Suzanna set the box containing the mirror in Nikolas’ hands as she rose to stand next to him. From somewhere amidst the many pockets of her skirts, Suzanna withdrew a pair of small scissors and clipped a lock of Nikolas’ auburn hair, holding the clipping just above the mirror. A silvery hand the same size as the dragon’s own tiny paws reached up from within the pane and drew the clipping in. “Now the mirror’s images will be clear to you.” Suzanna gestured for Nikolas to look at the mirror’s surface. The image was hazy for a moment, but a figure quickly materialized through the fog. To Nikolas’ eyes, her image took up his whole field of vision. She was dressed all in white with a multi-layered skirt cinched at her waist with a rope and ending at her ankles, and a simple blouse with slightly puffed sleeves. Around her neck was Nikolas’ lock of hair, bound together with a thin silver cord that made up her necklace. Her hair shone gold against her white attire, and it was wrapped in a loose braid intertwined with silver ribbons. Nikolas registered these things about the mirror maiden in the back of his mind, for her vibrant green eyes held his gaze. He could feel a change within him as the maiden looked at him, a feeling that was at once both illuminating and disquieting. Nikolas knew that he held the mirror at least two feet away from his face, but when the maiden raised her hand to pass over his eyes, he swore that he felt her light touch brush his eyelashes. There was a dull pain behind his eyes when she lowered her hand, but Nikolas barely noticed, so caught up in the intensity of her eyes he was. Friend? Nikolas? Hello~! Nikolas turned his mind, but not his eyes, to the tiny dragon calling faintly to him. Um, Aya says that you’re alright now. You don’t have to keep staring. It took a moment, but Nikolas registered what his dragon companion meant, and he felt his face warm in embarrassment before his eyes lowered. Suzanna rested her hand on Nikolas’ shoulder as he rubbed his eyes. It seemed so much harder to focus now. The young man looked over to the tiny dragon before the simmering coals, and he noticed that she now seemed to glow with a light he recognized as pure, unadulterated love and childlike innocence. He had thought her a magical though simple creature, totally reliant on others to see for her since she herself had no eyes at all. Now, he could see her for what she truly was. “Faith…” The tiny dragon padded over to the young man’s leg, where he offered her his arm. She touched her snout to his cheek in affection before settling down on Nikolas’ shoulder once more. Oo your eyes aren’t brown anymore, friend! I can see you through friend Suzanna’s eyes! “Really?” Nikolas touched his face, but he felt no different other than his difficulty focusing on things. “My eyes have changed?” They’re all silvery and pretty, like Aya’s mirror! “It is an effect of the binding.” Suzanna said, lifting the mirror from Nikolas’ hands and looping a durable cord through a slot in the frame. “You no longer see with your own eyes, but through the mirror’s perception. Most magic has some side effect to the user, so it is not unexpected. Now tell me, what do you see?” She finished a complicated knot and placed the mirror-made-necklace over his head. Nikolas looked up at the old woman, straining to focus his vision on her. His eyes were guided, however, by the maiden within the mirror, and after a few moments Nikolas could see. “ You created the mirror. You know the same man Faith and I met at our journey’s start, and he is the one who told you to watch for our coming, just as he told us to find you.” Suzanna’s truth danced before Nikolas’ eyes. He saw that she was allowing him to read what was most relevant. He saw what she knew about what had happened in the castle between the King and his wizard. “The King is made powerless, and his servants are ensorceled and caught up in the enchantment. The Queen, who has small skill with magic, is bound in the dungeons below, and her children are trapped in their own illusions. I feel…I…” The storm of truth mixed with emotions moved Nikolas to tears. He saw Suzanna’s grief in all of its forms. “Now you see .” Suzanna took the young man into her arms and held her hand over his eyes. Faith sniffled as she comforted her friend - small tears that fell from her tiny nostrils, since she had no eyes at all. She felt all that Nikolas felt as she connected to the young man’s mind, though she could see through his normal sight, not his “mirror-sight”, as she called it. After a few minutes, Nikolas recollected himself, keeping his eyes closed to prevent the barrage of truths from flooding his heart again. “I think I begin to see what you meant by consequences, Lady Suzanna.” A Lady indeed she was, for Suzanna had been, before the sorcery, the guardian of the King’s children and a trusted friend to the royal family. “Truth is a heavy burden to bear,” Nikolas laughed, “and I haven’t even reached the castle yet.” “It is both a blessing and a curse to know the truth, Nikolas..” Lady Suzanna took a semi-transparent strip of cloth and tied it around his eyes. “This will help block your sight, but it cannot do so completely. We are in the lower parts of the city around the castle, so you have a few hours walk to the castle, and you will undoubtedly encounter others along your way. Let Faith guide you with her sight through you.” Thus armed with magicked sight, a blindfold, a magic mirror, and a tiny sightless dragon, Nikolas bid Lady Suzanna farewell - not goodbye, since he did promise to return the mirror to her when his quest was over - and set out for the castle. --- Aya guided Nikolas through vestibules, down hallways, and up staircases with complete certainty, drawing Nikolas away when the body of a servant or knight lay along their path. To learn the truth of their deaths, Aya warned, would drag Nikolas into the illusion, and it would be inconvenient for him to succumb. Faith, on the other hand, buried herself tight against Nikolas’ neck, drawing reassurance from his steady breathing and his heartbeat as she battled her fears. She had very little protection from the illusion, and all that she heard was most frightening for the tiny dragon. It did not take long to reach the doors of the throne room; perhaps a half an hour at most had passed. No sorcery barred the intricate engraved oak doors, and Nikolas had no trouble opening one side to enter the Sanctuary. The sight made Nikolas cry out in fear and shock. His quest had seemed so simple, but the reality of what he was to do was now before him. An enormous oval mirror in a wicked obsidian frame hung over the Thrones of Airden. Roiling darkness with streaks of red and purple lightning danced in the chaos of the reflection, and tendrils of black light spread from the mirror and pulsed in the walls of the Sanctuary. The three Princesses and four Princes were laid out on the roundtable in the center of the room; each seemed to be asleep, save for the erratic movement of their eyes behind their eyelids and sounds of fear. It broke Nikolas’ heart to see that the youngest of them was a Princess, and she was no older than five. His gaze rested on the child Princess for a mere seconds, and he saw a tiny sliver of what illusion she was experiencing. Above all of this was Veneer, seated in the King’s Throne and looking down at Nikolas. The wizard laughed at the young man before him. “This is all? This is what was sent against me? Honestly, I feel insulted.” Nikolas stared up at the wizard as Veneer descended the steps from the dias. Rage simmered in Nikolas’ heart, but the longer he looked at the wizard, the more his anger changed to understanding and something like pity. The young man was vaguely aware of the wizard continuing to speak, but he heard nothing except the wizard’s truth - the horrifying, painful, lamentable truth. “Ah I see now.” Veneer smirked. “You read my truth and think that’s all you need to best me. Well, I hate to break it to you, boy, but truth is my weapon, too.” He spread his arms wide in an all encompassing gesture. “Just as you now know so much about me at a glance, so too do I know everything about you.” “Ignore this boy-wizard. His magic rests in illusions and twistings of truth. Lift me up before his mirror and your quest will be finished.” Nikolas spared one last look at the wizard standing before him. Aya was right; Veneer was all smoke and mirrors. He was such an expert when it came to deception that Veneer had succeeded in deceiving himself. Nikolas adjusted Aya’s mirror in his palm, carried little Faith in the crook of his arm, and strode past Veneer. The young man was halfway up the stairs to the dais before Veneer noticed. “Going to destroy my mirror using yours, are you? Tell me, boy, did old Suzanna tell you what will happen to you when that happens?” Nikolas wavered for a moment, and Veneer caught his hesitation. “Oh, she didn’t, did she? Of course not, why would she want to risk her hopes and dreams crumbling to nothing? Well I will tell you - and truthfully too, just look at me and you will see!” Nikolas stopped just before the top of the stairs but he did not turn around. Don’t stop now, friend! It’s only a few more steps! Faith’s voice was drowned out by Veneer. “You recall the part of yourself that you gave to the mirror to bind it to you. You and your mirror made a magical contract - it gave you sight, and you gave it a conduit. Think about it: if a part of you is that essential to harnessing magic, what do you think will happen to you when you destroy the artifact holding that part?” Doubt crept into Nikolas’ heart. Was there some law of magic that would kill him just as he completed his quest? It wouldn’t have mattered if Nikolas was alone, but his family… “Are you really going to sacrifice yourself for strangers rather than live for your family? Your little sister? My my, are you going to break your promise to her? Aw, and you swore so sincerely that you would return home to her before your village’s harvest festival.” Tears stung Nikolas’ eyes, obscuring his vision and his sight so that, for a heartstopping moment, he thought that he was standing in empty space. Faith cried out his name in his mind, bringing Nikolas back before the illusion could ensnare him. He blinked the tears from his eyes and climbed the last three stairs in a single bound. “I know what I promised Kateri.” Nikolas’ voice was hoarse. “But what kind of brother would I be if I returned to her a coward? If I die, so be it. At least she will remember me fondly.” “You think that you are strong enough to break me!? Take a look at your truth!” Veneer’s mirror dropped to the space right in front of Nikolas, startling the young man so that Aya and her mirror dropped on the thick cord and landed against his chest. Nikolas locked eyes with his reflection, the piercing silver of his magicked irises catching his attention, but then he was unable to look away. As Nikolas looked at his reflection, he saw his own truth. His entire life played before his eyes; every truth behind every action was laid bare before him. Petty sins gained new gravity. Meanings behind feelings and thoughts became painfully clear. Vices and shortcomings were shown in their entirety. All things seemed to lead to one conclusion - he was nothing, would always be nothing, no matter what he did. Then a warmth spread over his heart, and the truths coalesced into a coherent whole. Each truth cut deeply, but each cut chipped away at the falsehoods Nikolas had constructed within himself until Nikolas saw himself for exactly who and what he was - flawed and sinful and capable of great wrongs, yes, but he was more than that. His full self laid bare before him, Nikolas bowed his head and closed his eyes. Faith perched atop Nikolas’ head as the young man raised the magic mirror once more. Once again, Aya manifested on the mirror’s surface, and Nikolas looked into her green eyes, a wordless truth passing between them. Nikolas raised Aya before the roiling darkness of Veneer’s mirror. Aya’s small hand pressed against the surface of the sorcerous mirror, and immediately the room was flooded with her silvery light. Strands of color replaced the tendrils of black light; the sound of torment emanating from the illusion were replaced with wild cheers as minds were freed from the sorcery. Veneer cried out of terror, realizing the truth of the situation - he was finished, and his own magic would devour him, as was the agreed price. When every last soul was freed from the mirror’s clutches, Veneer’s mirror shattered in its frame before the entire artifact, and Veneer himself, dissolved into dust. --- Several weeks later, Nikolas and Faith returned to Lady Suzanna’s antique shop. After Veneer’s sorcery had been broken, Nikolas and Faith had remained at the castle to explain all that had happened and to help set things back to their proper order. Overall, however, he realized that he was not much help - the Airdenian royal family needed good food and better care to restore them to health, and he was just a farm boy. Nikolas and Faith spent most of the time finding men and women to replace the castle staff that had died, and assisting those that yet lived in their tasks. His favorite part, however, was playing with the child Princess, Cecily, in the overgrown castle gardens. It was bittersweet. In that time Aya had not manifested at all, and Nikolas suspected that the magic of his sight was un-magicking in a way that would leave him totally blind. And so, he wanted to make good on his promise to Lady Suzanna and return the mirror before that happened. Lady Suzanna was waiting for them when Nikolas and Faith walked in, and she caught the young man tightly in an embrace. “I am glad that you have returned. You have done well, Nikolas. And you, little Faith.” The tiny dragon nuzzled Suzanna’s cheek and thanked her before Nikolas withdrew. “I wanted to make good on my promise. Here is your mirror back, but Aya is…” Suzanna took the small mirror from Nikolas and left the room, calling back to him to “wait there a moment”. After a few minutes, Suzanna returned and beckoned Nikolas and Faith to follow her. She guided Nikolas to the thick, deeply colored curtains concealing the back room and led him through… Where his near-blind eyes were illuminated once more in the light of a beautifully familiar pair of vibrant green eyes.

4r1xmy

Click-Clack

Chloride, Arizona 1880 The scorpion crawling over his face brings Dustin Racklin back to consciousness. Wheezing, and hacking up blood, Dustin realizes he’s near death. He recalls being ambushed, shot in the leg, side, and through the lungs by two sidewinders and a boy he called his kin. Dustin had robbed the one o’clock stage out of Jacinto along with Deke Drummond, Deuce Railey, and JoJo. The calculating, thirty-eight-year-old Deuce was a dandy, but also a master planner, and twenty-eight-year-old, foul-tempered Drummond lived to see people shrink away from him and his fast draw. Dustin’s seventeen-year-old, doe-eyed cousin, JoJo, whom he’d rescued from his abusive father, was simple-minded and green but good with horses. Twenty-six-year-old Dustin had been a drover, a store clerk, and a blacksmith. His 6’ 4” height and dead calm often led to his getting a wide berth, but he was just as apprehensive about people as they were about him. Deuce had enlisted him because he knew the backcountry like the front of his hand. Now he was going to die in it. The gang got away with $60,000 without firing a shot. Things got dicey when Dustin asked for his cut twenty miles outside of Chloride. His so-called friends gave it to him in bullets. He can feel his blood spilling underneath him, frying in the sun. A flock of vultures circles overhead, occasionally giving him some respite by blocking out the sun. A figure moves into view, standing over him. “Tsk… Tsk. You’re about done in, fella.” The woman kneels, offering him water from a canteen. Her soft blue Victorian-style dress and turquoise squash blossom necklace give her an angelic appearance. Dustin gulps down the water. “Thanks… Can you say a few words over me?” The dark-haired woman peers down at him with a glint in her violet eyes. “You don’t have to go to the bone orchard. I can save you.” “Why?” “Where I come from it's Black Friday. It’s a day of discounts, sales, and bargains. And I’m prepared to give you a special deal.” “Don’t waste your time. I’m all done in…”  “Do you want to kill the men who dry-gulched you?” the woman asks. “…Yeah…” “Then swear allegiance to me. And swear that I can have their souls.” “Forgive me doubtin’ you, but you look like a real lady, and judging by your appearance, I’d say you ain’t done much dirty work with your hands. And I ain’t no hard rock either. I’m near dead. We don’t measure up to Deuce Railey and Deke Drummond in cruelty. They’re big nuts to crack.” “I can change all that,” the woman replies, touching the elaborate necklace. “The turquoise stones in this necklace make me immortal.” “…I must be delirious…” “You heard right, Dustin.” Dustin coughs up a wad of blood. “How do you know who I am?” “I know all about you Dustin. Born in Oakridge, Kansas, first of three siblings, one boy and two girls. You left home when you were seventeen. All the money you made you sent home, never knowing typhoid had killed everyone but your brother, who died in a bar fight in New Orleans. You got a job as a clerk for Brimar Stage Company two years ago. You were a faithful employee until Deuce Railey showed up with the idea of robbing the stage. And now your blood is seeping into the sand. Do you want to be saved?” “Yeah.” The woman turns her hand over. A scroll appears. “Sign this contract.” “What are you lookin’ for in return?” “You must never betray me. And you must help protect me and my sacred necklace. I’ll lose my immortality if it’s stolen or destroyed. Now make your mark.” “I can’t. I’m too far gone to even lift a finger.” “Then allow me.” Dipping Dustin’s finger in his blood, the woman makes an X at the bottom of the contract. “You can read it later,” she says, dropping it next to him. The woman presses her hands against Dustin’s chest. A warm, invigorating feeling washes over him. “You can stand up now.” The woman helps Dustin to his feet. “Who are you? Jesus?” “Quite the opposite, Dustin. I’m Click-Clack.” “What kinda name is that?” “My father gave me the name. I’m Dutch. When I was a girl, I used to wear wooden shoes that made a noise, ‘click-clack’ when I walked across the porch. Our family came to America in 1680.” “You don’t look two hundred years old.” Click-Clack smirks, continuing her tale. “The Anasazi Indians killed my parents and brothers in Illinois and took me prisoner. A shaman took pity on me and raised me as his own. He gave me the necklace and taught me the Anasazi’s magic. But when I began studying the darker side of their magic, the Anasazis cast me out. My master then took me in.” “You’re a slave?” “We’re all slaves to something, Dustin.” “Don’t stand there and tell me you expect me to kowtow to you just ‘cause you saved my life.” “No. I’m here to help you get your revenge. All I want are your enemy's souls.” “Fine. But it’s a fair bet Deuce and Drummond will perforate me again if I try to kill them.” Click-Clack’s voice rings with confidence. “You can’t be harmed as long as I’m with you.” Dustin cackles. “What kinda flimflam show are you runnin’ Click-Clack?” Click-Clack turns her hand over. In her palm is a derringer. Before Dustin can stop her, Click-Clack pumps two bullets into his chest. Dustin looks down at the crimson spot spreading across his shirt. “You saved me to kill me?” he asks, clutching his chest. “Take your hand away.” Dustin looks at his shirt. The blood spot fades, disappearing. “I’m hungry,” Click-Clack says. “Let’s get some souls.” Deke Drummond leans against a lamppost, casually smoking a cigarette. A stagecoach pulls up to the hotel across the street and a fancily dressed couple get out, hurrying inside when they see the surly-looking man in black with a scar on his face staring at them. Drummond laughs to himself, impressed with the fear his craggy appearance can cause. Puffing on his cigarette, he nearly swallows it when he sees Dustin ride into town with a beautiful woman. Drawing his gun, he blocks Dustin’s path. “I may not’a kilt you the first time, Racklin, but I’ll make dang sure ta settle your hash this time! Step down and die, spook!” Dustin slides out of his saddle, the blood draining from his petrified expression as he looks to Click-Clack for help. Click-Clack touches her necklace. “Don’t fret, Dustin. You can’t be killed as long as you’re with me.” “That’s not gonna stop Deke from tryin’.” The two men face off. Drummond glares at Dustin, grinding his teeth as if Dustin was between them. Drummond beats Dustin to the draw but doesn’t fire, blinking sporadically. He sees two Dustins, then three, then half a dozen Dustins standing infront of him with their guns drawn. The crowd gathered to watch the shootout mutters among themselves. “What’s this, a square dance?” a cowboy shouts as Drummond starts to look everywhere but at Dustin. “Don’t just stand there gaping at him. Plug him!” Click-Clack urges. Dustin draws a bead on Drummond. The first bullet skips in the dust in front of him. “You’re a lousy shot,” Click-Clack comments. Drummond continues to twist around, trying to draw a bead on the multiplying Dustins. Dustin’s second bullet hits Drummond in the jaw, exiting out the top of his head. Deuce and JoJo come out of the saloon in time to see Drummond fall face first in the dust. They quickly retreat into the saloon. Deuce takes off his bowler, wiping the sweat from his bald head. “I know you Racklin’s are hard-headed, but Dustin should be dead.” “I’m kinda glad he’s okay. He rescued me from hell. I wanna apologize to him,” JoJo says. “You really are a special kind of idiot, aren’t you?” The toe-headed blonde shrugs his shoulders innocently. “My Pa always said so.” “We tried to kill him,” Deuce says. “An apology won’t carry much weight.” “Maybe we should get outta here. Dustin is an even-tempered sort, but when he gets his dander up…” “I’ve got the money. I’m not letting Dustin run me out,” Deuce replies. “He wants to come looking for it, let him. We’ll divvy the cash up tomorrow morning. Tonight, I’m gonna spoil myself. I’m gonna have a poke with some fine filly. You go back to the hotel. You sleep alone with your fears while I sleep on fine linen with the finest calico queen in this pig sty.” Dustin and Click-Clack enter the Grapevine Hotel. Spotting Click-Clack, the impish clerk fidgets with his stiff collar, adjusting his tie. “We’d like a room,” Click-Clack says, batting her thick eyelashes. “Mister and Misses Racklin.” Dustin and Click-Clack glance at the ledger as Dustin signs in, noting that Deuce and JoJo are among the guests. Dustin lets out a tired sigh as the pair settle in their room. “You get some rest. I’ll go to the dance hall and hire on as one of the girls,” Click-Clack says. “That’ll help us get closer to Deuce. Besides, I’ve always wanted to be in show business.” “Yeah, your figure’ll attract Deuce like bees to a cowpie. Sorry. But Railey’s a good time Charlie. If Deuce is anywhere in town, he’ll be there.” Click-Clack pauses in front of the undertaker’s office, which is closed for the day. She can smell Deke Drummond’s still fresh blood inside and envisions his once-beating heart. Checking the street, she waits for a pair of women to head into Miss Sheehan’s Dress Shoppe before breaking in. Standing at the end of the bar, Dustin pulls the brim of his hat down over his eyes, whispering to Click-Clack. “There’s Deuce. I don’t see JoJo. Just as well.” “I’ll lure Deuce upstairs. When you see me get him into a room, wait a minute, then bust in.” Click-Clack saunters over to the table where Deuce is playing cards. He’s immediately taken by the stunning brunette in the brightly colored, off-the-shoulder ballgown dress wearing an intriguing turquoise necklace. Deuce tips his derby. “Well, you cut a swell, miss. I’ve been working a cold deck all night. Looks like my luck is about to change.” Minutes later, Click-Clack guides the infatuated train robber upstairs. Dustin bursts through the door, his gun drawn. Looking down on the bed, Dustin barely holds back the bile rapidly making its way up his throat. Deuce’s body is torn open from his stomach to his chest, his eyes frozen wide in horror. Click-Clack sits on the bed, her lips covered in blood, munching contentedly on Deuce’s heart. “Your money is in the dresser,” she says between bites. Dustin’s stomach churns. “Why did you gut Deuce?” “Didn’t you read the fine print in our contract? You and I travel together. You eat food. I eat souls. I kill people for their souls. You help keep me from getting caught and keep me from harm.” “Fine. Wipe your mouth and let’s get out of here.” Dustin puts the sack of money in the closet. “Bye the bye, you leave my cousin alone. He’s just a gentle fool. He was the only one who didn’t try to kill me.” “But he’s still got a soul.” “I’m getting’ outta here in the mornin’, and so are you. That’s the final word, ‘cept which side of the bed you want, Mrs. Racklin. One more thing. Gimme that necklace that protects you from harm.” Click-Clack gives him an odious stare. “Why?” “I been betrayed once. And if you really are a devil, you can’t be trusted. If you know you can die, you’re less likely to put me on your menu.” She reluctantly pulls the necklace from around her neck. “Zoet dromen.” “What’s that mean?” “It’s Dutch for sweet dreams.” Click Clack waits until she hears Dustin snoring, then slips out of their room. Dustin wakes up to the sound of a gun clicking. “That’s him,” the clerk says, hiding behind Marshal Chase Ketchum’s broad back. “He came in here with a dark-haired woman, real pretty with funny eyes.” “So, where is this honey?” Marshal Ketchum asks. Dustin looks around the room. “That’s what I’d like to know.” The heavy-set Marshal grunts disapprovingly. “I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of JoJo Racklin. Your own cousin, shame on you. I know you were one of the four men who robbed the stage. I’ve got the money you hid in the closet to prove it.” “You a doctor?” Marshal Ketchum asks, locking the cell door. “No.” “Then how’d you pull Deke Drummond’s heart outta his chest?” “I shot him. That’s all. You said it was self-defense and cleared me yourself. The last time I saw Drummond, he was being carted away to the undertaker in one piece. I didn’t take his heart. I couldn’t. I ain’t got the stomach for such gore. A woman named Click-Clack took it. She’s a devil.” “She’d have to be. I can understand your wantin’ to keep the money all to yourself, but why take their hearts?” “I told you, Marshal, a devil did it. She’s a soul hunter.” “Balderdash. So, where is this she-devil?” “I’m sure she’ll turn up. Just follow the trail of bodies.” Click-Clack’s voice rouses Dustin from his sleep. “Good morning. Are you just going to lie there, or are you ready to leave this doghouse?” “How’d you get in here? The Marshal locked the door when he left.” Click-Clack rubs her necklace. “If I want in somewhere, I get in.” “Where have you been?” “There’s an abandoned building at the edge of town. I hid out there for the night.” Dustin looks between the bars at Click-Clack. She’s covered in blood. “You didn’t have time to clean up? Where’s the Marshal?” “He’s busy. The folks at the Palace went to clean my room and found Deuce’s body.” “You should make hay while the sun shines. If anybody saw you go upstairs with Deuce, they’ll hang you.” Click-Clack points her finger at the jail cell’s lock. It catches fire, sending sparks flying in all directions. The door pops open. She hands Dustin the sack of money. “The Marshal had it hidden in the stove. Amateur.” “Ain’t this ironic. I could care less about the money, just my freedom.” “You can have both,” Click-Clack replies. Dustin stops short, frowning at Click-Clack. “…I told you to stay away from my cousin…” “You really should have read the contract. I agreed to help you kill your enemies. That included your cousin.” “Did you have to eat his heart?” “It represents a person’s soul. Take it from them and you control them in the hereafter,” Click-Clack replies. Moving to the gun rack, she tosses a shotgun to Dustin, taking one for herself. She’s surprised to see Dustin train the weapon on her. “You barely knew the boy,” Dustin says fighting back tears. “What do you want to do? Stand here and blast away at each other? Marshal Ketchum is sure to hear the noise. So, let’s go.” Click-Clack’s fancy shoes tap against the wooden sidewalk. …Click-clack. Click-clack…, as they beat a determined path to the livery stable. A gentleman exiting the barbershop tips his hat at Click-Clack. Seeing the shotgun, he heads to the Marshal’s office. Two tired cowboys who’ve been in the saddle all night exit the livery stable, whistling lasciviously at Click-Clack. She waves the shotgun at them, hastening their departure. “You better put a muzzle on that mad dog,” one shouts at Dustin. Firth Tipperly, the crotchety, mostly deaf proprietor of the livery stable, greets Click-Clack with a neighborly, “Mornin’ ma’am. That’s a mighty big skatter gun you’re carryin’.” He displays his lack of front teeth as he smiles, lighting up his corn cob pipe. Raising the shotgun, Click-Clack blasts Tipperly in the stomach. The match flies backward towards several bales of hay. Clutching at his exposed intestines, Tipperly groans as he falls to the floor. Outside, everyone within earshot runs into the nearest building. “What did you do that for?” Dustin shouts “He’s just a harmless old man!” “He’s got no teeth. What kind of man walks around with no front teeth?” Click-Clack kneels next to Tipperly. Ripping open his chest, she pulls out his heart, sucking on it contentedly. “He’s not your enemy.” “I’m hungry. And a girl’s got to eat.” Unable to watch, Dustin saddles two horses. He turns back to see Click-Clack feasting on Tipperly’s still-beating heart. Marshal Ketchum blocks the doorway, a look of astonishment spread across his chiseled features. “Animal!” Pulling out his gun, he quickly fires three bullets into Click-Clack. Turning toward Dustin, he empties his revolver at him. All three bullets miss. Dustin reluctantly levels his shotgun at Marshal Ketchum blowing him off his feet. Moving to Click-Clack’s side, he picks her up, holding her in his arms. He looks down at the blood pooling in her lap. “…You forgot to give me back my necklace…,” she whispers. “I have it in my pocket. Does that mean?” “I wasn’t protected when Ketchum shot me. Our contract states that if I die because you failed to protect me, then you have to take my place. You’re a soul hunter now,” Click-Clack whispers, closing her eyes. Flames rage throughout the livery. The terrified horses whinny nervously. Dustin pulls them out from their stalls, releasing them. Dustin watches the flames engulf Click-Clack’s empty husk. Reaching into Marshal Ketchum’s chest he pulls out his heart, saving it for later.

qosk7r

On The Other Side of the Mirror

He had always wanted to travel to Spain, driven by a powerful attraction he couldn’t explain, but he had never had enough money to cross the Atlantic. He lived and worked as a store clerk in Miami, a modern city founded just over a hundred years ago, a metropolis with large and luxurious shopping centers recently built, and skyscrapers rising along the coast, dominating the vast neighborhoods of one- or two-story houses with gardens, and, if there was money, with a pool, neighborhoods that extended all the way to the swamps, many kilometers away from the beaches. Most of his neighbors enjoyed the modernity in which they lived. But Alfonso, since childhood, felt a special affinity for all things ancient. History fascinated him, especially that of the Middle Ages, and above all, that of medieval Spain. He devoured books on the subject and daydreamed about exploring the landscapes where Christians and Muslims had fought an eight-century war; visiting castles built with the hard work of serfs, fortresses rising in high places to detect the enemy’s advance in time; getting lost in the narrow streets and markets of old cities where history surfaced in every stone of the ancient walls; kneeling before the altar in churches where medieval knights had also knelt before going into battle. Finally, he gathered the money to travel to Spain for a few days and took the plane, full of illusions. He landed at Barajas airport in the morning and took a taxi to the hostel in the center of Madrid where he had booked a room. The hostel was austere, and the room tiny, but Alfonso felt in glory. It was a dream come true; a promise fulfilled. After exploring the Spanish capital on foot and by subway, without giving himself a break, he went on a day tour with a group of tourists to an ancient city near Madrid. They entered a castle that stood on a promontory above the Tagus River, the first castle they visited. But while the others listened to the guide’s explanations, some without paying much attention, and passed through hall after hall observing curtains, armchairs, decorations, ancient objects, Alfonso experienced a strange sensation. Everything seemed familiar, as if he had already been there. He knew what each thing was intended for, and the guide was amazed when, in front of a panoply of arms, Alfonso accurately mentioned the name of each weapon in old Spanish. As the group moved through the interior of the castle, Alfonso stayed behind, observing an old painting, a curtain of fine brocade, a dark wooden chair with legs ending in lion heads. Suddenly, he saw a staircase descending into shadows to a dark place. The group of tourists and the guide had already moved on to the next hall, and Alfonso hesitated only a second before making his decision. After descending the steps, he found himself in a windowless room, immersed in darkness, with only a little light coming from the top of the stairs. The room was empty, without furniture. There was only a huge mirror, with golden edges, on the opposite wall. Alfonso approached. The mirror seemed fogged, partially covered by a mist, and Alfonso could see his image reflected blurredly in the glass. As he got closer, he couldn’t help but exclaim in astonishment. The face in the mirror was his, without a doubt, but the person reflected had longer hair, seemed dressed in medieval attire, and his movements did not correspond to those Alfonso made to see if the image repeated them. Curiosity overcame fear, and Alfonso reached out to touch the mirror. Surprise invaded him when his fingers did not collide with glass but sank into a dense liquid. On the other side of the liquid mirror, the image of his own face looked at him. Moved by a force he couldn’t explain, Alfonso took a step forward and crossed the mirror. On the other side, he found himself in the courtyard of the same castle he was visiting with the tourists, but now he was in the midst of a commotion that overwhelmed him. Warriors covered in metal armor ran everywhere, shouting and wielding swords and axes. The image that Alfonso had seen in the mirror was nowhere to be found, but suddenly, he realized that he was dressed exactly like the image. The mist of the mirror seemed to take over his mind. He knew he was Alfonso, the young man who had come from Miami to visit Spain, but in a mysterious duality he couldn’t understand, he knew that he was also another person, a man from the Middle Ages. Agitated and surprised, he remembered his childhood in that same castle, his tough training to become a warrior, for the glory of his family, his people, and his father, the count. He looked towards the walls. Up above, audacious attackers had climbed, placing ladders against the walls and launching an assault. The images of his future life faded away; now he was a young warrior from the 11th century, standing in the middle of the courtyard of a castle attacked by numerous and determined enemies. “Ruy! Where were you?” he heard someone shouting from a distance. He turned. The one calling him was an old man, with long grayish hair, but still strong and agile, wielding a sharp sword and protecting himself with an oblong shield, surrounded by several soldiers armed with spears. It was his father. “Here I am, father!” announced Ruy. “We need you, son! We have to repel them now or they will take the castle!” “No!” Ruy replied. “They won’t win!” A thunderous noise drowned out his words. Fiercely striking the large gate at the entrance with a ram, the besiegers knocked it down and burst into the courtyard. “My sword!” Ruy roared. A squire handed him a huge broadsword that Ruy wielded with both hands and spun over his head, while ordering with a strong voice, “Shield formation!” In unison, the warriors formed a tight line in front of the invaders, raising their shields as if they were a wall, letting their swords and spears protrude on top. The clash between the two forces was horrifying, but the line of defenders held, and the attackers retreated a few steps. Taking advantage of the enemy’s confusion, Ruy emerged among the shields with the fierceness of a bull. His formidable sword fell like a devastating lightning on the assailants, piercing armors, severing hands, crushing heads. Terrified by Ruy’s deadly skill with his broadsword, the invaders fell back. Their decimated ranks opened, and while the besieged launched an attack, led by the count, Ruy distinguished the enemy leader, standing near the entrance gate. Without thinking twice, Ruy lunged at him. The chieftain was strong and brave, and he faced Ruy with determination, but Ruy’s sword was more powerful. In the brief and brutal duel, Ruy managed to deliver a devastating blow to his opponent that disarmed him, and immediately cleaved his chest with a mortal slash. “I killed him!” Ruy shouted. “I killed the chieftain!” Dismayed by the loss of their leader and filled with fear, the attackers escaped through the gate, pursued by the castle defenders. The few survivors fled in a rout to the nearby woods on the plateau, to tell their people days later about the terrible defeat they had suffered in the fortress. That night, the count gathered all his vassals, their women, and children at a banquet in the great hall, to celebrate the victory and pay tribute to those who fell in battle. Ruy and his wife, Inés, sat to the right of the count. They prayed for the deceased, asked God for strength and courage to face future challenges, and then toasted with exquisite wine stored in barrels in the castle’s cellar. A troubadour sang poems that narrated feats of arms in the centuries-long struggle to reconquer Spain from Arab rule. Despite the constant displays of affection from his wife and congratulations from his father and guests for his courage in battle, Ruy spent much of the evening in thoughtful silence. “Ruy, are you well?” Inés asked. “You look very serious and quiet. Is something bothering you?” She was a beautiful young woman, with dark eyes of profound gaze and a copious, black hair that fell to her slender waist. Ruy took her hand and kissed it. He had liked her since they were children and played with other kids in the castle courtyard, and later, in adolescence, they felt another kind of mutual attraction, more powerful, that shook them every time their bodies brushed against each other. When Ruy left on his first military campaign, before turning twenty, Inés tied a perfumed handkerchief to the hilt of his sword. “So you won’t forget me when you’re away,” she said. Their lips met in a long kiss, and they looked at each other with pounding hearts, fearing that by a caprice of fate, they might never see each other again. But Ruy returned with the victorious troops, a few months later, and the wedding took place soon after. At the banquet after the triumphant defense of the castle, Ruy recalled those experiences and tried to reassure his wife. “It is nothing. I’m fine.” But the memories of his other life in the future did not completely fade away, and they assaulted him several times during dinner. Yes, he was Ruy, but also Alfonso, in two existences separated by centuries, and the certainty of being at the same time two different but also so similar people overwhelmed him. Then he remembered the mirror in the dark room and mentioned it. “I think they want to seal it,” Inés told him. “Strange things have happened in that room. They have seen apparitions, heard mysterious voices. Don’t you remember?” Suddenly, Ruy remembered the rumors about the room at the foot of the stairs. And yes, it was true; he had heard his own father, the count, saying that they should seal the room. Later, well past midnight, when the diners had retired after the banquet and Inés slept peacefully, Ruy got up from the wide bed they shared, left the room, and climbed to the top of the wall. The guards in the towers greeted him, waving their hands. He contemplated the Castilian plain, dimly illuminated by the moon, and thought about his future. If they sealed the room with the mirror, he wouldn’t be able to return to his future life in Miami. The enigma of his two existences bewildered him until he thought of Inés and told himself that he would not give up her love. Then he decided that he would spend his entire life in the Middle Ages with her. The mirror room was sealed, and it was reopened many centuries later when the castle was prepared to receive tourists. Ruy stayed with Inés. They were happy, had several children, and inherited the castle. Sometimes the memory of his life in Miami haunted him, but he got used to those memories as visions of a distant future. A future in which he would find himself again in the same castle, a thousand years later, and the tourists he had accompanied would ask him the same thing as his father, the count, had asked him: Where were you? For the tourists, Alfonso’s absence would have lasted only a few minutes. For Alfonso, however, it would have lasted a whole life as Ruy, on the other side of the mirror.

wap7o9

WANTED

The notice stated: Young, skinny, wiry fellows not over eighteen. Must be expert riders willing to risk death daily. Orphans preferred. Wages $25 per week. Apply: Pony Express Stables, St. Joseph, Missouri These were the midnight words that kept me from getting a blink of some shut eye. I was 16 years old, new to the task and it was sometimes not easy to gather my wits to realize that I said 'Yes' . But the challenge was ahead of me as I signed the loyalty oath and pledged to do my part as a mail delivery rider for the Pony Express. I only had my sister to stand by me as we were now on our own. It was a tragic time that befell our family. We all stepped up to help in a time of uncertainty when droves of people began to migrate through the area. Word was, that the gold discovered in 1848 at Sutter's Mill California, was the reason so many began to head west. They were looking for more in the land of plenty. The westward expansion was enticing more people to follow their version of the American dream. For some, such as our family, it became a nightmare. Our mother and father had been lost due to a catastrophe and unsuspected disease of cholera. I was in the barn one day adjusting a horseshoe that was worn and had bent. Rusty needed to get his balance restored before heading out to the field with his buddies. He snorted a comment to let me know it was time. What a useful skill I was fortunate to get to understand and practice when I was just eight years old. We had an older neighbor that took me under his wing one day. It happened by chance that he had come by the house for some of my mother's famous corn bread that was the talk of the town. It was mid-afternoon and nearly time for chores when I looked out the window and saw Mr. Torpey coming to the house. He always came by foot to visit and trod up the stairs to reach the door knob when at that instant he slipped and tumbled over. "Oh no!" Jumping up, I ran outside to help. He attempted to lift himself up and calmly said, "It is just a bump, no more." He reached for my arm and thanked me for the assistance as we went into the house. My father was the one to meet us and the two men bantered about the way nature has a way of telling you to look where you are going. Father and mother welcomed him to take a chair and the laughter continued as a piece of the cornbread was served to him with a precious cup of tea. "Send your boy tomorrow. I need a little help now and then with shoes!" He lifted his foot and winked. Both he and my father grinned and chuckled, "Will do!" And the rest is how I learned a useful skill with shoes.  Our father and mother worked hard day and night to cure meat and prepare pounds of dried goods for the many migrants making their way along the Oregon Trail through our town of Lancaster. Their fateful end was due to the last group who came during the darkest hour demanding all of our supply. "We gots to eat to live the dream." One guy yelled this to my father's face and shoved him aside as he and another brawny and notable sot started grabbing their goods. My father picked up a shovel, raised it, threatening them, "Leave now. Take what you got and be gone!" They both laughed and one jumped over, quickly grabbed the shovel and whacked my father who fell to the ground, holding his head and crying out to us. "Get out of their way! Let them go!" The others in their wagon scrambled back up. One boy bent to pick up the last bag of goods when I tackled him. We got up and faced each other eye to eye. He was regretful and said, "I am so sorry!" "Go!" I said and shoved the bag at him. Another moment was due to happen and one that would soon define my choice. Soon I would see that face again in the most ironic of moments.   My sister became lost in sadness leading to fear of the unknown. I opted to keep myself occupied hoping to rise from the hardship of a life missing the ones our hearts held dearest. I remember strong words from my mother when I offered to help haul loads of the provisions to the barn loft. "Johnny, you are a dear! Make no mistake I am able beyond most." She smiled and waved me off. "But please help your sister organize our inventory. The riders are coming for meals provided by us for the stations. We can not make them wait." And then our life turned into ashes when our mother and father succumbed to an evil death. The latest incursion with an ungrateful group were the ones who had harbored the cholera virus and passed it on to our family. My sister and I were left not knowing how to continue with our lives. Mr. Torpey was the one who gathered the community to help us get through the darkest part of our lives. It took a long year but soon, my sister came to a new chapter in her life when she began making mochila knapsacks by sewing and stitching together these needed bags. Others would add the padlocked pouches to finalize the leather mail carriers. East was meeting West due to the demand for information, letters, newspapers and business documents. These were needed to help bring the country together. The Pony Express business had already begun.   Soon the sun would be up and the crack of dawn would see me at the ready to meet the rider who'd be handing me the package of mail. This was my calling in the light of our family trauma. My sister stepped up in the same regards as I to work for the same goal; bring the country together. It is time. Our father and mother showed us how to work hard. The reason is clear. We will do them proud to follow their example.  In the distance, as dark as it was, there was the distinct sound of hoof beats. I was nervous and somewhat anxious knowing my time was here but chose to keep grounded in purpose with a prayer. My horse, Rusty was one of the chosen as a perfect pony amongst the many sought out for this ride of a lifetime. I had a pistol in my shoulder holster, a water bag and some chew to get me to the next station. As the rider approached, I gave a friendly wave, he dismounted and quickly grabbed the mochila and tossed it to me. Then our eyes met. It was a moment in time as we stood and stared in awe. He was the one who I gave the bag of goods to when his group took too much and left our family distraught. It was a defining moment where we felt the same passion in our quest as Pony Express riders. We became brothers, now through the hard times for the common good we both shared. I tossed the mochila on my pony, with unity and a happy look, our hands reached out for a shake. "My name is Nate. I am very thankful to see you again." I quickly responded with, "Johnny's my name, Pony Express is our fame!" We laughed and knew time was up. I quickly jumped on Rusty and before we parted our separate ways, we each held our hand to heart. "Life is good. Enjoy the ride!"  

nc6ex0

Embracing Shadows

Sean has a problem. He isn’t ideal. He doesn’t like the reflection in the mirror. Sean's days unfold like a monotonous reel, each moment overshadowed by the persistent weight of dissatisfaction. The mirror. Oh, you unforgiving portal! You reflect not just the physical form but also the echoes of unmet aspirations and broken promises Sean made to himself. As he stands before it each morning, there's an unspoken dialogue between Sean and the mirror—a silent confrontation with the version of himself he wishes were different. Yet, Sean's journey is not just about appearances; it's a pilgrimage through the corridors of self-perception and resilience. The reflection he despises conceals layers of untold stories. The romances, the failures, the sweet victories, the incessant battle for some self-esteem. Each perceived flaw is a scar from the wars he has fought, a testament to the struggles written into the very fabric of his being. It is dark out. In these quiet hours, Sean contemplates the subconscious split between who he is and who he longs to be. The desire for change simmers within, a flame flickering in the shadows, only the darkness seems to creep up upon him like those shadows in the movie Ghosts , the playful creatures from the underbelly of hell. It's as if the very shadows that dance on the periphery of Sean's consciousness take on a mischievous life of their own. They play with his vulnerabilities, whispering doubts and temptations that echo louder than the voice of reason. So where do we begin about the allure of the cheeseburger which has got Sean in a mess? The cheeseburger, in his eyes, is an enchanting feast that beckons with an irresistible allure. It is a symphony of scents that serenades his senses, a harmonious composition of sizzling meat and bread. It is a seductive symphony. It is Al Pacino doing the Tango . It swirls through the air like an intoxicating virus, infiltrating every corner of his consciousness, leaving an indelible mark on the desires that lurk beneath. This olfactory virus is more than a scent; it's a parade. It is flamboyant and loud. As Sean breathes in the fragrant tendrils of the cheeseburger's allure, he finds himself ensnared in a sensory tale, where each aromatic note contributes to the crescendo of desire. Sean falters. Each layer of the cheeseburger, like a love letter penned by Romeo, reveals a story of flavors and textures that harmonize in a passionate embrace. Sean tries to reclaim control over his senses. It's a battle waged within the confines of his own desires. He summons the strength to resist, clenches his fists and steels himself against the pervasive aroma that threatens to compromise his resolve. But the yellow of the melted cheese is too much to ignore. Like a dream, Sean falls into the decadent cascade glistening in the warm embrace of the cheeseburger, its vibrant hue is like a visual symphony, an artistic masterpiece that dances with the sizzling notes of savory anticipation. Yet, as he confronts the cheeseburger's golden delight, Sean's internal conflict intensifies. The yellow becomes a metaphor for the sunshine of momentary pleasure, casting shadows on the path toward losing weight. Sean wants to chart his own course but the yellow of the melted cheese, its radiant hue, like a beacon of indulgence, casts shadows on the path he aspires to tread. As he contemplates the molten treasure, the yellow takes on an ominous significance, a symbol of falling deeper into the abyss of habits from which he fears he may never emerge transformed. “Well, well, Mr. Cheeseburger, you sure know how to make an entrance. Why don’t you come with a warning label? May cause sudden cravings, impromptu debates with oneself, and occasional fits of food poetry,” he said, chuckling at his own jest, refusing to turn on the lights, he sits there in the dark acknowledging the absurdity of this internal struggle. “Seriously, though, if you were a motivational speaker, I'd be in trouble. "Unlock your inner potential with every bite!" I can almost hear it. Sean stands on the precipice, recognizing the yellow of the melted cheese not just as a visual feast but as a symbol of the internal abyss he fears—where the pursuit of change may be lost to the gravitational pull of familiar comforts. Suddenly, a sense of helplessness cuts through the witty façade and sweeps over him. The aroma, rather than being a playful adversary, becomes a relentless reminder of a struggle that extends beyond the culinary realm. Sean, in a moment of vulnerability, lets out a sigh, his jesting tone giving way to a more somber reality. “It is not just about you. It's about me. About this endless dance I'm stuck in. It's like, I'm wrestling shadows. The more I want to change, the more I find myself sinking into this pit. “It's not just about not giving you up; it's about the willingness to fight. And lately, that willingness feels like it's slipping away, drowned out by this overwhelming sense of despair. It's like standing at the edge of a vast abyss, and no matter how much I want to climb out, it feels impossible. “You're a mirror reflecting a fight I'm losing, and it scares the hell out of me.” The cheeseburger, it is a love story, after all. It eventually ends in a savory embrace. Sean, with a quiet determination, takes a deep breath, his gaze fixed on the cheeseburger. “This may be the greatest love story after all. But not the kind where I surrender; it's the kind where I learn to love myself a bit more,” he says, with a hint of a smile playing on his lips as he acknowledges the complexity of the journey. “So, let's dance, you and I. Even if you are just a fleeting indulgence.” As Sean takes that first bite, there's a sense of acceptance, not of defeat but of understanding. The cheeseburger, once a symbol of despair, becomes a momentary ally in his ongoing battle. He is victorious tonight.

0lpxck

A tale of living reflections

Have you ever thought about what it would be like if you saw your true self? Believe it or not, I actually lived it. It all started with Gerry, a homeless guy that talked to me about metaphysics one time. I just gave him a beer and he gave me the key to my deepest, truest self. To put it simply, Gerry was an adept of metaphysics, a branch of philosophy that explores the very first principle of things. Think something like ancient knowledge. The core principle of any given thing. Apparently, all of us humans already know the explanation for absolutely everything but we lost the knowledge as we evolved (or regressed). He asked me what I wanted to know, and I told him that I would like to know my true self. He said that I already knew and he dared me to stand in front of the mirror, look into my own eyes, and wait. I didn’t give it much thought but a couple of days later, I was home alone and thought it would be a fun idea to try. But first, a little bit about me. I’m a 35-year-old woman and I’m a successful marketing manager who lives in a luxury apartment at the heart of the city. I’ve had the same boyfriend for 8 years, Patrick, a nice finance guy. In my spare time, I go out to the restaurant with friends, go to art shows, gallery openings and the occasional book launching fancy party. All my life I’ve worked hard to be who I am today. I pride myself on being a very righteous and moral person. Everyone loves me. So I went to the bathroom, looked at myself directly in the eyes and of course I saw the same face I always see. Five minutes, ten minutes, thirty minutes. I thought either I was enjoying looking at myself too much or maybe deep down I hoped the homeless guy was right. The longer I kept staring the weirder my features seemed to become. My eyes seemed sunken but with a kind of a malicious look, wrinkles appeared on the corner of my eyes, my lips got thinner and my cheekbones were more prominent. I kept thinking about how deep down maybe my true self was ugly. The face that was reflecting me was me, but trashy looking. I suddenly jumped when I heard the door open and it was my boyfriend who just came back from work late, as always. I went to greet him and basically everything went back to normal. That night, I kept imagining the face that was staring at me. I couldn’t sleep and I went locking myself into the bathroom and stared at my own reflection. Ten, fifteen, thirty minutes passed. I looked away and when I locked eyes with myself in the mirror again, I was definitely seeing this trashy version of myself that I saw earlier. I started to sweat from anxiety and I said ‘’Who are you’’? The wretched face in the mirror whispered ‘’I’m your true self. The shady woman you’ve been denying all your life. If you come with me I’ll show you real fun’’. She proceeded to smile to flash her yellow teeth, and all her wrinkles became more prominent. Her hair was dirty, long and frazzled and her eyes had the shimmer of a crazy person. I took a step back, held my breath and sat on the toilet, head between my hands. Show me some real fun? I was as intrigued as I was terrified. I went back to bed and found comfort in the familiarity of my long-term boyfriend. At work the next day, I was having a harder time than usual containing my emotions. I became an expert at bottling up and smiling even when I felt like the opposite, but something definitely changed. When I went home, I went straight to the mirror and waited. I was ready to communicate with old hag me. When I finally started to saw my face decay, I jumped in: ‘’What do you mean if I come with you you’ll show me some real fun?’’ The reflection let out a dry, smoker-like laugh. She held her hand through the mirror for me to grab. As I grabbed her hand, I got sucked in and ended up on the other side of my bathroom. Everything was exactly the same as on my side, but reversed. My trashy twin stood there and scanned me from head to toe. ‘’How does it feel to live your whole life with this fake nice personality you created?’’ I replied that’s what everyone does, no? All my life I thought everyone was just fake nice because that’s what society tells us to. She explained to me that she was in fact my true self, and that in this side of the mirror I could be free to do and say whatever I want. No consequences. I just needed to go back in time to my real side before anyone notice I’m gone. ‘’You still have a few hours left before your boyfriend arrives. What crazy ass thing do you want to try?’’. To be honest, I always wanted to try to snoop into my boyfriend’s computer. I sat down at the desk and screened the computer for weird porn or an email from a mistress and there was nothing. I have to admit I was deceived, because it would have given me a reason to finally break up with him and put the blame on him. True self looked at me and asked me if I had a crush on the neighbor, and why not knock at his door and bang him? To be honest, I deeply wanted to for a long time. I knocked on his door, and I asked if I could enter for a drink. You know the rest. I felt a wave of proudness overwhelming my body. I’ve been wanting to do this for so long. With no consequences! When I returned to my apartment, my true self was sipping a scotch and smoking a cigarette. She was clearly enjoying herself. Like I should, actually. ‘’Time to go back!’’ She said. I went to the bathroom, faced the mirror and put my hand through it. In a suction motion, I was back there where I’ve always been. And my boyfriend arrived home. The next day at work, I went to the single bathroom with a mirror to try if I could go to the other side from there. As I was gazing into my eyes, my wild self appeared. I switched and ended up on the same work bathroom, with everything reversed. I looked at my other self and she gave me an approving nod. Showtime! I knocked the bathroom door open and went directly to my boss’s office. He was sitting with his feet on the desk and I blurted ‘’You fat fucking incompetent piece of lard, get your dirty gross feet down the desk and start doing your fucking job!’’ And then I went on a rant on about fifteen people, shouting all the mean truths I ever thought about each one of them. I ended up with a big finale, jumping on a desk and screaming I QUIT! When I was done, I went back to the single bathroom and came back to my real workplace, cool, calm and collected. So I could do this everywhere there was a mirror…Or anytime I’m home alone. Which is a lot. The upcoming weekend, my boyfriend was going on a weekend ski trip with his friends and I couldn’t have been more excited. A whole weekend to go to my true self world. I switched sides, and my old hag of a self was waiting for me with a bottle of vodka and a bag of coke at 9 AM. How could she know I always wanted to try coke? Oh, of course she knows, she’s the true me! We proceeded to get shots and do lines, and I was pumped to go outside and live dangerously. As I put a foot on the pavement, I saw a mom with her three kids who were screaming hysterically. I looked at true self and asked her ‘’I can do REALLY what I feel like doing, no repercussions?’’ She replied ‘’Absolutely, you little bitch!’’. I walked towards the kids and slapped one in the face, kicked one in the stomach and pushed the other against the wall. What a fucking RELIEF! My true self couldn’t contain her excitement and started shaking one of the little crying twats by the shoulders vigorously. Next thing I know we were at the mall shoplifting luxury items, grabbing food under the nose of the people who were eating, shouting at fat people how disgusting they were and hitting on married men. It was truly the most perfect day of my life, and I felt like I was truly myself for once. But it was only the beginning of the evening. So much more chaos to raise! We went back to my apartment, changed into the sluttiest clothes, did more coke, drank more shots and went hunting. I told my true self there was something I always wanted to do, and it was to hang out with criminals. There was a Hell’s Angels bar not that far, and I never dared thought about setting a foot in there, but here we were. Two coked-out drunk sluts looking for a bad guy. When we entered it was like another world. Hell’s Angels logos and vests on the walls, tall muscular guys with long hair and big mustaches drinking pitchers of beer and laughing loudly, hooker-like girls dressed like us…It felt like home. Me and true self went straight to the dancefloor, shamelessly showing our sluttiest moves. Three menacing but exciting-looking men approached us and we danced and switched guys for a good half an hour. We went out to smoke a cigarette (I discovered I LOVE smoking) and we had a chat with the big guys. They were having a party at their place, a condo in the most expensive building downtown. Oh hell yes. So we followed them and when we entered the place it was like in the movies. Floor to wall windows, crystal chandeliers, a goddamn piano, huge pieces of art on the wall…There was other people there, all of the same kind, and girls that were looking slutty like us. One of the guys offered us Veuve Cliquot champagne and took out a huge pack of coke and laid it on the table. ‘’For everyone!’’ The guy said ‘’Open your noses bitches it’s gonna snow!’’ It was a real coke fest. Music was blasting and some of us were all dancing in the huge living room, some were busy in the bedrooms, and I ended up making out with a 6’3 handsome dark-haired mustachioed man. I was in my own trashy heaven. What would my stuck-up boring boyfriend would say about that? I started laughing because I didn’t even care. When the sun came up my true self grabbed me by the arm and told me it was time to go. My man of the night didn’t want me to leave and left me his phone number. And he said ‘’no matter where you are I will find you’’. A little weird as a goodbye but damn, we were really high. We left and went back to my apartment, laughing in the street all the way while walking wobbly. I ran into Gerry, the homeless guy who made it all possible. I hugged him and told him he was a genius. He looked at me straight in the eyes without blinking. His eyes became dark, scary even, and he told me this: ‘’My name is not Gerry. I’m Satan and you’re fucked. You wanted to know who your true self was? Well now you know. And there’s no going back. You cheated on your boyfriend, you lost your job in the most embarrassing way, you have a crazy gang member on your back but that’s the price to pay for being the real you. The real you will always have the last word from now on. Everywhere you go, whatever you do, your real self is going to take over. You belong to this side. My side.’’ And that’s what happened. A few years later, after a string of bad and even worse decisions, I got what I deserved. As I’m begging for change on the street, a nice guy offered me a beer. I talked to him about metaphysics and asked him what he wanted to know…

s80m2o

Syncopated in NOLA

I can’t sleep. It’s been 5 hours since I stepped off my 14-hour-long plane ride, and I find myself staring a hole into an evergreen wooden ceiling at 2 AM. Right about now, I’d be bundled up in my cozy cabin all settled in for the night, but instead, I’ve wrestled with my blanket several times and maintained my insomnia thanks to the buzzing street lamps near my window. I roll out of the unfamiliar bed and pull my phone off the nightstand in hopes of finding something mindless to do. I check social media, YouTube, the New York Times, and even the Sports feed–nothing grabs my attention. Looks like it’s going to be a long night. While my Airbnb shotgun house has a certain charm to it, I can’t help feeling claustrophobic after being confined to economy-class seating for what felt like an eternity. I need to get out and do something, anything. When I was in college a couple of years ago, I’d switch on my radio and take aimless drives in the middle of the night for no particular reason–it was my way of escaping for a bit. After being in the real world as a number-crunching analyst for some time now, maybe it’s time I return to those carefree roots and embrace the rhythm of the night. I’ve heard there are quite a few places to explore here, so I may as well indulge in some exploration. I grab the car keys off the counter and head out the front door with a glowing enthusiasm. It felt so freeing to embrace the unknown again after following such a strict routine for so long. The road in this quiet neighborhood was a minefield of potholes, a typical staple of transportation around here; I can’t help but wonder why anyone doesn’t do anything about them. Maybe they think it adds character? While the streets were rocky, the sky was dancing with specks of light and the warm smell of rain–after all, it was the rainy season. It’s been a while since I’ve had real food besides cheap airport snacks, so I might look out for bars in the area. Luckily, there’s no shortage of those around here, so I’ll keep heading toward the heart of the city. Although, a certain curiosity pulls me toward them for a different reason I can’t explain. Maybe I just need to blow off some steam with a drink and some banter. As I pass through dimly lit streets with twisted shady trees, I happen to notice the uniqueness of each one of the buildings I pass. Every house resembles that of my own, but...different somehow. My temporary stay was quite bland compared to most of these homes, featuring a white coat of cheap paint on the exterior walls and a fine-trimmed front yard. These houses looked like they were taken straight from an abstract work by Picasso. Some had classy wraparound porch railings with ornate gables and grand entrances that felt more historic and intentionally designed; most were multicolored brick walls with asymmetrical architecture. No front yard was the same, they all had random shares of out-of-season decorations, sporadically grown gardens, painted mailboxes, and personally designed building numbers. The “character” in the potholes must’ve inspired the homeowners to refuse to conform to the standard visual of suburban homes. Or, maybe the roads are so worn from people driving back and forth taking so many double-takes at the Santa Claus inflatables that are there four months out of season. After experiencing many houses and multiple flat-tire pothole opportunities, I’ve finally made it to the city. I find parking in a bleak yet busy parking garage and make my way toward the French Quarter. People flood the narrow streets as I grow closer to the popular location for all walks of life. I’m guided by the faint aroma of Gumbo and Etouffee, but as the scent becomes stronger, I pick up on something far more powerful: music. Everywhere. By the time I’ve hit the center of the magical street, I’ve begun not only seeing but hearing the beauty all around me. The vibrant and vivacious outfits of all that surround me are complimented by the multiple laughs, lyrics, and instrumental vibrations that float around in the air. I’ve never seen so many faces, particularly ones that aren’t tourists. People of voodoo, people of no particular race, and people of all shapes and sizes fill the truck-sized corner street to the brim. I’m awestruck by how... alive the world feels in this moment. As I stand scanning the area, I feel a hand gently nudge me aside and I’m met face-to-face with a glowing personality. A brown-eyed woman in a white dress ornamented with a floral design stands before me, her hair drapes loosely over her shoulder while an air of familiarity exudes from her countenance. A soft, “Hi, excuse me” coupled with a gentle smile made me feel things a simple introduction should not make one feel. Out of all of the festive personalities, hers seemed to stand out most. Before any words can form, I finally get a grip on my reality and move out of the way so that she can help push a well-worn upright piano into the middle of the street. A well-dressed gentleman with a loose attitude rolls up a bench to the piano, places a tip jar reading “The O-Man Band” on the side, and starts playing a tune I can’t name but feel electrified by. The woman begins singing while she and the pianist are accompanied by a trumpet player and saxophonist from the next block over. There didn’t seem to be a rhyme or reason to any of this, and I think that’s what felt so charming about it. As she opens up her surprisingly powerful, soulful voice, more and more people connect with the performance and begin interpreting the melody and rhythms with their own special dances. It was as if Mardi Gras were mixed with an outdoor dance club, and I hadn’t felt this alive from such an event for quite some time. As I dance for a while with the massive crowd of strangers, I’m once again met face to face with the woman who carried my night away. No words were exchanged between us as the instrumentation took over the song, she simply reached out her hand and gripped mine as she moved in no particular direction. Well, it seemed like she went in every direction when she danced. But it was endearing and inspiring; she didn’t care what anyone thought of her, so why should I? As we continue dancing and the band begins winding down, she finally attempts to speak over the loud street and asks me something I can’t quite make out. “What did you say?” I try to shout out to her. She says it again and I still can’t hear. I simply nod my head, hoping I can get away with not knowing. She smiles and lets out a laugh, making her way to the pianist and saying something in his ear. I feel awkward for not knowing what she asked, but I assume it wasn’t important. Oh, how I was wrong. As soon as she finishes talking to the pianist, he begins rolling out a familiar jazz tune to everyone. This elusive woman hands me a microphone and announces that we will be singing our last song of the night. WE. ME and HER. She asked if I could sing. Sometimes, I feel like people are way too confident in strangers, but damn it, I’ll give it my best shot. It was lucky I happened to know the lyrics, but I’ve never been one to jump on a stage and belt out a song. My palms were as slippery as waterfalls when gripping the microphone, and it felt like my breathing could use a paper bag or two. It felt like a million eyes were on me, but while the nerves were tense, my mind told me to use that energy to my advantage. This was a once-in-a-lifetime experience for me, so it’s time to make the most of it. As the pianist struck the first few notes of the song, I came in on a flat pitch–the first note of a performance is usually a little off. With all of the happy, drunk faces around me, surely none of these people would have even noticed–hell, half of them probably won’t remember any of this in the morning. So, I took it upon myself to loosen up and realize that it’s not that serious; this is meant to be fun. Sure enough, as the first verse went on, my confidence progressively improved, and as my voice rang out in the old speaker system, more people joined me in singing the classic tune. Once the chorus hit, my statue stance finally broke and gave me the freedom to enjoy myself. I really got into it; I was swaying and singing so boldly you’d think I was a crooner with Sinatra himself. Nobody had ever given me the chance to be this open, and I have these people to thank for my engaging performance attitude. I was overwhelmed with feelings of ecstasy as the song came to a close, and the woman and her band stayed right there by my side. Wait, wasn’t I looking for food when I first got here? I reached over to the woman and spoke into her ear, “Hey, are you hungry? You got a favorite place you like to grab a bite to eat at...5 AM?”. She laughed and said, “Yeah, I know a place, it’ll be my treat since not many get up there and sing on the spot like you did. By the way, I don’t know if you heard me earlier, but I’m Lea Renee”. “Wonderful to meet you, name’s Michael. Does it have Gumbo or Etouffee?”

poew08

A Cup of Creativity

One glance at the clock told me it was way too early to be awake. That’s what I get for falling asleep when I really should have been trying to fight the jet lag that overtook my body the second I collapsed on my pillow. The city of Paris had been bustling with workers returning to their families and children chattering animatedly with peers when I finally made it to my hotel room after a long excruciating flight where the agitated screams of a baby kept me awake for its entirety. Now, the city was asleep. The only sounds audible were the rustling of the leaves and the chirp of crickets in the distance. The cars had long past retired and along with them, the relentless shouts of angry drivers and rumbling of engines had also ceased. Little dots of light scattered across the city below, partially illuminating roads and alleyways. To my far left stood the Eiffel Tower, a golden rod which stood proud as a symbol of Paris's beauty. “There’s something magical about that city,” Cindy, my best friend and fellow writer, told me. “A little change of scenery will get those ideas flowing.” My imagination had felt like it hit rock bottom after the release of my first book, and no matter how many writing prompts I looked through online, I could never find something that sparked my interest. Unfortunately for me, Cindy never seemed to have that problem which is why I had waited to consult her until I was on the verge of a panic attack at the thought of the due date for my manuscript. She explained that new experiences often ignited her creativity so when she suggested I travel somewhere, I decided to follow her advice. Booking a flight had me wincing at the digits in my bank account but I was desperate at this point. I had enough to hold me over for three days, three days to see or experience something that would hopefully jog my inspiration enough to at least start writing something. I promptly packed my trusty notebook along with some pencil and my wallet in my satchel that was well used to the point that the latches had to be delicately handled every time I opened it. I knew many of the shops and museums wouldn’t be open, but I wasn’t going to let that stop me after the effort it had taken to get here. Besides, night was when you could see the true essence of a city no matter the location. Night was when it’s at its most exposed, unable to hide behind the bustling and noise that the daylight presented. At night was when a city’s true beauty twinkled for anyone willing to explore it. Feeling energized, I raced downstairs, eager to taste the fresh Paris air. The moment I stepped outside, warmth seeped into my bones, embracing me. The city itself smelled fresh with a mix of flowery perfume with a hint of cigarette smoke stubbornly clinging to the petals. The moon nor the stars were visible and a sparse haze drifted along the cobblestone streets. My feet guided me with unwarranted confidence past partially illuminated roads and darkened shops with items hanging in the windows. I walked to a lovely park not far from the hotel. Trails weaved between splotches of the tall standing trees whose leaves had not yet turned orange like the ones back home. I sat down in one of the nearby benches in order to immerse myself in the scenery. Perhaps I could write a romance etched into the bark of one of these trees? I carefully unlatched my satchel and grabbed my notebook and a pencil. I opened it to a clean page and titled it “ideas” before writing down initials etched in the bark of a tree. Well, there was a start, right? I might as well try to write something. After all, I’m surrounded by the exact scenery I want to describe. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, picturing what sort of story I wanted to tell but I was empty of thoughts. Maybe it was the jet lag but I couldn’t think of anything past my initial idea. No start, middle, or end. Nothing. I flipped to the next page, hoping that its emptiness would convince my mind to fill it with words. I waited, praying for my hand to start moving but it never did. In fact, my pencil never even made contact with the paper. Instead, it just hovered, unsure, waiting for a waterfall of creativity that never came. Disappointment overtook me, and I fought the urge to cry. What was I doing here if I couldn’t even write one sentence? Sighing heavily, I stood up with my notebook in hand and my satchel swung over my shoulder to I continued my journey. I walked past statues I didn’t recognize; figures whose bodies had been carefully chinseled and solidified into stone by a skilled artisan. One who had taken the time to sculpt enough detail in the stone to resemble the person it was for. I greatly admired each statue as a tribute to the amount of skill and patients the artisan must of had to complete such detailed work. If only I could have that much dedication to my manuscript. There was a statue of Ferdinand Foch who I read was the Marshal of France in 1918. Marshal Foch had a permanent frown carved in his face which is what I assumed is what his soldiers saw the majority of the time. Smiles tend to become lost during war. He was carved in uniform which was highly decorated with so many medallions that his chest must have sagged to the ground. Perhaps I could write something about a military hero? Not pausing to sit down, I jotted down the idea before continuing. I walked down the main streets, passing under dimly lit lampposts as well as a couple of questionable alleyways for any fear induced inspiration to emerge, but I was left with nothing except my own racing heart.  It wasn’t until the sun was barely hanging over the horizon that I admitted defeat. My legs were aching from my lack of exercise at home and I was half starved from sleeping through dinner. I haphazardly scanned my surroundings until I noticed a quaint little cafe that looked open. Needing a quick snack and a boost of caffeine, I went inside. The cafe felt warm and cozy with plants that hung off the walls and clusters of bean bag chairs that circled dark oak tables, but the thing that sparked my interest the most was the woman working behind the counter. She looked older with gray hair tied neatly at the base of her neck and bright green eyes that connected with mine the moment I stepped inside. She had a name tag pinned to the far left of her shirt that read “Saffry Solios.” That name sounded familiar but she greeted me before I could think anything of it. “Hi!” she addressed cheerfully, “what can I get for you, dear?” “A croissant and a latte please.” She nodded, taking my payment. The coffee machine whirled to life, interrupting the silence settling around the empty cafe. I knew it was ready when the delicious aroma of freshly ground coffee beans filled the air. Saffry handed me a cup that was steaming from the top and a bag. I expressed my thanks and plopped down on a pink bean bag chair that molded like it had been made just for me. “Is there something troubling you?” she asked. I must’ve looked taken aback because she gestured to my appearance with a sincere smile before adding, “it just looks like you’ve been up all night.” I shook my head no, but she was not convinced in the slightest. She walked from behind the counter and sat across from me. “Are you sure?” I don’t know if it was my drowsiness, my frustration or her kind voice, but I told her everything. I talked about my upcoming manuscript, the writers block that happened after releasing my first book and my inability to write after traveling all the way here. She listened attentively while I talked, nodding occasionally in understanding. “You’ll never become inspired if you’re pressuring yourself to,” Saffry explained, “Many things become diamonds under pressure but creativity doesn’t happen to work like that. However, the unique thing about inspiration is that it can come from anywhere. For instance, this to the average person would just be a regular cafe, but what if that was just a cover? What if it’s really housing a group of criminals who will be sentenced to death for crimes they didn’t commit if they’re caught? One of the beauties of telling a story is you can take absolutely anything, even something people don’t think of as exciting, and make it exciting.” “Hmm let me see,” I said scanning the cafe before holding up my cup, “what about this cup of coffee? What could you make exciting about that?” She thought for only a moment before answering. “Maybe it’s not really coffee but a potion crafted by a witch who wants revenge on a kingdom for making her an societal outcast. Anyone who drinks it will be cursed until they find out what they’re truly destined to do.” “Now, your try. What can you make exciting about that plant?” Saffry asked pointing to a small potted tree sitting in the corner. I closed my eyes in concentration before answering. “Maybe a poor villager purchased it in hopes of harvesting fruit to sell at the farmers market but instead of growing apples like the farmer had promised, it produced fruits of gold.” “See you can do it!” Saffry exclaimed, clapping her hands in delight, “I knew you had it in you.” My chest felt lighter than it had in weeks and I wanted to dance with joy. Even if I hadn’t actually written anything if I can create a plot, then I’ve broken the damn on my own waterfall of words. “How do you know all of this? Do you write?” “I’ve told many stories. Writing is simply an outlet that lets me tell them to say to all the people who willing to listen,” Saffry stated with a smile before walking back to meet a waiting customer.  *** Filled with curiosity at the lady that had helped me so much, I pulled up my laptop and search up the name Saffry Solios. It was then I understood why her name sounded so familiar. Not only was she an author, but she written and published over 50 books in only 35 years. According to Wikipedia, she opened a cafe in Paris to “create a space for writer and reader alike to gather around a nice warm cup of coffee.”

b62yv8

Shifts of Fate

4:30 a.m. Knowing there were only thirty minutes left in his shift made Jacob stand a little taller. The clunky metallic body armor he wore was getting heavier by the hour. On paper, a six-hour shift seems easy. Yet, standing watch outside a kitchen door, with only the rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock for company, anything beyond six hours would drive him to the brink of insanity. The only light in the hallway came from scarcely places sconces on the marble walls, enhancing even the smallest shadows of movement in the otherwise still castle. Twenty-five minutes left now. In five minutes, the new guard would arrive to take his place and receive a debrief on the night from Jacob. He had only been on the night shift for two months now, and so far, between the hours of eleven p.m. to five a.m., never had anything notable to report. Once last week when the princess was very ill, she had a maid coming in and out of the kitchen until two a.m. bringing her various soups and warm milk. That was the most human interaction Jacob had with other staff. Unlike other posts which had two to six guards surrounding one door, the kitchen post only needed one. There was no direct access in or out of the castle from the kitchen aside from a small window above the sink. Not really a threat for invasion, but deemed necessary for a guard, nonetheless. Charlotte ascended the steps toward the post precisely at 4:40 a.m. She too, wore a suit of metal armor, albeit a bit more fitted than Jacob’s. Her dark red hair lay loosely around her shoulders, framing the soft features of her face and standing out like a flame against the otherwise dull uniform. Charlotte wanted to guard The Princess personally one day, but for now she started on kitchen duty. A lowly position, but at least she had her foot in the door of the Royals. “On time reporting for duty sir,” she quipped, playfully saluting to Jacob. Charlotte considered herself a morning person, always coming to work with a pep in her step despite the boring nature of the job. Today, however, the smile was natural when she realized Jacob was the one she would be trading shifts with. Even though they only engaged for twenty minutes a day, he gave a comical run down detailing the events of the night and always made the start of her day a little more bearable. She didn’t know much about him, except that he had graduated two years ahead of her in school and that he used to work guard at the stables. She had heard rumors about his challenging family life too but didn't think five a.m. was an appropriate time to bring it up. “Only three Luna Moths attempted invasion tonight at 2:55 am,” Jacob began, the first hint of a smile breaking across his face. “Two wounded in battle, the other got away so be alert.” For the next ten minutes they were caught up in each other. Charlotte telling about her night out at dinner, and Jacob discussing his plans for the day ahead. With only four minutes left they began the routine check together. Opening the kitchen door and looking for anything out of the ordinary, making sure the window was still locked, the stove and all appliances off. Jacob had a hard time focusing on the task at hand, he kept trying to think of things to say to get Charlotte to laugh, to keep the conversation going so maybe he wouldn't have to leave. Even at the end of his shift with a wave of tiredness finally coming on, Jacob wanted to stay longer just to keep her company. Unfortunately, he would be a distraction, and Charlotte took the kitchen duty way more seriously than he did. Five a.m. hit and Charlotte took Jacob’s place standing outside the heavy Mahogony door awaiting her long day of nothing to begin. Waving goodbye Jacob headed out for the evening, just as they first rays of sunlight began to break through the clouds. 8:15 am The café near the castle was bustling with a feverish energy. Jacob would often come here after his shift for a quick breakfast and a cup of coffee. Today, he stayed for a while, sitting in a booth by the window half-heartedly attempting a crossword puzzle and peacefully people watching. Normally Jacob would rush home to get a quick nap in before starting work at his uncle’s woodshop, but today was Saturday. The one day a week he took for himself and worked only one job instead of two. As someone who grew up a farm boy, his muscular frame and not-so-well-kept facial hair stood out among the slimmer, cleaned up Royal city folk. The garments they wore, even for a leisure walk through the city, were made from finer materials with gold trimmings. Plenty of people from the country ventured to the city often, however, this close to the castle Jacob’s white cotton t-shirt and trousers were teetering on the edge of inappropriate. Crumpling up a used napkin in his callused hands Jacob stood to his full 6 ft stature. Giving a polite nod to the barista he headed for the door when suddenly a firm grip on his arm stopped him. “Jacob Cheary” A prestigious Royal guard addressed him, “Follow me.” The hand locked on his bicep and intense stare let Jacob knew this was nothing to be contested. They were out of sight before many even noticed the intrusion. The next hour was a blur of travel from one carriage to the next, down a series of alleys and backroads few knew existed. Silence filled the air as Jacob sat rigid between two armored men, hardly daring to breathe. His fight or flight response was urging him to run, but it was useless. As no small man himself, he appeared almost childlike sandwiched between them. Escape was out of the question. Millions of questions flooded Jacob’s head, impossible to grab onto one for more than a second. Even if he did have the nerve to speak up, everyone knows questioning the Royals is not a good idea. I have done nothing wrong , Jacob reassured himself for what felt like the hundredth time. There must be some logical reason for this, maybe they selected me as a new guard for the Queen? His rationalization attempts almost made him scoff aloud. Jacob knew his summoning couldn’t mean anything short of a disaster. 10:00 am­ Charlotte toyed with her gold necklace until the base of her thumb rubbed raw. It was only an hour into her shift when she could sense something was off. The staff arrived on time and began preparing breakfast, hustling about with laundry, and polishing the marble floors. She gave subtle smiles to the familiar faces from her position near the kitchen entrance, holding strong in her posture, sword saddled at the hip - just in case. Charlotte had never seen the Queen in person before, despite working in her daughter’s manor, but she knew instantly when she arrived. This is my time, Charolette thought. The chance to make an impression, get moved up to a higher duty. In hindsight, she should have known a surprise visit from the Queen wouldn’t mean anything good. She just didn’t realize how bad it would be. “What do you mean she’s GONE ?” Jacob tried to remain calm. “The Princess is gone,” Charolette explained again, “She was last seen by her personal maiden in her bedroom at midnight and now there is no trace. No one has heard from her for almost ten hours now, they’re speaking of kidnapping from the Peerson Kingdom or possibly the Rebellion.” Jacob rubbed his forefingers into his temples, “Okay sure, but what the hell does this have to do with us. We are members of the castle guard we should be out there searching!” He took another deep breath in, “Why are we in a cell .” Their conversation came to a halt when two voices were heard heading towards them. “Excuse me, sir!” Charlotte attempted to reach through the cell bars. “Sir!” She repeated, finally catching one man's attention, “Why are we here, there has to be a mistake?” A small man stopped outside the cell as his partner carried on walking. He tilted his head, as if contemplating whether he wanted to engage with two prisoners. “There is no mistake. I am on strict orders to keep you down here until word from The Queen herself.” The Queen herself? Jacob and Charlotte glanced warily at each other. “This doesn’t make any sense,” Jacob spoke up. “Let us speak to someone, get this cleared up. We are on the castle guard; we can help find The Princess.” The small man chuckled, “You haven’t heard?” He raised his eyebrows at them, “The Princess is dead.” Charlotte’s face went pale as a ghost. “And” the man continued, “Her body was found outside your kitchen window. I suggest the two of you get your story straight.” The man sauntered away, leaving Jacob and Charolette to wonder who it really was they were trapped in a cell with. 

tq1quq

Lily and Paul

Lily and Paul (A self-portrait) The judgement ALMOST 22 YEARS EARLIER The safety rope slid past him like a black mamba and continued its journey 39 floors down into the abyss. What's the matter? He gasped, desperately searching for something to hold on to. The coloured door of the light box, which had been damaged and now is being repaired, could only support a few dozen of kilos, yet it seemed the only option. He tried to reach out to this embodiment of hope, but to no avail. He was wrong. For the last time. The falling quarter first clattered against his helmet, then bounced off the colorful surface of the neon sign just enough to allow the mechanic, hanging helplessly between nothing and earth, to see what was meant for him. The coin was the messenger. The messenger of the future, a future that had shrunk to approximately 5 seconds for him. That's how long it takes a body weighing 100 kilograms to land from a height of 100 metres. A few metres up, the butterfly knife easily cuts the second rope, carefully attached to the roof and holding a terrified body at the other end. Undeterred by the scream, the two men in overalls and masks hurried with determined steps from the attic to the door leading to the inside of the building. Just as the lock clicked behind them, Alex's partner returned, holding his phone in one hand and gesticulating wildly with the other. Boss, you told me to go down to the lobby right away. And this miserable Alex is hanging on the wall waiting for me. That's when he saw the fixed remnants of the rope. He stared blankly ahead, then slowly looked down to where his industrial alpinist companion should have been waiting. Seconds earlier, the sound and sight of a body crashing through the hotel lobby and taxi rank had been like an icy blast of terror. The fairytale world of Las Vegas had been tarnished, a force at work in the depths had been exposed, judging and punishing by its own laws. world of Las Vegas had been tarnished, a force at work in the depths had been exposed, judging and punishing according to its own laws. Dark side of the street She recognised the caller number on her vibrating phone. Irritated, she answered into the mobile phone, not waiting to hear what the caller wanted to tell her. Mark, Alex and I have separated, I don't care what he's involved in or what he asks or says! I've had enough, I'm trough with him - please don't call me again! Let me live! With trembling hands, she fumbled for the call disconnect button when she heard Mark's muffled voice. He lifted the receiver to his ear again. He knew what he was hearing, he had known for months that he would hear it one day .. I'm sorry, Alex has fallen and died. Lily felt like it was all over right here, right now. She was still staring at the screen of her now silent phone when a sharp knock on the door of the staff changing room door broke the silence. The door opened and two men in dark clothes entered the room. Ma'am! We're from the Anti-MOB Squad. Your partner has been murdered! You are in danger too! We want to help you! We can provide you with a new identity under the Witness Protection Program if you're willing to cooperate. The conditions are strict - you will effectively cease to exist in your present form, but you can rebuild yourself and your life. How long you live from here will largely depend on this decision. Lily nodded, indicating that she understood what was being said. She was allowed to go back neither to her apartment nor her job! We will take care of everything! Can I have your phone? The question was more of an instruction. She lowered her crossed arms to her belly line, where they lingered for a moment. A strange, hitherto unknown sensation gripped him. She realized that her life was about to change radically. She took a folder from the wardrobe. This is all I've got it. I’m ready to go! She said quietly. Peek-a-boo PRESENT Hello Jim! I'm calling because we need some help! We need your best profiler, Paul. Interesting case. The man we're looking for is not a criminal, quite the opposite. A hero! He rescued a guy with a sprained ankle from the Peek-a-boo slot canyon. In the dark. Well, our 'man' is a twenty to twenty-three year old, tight-lipped figure who found the terrified teenager in the slot canyon Having identified the boy's friends as being in Escalante, he took him to the local mini-clinic, handed him over to the waking doctor and, once he knew the boy was safe, left in a hurry. No plate number, no name, no fame, no ashes for our man. Anyway, it would have been in vain if they had set out in the night to search for the stranded and injured boy. From here, our man saved a life! In a word, the family is very grateful and would like to find him. They came to me for help and I came knocking at your door. Jim knew that Paul had a thousand ties to the beautiful national parks of the former Wild West. He had lost something there once and would return year after year, if he could, to see and hold the girl that fate had given him for a few hours and then, with a strange twitch of the lip, given away. Business trip 22 YEARS AND SOME DAYS EARLIER Paul, my request is that you put together a presentation for the conference in the USA. As a bonus, you are allowed to extend your stay in Las Vegas! Paul's boss knew better than to motivate his subordinates with pay alone. And there's more! These professionals have announced a competition for participants to submit a self-portrait of themselves. I want you to bring home a medal! DINNER 22 YEARS EARLIER Paul's head was buzzing with the fresh experience of a successful presentation. His portrait won second place and his presentation was applauded. The early afternoon stroll down on the Las Vegas Boulevard had left him feeling very hungry. A friend recommended the place, saying it had good food and affordable prices. He politely stopped, waited a while, then walked past the Wait to be seated! sign. That's when he saw her. Can I sit here? he asked.         A mischievous smile and a ... Sure! For which there are no words only imagination The sounds slowly and discreetly faded away, perhaps as if even the guests sensed that something was happening here and now. They could not and certainly did not know more about the invisible waves that had passed through the room and touched two souls. He found himself involuntarily but almost dangling at the heartwarming sight. The girl, of course, felt it and took pleasure in its magic. She did nothing but let herself be herself. She could do it, even with only a few occupied tables of patient and obliging guests - wiping glasses and cutlery is a routine task, yet there is a way to do it that is truly a pleasure. Well, she did. The girl in the black and white striped shirt.... So she, she was life, youth, memories and incredible reality itself. It was the magic of the moment. Being lost!  He fell in love. Short, red hair, athletic build, and not a plate, fork or glass on the bar that she can touch without smiling and his body giving in to the rhythm of the ever-changing music. She was almost dancing. Are you ready to order? Her voice was very sweet like honey. Velvety, like the best Henessy. It matched the regular cheeks, the rosy lipstick that was part of the discreet make-up and the happiness in the eyes. Only people with a very pure soul can enjoy life like that! People who know that it takes a desert to understand the value of a glass of water. The fresh trauma was a churning sea that could make a person's days, but especially their nights, hell. It is this momentum, this life, that can lead him out of the self-torture that was boiling in his soul. I'd like a draught beer and something to eat afterwards! He asked for help in choosing the food, saying he intended to taste what she liked best. How does the food taste? Great, but here's one thing I'd like to point out. There was a moment of surprise in the smiling eyes, but the answer came; Well, let's hear what it is! Perhaps it's inappropriate to say here and now ... -        he paused for a breath, for he felt that little tremor at the corner of his mouth which only very rarely takes hold of him, but then in a flash he reveals all the secrets of his soul and makes himself a naked target - You are so beautiful that I cannot find the words to describe you! In other circumstances, this might have been seen as rude or uncouth behavior, but in this case, she got what she wanted; recognition, attention and above all, love. Obviously, she gets offers every day. Whether it be with fancy words and promises redeemable for green equivalents. Her beauty radiates from her, her young body capturing the imagination of dozens of men every night. Another beer? Of course, the man needed. His stomach slowly began to release the knot that had settled in every corner of his body weeks ago when the court officially granted the divorce. There were still a few minutes left, just enough time to make plans for the next day. She knew that the area was full of beautiful places, and she had longed to visit at least one of them. Paul! He held out his hand after paying the bill. Lily. ... and it was so sweet to touch his hand that it made her dizzy. The next day They had a wonderful day together. The Valley of Fire is a short drive from the City of Lights. The Valley of Fire is a short drive from the City of Lights. It is a state park that, through its colors and shapes, gives a taste of the natural wonders of the great national parks nearby. As they drove from one viewpoint to the next, they felt closer and closer. The last rays of the sun, dipping below the horizon, swept across the landscape and found the two young men standing side by side, their shadows stretching out into infinity, reaching across the mirrored surface of Lake Mead, perhaps breaking it all the way to the Grand Canyon. Life on the Strip was already in full swing when they arrived at the parking lot of the iconic Luxor. Being with you is a wonderful thing! The man said softly while he stroked her cheek. Around midnight, the airport is almost deserted, no new planes arriving or departing. From the thirtieth floor, there was a brilliant view of the airport, warning all the arrivals that the fairytale castle with its spire and the Pharaoh's pyramid were just a decorations and that the day would come when they would have to go home to their real lives. The red curls of her slightly tousled hair gave her an independent life, making her a life of her own and made her look even more charming as she lay on the bed. Like a painting, he thought , I could admire her for days. He covered her naked body with a sheet, then sat back in the armchair where he'd been sitting and took a sip of his favorite brandy. Although her body was almost on fire from the hot lovemaking, he couldn't - or rather didn’t want to - fall asleep. No! He didn't want to lose this sight and this feeling again! The rising sun brought the planes, and the boy brought the Starbucks coffee and a cookie to go with it. Good morning! They whispered almost simultaneously. They chuckled to themselves as they glanced at the scraps of clothing that had been hastily thrown around the room last night. No use, a whirlwind makes a mess! And indeed, a minor hurricane had swept through their lives overnight. They both knew that they belonged together now. Lily's eyes caught the folder sticking out of Paul's open bag. Is that the project you told me about? Yes! Can I give it to you? You'd make me happy - sorry, that's already happened! Cold shower The key would not turn in the lock. Before the next attempt, Alex opened the door from the inside. Where have you been all night? You bitch! Lily looked at him, frozen, then pulled herself together... Maybe you should remember that it was only a week ago that you took those suitcases to your girlfriend's house and told her that you weren’t wasting your life with a loser like me! I let you go because life with you is hell! Please go away, leave me alone! I'm scared you'll fall when you're hanging from the facades of skyscrapers like Spider-Man! I'm scared when you hang out with your dark soul friends! I tremble every night, so you don't go further debt! I don't want this life! Go away! Alex closed the door, then changed his tone. Let's try one more time! No! came the firm reply. Alex pushed her onto the bed. He was stronger than the fragile creature he had once wanted to marry, but the new world opened up new and tempting 'prospects'. The violence Lily suffered was not the first time it had happened. The scuffle from next door was followed by the resident banging over and adding that he would call 911 if they didn't stop. By the time I get off work, I want a normal dinner! He stood in the doorway when Lily said, in low and measured tones: You can't humiliate me anymore, you can't control my life. Get your stuff out of here or I'll burn it in the parking lot! I won't threaten you, but I will protect myself. Besides, you don't need me to rush you to your doom. For me you have ceased to exist! Alex looked at his watch and at the old man in the doorway of the apartment next door, fiddling with his phone. We'll see about that! ... he said and stormed off. Lily just sat on the edge of the bed. No crying, no sobbing. Women don't cry where she came from. Only sometimes. Certainty hung on a nail 22 YEARS AND PRESENT DAYS Lily began her life in humble circumstances at first. Doubts plagued her as she did not know, whether the life she had conceived was the fruit of love or the legacy of violence. Her home was puritanical, the only decoration in the living room being a portrait just above the dresser. There were a long years, when looking at the picture, she searched for the moment when a sign would appear on her son's face, a sign that would be reflected in the card hung on the nail. On another continent Every night when Paul goes to bed, he sees Lily as she gets on the bus that day and disappears into the rush hour traffic. Lily was gone as if she'd never been there. The phone rang. It was Jim, reporting on a new assignment to find the mysterious participant in a recent incident in southern Utah. Of course, he helps his old friend, no problem! The task was to ask both witnesses questions about the person they were looking. On the basis of this, you will draw a sketch and send it as an electronic image in response. Jim knocked on his door. Both witnesses had approved the latest version. Can you show me who we're 'chasing'? He looked questioningly at Paul as they sipped their drinks in front of the computer monitor. Well ... that's what you see on the screen! No kidding, it's your 22-year-old career! The one that got you 2nd place. Your portrait! The silence was almost palpable. Jim, I gave my portrait to Lily 22 years ago! He remembered that wonderful night at the Luxor. Would the fruit of their love be there right in front of him? With the help of the sketch, they managed to find a place to stay in Kanab, where a rare pretty lady and her son were staying at the time. From there it was a straightforward identification process. Reunion Lily now goes by the name Lucy and her son is called Daniel. Only a few passengers from the London flight were waited at the exit. Paul and Lily eyes met from a distance. Paul put his arms around Lily, who was shaking with sobs, and whispered in her ear; You still have a beauty about you that I can't find the words to describe! Paul! said Lily. Please meet your son! She pointed to her now adult son. ... and like a time traveler caught in a multi-dimensional trap, there before her stood a portrait that had come to life. His most important ‘portrait’ ever.

m6lcxz

The Other Tim

        Tim Badson walked through the park on a nice Sunday evening. He was whistling to himself. It had been a good day. He remembered fondly the time he had spent with Lucy by the lake. They had talked and laughed for hours. He’d even fed the ducks that had been circling around them, looking for scraps of unfinished bread. It had been an idyllic setting. He hadn’t wanted to leave, but he still had his English paper to write. Why was he even studying English? Stupid subject , he muttered under his breath. Mr Grays was an ass anyway; he would probably get an F. To be fair, he had been spending most of his free time with Lucy. Not much studying going on! But Tim didn’t regret anything. Who needed Shakespeare? He’d do better on the next paper. But worry entered his mind as he thought about this, and his stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch. He was barely scraping by. Getting an F would probably see him fail the entire class.         The sun was well past the horizon now, and it was becoming hard to see in the dimly lit park. Tim wasn’t worried. He knew the park well enough. As he approached the small gate that separated two parts of the park, he grabbed hold of the top and vaulted over it, as he usually did. Only this time, he hit something hard and fell backwards. A shout and a cry of pain told him he had hit a person.         Sitting on his ass, he rubbed his forehead. He was going to have a bruise.         “You okay?” he called to the other person. He couldn’t make them out in the gloom. The other person hadn’t fallen over. In fact, he couldn’t see the other person at all. “Hello?” he called out. Tim got to his feet and peered over the gate. Nothing. He looked around at the bushes. There was no one around. “What the hell?” he muttered. This was strange. He was sure someone had been there.         He reached down to open the gate. The small latch was rusted and wouldn’t come up easily. He yanked it up and it snapped off in his hand.         “Damn!”         He threw the rusted piece of metal to the floor and opened the gate. As he walked through, he hit something again. No, someone! There was another cry of pain. He took a step back and reached out a hand. It touched something fleshy; something like another hand. But there was no one there. He applied a bit more force, but so did the other, invisible person.         “Who’s there?” he said, his voice shaking.         “Where are you?” someone replied. Tim dropped his hand and shivered. This was creepy.         “Can’t you see me?” he asked. No reply. “Are you still there?” Nothing. He reached up again, and felt his hand meet the other hand again. As soon as they touched, Tim could hear a voice. “- see you!” the voice was saying.         “Sorry,” Tim said. “I couldn’t hear you when I put my hand down. Where are you?”         “Me?” the voice said in a high voice. An oddly familiar voice. “Where are you ?”         “I’m in the park,” Tim replied. “By the gate. I seem to be talking to an invisible person on the other side of the gate.” His head started spinning as he spoke. This was ridiculous.         “I’m in the park too,” the other person said. “I’m also facing the gate. This is weird!”         “Tell me about it,” Tim said. “Maybe one of us should step aside, and let the other one past?”         “Wait, what do you mean past? You’re not even here as far as I can see. How would I let you past?”         Tim thought for a moment.         “Just move aside and I’ll walk through,” he said.         “Just like that?” the other asked.         “I was planning on going this way anyway. What are you afraid of?”         “Nothing I guess,” the other replied. “Not if you’re the one doing the walking. I’m going to let go and move aside. You can walk through.”         “Okay, on three then,” Tim replied. “One-,” but the other had already let go. “Oh,” Tim muttered. “Okay then.”         He strode through the open gate. He didn’t meet any resistance this time. As he walked over the threshold, the sky suddenly became bright blue. The sun, which had already set past the horizon, was now on the other side of the sky, and perfectly visible. Tim felt his jaw drop and he involuntarily stepped back through the gate. The sky went dark again.         “W-What?” he mumbled. He glanced around to see if there was anyone else in the park, but it was empty apart from a bird, eating some leftover ice cream someone had dropped. What the hell was going on? He took a deep breath and strode forwards once more. Again, the sky changed to bright blue, and he could feel the hot sun shine on his face.         It took him a few seconds to get used to the glare until he could look around. He was still in the park, in the exact same spot as he had been a second ago. There were people around, but no one took any notice of him. To his immediate right was a man who was gaping at him, wide eyed, mouth open. His face was as white as a sheet. It was frightening. But what was even more frightening was the fact that the face was his face. Tim’s face. He was staring at himself. Not only was it him , but he was wearing the exact same clothes: a grey t-shirt and blue jeans. He felt dizzy again, and knew that he must be just as white as his doppelganger.         “What the f-?” they both said at the same time. “Who are you? What is this?” Again, they said it together.         Tim raised both his hands.         “Wait,” he said before the other could speak. “Let’s talk about this.”         “We should,” the other said. “But I’m kinda freaking out right now.”         “I know the feeling,” Tim replied. “Especially as it was night time just a second ago.”         “Huh?”         “Like, literally, it was dark and now it’s daytime. I was on my way home, and…”         “Home from where?” the other guy asked, interrupting Tim.         “From a date, but what does that matter?”         “A date with Lucy?”         Tim gasped.         “How do you know that?”         “Because I’m on my way to a date with Lucy right now.”         Silence fell between them. Tim had a strange feeling. He felt as if cotton was surrounding him, lifting him up into the sky. It was curious. The sound of the slight breeze, of the trees swaying, of the birds singing, all became quieter. The cotton was enveloping him. It had felt nice at first, but the feeling was becoming uncomfortable. He could still see the other guy in front of him. He was speaking but his voice was so faint! He saw his doppelganger raise a hand and slap him hard across the face.         It was as if someone had turned the sound back on. Everything was loud, and had come back into sharp focus. His cheek seared with pain. He felt his eyes watering.         “What did you do that for?” he said crossly, rubbing his cheek.         “Sorry,” said the other, looking sheepish. “You looked like you were going to pass out or something. It freaked me out.”         “I felt weird… Wait, what’s your name.”         “I’m Tim. And I get the feeling you’re Tim too, right?”         “Yeah. But this is so weird! You said you were on your way to see Lucy?”         “Yeah.”         “What time is it? What day is it?”         The other Tim looked at his watch.         “It’s two o’clock. It’s Sunday.”         Tim looked back towards the gate. He glanced at his own watch. It said eight o’clock. He held out his wrist to let the other Tim look at it. His eyes widened.         “So what? You’re from the future?”         “It seems that way.”         “But that’s impossible.”         “I’m gonna have to disagree with you there, Tim. Should we call you Tim 2?”         “Why am I Tim 2? You be Tim 2.”         “You’re the Tim from the past, it makes more sense.”         “I guess… So how did the date go?”         “It was great, but wait. Should I be telling you this? From every time travel movie I’ve ever seen, you shouldn’t know about the future.”         “That’s dumb. If I was the one from the future, wouldn’t you want to know the lotto numbers?”         “I guess.”         “Do you… have the lotto numbers?” Tim 2 grinned.         “If you’re really me, you’d know we’ve never bought a lottery ticket in our life.”         “Oh. That’s true.” He thought for a moment. “Are you really from the future?”       Tim stepped aside.         “The gate’s wide open, buddy. Walk through.”        Tim 2 looked unsure. With a brief glance around him, he sighed, walked forwards and stopped just before the gate. Then, he leaned his head towards the opening, so that his body stayed on this side. Tim watched as his doppelganger’s head disappeared and then reappeared a few seconds later.         “It’s true,” he said softly. Tim 2 was white as a sheet. Tim watched as he saw the other Tim’s eyes roll into his head. He thought he knew what was going on. He reached up a hand slapped Tim 2 across the face. Straight away, his eyes came back into focus.         “Cotton?” Tim asked. The other nodded, but said nothing. Colour had regained his face. “So what do we do?”         “What do you mean?”         “Well, I was thinking, you know that paper due in tomorrow?”         “Yeah,” Tim 2 replied slowly.         “Well, you go home and do it, and I’ll go see Lucy. It's the best of both worlds. We don’t screw up another exam, and we don’t stand Lucy up.”         “Yeah that sounds good, but how about you do the paper and I’ll see Lucy?”         “That won’t work,” Tim said.         “Why not?”         “Because I don’t want to do the paper.”         “And you think I do?” Tim 2 said hotly. “You’ve already had your date with Lucy, it’s my turn. You do the paper! You’re the one feeling guilty about it.”         “You feel guilty too!”         “Yeah, but you have six more hours of guilt than I do. Ergo, you are the one who needs to do the paper.”         “Ergo?”         “Yeah I said it!”         “Is that even how you use that word?”         “This is why you need to do the paper. You need to learn.”         “Hey, I have six more hours’ worth of knowledge than you!”         “You don’t seem any smarter,” Tim 2 snarled.         “This is getting us nowhere.”         “You’re right,” Tim 2 said in a softer voice. “I’m going to see Lucy! You can do what you want.” He started walking forwards, toward the gate.         “Wait!” Tim cried, but it was too late. Tim 2 had disappeared through the gate into the past. “Idiot,” he said and almost laughed. He waited a beat, expecting Tim 2 to reappear. After a few moments, he started to worry. “Tim 2?” he said. Nothing. Of course, he wouldn’t be able to hear him, he was in the future. He laughed at the absurdity of that statement.         Tim decided to go and get him. He walked towards the gate and went through. He closed his eyes just as he reached the threshold.         An odd noise made him open his eyes. He almost fainted. He was no longer in the park. He was in the middle of a field. The odd noise he’d heard had been made by a small boy, sitting a few feet away. The boy now stood and pointed at Tim.         “How did you do that?” he squealed. The boy was probably about ten years old. He had a mop of dark hair, and the same blue eyes as Tim. In fact, Tim knew straight away that this boy was him . His ten-year old self. He even remembered sitting in this field before it had become a park, years ago. But what the hell? Where was his life? Why hadn’t he moved back to his own time? Where was Tim 2?         “Hold on Tim 3,” he said to the boy, who looked confused. The gate had gone but he knew where it was supposed to be. He stepped back through the time portal.         When he opened his eyes, he was in the park again. He breathed a sigh of relief. He looked around. There was a bench near the gate. He was sure it hadn’t been there before. An old man was sitting on the bench. He had long, matted hair and a ruddy, weather-beaten face. He looked up at Tim, his face showing mild surprise.         “I almost didn’t believe it would happen,” the old guy said, his voice rough. The man looked as if he'd had a tough life.         “Who are you?” Tim asked, although he thought he knew.         “You know who I am. You can call me Tim 4 in your head if you like. I’m what you will become unless you listen very closely.” He took a shuddering breath that rattled in his lungs. He coughed and continued.         “You need to go back through that portal. Keep your eyes open and keep your mind clear on where you want to go. Think about that moment before you ran into Tim 2 and go back to your life. Go back to Lucy, go back to your English paper. Get an F, I don’t care! Just don’t do what I did.” He closed his eyes. Tim watched him as a tear fell down his face.         “What happened to you?” he asked.         “You don’t want to know. Just go home!” he almost shouted the last part, in his exhausted voice.         “You need to tell me,” Tim said, in almost a whisper.         The old Tim sighed, and then patted the bench next to him. Tim sat down.         “I was like you. I was you! I got lost in time. When Tim 2 disappeared, I followed, and found the young Tim, Tim 3. Then I found me, I mean the old me, who told me to go home, like I just told you. But I didn’t listen. I was panicking, I just turned around and went straight back through. I ended up far in the past, when I was a baby, in a stroller, walking through the field with our mother. Once, I even ended up in a time when I wasn’t even alive! Each time panicking more and more. I had never been so scared in my life. I couldn’t find anyone who would believe me. I couldn’t get back to a time that was even close to the right time. It took me years to figure out how to travel to the right time. And then it was too late!” he spat this word, his tone bitter. “I was too old to go back to when I left. I had to go back to a later time, where people had already grieved me. I had disappeared long before, and they had all moved on. Lucy was married, and had children, and I had nothing! It was lonely, Tim. It’s not a life to live.”         “But you figured it out? You figured out how to travel to different times at will?” Tim asked, amazed.         The old Tim eyed him carefully.         “Yes,” was all he said.         “How do you do it?”         The old man shook his head.         “I can’t tell you. You must go back. This life needs to end, please!” Tears were falling freely down his face now. “You need to go! Go back! Remember, think about exactly when you want to go, think about Lucy, think about the park, think about that stupid exam paper, and don’t close your eyes! Keep them damn eyes open!”         Tim stood uncertainly. He rested a hand on the old man’s shoulder.         “You look like you need to rest,” he said.         “I will rest,” old Tim nodded. “When you are home.”         Tim faced the gate, his mind reeling with everything the old man had said. He glanced back, and looked into the old withered face, which was staring back at him, old Tim was pleading with his eyes.         Tim nodded, turned back to the portal, thought of nothing, closed his eyes, and stepped into the unknown.   

kddi16

THE EYE OF THE TIGER

It is so much harder than I ever imagined. I'm just now trying my hand at something I gave no thought to over the years, ever. And now here I am faced with the demons scratching my back. "No excuses." This was my push comes to shove moment that was do or die, make it or break it, shovel the sh#t aka dirt, and the plethora of swears just finished off the stress of the moment. Why am I harboring so much guilt and hate? This art therapy is matching my pain. Is this how everyone trying their best to be a so-called artist starts out by kicking themselves over and over? And for what gain? Does everyone go through the same thing when the tool in hand doesn't do what it's told? "I'm out!" I got up, kicked over the chair, clamped my jaw shut and strode through the room. The others looked at me with no surprise at the outburst and either nodded in agreement or banged on the wall in unity and understanding. Suddenly, my gaze saw lights from the hill, a memory that created fresh havoc as I paused to remember the strong smell of napalm and close combat our Infantry unit fell into. I bent over crushing my eyes into my fists in frustration. HEY! GET A FLIPPING GRIP! It was done, over and so long gone, but I continued to struggle hoping and praying to let the past be the past with war time in Nam. These moments happened often, if only briefly, but I broke apart and crashed backing away from the therapy offered to aid my life and that was in the form of all things ART. I faltered. One of my buddy's escorted me to the door. "See ya in a few." I knew, and he knew, how long that would be given the weather. It was a day like no other, with screaming cold hitting me sideways and a wind chill up the wazoo. I took the pack out of my jacket, scrambled for one cig and tried to light it. As my hands shook with the rainbow of dried paint covering my knuckles, I felt myself stagger sideways. The match fell and I followed, dropping to my knees. The wind made an unbearable sound and one that clicked from days spent on the mountains. It was a sound hidden beneath my jacket, through the layers, and into the depth of my core. The flashback hit hard. We all nearly perished or got smashed up in the battle on Hamburger Hill during Operation Apache Snow. It turned into an unplanned encounter on a fateful mission during a combat assault. I lived, some of my brothers did not. It was a senseless loss of many for little gain. The flashback was a sign, a memory, from days gone by that never leave but show up when you least expect it. To this day, regret will always be my middle name. I pulled out another match, got it going and lit the cig, crammed myself into the edge of the building, where I inhaled a couple of strong tobacco clouds and cursed myself loudly spewing venom with everything I had. No one was around. A few minutes later I suddenly felt a stillness come over me. The moment passed, I crushed the cig between my fingers, and put it in my pocket. Never leave any trace behind. First reflection: I answered a time of need to serve our country for the good of making life better than it had become, mine included. But, before that pivotal moment, another one called my name into a whole different club. The so-called friends I hung around were grabbing my soul and changing those letters into a lousy me. I did not know anything better at the time. We had nothing else to do after graduation from high school since jobs were not on the priority list. These dumb clowns had their own idea to make money. How I got away from being responsible was not in the cards. I was dealt a hand with only the jokers in it. It became one long road into the dark side of trouble from the get go. Here we are in the land of plenty of run down vehicles. Joe T., aka, J Tooner would grab a wrench from the random stash bag of confiscated items from one of the many old cars in the neighborhood 'graveyards'. Then used his skills to permanently 'borrow' whatever car or truck we saw as a money turnaround. Until the day came when our number was up. It was midnight and the mighty club of 'do nothings' had piled up the stash of the latest cleanup. We had a bounty of the most money makers of catalytic converters, GPS devices, batteries and number plates. A few tires added to the top of the pile and we were hot on the mark. We met our connection with our dilapidated, 'borrowed' truck in a location behind a rundown warehouse. And just like that a screaming set of police cars came blazing in surrounding the area. We were had. It seemed that someone had seen someone doing something to someone's pricy limousine in the back alley of a side street in the nearby town. The GPS stolen was activated and that's how it all ended. Second chance: I was collared and put in the slammer for an indefinite time. Since we were young and stupid, it was my public defender who threw a couple of ideas at me to switch the path I fell down. "You can do this. No doubt." It was the one he highlighted given the time our country was falling apart and to do the right thing. I opted in, packed a bag and was sent to Tiger Land aka Tiger Village. Fort Polk, Louisiana was the Army combat infantry training site for the Vietnam War in Southeast Asia. We were now involved in a country most had never heard of. The site was set up as a real village with everything you could possibly imagine for the attack missions, patrol tactics, field training, etc. The NCOs were villagers who were either your friend or enemy. This became my new life and I welcomed the challenge with a strong purpose. The past was erased, shoved in a box and buried in a dumpster. With my new brothers we had good times when allowed to party in rare moments. Roaring laughter was shared and a rare Heineken was the top brew of the hour. Time went by in flames. Safe times occurred with and for each other. Other moments saw the enemy get catapulted into a complete wreck. Glad times and sometimes troubling catastrophes brought this young nineteen year old face to face with death on more than one occasion. And soon enough the C-130 swooped in and brought us to Taiwan then back to the states. My time in was over and done. Life after became a whole different story. The riots and hate parades had us sink to a level we never felt before now. I was swallowing so much anger until a surprise beyond surprises happened one day. My sister found me living in filthy swill under the bridge down by the river. "You're coming with me - NOW!" And before I knew it, this strong arm led me to a better living space. Then she kept going and going. In reaction to her demands I nearly hit her in frustration. With quick thinking she grabbed a huge book off a nearby shelf and held it close. "Whoa! Back off." She didn't panic as she knew me better than anyone. This would be a defining moment as it was an old Vincent Van Gogh encyclopedia of his life with art. The wind had calmed down so I opted to walk around the block. What was I doing? My pace picked up, the strides got longer until I was back at the old mill building. The door creaked open and to my surprise there stood my sister. "I missed you." She smiled and batted her eyes at me, then flagged me in. "Get over here and meet your new friend." I paused for a second with some doubt but followed her into the open back room walking past a couple of my brothers. "Hey - break's over!" One of them yelled like we were back on a mission. That was exactly the calling I felt I needed to get back in the game. "Here." My sister handed me the book she nearly clocked me with, Vincent Van Gogh. "He will not let you down." She looked me in the eye and I felt her kindred spirit. "Do it." The book brought me to a level in a playing field I never felt until now. Slowly, she had me turn into a reserved corner where an art canvas awaited. Someone had seen the need to do this as a gesture of camaraderie. The paints and brushes were scattered as I had left them. In a sense of fun, they felt I needed to pick up where I left off. Without hesitation I set up my space and began to let those brushes speak loud and paint with purpose. Colors mixed and blended with abandon as my inner self pulled new resources from within. The bold expressive brushwork created a vision of myself, once lost but stronger today. It was a portrait of who I saw as my self. I am now someone who is focused, confident and has the look of being intense, somewhat cold but fierce with a never say die attitude. The Eye of the Tiger.

2uvjrp

I’ll Learn How to Bark

The blind man and his collie sit passively, waiting for their flight to be called. Hans Gudeguest grins at the Swiss Air service agent as he pays for his ticket and checks his bags. In a little over eight hours, he’ll be back in his villa in Switzerland when his associates release sarin gas into the New York City subway system. He pauses at a souvenir shop, picking up an “I Love New York” cap. Checking out the fit in a mirror on the counter, he sees the blind man steal a glance at him. “You’re supposed to be blind, knucklehead,” the collie whispers. Dropping the hat, Gudeguest bolts from the store. “I’ll follow him, you cut him off at the gate,” Darius Winston says to the dog as they run in different directions. Gudeguest detours down a narrow hallway toward the restrooms. A statuesque blonde in black leather blocks the doorway. “I know we live in enlightened times, Hans, but I’m not going to let you go in there.” Gudeguest feels the barrel of a gun being pressed against his back. “I want you to turn around so slowly it’ll look like you’re going back in time,” a male voice says. Gudeguest complies, recognizing his captor as the blind man. “Your associates are already under arrest, and we found the sarin,” Darius says. The woman places Gudeguest in handcuffs. “I hear Montreux is beautiful this time of year,” she says. “Unfortunately, you’re going to maximum security in North Dakota and the weather there sucks.” The bell above the door rings cheerfully as Darius and Corey enter the Antique Alchemist. A teenage girl looks up from behind the counter displaying her braces when she smiles. “We’re here to see Nigel Crismatti. He called us about an antique mirror,” Corey says. “He’s in the back, tinkering.” A bright-eyed, pudgy man with greying temples greets them. “Is the girl all right?” Corey asks. “She’s Canus Familiarus like you and me. She’s a lieutenant in the World Security Force. In her real form, she’s what the humans refer to as an Alaskan Husky.” “This is an odd front for a communications supply center,” Darius comments. “With all the leaks we’ve had lately we had to get creative.” Crismatti walks to a nearby workbench. Hanging above the bench is an antique French-style oval mirror. Rosettes are carved into its ornate frame. “That’s our latest communications device?” Darius asks. “Yes. It will provide you with a direct connection to the Great Maker’s office. And there’s much more to it than that. Give me a historical date and a place.” Darius blurts out, “August 18, 1969.” A large crowd of people cheering, clapping, and celebrating appears in the mirror. Three men stride on stage and begin singing. “Crosby, Stills, and Nash,” Darius says, smiling. “I never got to see them live. So, what you’re telling us, Nigel, is if we’re looking for someone, this mirror can locate them.” “Whoa, a time portal. Let me try,” Corey says. “Prisoner 0659, Freedonia State Penitentiary, present day.” The mirror shows a balding, woeful old man sitting on a cot, holding his head in his hand. “Ruff Rauh,” Darius says. “One of the worst serial killers in history.” “And our first assignment,” Corey adds. Reaching into the mirror, Corey slaps Rauh, who is unaware of where the blow came from. “I told him there was a special place in hell for him. I just wanted to make sure he was still there.” Darius and Corey look into the mirror. A grey mist forms, engulfing the glass. As the smoke clears, the bald, blue, floating head of the Great Maker becomes visible. A native of Alpha Centauri, the Great Maker is the leader of the Universal Security Force (USF), comprised of agents from Earth, Canus Familairus, his home world, and half a dozen other peaceful planets. The agents eliminate assassins, anarchists, and despots intent on taking over the universe. A former member of the U.S. National Security Agency, thirty-eight-year-old Darius has been partnered with Corey, a shapeshifting agent from Canus Familiarus for the past seven years, preventing several world wars, chemical attacks, and assassinations. “Your next assignment is crucial,” the Great Maker says. “Fail, and Earth will be exterminated. Yesterday, Klaus Van Aken, a low-level member of the German government, kidnapped Professor Voz Defrens, a USF weapons expert. Utilizing Defrens’ mirror as a portal, Van Aken took him back to Hamburg in 1945. He is forcing Defrens to create a poison that could turn the tide of the Second World War. Van Aken plans to usurp Adolf Hitler and build his own Reich. Bring Professor Defrens back.” “And Van Aken?” Darius asks. The Great Maker’s heavy eyebrows knit together in a devilish V. “Van Aken’s body can remain in the past.” Darius looks over at Corey, who licks her lips with her wide pink tongue. “Do you have to be a German Shepherd? I hate German Shepherds.” “You’re not going to whine about Smokey again, are you?” Corey asks. “That dog tried to kill me, and so did just about every German Shepherd I’ve encountered.” Corey sniffs Darius’ hair. “Maybe it’s your cologne. It’s pretty offensive.” Darius pulls the car up to the warehouse’s guardhouse. Darius hands a guard his phony credentials that claim he’s a member of the Gestapo. “I’m General Aton Hartmann. This is Schnitzel. We’re here to check on the progress of Project Z.” The guard salutes Darius. “Professor Defrens is in building three.” The guards regard Schnitzel with skepticism but allow the pair to pass. Defrens reacts in horror at the sight of Darius’ Gestapo uniform. “Relax, professor. We’re the good guys. We’re going to get you out of here,” Corey says. “A talking dog. You must be from the future,” Defrens says, feeling relieved. “You’d better have one helluva plan.” Corey morphs into her curvaceous human form, saying, “I plan to distract the guards.” Heading to the door, Corey adds, “Meet you in five minutes in the parking lot.” “Where is it?” Darius asks Defrens. Defrens points to a petri dish. Darius has to squint to see the small crystals inside the dish. “It’s not quite finished. I still have a few more compounds to add, so you and I are safe from harm. But when I’m finished, an amount that size will be able to kill every man, woman, and child in the U.S. or England.” “Dump it. Vaporize it. Just destroy it.” Defrens puts on a pair of rubber gloves and a face mask. Carefully opening the petri dish, he says, “Oddly, this poison can be destroyed by pouring Coca-Cola over it.” “I’m not that surprised, that stuff can take the paint off a car.” Defrens is still pouring the bottle of soda over the petri dish when Van Aken enters the lab. Defrens quickly pretends he’s drinking the Coke. Van Aken has transformed himself into the privileged arrogant Nazi history has come to despise. He stands erect, his hands behind his back, one of his sharkish black eyes peeping through an unnecessary monocle. “You are General Hartmann?” “I am.” “There is no General Hartmann.” Darius turns to Defrens. “May I have a sip of your beverage?” Defrens hands Darius the bottle. Darius smashes the bottle over Van Akin’s head, kicking him in the groin. Pushing Defrens out of the room, the pair run down the hallway. “That wasn’t very secret agent-like,” Defrens says. “I’m not a secret agent!” Incensed, Van Akin struggles to regain his feet. Picking pieces of glass out of his forehead, he wipes away the blood running down his face. He yells for assistance, trailing after Darius and Defrens. The pair exit the building, running toward Corey, who stands by a staff car. “Get down and stay down,” Darius tells Defrens as they jump in. Corey revs the engine. “Well?” “…Wait for it…” “I found out how many Nazis can fit in the trunk of a staff car.” “How many?” Darius asks calmly. “Three, but you have to fold them.” “We have to talk about your violent streak, Corey.” “Shouldn’t we be trying to escape?” Defrens asks, his voice shaking. Van Akin runs out of the building with two guards. “You take the one on the right,” Darius says, as the guards point their rifles at them. Pulling out their guns, Darius and Corey fire first. The guards topple over, dead. “Right between the eyes,” Darius brags. “Not fair. My gun pulls to the left.” Van Akin stands defenseless in front of them. “No, don’t! I’ll come along peacefully!” “How about you just rest in peace,” Darius says, as he and Corey shoot Van Akin. “You have a private matter you wish to discuss, Darius?” Darius glances at the backyard. Corey has reverted to her collie form and is slumbering in the sun in the backyard. “Can you extend Corey’s ability to remain human?” “Forty-eight hours is not enough?” The Great Maker studies Darius’ concerned expression. “As you know, Darius, the Canus Familiarus can mimic human anatomy, but biologically their true bodies are vastly different. Our scientists and their researchers have been working together to extend their ability to morph into other creatures.” “But you’re the all-knowing Great Maker. You can make it happen with the snap of a finger.” “It’s against USF rules for me to intervene. And I don’t have fingers.” Darius bites his lower lip. “You love her, don’t you?” the Great Maker inquires. “I guess I can’t slip one by a being who’s omnipotent.” “I do not need special powers to see what is obvious. I am sorry, but I also have to remind you there is a no-interspecies sexual contact agreement in place between Earth and Canus Familiarus. But I will talk to their council. In the meantime, you need to make sure this is something Corey wants. Maybe she wants you to become part of her race.” “Fine. I’ll learn how to bark.” Darius and Corey stare in the mirror at the photograph of their next assignment. “Astounding,” Corey says. “I’d be really creeped out if I was you.” “All right. He looks a little like me.” “A little? If you grew a beard, you could be dueling George Clooney’s. Three if you include the original. And by the way, beards… Yuk.” The Great Maker continues his briefing. “Blake Bryant was one of our own, an agent based in Beijing. He stole military specifications for some of our weapons and sold them to the Chinese. He is staying at the Grayson Hotel in Manhattan, Room 112. Liquidate him this afternoon when he is alone. We will spare his family.” The Great Maker’s visage fades behind a layer of fog. “So, what do you think? Lunch before liquidation?” Corey asks. Darius turns to say yes. Corey has transformed back into a collie. “I’m going to go outside and rest a bit in the sun. Maybe we can play a little fetch so I can loosen up before we go.” Corey walks on her hind legs to the screen door, pushing it aside. “Walk on all four legs, Corey,” Darius reminds her. “You need to act more like you’re a dog from Earth.” “Sure, how’s this?” Corey asks, swishing her tail. “Pizza for lunch, okay?” Darius and Corey exit the elevator, checking both ends of the hallway to make sure it's empty. “Where did the housekeeping crew we sent in install the cameras?” Darius asks. “One each on the balcony, in the bedroom, kitchen, and living room. I’ll access them now.” “Where is he?” Corey looks at her phone. “Living room. He’s watching TV.” “Perfect. His back will be to us.” Corey carefully slips the room key into the slot. With his attention focused on a baseball game, Blake Bryant doesn’t hear Corey ease the door open. Darius pulls a plastic bag over Bryant’s head, wrenching it tight. Bryant struggles to get free, but Darius yanks him up off the couch, suspending his body in mid-air as he traps Bryant in a headlock. “Easy, you’ll kill him!” Corey cautions. Bryant tries to grasp Darius’ arms. Darius tightens his grip around Bryant’s neck, squeezing so hard his own features turn crimson. “That’s enough! He’s out!” Corey yells, trying to pull Darius away from Bryant. Darius eases his grip. Bryant’s limp body slowly slides down onto the couch. “That was a rather exhausting way to kill somebody, Darius. We were supposed to take him alive, but if you were so determined to kill him, why not just pop him in the back of the head? Darius removes the plastic bag. Corey checks for a pulse, shaking her head. “I’ll tell the Great Maker you had no choice, that you had to take him out.” Darius looks down at Bryant. “He looks different from me now, doesn’t he?” “I get it. It’s got to be tough to kill yourself.” Guilt consumes Darius. “…He had a wife, two kids...” “He was hardly Man of the Year. He cheated on his wife and neglected his kids,” Corey notes. “Still, we stole his life.” Corey grabs Darius by the chin, forcing him to look away from Bryant and stare into her eyes. “We only ended his life. He’s the one who ruined his life.”  “Why don’t you get some air?” Corey asks, reaching for her phone. Darius shuffles toward the balcony. Corey joins him a few minutes later. “Is he gone?” Darius asks. “Yep. Our fake Housekeeping crew will dispose of him,” Corey replies. “His girls were Maddy and Pookie.” “Who names their child Pookie?” “Their real names are Madeline and Paula,” Darius says. “What is it you once said to me? “There’s no room in this game for remorse.’” “The game got too real today.” Darius stares blankly into the mirror. “Are you talking to headquarters?” Corey’s reflection comes into view as she leans against his shoulder. “Who is that handsome couple?” she comments. Her frivolity dissolves when she looks closer at Darius’ haggard features. “Stubble. You know how much I hate stubble and beards. Are you growing a beard? Yuk. This mourning for days over some lookalike has gone too far.” A grey mist engulfs the face of the mirror. The blue-skinned visage of the Great Maker appears. “I have a new assignment for you.” “Perhaps you should give it to Winters and Hannover,” Corey says. “Darius has a bit of a bug.” The Great Maker’s furry eyebrows crease into a frown. “Are you turning down my request?” “No, sir. I’m fine,” Darius answers. “Good. Hadeon, a gargoyle, has gone rogue. He has already killed a couple camping in upstate New York. We attributed it to a black bear. We have to terminate him before humanity finds out they are living with gargoyles, and that we have a peace treaty with them. That treaty will undoubtedly be in jeopardy if Hadeon kills again.” “This old army surplus jeep was the best ride headquarters could give us?” Corey asks bouncing in her seat. “It’s rugged, and it’s got the special weapon we asked for.” Corey spits out a wad of mud that hits her in the mouth. “The least they could have done was put in a windshield.” Darius looks at the passing hills, halting the Jeep. “There should be a trail around here he may have used to try and escape. You drive along the main road, and I’ll search for the trail. Be careful. Hadeon is crafty.” “Aren’t they all?” Corey replies. Shifting the Jeep’s gears until they groan, she drives off. Corey spots Hadeon standing defiantly in the road ahead. Hadeon spreads his wings. Strangely, he beckons Corey, as if challenging her to capture him. The trail leads Darius back to the main road slightly behind Corey. Watching her speed up as she closes in on the gargoyle, Darius starts to run to her aid. Corey shakes her fist at Hadeon, stepping on the gas. The piano wire Hadeon strung across the road slices into Corey’s neck, cleaving her head from her shoulders. Screaming her name, Darius runs toward the Jeep as it creeps to a halt. Laughing triumphantly, Hadeon springs into the air. Darius bursts into tears at the sight of Corey’s headless body, her hands still clamped tightly to the wheel. Pulling the cover off the mounted machine gun, Darius fires a fusillade of tranquilizer darts at Hadeon. One hits his thigh, immediately causing Hadeon to sag sleepily. Changing the settings on the gun, Darius fires again. A large net shoots in the air, wrapping itself around the wavering gargoyle. Trapped like a fisherman’s prized haul, Hadeon falls to the ground. Darius jumps on the net savagely beating Hadeon until he pleads for mercy. The Great Maker’s disembodied blue head comes into view. “I am sorry for your loss, Darius. I know how you felt about Corey.” “Can you bring her back?” “You know I would if I could,” the Great Maker replies. “She is bound by Canus Familiarus law. Be thankful she is not human, because she would have to remain dead. She can be restored in five years. But in her case, because she had access to sensitive information, the memory of her time with the Universal Security Force will be erased.” “So, she’ll be alive but won’t remember me.” The Great Maker’s demon-like features soften. “Resigning may not ease your pain.” “No. But staying on will only make it worse.” Darius stops his car in front of the Tudor-style home. “…My name is Blake Bryant. My wife’s name is Trudi. My daughters are Maddy and Pookie…” He checks his appearance in the rearview mirror, stroking his beard. Opening the door to the car, he runs into the arms of his loving family.

oheeve

Been there, done that. Part 2

This is a continuation of another story I already posted. Isaac sighed again, deeper this time. The reality of his situation sank in. He was alone, without a familiar face or a place to call home. The warm breeze carried the scent of saltwater, and the sound of waves crashing against the shore reminded him of the vast, empty ocean that stretched out before him. He scrolled through the contacts on the unfamiliar phone, hoping to find a clue about who Isaac Humphries was, where he lived, or who might be able to shed light on his predicament. The names and numbers stared back at him, but none sparked recognition. With a sense of resignation, he dialed the most recent number in the call log, hoping that whoever it was might have information about his new life as Isaac Humphries. The phone rang, each tone echoing in the emptiness around him. "Hello?" a voice answered, and for a moment, Isaac's heart skipped a beat. It was a woman's voice, unfamiliar yet comforting in its normalcy. "Hi, um, sorry to bother you. My name is Isaac Humphries, and I... well, I seem to be a bit lost. I was hoping you could help me," Isaac stammered. There was a brief pause on the other end before the woman responded, "Isaac Humphries? I don't know anyone by that name. Are you sure you dialed the right number?" Isaac felt a sinking feeling in his chest. He apologized and ended the call, realizing that he might have to figure this out on his own. As he stood there, pondering his next move, a car pulled up beside him. The driver's window rolled down, revealing a man with a weathered face and a grizzled beard. "You look lost, mate. Need a ride somewhere?" he offered. Isaac hesitated for a moment but then decided to accept the offer. The man introduced himself as Mick, a fisherman who lived nearby. They drove through the coastal roads, passing by small towns and glimpses of turquoise water. During the ride, Mick shared stories about the region, its history, and its people. Isaac listened intently, hoping to glean some information that might connect him to his new life. Mick suggested stopping at a local pub where the locals gathered. As they entered the pub, the chatter quieted momentarily as eyes turned towards the unfamiliar face of Isaac Humphries. Mick waved it off, introducing Isaac as a mate passing through, and soon enough, the conversations resumed. Isaac sat at the bar, nursing a cold beer, contemplating the enigma of his existence. He realized that unraveling the mystery of Isaac Humphries would take time, but for now, he would embrace the journey, adapting to the warmth of the Australian sun and the rhythm of coastal life. As the night wore on, the pub became a haven of laughter and camaraderie. Despite the uncertainty of his circumstances, Isaac found solace in the company of strangers who, for the moment, accepted him as one of their own. The waves of the unfamiliar ocean outside provided a constant backdrop, a reminder that he was adrift in a new chapter of his existence. Isaac Humphries might not know where he came from, but in the warmth of the Australian night, surrounded by the sounds of laughter and the scent of the sea, he started to discover who he could become. Isaac sipped his beer, the cold liquid providing a welcome distraction as he contemplated the pieces of his fractured identity. The pub's lively atmosphere and the friendly banter around him seemed to blur the lines between reality and the enigma of his existence. With each sip, he felt a little more connected to the present, yet the past lingered like a ghost. The salty air from the ocean wafted through the open windows, and Isaac closed his eyes, letting the memories flood in. Isaac felt an inexplicable pull toward the pub's restroom, through a dimly lit corridor that seemed to stretch on endlessly. The walls were lined with mirrors, creating an illusion of infinite reflections. As he reached the worn wooden door at the corridor's end, a subtle sense of foreboding washed over him. Upon pushing the door open, he found himself in a small room completely adorned with mirrors. The cracked tiles beneath his feet seemed to multiply as they reflected in the myriad surfaces around him. The flickering fluorescent light above cast erratic shadows, further distorting the labyrinthine arrangement of mirrors. Isaac stood in the midst of this surreal chamber, each mirror showcasing a different facet of himself. The reflections, tainted by the passage of time and the wear and tear of countless gazes, presented a fractured and distorted version of his identity. He hesitated, uncertain which reflection held the true essence of Isaac Humphries. As he approached the central mirror, he stared into it, captivated by the multitude of reflections that seemed to converge and diverge simultaneously. The person staring back at him appeared like an enigma, a collection of fractured images that hinted at the complexity of his past and the uncertainty of his present. This house of mirrors had transformed into a bewildering maze, each reflective surface whispering a different narrative of Isaac's existence. It was as if the mirrors held the secrets of his fractured reality, waiting to be deciphered in this dimly lit sanctuary of distorted reflections. Each reflection seemed to tell a different story, a fragment of his past or a glimpse into an alternate life. As he continued to explore this surreal maze, the air grew heavier, and the pub's ambient chatter morphed into an eerie hum. Isaac's mind involuntarily traveled back to Vancouver, where the rain danced on the city streets. He stood on the balcony of a high-rise apartment, a place he once called home with a woman named Claire. The reflection in the window showed her silhouette, framed by city lights. In the quiet before the storm, she turned to him, her lips parting to speak those three words he dreaded. "I love you, Isaac," she whispered. Before he could respond, the green light enveloped him, tearing him away from her. Another memory cast him into a bustling market in Kuala Lumpur. The air was thick with the aroma of street food, and he stood with Jasmine, the vibrant energy of the city surrounding them. Her eyes sparkled with an intensity he couldn't decipher. As she leaned in to say those fateful words, the green light swallowed him once more. Then the sudden, unwelcome flash of memory transported Isaac to another moment in time, another relationship—an agonizing moment in a sunlit courtyard surrounded by the vibrant blooms of cherry blossom trees. It was a memory he desperately attempted to suppress, a difficult recollection that had haunted him for years. Here, the delicate petals fluttered in the breeze, creating a surreal dance of pink and white. The sweet scent of yuzu, intermingled with the fragrant cherry blossoms, created an ethereal atmosphere that accompanied the serenity of the Japanese garden. She was there, a woman whose name echoed in the corridors of his mind like a distant melody. Her eyes, once filled with warmth, now bore the scars of his silence. The tension between them hung heavily in the air, a shroud of unspoken words weaving a tapestry of regret. She spoke, her voice carrying a mixture of sorrow and anger. "For the time you've taken from me," she uttered, her words resonating with a haunting melody, "I will take from you an eternity. For the pain you caused me, I shall induce never-ending. For the lies you spoke, you will suffer, you will regret. You will beg my forgiveness throughout time. And I will ignore your cries." As her words echoed in the courtyard, the cherry blossoms seemed to lose their vibrancy, their petals falling to the ground like symbols of faded love. The scent of yuzu, once a sweet embrace, now hung in the air as a reminder of the fragility of relationships and the consequences of words left unsaid. Before Isaac could respond, a blinding green light enveloped him, tearing him away from the cherry blossom courtyard and thrusting him into the tumultuous sea of his own existence. The scent of yuzu lingered, both a poignant memory and a harbinger of the mysterious realms that awaited him from now, in the loud Australian pub he had returned to and anywhere else those cursed words will regurgitate him next. Back in the dimly lit restroom of the pub, the hall of mirrors has vanished. He stood with both hands grasping the sink, gazing into the mirror on the wall. Isaac's reflection seemed to ripple with the memories of lost loves. The house of mirrors had become a haunting reminder of the moments he left behind, suspended in time like fractured pieces of his soul. The eerie hum in the pub intensified, and Isaac felt a strange presence in the air. He left the restroom, the distorted reflections trailing behind him like ghostly echoes. The patrons' conversations now sounded like distant whispers, and the flickering lights cast eerie shadows on the walls. Mick, the fisherman who had offered him a ride, approached Isaac with a knowing look. "Mate, you're not the first to wander into these parts with that lost look in your eyes," he said cryptically. "The mirrors in this pub hold more than just reflections. They show glimpses of paths not taken, lives left behind. Be careful where you look." Isaac nodded, the weight of the metaphysical maze pressing on him. Isaac's eyes widened as he suddenly became aware of the multitude of scattered mirrors around the pub, each one a potential gateway to his enigmatic past. As he walked through the pub, each mirror seemed to pull him into a different dimension – a house of mirrors reflecting not just his image, but the infinite possibilities of his existence. The air crackled with an otherworldly energy, the journey into the house of mirrors had just begun, and he wondered if he would find a way to navigate through the distortions or if he would be forever trapped in the haunting reflections of his own past.

o59xfn

The Creative Process

“Next week from today! Friday! 6pm! Don’t be late! We need an hour to set the gallery, another to get the guests to line up outside, and another to kick the asses of anyone who doesn’t bother to show up, ha!” the teacher barked at his pupils. “Alright alright, session’s over tonight, see you at the show next week, artists!” Students began to shuffle out the door. An ensemble of characters wandered around gathering their art supplies from the studio before funneling back into the deep end of downtown. Single moms, exhausted construction workers, aspiring creatives, fluorescent bartenders, confused law students, the whole crowd. And the teacher decided to walk up to the platinum blonde man with a handlebar mustache. The teacher towered over him, eyeing him up and down as he packed his supplies. The platinum blond man froze up and looked up at the instructor who towered over him. “Can I… help you, Ron?” the man said. “Hacky, how old are you?” the instructor shot out, arms crossed. Hacky chuckled. “This a trick question?” Ron stood his position, frozen like a statue. Hacky cut his smile. “28, sir.” “28… Hacky, I want to let you know that your twenty eight years of being alive on this godforsaken capitalist consumed planet we call Earth are going to lead up to the ultimate finale of life next week in the form of a beautiful refuge we call an art show.” Hacky stuttered, “Wha- am I gonna die at the show!?” “No no!” Ron said, “Quite the opposite, my friend, the art show is going to make you feel alive! ” “Respectfully, sir, it’s just a bunch of self-portraits, isn’t it?” Ron widened his eyes, visibly offended. “JUST self-portraits? Hacky, I want you to say those two words to me.” Hacky was too afraid to even ask why at this point. “Self-portrait?” he said. “Slower.” “Self. Portrait” “Slow. Er.” “Self….. Portrait….” he said in a more whispered tone. Ron nodded. “Perfect” He pulled out a 16 x 20 inch canvas and handed it to Hacky. “You’re one of my best.” he whispered, and walked away. Hacky stared off at Ron as if he had just spewed insane conspiracy theories for an hour. Hacky spoke to himself, “Christ, I need a-” — “Drink?” the bartender asked. Hacky stood still, dazed and confused. He still had paint on his face, acrylic at his fingerprints, and the blank canvas in his hands. But now, he was at a bar downtown, one he had been to once before, but couldn’t recall the name of. No memory. No proof he had decided to even come here. He was just… here. “Um..” Hacky looked around. Loud music and the smell of cheap cologne clogged sinuses of everyone that was willing to bring themselves here. Hacky played along. “Yeah, yeah, two shots of whiskey on the rocks, please,” Hacky said. “No problem,” the bartender replied. Hacky sat himself down at the bar. The bartender slid the glass down to him. Hacky caught it flawlessly and took a sip. “*HACKL*” Hacky coughed, “Forgot I hate whiskey…” “Something wrong?” the bartender asked. “Um, yeah, actually, were we just in an art studio? Painting with Ron?” Hacky asked. The bartender chuckled. “No idea who Ron is, but you look like you asked a tattoo artist to give you the Jackson Pollick special, so might be telling some lick of truth that I just don’t remember.” “Wait, how did I get here?” The bartender paused. “You alright, mate?” Hacky thought to himself. He then looked down at his canvas and froze up. The whiskeu he spat out had layered itself on the blank canvas, staining the new life of a fresh slate. His panic morphed itself into the creation of a new perspective. He slammed down the last of the whiskey. “Two more of the same! Oh, and a rum and coke, please.” “You got it, mate” the bartender smiled, shooting a finger guns. Hacky sat himself at the bar. A woman in a poncho sat to his left, pouring herself shots of Vodka. “Excuse me, ma’am? Might be uh, bit of a silly question but, where exactly am I?” The woman stopped in the middle of her next pour. She giggled to herself. “Mista’, you’re at a bar , where they serve alcohol . Have you ever had any?” The bartender swung by and dropped off a bottle of whiskey and a rum and coke. “I stand corrected,” said the woman. “Need any help finishing that?” Hacky smirked and eyed her bottle of vodka and pointed to it. “Might need that,” he said. “What for?” Hacky snagged the bottle. “Texture,” he said. He started to dribble bits of whiskey, rum, and vodka across the blank canvas. “The hell… are you doing?” the woman asked. “I’m an artist, honey, trust me” Hacky’s fingers slipped, dropping the vodka all over the counter. The woman watched in anger and disgust as the vodka bottle tumbled down onto the floor and shattered. She looked up at Hacky in unleashed rage. “You want some TEXTURE? How’s THIS for texture?” she shouted. She stuck her fingers in her throat and threw up onto Hacky and his canvas. “CHRIST, LADY!” Hacky screamed, “Oh, ma’am, you are going to-” — “-pay?” the bank teller asked. Hacky sat at a desk across from a bank teller. Calm elevator music sweeped around the room, a harsh contrast to the loud bounces of dance music and squelch of vomit he had just gotten used to. Time and space had moved him again, it seemed. Hacky looked down at his sweater, still covered in vomit. “I’m sorry, what did you say?” Hacky asked. The bank teller was unamused. She had a snotty and withered tone to her voice, one that made it sound she could die on the job at any moment and not care that she hadn’t even left a will behind. “How would you like to pay…sir?” she asked. “Um I uh, think there’s been a mistake, ma’am” Hacky replied. “Sir, please, today has been going just splendid enough with your presence, please don’t grace me with any more of your wonderful introspections.” “Ah, yes, today…what day would that be?” The bank teller stared at him in awe. “Tuesday.” she said, mocking his slow attentiveness. An anxiety crawled up Hacky’s spine. Four days had passed and all he had done so far was get his canvas drenched in vomit and alcohol. “Ah, mhm! Of course! Tuesday! Haha, ha…” Hacky spoke to himself. “And what exactly am I, um, paying for?” “A fee, sir, to access your account with us.” “A new account? Why would I- wait, you’re charging me to use my accounts?” “We have to make money somehow, sir” “But you’re a bank?” “Yes, and?” Hacky scrunched his face and gave up the topic. “Okay..” he said “Okay.” “Do you have a problem with me, ma’am?” “I’m just wondering if you’ve ever stepped inside of a bank, sir.” A switch flipped in Hacky’s mind. “You know what, I haven’t,” Hacky said, matching the teller’s sarcasm. “Really? Not surprising at all sir,” she replied, “Do you happen to know what money is?” “Why, no!” Hacky raised his voice, attracting the attention of other customers and bank tellers. “I have no idea! Can you show me?” The bank teller matched his tone and level. “Why of course I can, HERE” She slammed a one hundred dollar bill on the desk in front of Hacky. Hacky snagged the bill and slapped it in the middle of his canvas, sticking it to whatever vomit had not dried up yet. He showed his artistic beauty to the bank teller. “Beautiful, ain’t it?” he remarked, smirking. “You…” the bank teller said in a haunting tone. “What? Not a fan?” “You must leave this establishment, NOW” “Hmf, everyone’s a critic…” The bank teller leaped over the desk toward Hacky. Hacky screamed, “Jesus - ! — “Christ himself cannot stop us now!” the priest exclaimed. Hacky found himself in the middle of a forest at the deepest, darkest hour of the night, laying down in the grass next to figures wearing animal masks and a priest in dark red robes at the front. “What the-!” Hacky yelled. “AHH!” the priest and his followers yelled back, jumping back in fear. “Who are you!?” the priest exclaimed. “I was about to ask the same!” Hacky yelled. “Well you weren’t even invited!” “Invited to what!?” “Can we tell him, boss?” one of the followers asked in a thick, Brooklyn accent. The priest eyed Hacky up and down. “Just who are you, sir?” the priest asked. “Well, an artist?” Hacky said The priest smiled. “I like him,” he whispered to one of his followers. “Very well,” the priest began, “I shall formally invite you to thee ritual of the evening. We are an all inclusive organization, after all. So-” “Wait wait - okay, why are you wearing animal masks?” “Well, it’s, like, our thing.” “...Sure, okay, and why are you out here?” “I’m getting to it!” “Okay, jeez, sorry.” “Ahem, so,” the priest continued in a loud and demanding voice, “Welcome to the 57th Reincarnation of Time Itself! Where we gather in the forest today, on every third Friday of the month-” “Wait!” “WHAT IS IT!?” the priest snapped “It’s Friday!? Shit, shit, I’ve got somewhere to be, man!” “Then why are you here?” one of the followers yelled. “It’s not like I chose to be here, jackass!” Hacky yelled back. “Okay okay, relax, my children,” the priest said, waving his hands down as if he was calming cattle. “We have similar interests! This is a great opportunity! You, being the one who was sent by our lord for some reason, want to be somewhere. And we, the divine followers, want you to…” Hacky raised his eyebrow at the priest. The priest scrunched his face and waved his hands. “...leave.” the priest said. “So! I think we can help you here, we can send you to where you need to be!” Hacky, open mouthed, stared in disbelief at the priest. “Y-you, you can just do that?” The priest shrugged. “Well yeah. Just stand still, channel where you need to be, and just like that!” Hacky shook his head and rubbed his eyes. “Okay sure yeah let’s do it.” “Perfect! Now, I need you to sit perfectly still.” The cult members put their heads down and reached their arms out towards Hacky, humming a gentle tune. A realization hit Hacky. He looked down at his canvas, covered in alcohol, vomit, and a hundred dollar bill stuck in the middle. “Texture…” he whispered to himself. He spat on the canvas and ripped grass out of the ground, sticking it to the canvas. “Sit… still!” the priest yelled. Hacky went sporadic. He grabbed anything he could find, circling the bill with bits of dirt and bark. He looked up at the cultists. The life and soul of an artist had absorbed itself into his prefrontal cortex. He ran up to one of the cultists and ripped off their animal mask, an odd looking pig face “Hey!” the cultist barked. Hacky put on the pig mask and stood staring at the canvas. He nodded. Perfection. “Wait a minute,” Hacky began, “are you the ones who’ve been sending me around!? You son a -!” — “Mother of god, it’s… it’s beautiful.” Ron said, in awe of Hacky. Hacky stood in the middle of the crowd holding his canvas, still wearing the grotesque pig mask. Some took pictures, some just watched, but all in the crowd were enamoured by the canvas Hacky held high for them. “The symbolism!” Ron exclaimed, “It all fits! How! How did you make this?” Hacky took off his mask. “Um, I uh-” “Nevermind,” Ron interrupted, “don’t spoil the process for me. The mystery capitvates me more. So, what do you call it?” Hacky, for the first time in a while, was at a loss for words. “Just… a self-potrait” he said. “My god…” A single tear rolled down Ron’s eye. 

2bgr51

The Marshal

“That your final word on it, kid?” My hand hovered over the butt of the old Remington on my hip. “That depends on you, Mr. Hall.” I couldn’t believe it had come to this. My mind flashed back to a much better time… Edward B. Hall had always been a hero of mine. He’d been town marshal of Sweet Springs, Kansas since before I was born. My name’s Dan Bonner, and ever since I could ride a horse, I told everyone I was going to be a lawman, just like Marshal Hall. In the spring of ‘79, Hall was between deputies, and I saw my chance. I pulled the Deputy Wanted advertisement off his door and walked inside. “Marshal Hall, sir, I’m Dan Bonner and—” “I know who you are. Why’d you pull my sign down?” “Well, because, um, I want the job, sir.” Mr. Hall narrowed his eyes and stared a hole right through me. “How old are you, kid?” “I’ll be eighteen in a month.” “So, yer seventeen?” I grinned sheepishly. “Yeah, but just for a month.” Hall’s eyes twinkled and his mouth threatened to smile, but he somehow managed to head it off. “Why the hell do you want to be my deputy?” Why did I want to be his deputy? Was he joking? The man was a living legend! Facing down the Renfro gang single-handed, tracking down all manner of thieves, outlaws and ne’er do wells, protecting the good people of Sweet Springs, Kansas? How could I possibly narrow it— “That’s about what I figured. Can’t even tell me a single reason. Don’t you kids know what you want these days?” he asked, sounding exasperated with me. “I—” “—But you caught me at a bad time. Pay’s twenty dollars a month, and you can sleep in one of the jail cells unless we have a visitor.” “So, I can have the job?” “Ain’t that what I just said?” “Thank you so much! I won’t let you down, I promise!” “Yeah, yeah. You got a sidearm, kid?” I shook my head. “I’ve been saving my pennies, but I don’t have enough money yet.” He waved me off and went to the back room. A moment later he returned with a grungy old gun belt, half the cartridge loops torn off, and a holster holding a beat-up '58 Remington .44. It was the greatest thing anyone ever gave me! “The man who carried this ain’t needin’ it no more,” Hall said, crossing himself. He walked to his desk and rummaged through the top drawer. He tossed me a deputy marshal badge. I gave it a quick shine and pinned it onto my shirt. “Thank you, Marshal! I’ll do a good job for you, I promise.” He nodded, sizing me up. “Believe you might at that. You can start now. Sweep this place out, it’s a damn mess. I’m goin’ down to the café, be back in a while. Don’t shoot yourself with that ol’ Remington. We’ll go see what you can do with it this afternoon.” There was sure a lot to learn being a lawman, and I hung on every word the marshal said to me. I watched how he dealt with the citizens, with lawmen from other towns, even with criminals. He gave people respect, and they gave it back to him. He had a rough exterior, but inside he was decent down to the roots. My respect for him had only grown in the months I’d spent as his deputy. One day, however, I started to see another side of him. I came back from the post office with a large envelope and gave it to him. “New dodgers?” I asked. “Prob’ly so,” Hall said. “Pull up a chair, let’s have a look see.” He opened it and we started poring over them. “Ralph Wadkins, cattle thief,” I said. Mr. Hall looked over at the poster I was referring to. “Huh. Big boy. Looks like he eats ‘em as fast as he steals ‘em.” I chuckled and flipped to another. “Jim Foster, bank robbery.” “Foster’s mean an’ ornery as an ol’ mule. You see him, you come get me, kid.” I nodded and grabbed the next dodger. “Silas McGurk, wanted for horse thievin’.” He grabbed the dodger out of my hand. His face turned red, and his mouth twisted into a snarl. He looked like a completely different man. It was then I remembered. Silas’ older brother, Van McGurk, was the one who robbed the stagecoach several years back. He shot the driver, the shotgun rider, and the lone passenger, Lydia, also known as Mrs. Edward B. Hall. Van was arrested in Wichita, tried, and hanged for his crimes. Ever since then, Marshal Hall tends to go a little crazy at the mention of the McGurk name, and rightfully so I reckon. “You ever see McGurk around here, you come get me, you hear me, kid? I want to know the minute he shows his stinkin’ face around here!” “I will.” The marshal seemed to calm down a bit then, but his sudden anger had worried me. It was so out of character. He pulled out the bottom desk drawer and retrieved a whiskey bottle. “Go on and make your rounds, kid,” he said as he uncorked the bottle and took a pull. Again, out of character. “All right. See you after while.” A couple of uneventful weeks passed, until old Billy Sheridan burst into the office one day, huffing and puffing. He’d run the three blocks from the livery stable where he worked. “Marshal!” he gasped. “Horse thief done hit us!” Mr. Hall and I perked up. “How many did he get?” Hall asked. “Just one, that steeldust belong to Mr. Andrews.” Oren Andrews owned half of Sweet Springs. He’d be mad enough to chew horseshoes and spit out nails when he found out. “Did you get a good look at the thief?” Hall asked. Billy nodded. “Better’n that. Hell, we all know him.” “Who?” I asked. “Silas McGurk. He was headed straight south outta town. Jeez, marshal, Mr. Andrews’ gonna be so mad.” I looked over at Marshal Hall and watched him turn that crimson color again. “I’ll take care of it,” he said. Billy nodded and left the office. The marshal said nothing and began collecting gear for the ride. Rifle, cartridges, matches, canteens, whiskey. “Go down to the store, get me some bacon an’ coffee.” I ran down to the general store, got his items, and hustled back. He was finished packing his horse, waiting on me. I’d not yet had the opportunity to ride with him after someone. “Can I go with you, Mr. Hall?” He stopped and thought for a moment. I’m sure he was weighing the options and deciding where an inexperienced kid would do the least damage, in a posse or in charge of the town. “Yeah, sure, saddle up quickly and let’s go.” “Thanks!” I said as I flew into action. A couple minutes later, we headed south out of town, where we picked up McGurk’s trail. The marshal motioned for a stop. We dismounted, and he pointed to the tracks. “See that back left track? See those three lines on the outer edge of the print? “Yeah?” “Billy filed that marking on that shoe. He does that for Mr. Andrews in case one of his expensive horses gets stolen. Makes our job easier. Doesn’t matter much here, though, look like he’s alone,” Hall said as we mounted up and hit the trail again, following the marked hoofprints. As we rode on, I thought on how Mr. Hall would always take the time to explain things to me. I appreciated it a lot. We followed the trail a couple of hours until near dark. “We ain’t that far behind, but we’re losin’ daylight, an’ we don’t want to lose his track. We’ll camp here and trail him again at first light.” I gathered some dry wood, and we built a small campfire. After a small supper of bacon and coffee, we sat and talked a bit before turning in. Mr. Hall took a couple of pulls from his bottle and started talking about how much he hated the McGurks. He offered me a swig, but I passed. He told me to keep a lookout and to wake him in four hours. Four hours is a long time to stay awake when you’re supposed to be sleeping and you have no one to talk to. But I stayed sharp, listened, and watched. Mr. Hall said if we didn’t watch, McGurk might sneak back and kill us in our sleep. I woke him after my four hours was up and he took over. “Time to get up, kid.” Unlike the watch time, four hours of sleep went by in an instant. That doesn’t make sense at all. We had a cup of coffee and picked up Silas’ trail at first light. “Where do you think he’s heading?” I asked. “McGurk’s got folks down ‘round Sedan, I think that’s where he’s goin’. But I reckon we’ll catch up to him ‘fore then.” “How long you think Judge Clay’ll give Silas for horse stealin’?” He didn’t answer, and by the look on his face, I didn’t think I ought to ask again. We made another camp when it got dark. Mr. Hall said we were closin’ the gap and he reckoned we’d catch up to Silas sometime tomorrow. We talked for a bit. He was a nice man, ‘til he got into that whiskey bottle. It changed him. I watched his eyes grow dark and sullen, and he said things like, “McGurk might try somethin’ and we won’t be able to get him in front of the judge.” I didn’t understand, it always seemed if the marshal tracked someone, he generally brought him back alive. He started to talk about his wife a little, and how Van McGurk took the one person in the world he cared for, and the one who cared for him. Seemed to me he was lookin’ at Silas how he would look at Van if he was trailin’ him instead, just ‘cause they had the same last name. I thought on that a lot as I took first watch. We trailed McGurk from sunrise to sunset that third day. I should have been happy, I was a lawman, on the hunt with my hero, but the more he talked and the more he drank, the more I found myself wishin’ I was anywhere but here. I wasn’t sure what was gonna happen when we finally caught up with Silas, but I won’t lie, it worried me. Mr. Hall raised his hand and we reined up. He dismounted, so I did too. He pointed at the ground. “He stopped and walked the horse here, see?” I saw the boot prints and nodded. We walked the horses as quietly as we could as Silas’ trail led through a large stand of blackjack oaks. Around a hundred yards in, Mr. Hall tied his horse to a tree, and I did the same. It was dark now. He smelled smoke up ahead, and figured it was McGurk. I didn’t smell the smoke, but I sure smelled the rye whiskey on him when he leaned over and whispered to me. That stuff made him mean, and I hoped it wouldn’t affect his judgment. Unfortunately, my fear was soon realized. Up ahead, Silas stood by his fire, his back to us. “Put your hands up, McGurk, or you’re a dead man!” Marshal Hall’s booming voice echoed off the rocks that surrounded the camp. Silas threw up his hands and swore. “Get his gun, kid.” Silas had taken his gun belt off and it laid uselessly beside the campfire. I grabbed it and walked back to Mr. Hall and set it down. “Tie his hands an’ feet,” he told me, and I did. “We’re going to camp here tonight, head back in the morning?” I asked, but he just glared at Silas and kept drinking. Finally, he spoke. "Go get your rope, kid,” he told me as he kicked Silas McGurk in the ribs. “You’re gonna hang, you thievin’ son of a bitch!” My heart sank. I was scared to death, but I shook my head. “No.” “What?” Hall boomed. “I told you to get your rope, do it now, boy!” “I… this isn’t right,” I stammered. “Whatta you know about it?” Hall slurred. “I been a lawman since ‘fore you wuz born!” I found my nerve. “Then YOU of all people, ought to know better! We didn’t ride for three days, chasin’ this man so you could be his judge, jury, and executioner.” “He’s a goddamn horse thief! A horse thief named McGurk! And you know what that means, he gets his neck stretched right now!” I shook my head. “I know what the McGurk name means to you, but this ain’t right! Silas didn’t kill Mrs. Hall, his brother did, and they hanged him. Marshal… please! You’re better than this!” “That your final word on it, kid?” My hand drew close to the butt of the old Remington on my hip. “That depends on you, Mr. Hall.” He nodded, and for a moment I thought everything was going to be all right. Suddenly, he went for his pistol. There’s another reason I always idolized the marshal. No one was faster with a pistol than him. I never stood a chance. We stood there a moment, his Colt cocked and trained on me. I’d barely had time to touch my old Remington, let alone actually draw it. “You got sand, kid, I’ll give ya that.” I would have celebrated that compliment from him any time but now. He shook his head, “But there was only one way this was ever gonna go,” as he moved his pistol toward Silas. Without thinking, I jumped in front of McGurk. “No sir, I ain’t gonna let you murder him.” “Kid, get outta the way! I’ll shoot you too if I hafta!” I shook my head. “You’re better than this!” I repeated, almost as much for me as for him. “He’s a McGurk and he’s gonna die, tonight! Now move, dammit!” I thought of one last thing to say. I reckoned it had about a fifty-fifty chance of either working or getting me killed on the spot. “I bet your wife always thought you were better than this. You want to disappoint her like this?” Mr. Hall glared at me and I half-closed my eyes, wondering how bad it hurt to get shot. His pistol seemed to shake, just a little. Finally, after several of the most intense moments of my young life, he spoke. “Goddamn you, kid. Tie him to that big oak tree yonder. Tomorrow we’ll start headin’ back with yer prisoner.” I smiled in relief and tied up Silas, who thanked me for intervening. Mr. Hall took the first watch. When he woke me, he said somethin’ I won’t soon forget. “Took a helluva lot of guts to do what you did. I’m in your debt.” “Thank you, Mr. Hall,” I started, but he waved me off. “No, Dan. Thank you,” he said and shook my hand. He didn’t fight off his smile this time. 

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