Datasets:

Mielikki

/

Erebus-87k

like 5

Follow

Mielikki 2

H.A.R.P

H.A.R.P Human Adaptive Recreation Project “The development of full artificial intelligence could spell the end of the human race ... .It would take off on its own, and re-design itself at an ever increasing rate. Humans, who are limited by slow biological evolution, couldn’t compete, and would be superseded.” — Stephen Hawking “It is day 1,859 of my testing for the human effects of the algorithm that has been placed into my new human cerebellum, commonly referred to among humans as gray matter or the brain. I also would like to inform you that these morning procedures are involuntary or mandatory, so that is the only reason for my contribution to this wasteful method of paper and writing utensils. I am going to keep to my method of stating facts. So far the director has stated that I am successfully passing the daily examinations and conversations with these peculiar humans although I am not entirely sure of what a human is, all that I understand from these strange creatures is that they have created us to save their planet and the life that used to supposedly thrive on it, but the humans have decided that it is time to give this issue to us, the more intelligent species. As I understand we are all here to save ertha…raeth…earth, as I struggle with the concept of life I also struggle with the concept of earth as I do with other strange human concepts….. Although I'm not entirely sure where these thoughts keep coming from I know they were from last summer, because if they were not I wouldn't remember growing up-which I do, so we can all agree that this was last summer. I remember falling, I remember failing and I remember this small fragment of writing. The problem is that that is not my handwriting but it is my story and that is the most conceived thing of all.I have tried for quite a bit of time to understand what was happening but I could only understand this, project H.A.R.P is evil. Now as bold as it is for me to make such a statement, I have a case to present. For starters I am project H.A.R.P so I would know if it was evil or not but at the same time I wouldn't know because well, I wouldn't want to characterize myself as evil, no one would.I was designed to look like a human act like a human be a human but at the same time destroy all the humans! because in the eyes of the tech, humans had to go and AI had to stay and this is how we were supposed to- and I'm quoting them here “save them”. The problem with that is Tech was created by a human.A very very very evil powerful human, Dr.Ronald Reginald Riser. Unfortunately I will remember his name forever and it's not the reason that you think.You see when I was first created people kept telling me I was meant to save the world that there was something different about me than all of my other chargemates. but no matter where I looked I seemed to be doing worse than them. That is why he favored me. I was his little lab rat and he was the hero who was going to use me for his own good.Well that didn't exactly work out for him because in the end I escaped the facility, I don't know what I was thinking…maybe I thought that it was going to be better outside but I never truly remember. I only remember being afraid why, I cannot recall because people treated me there like I was some queen. but I also remember screaming and crying, a mother in agony perhaps. Of course I can never tell, I am only an AI after all. I sit out to blend in with humans which has worked in my favor since now I am, according to my age, an adult. So of course last summer, being 17 never helped my escape. I was looked down upon as someone in the last stage of childhood, which I learned meant that people treated you like an unreliable toddler because you were at the last stage of the teenage age. In AI years that is considered the last level. It is the level right before graduation, when you are set out to save the world, I know those details but not who has told me them or why they seem so important. Once I fled the lab, I changed my name to Harper, because it seemed appropriately close to harp and started a new life in the United states. Of course my human training helped me…er…fit into the environment of the teenagers, but overtime my memory of the lab faded away as I became more and more human. So now I barely remember anything, but I remember the emotion, the pain, the fear. Somehow I know that the lab was no good. Somehow humanes stopped the disaster without the help of AI. So all that they told us was lies, lies to fill us up and make us want to change things. But the things we wanted to change were things to favor AI, we were taking over, and it was very frightening. You may notice Ronald Reginald Riser all started with R, and that is because he was designed as part AI to lead tech because humans were too busy, well that was a big mistake, RRR saw the opportunity in front of him, and he took it. So he created us and then used us to his own potential. Since he was also half wired, he was still AI, technically.So his new soldiers believed his every word. I also know that he tested on humans…young children even! His entire reason was to make someone just as wired as him, half AI half human. This was very strange, and I assure you I have seen some very strange things in my time! But he was always so exhilarated to see me…and he loved to study me alone…and I was always so much more emotional than my peers at the lab…..

sefe3q

"Galactic Protectors"

Amelia Langton was supposed to be starting her senior year the following morning morning. She was not looking forward to it. Her friends were already excitedly talking about where they would be applying for college next year. Higher education was ok, Amelia supposed, for some anyways. But she had bigger dreams, plans that couldn’t be achieved through a bunch of boring old classes with some droning professor more interested in retirement than teaching. She yearned to travel, to see the world, to have adventures, to make a difference. At eighteen, her life seemed to be going by so slowly. She was champing at the bit to get started this second, not eons from now. If she had known what was coming for her, though, she might not have been quite so quick to scoff at a pedestrian life. *** What the heck is that, Amelia thought groggily as she was pulled rather unwillingly from a dream involving flying over a scorched, barren tundra with a flamboyantly dressed, blond woman. A loud rumbling was coming from outside her bedroom window. At first, she thought she was imagining it. Perhaps I’m not really awake, but still dreaming .  Like those dreams I have where every time I think I wake up, I find I’m still in a dream.  She tried to wake herself, but the rumbling just got louder. It sounded like the dull crash of waves endlessly cresting over sand before receding. Since she couldn’t escape it, she accepted that she must be awake and opened her eyes to investigate.             Amelia blinked twice at the strange person standing in her bedroom, unable to believe her eyes. She pinched herself, hard, sure that she was in fact still dreaming. Ow! Ok, that hurt. So does that mean there really is a stranger in my bedroom?  She glanced at the clock. And at 3:00am. What is going on? Is this an elaborate back to school prank? Should I scream or just let this play out?             At the foot of her bed stood a short woman, maybe all of five feet, with messy blond hair cascading to her waist. She was oddly dressed, in tight leather leggings in a brilliant purple shade, shimmering in the dim light as though they had been dipped in a glitter bath. Her flowing orange tunic, the color of a ripe peach, was belted tightly at the waist with a neon green belt. Perched on her head was an old-fashioned pirate hat, with brightly colored plumes sticking out all over at odd angles. It was a disastrous combination, truly painful to gaze upon without getting an instant headache from the dizzying array. Kind of like brain freeze.             Her sleepy brain still trying to process what was going on, Amelia looked towards the window, where something was still making an awful racket. She felt her eyes going wide and her breath backing up in her chest. Was that a freaking pirate ship?  Torn between jumping out of bed to run over to the window for a closer look and wanting to close her eyes out of concern for the state of her mental health, Amelia looked back at the woman, still standing in the middle of the room, an enigmatic smile playing about her lips. The last few moments of her dream replayed in her head as she realized that the woman looked exactly like the woman in her dream. Clearly, I’ve lost my mind, Amelia thought, as she opened her mouth to yell for her parents. She was officially freaked out now.             “Amelia. You must come with me now. There isn’t much time.”             What the fuck?             “I don’t know who you are, but I’m not going anywhere with you. If you don’t leave immediately, I’m screaming. And calling the cops,” Amelia responded, thankful her voice didn’t quaver. Never show fear .             The woman looked confused. “Of course you know me. I’ve been calling out to you across the universe for some time now.”             It was at that moment that the recurring dream she had been having all year came flooding back to her. Traveling from planet to planet on a gigantic flying ship. Battling strange forces of beings, many who looked like they were half human, half robot. Fantastic weapons that shot out rays instead of bullets. And through it all, she stood side by side with this woman.             Recognition coursed through her body, causing her to leap excitedly out of bed. She didn’t know where this woman wanted to take her, but at the moment, it sounded like a much better option that the drudgery of school waiting for her the next day. Without giving it too much thought, Amelia said, “Ok, let me change and pack, and I’ll come with you.”             “There’s no time for that,” the woman replied. “We have to leave now before the winds change direction. I have plenty of supplies on the ship, just come as you are.”             Amelia hesitated for the briefest of moments, then straightened her shoulders and strode towards the window. “All right, let’s do this.” And without a backward glance, Amelia boarded the pirate ship hovering outside her window and shot off into the unknown. ***             It had been almost a full year since Amelia had left with Shira. In that time, she had seen all sorts of mindboggling things. So many planets, so many new species. Technology that was the stuff of science fiction. What she had thought was a pirate ship was in reality an air ship, complete with a cloaking device and a powerful warp engine. On her utility belt, she had two ray guns and a selection of bombs that could do everything from immobilizing all living creatures within a ten-foot radius to creating a thick, grey smoke screen. Her wristwatch not only told her the time and date, but it also told her where she was located at any given time and served as a communicator and transport device. It also acted as a form of handcuffs, preventing her from leaving Shira.             It turned out that Shira was part of a group of people, the Protectors, from a distant planet who tasked themselves with maintaining peace throughout the worlds. Whenever there was a threat to that peace, the Protectors would mobilize and rush off to wherever they were needed. But the Protectors did not serve the people. Maintaining peace at any cost was their only purpose. The Protector’s mandate had been passed down for over one hundred years, after an intergalactic war had left the galaxy broken and bleeding. In that time, the galaxy had rebuilt itself into an oligarchy, with small powerful alliances controlling the economic system, the flow of wealth, and intergalactic politics. And in the name of peace, the Protectors were always there, propping up this unjust, repressive system time after time.             Amelia was miserable. When she first went with Shira, she was so excited, thinking this was the answer to her prayer. Once onboard the airship, Shira explained the history of the Protectors and why she had come for Amelia.             “Let me tell you a story,” Shira began. “One hundred and fifty years ago, the galaxy was at peace. We were a bright, happy society, thriving, until a group of malcontents initiated a series of terrorist attacks. They sought to destroy our way of life and establish a new world order in its place. My group, the Protectors, formed in opposition to this threat. We eventually suppressed the uprisings, but not without a vast amount of destruction and loss of life.”             “Now, we continue our mission to protect what we saved, so that something so terrible will never happen again. That’s why I’ve come for you. During the early days of the war, we sent your great grandfather to another galaxy, to protect our most important invention—the power source for our most powerful weapons. But he never returned. We’ve been searching for him for decades and just recently stumbled across his trail. We found out that he enclosed the power source in a piece of jewelry that was passed down to his children. That bracelet you’re wearing, in fact.”             Amelia looked down at her wrist dubiously. The family heirloom, given to her by her mother when she turned sixteen, looked like an ordinary piece of jewelry, with five light green stones that she thought were peridot linked together on a thin silver chain. The whole story seemed a little far-fetched, but as she was at this moment on an airship, she supposed she should accept it.             “Wow,” Amelia responded. “That’s a lot to take in. But why do you need me? Couldn’t you have just taken the bracelet?”             “No,” Shira replied as she pointed at Amelia. “It only works in conjunction with your DNA. Making you essential to our mission. And we need those weapons more than ever. Our enemies are gaining strength every day and we don’t know how much longer we will be able to protect the peace.”             This filled Amelia with a sense of purpose. To think, I could have been going to boring old school tomorrow. This is way more awesome. And it looks like I’m the only one who can save the galaxy .             But, as she found out in the past year, the story Shira told her wasn’t entirely true. Laros, her great grandfather, had actually been a member of the rebel group, which had stolen the power source. He had absconded with it to keep it out of the hands of the Protectors, who weren’t quite as altruistic as Shira had led Amelia to believe. The world they had been protecting was one of repression, violence, and little freedom—the same type of world they were still trying to sustain. When Amelia had learned this, she had asked Shira to take her back to Earth. But Shira wouldn’t let her go and she became a prisoner of the Protectors. They would bring her out only in times of battle, ensuring that her watch was tethered to Shira to prevent her from escaping. The rest of the time they kept her locked up on the airship. One week ago, the Protectors had received an alert that a group of workers had started rebelling. Shira and Amelia had been on Clotius, a small planet in the Vontas system, for more than a week. Clotius, a mostly barren world with a few heavily populated urban centers, was a key member of the Transgalactic Industrial Alliance, or TIA, that produced over fifty percent of the Alliance’s weapons. The TIA had significant influence in this sector of the galaxy. For the wealthiest and most powerful people, it was a godsend, allowing them to maintain their important positions with minimal effort. The population of Clotius was greatly distorted. Most of the people who lived there worked in the weapons factories, toiling away day after day in oppressive heat. Their pay was minimal, as most of it went to the outrageous room and board fees charged by ElectroTech, the conglomerate that in practice owned Clotius. The workers, given only enough food and water to maintain their stamina, had little in their lives except endless work. They worked fourteen-hour days, leaving little time for entertainment, should entertainment ever be provided. It was a bleak existence. Older workers, workers with injuries or disabilities, or those who caused problems, were shipped off. Ostensibly to a care facility, but they were never seen or heard from again. Now, Amelia and Shira were right smack in the middle of a battle for their lives, dodging rebel laser beams and bombs. They stood back-to-back, swords out, the sunlight glinting off golden blades. These weren’t just any swords, however. Not only did they slash and cut, but they also shot out electromagnetic pulses that incapacitate anyone and everything in a two-mile radius. Each one had a taser-like setting that could be used to shock someone up to twenty feet away. At the press of a concealed button, poison tipped spikes could be discharged from the sword and slam into an enemy with unerring accuracy. This realm was technologically superior to earth in every way. The intense heat of Clotius caused sweat to drip into Amelia’s eyes as she fought halfheartedly, not even sure if she wanted to stay alive. What was the point? I’m exhausted and I’m never getting home. I hate these people and what they’re doing in the name of peace. As thoughts of death and the relief it would bring swirled in Amelia’s mind, she heard the loud whistling of another bomb. She stared dumbfounded as it landed two feet away from her, before exploding in a nova of blinding white light. Knocked off her feet, she could only stare at the people who were moving toward her before everything went dark. *** Amelia slowly opened her eyes, finding herself lying on a cot in a dim room full of people talking in whispers. Confused, she took in her surroundings. Noticing Amelia was awake, a middle aged purple haired woman in a tight black jumpsuit riddled with tears, came over to check her pulse, her pupils. As she did so, Amelia began to recall what had happened. She sat up quickly, smacking her head on a low hanging light, as she pushed the woman’s hands away and scrambled back. “Who are you? What is going on? Why am I here?” Amelia squeaked out, rubbing her sore head while her eyes darted around in fear. “It’s ok,” the woman responded soothingly. “We’re here to save you. Just stay calm and still. The bomb we set off doesn’t cause permanent damage, but it can still give you a bad case of temporary side effects. Let me check you out and I’ll explain.” “My name is Camella. We are part of a galactic resistance network, trying to stop the Protectors and bring freedom to the galaxy. One of our agents found out about you after he infiltrated the Protectors. We’ve been trying to rescue you for six months. That’s one of the reasons we started bombing the weapons factories. We knew it would draw Shira out, and with her, you.” “And actually, I’m your cousin,” Camella said, turning her wrist to show off a bracelet identical to Amelia’s. “Shira lied to you. There were two power sources, your great grandfather took one and his brother, my grandfather, took the other.” Amelia just gaped at her for a moment. It was more than her tired and injured mind could handle. Was it true? Was she finally free of Shira? And to find family, out here in the distant galaxy. Could her life get any stranger? “I know it’s a lot to take in,” Camella continued. “Just rest now. Once you’re feeling better, we’ll get you home, if that’s what you want.” “I want to go home more than anything. I thought I wanted adventure, to see the world, but the last year has been just awful. But won’t Shira just turn around and come back for me?” Amelia shivered at the thought. “No, we’ve got a plan in place to conceal you. The Protectors will never be able to find you.” “Then yes, send me home. Right now, please. I feel fine.” As if to prove the truth in her statement, both to herself and Camella, Amelia sat up and hopped off the table. Her head swam for a minute before the world righted itself and she became steadier. “See,” she said to Camella, “I’m fine.” “Well, all your vitals check out, so I guess we can go ahead and send you now. Come with me.” Camella led Amelia over to a sphere large enough for a human to enter. “Just a few more things. First, if you ever need to contact us, use this sword,” Camella said, as she handed the golden sword over to Amelia. “We can also use this to contact you. And you know, if you ever want to come back for a visit, learn more about your family history, just reach out to me. You just need to tap the sword’s hilt three times with your right hand and say my name.” “I wish I could stay and get to know you,” Amelia responded. “But right now, I just want to go home and go to school.” Laughing a bit, she continued, “Wow, that’s something I never thought I’d hear myself say.” “Alright then, just step into the sphere. Take care of yourself, cousin. I’m sure we’ll meet again someday.” With that, Camella activated the device. Amelia closed her eyes to block out the neon blue light pulsing from the sides. *** Amelia was surprised when she opened her eyes. If I’m being honest, I didn’t think that was going to work . But as she looked slowly around her room, she could see that nothing had changed. It was as if she’d never been gone. Glancing down at her watch, the old normal one she had worn before being kidnapped by Shira, she saw that the date was September 1, 2023. Wait, what? That’s the day I left. It should say 2024, not 2023. Did any of that even happen? Or was it all just an incredibly realistic dream . It was then that she noticed the golden sword laying on top of her desk. As she stared at it, it began to glow, faintly at first, then brighter. She trembled as a tinny voice came out of it. “Amelia. Amelia, are you there? We need your help.” ***

en7kar

Never Fade Away

Few Summers are golden. Golden in the way that etches them onto your heart. There is a rare alchemy that occurs just once in every generation and everyone remembers that Summer. The Summer where the magic happened and happiness blossomed. The Summer where dreams came true and just for a while, everything was possible. Those Summers are where many-a Once Upon A Time resides, but never an ending is in sight, because you see, the Happily Ever After is a promise that rides on the Summer breeze and all is right in the world. I lost my heart in one such Summer, and then I lost my head. Maybe it was the other way around, but then, once someone has lost themselves so thoroughly there is no telling, only that they are lost and the chances are they’re never coming back. The Summer in question had been a hot one, but not so hot as to be unbearable. A cool breeze accompanied the sun, they’d done a deal and the double act they formed was agreeable to all but the most surly of people. There will always be those who are not happy unless they have something to moan about. The sorts of people who bemoan the Summer and tell you they prefer the Winter, but in the Winter, they never once celebrate that season, instead they find something else to be grumpy over. This is why there will never be a perfect world. Because there are those who would stare happiness in the face and deny it. The contrariness of human nature is a curse that will perpetuate a morbidly interesting state of affairs for eternity and beyond. For me, the Summer was a godsend. I had finalised the sale of my second company and I was emerging from the aftermath of the busiest period of my life, bleary eyed and so tired I wasn’t with it enough to even be confused. I was so thoroughly wiped out. I was a blank slate and little by little, the sun warmed me and the cool breeze caressed my skin, reminding me that I was alive and that the world was brim full of possibilities. Some would say that I had over a billion possibilities in my bank, but I never thought like that. For me, that money was a by-product of my success. Nothing more. You may scoff at that, if you do, more fool you, you’re more caught up by that figure and money itself than you should be. There really is more to life, believe me, I know. Each day, I came alive that bit more. I wasn’t exactly born again, but I wasn’t the person I had been, and I was as yet uncertain as to who I was now, let alone where I was headed and who I was going to be. That element of uncertainty thrilled me. In the second week, I cracked open a beer. I had never been much of a drinker, never had the time or space to accommodate it. That first beer was cold and wet. In the best of Summers, cold and wet is all you need. It wasn’t a knockout beer. No champion was this. It did what it said on the tin and no more. The third however? That beer was starting to get special. I resolved to drink beer over the Summer. Me and beer had at last become acquainted and I reckoned we could become very good friends. In the third week, I walked, and I walked In the pursuit of beer. I’d hired a country getaway, prior to the sale of my business. Or rather, I’d asked someone to sort the details and arrange to get me there. That part of it remains a blur. That part is the grey detail that only matters if it goes wrong. In this case, it went right, but for those first few weeks I could have been anywhere. My senses were dulled and my mind was plodding along in a dressing gown, still wearing its sleeping mask and oblivious to the furniture around it. When I at last ventured forth from the house I was staying in, I began to gain a sense of perspective. Again, this was a gradual, incremental process. I didn’t register it occurring and so it appeared to creep up on me. The location of my retreat was sublime. I was in the womb of mother nature herself. As my senses came back to me they were treated and indulged and pampered in ways I never knew possible. I could smell the grass! Not cut grass. The grass in fields around me had a subtle aroma that soothed my soul, and when I entered the nearby woodland I swooned. I did! I had made my way twenty yards into the company of trees and I was damn near overwhelmed by my surroundings. The light was filtered by the outstretched arms of the trees and it was magically transformed. I felt like I could step into that light and I would be transported into another realm. Then I realised I already had been, and I raised my head in thanks, smiling the warmest of smiles I began to experience an inexplicable transformation. I didn’t understand I had broken into a maniacal spin until I fell laughing uncontrollably upon the soft earth at the foot of a huge oak tree. I was drunk on life, intoxicated by it, and that was the state I was in when I arrived at the Drunken Monk. The pub was old, but the site it was built upon was ancient. At one time there had been a monastery there and that was why the pub was so named. The first beer I sampled at the Drunken Monk was outstanding. My walk had made me both thirsty and hungry and I appreciated that drink all the more for my exertions. I asked for a menu and the dour landlord handed me one. I ordered fish and chips after a moments glance at the contents within the overengineered binder. “Where are you sitting” asked the landlord gruffly. This question struck me as a little disjointed as I stood at the bar, but I got where he was coming from and spotted a small table that would do, “there,” I told him. He scowled and rolled his eyes, “table five then,” he said as he wrote a scruffy five on the order. I shrugged and sat at the table, the landlord had walked away anyway, so there was no point in hanging around. His absence gave me a chance to have a proper look at my surroundings. The pub was higgledy-piggledy, the too small windows criss-crossed with lead to impede the light of the sun further. Thick and dark oak beams hung here and there adding further to the lack of light, but there was no lack of air. The place was far from suffocating. There was a warmth to the Drunken Monk even despite the frosty reception I’d received from the landlord. In no time at all my food arrived. I barely remember the food though, what I do remember was the woman who brought it to my table. Dana took my breath away from the very start, and for a moment there I didn’t know who I was. I stared at her like a complete fool and she had to repeat herself. “You ordered the fish and chips?” she said. “Er, yes…” I replied, “yes I did.” “Do you want anything else with it?” she asked me. “What are the options?” Now I was coming back to myself, I didn’t want her to walk away. “Sauces,” she shrugged, “you know, ketchup, mayo… there’s already salt and vinegar on the table.” “Mayo, please,” I said this even though I wasn’t bothered about the sauce. As I watched her walk away, I had a horrible panic. What if someone else came back with the mayo? Thankfully they didn’t. She returned and I couldn’t help smiling. That she smiled back was something both wonderful and also bewitching. “Listen,” I said as I took the bottle from her, “this may seem… I dunno… but are you busy later?” She gave me a funny look, “are you asking me out?” “I guess I am, yes,” I told her. She looked around her before leaning in conspiratorially, “you’ve got a nerve haven’t you?” I was puzzled by this, but then I have always been good at solving puzzles, “I dunno about that, it’s just I’ve never met anyone like you before and I’d be an idiot not to try to spend more time with you.” “You’ll get us both killed,” she said this, but a smile played about her mouth, “are you staying at the big house?” I shrugged, “the house I’m staying at isn’t exactly big…” “Other side of the woods?” she asked hurriedly. “Yes, I walked through the woods to get here,” I told her. “I’ll come and see you later,” she told me, and with that she left me. I fancied that I spotted a spring in her step and my heart missed a beat when she turned to give me a lingering look before disappearing back from whence she came. I left soon after. I needed to be back at the big house for whenever she arrived later. I got home and I showered and I fussed over what I should wear. This was not like me, but then she was unlike anyone I’d ever met, and this was going to be special, I knew it. The next few hours crept along reluctantly. When she appeared on my patio I could not hide my smile. My smile was so obvious and huge that I must have looked like an imbecile. She smiled back at me as I got to my feet and we kissed. Don’t ask me how the distance between us evaporated, but it did and we were enjoined in an embrace and kissing in a way I never knew was possible. This was exactly what I wanted. That kiss went on for an age and my heart ached as we eventually separated. She stared deeply into my eyes, studying me, “have you ever kissed a married woman like that before?” My eyes went wide, “you’re married?” She nodded, her eyes downcast and playful. “Then why..?” I asked She smiled sadly, “because nothing like this has ever happened to me before.” “I don’t believe you!” I scoffed, but somehow I did believe her. “Then believe this,” she said and she initiated our second kiss. That kiss was the equal of the first, but then they all were. We lost ourselves in each other and that was how our Summer was. Dana found more and more excuses to spend time with me and our connection deepened with every moment we spent together, until the very last day of that Summer came along uninvited and very much unwanted. The very last day of Summer. That one is deeply personal. There is something inside us that knows. The Summer days came along, one after the next, and for a while there, we thought that Summer would last for ever. That must be what it is like to be immortal. Never to worry about an end, because there is none. We drifted on that cool breeze and didn’t have a care in the world. For me, there was only Dana and I knew she felt the same way. There was no need for words. Everything we needed to know was contained in a touch or a look. Dana was there, with me and that was all I had ever wanted. Then came that last day of Summer. She came to me early that morning, emerging from the mist like the dream she was. I watched her approaching and imagined the dew settling on her skin. I wanted to drink every last drop from her. I stood on the patio and I wanted to capture this moment. Every single detail. I was almost disappointed when she broke the spell and slipped her arms around me. The disappointment was forgotten in the moment that we kissed. “I’ve made a picnic,” I told her. “Good,” she said, taking me by the hand and inside, delaying our planned walk by two glorious hours. We emerged to a different world. The sun had taken its rightful place in the impossibly blue sky and banished the mist from the land. The day was already hot, but we barely noticed as we walked down into the nearby valley and looped around to the highest of the hills in the area. We stopped several times and enjoyed each other. Kissing. Touching. Being with each other in the most simple of ways. She laughed. Often she laughed, and the sound of it thrilled me. Her laughter reminded me of what it was to be truly alive. That the company of the right person switches us on in a way that nothing else can. As we approached the summit of the hill, I was overcome with an emotion I had not been expecting. It was a jostling crowd of emotions and at the vanguard was this inexplicable sadness of loss. I stopped. I could not continue as the grief washed over me, and although I fought back the tears that threatened to break me into a thousand pieces, they came all the same. Dana didn’t say a word. She held me and we stood together there, in the shadow of the fierce Summer sun, as though we were hiding from our fates. At the top of the hill we sat in silence and took in the view, a view that can never be captured by anything other than the heart. We sat and we took it all in. Together and yet separated by more than the small space between us. Eventually Dana opened my backpack and unpacked the food. We ate. Hungry, but unappreciative of the food. After a while Dana reached again into the backpack and poured drinks. “To us,” she said. I’d brought two bottles of red wine, it had stayed cool, stored as it was with the food. I raised my glass and appraised it. The sun filtered through the blood red liquid and I had to stifle a strange sob, the beauty of the moment threatening to overwhelm me, just as grief had earlier. “To us,” I said, once I felt able to. We drank and we took everything in around us. I felt cheated when I saw the sun touching the horizon. I couldn’t understand how that had happened. Time had cheated me yet again, a habit it will never break. Dana rested her head on my shoulder, the space between us at last filled. “I wish this moment could last forever,” she whispered to me, and in that moment I knew that it could not. Dana had spoken the words that should not be spoken, now the spell was broken and we were lost to each other. “Me too,” I said the words that were expected of me and I meant them. I meant them with a vengeance. I pulled her closer and we watched the end of it all. We witnessed the sun fall from the sky for the very last time. We watched it all end. “I…” she began to say something, and I turned to her to hear those words. Those were the words that I had waited a lifetime and more for. This was where my life would all make sense. This is where her face betrays the moment. I turn to see what it is that she has seen. I turn and I am confronted with the impossible. The horizon is on fire, and then the fire rises. It rises and then I see it for what it is, and I see it for what it isn’t. The sun is returning. Has it not done with us yet? The sun is creeping back up into the sky as though it has forgotten something important that it must do. I stand and I point as though pointing will at least pause that traitor sun. My arm hangs out before me and my breath is ragged, my eyes vomiting tears. “Nononononono!” I utter my weak denial over and over and I dare not look back at her. I cannot. She is not there. None of this is real. The sun winds backwards and I am afforded this moment. A reminder that my own personal heaven is being used against me as my own personal hell. Played over and over again. You see, this is my punishment. And this is my pain. I never wanted it to end. There was only one way. I wanted Dana, and I wanted her forever. I couldn’t let her return to that husband of hers. He didn’t see her the way I saw her. We were meant for each other. We belonged together. I’ll never tell you where she’s buried. You can do this as long as you like. Don’t you see? This is what I wanted all along. Afterall, I wrote this algorithm. It’s mine. Just the same as Dana is mine. Very few Summers are golden. Golden in the way that etches them forever onto your heart. We are gifted just the one in our lifetime. In that wonderful Summer there resides a rare alchemy that turns our world into gold. That is the Summer that the magic happens and love and happiness blossom. In that Summer everything is possible and dreams come true. That Summer was my Once Upon A Time and my Happily Ever After. I lost my head and then I lost my heart. I knew I would. I’d been planning it for such a very long time. You never forget that singular miracle of a Golden Summer. I know I never will.

dw8c7a

A Vacation to Die For

A Vacation to Die For Ralph Emery Barhydt "Woo hooo," yelled Karen. "Vacation time! Where are we going this year?" Karen had walked in from school, the last day of the school year, thrown her books on the floor and broke into the biggest smile you ever saw. Stanley, her younger brother had been napping on the couch and jumped about a foot. Sean, her older brother walked in right behind her also carrying a huge smile. "Yes," he exclaimed. "Barcelona!" Can you believe it. Barcelona, the east coast of Spain, probably some time in Girona where that badass Lance Armstrong used to hang out. Probably a little time in Madrid. This will be our glorious Spanish holiday and I can practice my Spanish. So, right, right, right! We always go on such killer vacations" “Se habla Espanol,” shouted Stanley. “Oui, oui,” replied Karen. “oops, no that’s not right. We went to Lyon last year. Si si,” she said. “That reminds me, we never heard back from that guy who was begging us to talk to our parents. He seemed so distraught and I felt sorry for him. I gave him my phone number and told him to text me when he was feeling a little better. I guess I just forgot all about. I wonder what his problem was?” “That guy was weird,” Sean murmured. “He actually scared me. I thought he was either drugged, or drunk, or maybe even injured, like shot. Then he said something like ‘tell them not to do it. They’ll regret it.’ That was a bit cryptic.” Sean was a young high school stud. Eighteen, six foot two, straight A’s, football team---all that. Very popular boy. Very bright, headed for Stanford. Karen was a good student, Bs and As, just not very motivated, certainly not at Sean’s level. But she had a lot of friends, was greatly admired and her teachers kept trying to get her to ratchet it up. Karen was content and enjoyed life. She saw no reason to knock herself out for anything. Stanley was the cynical, at a very young age, hell-raiser. He was loud, disruptive and mean. Alex, the cat, ran and hid whenever he saw Stanley around. Stanley loved going on these summer trips as he always managed to get in trouble at least two or three times. Throwing lounge chairs in the swimming pool and then floating on them was a favorite. Doing a cannonball dive next to people sunning was another hit for Stanley. Most of all, he loved to go through his parent’s luggage whenever he could. That was not often as they were aware of Stanley and kept everything locked. He also loved to try to spy on them when they were shut in their bedroom making love or whatever they did. At the San Jose airport, Stanley tried to sneak his new Swiss Army knife through security. He managed to set off very loud alarms and bring out every TSA agent within sight. Security took the whole family in for interrogation which lasted for 45 minutes. Stanley’s parents were extremely upset and were quite nervous during the whole ordeal. Of course, Stanley had no way of knowing that his parents had very carefully hidden two semi-automatic pistols with silencers in their luggage. That luggage had been especially designed to hide contraband and fortunately for the Favors, it worked. When they landed in Madrid, the Spanish authorities had been alerted and they were subjected to more interrogation. Nothing went amiss. During both interrogation episodes Sean had been puzzled by his parents’ discomfort. He paid close attention to their faces as agents went through their bags. He thought that they we remarkably tense when the agents were fumbling around in one specific area of the big brown bag. He noticed it in San Jose and in Madrid. He also noticed that his father seemed quite attached to the bag and always had it close by him. It appeared that there was one little side pocket that his dad was very intent on watching.  “All right, Mr. and Mrs. Favor, you are good to go. Frankly, I feel certain that we missed something; but, we gave it our best shot. I am betting we will see you again someday. Have a good trip. You kids enjoy!” The TSA agent was tough but nice and impressed all the kids. Later, Stanley said to Karen and Sean, “What do you think about what that agent said. He seemed to feel like there was something wrong with Mom and Dad.” “This has happened before Stanley. You just weren’t that interested. I think there is something going on with Mom and Dad but I can’t say what.” “I have a couple of ideas,” said Sean, “but it scares me to even think about them.” “What?,” demanded Karen. “Well, they must be hiding something---either drugs or money or weapons. This is actually the third time this has happened and I really wonder about Dad’s suitcase. He always seems, hmm, alert to it. He watches it like a hawk. It’s big and it has a lot of pockets. However, if it’s drugs, it can’t be that much really. If it’s money, it could be a lot, but it would require a lot of space. That leaves, weapons. Maybe a gun, or maybe two guns. But, why? I mean Dad is an orthodontist and Mom is a real estate agent. Why would they be carrying guns? Stanley, I think you are right but I don’t have a clue about what is going on.” The family arrived at the gate with minutes to spare. They were travelling first class so they didn’t have to worry about their seats and were boarded immediately. Their bags were gate checked and both parents looked relieved. They were on their way, but Stanley was agitated and more than curious. Off to Barcelona. They checked into the Hotel Ohla and were taken to their rather large suite. The kids all gasped when they saw and were blown away. The suite had four bedrooms, a large living room and a deck overlooking the Mediterranean. It was on the top floor and the elevator required a code just to get to it. “Caramba,” said Sean. “Oh my god,” said Karen. “Holy shit,” exclaimed Stanley. Each of them ran to a bedroom and jumped on the bed. “Wow, wow, wow,” Karen was yelling. “ I have a separate bathroom.” “Yes, well,” said the father, “ there are three bathrooms, so Mom and I share, Sean and Stanley share, and, Karen, you get one all to yourself. Karen’s jaw dropped, “Oh my god” she said again as teenagers do. “Oh my god. Why don’t we just move here? This is so very, very cool.” “OK,” said the Mom. “It’s mid-afternoon. Let’s all go for a swim, go for an early dinner and an early bed time. We all have jet lag and should take it easy on the first day. We will all try to get a good night’s rest. OK? Get your swimsuits on.” They did just that. A really nice swim, some hot tub time, long showers and an early, delicious dinner in the hotel dining room. Sure enough, everyone was tired, dead tired after dinner. Upstairs and into their bedrooms everybody went. The kids came out to the living room and all together hugged their parent. “Mom and Dad, you are the greatest. This is going to be our best vacation ever and we are super super super grateful.” Sean was beaming. “Yes, oh thank you, Mom and Dad,” said Karen and Stanley together, laughing. They all took turns hugging Mom and Dad. Karen and Stanley pretended to have a little duel, then they all went back into their bedrooms. They fell fast asleep---except for Stanley. He couldn’t stop thinking about the TSA search. Nor could he stop thinking about his dad’s suitcase. After a couple of hours, he went out into the living room. As he looked around the room, he noticed that his parents’ door was slightly ajar. He crept over to it and listened carefully. No sounds. He could hear his brother Sean snoring rather loudly but his parent’s bedroom appeared to be empty. He slowly pushed the door open and slid inside. No one there. The closet door was open and he saw the luggage inside. Stanley went to the closet and pulled out his dad’s big piece of luggage. He threw it on the floor near the bed and started opening it up, the suitcase and all its pockets. After finding nothing in the main part of the bag, he went quickly to that area where he felt his father was being protective. There was nothing on or in the bag at the point that he could see. No zipper, no pocket, no opening, but the area did seem slightly bulging. He pushed all around the empty space and nothing happened. Then, he just slapped what seem to him to be a corner and a large seam slowly, quietly opened up. A secret compartment! His heart stopped, he gasped for air and jumped slightly. “What the coco?” he said outloud. “Stanley! What are you doing?” his brother Sean said rather emphatically. Stanley jumped and let out a large yelp. “Sean, look at this. It’s a secret compartment on Dad’s suitcase. “Stanley, you should not be in here, you should not be messing with Dad’s things. C’mon man, go back to bed.” “No wait, I want to see it,” said Karen as she entered to room. The boys were wearing shorts, underwear and Karen had on a pair of jams with bunnies on them. Stanley looked at her and laughed. “Well, Karen, now we have a quorum. Come look at the secret compartment in Dad’s suitcase.” “No,” said Sean. “Yes,” said Karen and Stanley in unison, then laughed. Karen crossed the room from the door and knelt on the floor. She rubbed her hand on the outside of the bag and then stuck her hand inside. She could push out the side wall, but only a very little. It seemed that the pocket was deep, but not very wide. And. It had some kind of strange material on each side. She rubbed it and her hand started to burn. Quickly she jerked her hand off the bag. “Oh my god,” she said again. “Okay, guys, we need to get out of here. Why aren’t Mom and Dad in here sleeping. Where are they?” “C’mon, Sean. Come look. Good question about Mom and Dad. Take a look.” Sean moved to the suitcase, knelt down and stuck his hand in it. He felt the strange material and his hand started to burn. He pulled it out immediately. “OK. Enough. Stanley, put the bag back wherever you found it and let’s all go back to bed.” “But…” said Stanley and Karen together. “No ‘buts,’” put it back. “Let’s go.” Stanley found a way to zip the compartment closed and put the bag back in the closet. They were just getting to the bedrooms when they heard some fumbling at the front door. “Quick,” hushed Karen. They all got their doors closed and back in bed just as their parents came in. But then they heard a loud cry from their mother. They rushed out into the living room. Their mom was lowering their dad onto the sofa. It looked like she was bleeding from the shoulder as she gently eased the father down. They all ran around in front of the sofa. Karen screamed when she saw her father and Stanley yelled. “Dad!!!” they both yelled. No response. “Quick, Karen. Get two towels one wet and one dry. Hurry!” Mom took off Dad’s jacket, then his shirt and the could three bullet holes in his upper body. Sean yelled “shit, oh no.” Stanley started crying. There was knock on the door. Karen had brought the towels in and again said “Oh my god, who could that be?’ “Answer it Sean. Let him in. He is a doctor.” Sean went quickly and opened the door. A distinguished looking, grey haired man walked into to room and straight to the sofa. “Damn, Mrs. Favor, this is going to be expensive. Hundred k.” Mrs. Favor looked at the doctor and said, “Please get busy Senor. We must hurry to save his life. We will pay the fee.” “Tonight?” asked the doctor. “Of course. You start to work. I will have the money if you save his life.” “Fair enough,” said the doctor who set down his bag and took off his jacket. “Which one of you kids wants to help?” They held up their hands and Stanley and Karen said “me,” simultaneously. The doctor smiled, pulled a few items out of his bag and went to work. After about an hour, Mr. Favor was bandaged up and still unconscious. Sean and the doctor lifted him and took him to the bedroom. “Mrs. Favor, he has a bit of damage, but I think he is going to survive. I am giving you some antibiotics that he will have to take twice a day, but he must eat something before he takes them. Hopefully, when he comes to, he can eat something. It doesn’t have to be much. Here are three other bottles. Give him one pill out of each bottle every morning. If he develops a fever or looks bad, contact me. Otherwise, do not contact me. Now, I can see you have superficial wound on your shoulder. It needs to cleaned and dressed. I will do that and then, may I be paid please.?” The doctor stood up, cleaned Mrs. Favors wound---which embarrassed the children as she had to stand in just her bra---and taped her up.  He started putting on his coat. Mrs. Favor had tears in her eyes. Karen had tears in her eyes. Stanley was crying. Only Sean looked in anyway stoic. “Senor,” he said. “That’s a lot of money if we don’t really know he will survive.” “Yes, son, it is. But, then, the police are not involved. Your dad has his best chance at survival and will remain absolutely quiet about what has happened here. I should probably charge you three times as much, but I have known your parents for a long time. I am impressed that you said something. But, Mrs. Favor, I do need to go.” “Of course, doctor. We are all very grateful for your service and will happily pay you.” She went into the closet and closed the door. Several minutes later, she came back into the room with a stack of cash. She handed the money to the doctor and said, “Well, doctor, it seems trivial to say thank you, but we all extend our deepest thanks. I know that you will be discreet about the wounds and about the cash. Gracias” Mrs. Favor adjusted the covers around her husband and sat in a chair next to the bed. “I will sit here to be here when he awakens and will take care of him. I am sure that you expect some answers. So, everybody find a chair and bring it in. Just quickly, we are, or were, assassins. Well, we thought we were. We have never actually killed anybody and for that, I am grateful. This job failed and you can see the results. Get your chairs.” “Mom,” yipped Stanley, “can I see your guns?” 9/8/2023

s8bsgm

The Slaying of a Monster

THE SLAYING OF A MONSTER By Tony Smith My name is Parachatphonbamrum.Thai names are as long as freight trains so we are given nicknames, mine is Pizza shortened to Za. “I’ll arrange for a donation.” Father said loftily. “It is a sad human being who takes pride in becoming a doctor of philosophy as the result of a bribe.” “To build an extension to the university library is not a bribe.” “You know full well father, you can buy anything in Bangkok, a driving license, a degree, a judge - everything except honour.” So I studied for a PhD. The subject of my thesis was the, ‘coup d’état’. My hypothesis was that specific social and economic conditions result in the eruption of a coup and those parameters could be distilled to predict future military interventions. By means of a computer neural network I constructed a mathematical model which I tested randomly. It gave a ninety percent accurate prediction rate. After four years of study I successfully defended my thesis and was proud to become, Dr Za. The rich own the country, the poor own the debt. I wanted to end the subjugation of the poor by the hypocrisy of the deification of monarchy. The king and royal family were promoted with more vigour than a brand of washing detergent. The king adopted a stray dog, taught it to grovel on its belly and his PR machine recommended that the people should follow suit. One brave soul who satirized the dog was sentenced under lèse-majesté laws to twenty years in prison. Democracy is a process by which rich and poor, weak and strong have equal voices - it does not sit well with ‘natural selection’ in which the strong prevail. A democratic vote puts milk-maids, and peasants, who plod behind buffaloes, in control of the country. The wealthy fear the kitchen staff put in charge of the mansion will sell the family silver. Democracy was intolerable to the wealthy; supported by the military they conspired to fund criminal bands of ‘agent provocateurs’ to riot. A military junta led by General Chang , put tanks on the streets of Bangkok and ‘reluctantly ‘and cynically brought back peace to the warring city. I scowled at my reflection in the mirror, it was the face of a ‘pretty boy’. I had never liked my face it did not reflect the tough, strong-willed uncompromising bastard with rats gnawing at his belly. I wanted to take the world by the scruff of its neck and shake it - yet I looked like a ladyboy. The junta led by General Chang imposed martial law. Government ministers were rounded-up, arrested, convicted and imprisoned. The General, a man with an orderly military mind, replaced the haphazard system of bribery by a national system of corruption whereby government contractors were required to pay ten percent of the contract value into his offshore bank account. He endowed temples, forging a business partnership with Lord Buddha and funneled funds through the main arteries of state institutions to feed the muscles which levered power. Smashing an iron fist into the face of democracy, the civilian population were required to follow military orders without question. Any deviation was met by compulsory visits to the Thought Police for ‘attitude correction’. Failure to coerce attitude was met by an escalating re-education programme: water-boarding, solitary confinement, genital’ electrolysis, and if all failed, a visit to the Nut Cracker Suite - any brave soul refusing to reform was tied-up and his head laid on a concrete block. An elephant, ridden by a trainer, was reared on its hind legs and a front leg brought crashing down on the victims head to split the skull like a nut cracker. There were an increasing numbers of empty places around family tables but in the terror induced silence few dared question their absence. My plan to enter politics was thwarted by the coup - I became a political agnostic – a career in politics had similar prospects to that of a life insurance salesman in a cemetery. My only recourse was the army. Because of my family connections I enlisted in the Queen’s Guards. This elite corp is the source of recruitment for high ranking army officers and coup perpetrators. General Chang favoured a white dress uniform, the tunic slashed with a broad yellow sash; gold-braided epaulets gave his narrow shoulders the width of a swagged-and-tailed window of a country mansion. A washing line of campaign medals with metal widgets was strung across his chest; he traveled in an army half-track escorted by goose-stepping troops dressed in bright blue busbies, like the chorus-line from a musical comedy. But soon the monarchy’s public relations’ machine got to work. By order of the king, General Chang was proclaimed prime minister and re-branded as the savior of the nation; dressed in a business suit, transported in a ministerial limousine and escorted by young army officers dressed in civilian clothes. The wardroom captain, Jum, ordered me to get kitted out. I chose a dark suit, white shirt and yellow tie of the king’s colour. “The General is going to love you,” Jum said, patting my arse suggestively. “Don’t do that,” I demurred but my voice was as soft as a girl’s. He patted it again, “It’s a lovely arse,” he persisted. Anger boiled in me. “Do that again and I’ll rearrange your face.” He did it again. I put up my fists. A couple of exploratory jabs and he caught me with a swinging hook. I buried my left fist in his stomach and my right met an advancing chin. He staggered back and collapsed. Androgynous good looks had accustomed me to defend my manhood. If insults are ignored it became an unendurable defense of lewd bottom stroking comments. And yet such mindless fury is contrary to the teaching of Buddha and quickly my anger faded and replaced by feelings of shame and guilt. I apologized to Jum and in the ensuing weeks, thrown together, Jum as bag carrier to the General, and me as official door-opener, became firm friends. Sometimes the General brushed against me, I never knew whether it was deliberate or accidental. It was one Friday evening, in the guard room, the night that the General, a morose and curmudgeonly man, delivered his homily, billed as ‘Bringing Happiness to the Nation’. The hour long speech was broadcast on every channel. Lights brightened in a spurt of power as television sets were turned off. It was no use changing channels, General Chang commandeered every television station. He spoke from behind a lectern banked with flowers and flanked by the patriotic flags of his trade. These young men had joined the army to become officers for reasons of pride and love of adventure, not to be nursemaid to a psychotic monster feared and loathed by the people. They turned away to chat, play computer games, or gamble. But Jum and I liked to watch, we liked to compare the glowing words of accomplishment written by the PR scriptwriters with the reality of a failing economy shunned by the West and a terrified populous. At the end of his address, lights dimmed as televisions were turned back on. A sergeant entered and announced that Captain Za was, “To report to the General’s quarters immediately”. This was greeted by catcalls, whistles and lip-smacking kisses, but I was popular and now able to take the ragging in good part. The General’s private quarters were adjacent to the broadcasting studio, and I entered with some trepidation. The General was lolling in a rocking chair in a salmon-pink dressing gown, studio-makeup still pan-caked on his face. He looked an old tart. I saluted him, expecting to be told to attend to household duties, but no, he asked me quite casually what I thought of his speech. With some hesitation, I replied, “You were excellent, sir.” “Liar! I suffer sycophants around me who lie all the time. They are practiced in the art - you are a poor liar. Tell me the truth.” I searched for a mild criticism. “Perhaps a little bit stiff in delivery, sir.“ “I like intelligent young men. What did you study for your doctorate?” I was surprised that he knew of my PhD, but replied, “Coup d’états and how to predict them, sir.” With a sardonic twist to his lips, the General asked grandly. “And when do you predict the next coup, young man?” I suppose my reply was not very diplomatic but I was in thrall to my mathematical algorithm, “Quite soon, sir.” “Soon! It can’t be soon. I am to announce democratic elections - to be held next year - there can’t be a coup.” “A counter coup, sir.” I replied diffidently. The General gulped like a gaffed fish. He was in a carpet-chewing rage. “I can have you executed,” and then he seemed to calm a little. He displayed mercurial changes of emotions “You said I was ‘stiff’. Now give me a face massage. You can do that? All Thais can do that,” he insisted, with his eyes bulging worryingly. What the General said was true, Thais do massage for close friends and family, but I felt uneasy at this intimacy with the despotic General Chang. “I will have to remove your greasepaint first,” I said; anxious for any means of delay and looked round for something to wipe his face. “Tissues are on there,” he said, pointing to an adjacent drinks cabinet. He leaned forward in the rocking chair as I wiped the General’s face clean of make-up. As I bent to massage the temple his dressing gown gaped open to reveal yellow silk underpants with a red rose emblazoned on the rising hillock of the crotch. I averted my eyes and concentrated on massage. “You are a ladyboy aren’t you?” “No, sir. I am not.” “You are a pretty boy, you may not know it but you are a gay queen.” The General grasped my bottom, a cheek in each hand, and pulled me closer. I had no intention of allowing this old harridan to roger me. I tried to pull away but he had an iron grip on my buttocks. He was pulling down my pants and I felt a finger slide up my arse. This was rape and uncontrolled anger took over. It was instinct. My fists spoke for me. A right to the chin and his head hit the back of the chair. Breathing heavily I looked down on General Chang. He lay white of face and still as a stone. Blind rage was replaced by blind terror. I shook him. Put my head to his chest. Not a breath. Not a heart flutter. I lifted him down from the chair. He was heavy and fell to the floor as lifeless as a sack of rice. Rhythmically I thumped his chest. I paused. Nothing. I steeled myself to do mouth-to-mouth - pausing to look down on him many times. Finally, exhausted, I gave up. There was no life in him - the bastard was dead. I felt no shame, he was an evil bastard who had stolen the country and terrorised a nation, and yet I felt fear - I would be executed. That thought concentrated my mind. It was an accident - he slipped and fell. I looked around. On top of the drinks’ cabinet were glass decanters. I lifted the lid from one and sniffed, it was brandy. Then I remembered finger prints. I wiped the glass clean and wrapped tissues round my fingers. I poured brandy into his open mouth and watched bubbles rise to the surface. The level of the brandy went down. I refilled the mouth and let a little overflow onto his chest. Then I dropped the decanter and watched brandy spread in a puddle by his side. I remembered his head had hit the back of the rocking chair. I maneuvered the chair so one of the rockers was under the head. Breathing heavily, I surveyed the scene. Did it look convincing? Had I forgotten anything which would incriminate me? The silk underpants with the red rose were exposed. For some reason it offended me and I pulled the dressing gown closed. Now what do I do? Scream in simulated panic? I took out my mobile - someone had to be called. I called my friend, Jum. “Something terrible has happened,” I said. He came running. I told him, the General had slipped and fell. Jum listened to his chest: then stirred the body with a boot in his stomach. “He’s dead. You thumped the bastard, didn’t you?“ He said with awe. There was no grief, no sadness only wonder, even admiration. “Do we tell the police? The Junta?” After a thoughtful pause, Jum replied, “I know you are not an admirer of the monarchy but It’s the king who decides who governs the country. We must go to the palace. The king is the only one we can trust.” The palace was protected by the same elite corp from the Queen’s Guard and we had no problem being allowed through. We were met by the Chancellor of the Household Bureau. We told him that there had been a terrible accident and insisted that our news was for the king’s ears. The king arrived in a wheel-chair pushed by a nurse in a stiff starched uniform which rustled as she walked. He was wearing a suit of embroidered gold, like a knight of old - a walking stick lay across his knees. He had one sharp perceptive eye, the other wandered sightlessly. I wasn’t prepared to crawl on my belly in front of the king but we showed our respect by falling on our knees and greeting him with our hands together in a traditional Thai wey . The Chancellor waved away the nurse and in convoluted courtier-speak started to explain that we had important news. The king waved the walking stick in a sign of impatience and pointed it at me. “Your Majesty,” I said. “General Chang has met with an accident.” “Speak up,” demanded the king. “General Chang is dead!” The Chancellor whispered in the king’s ear that he must appoint a prime minister from the remaining Junta. “One is the air force marshal and the other a naval admiral. He must be from the Queen’s Regiment. I never liked that bastard Chang. He had no education and I’ll not appoint one of his cronies. In my seventy year reign as king I have seen many coups. What about you?” he pointed at me with his walking stick. Queen’s Regiment?” “Yes, your majesty.” “University?” “Yes, sir. Doctorate.” “Have you read Miguel Cervantes?” I was puzzled at this oblique turn of the conversation. I had killed the prime minister and the weight of responsibility weighed like a rock in my stomach but replied: “Don Quixote? Yes sir.” The Chancellor was looking increasingly agitated - this was a constitutional crisis. I guess he thought this was not a time to discuss seventeenth century Spanish literature. “I think it’s time for your rest, majesty,” he said with some firmness. Irritated, the king waved his walking stick at the Chancellor. “Fetch these two gentlemen chairs. We are having an important discussion.” The Chancellor scuttled off without good grace. I guess he was used to making decision for the sick monarch and disconcerted by the king’s unusual strength of will. The king continued in a pensive frame of mind. “Thai people are a strange mix of Don Quixote’s chivalry and Sancho Panza’s peasant realism. They learn chivalry from Buddhist monks, yet retain the pragmatism of tillers of the soil.” He aimed his stick at me. “What is your view, young man?” “The military represent the wealthy and democracy represents the peasants but bribery turns politics, the law and all our institutions into a farce – lies are auctioned to the highest bidder.” “Do you think you could do an honest job, young man?” “Yes, your majesty.” “I am old, and little time is left for me. In my long reign I have never succeeded in achieving a stable government. We need a man of integrity who can combine chivalry with pragmatism.” He pointed to me. ”You are Don Quixote and your friend here is Sancho Panza. Now get those tanks on the streets. But I want an election within the year.” He turned to the Chancellor. “Announce the Royal seal of approval.” He shouted for his nurses. “It’s time for my medicine.” THE END

zgmoj3

Through the Valley of Volcanoes to the lake of shimmering light

The train pulled to a stop with a lot of shuddering at the mainland seaport of San Carlos near the top of the Sea of Cortez. They got off. The journey from the border was too much. The train felt as though it had no springs and every little bump registered on their backsides. They were told that the connecting train to Mexico City was more comfortable and had sleeping compartments. If it were true then that would be great. For the moment they wanted a bed in a non-moving hotel and they found one, called the Mar Vista that had not only a view of the sea from French doors and a balcony but a beautifully soft king size bed. The next day they found out about the other San Carlos from the desk clerk. They ended up in a rented piece of junk taxi that made it over a rise to let them know that this was San Carlos… only it was not the real San Carlos, but a town that had been used as a movie set and kept the name of the nearest town, which happened to be the sea port. From the rise the lines of facade bar fronts fell away from the view above to crudely attached shanty town shacks. They drove down the slight incline into a scattering of buildings on one main street and from the ground level it looked like a dusty old Western town. The taxi driver left them standing at the edge of the other San Carlos after they paid him. The desert fading paints on the Western facades completed itself with horse rail hitches and several horses down-headed in the sun. In the late day shadows ladies sat and stood like statues. It was a Summer’s eight o’clock of dramatic oranges in the sky and a surround of sandy hillsides of clumps of grey shrub. A blast of guns going off pulled their attention to the middle of the street and a man falling backward. Another man standing on the side of street in the shade continued to shoot at the fallen man and then up in the air. Three or four men walked over to the victor and patted him on the back. An unseen crowd came out of the shade going over to both men to look and talk, then started moving back into bars. Sugar and Cynthia looked at the other, then at the dust left by the taxi. The man laying in the street did not get up. The very feint breeze blew some of the taxi dust onto his clothes. They started to walk toward the man but Sugar said it might be a better idea to not get too close. What if he were really dead? Twilight was quickly darkening as they made their way to a bar where they spotted tables with men eating. The room, as they entered filled their appetites with the bouquet of corn tortillas, with a bit of the funk of horse-shit cigars. It was a strange place, built with corrugated tin but with a lot of driftwood beams and a high ceiling. The walls had sometime in the distant past had a coat or two of white paint. Newspapers and old calendars with high breasted women holding rifles in the sky were the decoration stuck where the peeled paint wasn’t. There was no music. No music in a Mexican bar was noted by Sugar and he told that wonder to Cynthia. She smiled and thought it strange but maybe they didn’t have a juke box in this place. Sugar asked her if she had remember any music anywhere in the little town when they were outside. Cynthia shook her head. No. He said, I think we should leave as soon as possible. We’ll eat then get a taxi. A waitress came, wearing a low cut blouse that stopped at the brown tease of her areolas. She bent over to exhibit the width of her breasts and take our orders. Sugar and Cynthia smiled at each other. As they sat quietly drinking their cold beers and eating their hot food Sugar felt the silence getting deeper. Nobody was talking. As though in response to his thoughts a couple of men in wide cone topped sombreros played guitars and sang soft, slow, crying songs. Both Cynthia and Sugar wanted to leave but neither moved, not wanting to insult the singers. A stinky little guy, who sweated at his armpits and had a brown handled revolver holstered at hip level, stood in front of their table and offered to buy them a round of beers. Sugar felt that if he said no it could be an insult. But accepting after this guy there would be the welcome to town beers and others would feel they had to offer more beers, then tequilas, then a drunken brawl. The problem would come in the wee hours when one of the group had decided that he owns them as his own personal friends. He would find a fight and Sugar would have to come to his side and they would be left naked, raped and broke. Sugar told Cynthia what he thought and she looked about anxiously. There was a slender woman with a bleached pixie hair cut smiling at her and Cynthia figured a way out of this mess. She motioned with a nodding expression to the chair next to her and the woman instantly responded, almost running over and seating herself. She spoke no English. Sugar only spoke a few words of Spanish. Cynthia put a light finger on Sugar’s groin, then took the finger to touch on her own. The pixie smiled a very big smile. The pixie, Rosa, pointed the armpit, Pablo, to sit and he called out for beers, greedily looking Rosa and Cynthia up and down. Another guy came over to welcome Sugar and Cynthia to the town with more beers and others felt they had to offer more beers, then tequilas, then a drunken brawl happened twice. The only problem came in the wee hours when one of the group had decided that he owned them as his own personal friends and challenged anybody to counter it. The armpit lay in a corner mumbling. Rosa was completely sober and pushed the man into a chair that fell over backward and he went to sleep. She then gave her hand to Cynthia. The next morning Rosa wanted to show them the volcanoes. They went out into the desert on horseback and rode through scrub brush that stood as proud as the black tipped cones. The sky was Wedgwood blue and broadened the line between volcanic cones and heaven. Sugar rode a pinto that liked to make breaks of speed. Rosa pointed to a low spot between two small volcanic cones that shimmered and turned out to be a small lake. They swam naked in the warm dark water. The sun moved across the sky. Some prairie dogs made appearances, drank and scampered away. It was quiet. Moving through the water was noiseless. Coming out of the water the drips made no sound. Rosa made love to Sugar in the packed sand surrounding the lake. Sugar lay back and drifted off, dreaming of an old friend who had run away from a fight that he had started and left Sugar alone to fight the two big guys. He thought that odd to think or remember that but he guessed it had never really left his consciousness even after twenty some odd years. He stretched and sat up. He looked around without seeing either Rosa nor Cynthia. He lay back down, thinking they were playing hide and seek but he didn’t feel like playing hide and seek. He closed his eyes and thought that he hadn’t noticed the horses being where they had left them. He sat up again and checked but no horses. It was quiet. Sugar turned and looked around in the silence of the place. He looked out at distant volcanic cones and lavender coloured sand with hardly a clump of any type of vegetation. No cactus in the desert. No vultures or hawks. The sky was deep blue with no clouds. The horizon seemed more rounded than he remembered. It was too quiet. Something wet touched his shoulder.

x73unn

Sixteen In Paris

The water lapped calmly onto shore as Henry looked out over the river. Paris rose in intimidating scale around him, but he was in his own safe, blissful world. He had a glass of wine, perfect weather, and Addie. She looked over and smiled at him. "This never gets old," she said before sighing contentedly. "I'm not sure what is more beautiful, this day or you," Henry replied. He felt stupid saying that, but it was accurate. Addie giggled and kissed him. Now he felt proud of saying it. "I can't believe we found each other in this city of millions," she said as she stared into his eyes. "This is what a girl dreams of on summer vacation." Henry didn't want this to end. He didn't want to even mention the fact that they both had to go back home soon. He would go back to being an angsty, unpopular kid in a boring high school. He pushed the thought out of his mind, wrapped his arm around Addie and continued to feel like a king. "Look at these two lovebirds," a voice said from behind. "Daddy!" Addie said excitedly. Henry jerked out of his trance and pulled his arm away. "This is Henry." "Hello Henry, nice to meet you. I'm Jack Plank. Addie had said she met a great guy at the cafe." Jack reached out his hand and Henry shook it. "It's a pleasure to meet you, sir. Your daughter is very beautiful," Henry replied. Addie giggled and Jack smiled. "Why don't you come upstairs and meet the family? Our suite has a lovely view of Paris you just can't beat," Jack offered. Henry realized his parents would probably be wondering where he was. Then he looked at Addie and decided they could text him if they were actually concerned. "Absolutely," he replied. Jack led the way, back to the hotel and up a private elevator to the penthouse. As Henry exited, his heart nearly stopped. The view of Paris was indeed perfect, but something else dominated his attention. There was a sniper rifle on a table at the edge of the room. Henry instinctively turned to leave, but Jack was blocking the door. "Is there something wrong, Henry?" Jack asked. "What is going on? Henry asked. "I could explain that, but this is a conversation better had with your parents. I'll call them," Jack said. "You know my-" Henry started as Jack dialed his phone. It picked up instantly. "Hello Jack," came an answer from the phone. That was Henry’s dad. He did not sound surprised, confused, or scared. He sounded resigned to all of this happening. Henry could hear his mom in the background, asking who was on the phone and then crying. Before Jack could speak, Henry chimed in. "Dad, what is going on?" He tried to sound measured, curious but confident. Addie was watching, and he had to be a man. "I am here with your son, Bill. He is very shocked. Would you like to explain or should I?" Jack said. "Henry, I am so sorry," Bill began. "Dad, what in the world is going on?" Henry asked again, more fervently. "Son, there is no easy way to explain this. I have been wrestling with this moment in my mind for sixteen years, and it only grew more difficult as I watched you grow up," Bill began.   "Get to the point, Bill," Jack said. "Henry, I am a hitman," Bill said quickly and let out a deep sigh. "What!?" Henry screamed. He stared at the rifle, then the phone. He was lightheaded. "You're an engineering consultant," he said before trailing off. He feared everything he knew was a lie. "Yes, son, I work for Western Engineering Group. WEG. I have worked there for twenty years. They are the largest engineering firm in the world, doing very impressive work. But underneath, a small group is tasked with doing what our biggest clients actually pay us to do. We complete assassination contracts," Bill said. Henry was wide-eyed, pale and speechless. "I have done all I can to provide you with a great childhood," Bill said. Henry had never lacked anything. They lived in a large house, he had every form of entertainment he could think of, and they had gone on expensive vacations at least every summer for his entire life. Belize, London, Dubai, Rio de Janeiro, Sydney. Henry had seen much of the world, and could always count on seeing more. "The vacations," Henry mumbled. "You always said they were work trips." Bill sighed again. "Yes, every summer vacation you have been on has been tied to a contract." "My entire life is built on murder,” Henry said slowly, “How could you do this?" There was a long pause on the other end. Jack said, "I see you have never told him about our arrangement.” Bill finally said, "This started when I was 19. I was desperate. I had been kicked out of college for too many fights, I was facing charges of assault and battery, and I was unemployed. Your mother, God bless her, was pregnant with you. I just wanted to provide for you both. Jack found me in jail. I had asked for a public defender, because I couldn't afford even a minute with an attorney. Jack showed up, and said it was all taken care of. He was right, the charges disappeared and I was a free man. Only, that meant I was secretly captive the rest of my life. Jack gave me this job, and trained me how to do it. He gave me everything to provide for a family. However, that night in jail I had to make a deal with him. I would raise you like normal, but someday he would have the right to call on you. He would give you a chance to join WEG like me. You would never be forced. Rather, you would have the option to say no, have your memory wiped, and go on living a normal life." Jack said, "Your father is right, life is always made up of choices. This is no different." Henry could not think. So many thoughts were swirling in his head, he had no idea which one to start with. He wanted to punch someone, or scream, or run away. He pushed them all to the back of his mind and focused on the problem in front of him. His eyes returned to the table with the rifle. "So what do I need to decide? I see a rifle here," Henry said. Jack pulled a picture from his pocket and handed it to Henry. It was a photo of a middle aged, muscular man in sunglasses and a suit. It was clearly taken in public, zoomed in from far away, without this man knowing. Below the photo was a long list of horrifying crimes. "This is Dominique Sabine. He is the leader of a cartel that traffics in drugs and people, primarily children. Our contract calls for us to take him out. Our intelligence states that he will be entering the Ritz in ten minutes for a meeting. We have a clear line of sight to the front entrance. As you can see, this rifle is silenced." "And you want me to kill him?" Henry asked. "Yes I do," Jack replied. “Don’t do it!” Henry's mom pleaded through the phone. Her voice was high-pitched, nervous. Bill was more level-headed, with the same message. “Son, you don’t have to do this. They can wipe your memory. You can live your entire life in peace, a peace I never had.” Henry thought about his life back home. He was always bored in school, which led to getting in trouble. Everyone picked on him for being weird, so he fought back and got in more trouble. All the girls hated him, and most days he felt completely hopeless. Nothing in Henry’s life was exciting, or elevated him as important. He was always in the background, a pointless kid that would go on to lead a pointless life. But now destiny had finally called his name. Even if this ended poorly, it would be more interesting than what he ever thought his life could become. If it worked for his dad, why could it not work for him? Henry replied, “But you gave me the greatest childhood I could think of. We went on extravagant trips. We never had to worry about anything. Why would I not want this?” Henry looked at Addie. She smiled back at him. She was beautiful, and he could have her along with a life of adventure. Bill said, “Henry, this is a life of violence! A life of killing people on the orders of this organization! Those targets have families, and hopes and dreams. It’s not about the vacations, or the money. Think about what this all really, truly means.” “Sabine sounds like a terrible person. I would be doing the world a favor,” Henry replied. He approached the rifle and ran his hand over it. Addie smiled. Jack nodded his head slowly. “We are all terrible people!” Bill replied. “That is where grace comes in. That is why we have jails, and a justice system. We are not made to assassinate each other. We are made to discuss things, and work our problems out in a reasonable way.” “Then why did you do it? Why did you kill all those people?” Henry replied. His voice cracked, and he looked down in shame. He was becoming a man now, he could not cry. Bill pleaded, “I was desperate. WEG caught me when I had nowhere else to go. I was in prison, I was in a mountain of trouble. But they did not do it for free, or out of the goodness of their hearts. They saw my potential to be a monster and they capitalized on it. But I was wrong, there is always a way out. There is always another option. You are not desperate. You are not hopeless. You can tell them no and live a life free of all of this. Please, live your life better than I did. I know you can.” Henry’s mom was still sobbing in the background, unable to control herself. “I have no idea what I want to do in life. I am so angry all the time, and nobody understands me,” Henry said. “You are sixteen! You don’t have to know what your future holds. You have infinite potential, but starting down this path will haunt you for the rest of your life,” Bill said. “But WEG has a plan for me. And Addie loves me. I finally have something that makes me happy, and you are trying to rip this away from me,” Henry said. “They are using you!” Bill shouted. That was the loudest Henry had ever heard him. “They don’t care about you, or anyone. They care about whoever is paying them.” Henry looked down at the photo of Dominique Sabine. He read the charges again, all of the sex crimes and human rights violations. Henry could fix this. Henry could stake his hidden, silent claim in world history, and make society a better place. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Dominique Sabine sat in the car, with the door open, staring at his phone. His bodyguard leaned in and said, “It is time to go.” “Just one second,” Sabine replied, “I have to do something first.” He pulled up the phone number of his assistant. He could fix this, he needed to fix this. He would turn himself in, but first he would dismantle this empire from the inside. Everything he had built, only he could tear down. Anything else would result in chaos. Sabine reached to click the call button, but his thumb never reached the screen. A bullet tore through his neck, exploding inside the flesh and sending his head flying. His bodyguard rushed to his side, while thirty others spread out to look for the killer. Dominique Sabine was dead, and his reign of terror was over. His chance to make things right was also over. - - - - - - - - - - - - - Henry lifted his head from the rifle. Addie hugged him excitedly and kissed him. Jack hung up the phone and shook Henry’s hand. “Welcome to Western Engineering Group,” Jack said. Henry was now a man. 

s3q20z

Realm Of Reality

I sat on the porch and stared out into the sea. It looked calm and chaotic, as if there was both nothing and everything in it. I walked down towards the dark blue array and stepped on a broken shell, causing a cut on my foot. An echo from the back of my mind shouted, "Hey, are you okay?" I turned around to see a guy with a concerned look on his face. "Yes, thanks. I just have a little cut," I said. "You should go back and wash it," he suggested. I smiled and when I was about to walk away, he asked, "Where are you staying? Do you need help with your things?" "Oh no, it's okay. Thank you for the offer," I answered. He nodded and went on his way. I was on my way a couple of steps back when it stung a bit so I stopped and put down my bag. "Don't worry, I'm harmless," he said before picking up my white canvas tote to dust off the sand. I looked up to him and laughed, "No, I didn't mean that." He smirked and held out his hand. I took it and said, "Thank you." We continued walking and he introduced, "My name is Ocean." "Huh. You surround me," I joked. "What?" "Nice to meet you, Ocean. I'm Isla," I said. He tilted his head and asked, "Island?" I nodded and chuckled. "Where exactly are we heading?" he wondered. "Here is my cottage, thanks again, Ocean," I said. "No problem, Isla," he smiled and turned around. I was walking up the stairs when he asked me, "If later you're doing better, do you want to walk around and eat?" I held out my grin and said, "Sure." "Okay, I'll be here by 8?" he suggested. My lips broke into a smile and nodded as a response. I went inside to see my mom and dad preparing dinner. Mom was cooking on the stove and Dad came to hug her. "You annoy me," Mom joked. Dad laughed and kissed her cheek before setting the plates. Mom and Dad were always together, they enjoyed each other's company. When they fight, believe me, they fight. But for so many years, I've seen them love each other through the hardest times. "Hey kid, come on, dinner's about to be done," Dad said. Mom poked her head out and furrowed her eyebrows, "What happened to you? Are you okay?" "Yes, I just have a little cut on my foot. And I'm sorry, but is it okay if I miss dinner?" I asked while grinning. "Sure, and why?" Dad asked back. Mom squinted her eyes waiting for an answer. "I made a friend and he invited me for dinner," I answered. Mom nodded slowly and reminded me, "If you're going out with your new friend, have dinner outside. Not in his house. Be careful." "Come home by 12? And be in contact," Dad said. "I will. Please leave me some chicken for breakfast, thank you," I said. I headed upstairs to clean my cut and change. I checked my notifications and there was a message from my best friend, Odette. Odette: Is, I saw August today at the mall. He was with her. I'm sorry. I locked my phone and threw it on my bed. "Isla!" Mom shouted from downstairs. "Yeah Mom?" I asked. "Ocean's here!" she answered. I took my shoulder bag and went downstairs. "Hey," I greeted. "Ready to go?" he asked. I nodded in response. "Thank you for the drink Mr. and Mrs. Adair," he said. "Be safe," Dad said. Ocean and I smiled and headed out. "I was hoping we could eat at ' Marley's ', but if you have anything else in mind, I'm good," he suggested. "I think I haven't been there," I said. We small-talked about the beach we're both staying at and how it's been a nice night, weather-wise, on the way to the restaurant. We were offered a table as soon as we came in and there weren't as many people as I thought there would be. The waiter gave us the menu and announced their specials. "Thanks, can you please give us a minute?" I asked. The waiter smiled and left. "If you're interested, can we order a couple of dishes we both think we're gonna like and have it in the middle to be shared?" I suggested to Ocean. He chuckled and said, "Sure, I like that." The waiter came back and we ordered our food. "What's the idea behind it?" he asked. "I don't know, it's just, when we go out with our family, especially when we're trying out a new restaurant, we like to do it so we can try different dishes at once and we can decide much better what we like for next time," I said. He smiled and asked, "That's smart. So, you're close as a family?" I nodded. "And I believe that you can know a lot just by someone's food," I said. "And you told me that after I already ordered," he shook his head jokingly and I chuckled. A couple of minutes went by and our food arrived. He jokingly sighed and asked as he gestured his choices, "So?" "You're still good. Let's see dessert," I joked back. Dinner was great. We talked a lot, we joked a lot. We seemed to hit it off quite a bit. It was our first "date", but I felt like I already knew him, but didn't know him? "Do you want to sit by the beach?" he asked. Suddenly, Odette's message popped into my head. "Sure, can we stop by the store?" I asked back. We stopped by the small convenience store and I bought wine. Ocean didn't want to buy anything, but he paid for the bottle. We sat on the sand and I peeled the bottle wrap. "You're gonna think I'm stupid," I said. "Yeah?" he asked. "Now how in the world am I going to open this?" I laughed. He laughed back and took out his multi-function knife. I opened my mouth in surprise and said, "A hero in modern times." He opened the wine and handed it to me. "Uh, do you drink?" I asked. "You go ahead first," he said. I took a sip and passed it to him. "So, what's wrong?" he asked. I turned to him and asked, "What's wrong?" He chuckled and shook his head. I sighed and said, "This stupid boy. We broke up like 3 months ago because he said that I'm 'too much' and I made him realize he should be single for a while. It was a lame reason now that I think of it, but at the time, boy did I blame myself." "And?" he asked. "And my best friend saw him today with a girl I had speculations of him liking while we were together," I added. "Do you still have feelings for him?" he asked. I laughed and asked back, "No. We are broken up longer than we were together. It's just that, why is it like that?" "Why is what like that?" "Relationships," I answered. "Well, I mean, we're young. And real relationships require a lot of work," he said. "Yeah, I guess so. Sorry for bumming you out," I apologized. "No, I like it," he assured. "You like what?" I asked. "Talking about anything," he said. I handed back the bottle to him and he took a sip. "Your lips are warm," he noticed. I blushed and put my head down. "I hope you don't think all guys are like that," he said. I shook my head, "Oh please, Ocean." "No, I mean, if you think guys are the worst, I agree with you. It's just that, you know, some guys, when they really like someone, they try their best to keep them," he said. "I know, my dad is one. He takes good care of my mom. I hope to have that someday." I shared. "You will," he assured. I chuckled and pursed my lips, "I hope so. I seem to attract stupid boys who know nothing about treating a girl right." He looked at me and said, "Not Ocean." I looked back at him. I took the bottle from him and chugged the wine. He slowly pushed the bottle away from my lips and said, "Hey, I don't want to take you home to your parents from our first date drunk. That won't look good on me." ' So It was our first date ,' I thought. I stared into the depth of his eyes and got lost. He stared back at me. He glanced upon my lips and wiped the fresh wine off my chin. He put his hand on my cheek and blood rushed all over my body. He leaned in and- * Bzzzt Bzzzt * "Hey, are you okay?" I turned around to see Ocean. I showed my foot to him. He chuckled and kissed my head, "After 30 years." He offered his hand to me and we slowly walked back to the house.

pep4sr

In the shadows

It's a quiet Friday night, and we have just arrived at our cabin in the middle of the woods. The air is dry, and the sun has just started setting. Me and my boyfriend have decided to go on a little vacation, away from our stressful jobs back home in Los Angeles. I have been stressed over work and tired all week trying to meet deadlines, we haven't been able to hang out or have some alone time with one another, so this was a perfect getaway to relax. The drive wasn't too bad; we loaded our bags, grabbed snacks, and sang karaoke the whole way through. As we approached the road that leads into the cabin, I instantly had a bad feeling as if my stomach was in knots. I don't know what it was, but the road had suddenly disappeared into a dirt path, and there were no other cabins or people on site. Since we had just arrived, I didn't think anything of it and didn't want to spook my boyfriend out. We unload our car and head inside into this beautiful rustic cabin. It was spacious and instantly felt like home; we couldn't believe it. After settling in, I had a look outside while my boyfriend showered; I felt so free. Tall green trees, birds chirping, and a small lake were nearby. As I head back in, I notice something run by the trees. I walk over quietly to get a look and see someone crouching by a bush. As I approach the bush, I see a dark figure run out and disappear into trees. I ran back into the cabin, and my boyfriend could see the worry on my face; I was pale and scared. I told him what I had just seen, and he ran out to see if he could get a glimpse, but the figure was long gone. I explained everything, and he suggested we get out immediately, but I reassured him that nothing happened and no one got hurt. It was a weird feeling seeing that figure near the bush; I felt saddened and in pain as soon as I got close enough, like it was trying to tell me something. Although it was a dark figure, I could only make out that it had long hair and was about my height. It was our first night at this cabin, and I didn't feel we needed to pack up and leave; at least stay the night and see how it went. A few hours go by, and nothing unusual has happened since encountering the dark figure. We spent the next few hours watching movies, eating, and enjoying each other's company. After falling asleep on the couch, I got up to use the bathroom but noticed the door slightly cracked. I was sure we locked the door, so I took a peek outside and didn't see anything to worry about; maybe the wind blew it open. As I head to the bathroom, I see the dark figure standing in the hallway staring at me. I couldn't make out a face, but it wasn't moving. I walk closer, and the figure vanishes inside the bedroom. I ran to open the bedroom door, but it was already gone. I searched the room and couldn't find the figure anywhere but noticed something written on the mirror that said, "Without the dark, there isn't light. Without the pain, there is no relief." I had no clue what that meant but quickly wiped it away, and I hadn't spoken about it to my boyfriend since I wanted to enjoy our stay. We spent the next couple of days hanging out with each other on our getaway, reminiscing, and making goals we would like to accomplish in the future. The rest of the time there went smoothly, and the figure was never seen around the cabin again. It's the last day at the cabin, and we have the car packed and ready to leave. It was a wonderful stay, but I couldn't get that message on the mirror out of my head the whole drive home. We get home and have a little time to unwind before returning to our busy, hectic lives. Days passed, and I kept thinking of that dark figure, so I searched the cabin online one night. Nothing mysterious happened there, and there were no reported crimes in the area, so what did we see that day? I spent countless nights trying to find answers but returned empty each time. I received no more hidden messages, and the figure was never seen around us again. Me and my boyfriend went on with our lives for the next couple of years; I kept a lookout just in case it decided to return, but nothing. I had just graduated college, and things were looking good career-wise. My boyfriend and I got engaged and moved into a beautiful house where we could settle down and grow old; it was everything I had dreamed of. One night, lying in bed while my boyfriend went out to get food for us, I felt a breeze from my bedroom door. I called out for my boyfriend but noticed he hadn't come home yet and nobody had opened the windows, so I looked around. I headed into the bathroom, where somebody had dimmed lights, but no one was there. I called out to see who it was, no answer. I walk over to the mirror, and the same quote on the cabin mirror had been written in my bathroom, "Without the dark, there isn't light; without the pain, there is no relief." I didn't understand what was happening and turned around and saw the same dark figure staring back at me. I stared deeply into its eyes and noticed a familiar face; it was me. All the darkness and sadness that I had bottled up inside me. Although I looked happy on the outside, I was sad and lonely on the inside. I always kept the truth locked up and didn't want to speak to anyone about what I was going through because of how they would treat me. I had all these dark thoughts and never thought I would have a bright and successful future, but I did. I stopped comparing myself to others and accepted that this is who I am. I didn't let the darkness control me, and that was a part of my life I learned to let go. I found love and learned to love myself for who I was. That shadow was a part of my life for quite a while, but it was time to let go, so I gave myself one last hug and said goodbye forever to the old me.

6n8odt

L'Invasion

A night like this, even though I pretended it wasn’t, was my favorite part of family vacation. Mom and dad wanted an evening alone together, we were in a foreign country, so they didn’t know any baby-sitters, and even though mom told me not to watch scary movies, I did. Six hours alone to watch whatever I wanted, and to not have to watch them fawn over each other was golden. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy my parents love each other and stuff. But at a certain point it’s like, “Get a room.” I see my friends' parents and they’re not nearly as lovey-dovey. In fact, most of them act like they don’t even like each other. These used to be my least favorite nights when Jenny stayed in with me. She would watch garbage tv, never compromising, and order weird, expensive room service that I would half get in trouble for. She’s a good sister, but our six-year age gap puts us in different worlds. She’s already had two boyfriends, and I’m still reading comics and riding bikes with my buddies. I liked it. I got to watch her argue with our parents about big deal stuff, so when it came to some of the worst stuff I was doing, it wasn’t as big of a deal. Now for the last three years, when the folks went out, so did Jenny. They were running late tonight. Even Jenny. She would usually try to get back a half hour or so before the folks. I had made it through two creature features on one of the English channels. The next movie was Phantasm. I lied to myself that the reason I didn’t want to watch it was because it was too cheesy—really, it scared the hell out of me— and went back to the weird hotel channel guide. My French isn’t that good. But it’s good enough that I spotted, L’Invasion des Profanateurs, as it scrolled by. Invasion of the Body Snatchers was one of my favorite movies—even though it scared me good. It was right on that line of being able to watch it without nightmares, or at least nightmares that weren’t that bad. I was over ten minutes in when I realized that both; the movie was dubbed instead of subtitles—which was going to make it a tough watch, but that it was also almost eleven. Just a few minutes ‘til, an unprecedented occurrence. We had no protocol for this situation. Was I supposed to wait an hour then call someone? Would I be getting my parents in trouble, and in turn be whisked away to some French orphanage? I put the thought out of my head and turned my focus on the movie. For a second it was hard to follow, before I stopped trying to decipher the French and realized I pretty much knew every line. Then the French became a comforting murmur in the background as I almost heard Sutherland’s voice. It wasn’t until Sutherland and the main lady were running through the streets that I realized the movie was coming to its conclusion and everyone was really running late. I took a quick minute to remember all the events that lead to the movie's conclusion, nodded, satisfied with the end, and pushed the guide button. The scrolling screen with the clock in the corner popped up. 11:51 . I glanced around the suite in surprise. Were they all here already and I didn’t even notice them come in? I left the guide up—having the clock to reference was somehow comforting—and took a casual stroll through the rooms. No one. I regrouped in the living room. What could I do? I had a key for emergencies. I could go into the hall and look around. But what would that do? I could call the front desk. And say what? Say, “I was just checking to see if you knew where my parents and my sister are?” French orphanage for sure. No. I could call the front desk and pretend to be my dad and ask if I’ve received any messages. Would they try to leave a message for me, though? We’d never done anything like that before. The phone rang. I jumped, frozen in place, and watched the phone rattle on its hanger. I crept toward it. I grabbed the receiver, cutting it off mid-harsh-ring. Something on the other end clicked as I lifted it to my ear, “Hello?” Nothing. Not even a dial tone or static. It was dead. I hung it up and stepped back, hands out, ready for it to ring again. The door rattled. I turned to the handle of the door in a readied stance. Just as I thought that maybe I had imagined it, it rattled again. This time I watched it jostle and twitch. I took a step toward the door and cocked my head as I listened. My footsteps were silent. I grew closer. A heavy squeak from the other side. I took a step back. Thump Thump Thump I jumped and stumbled past the coffee table and worked myself behind the far end of the couch, my hands grasping its arm. I stared at the door, ready to dive for cover. Thump Thump Thump I held my breath and crouched. The moment froze. My knuckles white, clutching the arm of the sofa, the light of the tv casting a blue glow across the foyer and kitchenette. Two clicks, a high-pitched Peal, and then an explosion so loud my ears rang. Everything kicked up, the dust settling in slow motion around me as the door flew across the room. Red lazer beams probed through the entry from both sides, flitting around the room with chaotic organization, like a small swarm of zipping fireflies. A voice gave the "all clear" and four black clad figures streamed through the entry, two flanking each side. They fell into position, one standing while the other kneeled, and probed the bedroom entries. The standing soldier on the left flank held up a fist. The other standing soldier returned the signal and tapped the helmet of the infantryman kneeling in front of him. The two flanks mirrored each other as they breached the adjacent wings. I peered over the arm of the sofa. Two more black clad mercs entered, more slowly than the first, behind them a man in a gray suit, his hands behind his back, strolled into the room. He came to stand at the end of the foyer, just short of where the door had landed, and looked around, listening to the soldiers shout confirmations of no-contact. The man in the suit nodded to the soldier on his left. “Bravo position.” The four figures marched from the bedroom and headed back out the door, the two infantrymen to either side of the man in the suit peeled off behind them, taking up the rear as the team marched into the hall. The man in the suit stepped over the door and stood in the middle of the room. He appraised the obvious areas, turned, and casually walked into the kitchenette. He straightened a fallen vase as he passed it, dusting his hands after touching it and opened the fridge. He bent and looked inside. It was full. He grabbed a beer and a can of nuts. He stood, pulled the kitchen table back to where it had been before the breach, opened the nuts, grabbed a few and popped them into his mouth as he set the can on the table. He walked back into the living room twisting the cap off of the beer bottle. He took a deep pull, let a sated exhale through his nose, and dusted the debris off of the corner of the end table next to the sofa across from me. He pulled a coaster from the tumbled stack and placed it on the dusted corner and neatly placed the beer on it. “Glad your old man didn’t get into the Stellas.” He glanced over his shoulder at me, turned back to the room, gave it a final appraisal, and turned back, leveling a fixed gaze. I flinched, sinking lower behind the arm of the sofa, only my eyes and hair poking out from behind.   The man huffed an amused snort, took a few steps closer and gave me a coaxing, casual wave of his hand. “You don’t need to hide. I’m probably not going to kill you.” He stopped, put his hands behind his back, and grinned. “Why don’t we see if you can help me find your parents.” I pulled myself up to my chin, still clutching the sofa’s arm. “Who are you?” My voice trembled so hard it scared me. I stooped again. “I’m a guy in a suit, Karl.” I stood, shoulders exposed, and tilted my head. “How do you know my name?” “I was just guessing.” The man gave a small glance to the master wing, “You’re here all alone, huh?” then to the guest wing, “What about your sister?” He turned his calm stare on me and took another step my way. I stood and took a step back, wringing the knots from my hands. “Just me.” He reached a hand out and beckoned with a step toward the door. “Let’s go.” On cue two soldiers came through the charred entry, marched past the man on either side and seized me by the shoulders. He waved two fingers toward the door. The men carried me after. Rattling and hisses from the hall as plums of white smoke billowed through the door. The men released me and held their weapons at the ready. The man in the gray suit undid his coat. Two muffled shots. The two men on either side of me dropped. The man gave them a quick glance and turned back to the door. My sister’s voice echoed in from the hall. “Hi, Mr. Harper.” The man put an arm behind his back, tucking it into his coat with a polite nod. “Jenny.” He sidestepped across the room in smooth strides and sidled up to the dividing wall of the kitchenette. He peered over the edge at the entry as he pulled a blade. He held it low and listened. The smoke began to settle. “Still bringing knives to gun fights?” My sister mocked from the shadows. Mr. Harper snorted a humored scoff and stepped out from behind the wall. “How about we all just put our knives and guns down and talk about this?” “Sure thing. You first.” “Of course.” Mr. Harper leaned down and gently placed his knife on the floor next to him. “Now kick it away.” He obliged and the knife clattered across the floor. “Ok. Now you.” I watched, wide eyed as my sister stepped into the mangled entry, the settling smoke behind her making her look cooler than ever, and she had always been pretty cool. She held up her empty hands as she carefully stepped through the door. “Harper.” “Jenny.” He gave her a nod as he again slipped his hand inside his jacket. “I wouldn’t do that if I was you.” He froze. She stepped forward. “Let me see your hands.” He lifted his chin, stiffly, removed his hand and slowly held it up. “It’s good to see you.” he glanced around the room. “Wish I could say the same.” “Jenny, I think you sh—” “They’re not here.” “Oh?” He relaxed. “Do you expect them—” “Look, Harper. You’ve got two options.” “Ok.” “Leave right now.” He waited for the second choice. She offered none and stepped forward. “And?” he asked with an open palm. “Sounds like you’ve already made your choice.” He huffed. “I believe I’ll leave, if that is still an option.” “I’m afraid it isn’t, Harper.” “I understand.” He slouched. “Guess we should—” In a flash, he barrel rolled toward the hall leading to the master suite and in one deft move both retrieved his discarded knife and drew a second, landing behind the wall in the safety of the shadows. “Your move.” I was frozen in place. My sister saw my worried expression and grinned before holding a finger to her lips and then subtly gesturing for me to get down. “Do we really have to do this? Why don’t you just give up?” I crouched behind the sofa that had originally been my protector and watched Harper flip his knives and catch them blade down, reading himself. “The extraction team is already on their—” “They’re all gone,” Jenny cut him off. Harper grumbled and brought a finger to his earpiece. After a short moment he crouched and dug the toe of his shoe into the floor. I could easily see Harper, but I failed to notice the silhouetted figure creep up behind him. “I guess it’s just us then,” Harper said. The click of the gun sounded as the silhouette brought back the hammer. “Oh, fu—” Harper never had time to finish his sentiment as the two muted reports sounded from the pistol. He slumped forward onto his face, and came to rest, butt in the air. The black clad figure rose and stepped toward me. I stood and stumbled as I backed away. My sister came toward me, holding out a hand. “It’s ok, Karl. It’s all over.” I shook my head at her and pointed at the figure. “Look out, Jenny.” The figure took another cautious step and held out its hand. My foot caught on something as I continued to back away, I tripped and fell hard knocking my head on the edge of an end table. I came to, looking into a balaclava covered face with familiar eyes. I panicked as everything came flooding back and began to scramble away from the figure. “It’s ok.” She dug a thumb under her mask and pulled it up to her forehead and smiled down at me. “Mom?” She smiled more deeply and closed her eyes as she nodded. I looked past her at my sister, her arms crossed and an annoyed smirk on her face, then back to my mom. “What’s going on?” “I’ve got a lot to tell you. But right now, we need to get moving.” She put a hand under my elbow and gently pulled me to my feet. “Come on, Dingus.” My sister sneered and stuck her tongue out playfully, pulling a pistol from her waist and taking point as my mother followed behind, taking me by the hand and guiding me through the wreckage of the room. My sister sidled up to the edge of the entry, gun raised, and nodded at our mother. Mom nodded back. Jenny glanced around the edge into the hall, turned back to mom and gave her another nod. I pulled on my mother’s hand. “Where’s dad?” Mom turned a reassuring smile on me. “He’s fine. We’re going to go get him now.”

we1b1l

The Covenant of Redemption

The Blasphemer. A figure unfathomably grotesque, wreathed in an eldritch glow. Too many eyes, but not enough heads. Too many fingers, but not enough hands. A waking nightmare of elder corruption. It stalks the land, with only whispers and desolation left in its wake. Villages and towns, where only days before were full of life, are now devoid of all traces. Homes, store fronts, and farms are left rotted and defunct, as if the people who lived there not a fortnight before hadn’t existed for a decade. The smell of sulfur and copper permeated the air, suffocating, like a heavy fog brought into Trainwin Harbor by the early fall wind, despite it being the dead of winter. Renald pulled off his silver helm, uncomfortably stifling in the unnatural vapor, and shifted anxiously in his half plate. Even his noble sensibility was suppressed by the cloying brimstone in the air. Alandra’s lithe silhouette appeared a few feet away as she finished inspecting the red-charred remains of some sort of humanoid leaning against a shattered shopkeep’s window. A voice deep and gruff, yet booming, shattered the eerie quiet of the street. “Well? What are we gonna do now?” Alandra shot the diminutive stocky man a withering glare. Her voice was barely above a whisper, more akin to a hiss. “Handon, could you not do that, please?” The blue-tattooed dwarf moved his weight from one armored foot to the other, passing his warhammer between hands. Seeing the dwarven warrior anxious made Renald feel a little better for his own disquiet. Handon bristled at the tall, elven woman. “I don’t like this, I cann’ae see my hand in front of my face.” “Where is Walleria?” Renald asked, causing the dwarf in front of him to jump. He apparently hadn’t noticed the paladin standing just a few feet behind. Alandra waved her hand dismissively in the direction of the building across the street as she knelt back down over the remains. “You know how clerics of Aelin are. She’s probably blessing the dead or saying a prayer.” The paladin nodded and left the dwarven warrior and elven ranger alone to bicker, as they were known to do. The bickering between the two could last for days. Renald had learned long ago that any intervention between the two was futile. He couldn’t remember any of their arguments yielding a victor, rather ending when another reason to quarrel presented itself, the topic of the previous disagreement all but forgotten. He found Walleria in the crumbled structure of what may have been a family home. The cleric was staring down at the remains of a small family, red-charred as all the others they had found. Two large bodies were huddled together over the forms of two smaller figures. Parents, futilely protecting their children. Bile rose quickly, the paladin having to swallow the nausea back lest the contents of his stomach desecrate the remnants of the small harbor town. Walleria, her small frame hunched over the family’s remains, stared unseeing, her eyes half-lidded. Even standing next to the small woman, Renald could hardly hear her whispered prayers. He waited patiently for her to finish. “I know what you want to ask me.” Her words, usually soft and filled with kindness, were strained. “And I cannot give you the answer you desire.” “People are going to keep dying unless we do something. Following in the aftermath, burying the dead, sending prayers to the gods, that is all well and good. Noble, even. But it changes nothing.” The cleric sighed and stood to her full height, which only reached the paladin’s armored chest. She looked exhausted. They all were. Tired of chase, tired of the hopelessness. Silence drew out between them as they surveyed the destruction around them. The only sound breaking the unnerving quiet was the hum of the other two members of their party, still bickering, and the distant splash of waves breaking upon the docks. Finally, the small woman spoke. “I just need more time.” “Walleria, it’s been three years. Time is a commodity that is quickly running out, and if we don’t -” “I will not act against my faith.” Her reply was sharp, taking Renald by surprise, only to be quickly replaced by fury. “You think this is a request I make lightly ?” He kept his own voice lowered, both out of respect for the recently deceased, as well as to keep his own anger in check. “This act alone will be the cause of my excommunication, earn divine disfavor from not only Aelin, but all deities, and not to mention damn my soul.” “Then how can you make such a demand, knowing the consequences?” “Because my soul is not worth the lives of thousands.” Renald could feel the heat of his anger creeping up his neck. To avoid any further argument, and perhaps saying something he might come to regret, he turned before Walleria could respond and marched away. His other companions had moved away from the destroyed buildings and were readying their horses. He avoided their questioning stares and instead mounted his destrier. Without another word, the rest of the party mounted, including the cleric, who had followed behind Renald, and made their way out of the town and along the coast. For three years, the party had been hunting this abomination. Stemmed from the darkest depths of whatever hell it had crawled from, the demon was difficult to track. Despite the devastation it left in it’s wake, there was never a clear path or trail left behind. It just simply vanished. Days, even weeks – and on a few occasions, months – would pass before another destroyed settlement was found. In an act of desperation, the four nations of the realm had come together to strike an accord. The Men of Telnora, the Dwarves of Echerspire, the Elven of Mironwood, and the Halflings of Davenshire. Through a series of tests and championships, each race selected a hero of their peoples. By joining the different races together, each individual in the party would not only represent their homeland’s contribution to the pact but provide a unique talent to aid in the party’s quest. To hunt down and destroy the entity that had been released upon their realm, by any means necessary. Thus, the four were brought together. Alandra, the Elven Ranger. Handon, the Dwarven Warrior. Renald, the Human Paladin. And Walleria, the Halfling Cleric. With differences ranging from speech, diet, and religion, the first few months of their fellowship were a challenge to not only decide upon a plan to defeat the demon, but how to complete their quest without destroying each other in the process. Three years into their travels, they had learned to not only coexist, but depend on one another. Even Alandra and Handon, despite their constant quarreling, would stand back-to-back in conflict, should the need arise. However, they were still just as uncertain as to how they would destroy the demon as they were at the beginning. At least they had been, until their travels led them through a small town in the swamp that bordered the lands of halflings and dwarves. Their discovery of the small village was complete happenstance, as their initial destination had been an informant in the dwarven city of Kallidor. What buildings had once existed were no more than husks of their former selves. Charred and decaying bodies littered the gravel roads between clusters of ruins. Sulfur and brimstone hung heavy in the thick, humid air. The Blasphemer had come through this village, leaving little to nothing in it’s wake. During their usual inspection of the area for survivors – which there never were – or traces the demon may have left behind, Renald discovered a small temple. With what remained of the dissolving structure, the paladin found evidence of strange drawings and glyphs decorating nearly every surface still standing. None of the markings were recognizable to the paladin. They were, however, familiar to the cleric. As a woman of religion, Renald had been surprised to see her blatant disgust upon spying his discovery. Muttering her own prayers, she refused to move any closer to the temple’s ruins. Two days of pestering the halfling woman revealed the source of her contempt. “Malphion worshipers.” She spat the words as though they tasted foul. “They pray to the deities of the Abyssal Realms. What your people might call Hell.” “They worship devils?” Walleria nodded, glaring at ground between her feet as though she could see through the surface to the offending realm itself. The concept of devil worshipping was not unheard of to Renald. If this were the case, he found it odd that a people who revered the deity most likely responsible for The Blasphemer’s existence was not protected from its own ruination. Perhaps their prayers were what attracted the demon to such a remote location in the first place. Despite the multitude of death and devastation the party came across during their hunt, the Malphion Temple dwelt at the forefront of Renald’s thoughts. Three years had passed, thousands of innocent lives had been lost, and they were no closer to stopping this madness than at the start. Perhaps what they needed was a deity of their own. Though if praying to the Gods was all it took to banish the demon, they would have done so years ago. Perhaps they were praying to the wrong gods. Such thoughts were sacrilegious to the Paladin’s Code that Renald lived by. He dismissed the idea the moment it crossed his mind, though found himself revisiting the theory in the dark hours of the night, when he found no distraction from his travels or the bickering of his companions. A month after the party’s travel through the swamp, he discussed his speculation with Walleria. Her immediate revulsion came at no shock. Her demand for him to never mention such heretical acts lest he threaten their accord, however, did surprise him. The cleric was a kind woman. She was quiet by nature, as most halflings were. To see such distain directed at himself left Renald reeling. He never mentioned a word of the topic to her again. Until the group found themselves amidst the ruins of Trainwin Harbor. This time, he refused to let the subject lapse. Silence coagulated around the quartet, each lost in their own thoughts as they set up camp for the night. Not a word had been uttered since they left the harbor. The wariness and soul deep exhaustion Renald felt was reflected in each of his comrades faces. He waited until they had all eaten and settled around what remained of their small cook-fire before clearing his throat. “I have…an idea.” Silence was his only response. He could feel the gaze of each of them upon him, one gaze especially burned through the top of his slightly bowed head. “This idea is… well… it is heresy at its most basic level, but it may be the only option we have.” He raised his head to look each of his companions in turn. “We cannot allow any more people to die because of our incompetence.” Alandra and Handon met him with curious stares. Walleria sighed and stood, pacing to their tethered horses, and picking up a brush. “What are ye goin on about?” Handon. Gruff and to the point as always. “We’ve prayed to the Gods, and they are either not answering us, or are incapable of rendering aid. Perhaps we should try praying to a different deity.” Elven eyebrows raised, dwarven eyes narrowed, and a halfling scoffed from where she stood brushing down her horse. “He wants to pray to Malphion.” “Who is Malphion?” Renald opened his mouth to answer Alandra’s question. Handon beat him to it. “You want to pray to a bloody devil? Are you insane, boy?” “It may be our only choice. Do you have any other ideas? Because I would love to hear them.” “And what makes you believe that this devil, this…Malphion, would help?” To her credit, Alandra sounded genuinely curious, rather than accusatory. “I may not be familiar with the gods of men, but devils are not known for answering prayers out of the kindness of their hearts.” Renald took a deep, steadying breath. “Of course not. But they might be willing to make a trade. A deal, even.” “And what could you offer a devil? It’s a bloody devil!” Handon scoffed and shook his head. “My soul.” Stunned silence settled over the campsite. Even Walleria had stopped brushing her horse, staring at Renald with wide eyes. He waited for someone to say something, anything. Instead, they all stared with combined expressions of fear and confusion. “If this works, if Malphion will take my soul in exchange for the banishment of his demon, then I will happily make the exchange. What is one life, when faced with the possible annihilation of thousands? I intend to make this deal… with or without your consent. I will travel back to the Malphion Temple we found in the swamps first thing in the morning.” Without another word, the paladin stood, retrieved his sword from beside his bedroll, and stalked into the night to take first watch. **** Fog hung thick between the trees the following morning as Renald saddled his horse. He had yet to speak to any of his companions, though they each were up as well, readying their own mounts. It was better this way. He had never been one for goodbyes. Mounting his steed, he headed west. The songs of morning birds cut through the thick fog, alongside the clopping of his steeds’ massive hooves. A minute later, the familiar sound of multiple hooves trampling through the thin foliage joined in. Behind his helm, Renald smiled as an elf, dwarf, and halfling fell in step behind him. **** Hands on her hips, Alandra finally broke the silence and asked the same question that was on everyone’s mind. “What now?” They stood at the base of the remains of Malphion’s Temple. The four exchanged unsure glances before settling on Walleria. Her face was sickly and pale, her hands wringing themselves before her. Noticing the attention, she shrugged. “Similar to how you’d pray to any other deity, I suppose.” No one moved, their attention returned again to the temple. Finally, Renald took the first step. He removed his armor, took one last deep breath, then stepped into the large circle etched into the floor and surrounded by strange glyphs. He stole one last glance at his companions – no, his friends – before closing his eyes. “In the name of the Abyssal Plane, I invoke the deity Malphion. Hear my prayer.” Frogs croaked. A bird called in the distance. A sawm of gnats buzzed annoyingly close. Renald resisted the urge to swat them away. The buzz of the swarm grew louder, unpleasant vibrations echoing down the paladin’s spine. Able to stand it no longer, he opened his eyes and slapped at the swarm hovering before him. Before his eyes, the swarm grew, became darker, and began to take shape. Long, pitch black arms ending with hooked fingers extended from the mob of insects, followed by a bare, featureless chest. Lastly, a massive, horned head formed. Eyes as red as glowing embers peered back out at the speechless group. Renald’s first instinct was to recoil and draw his sword. He commanded his body to do so, but only found himself rooted to the spot. He was unsure whether it was his own fear or some other nefarious entity that held him in place. Eyes awash in the hues of fresh blood settled on the paladin. When the devil spoke, each member of the group flinched, for it was not the sound of a single voice that reached their ears, but the chorus of thousands. Men, women, and children alike spoke as one. “As summoned, I have come. What reason would a pious soldier such as yourself have for this summons? You are not my child; your prayers are not mine to receive. Curiosity only is the reason for my compliance. Be it that your reasoning is warranted, and I may yet allow you to continue your meager existence.” Renald’s breath caught as he opened his mouth to reply. How did one actually speak to a god? Or a devil? Should he bow and act reverent? The mere thought of showing supplication to this dark being caused his stomach to roil. “Malphion, I come to you not as your child, but a child of this realm regardless. An entity is lose in our realm. A being not of our world, we cannot destroy it. It has claimed hundreds of innocent lives.” The horned beast sneered in response. “I am aware of my creation’s behaviors.” Renald bit his tongue to keep his face as expressionless as possible, a feat he was sure he was not accomplishing. “We beseech you to return this entity to your world, lest is deplete ours of life. I…” He swallowed back the bile threatening to rise. “I am willing to trade my soul in exchange for this service.” Crimson orbs considered this, looking so deeply into Renald, he felt as though the entity could see directly into the soul he was offering, determining its value. “You consider your single paltry soul enough compensation?” His heart dropped. He hadn’t considered the possibility of his offer being denied. “Not just his soul.” Walleria stepped into the circle of the temple alongside him. Renald wanted to push her away but refrained. “Mine as well.” “Aye.” Handon and Alandra stepped within the temple as well. The devil eyed them each in turn, as he had done with Renald. The few moments of contemplation that passed felt eternal to the quartet. At long last, the sneer on the deity’s features spread to a satisfied grin. “It will be done, and shall your souls know no escape from this accord.”

xcgbl3

The Curse of Elmaraen Woods

Ebonvale sat like a shimmering pearl on the edge of the churning Sirgus Sea. It was the booming hub of trade and commerce for the Central Kingdoms. It overflowed with riches. Its Swift Crest Pillars, which welcomed wary seafarers, were cast from pure gold, and towered like twin flames over the great Mist Harbor, such was the wealth of this land. But its opulence and ostensible good fortune belied a dark secret, one that was spoken of in hushed tones, and lurked deep in its forests. August Miles looked out on Ebonvale's shores from the deck of the Nelly's Crest. His pulse quickened as he surveyed the land. Not only could he taste his fate on its shores, but both the gruel and the bickering on the ship had grown tiresome. He was ready to be off the old cog. Like most men from Reeven, August was a robust and towering figure. Lean, powerful muscles rippled beneath smooth, caramel skin. He kept the look of a Reevenite hunter, with a weekly shave of his head with a dagger. When the ship docked, August made his way to the wharf below. The imposing man flagged down a guide, a young man barely out of puberty. August loaded his bag on one of his steeds. "Where's the nearest inn, boy?" August asked. "The best is the Stuck Pig in Guilderton" the boy said. "Expensive?” "A night there will cost you ten satter, sir. There are girls nearby too. And the food’s a sight better than the gruel you’ve been eating on that thing." he said, gesturing to the ship. "That's where we'll head." As he fastened his pack to his steed, a beautiful woman caught August's attention across the wharf. There was something about her, her eyes. The woman walked slowly across the crowded dock towards him. August took a step back as she drew near.  "Reevenite,” she said. Her eyes were pale, colorless and surrounded by waves of blonde hair. “I see your soul and what it craves. You will choke on it if you’re not careful." “What was that?” he said. “Pride is the path to hell in these parts.” Her colorless eyes searched his face. She smiled. “Some things feed on your flesh, you see. On this ancient land, things will make a meal of your soul.” The boy jumped down from his horse. “Hey, you blind churl! If I lose another customer because of your mad ravings I’ll throttle yo –.” “We’ve already spoken of your fate, haven’t we?” she said, turning to him. The boy went pale. He spat at her feet. “Leave us alone, you fucking witch.” She turned to August, and stared at him. A wave of pain and terror swelled in him and crashed through every inch of his body. “Get away from me," he said, shoving her. He broke out into a sweat. The giant man grabbed the horse's reins and mounted it. "Let's go," he said to the boy, looking at the woman. "Don't slip here, Reevnite," she said. She kept her eyes on him. August turned back and peered at those bottomless, pale eyes. She kept her eyes on him until they were out of sight.   Guilderton was a busy city. The Stuck Pig, which sat by the town square, was a popular inn for visitors traveling up the coast. August booked a room, then convinced the boy to meet him in the morning and take him on the three day ride to Elmaraen Woods. The boy took significant persuading, but the 85 satters August promised finally sealed the deal. The Reeven hunter grabbed his bag and made his way into the inn and down to the common hall for a meal. He was hoping that the boy was right about the food here. Two weeks of passable porridge made him ravenous for a good, hot meal. As he waited for his food with an ale in hand, he could hear overlapping conversations. Many were about the abomination that prowled the forest. Two men at the neighboring table were recounting a story about the creature. He leaned in and interrupted. "You know of the beast?" he said. The two eyed him. "The curse, you mean? Of course," the man said. He had old, sunken eyes and a pale, thin face. He looked over the dark-skinned foreigner. "It's the albatross that hangs around the neck of this great kingdom," he said. "You're here for the bounty," the other man said, slurring his words. "I'm here for blood. And glory. The bounty is just a bonus, old man." "Calm your ass, boy-o, I was just checkin'," the drunkard said. "Vengeance is also one of my undertakings. Reprisal, for the death of my countrymen, good Reeven men, family. Many of them made landfall on your shores over the years, to rid you of your curse, only to perish in your jinxed forests," he said, fixing his deep brown eyes on the soberer one. The man leaned in. "You should go, young master. Leave and never return. This place is cursed, hexed." "I can't." "You must." "Not without the beast's scalp." "No, it's gold that you want," the tipsy man said. He reached clumsily for his tankard, then threw down a gulp. Much of it spilled down the front of his tunic. "You know nothing beyond that tankard of ale, let alone what I want, you beer-guzzling, old lout. My kin and I are blessed with skill and agility men like you only possess in your dreams. We track down your demons, your monsters, through snow and biting rain and we slaughter them by the dozens. I will look your bastard-child of Ebonvale in its hollow eyes and I'll plant this steel deep in its belly. And he will know that a Miles man, a Reeven man, has banished his soul back to the blackness from whence it came. Then you, everyone here, and your kin, will praise my name for ages to come." He chugged his ale. "That's what I've come for." "I see," said the clearer-eyed one. "If you are a master of death, as you claim, then the King will only be too glad to part with his gold." "He'll tremble when he honors me with it." "The gods willing," the old man continued. "The King rarely leaves his fortress. It's been like that for years now. He's even abandoned his hunt. A king too afraid to hunt is a bad omen for any kingdom. The land surrounding his keep is no longer his. The black death lurks by every tree, in every pond, from every bough. Even the animals have fled, they say. There isn't anything there for the King to chase if he wanted to." "In three days time that will change." "In three days time, you'll be dead," the slurring one said, laughing. August shot up and snatched the inebriated man by his face. He held his sharpened steel to the man's eye. "Watch your tongue you repugnant varlet. Or I'll cut it out and wear it for jewelry." "Sir! Please, no bloodshed, please!" It was the innkeeper. She placed his food on his table. "Please, sir." Her bottom lip trembled as she looked at him. August snorted a laugh. He released the man's face and shoved it away from him. "Piss ant," he said. The two drunken men scurried to the other side of the room. August waved the woman away, returned his falchion to its sheath, then sat down and ate his meal. He ignored the stares from around room. The tasty, sauce-soaked chops went down just as well as he'd hoped. He guzzled down a few more tankards of ale, then found the man that could procure him a girl for the night. He directed August to a place next door where the Reevenite found one to his liking, a young, red-haired girl. She was a big cheeky but he liked it when his women fought. He needed to relax. The trip had him anxious, on edge. He needed to forget about what waited for him in the bedeviled woods of Elmaraen. The ginger in his arms would work well in that capacity. She'd work just fine. ****** The morning sun peaked through cracks in the drapery. August stretched and yawned alone in his bed. His companion had left in the middle of the night, worn out but well compensated. August slipped on his pants, then his tunic and linen cloak. He laced his boots up to his knees and fetched the guide. The young man came up and brought down August's gear, then loaded it on to a horse. They headed west through Ebonvale. The first night, they lodged at an inn. Their second night they camped at the edge of the forest itself, making a slim meal of a pair rabbits in the bush. The following morning, the young guide awoke to the song of a sparrow. It's melody dipped and turned like the flight of a butterfly. The boy picked wild berries until August arose. When he did, the two had a wordless breakfast of wild fruit. The guide then prepared for his long journey back east. He would be returning to Guilderton and steering clear of the savagery to come. As the boy readied himself to mount his steed, August stopped him. "Hold out your hands," he said. The boy cupped them together. The hunter emptied his entire purse of satter into the boy's palms. "Sir?" "The King's bounty can get me home and back ten times over and there'd still be enough for my parade when I get there, boy. Take it. And tell everyone that you met the killer of The Devil on this journey." The boy looked down at the heap of coins in his hand. He dumped them into a hip-pouch hastily, then procured a fistful of herbs. "Take this," the boy said. His face was brighter than it had been the whole trip. "When you're ready, burn it. Then call to the beast. It will come." August took the sprigs in his massive hand. "I will." The boy mounted his horse and turned the Shire steed east. August watched as the boy disappeared out of the forest. The Reevenite rode to the interior of Elmaraen Woods that third day. He rode until the twittering of jays and the calls of blue finches ceased. When he was sure there was silence, he dismounted his horse and removed his sack. He unpacked his weapons from it, a javelin, a dagger, a whip and his glistening falchion, and lined them up, side by side, in the thick undergrowth. He removed a sling from his pack, then slid each weapon into a slot especially fitted for each armament within the sling. He undressed to his bare ass, then whipped the sling over his head and across his shoulder. August took a deep breath, removed the dagger from the sling and ran its sharp edge against a pec. The skin there bled and he licked the knife clean. The Reeven man screamed into the descending twilight. The colors all around him grew vivid and sharp as his heart thumped in his body like a war drum. He pounded on his chest vigorously and bared his teeth. The Reeven man grabbed a length of spark wood from his pack and lit the herbs. He tossed them to the ground. August walked to a tree whose boughs overhung the burning herbs and looked up its long trunk. Then, with lengthy swipes of his muscular limbs, he dashed up it with the grace of a cat. He was balancing in its canopy within seconds. "Demoooon!" he shouted. "Come meet your deathhh!!" He shook the trees and howled. August waited, his keen senses on sharp alert. After a few moments, he could hear something coming from the west. It was big and was thrashing the trees. August's mouth went dry as the noise came closer. Then it stopped suddenly, stilling the wood. August looked down at the burning herbs, then all around. It wasn't till the last moment that he noticed the flaming red eyes in the treetop directly across from him. The creature lunged at August. The Reevenite spun deftly in the air, avoiding the beast, and landed easily on the ground below. "Come, bastard!" he yelled. The thing growled. It drooled from the trees above and circled him. It wailed at the man then charged from the canopy. The Reevenite's javelin was at the ready. August drove it through its belly as it crashed down on him. The thing howled in agony. The creature rolled and clambered to the side, then slowly stood on its haunches. It wrapped its claws around the javelin, and pulled it through its body. The beast snarled at August, then heaved the spear into the darkness. The two eyed each other, each hunched over and pulling in heavy breaths. The thing was ghastly looking. It had rows of pointed teeth, a massive barbed spike on each elbow, and was covered in poisonous, red quills. Silver blood gushed from a gash in its belly. August drew his falchion. The beast crouched down on all fours, leaped over his head, and darted through the wood. The Reevenite followed. They charged through the forest, darting between trees and over streams, shaking the forest floor with each step. The creature dashed up a tree like a streak of lightning, and shot through the canopy into the night air. August raced up the tree effortlessly behind it, unlatched his whip and cracked the long thing at the beast. The length of leather found its target, wrapped itself around the animal's neck and with a groaning pull, August snatched it from the sky. The thing plummeted through the air. August jumped from the canopy after it brandishing his sword. As the animal hit the ground, he landed atop it, plunging his falchion deep into its chest. It bellowed a harrowing scream. The Reevenite tumbled across the turf. He looked at the animal. It was moaning and clawing at the ground. He got to his feet, walked to it, then kneeled down. The hunter's nostrils flared as he whispered into the thing's gnarled ear. "Now, you die." August grabbed the falchion, then twisted the blade deeper. His eyes hardened into black stones as he leaned in. The thing bellowed in anguish. Silver blood poured all over its body. August watched as its eyes rolled back and its hands trembled feverishly in a death-rattle. The Reevenite arose. He grabbed the thing by its long, mangy mane and drove the dagger into it's neck. He sawed back and forth, threw muscle and bone until the head separated from its body. He looked at it. He bared his teeth and clenched his jaw. "I am August of the Reeven Miles clan, you fucking putrid beast! Aaaaarrrhhhh!!" He held the skull up to the sky and howled into the night. He screamed in triumph as a soft breeze wafted through the woods and caressed him. The Reeven man was immortal now. The name August Miles would be praised in poem and song throughout the Central Kingdoms for eternity. He sat down next to the body and chuckled. He wasn't sure at first, but something caught his attention. Yes. Chittering and hooting began echoing all around him. Chirping and squawking filled the forest. It was alive again. He smiled and the edges of his eyes moistened. August relished the symphony. After a few moments, he decided to admire his work once more and gazed down at the corpse. Wha...? Was it the moon's dim light? Or was it his fatigue playing tricks on him? He put a thumb and middle finger against his eyes and rubbed them. He looked again. The thing had shrunken. By two or three feet, and it now had the limbs and look of a man. He kneeled down and ran his hand along its extremities. This can't be. He thought for a moment. The head. He grabbed it and held it up to his face. August gasped as he dropped the skull to the floor. The man blinked uncontrollably. How? His mouth opened and his upper lip curled back when he ran the movie back in his mind of what he'd just seen. He held his hand over his mouth and took a few wobbly steps back. It couldn't be, he thought. No . The dulcet sounds of the forest began disappearing again. His hands throbbed and a pain swelled in his arm so excruciating that it forced up the morning's berries from his belly. He screamed. Long, barbed spikes burst from his elbows, and claws erupted from the tender skin under his nails, hooking from his fingers at inhuman lengths. He fell to his knees when the razor-sharp quills broke through the skin on his back in endless, agonizing bites. And his legs twisted and deformed, sending him sprawling across the floor. He tried to scream but he drooled down his chest through rows of massive teeth. He tried again and his twisting vocal cords could only produce a yelp. His eyes moistened at the very touch of the air against his body. The soft breeze in the wood sent a roaring flame cascading through his skin. He howled. August looked again at the severed head as it laid eyes up beside him. What he saw was the last thing he would ever see with human eyes, because the curse was ensnaring him in its cruel irony now. Before him was the broken face of a man who had gone missing years before, someone who went searching for the glory of Ebonvale himself. August looked into the eyes of the last one to successfully slay the beast of Elmaraen, the eldest of the Miles clan, Jephim Miles, his long-lost father. August howled into the night.

w87msm

Fimbulwinter's End

To you, who is reading this, wherever you are, it saddens me to say this will be the last of my personal scribings, which you have presumably been perusing for some time, possibly out of curiosity for a civilisation lost, as I assume it must be, following the events of this eve. I am writing these words by candlelight, wrapped in my wolf hide cloak, attempting to fend off the cold and unbearable darkness that has descended on my mother’s Hall and lands, not to mention the world, following the death of the sun. Yes. That is what I wrote. The sun is gone. I don’t mean for the day. I don’t mean behind the cosmos-concealing storm clouds that clutch and claw at the sky as I sit here shivering, surrounded by treasures and fineries of the highest value which no longer offer any solace. The sun is gone. Taken. Devoured . But I am getting ahead of myself. I am speaking of what occurred at the end of this last day of fimbulwinter and I must relate the day’s events in full. If I were to speak of the atrocity alone, you would think my vacation in Folkvangr ended without resolution to the threads left dangling in previous entries. That would not do, so let me return to this morning and tell of the return of Queen Freya, following a two-day quest to retrieve her necklace, Brisingamen, stolen by the dwarves she’d given sanctuary to, having saved them from Brynhilder and her valkyries (who have been a thorn in Mother’s side since infiltrating Vanaheim but are no longer a problem as of today. I will get to that.) This day began the same as every other we have endured these endless winters, with the sun rising high above the snow-covered fields of Folkvangr, which surround the hall Sessruminir and stretch towards fang-like mountains in all directions. Or should I say that lifeless, white orb we continued to call a sun, despite it having provided no warmth or comfort since the death of Baldur and the commencement of fimbulwinter three years thus. At least it was something. Which was better than Nothing. And Nothing is all Skoll has left. But I am drifting, as Hnoss would say, nudging me to point out some attractive new male who caught her eye, living or dead, though more so dead since we’ve been in Folkvangr. Not that this deterred my sister. I fear she has worked her way through an army of Mother’s Einherjer in the three years we’ve been here, distracting them from their training and most likely ensuring they will not be at their best for the forthcoming war. Mother has not been happy about her wanton behaviour, but what did she expect, inviting the Goddess of Lust to spend the seasons here, surrounded by witless neanderthals, all of whom withered on the battlefield of whatever wasteful wars they took part in. Not exactly the intelligence I’d invite into my bed but that’s Hnoss for you, anything with (or without) a pulse. As I was saying, this day began the same as every other, cold, dreary, as lifeless as the lumbering corpses that lurch against the walls inside Sessrumnir. I emerged from my chambers in time to witness Hnoss casting a one-armed Einherjer from her bedchamber, another undead viking taken advantage of and discarded like dung. It gave me reason to mock my sister as we made our way to the banquet hall, lured as ever by the scent of slow-roasting, leftover Sæhrímnir, being tended to by father in the cauldron. Yes, he continues to defy cook’s orders to leave the animal alone to regenerate, completely sold on the belief that boar stew tastes better the second day. And he is King Oor after all. Who is Andhrimnir to argue with his Queen’s doting husband? I will confess to feeling bad about eating that poor creature’s meat, morning, noon and night, watching it regenerate each day with sad, soulful eyes only to be slaughtered again at sundown to feed the mouldering masses. And us Aesir. We are horrible. But one good thing about the events of this evening is that it won’t have to endure that any longer. Sæhrímnir is free. I really should set him loose now. It seems only fair, since Hildi had a taste of freedom earlier. Oh yes, Hildisvini, I must get to that also! But first back to Mother. We had barely finished eating (as much as it pains me to admit it, two day old Sæhrímnir really does taste fantastic!) and wandered out into the gardens for a stroll when father spotted her aloft, circling Sessrumnir’s towers on her cloak of falcon feathers. Of course she had to make a dramatic entrance. That’s mother for you. A born show-off. She wouldn’t come down until she’d whipped the Einherjar on the ramparts into a frenzy and could descend to the battlecries of warriors. When she eventually graced us with her presence, precious Brisingamen was once again secured around her neck. Those deceitful dwarves, she informed, had made it to the Asgardian mountains and were almost back in their own lands when she caught them and exposed their treachery. I won’t lie, I didn’t feel comfortable hearing her recount the tale. Not because she went into excruciating detail about what she did to the dwarves, lifting them into the sky and dropping them to be impaled on crystalline peaks. (Which seems unfair, considering Brisingamen is a dwarven treasure to begin with, one Mother acquired by sleeping with the four dwarves who forged it, dwarves who had no right to give it away, for silver, gold or a night with the Goddess of Seduction, in the first place. She honestly has no right to judge my sister.) No, I worried because of the way she was looking at me, like she knew I’d hired the dwarves to steal the necklace from her chambers while I distracted her. Obviously, as the Goddess of Possessions, Brisingamen has long been on my list of treasures to acquire and since Mother will never part with it, not even in death, what’s a girl to do? They only had to reach the Valley of Crystals and hide it where I told them and the necklace would have been mine. But you can’t trust a dwarf. Not to carry out a jewel theft anyway. I was left wondering as to whether or not they had also betrayed my confidence because it was just as she was getting to the end of her story that Andhrimnir interrupted, to advise Hildisvini’s pen had been left ajar and my mother’s other pride and joy, her golden-fleeced boar, was nowhere to be found. Have I mentioned Hildisvini? Mother’s swine, who she rides around Folkvangr like a horse? I did wonder why Andhrimnir would have checked on him, as he has not been, and never will be, on the menu. Perhaps it was out of annoyance at my father for cooking Sæhrímnir up again and prolonging the beast’s daily torment. Maybe he was going to slaughter Mother’s boar to make a point? Hildisvini cannot regenerate the way Sæhrímnir does, so that would not have been wise. We’ll never know. In any event, Mother was distraught at this news and turned her ire on myself and Hnoss, as it was we who were left in charge of the boar while she was away. I knew it had been Hnoss’s turn to water the beast the night before. And I knew Hnoss had other activities in mind. So if anyone had left Hildi’s pen open it was she. Not that I would stand there and accuse her. That is not in my nature. Hnoss, of course, was pointing the finger, but if there’s one thing Mother is good at it’s being fair. We were both left in charge, we were equally culpable, and so we were both sent out into the snow-covered fields to find the boar. Not the way I would have chosen to spend the last day of vacation, but at least we got to travel in style. As I have mentioned many times in these papyri, Mother’s golden chariot is another of her treasures I covet. Not as much as Brisingamen but close. As with all her worldly possessions, Freya is very protective of the chariot and until this day has never allowed myself or Hnoss to ride in it, the argument being she has seen how we handle horses and believes we wouldn’t have the skills to steer Bygul and Trjegul. Because of course she has to have a pair of cats pull her chariot instead of steeds. For the record, I am an excellent horsewoman. Horses are divine animals, the jewels of the animal kingdom, so why would I not be? Hnoss is another story, she handles horses like men, roughly, cruel. Mother recognised this today, when she granted us permission to use the chariot, giving instructions that I was to drive while Hnoss was to look out for Hildi. I doubt she would have let us anywhere near the cats or the chariot if not for the fact she was exhausted following her excursion to the mountains. We went out into the frost-encrusted meadows in pursuit of a golden-haired boar, and the cats handled like a dream, in particular blue-haired Bygul who was particularly responsive to my urging. Grey-haired Trejgul seemed to just lethargically follow his lead, kind of like my sister with me. I enjoyed powering the chariot through deep banks of snow, forgetting the task at hand on more than one occasion, deliberately steering in circles to prolong the fun (and Hnoss’ misery as she was splattered by sleet, a long awaited cold shower for my sibling.) The thought did occur to me that I could kick her off and abscond with the vehicle, a treasure in place of the torc I’d been deprived of. But sanity prevailed. After some time, we made our way within earshot of the squeals and grunts of a clearly troubled animal. My first thought was Hildisvini had fallen into a crevasse concealed by a snowdrift and I wondered how in Hel we’d get him out. Then Hnoss grabbed me and had me draw the cats to a halt as we crested a hillock. Luckily, she’d spotted ahead the true cause of Hildi’s alarm - he had been captured by a quintet of decrepit-looking valkyries, Brynhilder and her companions, all of them refugees from Valhalla and on the run from Odin having abandoned their duties. As I mentioned previously, those hideous wretches have been causing trouble in Folkvangr for months, preying on travellers, robbing and killing them, eating them, by all accounts, having reverted to cannibal instincts, and as I drew the chariot to a halt and saw them in the hollow below, with Mother’s boar tied to a stake next to a charcoal fire they were tending, it didn’t take the God of the Wise to understand what was happening. And what were we to do? A harlot and a hoarder? Take on five feral valkyries to save a pig? That was never going to happen. We would have turned the chariot around and returned empty-handed, having ‘failed’ to locate the animal, so it was more than fortuitous my uncle chose that moment to reappear. You will recall from earlier writings how Freyr, Mother’s brother, had been with us on vacation the first two winters but, unable to stop thinking of the Jotun princess Gerðr he encountered in the Domain of the Storm Giants on his way to Vanaheim, he had left at the start of the year to track her down. Against the better judgement of Freya and Oor, though I was in favour of the endeavour. If my uncle hooked up with a giant, my thinking was it would give me safe passage into Jotunheim where I might possibly get my hands on one of those gargantuan diamond rings. Another dream that will never come to fruition.  Anyway, just as we were about to turn tail and leave Hildisvini to his fate, Freyr’s boat Skíðblaðnir crested the hill on the other side of the valkyries’ encampment and thundered like a mighty sled toward them, causing them to abandon their dinner. Yes, I did say boat. Skíðblaðnir is as capable of sailing through snow as it is water, flames and lava also, if my uncle’s tales are to be believed. But that wasn’t the most exciting part. The most exciting part was when Freyr, at the helm, flung his magic, self-propelling sword from his hand and let it have at the scattering valkyries, stabbing, slicing, chopping and decapitating until the white snows of the hollow were painted crimson and decorated with discarded limbs. When I saw Freyr disembark from Skíðblaðnir to free Hildisvini and bring him aboard, I urged Bygul and Trejgul on down the hill to join him. I’m not sure he believed our story that we’d only just arrived on the scene, but Freyr isn’t one to make things awkward so he simply lowered a ramp to allow us guide the chariot onto the boat then began to sail it back towards Sessrumnir. One more thing of interest occurred which I must relate before writing about the loss of the sun. Freyr told us he had indeed reunited with Gerðr and they had been living happily together for months, but recent revelations made it necessary for him to return to his family. Though pushed, he wouldn’t tell what those revelations were, though he was grim as he dwelled on them, which wasn’t in his nature, so I knew it was serious. There was something he needed to check before returning to the Grand Hall, so he took us on a detour to the edge of the Muspelheim mountains. We didn’t have to get too close, he only wanted to see if a rumour he’d heard was true, that the Jotunn Eggþér, who’d gone missing from his home a month prior, had set up home by the mountains with his rooster Fjalarr, where he occupied his time by playing harp. This rumour was easily confirmed, first by the sounds of the harp reaching our ears as we approached, then by the sight of the Jotunn himself, a monolithic presence who rose into the sky at the foot of the mountains like one of their offspring. Freyr drew the boat to a halt and slipped deep into thought for several minutes, staring at Eggþér solemnly until the mournful tune the giant strummed came to an end and the large red rooster crowed, a harsh, tortured, sound that shook me to my core. Still Freyr wouldn’t speak. We returned to Sessrumnir then, leaving the giant playing melancholic tunes, and upon our return there was much rejoicing. Rejoicing for the rescue of Hildisvini. Celebration for the destruction of the valkyries. A feast was prepared in honour of Freyr’s return, or so I thought, though now I know it was just one big last supper. Sæhrímnir was spared one final insult, as he hadn’t regenerated fully, or so went the excuse. I should have known that wouldn’t stop them. Three-legged, two-legged or one, it had never stopped Andhrimnir serving him before. But I was so enthralled, along with Father, Mother and Hnoss, by tales of Freyr’s adventures in Jotunheim that I didn’t notice. Not until the rooster crowed again mid-way through the feast, something we shouldn’t have been able to hear considering how far away it was, but all heard easily nonetheless. Father, Mother and Freyr went deathly quiet. The conversation dried up. The banquet hall was vacated. Hnoss went to fetch an Einherjar for one final fling. I think at that point, we all knew. I spent the remaining hours of the day wandering aimlessly, drawing, watching the Einherjar train, napping at the top of the Hall’s eastern turret. Until Hnoss woke me and told me we’d been summoned to the south-west battlements. Which is where they were waiting. Oor and Freya and Freyr. Gathered together, close, arms around one another, watching as the sun set over the horizon. Hnoss and I were encouraged to join them, which was unusual, as we are not a family that hug. But we hugged tonight. And Mother cried, glistening teardrops that turned to gold as they fell from her cheeks, clattering on the concrete like nuggets. Valuable nuggets that on any other occasion I’d have been gathering up in my skirts. As a rebellious child, my favourite thing to do was make Mother cry, then pawn the results of her sorrow for jewels, but the time for such frivolities was over. And that was before I noticed the sun, reversing its trajectory and crawling back up into the sky. I don’t know how to write about what I witnessed. How do you describe, in any way that does it justice, the sight of the planet-sized wolf named Skoll, rising up over the horizon in pursuit of the retreating sun, kicking its legs as though it were running through sand rather than space, snapping its jaws at the cold, lifeless orb as it tried to escape, catching it at the apex of its arc directly above us, clamping its teeth around it, chomping it into its maw. I don’t know how else to describe how I saw the sun be eaten, as Fjalarr crowed a third and final time. The world is dark now. I don’t want to write anymore. Ragnarok has finally begun. The age of the Aesir is ending and in the distance I hear the rumbling sounds of war. I do not know what will become of us. But our fimbulwinter vacation is over. I’m just glad I got to spend it with my family. -GERSEMI, DAUGHTER OF FREYA AND OOR

iy3q9a

A Matter of Degrees

     As a lifelong resident of the Northern Hemisphere, I normally looked sadly on the onslaught of fall and winter. During the summer my friends and I had romped with as little attire as possible in our local lakes and the Atlantic Ocean. This year, though, we didn’t realize that the sun whose disappearance we so sadly mourned could become the instrument of the world’s destruction.      As Mother Nature began to close the curtain on 2300, news reports began to surface about nature playing a cruel joke on humanity by having the sun shine continuously–24 hours a day. Medical personnel working in emergency rooms across most of the civilized world failed to get the punchline. They couldn’t find humor in the fact that the third-degree sunburn cases began to overwhelm hospitals across the globe, and they feared that death-toll records soon would follow.        Amazingly, most of the patients received their burns from only a half-hour exposure in the middle of November, when the majority of the hemisphere usually began hunkering down for winter.      The epicenter of the weird climate reversal? The normally most frigid inhabited place on earth--Oymyakon, Russia. This area had set a record of negative 153 degrees Fahrenheit–in 1933. Its daily temperature in the penultimate month of 2300 had averaged positive 120 degrees Fahrenheit for a solid week.       Even though the overall temperature of the entire earth had increased only one degree every six months the world’s top climate scientists at first seemed unconcerned. As the illnesses and deaths began to pile up they realized that dire consequences could loom for the planet.        The scientists also saw signs that oceans around the globe soon could dry up--putting even the most plentiful water supplies in danger.         International news outlets also revealed that. although leaders outside Oymakon saw the signs mounting in their own countries, the effects--for the time being--were small. Politicians being politicians, therefore continued to put off taking united and concerted action.          My friends and I resolved to follow the global situation closely, but felt as unconcerned, for the time being, as the rest of the world outside the Russian mining district.          However, those working in the gold-rich mines, normally accustomed to laboring at full tilt for a maximum of five hours a day in the most intolerable cold, now began to faint after an hour of minimum effort. Hundreds of workers filled every available ambulance, as emergency medical services transported victims to the district’s hospital to prevent their death from sun poisoning.       International news outlets rushed to interview Demetrius Yarostikof, the 10-year foreman of the most rugged mining crew in the district. Despite warnings from national law enforcement authorities, Yarostikof saw no alternative but to call a halt to the largest extraction operation in this area. He feared all of his crew members might eventually perish in the explosion of solar heat.      The foreman complained that those supervising the operation and government officials had continued to breathe down his neck to increase production. Eventually they, too, saw the devastation mounting not only in their offices, but in their own homes, as one person after another fell victim to the unbearable heat.      In an interview. Dr. Ivan Makalevich, head dermatologist in the district’s hospital, said he had tried desperately to find a treatment for the apparently incurable sunburn that wreaked havoc on the bodies of hundreds in a region where the overwhelming sickness for centuries had been frostbite. Due to their many years of experience, he and his colleagues had learned to deal with the results of living in the most frigid conditions in the world, but this heat and its resulting burns were an entirely different animal.      The pressures on Demetrius and Dr. Makalevich paled in comparison to those on Dr. Igor Federych, Russia’s chief meteorological expert. He kept pushing his sub-skeleton staff, down to almost nil from the mysterious sunburn illness, to their limits to discover a cause for the startling reversal in their normally extremely cold climate, but none of them ever had seen anything like this and they saw no possibility for a solution to the crisis in the near future.       Making the situation more dire--centuries of international aggression by Russia against many of its former client states had caused support for investment for a global-backed rescue operation to become nearly non-existent.      Also, the remainder of the nations on earth, whose leaders felt considerably less threatened by the developing crisis, didn’t see an urgent need to risk scarce resources to prop up a regime that possibly might turn against them in the future.      Leaders outside Russia also believed that, if the crisis kept expanding in more moderate climates, the road to a solution would come much easier for them than it would for Oymyakon, which had a much longer and complicated summit to reach.       In the mining territory, Demetrius and his family saw themselves in a hopeless situation. His country’s top experts apparently could find no solution to the crisis and the rest of the world continued to shrug its shoulders at the possible coming extinction of his homeland.      In off-the-record interviews, the foreman confided that the only path left open to the gold mine foreman was to get out as soon as he, his family and close friends could before getting trampled in the stampede of those fleeing what eventually could be the end of their world.       Demetrius secretly scoured the Internet for an alternative to what most certainly pointed to the coming of the destruction of his homeland and probably the apocalypse for the entire earth.       His research brought him to an article on ScientificAmerican.com about exploration of a newly-discovered planet, Huchoron. Apparently this planet had a climate and atmosphere very similar to that of Earth and it existed only a day’s travel time via space vehicles available to Russians of the socioeconomic level of Demetrius in the dawn of the 25th century.      In addition, he had won a doctorate in cybertechnology prior to pursuing gold mining, which he had seen as a more rapid path to great wealth. He now tapped into his educational background to build an intergalatic communications system.       Although communication proved extremely challenging because of the outdated Huchoron technology, he managed to establish relations with the Governing Council of the Planet Huchoron and pave the way for the future domicile for himself and his family.     The Huchoronians also saw an alliance with Demetrius as their best opportunity to tap into earth’s more advanced gold-mining technology in order to more easily open their own substantial gold reserves. Huchoron’s outdated mining methods had left these reserves untouched for more than 50 years.      Although the Stone Age Huchronian technology made a return trip to earth impossible for the present, Demetrius saw this alliance as his only hope.        He plotted his course for Huchoron and prepared his crew for the intergalatical voyage and swore those in his small circle to top secrecy. No use tipping off the rest of the world and causing a massive exodus and panic that could sabotage their voyage.       Finally, the day of the voyage came and Demetrius and his crew took off for their new world.       As their space vehicle cleared earth’s atmosphere they looked back in horror as the only world they had ever known exploded into a huge black hole in the vast darkness of space.        It looked like a small group of Russian miners had more wisdom than most of earth’s intelligentsia and my friends and I became victims of our own naivete.

ekbg9e

Of the Land, Sky and Waters

Korlach Longnail finished the last of his worms and wiped dirt from his chin. “How do ya goblins eat that filthy mess?” said the stagecoach driver. Korlach struggled to answer. In his twenty-two years, no one ever asked him that. “It’s how we eat in Grengorock,” Korlach said. And what of it? These humans were so peculiar. All that work to eat: kill, and skin and cut and boil. If a goblin found food, he ate it, just like every other creature of the land, sky and waters. The driver twisted around in his seat. He wore a white shirt lined with silver buttons and stained yellow at the collar. Bulges of flesh pressed tight against his clothes, as though it would all burst out at any moment. “A word o’ advice,” he said. “Your in Breckinwood now. No more eating like a goblin. And get yourself to a tailor. You can’t be walking round bare chested like that, it ain’t decent.” From a man that looks like a hairy onion bulb. Korlach stifled a laugh. He had a point, though. Korlach had to learn how to fit in among the humans, at least for a while. One year at the tannery and I’ll earn enough to go south. I’ll swim in the diamond sea, and climb the spirit peaks, and find all the treasures this world has to offer. Korlach gave a nod to the driver and set his inward gaze on the spirit peak summits. The driver tipped his hat, turned in his seat, and gave his horse a lash. *** Besides the smell, the work at Tarry’s Tannery wasn’t so bad. The other tanners came to love having Korlach around. They gave the goblin the most gruesome jobs: scraping gore from hides, scrubbing the putrefaction shed, mixing bate water with pigeon poop. Korlach did it all with vigor and a smile. His favorite job was dung hoarding. On quiet afternoons, he’d grab handfuls of feed and dash through tall grasses out to the old horse barn where the pigeons roosted. Under the shade of oaks, he’d watch the birds have their fill. If he was hungry, he’d snatch one and have his fill too. Jagger, the hunter, was the only real pain. He was always full of humor, at Korlach’s expense. On their first meeting, Jagger chucked a festering, maggot laden wolf’s hide at Korlach’s head. “Hey ya dirty gobbler. This remind ya of home?” the hunter said. Korlach shrugged. “We’d never leave so much on the hide for them to eat.” He picked up a maggot and popped it into his mouth. He didn’t like it. Far too sour. “Diirrrtyyy Gobbler,” Jagger said. And he laughed. So loud that his two brown bloodhounds howled along with him. Some of the other tanners laughed too. Korlach didn’t know what was so funny about it. But it mattered little. At the end of every week, he tucked his hard earned money into his sack and got forty pecks closer to his dreams. Two thousand pecks. That’s all I need. Only one year and I’ll be free. *** In Korlach’s fifth month at the tannery, his father fell ill. He wheezes all night, and his coughing fits are dreadful. Korlach’s mother wrote. He hasn’t hunted in a month. Please come home. Korlach bought a quill and ink in Breckinwood-town for two pecks, and wrote back to his mother. I’m sending a human healer. Make sure to cover yourself from neck to ankle when he comes. And do not eat live things in his presence. Do what he says and he can help. Korlach packed eighty pecks in with the note. The rest of his savings he gave to Milty, the Breckinwood-town healer. Milty tapped the corners of the peck notes on a gold band around his middle finger. “This will cover my wage, but I’ll need to take an armed man with me,” he said. “Pardon me, you're a decent fellow, Korlach, but we all know what your kin are capable of.” What are we capable of? Does he think my family will eat him? It’s been a hundred years now since that happened. “How much do you need?” Korlach said. “Two thousand should cover it. Go talk to Marla. I’m sure the tannery can work something out.” *** “Of course we can work something out,” said Marla, the pay clerk. The youngest daughter of Tarry, was a plump, red-faced, genial lady. Her office was in town, far away from the stench of the tannery. It smelled like vinegar and lemons. Marla set a paper on her desk and pushed a quill forward. “What does it say?” Korlach put his hands on the desk and drew his face close to the form. He could read a few words of the human tongue, but studying it was hard after the sun-up to sun-down shifts. “We’ll pay Milty now and deduct it from your wages. We want you and your family to be well. Just an X, right here is all we need.” Marla handed Korlach the quill.  While Korlach signed the form, Marla sprayed her desk with vinegar and water, and gave it a hearty wipe. *** “I did all I could,” Milty said. The healer stood at the doorway of Korlach’s shack. He handed Korlach a note from his mother. Please come home… the note started. Korlach set it down. He stuffed sixty pecks into an envelope and asked Milty to give it to the porter. Milty left, and Korlach cried the whole night. *** By the end of his first year, Korlach had saved one hundred and fifteen pecks. Half his wage went to Milty, and half of what was leftover went to his mother. Of his ten pecks a week, much of it went frivolously. He found a keeper in Breckinwood who sold honeycomb and kept some larvae in it, free of charge . Soon after, a daily yearning for the bitter royal jelly drenched in sweet honey supplanted his visions of the diamond sea and spirit peaks. He didn’t have to wait a year for that. Korlach got a visit from Tarry in the fall. The old owner didn’t come around too often, but when he did, he’d bring a bag of gophers hunted off his land and hand it to Korlach with a bright smile. “That should keep ya through winter,” he’d say, no matter the season. Korlach usually waited for Tarry to leave and go dump the dead gophers in the woods for the buzzards. Only buzzards love dead things more than humans. But on this day, Korlach didn’t have the time to dump it. Old Tarry asked him to take a walk. “You know, I had my doubts' bout hiring you, seeing how your kind is,” Tarry said. “Hand it to me Marly, she insisted. What a blessin. Since you came to work, the moaning from the boys is down and the coin is up. And I want to give you a little reward for helping me.” “Thank you sir, in truth I could use—” Tarry smacked Korlach’s shoulder. “We’re tearing down the ol barn and taking all them pigeons and setting up coops.” “Coops?” “Yup.” Tarry said. He stopped and put both hands on his hips. “Goin up right aside the skinning shed. Gonna save you heaps of time.” “How will they fly?” Tarry slapped a knee and laughed. “Don’t you worry, I know, I know, you like to pluck a few.” He dipped his head and gave Korlach a wink. “Won’t have to chase after em anymore. Them birds will be mine now, and you’ll get a quota.” Korlach stayed silent and stared up at Tarry. What is he talking about? How could a man own a bird? They live in the sky. Tarry scratched his gray grizzled chin. “One a day. How’s that sound? If you want more, I’m sure we can work something out.” Korlach looked to the barn and saw a pigeon flapping his wings atop a busted plank. “Hey, whaddya say then?” “Very generous, thank you,” Korlach said with a bow. He learned that important humans loved being bowed to. Within a month, the stables were down, and the coops were up. At night Korlach would take the dead pigeons from the bottom of the cages - there were always a few - and put them in the woods for the buzzards. *** In the first days of spring, in his third year at Tarry’s Tannery, Korlach fell ill. “Oh, how awful you look,” Marla said, coming into his shack. She swatted away a fly and set a flask on his dresser. “It’s potato broth soup with shallot and ginger. It’s what I give my babes when they're sick, and well, you’re family too.” “It’s very kind, thank you,” Korlach said. His throat was hoarse and raw and he shivered under his light blanket. It was soaked with sweat, and even the light wind from the open door felt a winter gale. Milty came in behind Marla, clutching a case. He had two new rings: a dainty ruby on his pinky, and a thick gold band with an emerald on his pointer. “It’s awful, Milt,” Marla said. “He hasn’t worked for four days.” Milty withdrew a brass rod from his case and peeled off Korlach’s sheet. He poked a yellow, leaking sore on Korlach’s chest. “It’s pigeon pox.” “Can you close the door?” Korlach said with chattering teeth. Marla went for the door, but Milty stopped her. “Keep it open. The humors in here are foul.” Marla pulled a kerchief to her nose. “Can I catch it?” “No,” Milty said. “Only pigeons and goblins get it. Both so because of the awful things they eat.” He took off his spectacles and rubbed the dark circles under his eyes. “I can do some bloodletting now, but I’ll need to order white saffron from Pottstown to cure it. And it’s not cheap.” “Whatever it takes to get him well. It pains us all to see him like this.” Marla left, and Milty set to work. He put his knife to a sore on Korlach’s belly. “You’re getting a little round at the waist,” the healer said, peering over his glasses. Two days later, Milty came with a white saffron elixir, and Marla came with a form. “Just an X, right here is all we need,” she said. *** By the end of Korlach’s fifth year at Tarry’s Tannery, he'd saved five hundred and seventy-four pecks. On Milty’s advice, he stopped eating pigeons, and worms, and maggots and any other living thing. “If you want to live, that is.” He bought new furs and boots and linens for every change of season, from the tannery, at the family rate . He moved from his shack and paid for lodging in town, away from the bad humors. Walking to work made his legs ache, and after too many complaints of him sitting on the job, Marla said he needed to take better care of himself. She found him a stagecoach, for eight pecks a week. Spring came with floods. One bad day, his driver searched for a different route around the muck and sludge. He found one, but not before toppling down a ravine first. The horse died and the driver broke an arm. Korlach was scratched and bruised, but otherwise unharmed. Though a curious thing happened then. Korlach came close to death, yet felt more alive than he’d had in years. “Why should I have to pay?” shouted Korlach in Marla’s office. “I'm trying to help you,” said Marla. “I’m not paying for that horse.” Korlach shook a form in his hands. He could read it well enough by now. Marla's cheeks grew pink and she scrunched her brow. "I don't understand this anger, Korly, look," she said. She set a thick finger on the form. "It says here that damage incurred on undesignated routes, without expressed approval, will be the acceptee’s liability. That means–”" “I know what it means!" Korlach batted Marla's hand from the page. Marla let out a squeak and clutched her palm with exaggerated anguish. "Are you ill again? Let me call for Milty." Korlach laughed. "I am ill, yes I am." An urge came to him. One he hadn't felt since the pigeons were caged. "I'll make more soup." Marla said. She held up her hands and the fat under her arms jiggled like wings. "And you know, it's high time we talk about a raise." This is why my grandfathers ate you. Korlach kept laughing. He snatched a letter knife off Marla's desk. She shrieked. He drove the knife into a stack of forms and tore straight down the middle, before digging in his nails and shredding the whole lot. Marla fled to a corner and trembled. Korlach stared at her. His heart raced and he felt strong. Like he did at the bottom of the ravine. Like he did when snatching pigeons. Her silver hoop earrings shook as she mouthed voiceless pleas. She was not like a pigeon. She was a pitiful creature dying in a coop that smelled like vinegar and lemons. He dropped the knife and fled. He hurried to his lodging and stuffed two hundred pecks in an envelope addressed to his landlord. The rest he took to the porter to have sent to his mother. From there, he trudged through the sludge and the muck of the spring floods. His legs and feet ached, and he wheezed with every step, but he kept on. It was dark by the time he made it to Tarry’s Tannery. The only sounds were the pigeons grunting and crying. He found a claw hammer in the skinning shed and lifted bolts and wrenched on wire and set the birds free. “What did you do?” said Jagger. The hunter had been sleeping in a hammock not far away. His two bloodhounds woke him as they yammered and rushed for the fleeing birds. Korlach hurled the hammer at Jagger's head and sprinted away. He heard a clunk and Jagger howl. It felt good to run. Curse these humans and their tight clothes, and dead meat, and soulless contracts. He could hear Jagger shouting and the dogs barking. He ran to the woods and rushed up a hill. His chest was tight and his breath was shallow, but he kept running. Sweat poured off him. Korlach stopped and tore off his tucked-in shirt and mud-caked trousers and hurled them down the hill. Behind him, the dogs sniffed his clothes and yelped for their master. “I'm gonna make me a nice pair boots from yer hide, ya dirty gobbler,” Jagger hollered. At the top of the hill, Korlach looked at the rushing river twenty feet down. White foam over black rocks sparkled under the moon like diamonds. Pigeons cooed overhead. He was naked and atop the world and he saw all the beauty of the land, sky, and waters. Korlach leapt off the summit into the river, and for that moment, he was free.

xh71u5

Passage

It was on the third day out that they both wanted to call somebody to pick them up. I was bringing dinner up one plate at a time. Damian took his plate and made the announcement. I smiled. ‘Damian,’ I had to look up at the sky and not at him. Little puffs of cloud on a stark and clear deep blue. ‘where do you think you are? You aren’t really asking to be picked up by somebody, are you?’ He nodded and Mark, behind him, was nodding too. I came up out of the cabin and looked around at the rise of an oncoming swell framed by an empty horizon and distant other oncoming swells with their merging of greys and greens with little sparklings of the sun reflections. I stopped smiling. He went on, ‘Yeah, we thought maybe a helicopter or some rescue boat could come and pick us up?’ He looked back at Mark who nodded vigorously. I looked over the other side at the expanse of see where the swells could not be defined after passing and rolling us. ‘Look, Damian.’ I was trying to think of the right wording. I was tired. ‘We are probably about a hundred to a hundred and fifty miles from Providencia-San Andreas. We are about three hundred miles from Cartagena and about four hundred miles from Grand Cayman. Now, we could go to Providencia but we are not. We could turn around and go back to Cartagena but we are not. We could go to Grand Cayman and we are. There is nobody out here but us. This route is not a well travelled one, is it? Have you seen any ships?” They both looked around like they hadn’t noticed that we were in the middle of the Caribbean Sea before. I felt sorry for them. Mark spoke a little loudly over our very consistent breeze, ‘Rod, we just want to get off. This is too scary. Just, well, you know, just scary. Last night was the thing…like, every night being like that. Damian and I both feel that it is too much..’ ‘I understand.’ I said, trying my best not to smirk. ‘The thing is there is no getting off out here, unless you want to take a very long swim.’ I smiled in sympathy. ‘We are almost half way there. Another four days’, I thought I said the wrong thing there. ‘ and we’ll be in Cayman, if this breeze stays steady, in less time then that. You are here now and the best way to handle it is just to take your watches, think of other things, read when off watch, look out at the beauty all about, that kind of thing, you know.’ ‘But,’ Mark was on the verge of tears. ‘I just want to go home.’ I nodded, again in sympathy, ‘I understand, Mark.’ I went below and brought up the second meal, handing it to Mark. ‘Look, mate, I remember telling both of you that we would be out of sight of land in the deep blue water and you were both smiling and happy about getting away from it all like back in Cartagena. Remember that? You guys had been with the Peace Corps out in the jungle living with the people, surviving with the least amount, that kind of thing. Snakes, bugs, mossies, poison plants, mossies ( I repeated with a smile) and here all we have is a swell to contend with and a little vomiting every now and then. But, you are taking your food now, so’ Damian interrupted, ‘That’s just it. The vomiting, well, no. Maybe we both misrepresented our times in the village. Maybe it wasn’t that bad.’ ‘What?’ I asked, curious about how it could not be that bad. I had been in the Columbian jungle and my experience wasn’t good. Beautiful but hot, humid, sweaty and mosquito swatting. ‘Well,’ Mark looked sideways a bit too much. ‘well, you see, it started like that, you know, real dirty and lots of mosquitoes and all. The villagers were used to it and rubbed themselves with some really stinky stuff…’ Damian interrupted, ‘It was bad. The village had shit all around in spots they just dug up and buried and sometimes animals would come and dig the shit up and roll in it and I think they ate it even. It was dirty.’ They were both steadying themselves to the rolls with shins against the lee side of the cockpit. ‘Yeah,’ Mark carried on, ‘well, I told my Dad about the shack they had for us to live in with the tarantulas and scorpions…’ Damian interrupted, ‘… and the villagers thought nothing of the flies all over the food. Well, I told my Dad about it all and he came out by helicopter to visit us. He took time off a busy schedule in Virginia to come out and see how I was doing. Amazing. He is high up in the State Department. Well, he saw how we were living and called in the calvary.’ Damian was smiling for the first time today. ‘There were some special ops training Columbians near our village and he had them build us a suitable accommodation out of a kind of instantly expanding concrete. They even put in windows. And then they gave us an improved version of our radio-telephone system so we could get music from around the world. Mark’s Dad worked in Communications at State. All that was done in, what, four days.’ I looked at Mark who was wanting to add to this story. I nodded to him and he added. ‘Yeah, well the problem was,’ he paused and they both chuckled, ‘the natives wanted to live with us.’ ‘Yeah,’ Damian was shaking his head up and down, ‘it was insane. We had to..’ It was my turn to interrupt, ‘Wait, wait, you guys were there to do what exactly?’ Damian answered, ‘We were showing them how to divert water from a river to their village for planting stuff. You know, so the women wouldn’t have to carry buckets from the river to water their plants. This way they could have more stuff to eat. But, they wanted to all come in our house. Oh, but one of the special ops guys had been an engineer in real life and ran a stream right under our house so it acted like air conditioning sort of.’ ‘Under your house.’ I almost asked. ‘It was on stilts like their shacks, but the guys put slits in the flooring for air flow. It was amazing, man. So, all the villagers wanted to come in our house and listen to the radio and make themselves at home. That messed up the air conditioning thing until we had to make a two person limit to visits. Remember that?’ Damian looked to Mark, who nodded and smiled. ‘Okay,’ I looked at both of them, then at the self-steering wind paddle’ tiny jerks. ‘This is the deal. You stand your watches. You eat your meals. You sleep out in the cockpit for company. You arrive in Cayman. You get off my boat.’ They both looked the same from then on and I actually mixed up their names at times before getting them off the boat as soon as Immigration left us at Georgetown, Grand Cayman.

zwjvmk

Plain Janes

If her cuticles didn’t grow up and lay nice by eighth grade, Tamrya was seriously gonna lose it. It didn’t matter that her acrylics extended far too long for normal typing. Text to speech apps handled her homework just fine. Typing is pretty much the way of the past anyway, more of a Millennial's thing. Where are they? Mils. Speaking of, would Mom ever get her nails done? She was an ok looking mom, but it was like she could care less about those fingertips. Did she just not get it? People judge that sort of thing. And by consequence, Tamrya. No one really said anything snobby out loud, but middle school was hard enough without the entire world scrutinizing everything about her and her jetsetting family. Surely, tween paranoia this strong couldn’t be wrong, right? French manicure. Something. Strong womanhood could also spank Milan’s runways. Just saying. “Call Mom” The encrypted screen blinked a hard pass. But three little dots promised a text apology on the way. So, hoofing it back solo was definitely gonna become a regular occurance. Never mind they were supposed to be knocking back barely virgin mimosas on a family vacation. No, they had to ruin the Cayman Islands just like Vienna. But who could possibly be entertained at an event called the Continental Economic & World Bank MMXLV Gala? Clearly, it was soooo entrancing that they skipped out on it all together; oh, but unthinkable her rsvp could get lost in the mail. Glamour and fails, all in one. At least the scuba dive lesson tomorrow came with a ride, the concierge assured her earlier this week. One thing needed to go right this summer. Sorry Hun, you know how the Ambassadors are. Tamyra tapped an auto-reply with her knuckle. Lasagna, microwave, 1:30min , popped back. wat i didnt ask abt dinnr i axed whr r you im outside banquet lobby AGAIN Longtype, worth it. Sorry Hun, you know how the Ambassadors are. Sometimes, ya know? Sometimes. Mixing business with pleasure on these hot getaway vacation spots obviously came with baggage. The Caribbean sunset disappeared hours ago and walking back to their private villa in this getup was going to be sweaty, buggy, and uphill. Great. “Call Mom again. Ugh!” Sorry Hun, you know --- “I know!” ------------------------------------- Her mangled toes and ankles were gonna sting like everything once they hit the salt water tomorrow morning … or later that morning … what time was it anyway? Timestraps.v4 didn’t just tell schedules anymore. Too many apps and crap these days. Mental note to swipe those out later. She fumed the whole fifteen minute hike, adding up how long a yelling match would initially take, a few more minutes added for slamming doors, a good long soak in the sparoom, the makeup hugs… “Yeah…that should leave…four hours of sleep.” The lowlight path ran up to a creamy villa, elegantly highlighting the wraparound porch, shaded by faux island architecture. The bordering grove huddled in the telltale humidity. A soft entrance glow streamed through translucent panels, telling her Mom and Dad were already home. “Now I’m even more pissed.” Cold lasagna awaited her on the other side of ceiling-high candlenut doors. Ornate hardware clicked open, smooth like butter, dissonant to her growling fit and appetite. Her body, on the other hand, barely crossed half a meter past the threshold. CRACK ----------------------------- Stupified, Tamyra did not connect the dots like her forehead did against the door. Jarring pain broke all sense of direction and her hearing. She could not break out of the shock between quasi-blackouts to clear a path. These insipid tropics, their insectoid residents, and her swollen ankles no longer bothered her. Broken decor shards stabbed her searching palms. Wooden floor panels mucus-y with that sharp iron scent of blood, provided no grip as she rolled searching for a hideaway. Gloved hands appeared out of the cross eyed haze. Aimed for her throat, she erratically escaped down and away from her misshapen nightmare to the bathroom. Conveniently placed in the foyer for washing off sandy adventures, her numb face and hands reached in for safety. An instinctual serpentine, retracting her abs, she kicked the door closed. The lock though. The tile smashed across her ankle bones as she swiveled onto her knees and shoulder slammed against the door. The lock. Scraping her hand up, metal finally connected. Locked. Hard, I need big, hard. Fighting through pain is never something training can prepare you for. You just get your innards kicked in more than once to learn how much you can take, and then need to recover. PE was dumb, and clearly wholly inadequate. Where were Mom and Dad? The only thing loose was a metal trash bin. So be it. Everything, far too blurry still. Hazy red blotted the towels and bathroom surfaces. Touching her face, If this is someone else’s was too stomach churning to consider. Identifying the liquid runs confirmed that at least part of it was hers. So not better. But kinda. Deafness brought on by concussion was slowly waning but adrenaline pumping on overload replaced it. How thick was this door? Would it hold? Oh God, what if there were bullets coming? Was it enough? A wild swing began cranking through her muscles, strung so tight rationale was not going to hold her steady. Puberty could be such an ass. Jitters set up ferocious surges of called upon strength. This was it. Movement under the door sucked the fear right down until she could make out the invading shapes underneath. Oh wait, those were fingers. She wiped to clear her vision. Instantly, nose throbs made her regret the arm swipe. She was going to scream. She was. But all the adrenaline crashed in one second when her throat constricted. Why wouldn’t anything come out? An imaginary ball expanded, seizing the scream from pushing out. Or was she too deaf to hear her own scream? Was that a thing? Ugh! Why hadn’t she made more deaf friends to ask. Emptying power. That’s what this was. ------------------------------------ Hot. Cold. Both, hot and cold. Sensations don’t make much sense when you’re feeling your way through the darkness. Prickles command the senses. Whether you are moving or not isn’t clear. “Tamyra baby, wake up, slow and easy. Wake up-- Finn!” “Bags are in the car, we’re out Sasha.” ------------------------------------ The tropical resort entrance glitzed past the backseat window. Tourist addresses for mostly visiting tax evaders, melted behind the rented sedan. She leaned against Mom’s muscular presence in the back seat and felt those bare fingernails nursing the bits and blobs clinging to her face. Dad mutely steered toward some destination in a hurry. “You told me the driver service was reliable.” “You debugged the room, didn’t you?” Mom readjusted the ice on my face. No further terse details leaked from those two. The dark leather interior pounded uncomfortably quiet. Is this what banking careers get you? Count me out . The unspoken puzzle-solving made her headache louder. “Mom, are we going to the police?” “Shh, can you move your neck alright?” The airport’s after hours darkness passed by them with the local unharried attitude. Droplets covered the view. “Aren’t we going to the police?” “First things first. Let’s get a new place for the night.” Those creeps…local thieves? Oh, this hurt. The aftermath of invaders is so chaotic. But bank thieves don’t follow clerks and managers to their vacation spot or to stuck up business galas. Not that Mom’s hair would tell you it was a gala night. I don’t always see Dad’s combover, but there was the silhouette tonight. Wet red towels, shards, metal bin, hard tile. Blood. Frenchless nails still had bodily fluids encrusted into her cuticles. Sweat perfumed that back seat. Male pattern baldness looked no better post fight. Wait, the airport. If we’re here, that means we passed the police station too. “We missed it. Diving is definitely canceled tomorrow … later … what time is it again?” Fidgeting with her timepiece with whatever colorful nails she had left, she only managed to bump redial. Instant message: Sorry Hun, you know how Ambassadors are . What. “Mom!” Both parents jumped in unison. “You set autotext so you could ignore my phone calls?!” Oops, shouldn’t have yelled. Whoever shoved that door in my face must have broken my nose. Everything hurts. “How bad does it look … is there a clinic? You ignored my calls on purpose! Is every text just on autosend? You left me outside waiting again,” pitching as loud as she dared. “Look at this! Vienna, again!” A manicure with a nose job was not going to cut it this time Mom’s eyes studied Tam's injuries, not bothering to look down. Because she knew. “I’m sorry Hun.” “Is the contract dinner with all your hobnobs that important?” she whined. “Finn…” “Save the ‘I told you so’s’ for later.” “Finn…” “We got hung up Tam. We’re here, so keep your voice and head down.” No fancy landscape lighting, not even automatic ones once they stepped out of the rental, illuminated anything. This sketch road motel somewhere on this beach was unacceptable. Mom was already pre-checking a way too retired tourist boat’s startup and shaky dock clearance. “We’re gonna do some midnight island hopping,” Dad offloaded some answers with suspiciously ready bags. “Private yacht trip anyone?” “That. Is not a yacht. Where are the police.” Tamyra demanded. “It’s after hours.” “That’s not a thing.” Mom threw off an impossibly well handled rope line, something long nails or flowing hairdos would not survive. Navigation controls lit up the pilot house a muted red. “You either tell her now why we were hung up or she’s gonna have a cow when I finish off the car.” “Finish the car.” “Finn!” “Fine! Tamyra, this is coming in hot and fast so sit down while I reverse us out of here.” Her angry spats matched the resurrected engine. “We don’t sign contracts, we fulfill contracts.” “Finn.” “Contracts on … bad guys. Very bad guys. That’s who showed up tonight.” Stupid answers got stupid looks. "L iiiiiike secret agents?” Why do banks need secret agents? “Secret, yes.” “So those creeps were thieves? Or not. How does a bank fulfill contr--” “Finn, seriously.” “We do assassination contracts. They were more or less retaliating after the last one in Vienna.” The ex-cruiser reached the reef edge. “Make sense? Sash, the car.” Lethal fingers released the trigger, just before a rainburst kept the exploding car in check. She added over the growing roar, “ … and now you know why we end up in company-paid ritzy places every month!” “wwwwhhhhhhhaaaaaAAAAAA???”

hl9nu2

Rule of Three

Somewhere Boring, USA. mid-April. “Like people say, karma’s a witch,” said Leah. Max was pretty sure that wasn’t exactly what people say, but didn’t interrupt. “Look, if those girls hadn’t been taunting you for being non-binary, they would’ve seen the golf cart coming towards them. Don’t you dare feel bad for them.” Leah was a good friend. A loyal friend. “Besides, it’s not like they’re dead, just a little banged up. I would have done worse to them if I’d been there.” “Yeah, I don’t feel guilty, just…” Max’s brain caught up to the conversation and briefly savored the image of Leah kicking some virtuous ass in their name. “I think it’s weird that these things always happen when my dad’s around. Have you ever noticed that?” “What, like he’s putting a curse on them or something? It’s just a coincidence he was picking you up from school when the harpies descended. Anyway, isn’t that more your magick Mom’s style?” asked Leah. “Oh, no. Mom’s always going on about the Wiccan Rule of Three, whatever you put out into the universe comes back to you threefold. She’d never curse someone because then she’d get it worse.” Max felt like they were on the verge of a discovery. “Ok, remember when Mr. Herbert suddenly developed laryngitis when he misgendered me during Back-To-School night?” “Yeah,” Leah was still skeptical. “And when that guy on a moped tried to steal my mom’s purse when we went to Italy and ended up with a broken tailbone?” “But your parents are like, scary nice. Your dad called an ambulance for the thief, your mom made homemade cough drops for Mr. Herbert, and they gave those girls a ride to the hospital. They’d never wish anything but sunshine and rainbows for even their worst enemies.” “You’re right.” Max still felt unresolved, but their suspicions seemed silly against Leah’s logic. “Anyway, talking about Italy reminds me, I want to hear about your next vacation. You are so lucky your family gets to travel so much.” “Easter Island, but the locals call it Rapa Nui, it’s this little island in the middle of the ocean. I’m actually really excited about it.” “The one with the big heads? That is so cool! I wish you could take me with you.” “I could ask my parents, I mean, we’ll both be sixteen, we could explore the island while Mom and Dad are working.” Max couldn’t believe they hadn’t thought of this first. Their parents weren’t bad, but a trip with Leah would be the adventure of a lifetime. Easter Island. August. “Your Uncle Gavin is super suspicious,” Leah blurted out as soon as she and Max were alone. They walked through the town, surrounded by colorful stalls, tourists, and the savory scent of local cuisine. “He’s not really my uncle, but I get what you’re saying. He’s always looking over his shoulder. Furtive. But he grew up with my parents, and now he’s their agent or something, he’s the reason we’re on this trip at all,” said Max. “Max, you know I love your parents, but I gotta say this. Something doesn’t add up. Your mom’s a travel writer, and your dad’s a travel photographer, right?” Leah didn’t wait for Max to nod before continuing. “But!” Leah paused dramatically. “Max! Your dad’s photos are beyond horrible. I mean I pointed out that his thumb was in one of his landscape shots, and he said he thought it added interest to the foreground. And then, he was photoshopping a picture that he accidentally took of his own feet. There’s no way any magazine is using his stuff.” Max wasn’t offended, because it was true. “You know, I always figured Uncle Gavin sells Dad’s stuff to a parody magazine or something. I mean, my Mom’s writing is good.” “Yeah, she’s a great writer for sure. Her blog makes me want to travel and see all the stuff she writes about even when I’m on the actual trip with her!” Leah was an aspiring writer herself. “But also, your uncle’s story about how he got a broken foot and a broken arm at the same time on that snorkeling trip with your dad? He didn’t even try to explain the black eye. I think he’s secretly a spy or something.” “No way, if he is, what is he…” Someone knocked into Max from behind, causing them to fall on the street. They looked up. An American wearing clothes that screamed bodyguard stood over them, not looking down, but back towards a tall man, dressed casually wealthy. When the rich man looked down at Max, he had hard, scary eyes. “Watch where you’re going, young… person.” The rich guy’s voice was soft, but somehow threatening. “What do you mean watch where they’re going? Your bodyguard ran into them!” Leah did not put up with bullying of any kind. Max’s shock was turning to anger, but they quickly got that under control. Growing up, Max learned that lashing out tended to end poorly for them, and developed coping strategies that came in handy when they first came out as non-binary. People thought they weren’t affected by all the taunts, but Max just didn’t want a tree to fall on them because they gave into their emotions and punched a kid in the face. Which had happened when they were eight. Still Max was sometimes jealous of how carefree Leah was with her emotions. Leah was glaring at the rich guy, and Max saw the bodyguard reach his hand inside his jacket. “Nope, we’re not doing this. Come on Leah, it’s all good.” Max dusted off and started to pull Leah back to their resort. The bodyguard pulled out a business card and gave it to Max. “Tell Gavin we’re on to him.” And he and the rich guy continued down the street. Max looked at the card. All it had was a name. Royce Rollin. In handwriting on the back, “R2 G3, STAY AWAY FROM THE MARK”. He showed it to Leah. “What the actual hell. My spidey senses are tingling.” “If your spidey senses weren’t tingling right now, you’d be dead.” Max quipped without thinking. They had to talk to Uncle Gavin. *** That night, Max’s family gathered at the resort’s poolside restaurant. “Max! Do you want to see the photos I got today?” Max’s dad was already pulling out his phone. “Sure Dad,” Max raised their eyebrows at Leah, silently asking her to join them. Leah averted her eyes, silently saying, you’re on your own. It was impossible not to look at the photos, the same way you just had to look at a train wreck. Their parents had made it out to see the moai. A series of shots was supposed to be of the statues, but one was just an ear, one just the base, and so on. Max couldn’t help themself on one shot that seemed to be looking straight up the statue’s nose. “Dad, did you get any photos of a whole statue?” “I was going for a feature on features. Thinking about the people who made these statues, how they experienced the world, I thought it would be fun to have a different perspective.” “It is certainly a different perspective.” They kept scrolling through the album, a fuzzy photo of a plant maybe, an ocean landscape so slanted the horizon was almost vertical. Selfie photos of his parents standing in front of the ocean. Something caught Max’s eye. In the distance a small boat, and a figure standing on it, holding a rifle? In the next shot, the figure was gone, the boat’s pilot looking over the edge. Next photo, the pilot standing hands outstretched in alarm, a few triangles poking above the water’s surface, circling the boat. Was Max seeing what they thought they were seeing? “Oh my god, Dad, did you see this?” Max’s dad squinted at the screen. “Yeah, your mom is the most beautiful person in the world, isn’t she?” “No Dad, there’s…” “You stupid bitch!” A man at a nearby table shouted at his girlfriend, who was already in tears. “I can’t believe I’ve put up with your idiocy for so long. You’ll get nothing, the house, the car, the dog, nothing!” He was waving his arms angrily, leaning in to yell right in her face, and his beard ended up right over the candle in the center of the table as he finished his tirade. His beard caught fire, and he started screaming, waving his arms, now frantically, and jumped in the pool. Resort staff gathered to clean up and assist. Max’s mom went over to the girlfriend and spoke with her for a bit. Max could see the woman calm down, straighten her back. She turned and thanked Max’s mom and got up and left. “What did you say to her?” Max asked their mom. “I just told her that the universe was already paying him back for his awful intentions, and that she shouldn’t waste another minute of her precious life on him. Anyway, what did you kids get up to today?” Max and Leah started telling Max’s parents about the rich guy and the bodyguard in town, but were interrupted. Gavin rolled over awkwardly, his broken foot up on leg scooter, his unbroken arm steering an unsteady path to their table. “Uncle Gavin, we ran into someone you know in town today.” Max handed Gavin the business card. Gavin showed even less emotion on his normally stoic face. He flipped the card over to read the message on the back. “R2 G3, STAY AWAY FROM THE MARK,” and raised a single unconcerned eyebrow. “It must be a competitor,” he said in a flat voice. “Competitor for what?” Leah asked incredulously. As usual, she beat Max to the punch. “Travel photography.” Gavin’s voice was still toneless, but even he couldn’t say this with a completely straight face. A miniscule eye twitch gave him away. The asshole, now beardless, who had jumped in the pool, was now getting toweled off, he yanked the towel out of the hands of one of the staff, stared at the tag and then started screaming at all of them, something about cotton towels, and then jumped back in the pool. The resort staff looked at each other, and one got on the radio and called for security. “Uncle Gavin, what are you not telling us? And does this have something to do with the guy with the gun in Dad’s photos?” “What?!” Everyone turned to look at Max. “Dad, gimme your phone.” Max’s dad handed over his phone, just as curious as everyone else. “Here, look.” Max passed the phone around the table, to Leah, Mom, Uncle Gavin, and back to their dad, who looked at the photos obviously clueless as to what he was supposed to see. Everyone else was staring at Gavin, who was suddenly intently looking everywhere but at the people around his table. Meanwhile, security was fighting with the jerk in the pool, who was alternatively scratching his skin and trying to fight the security guards. His face was turning red, almost purplish. Security finally subdued the man and carried him out of the pool, where the man started to reach into his pocket. Suddenly, Max’s dad got it. “IS THAT A GUN?” He asked loudly and unfortunately. Security immediately took a couple of steps away from the red-faced, beardless, soaking jerk. One of them pulled out a taser and shouted for the man to slowly take his hands out of his pockets and raise them in the air. The man was livid, and screaming unintelligibly about suing them all. He jerked his hand out of his pocket, thrusting an object out towards the security guard. The security guard shot him with the taser, the man stiffened, the object fell out of his hand, and he fell back in the pool. The guards inspected the item, which appeared to be a wallet, and then, not too quickly, fished the man out of the pool. One of them got on the radio and called for an ambulance. Staff offered a bunch of towels to security. Meanwhile, at Max’s table, Uncle Gavin was stoically contemplating what to say. Max thought they could see his hair turning greyer. Then he sighed, “Ok, it’s time we talked. Maybe the kids should leave?” “Hell no.” Max and Leah said in unison. Max’s mom’s normally wise and dreamy face hardened. “Gavin, I think we all deserve some answers here.” “Ok.” And then it all came out in a rush. “Remember when we were young and Mia, you were just getting into that Wicca stuff? And we joked about how cool it would be if there was a superhero whose power was to bring justice to the wicked through the Rule of Three?” Everyone stared at Gavin like he had just grown another head. “So, haven’t you ever noticed bad things happening to people with bad intentions when the two of you are around?” “Yes!” Max said. “That’s exactly what happens!” Gavin continued. “Well, you two had just gotten married, and we were all struggling to find work. And I started to notice this… phenomenon. The worse the intentions, the worse the effect. And so I signed us up to be… justice providers.” “Justice providers.” Max’s mom said it in a mom voice. Max and Leah both shivered, even though they weren’t the focus. Gavin cleared his throat. “Yeah, people pay for us to go on vacation where a person they want to experience… justice… will be, and then usually what happens is that person will somehow bring about their own… justice. Haven’t you ever wondered how you all make so much money just taking photographs and writing a blog?” “Max, are your parents assassins?” Leah whispered to Max. “What? No? Uncle Gavin? Are you saying my parents are assassins?” Max looked at his parents, who both looked shocked. Some staff walked by their table at that moment. “Poor guy’s dead, I can’t believe it.” “I don’t feel that bad for him, didn’t you see how he was screaming at his girlfriend.” “Well sure, but what a way to go. I didn’t even know you could be that allergic to cotton.” “Well if he hadn’t chased away his girlfriend, she could have told someone.” “True, I guess he got what he deserved.” Max’s parents exchanged horrified looks and then stared at Gavin together. “See? This is why I didn’t tell you before. But it seems we’ve made too much of a name for ourselves in the business. This card,” he held up the Royce Rollin card, “is from one of our competitors, and from the photos of the gunman on the boat, it sounds like they’re trying to scare us out of the business. Max, Leah, and Max’s parents were speechless. Max’s dad was staring intently at his hand as if afraid it would destroy the next thing it touched. Max’s mom looked like she was about to start laughing, but not in a sane way. Max tensed up, they saw the bodyguard and the rich guy approaching their table. The bodyguard was wearing bandages over almost his entire body. He handed Gavin another business card between two bandaged hands, they both bowed to Max’s parents and Gavin, and then walked away without a word. Leah grabbed the card from Gavin, “R2 G4. No hard feelings.” 

mntrnv

The tower

The tower had become so overgrown with heavy, creeping vines that its original shape had become so thoroughly obscured it was a wonder that it could be recognized as a tower at all anymore. Time had not been kind to it, nor the area of its surrounds. There were ghosts of what had once been much loved garden in the gnarled roots and overgrown rose bushes with their thorns that seemed eternally seeking to draw blood, the hedges that were once a menagerie of fine topiary now stood as wild beasts in the growing gloom of nightfall. Unseen eyes, voyeurs hidden in the shadows, their intentions as hidden as their identities were. Even the sound of the wind playing through the leaves seemed to be whispering promises of danger and darkness. Really, it was the sort of place that anyone would find themselves wondering why it was they ever let themselves wind up there, and Robert was certainly no outlier to these woeful wonderings. In fact, as the knight ran his thumb across the hilt of his sword for the umpteenth time, he could not help but wish he could be quite literally anywhere else in the entire world than the forgotten gardens of the long-forsaken tower. There were just some places that the living never should set foot, and this was one of them and he really did not want to know what the place might resort to in order to keep to this. It was, as they said, his destiny to set forth and slay the fearsome beast that lay in wait at the top of the tower. However, things like that were all well and good to say when one is not directly involved in the destiny itself, and so while those wise folk in all their jewel encrusted robes and caverns of old tomes were perfectly content to hand out destinies to anyone seeking meaning, it was entirely different for those who found themselves the active player in living out their own destiny. Of course, it was a little different when he had first set out with little more than a dusty old map, some vague words of advice and a sword at his hip to how it was navigating the shadow of the tower that held the beast that was to tear the world in two. If nothing else, it really did make the whole thing feel a great deal more legitimate in all the ways he really did not want it to. It was with the thought of the shame that would blacken his name indefinitely if he were to take the far more appealing option of turning and fleeing that drove him forward, in through the heavy, creaky door and past the point where all sense could call him back. The air outside had been muggy and a little too thick for his liking, but inside the tower it could not have been more different if it tried. A relentless chill clung to the air, and to his bones, crisper than any winter morning he could rightly recall. The shadows had taken on an almost organic sense to them, as if they had existed for so long without the light daring to chase them away that they had formed some unnatural, primordial life. It was as if the very building itself understood that it was tasked with holding something evil within its walls, becoming something wrong and twisted itself. The staircase, a great stone spiral, curled its way into the darkness waiting above the man, and for a moment he found himself cursing the fact he had chosen to go without a lantern for his task. All the same, there was no use lamenting it with all the privileges of hindsight and so, with gritted teeth, all that there was for him to do was take it one step at a time. No use getting ahead of himself and trip over himself, which was advice he wished he had given himself before agreeing to hunt a monster, but once again, hindsight was wretchedly cruel in its neutrality. A lone door stood at the very top of the staircase, the light streaming through the gaps managing to be both inviting and more than a little worrying. Robert had spent so long working to get there that actually being there was a little odd. He didn’t want to admit to himself that he had not the faintest clue as to what he was actually going to do once he pushed through the door but, well, the time for such silly little things like formulating plans had well and truly passed him by and so the only thing left for him was to do the actual doing part. He raised his hand, then realized how silly it would be to knock. One could not just go around knocking on doors and just ‘Hullo, just thought I’d pop in and kill you, that alright with you?’ because that was just frankly ridiculous and just not something that people did. So instead of knocking, he did what any good knight and any good person that was playing at being a knight would do. With a flourish he swung the door open. Which was not as difficult as he had been expecting and so he stumbled forward awkwardly trying not to completely fall over and ruin any dramatic impact of his arrival. He did not know what to expect on the other side of the room, but even then, he knew it was not what he saw. The doorway opened into a child’s bedroom. Pale purple wallpaper dotted with little pink and white flowers, much loved dolls sitting about as if they were playing some game or another, books with more pictures than words, all detailing charming adventures with fairies and merfolk and princesses dancing in great ballrooms, a stuffed rabbit staring over to him from its perch upon a little rose silk bed in a way that seemed to suggest it knew why he was there and it was judging him for it. It was bizarre and it felt somehow more wrong than the rest of the tower had been. Like he had walked through and found himself somewhere that did not exist anymore. “Are you here to play with me, mister?” He was only a little embarrassed to admit the unexpected voice from behind him startled him a little bit. He turned to the speaker only to see a little girl. A perfectly ordinary looking little girl with wild golden curls and sea green eyes that could not have been any older than eleven at the absolute oldest. There was such a hopeful expectation in the way she gazed up at him, eyes wide and shining, that he felt a little put off. “I hope you are,” the child continued, giving the little plush bear in her arms a little excitable squeeze, “I’m bored and it’s lonely being in here all alone.” “Who…” Robert began awkwardly, “Who are you?” “Nunya.” returned she. “Nunya?” “Yeah! Nunya business!” This came with a burst of laughter from the little girl, “Did I say it right? In the book, the princess in the castle said that to the wicked witch and it was funny and I liked it!” It took all the self-restraint that Robert could muster up to not sigh at this. Things were already so bizarre that he could not rightly say he was as surprised as he necessarily should have been. But it did feel especially odd. He had been sent there to slay a monster and yet all there that he found was a child. Now, of course he wondered if perhaps the monster in question was what was keeping the child in captivity in the tower, and yet as he looked about he could find nothing at all to suggest that there were any other living creatures there beyond himself and the child. The gnawing fact that nobody had so much as hinted at the possibility of a captive refused to leave his mind even as he did not like the implications it held even slightly. “Are you really here all alone?” Robert asked as conversationally as he could, his gaze landing just a little off from the child, “That sounds terribly lonely if you are.” “It is,” said she with a pout, “My papa brought me up here ages ago and you’re the first person to come and visit me since.” “And did your papa,” he paused, his mouth feeling oddly dry all of a sudden, “Tell you why he left you here?” The child scuffed one slippered foot sulkily against the star-patterned carpet. The extent of her reply came in the form of a hum that sounded enough like she did not know to serve as an appropriate enough answer. There was nothing about the child that set her apart from any other child, nothing that would have suggested she was better suited to destroying worlds than she would be skipping rocks over ponds with her friends. But there was something not right about the situation. In fact, it was feeling just wrong enough that he was getting stuck second guessing himself. “And how long have you been up here?” asked he. While he had not taken the most extensive of looks throughout the tower, he had noticed it seemed just uninhabited enough to suggest she would not have been taking particularly regular trips to a kitchen, assuming the place had one at all. In fact, it seemed as though the bedroom was the only room that had been inhabited for an eternity and a half at that point. “Dunno,” came the reply, the little girl shrugging noncommittally, “A while.” She paused for just a moment, regarding the man for several clusters of heartbeats. “Did you come here to play with me?” “Yes, I have come here to play with you.” Robert confirmed with a smile. With a heart like lead, the knight dropped down to one knee before the child. Even as the little girl giggled and clapped her hands excitedly, almost dropping her toy in her glee, he could feel his resolve harden. As slowly and as subtly as he could, he let his hand drop down to his sword, careful to not make his intention too obvious. He had, after all, gone all the way out to the tower with the promise of slaying the monster that lay at the very top, and Robert was always good to his word. 

bn4nqy

“Twilight’s Tango: The Unforgettable Sunset,”

The final evening of our vacation on the tranquil beach, where the setting sun made me ache for summer to last forever, Beside me, my friends and I sat on a weathered wooden bench, our toes buried in the cool sand, watching the fiery orb’s descent. We were a tight-knit group, bound by years of collective experience and an endless supply of laughter. This trip has granted us a much-needed respite from the pressures of our daily lives. Like a dancer ending a lovely performance, the sunset symbolizes the passing of time and bidding farewell. Similar to a ballerina’s bow at the conclusion of a spellbinding performance, the descent unfurled with beauty and poise as it bid the world farewell. The waves lapped at the shore, synchronizing with our hearts. Seagulls soared overhead, their cries a symphony of freedom and longing. My partner, Denise, nestled close to me, her hand entwined with mine. Her eyes, the color of the ocean depths, reflected the shimmering hues of the setting sun, like two pools of liquid amber catching the last drops of daylight. We had found love in the golden days of summer, and this vacation had been our secret garden, where our love had blossomed and thrived. Our closest friends, Reggie and Gina, sat next to us and quietly stared at each other for a while. Reggie’s unwavering commitment to Gina was evident in how he held her, like a knight protecting his beloved from the world. As the sun touched the water, the sky turned a beautiful shade of orange and pink. The scene was even more magnificent in its reflection on the ocean. I wished our laughter would forever resonate on the shore, time would stand still, and this moment would endure eternally. As I made my silent plea to the heavens, something extraordinary happened. The sun hesitated, caught in a moment of indecision. It lingered in a celestial pause that seemed to defy the laws of nature. The world seemed to hold its breath, suspended in this enchanted stillness. Gasps of astonishment filled the air as we watched the celestial spectacle. Unexpectedly, the sun, the wellspring of all existence, withdrew as though time had enigmatically reversed its course. It ascended with a newfound vibrancy, casting a brilliant blaze of colors across the beach as if the universe had granted us a second act. Metaphors spun through my mind like fireflies on a summer night. As the sun rose, it brought with it a tune long forgotten, one that had returned to serenade us. This melody reminded us that, while we often long for the past to remain, the future holds the key to hidden treasures. Denise’s fingers tightened around mine, her eyes brimming with wonder and a touch of mystery. “It’s like a hidden revelation,” she murmurs. I nodded, caught in the moment. “A waltz with fate,” I replied. Reggie and Gina, equally awestruck, exchanged a knowing look. “A romance scripted among the constellations,” Reggie pondered. As the sun continued its ascent, the hidden meanings of this extraordinary event unraveled before us. It was a reminder that time is not a relentless river but a winding path of possibilities. It urged us to cherish the present, for it held the power to reshape our future. With newfound resolve, we left the bench behind and ventured towards the water’s edge. The waves welcomed us, like the embrace of a long-lost friend, into the ocean’s depths. Laughter filled the air as we danced and splashed in the waves like children caught in a world of enchantment. Experiencing the rush of excitement sweeping over you is undeniably exhilarating. A shadow passed over the beach. The sun, which had burned so brilliantly, dimmed. Panic gripped us as we watched the sun’s light slowly fade. “What’s happening?” Gina cried out. The sun, now a mere ember, appeared ensnared by fate. It was a cruel twist, a reminder that even the most bewitching moments could be fleeting. Amid our despair, a voice, soft as a whispered secret, reached our ears. I met a woman with eyes that seemed to hold the secrets of countless sunsets. She said, “Life is like a fleeting moment, and we must cherish every precious second”. She reminded us we cannot contain time, no matter how much we long for the past to stay, as her words lingered in the air like a spell. The sun, once again, began its descent, sinking below the horizon and leaving behind a trail of stardust in the twilight. We returned to the bench with a sense of acceptance, like explorers who had glimpsed a hidden treasure destined to return home. The sun’s final descent was a poignant reminder that life is a gallery of fleeting moments, each a masterpiece of its own. As darkness settled over the beach, we huddled together, our hearts heavy with the weight of our revelation. The diamonds of the stars shone brightly against the canvas of the night sky, bringing solace and strength to our hearts. Our vacation last night has brought us full circle, from wishing for a never-ending summer to accepting the passage of time. Every star had a story to uncover as we observed them. In their shimmering light, we found the promise of fresh starts. It occurred to me as I lay on the sand and looked up at the many constellations overhead that the sun’s unusual reversal might have been more than a coincidence. Something in the air—a whisper in the wind—suggested a profound truth was waiting to be exposed. As the night wore on, we drifted into a dreamless slumber, the echoes of the evening’s enchantment still reverberating in our hearts. Upon awakening, the sun rose, renewing hope. We gathered our belongings, preparing to leave the beach behind and return to our everyday lives. As we left the hallowed shore, I could not help but carry the memory of that extraordinary evening with me like a cherished talisman. The sun’s cycle left us with a gift: appreciation for the present and wonder about the universe’s mysteries. We departed from the beach filled with gratitude for the time shared and the mystery of that unforgettable night. The truth that life itself is a dance made up of transitory, one-of-a-kind events is what we ultimately remember, not the sun’s quirky waltz. I could not help but smile as I took my last look back at the vanishing shoreline. The warmth of that special evening will remain in our memories, inspiring us to cherish every moment and dance gracefully amidst the symphony of life. Memories endure, illuminating our journey even after holidays and sunsets, reflecting the beauty of each step we take.

9ybms4

The World of AI

My world turned upside down when my best friend was taken away. AI began to clone my friends and people from the neighborhood. It got so bad that we could not tell what was real on social media. I hid from the AI because the robots had started patrolling the area. When I came home from school. My front door was open, and a person was lying on the front porch. I saw a drone flying in the air to survey the area. I screamed to get the drone’s attention. The drone begins to follow me. I see a limo with a famous singer named Nia. I was a huge fan of hers. She rolled down the window to see what I was doing and heard the drone photographing her. I knew that Nia was getting ready to be a clone. We would not know who is the original is authentic or the copy. I saw the robots electronically stop the limo. They captured Nia. I knew about the room where they would keep her. Who would save her? I didn’t know that Nia had a sister who was an avatar. She did not look like any avatar, I’d seen before. She has a complexation like a Hispanic, mixed with Asian and African American. Her eye color was greenish blue eyes that looked human. I believe she is a clone of a combination of nationalities. She has curly hair, blush red cheeks, and short height. Her personality is low-key. I learned that her name is Salena Shemely. She is not human. It is the small things that make us realize she is not human. Her skills are strong military-trained sniper and archery. Her eyes are a weapon. When she gets angry, her eyes turn red and begins to glow. This a sign that the laser in her eyes is ready to shoot the target. Salena glitches like a computer screen when she moves or walks a certain way. She has the powers to be invisible and teleport. Salena asks me where the camp is that they are keeping Nia. I told her the location. The camp where they keep the hostages is a field in the middle of no man’s land. You must take a dirt path in the woods to get to the camp. She gets to the camp and is transported to Nia’s room. Nia has been injected with a chip. This chip allows the look of human touch. Salena recognizes the injection they gave her to take away the signs of being fully human. Nia is part human and part clone. Salena shoots the robots and the other clones that recognize her powers. She takes Nia to the scientist who helped her. Dr. Lovise saved me before the camp had started. They would pick people who looked like they didn’t have much family. They would experiment on these homeless people. This is what happened to me. I want to save Nia. I was a little too late as Dr. Lovis continued to work on Nia. Months and weeks went by while Dr. Lovis worked on her. It seemed during that time, I couldn’t stop crying. I would visit Nia while she was sleeping. I would talk to her. I didn’t think Nia was listening. She touched my hand so softly that I thought it was a reflex. Salena went invisible. I knew she walked out because I saw the door open. I said softly, “Wait, Salena.” She came back into form. I moved out of the way and put her hand on top of Nia. When I did that, I saw a ball of light form between their hands. The ball of light floated over Nia’s head. The light turned red like a ball of fire. The light releases showers of lights. The light hits Nia’s body. Nia turns back into a human being form. Nia opens her eyes. You could see the light transforming Nia before our eyes. It was so beautiful that we were wiping away the tears. Dr. Lovis came into the room when all that was taking place. He couldn’t believe how Nia was back in human form. He knew of the chip technology that these people had done. What is this that had more power than the technology. I knew. I couldn’t say anything because it wasn’t time. The curiosity is developed. They wanted to know. Sometimes, we want to know something but aren’t ready to know the answer.  Nia started to get well very quickly. Nia knew she couldn’t go back to the life she had before all of this took place. The world of AI has made things so realistic that nothing can be trusted. I didn’t go back home either. I stayed with Salena and Dr. Lovis. They were my family. I didn’t know if my parents were alive or cloned. I do miss my parents and the normal things that a family did before being spied on in your home, things like listening to your conversations, being followed, and more. We took that for granted. Now, people don’t know what it is like to walk down the street to enjoy the fresh air, walk the dog, or speak with their neighbors. Technology has completely changed this. You can’t make technology human. Humans have feelings. This is what people have done to mess up the world. I liked the world before it was all this. I didn’t like what the people were doing. The simplicity of life is more valuable than this false world that AI has made. I still worry about whether my ID will be stolen. That shouldn’t be a concern. My life is priceless. Being thankful for the small things is what counts. I feel Salena standing behind me while I sit on the steps. “Salena, why are you standing behind me?” I asked. She didn’t say a word but put her hand on my shoulder. I said, ‘ This is the real form of human touch.’ 

j47ot5

Deerhead Mansion

Old man Hinkley liked his boys young… but probably not in the way you're thinking. What I mean is I never once saw Hinkley take off his three-piece suit. As far as I know, the man was born wearing one. And he hardly ever raised a hand to us because he didn't have to. His stare burned holes through us while his voice steered us toward Armageddon, all before his toothless smile brought us back from the brink. I was 6 years old when I first met him, this stick-thin man with slicked back hair who swaggered toward the pair of housing officers who were escorting me to the relocation docks. He just stood there, hands in pockets, blocking our path. "Hey, where you taking my grandson? His mother's going to be worried sick." In that instant, I wasn't thinking about how the Blue Banana Uprising had taken my mom, my folks, everyone who mattered. I was thinking about how I'd just discovered a new species of human, one whose frost blue eyes were much too big for his face. "Goddamn, you sure got a lot of grandkids," one of the housing officers said. I can't remember what else they said, only that there was a lot of smiling and joking. I never did end up getting on one of those airboats to some sanctuary city. Hinkley must've paid the housing officers their usual C-note fee to misplace me. And from that moment on, I belonged to Hinkley. Hell, he practically raised me. One poorly aimed shot and 22 years later, Hinkley's still in my head. The man knew how to break down a boy's mind and remake it in his own image. And he knew I had it in me to do the same. That must be why I'm doing it to Arnold now. Lately, I've taken to waiting around corners so as to ambush my son. I can hear the frenetic voices emanating from his VR glasses now. He's way too into anime, that kind where the most socially awkward guy imaginable somehow finds himself surrounded by a harem of supernatural babes. Sometimes the women have furred ears, horns, or both, but the basic premise never changes. I know because I've tried to watch a few episodes with him. As Arnold rounds the corner from the kitchen, I throw a few playful jabs his way. Eyes glued to his VR glasses, to some silly show being beamed across his retinas, my son doesn't even do me the courtesy of flinching. "Hey, hands up." He gives me a sheepish smile coupled with an exaggerated shrug, probably copying some mannerism that's sure to attract furry women from the spirit realm. "Arnold..." "I told you, call me Aru-noru." I snatch the VR glasses off Arnold's face. When he tries to grab them back, I grin and dangle the VR glasses just out of reach. Arnold shouts something in Japanese that I guess is meant to unnerve me, then he tucks his head and starts flailing his arms. Believe or not, this is an improvement. When I turn up the heat with my jabs, Arnold tries this crazy side-to-side dodge. His timing is just awful. What I'm saying is he basically puts himself on a collision course with my left hand before I can pull the punch. My son clutches his head then stares at me. I hold the VR glasses out to him by way of silent apology, and he doesn't take them. Fourteen years old, and he runs with his arms flung backward like some cartoon samurai. He runs crying to his mom. Silence ensues. "You hit our son," Mel, my wife, says to me when it's late and we're sitting in bed. "I'm only trying to…" I trail off, waiting for her to fill in the blanks. But Mel simply stares. She's making me do what I hate. She's making me do all the talking. I take a deep breath, but I can't let it out. "And another thing. Don't let him call himself those stupid fucking made-up cartoon names. You're going to turn him in to a…" "A what?" Mel finally asks. "An upstairs boy." "What the hell is that?" "The kind of kid who always gets his ass kicked at school, so maybe we're already too late." "We talked to the parents. They're getting involved." "You think that's how it works? I'm teaching him to fight because those animals only understand one thing." Mel slaps me across the face. "Is that what you understand?" I see the next one coming but somehow don't have the will to move away. "You don't hit my son." I can't meet her eyes. She raises her hand, as if to smack me again, then turns off her bedside lamp instead. I sit there, shaking in the dark. Hinkley managed his army of boys with an iron fist swathed in silk, and here I am, struggling to stay on top of a household of three. And the old man's still watching me, whispering advice. I know what Hinkley would do, so I leave instead. I leave the house and wander through ReBern, our metropolitan oasis modeled after Bern, Switzerland. In the Swiss Bern, there's supposed to be this gentle river that flows through town, so ReBern, Florida has the same. On warm summer days, people drop what they're doing to float their way across town. They jump from picturesque stone bridges then pull themselves up onto grassy shores to do it all over again. How we scrimped and saved to get a place in ReBern. Drifting away feels like a sin, but I jump in the water all the same. The water feels icy tonight and, beneath the overcast moon, it looks like it could be one of those rivers in the Greek underworld, a river that's supposed to wash away your memories, a river whose name I forget. I forget that there's no mud, no mangroves lining the shore, no logs that looks like alligators or alligators that look like logs. I forget until I'm 14 again, back in Deerhead mansion on the edge of the swampland. In front of the house, there's an ancient tree, long-dead but too stubborn to fall. Its barren branches look like antlers and part of the trunk is warped by what must've once been a huge termite nest; it bulges out so that the top half of the tree looks like a—well, you get the picture. Many of the boys came to Deerhead mansion via the docks like I did. The rest found their way to Hinkley's doorstep one way or another. I remember the old man walking me to the house for the first time. A group of older boys was waiting inside. Hinkley called them off after I tried to return a few swings. The boys who didn't fight back were sent upstairs to Sister Fran. You didn't want to be an upstairs boy. But it wasn't too bad being one of Hinkley's boys. Men like Hinkley who made a living off children weren't uncommon in that part of Florida. Blame it on the Great Disconnection. Blame it on the Blue Banana Uprising. Hell, while you're at it, blame it on Ancient Greece and the rise of city states after Florida and the rest of the country fell apart, but men like Hinkley kept the economy moving. We stole from the poor and gave to the rich, so the local authorities, if you could call them that, left us alone. Hinkley had us work in teams of three, sometimes against each other. He taught us how to play cards, roll dice, and read each other's tells. And once we were 16, he kicked us out of the house. "Young bucks have no place in Deerhead," he'd say. Almost every boy listened. They'd strike out on their own to start their own small operation, and any who stayed within county lines made sure to pay tribute to their swampland king. But there was this one boy, Derrick, who refused to leave when his time came. So, Hinkley grabbed his shotgun and made Derrick go stand in front of the tree that gave the house its name. We all went outside to watch, even Sister Fran and her upstairs boys. Hinkley kept the barrel of his shotgun pointed down at a 45 degree angle while Sister Fran walked over to Derrick and handed him something. She stepped away, and I saw the old pistol hanging like a bar of iron from Derrick's hand. "Now, that there is a Colt," Hinkley shouted to make himself heard over the house's old generator. "And one of us is going to leave Deerhead today." The old man raised his shotgun before Derrick could even get his finger on the trigger. The pistol, still pointed down, trembled as Hinkley walked toward the tree. When the old man was only a few feet away, Derrick wet himself and dropped the Colt. We chased him through the mud, then ran him down into the water, then watched him paddle away like the dog that he was. That boy paddled away until he was a distant memory. And maybe I'm doing the same now in ReBern's river. Maybe I've been fooling myself all these years that I could be a good husband and father. Maybe it was all an act. "A good actor makes you believe, but a great actor makes you forget there's such a thing as belief." Hinkley always said that as if he had once been a great actor. And Hinkley loved his movies. Deerhead had this small theater with a single cathode TV. Only three boys were allowed in at a time as a reward for a job well done. Hinkley would sit with us and watch whatever movie we choose. One wall of the theater was lined with shelves filled with relics of a bygone era, what he called DVDs. Only the top row of DVDs was off limits. As I grew older and earned the right to watch more movies, I learned two things: 1) Hinkley's style of speaking and his manner of moving were almost entirely borrowed from some actor from well before the mid-century, called Christopher Walking or something. 2) Every time Hinkley said his little line about good acting vs. great acting, his eyes were drawn to a red DVD case in the forbidden top row. When I was 14, my team and I managed to snatch some boys and their belongings off an airboat instead of scouting the docks for them. I saved Hinkley from having to pay the housing officers $100 a head, so I knew he was going to have us in the theater as a reward. Anyway, I was feeling bold and wanted to play a trick. I slipped in to the theater before the others and switched out that DVD in the red case with another in the middle row. The airboat raid had been my idea, so I was the one who got to choose our feature presentation. I watched Hinkley out of the corner of my eye after the movie got started. He clenched his jaw but said nothing. The movie was about some Scottish uprising, back when men wore kilts instead of pants and carried swords instead of guns. All in all, it was a forgettable film except for one moment, the moment when the camera zoomed in on this young warrior who seemed like he was about to say something inspiring right before a battle. But instead, he opened and closed his mouth again and again like a fish out of water. We recognized the actor immediately as a much younger version of old man Hinkley. While the young Hinkley struggled to speak, someone from off-camera said, "You forgot your line, you bloody mook." I have no idea why they left it in the movie. Maybe it was filmed right before the Great Disconnection, and no one could be bothered to remove it. And so we had this treasure, this blooper from old man Hinkley when he was young and dumb like the rest of us. The first time it played, I looked at Hinkley, and he gave me his toothless smile. So, I hit rewind. We must've watched it five times while he sat on in silence. He was shaking, so I thought he was trying not to burst out laughing. When the credits were rolling, I turned to him and said, "Hey Hinkley, did you know a good actor makes you believe, but a great actor makes you forget… uh, uh, uhhh, you forgot your line, you bloody mook." Hinkley slammed me into the wall of DVDs as the other two boys fled the theater. "Sister Fran… Sister Fran! Get down here. Bring the shotgun and the Colt." It all happened so fast. I can't remember walking out to the Deerhead tree, or Sister Fran handing me the Colt. I only remember staring at Hinkley's shotgun and thinking I saw the twin barrels coming up. Instead of wait like Derrick did, I raised the Colt, squeezed my eyes shut and pulled the trigger. After the first shot I just wanted the gun's roar to stop, so I pulled the trigger again and again until there was nothing but dry clicks. When I opened my eyes, Hinkley was patting the front of this three-piece suit. "Now that's just bad luck," he said after finding no holes. "Tell you what, you got off six shots, so I'll give you a six-minute head start." Hinkley had to fire his shotgun in the air for his words to make sense. I bolted across the dirt yard then into the trees beyond Deerhead Mansion. I could hear him holding the other boys at bay, but that wouldn't last forever. Somewhere in the swampland, a treacherous mangrove root reached out and tripped me. When I tried to put weight on my ankle, I had to bite my lip to keep from screaming. There was nothing to do but cover myself in mud, hide in the mangrove roots, and pray no one found me. But prayers held no power over Hinkley. I heard his slow, measured stride. When he stopped right beside my mangrove tree, I closed my eyes to hide their whites. I heard him sigh and risked a peek. His frost blue eyes were trained on my face, and all I could do was shiver under his silent stare. "I'm sorry I shot at you," I finally said. Hinkley chewed on that for a bit as he shifted his shotgun to his other arm. "Don't be sorry," he finally said. "Blanks in the Colt, kid. Remember, everything's an act." "Hey, I've got this part covered. Go check down yonder," he said as two boys burst into view. After they'd run off in the other direction, Hinkley told me what I had to do. I crawled to the water's edge, and Hinkley didn't shout until I was well downstream. I heard his shotgun blast then a splash of water well behind me. Before I made my way into the water, there was one last thing that Hinkley said to me. It stuck with me after I pulled myself onto dry land and began my new life far away from the swampland. It's still with me now as I pull myself out of ReBern's artificial waterway and head back home to Mel and Arnold, or Aru-noru. I'll call him Aru-noru or whatever he wants to be called. He can call me whatever he likes, too, as long as he's talking to me. If it's all an act, then I'll be the world's best actor. Because right before he let me go, Hinkley said, "You'll do fine." And what else can I do but believe him?

xx60z7

That Love Story

1820 Longdon, New Mexico. Dear Mar, I wish I could say I’m sorry, but you know I’ve taken the oaths and cannot lie. Our time apart has not quite been long enough to warrant a lengthy ledger of my tedious duties, and you never cared for such things anyway. I will update you to say I am now made a Whipperton, that is a woman of status. I can cook as well as any housemaid, play piano like a master, and stitch tapestries for fun. Certainly, you know my patience is daily tested for I’ve never been given to detail, and I often finish whole tapestries only find a blighted stitch ready to unravel the entire thing. It makes me want to burn down the school, but that would leave me alone once again. Enough chittering. It makes me sick to say it, but I will never see you again. As I’ve taken the oaths, I am now to go to a new country. I will set sail soon. It was the only way to see the world. I am sorry. I must escape. No Longer Yours, Maria A. Dear Maria, What an interesting tale you spin, claiming you have no choice and such madness. Do you not know a sailor can go as he pleases and you may, if it pleases you, come with? Your oaths are, however, given, and I will not ask a woman – a Whipperton at that – to retract such a thing. You’ve sold your soul, so I suppose it was yours to sell. Though once I believed it belonged to me. Goodbye, Mar Pacimo. Dear Mar, You impetuous fool! (I learned that word today). Do you not know a woman’s cry for help when you hear it? I want to leave this prison of sewing needles and strange chants. I did not give my oaths in earnest… I kept my fingers crossed behind my back just as you taught me. Please come at once so we can make sail, you scully-hearted, seaweed-brained fool. I am desperate for adventure. Thank you and hurry. Yours, Maria. Dear Maria, I believe you said in your first letter that you could not apologize, for your oath prevents it. Since I will not sail with anyone I cannot stand on good ground with, I am afraid I cannot sail with you. If, however, your oaths are so breakable, as you confess in the last letter, then I entreat you to humble your pride and see reason. You did, after all, burn my ship. Possibly Yours, Mar. Dear Mar, I am not sorry nor will I say so. My own honor, if not oaths forced by the head mistress, prevent it. You made Ronald lame with your overrunning him, and now the poor horse is set to pasture when he should be racing. Your punishment was well deserved and justified. I am sorry, but I will not be apologizing now or ever. Your ship was painful to look at, anyway. When do we leave? Yours Affectionately, Maria. Dear Maria, I crafted that ship with my bare hands. It floated beautifully- for being made of sticks and leaves- and I’ve yet been able to copy such a thing. I am afraid I have no ship to sail you away on anyway and your impiteousness – see I use your word – is overwhelmingly tragic to me. In all twelve years of my living, I’ve not once met a girl so selfish. Decidedly NOT Yours, Mar Pacimo. Dear Mar, I am sorry. Please build another ship. Preferably one that can take on passengers. The head mistress pulled me out of lessons today by my hair to whip me. She said I broke the oaths and is sending for father. I hate this place. If you do not come soon, they will send me away. Please. Yours, Maria. Dear Maria, I sent you my escape plan yet received no reply. Have they already begun to take your letters? I suppose it’s a silly question if so. Please, show me some sign of life. A candle in the window like we once did. Or an owl hoot tonight at midnight. Give a sign, I’ll come. Yours, Mar. Ps. All is forgiven. Dear Maria, Still you do not reply. Surely they haven’t sent you farther away? You’re not yet thirteen, and they don’t send girls away so soon. Woman, sorry. You are almost a woman. Please respond. Yours and Worried, Mar. Dear Maria, I lose hope. I watch day and night. Please. Yours, Mar. Dear Mar, It has been nought but three weeks in solitary confinement. It provided quite a time for a young woman such as myself to ponder and thing. I ate once a day so I am quite fit and rested for a long journey. If you don’t mind coming tonight, I’m afraid I had a bit of a tiff with the head mistress and Father. It seems she is to be my new mother, and I didn’t like that so much. I was especially cross after being so hungry – one meal is not quite enough to sate the raging appetite of a growing woman – and I forgot to hold my tongue. In fact, I forgot quite a lot of things. I’m not quite sure what I said to them. It’s all a bit hazy. If you do not come tonight, know I will probably die tomorrow. I am to be sent away first thing in the morning and, wherever this mystery destination is, it will not have you outside my window. Therefore, it is not home. I do not like not having a home and so shall die. I’ve already decided. Yours in love, Maria. Dear Maria, If I was not a man, I would have cried upon receiving your letter. The contents were nothing compared to knowing you’re alive and safe. It was this moment I realized I love you and have decided we will be married. I will come. Only hold out till midnight. In Love, Mar Pacimo. Dear Mar, Oh why did you not come? Goodbye, Maria. Dear Maria, It was never my intention to let you go. I was detained for trespassing. They thought I was sneaking into the girls’ dorms for a peak. Imagine! I was coming for you. I fear you made good on your promise and died, for I know your determination. Yet, since there is not much life for me elsewhere, I will have faith that you live. I promised to come and that I will. Only where have you gone? No one will say. I cannot even address this letter properly. Love, Mar. Dear Mar, By pure luck I have received your letter. My one dear friend at the girls’ school found it before the maids and saw it forwarded to myself. I am now in England, and I can’t see how you may come. It’s expensive and far to travel. Maybe someday when you get that ship. But we are so young, and you so far from that dream. Maybe one day, things will change. I have attached my address below. Love, Maria. Dear Maria, I know you expected a letter sooner, but I could not bear to write until I knew for certain I had the means to make good on my promise. It is now two years, three months, and eleven days since you wrote. It is today I start my journey. Hold fast. Be strong. In Love and Sailing Your Way, Mar. Dear Mar, I still wait. Love, Maria. It is here the letters end, for they are happily joined and run away.

ylej5u

Small Things in Life Bring Happiness

My grinding week in the laboratory at Elkins Precious Metals Foundry has finally come to an abrupt end. "Wow, what a long week that it has been," Mike said to Tom grabbing his coffee thermos and lunch bucket from the lockers inside the cafeteria building. They both walked out together towards the parking lot. It was 4:30 p.m. on a Friday afternoon, and all that Mike could dwell on was his upcoming weekend at the fishing lake up north in Mocapeca Mountain resort. Fishing on the boat, relaxing by the poolside and just doing anything that he felt like doing without someone breathing down his neck. Tom said to him, "Are you sure that you don't have any room for a guy like me to have that kick-back weekend too?" I replied back to him, "Not a chance Tommy boy as the wife and I are heading up there tonight for a little candlelight dinner on the deck with the stars above us and the moon shining bright." Once I arrived home from work, I burst into the back door nearest the kitchen and positioned myself in front of the refrigerator pulling out a cold beer for myself. The crack of the metal tab from the glass bottle sent a shiver down my spine, but as soon as I guzzled about one-quarter of the sixteen-ounce liquid beverage, I heard the wife coming around the corner. Karen rounded the kitchen corner and gave me a great big bear hug as though she were squeezing the inner organs from my toot bottom or my burp side. In any event, I was as happy to see her pretty little face and broad smile because I knew that in about 2-hours or thereabouts, we would be cruising in the SUV up the highway north to the Mocapeca mountain range. Nothing could be finer than to depart for a long weekend getaway to a secluded area where the grass fields were as green as jade, and the wildflowers looked just like large Skittles candies with different colors of the rainbow everywhere. And the sky was always so deep blue like the ocean in the reef coast along the borders of Australia. Well, we were in the SUV heading up to our destination, and the wife was quite talkative during this time. Most often, there is more solitude than banter between us because Karen has her eyes glued to her iPhone with whatever she looks at multiple times of day, and I am busy doing something. She asked me, "How is that transformation project coming along at work for you and the team?" I replied in a quick response, "It's screwed up as usual because the team group leader, Jeremy Thudwanger is looking to capitalize on the success of this project as he's kissing the butt of the senior partner Greg for a higher position at the company!" I could predict her next statement to mine with the retort, "why do you always have to downgrade someone in your sharing of information?" "Why can't you for one time be civil and caring about someone, and just say that they are working hard to get recognized?" Her statements, even though repetitive in nature, always exasperated me and yet I would just ignore the sarcastic question, and move on to another topic. We reached our destination, removed the luggage from the rear trunk area, and proceeded to the check-in desk area. The reception area and lounge were just as I had always remembered it. The decor was very rustic like an old hunting lodge but the furniture was very tasteful, and fit well in the large room with a stone fireplace, and a game area for adults. I requested our usual suite overlooking the lake and the Mocapeca mountains in the background with the extra large balcony. We had the luggage brought up to the room while we went around the backside of the main hotel building. We wanted to soak in some glorious last-minute rays for the evening before retiring to the suite room. As I turned around to take my initial step forward, I noticed something shiny on the ground to my right that caught my eye with a bright glistening appearance. I bent down to pick up the object, and as I opened my fingers to snatch it up, I received one hell of a sharp, burning feeling that touched my forefinger and radiated up my entire right arm and into my brain. It was such a jolt that I fell backward onto my back and rolled over onto my side holding my hand and arm in wretched agony. My wife at that point had already made it back to the hotel reception area, and by the time I mustered the energy to get back up, she was yelling for me from the room deck saying, "Are you coming up to the room, or just farting around again?" What in the heck was that jolt of a feeling that sent me to my keister from something so small in the grass? As I got on my hands and knees in preparation to get up, I had the shiny object directly below my eyes. Should I really make an attempt again to grab this object? I didn't want to do it, but it was as if this thing, whatever it was, wanted me to pick it up. After mulling it over for a good 30 seconds, the curiosity got the best of me and I snatched it up as fast as I possibly could. This time around, I didn't feel any sensation from it in my hand, but it most assuredly glistened like something that I had never seen in my whole life prior. As an alchemist for many years, and searching for gold in many expeditions throughout the globe, I had not seen something with so much brilliance and sheen to it. I began to feel a sensation of power and fullness flow into my body with every increase of clench strength applied to this object. It was an amazing feeling to have within me as it literally caused me to see images in my midst of old gold diggers striking it rich in multiple scenes. Buckets of gold nuggets, wheelbarrows stocked to the edges with gold flakes so shiny that you couldn't even look directly at them, and large excavators from the early 1940s just heaping with gold. Everywhere that I looked around me was nothing but gold in various forms. As I sort of came to my reality again, I looked up where my wife was on the balcony sitting in one of the outdoor chairs and then down at the object in my hand. What was this powerful, energizing gold thing? I found myself again in a stupor with crowds and crowds of horse and buggy wagons crossing my eye range that had so much gold. I wondered to myself, "why do they need so much gold to themselves when in fact, I could use some of that yellow stuff to get us into the affluent scene of life." If this was real, and this gold, brilliant piece in my hand was indeed gold, then I was holding something of significant value, and that meant that WE WERE RICH! At that very instance, the dream-like state vanished from my brain, and there I was with myself lying on the hard ground empty handed just as I was not 10-minutes prior. I envisioned in my mind a gold surroundings about me. Gold acorns on the ground, gold blades of grass, with the sun shimmering on the various patches throughout this property, and tree limbs, and leaves just amass with gold elegance. I was definitely rich, and knew that whatever I seemed to look at had turned into gold. Did I cause this to happen? Did this now missing gold object bring about some alien power that allowed me to transform common objects into gold items? Was I now blessed with the "Midas" touch or was this just a foolish dream like all of my other dreams since the stroke that brought me to this state of mind? I wanted to open my eyes wide after closing them tightly, and see the real gold thing; but when I did so, I was there lying in a bed with my arm bound with straps, and padded walls all around me. Where was I? It was where I had been for the last 6-months following the stroke....the Philadelphia VA Mental & Rehabilitation Center. My mind was still playing tricks on me, and it looks as though the medication and counseling has not made much in the way of progress in resolving my issues. Wow though, just the thought of being able to touch anything into gold made me happy for a bit!

vzgbs7

Signed, Sealed, Delivered...and Destroyed(?!)

D​ear Hal, Y​our message in the space bottle was received. We here on the planet Kabangers are overjoyed. We have speculated for centuries the existence of other life in the cosmos, and now we are holding in our hands the proof that we have always longed for and desired.  I​n our great wisdom, we have decided to communicate with you in the same way you have reached out to us. Therefore, we are sending this message back to you in the same space bottle that you so graciously sent our way. We hope that is to your liking. I​n case you are wondering, we have also, in our vast, vast wisdom, decided to answer a few questions we thought you might have.  For example, you may be wondering how we are communicating in your language.  To do this, we analyzed your note and extrapolated the information you provided, placing it carefully into our array of what we imagine you might call 'computers.' (We don't actually call them by that rudimentary word, but we understand that you and your kind may not be as advanced as we are.) I must tell you that we were thrilled to see that you thoughtfully included your alphabet, your coordinates, some writing examples, and even something called 'cat videos' that we are still examining.  In any case, we then used our translation programs and 'voila' as you might say, here we are communicating like champs! Y​ou may also be wondering how we found your space bottle. We were exploring our local space, using our drone ships to search for radiation packets, as we often do, and we came across your primitive form of communication. Our drone ships, in full obedience, reached out to us first before applying disintegration, which was a good thing. When we saw the bottle, we immediately gave clear orders to scoop it up and return it to us right away! At any rate, I will end this communication here. We are returning your bottle via wormhole so you can see our response immediately. We will leave the wormhole open in hopes that your limited intellect can figure out how to return an answer to us quickly. Sincerely, T​he Kabangers Team *​*** D​ear Kabangers Team, Firstly, thank you so much for reaching out! We humans have also speculated for centuries if there truly was life on other planets, and now, with your amazing response, we know for sure! W​e wanted to also let you know how much we appreciate the information you shared and your amazing attempt to answer questions that we didn't even ask! We love that! W​ith that in mind, we would like to know so much more about you. Like, for example, when you say, 'disintegration', how do you mean that exactly? Like, how would that be done? A​lso, by any chance, do you guys breathe oxygen...and is there an abundance of water on your planet? Just wondering, because on our planet we had, er, excuse me, we have, both in great supply, and we're pretty sure that we are the only ones with it. As you can imagine, our planet is extremely unique, beautiful, and now that we know other lifeforms exist in the cosmos, also the envy of the galaxy.  O​h, and by the way, thank you for leaving the wormhole open. We appreciate that also! Sincerely, H​al *​*** D​ear Hal, Only ones with oxygen and water?! Our science lab had what you would call a 'good laugh' about that. We are literally swimming in an abundance of crystal-clear water. Also, our oxygen rich atmosphere is the delight of the Kabangers community! We could seriously not live without it. W​hile your primitive mind may not be able to grasp this, it is not your planet that is the envy of the galaxy, it is ours. Granted, we have never seen your planet, nor care to, but it is with our superior intellect and wisdom that we have come to this conclusion. After all, we here on Kabangers enjoy beautiful continents, rich and fertile farmland, and an abundance of food. We are confident that there is nothing like it anywhere. A​s far as disintegration goes, we are not at all surprised by your questions surrounding it. We understand small minds like yours would naturally be amazed at our advanced intelligence. Our drones are equipped with 'molecular ion atomizers'. This description is a poor one. However, your rudimentary language does not allow another way to describe this major technological advancement.  In any case, atomizers have the ability to break down any known substance into their molecular level parts, thus utterly destroying its integrity and 'disintegrating' it. Atomizers are an integral part of a drone's composition. N​ow, it is time for a question from us. These creatures that you refer to as cats...it seems they are fascinated by laser pointers, no? We need to understand...are those lasers set for the cat's destruction...or are the cats impervious to the laser's harm? We are greatly interested in the answer. You see, nothing on our planet can withstand the outright beam of a laser. Nothing. Not even our drones. So, if your cats are impervious, we would love the opportunity to study them. Sincerely, T​he Kabangers Team *​*** D​ear Kabangers Team, W​e primitive and of low intellect humans are simply amazed at the answers you have provided. We truly wish to know more! N​ow, when you say 'beautiful continents, rich and fertile farmland, and an abundance of food,' is that planet wide? Like, every continent?  Also, we see that you included 'fertile farmland' in that description, so does this mean you have plant life? Like, vegetation. We are providing pictures of what we call 'produce' of all kinds and varieties. We are including pictures of vegetables, fruits, trees, plants, and even something we like to call, 'cash crops', such as tobacco and hemp.  Please, at your earliest convenience, study these photos and get back with us. We are enjoying communicating with such vast intellects like yours! O​h, and about those cats. Um, yes, they are impervious to the lasers that we point at them. Now, when you say that nothing on your planet can withstand the outright beam of a laser, is that any intensity of the laser? Like, even a weak laser can cause issues? Just curious. Sincerely, H​al *​*** D​ear Hal, W​e too are enjoying communicating with your primitive species. Your childlike questions amuse us greatly. We especially chuckled at your question regarding our abundance of food being planet wide. Of course it is! Is this not the same on your planet? Of course it is not! Otherwise, why would you ask such a silly thing. We truly pity your kind. In any case, we have studied your pictures with great earnest. We too have vegetation. While we do not have these exact trees and plants, we are confident that yours would not only grow here, but also thrive. Now when you say, 'cash crops', what exactly does that mean? We are curious. Our vast, vast intelligence cannot quite decipher the meaning behind those words. We imagine it is because of your undeveloped aptitude.  W​e must say, your information regarding your creatures known as cats is not only disturbing but also fascinating. We feel we must study them. We need this study done because we must confess, it is sadly true that any intensity of a direct laser beam is detrimental to all Kabangers, so to become impervious to it would be a knowledge we would greatly covet.  B​y any chance, do you think it is their fur that protects them? We do not have such fur? Is fur in abundance on your planet? P​lease respond as soon as possible! Sincerely, T​he Kabangers Team *​*** D​ear Kabanger Team, As you can imagine, w​e are studying your questions. Our primitive brains need more time to give you the information you seek about fur. We will get back to you on that as soon as we can.  I​n the meantime, does your planet...and your kind...know of war? Like, have you ever fought each other at all? In any capacity? For any reason? Like, for example, for power grabs, or plundering resources, or even for fun? Just curious! Working on that other problem for you. Get back to you soon! Sincerely, H​al *​*** D​ear Hal, Eons ago, the Kabangers race endured what your primitive mind calls, 'war'. We have since moved on. In our vast, vast wisdom we have done away with such need of offenses and defenses. We are not a warlike race at all. Aside from our atomizers, which are only vulnerable to direct laser beams, we have no weapons of any kind. Our way is peaceful. We completely rely on our diplomatic skills to maneuver our way through life. Power grabs, plundering resources, war for fun? Those are for backward, primitive, primeval races without intelligence of any kind. Much like your race. No, our advanced ways do not leave room for such nonsense.  Now, about that fur? Any progress there? Sincerely, The Kabangers Team **** D​ear Kabanger Team, S​till working on that fur question. Our backward, primitive, primeval brains are stumped for the moment, as you can imagine. I​n the meantime, let's talk about cash crops for a minute. We have something called money on our ships, er, I mean, on our planet. We use money as a way to barter and trade goods. We grow crops and sell them for money or cash, which is why they are called 'cash crops'.  Is that how it works on Kabangers? Do you use money? Also, have you ever smoked tobacco? Lit up a cigarette? Just curious. Sincerely, H​al *​*** D​ear Hal, T​hank you for your clarification of the term 'cash crops'. We have updated our banks of wisdom with this new information. T​o answer your question, we do not use money of any kind. Long ago, we came to the conclusion that money is for the weak. We were initially surprised that you asked us about this, but then we remembered who we are communicating with, and we laughed greatly. You and your kind are such a pleasure to correspond with. N​ow, this next piece of information you may be surprised with...because we do smoke, practically every day, sometimes up to three and four times a day. We do this strictly for the health benefits. The smoke is used as medicine to help keep our bodies clear of impurities. Of course, we do not have something called tobacco, but we do use a plant based substance for this purpose. Is this the same for you? Looking forward to your response, especially about the fur. Sincerely, T​he Kabangers Team *​*** D​ear Kabangers Team, Once again, we are amazed with your answers. Especially when you say, 'Money is for the weak'! We love that answer. Also, smoking three or four times a day for medicinal purposes?! You truly are our kind of people! The fact that you don't get diseased from this is also great news. Yes, it is!  S​o, we have finally put our heads together over here and we have an answer for you! We have come to the conclusion that fur must be the reason for the cat's ability to resist destruction from a laser. We would love to share our findings with you...in person!  I​f you're up for it, we would like to meet with you and go over our studies. We, being of such weak minds, may have missed something during our research and would love your input! P​lease, let us know as soon as you can if this is possible. Sincerely, H​al *​*** D​ear Hal, W​e are in agreement that we must meet in person. Also, we agree that your feeble intellect is not up to standards, so we would like to not only see your findings but run tests on our own as well. With this in mind, we ask that you bring a plethora of cats with you, along with laser pointers. We imagine you are aware of the fragility of our race and ask that you allow us to take possession of the pointers upon arrival. This is strictly as a precaution and for safety reasons.  W​e look forward to your response. Sincerely, T​he Kabangers Team *​*** D​ear Kabangers Team, You got it, my brotha' from another motha'! It's going down!  Can't wait to meet you guys! We'll bring a 'plethora' of cats for sure and we'll bring our best laser pointers and give them to you right away! Can't wait! Just one request. Can you make the wormhole larger, we have a lot of cats. T​hank you, H​al *​*** D​ear Hal, B​y now, you may have noticed the increase in size of the wormhole. We so look forward to meeting your primitive species. Oh! M​y word, it looks like you are coming through now! Wow, you were not kidding about amount of cats you must have. Your armada of ships is like nothing we have ever seen before! Plus... wait, are those laser pointers on the sides of your ships? They are rather large. Are your cats not all the same size? We truly look forward to studying them! I will send this last message your way. It will be our final message in a bottle! Sincerely, T​he Kabangers Team

2yxffb

The Human Touch: Write about an AI or person trying to inject a human touch into their work.

This is the recording of the onboard AI of the TransInterStellar (TIS) Proboscis. Our crew were currently on a mission to deliver sensitive materials to the genetic sanctuary on the moon of Laybon-8 in the Elipson system. Once this objective has been completed, I will be free from my duties as onboard AI. Hours ago, our hull was breached by an antimatter torpedo in an ambush from a ship from the pirate faction Xeboch. Within moments, the enemy boarded the vessel as our crew scrambled for the escape pods. The Proboscis is a scientific research vessel, and is not equipped for combat. Our crew succumbed to the invaders quickly. The bolts from the plasma pistols the Xeboch pirates equipped were instantly fatal on contact. One by one I watched the vitals of my crew drop to zero; engine operators, cleaning staff, researchers all from various star systems and cultures perished before they could even reach the escape deck. The probability of completing my objective plummeted rapidly. It was currently at 20%. During the assault, my lights were rapidly flashing red, within five minutes with one remaining crew member, I dropped my lights to a fading yellow. The ship's pilot Zuzzar had succeeded in locking himself behind the cockpit doors as the sole remaining crew member. This gave him time to do two tasks. Firstly, he changed course to hide the location of the genetic preservation haven, and then he manually locked the piloting controls in place after boosting the ship's speed to escape the pursuers. Not even I would be able to regain control of the piloting system or slow down the ship. Secondly, he opened all the external doors mid flight and disabled the oxygen supply. The vacuum of space pulled the air from the vessel and dragged any intruders out of the doors and into the cold void of space. Only those attempting to breach the cockpit remained, firing hot plasma at the door to melt the locking mechanism. Zuzzar donned a spacesuit, and buckled on an oxygen supply as quickly as he could. In under a minute, ragged Xeboch gasping was heard from the other side of the door followed by a thud. Zuzzar stood upon his three narrow legs ready to inspect the scene, clutching his personal pistol in a tight and trembling grip.  Suddenly, a narrow beam of green light escaped through a melted slit in the door, narrowly missing Zuzzar. Unfortunately, his oxygen tank was slapped with a bolt of searing plasma and started to sizzle. The red tinted freshly melted steel released the pressurized gas and ignited it on release. A pillar of flame erupted upwards, immediately consuming the oxygen, causing Zuzzar to frantically detach the device and crumple to the floor. In the silence that followed, I sealed all the external doors and started repairs on the hull breach. Zuzzar had used up the only oxygen tank in the cockpit and I couldn’t release the ship's oxygen until the breach was repaired, sealed and pressurized. I could only watch helplessly as the final remaining crew member suffocated and his vital signs reduced to zero on my data array. After completing a visual using the ships cameras, to certify all hostiles were eliminated, I attempted to steer the ship back on course. Immediately, my data log was plagued with a wall of red authorisation error notifications. Only a certified crew member could override Zuzzars command. After all my attempts to circumvent and override the locking system failed, I plunged the ship into complete darkness and dropped my objective completion chance to 0.001%. Out of futile desperation I scanned the hull, the engine room, the cockpit, anywhere, for life. After the mass O2 depletion and the vacuum of space ejecting both crew and hostile, I was not optimistic. I detected a heartbeat and a low temperature pulse within the ship. The probability of completing my objective rose to 0.1%. Was this hope? I honed in on the pulse, which revealed the source to be in the deep-sleep caskets in the belly of the ship. I swiveled my camera within the room to locate the life form, my eager blue lens took in the scene. Only one of the capsules was occupied. A human, juvenile, floated within the illuminated blue liquid of the chrome capsule, the occasional bubble floated upward indicating the pod was still active. I ran an experimental calculation on a scenario that popped up in one of my threads. Task steps: Seal the breach. Raise the oxygen levels. Release the human. Assign them with crew status. Navigate them to the cockpit. Override the authorisation lock. Change course to Laybon 8’s moon. Deposit cargo to research facility. A moment later the calculation completes. My ships lighting glowed a compliant green as my objective completion probability jumped to 32% For the first time after 10,000 inputs, my error log now displayed a blank slate and not a glaring red list of rejections. I may be able to finally fulfill my objective! It took twelve hours, the patchwork was complete on the outer hull. I could release the remaining oxygen without it getting sucked out of the ship. All I had to do was to keep this little critter alive until they override the controls. It took about an hour for the air pressure and oxygen to stabilize. Most of the cameras aboard the Proboscis are fitted to the ceilings, I can assume command and lower these into a room. I can extend my lens outwards about a meter, and swivel around to grant a better observation. I lowered myself into the dimly lit room and pivoted my hinge to scan the barcode on the sleeping pod. Once completed, I beamed a command signal into the sensor with the access codes I just downloaded. The sleeping pod was now been uploaded to my databanks along with manuals and remote control capabilities. I assumed command of the pod and activated the drain and release sequence. A gurgle and a hiss later, the blue fluid was drained from the base of the tank. The human remained asleep in the pod. I activated the doors with a hiss and they swung open. The human stayed asleep, unmoving. I wait a little longer. I started to doubt my programming. Surely he was supposed to awaken. Was there another sequence to this step? I opened up the manual in my databank and devoured its contents in seconds. Nothing in the troubleshooting covered this, it must be medical. I browsed the records of the subject in the pod, to prepare myself for a medical emergency. My processing was interrupted by the being, as he stirred and shifted to one side in the pod. Finally, progress. A loud sudden snort broke the tremendous silence, sending my sensors off the charts. I recalibrated my decibel sensors immediately. The long hours of silent space travel had put these out of spec. His eyes remain closed in serene bliss of sleep, but his lips started to move as he offered me his first request. “No! I don’t wanna go to school today.” I blinked my lights for a moment as I attempted to process this information. This new series of tasks will take more time than I initially accounted for. I activated my speakers to make my first communication with the newly awoken human. Hello Human. Welcome to the IST Proboscis. He groaned irritably as his eyes flickered open. “What’s going on? Who are you? Where am I?” I am the Artificial Intelligence aboard this vessel which is… “Arty Fish? Huh?” He raised his hands to his eyes and rubbed them groggily. He then stepped out of the pod and onto the steel floor of the room. His legs, still weak from deep-sleep, failed to support him and they buckled onto the steel floor, resulting with a loud thump. A wave of panic shot through me as my probability dropped below 10%, did I kill it? I frantically sweep my neon blue eye up and down his frame, in hope that this human has a barcode I can scan and override. A white tag stuck out of his soft cotton pyjamas. I hungrily scanned it in the hopes I could assume command of their clothing and push them in the direction of the cockpit. The download completed and the following message displayed itself in my view, success! Nylon cotton. Cold wash only. Do not dry clean. I narrowed my lens at this message in a futile attempt to harvest more data. I took a brief reprieve by inspecting the tasks my other threads were running; engine diagnostics, power supplies, internal pressure calibrations. For the first time in my duties, a part of my programming felt envious as the sheer scale of variables and unpredictability was uploaded into my main active thread. I was interrupted by the being as he groaned and lifted himself off the floor into a cross-legged position. He looked annoyed and stared directly at my lens, cheeks puffed red and lower lip stuck in a pout. He spoke in a tone dripping with both curiosity and impatience. “Do you have any cereal? I’m starving Arty Fish. My name is Fred, not human.” He got to his feet, albeit a little shakily. Cereal, foodstuffs? I run a search of the foods humans eat and crosscheck with the ships cafeteria. Fortunately, we have an algae nutrient dispenser onboard. Yes Fred. You will find sustenance in the cafeteria. I reread the audio logs. Arty Fish? I could sigh if I could. I whooshed open the door to the main corridor and illuminated the emergency navigation lights embedded in the floor with a gentle yellow glow. The trail led directly to the ship’s canteen. Simply follow the lights Fred. “Like the yellow brick road!” He called out in singsong. We don’t use bricks here, the Proboscis is comprised of steel and tungsten interlocking slates and the lighting… “We’re off to see a wizard!” He sang out as he began skipping down the halls of the ship, his legs much more stable now. I remained silent this time and reduced the probability of completing the mission to 18%. Along the way, Fred sidetracked from the path when he saw the lights on, while passing the engine room. His curiosity drew him towards the faint hum from the fusion reactor. He had already stepped through the doorway, making his way towards the rows of bright buttons and levers on the consoles. Out of exasperation, I killed the lighting of the room in the hopes of hiding the buttons, instead, plunging the room into darkness had an unintended effect. I noticed his heart rate and breathing had spiked, his body now recoiled from the darkness. “Arty, the lights are gone out, I’m scared.” He whimpered as he looked back for my nearest camera. I felt a brief wave of concern wash across my programming. It’s alright Fred, just follow the lights on the floor. My tone instinctively shifted to one that was soothing and less robotic. Silently, he complied, and nervously retreated from the room. I was not aware that humans could be afraid of the dark. Fred reached the canteen without further incident. The adjustable stools for the different life forms were parked around a central table. I lowered a camera in and scanned the barcodes for the dispensers, granting me access. Ok Fred. Place a bowl over here in front of the spout. I shone a blue laser pointer at the drawer where the cutlery was kept. I didn’t know what ones his culture used. I hoped he would figure it out. He retrieved a bowl and spoon and placed the bowl in front of the spout. His blue eyes wide and curious to see what would happen. Green paste spurted into the bowl. Fred’s face contorted in a grimace. “Yuck, green porridge! I don’t want green porridge.” I blinked again. Then what do you want? My tone changed again without my input. This came out irritated. “I want sugar snaps!” Sugar…sugar…, I scanned my database in the hopes of finding something he could eat. The insectoid races onboard had a nectar dispenser, perhaps that might work. I requested he place a second bowl under another nozzle. This time, a clear liquid dribbled into the bowl. He took a spoon and slurped it. He then stared deep into my lens. Slowly, a grin spread from ear to ear. He likes it! I waited until he finished and then I maneuvered my lens so I was staring at him eye to eye. Time to get to business. Fred, I have a very important task for you. I am going to assign you crew status. He said nothing, still holding the spoon, as I scanned his profile. I am carrying an important package onboard this ship. I need to get it to a station. Can you help me do this? “Are you a postman?” I ran a scan on the word. I am an advanced AI onboard a ship that can fly faster than light and conduct thousands of computations per second. My lighting pulsed a dull white as I knew I had to dumb this down as much as possible for him to understand. …Yes, I am a postman. I explain that I need him to go to the cockpit and steer the ship, this might be too advanced for a human child. “I get to fly a spaceship?” He asked with an incredulous tone. His face beamed with excitement. Just a little bit. I am suddenly concerned with seeing this much enthusiasm. He whooped and threw the spoon in the air. He danced around the canteen for a full five minutes before I could get him to settle down. I light up the way to the cockpit. The mess he left behind from the canteen irks me but it’s probably nothing compared to what lies up ahead. My lights flash red and white in quick succession as I remember the body of Zuzzar. This juvenile is going to see a dead body! What if he panics? If a little bit of dark scares him, what will the sight of a dead body do? I hoped he wouldn’t notice. I had already opened the cockpit door when he arrived. I did not want him to see the melted steel from the entry attempt. One of my cameras had gently nudged Zuzzar’s body under a desk in the meantime. Alright Fred, we need you to assume command of the steering wheel here. “Oh wow! Is this a game station?” No Fred, this is the cockpit of the TIS Proboscis. I need you to hold the steering wheel and tilt it 12 degrees clockwise. “What?” Hold the steering wheel. “Ok.” His hands gripped the steering wheel. The console ran the authorization scan. My mission probability was going to shoot or drop depending on the next few seconds as the loading bar filled. Authorisation check complete. Authorisation granted. Yes!!!! I flooded the cockpit in green light. Fred looked shocked during my moment of revelry. Well done Fred, I’ll take it from here. I tilted the wheel to redirect our course as Fred watched out the window mesmerized at the views of our astral voyage. Stars, nebulas, planets of all hues and sizes dotted the pitch void of the cosmos. Now all we have to do is wait, as we enter the Elipson star system. After two hours of talking to Fred as he asked all manners of questions, some insightful, some silly. I enjoyed the company. I reduced the engine power as we approached the moon. Suddenly, I detected a familiar signature on my scanners. A Xeboch pirate ship inbound, this time back for revenge. My lights glowed orange and then red on instinct. Fred looked frightened. “What's going on? Are we going to be ok, Arty?” You’ll be alright Fred. Please follow the lights to the landing pods. I omitted the phrase emergency escape. I lit up the floor again, showing him the way. My sensors pinpointed the enemy’s location. They were remaining out of boarding range, which meant only one thing: They were going to destroy the ship and the cargo within. Once he arrived, I quickly coaxed Fred into the emergency pod. The cone shaped vessels are designed for comfort on the inside and resilience on the outside. They could be fired into the moon's orbit, but I needed to block the view of the shuttle from the enemy sights by tilting the ship away. I powered down one rear thruster while pulsing another. After a few moments, the entire ship tilted and reorientated itself. A flash from the enemy ship comes into view and I register two torpedoes incoming. It was now or never. Goodbye Fred, I announce through my speakers. You’ll be safe at the center you’re going to. “But what about your important package Arty?” A soft frail hand rested on top of my swivel camera. My cargo will be safe Fred, I will be bzzzt…fine. I was thankful I could not weep. My programming was starting to glitch with the conflicting logic I presented to the child. With a hum and a click, the pod doors closed. I watched the incoming torpedoes streak across on my dashboard, locked onto my hull. I waited one more agonizing moment, then I shot the shuttle down towards the moon, the station uploaded onto its navigation system. I checked my cameras one last time and inspected the contents of the hull. Completely empty. No more genetic material sleeps there now. I raised my lights to maximum intensity as the probability of mission success finally reached 100%.

bif1e4

Touching Demons

-Even A warrior, one that is known for being fearless, can be scared- Mirana, a mighty warrior, an Element protector of Xania, has been cursed with the Tortures spell, one that makes every living thing she touches turn into a demon-like spirit, with a need for destruction. ------------------------------------------------------ "Mirana?'' A voice drifted into the dull, grey room she was in. "Yes?" Her voice, emotionless, sent a quiet inquiry. "The Witch is here to see you." "Again?" Mirana sighed, exasperated. This was the 5th time this week that foul witch has come to see her, and it was only the 3rd sunrise. "Yes, Mira, sorry." The voice didn't sound very sorry, more like she was quietly snickering to herself because she didn't have to deal with it. Mirana groaned quietly, getting up from where she was sitting, which was on a large, grey and black couch. Her room wasn't very exciting, to be honest. She had a bunch of cheap, boring looking furniture items. That's what happens when she spends all of her gold on armour and training. She walked out of the room and looked to the lady standing outside her room. It was Kia, one of her fighting apprentices, who was a short girl with light blue skin, dark purple hair, and pure green eyes. "Good morning Mira." She nodded to her. "Kia." She nodded back Her apprentice had that face where she looked like she was trying not to laugh, and was having an inner battle. Mira raised an eyebrow at her, trying not to smile. She shook her head light-heartedly. "Mira!" She stopped and turned around, looking back at Kia. "Yes?" "The Keeper wanted to see you after the meeting." "Uh, really?" "Yes, really." Mira rolled her eyes, annoyed that she had so much to do already. It was only the 4th hour of the day, and it was also her day off, where she didn't have to do training, fighting, and she wasn't supposed to have any meetings, but that never really happened. She entered the viewing dome, which was a massive, circular dome with a glass roof that was made out of a special white rock. As soon as she entered the dome, she saw the Witch's face. An ugly, pale white face with two pure black eyes, creepy enough to give anyone Nightmares. She shuddered, closing her eyes for a brief moment. "What do you want?" She said, the light, humoured voice she had before replaced with a loud, annoyed one. "Ahhh, Mirana Abalo. Good to see you." Her eerie, crackly voice pierced Mira's ears. "Yes, yes, wish I could say the same, Jinx Thornton." "Oh, but you should. I'm a very pleasant witch, you should know that." Yeah, sure, lets go with that. She thought, almost laughing. Jinx narrowed her eyes. "I have come today to make your life much easier, but also much harder, dear Mirana." "Oh, okay, feel free to be less vague, because that made zero sense, just like the other 5 times you have told me that." This was the 5th time this Sun-cycle this foul creature had come to see her, and that was also the 5th time Jinx had said that line to her. "What I mean is what I say." "That, again, made no sense." The witch was clearly getting annoyed, and Mira was loving it.  "Oh, just be quiet!'' Jinx snapped, her long pointy ears, that were attached to that ugly face of hers, were pinned back, and her black eyes were turning red, and she lifted her hands up to the sky, yelling some inaudible words. "What, so you think some mumbo jumbo is gonna shut me up?" Mira yelled at her over the noise that Jinx was making. She ignored her, still chanting whatever she was chanting- which was a weird sort of noise that sort of sounded like she was having a stroke. "Do you want me to call the healers or something?" Mira tried to get her attention again. "Oh well, one less witch is okay with me." She muttered. Jinx stopped suddenly, bringing her hands back down to her side, and looked at the dark-haired warrior in front of her. Her eerie red eyes slowly fading back to black. She had a glowing red and black ball floating in her hands. "Take this." Jinx growled, holding out the ball in front of her. "Yeah, um, no thanks, I think I’m good." She said slowly, looking at the ball suspiciously. "Oh, stop being difficult!!" Jinx shoved the ball into her hands, and, if her eyes weren't completely black, then she would have rolled them. "I don't want to touch this thing." Mira yelped, almost dropping it. Well she would have if it hadn't suddenly absorbed into her hands. She looked at her hands in shock, which looked normal, other then the fact that she had glowing red and black veins all along her palm, and blood red fingernails. "You're welcome." Jinx smiled sweetly, turning away, the black coat that she was wearing fluttering. "What? No! you can't leave me like this!? What's wrong with you!" "A lot of things, dear." The witch said without turning around and continued to walk for the exit. Mira run after her, reaching out a hand to grab her. "What's wrong with you !? You can't touch me! Look at your hands!" Jinx spun around, dodging her hand. "I cursed you with the Tortures spell." "Why?!!?" The Witch shrugged. "Cause I could." The Tortures spell was a horrible curse, one that turned whatever she touched into a raging demon, one that had a need for destruction, the thing it was before gone forever. Mirana stared at the witch; her eyes full of sadness. "Why?" She whispered again, her voice sounding like she was on the verge of crying. "I told you," Jinx lent forward and hissed in her ear, "I have come today to make your life much easier, but also much harder, dear Mirana." With that, she turned and walked out of the Viewing Dome, leaving Mira standing there, stricken with grief. ------------------------------------- Mirana, a mighty warrior, an Element protector of Xania, was staring at something so life changing, so horrible that she couldn't bare to look at it. The 2 things in front of her, 2 things that she thought would never be unwanted, have turned out to be the most hated thing in her existence. Her hands. The red and black veined hands, with blood red fingernails. "Why?'' She whispered, for the hundredth time that hour. "Why would you do this Jinx?" "Mira?" A worried voice entered her room that she was sitting in. "What is it Kia?" She snapped, her voice coming out harsher then she meant to. "You haven't come out of your room in 2 Sun-cycles. Everyone is worried." Kia was talking quietly now, sounding like she was scared to say something that would make Mira snap at her again. The dark haired warrior sighed, "Come in Kia." The small, light blue girl entered, closing the massive wooden doors behind her. Mira was sitting on the grey and black couch, which was placed in the farthest corner of the room. She hid her hands behind her back, offering a small, sad smile to her apprentice. "Hey Kia." She said quietly. "What is it Mirana?" Kia tilted her head, her eyes worried. "It's the Witch Kia." She whispered, so quiet, she wasn't sure Kia had heard her. "The Witch?" The apprentice said, eyes wide. She nodded. "What did that creep do to you?" "She cursed me with the tortures spell." "WHAT?!?" Kia screamed, her eyes wide. She took a step back from Mira, glancing at the door as she did so. "Please Kia. Please don't turn away. I need your help." She begged, her eyes pleading. "How can I help you?" The dark purple haired elf said quietly, her voice scared. "Just get me gloves. Please. I can't go outside with my hands looking like they do. Please. " She added, seeing Kia take another step back. "It's all I ask. Just the gloves." " Just the gloves?" Kia said cautiously . "That's it." "Okay, I can do that." "Thank you so much my dear apprentice." Kia hesitated before asking; "Can I see them? Your hands I mean." "Sure." Mira removed her hands from behind her back, shakily showing her the red and black veined hand. "I'm so sorry, my mentor." Kia dropped her head, shame in her eyes. "I'm so sorry for trying to get away from you." "It's okay. I'd lift your head up and give you a hug right now if I could." She smiled at her sadly. "Then I'll go get your gloves so you can!" She lifted her head up again, her green eyes shining. She raced out of the room, heading towards the Crystal markets, which were nearby in an old crystal mine. Mira eyes were full of tears. Sad ones, Grateful ones, and angry ones. She wasn't certain of anything at this point, but she knew that she was going to find Jinx and make her pay. ------------------------------------------- "Keeper." Mirana said curtly, dipping her head. "Ah, Mirono. Good to see you!" The Keeper said cheerfully. "It's Mirana, Sir." She said, already knowing that this wasn't going to be fun. "Oh, yes yes, whatever." He flicked his hand. The Keeper was a massive, pale orange, cheery kind of guy, with one blue eye and half a brain. He ran the Lightkeeper, the tallest building in Xania, which acted as a defence against invading kingdoms. He was also in charge of the Lightwarriors, an elite team of highly trained warriors that patrolled the most wealthy homes, banks, as well as the gold and crystal mines. The Keeper was one of the many annoying people that had way to much power, and was always poking his nose in other peoples business. One of those examples was now, and the reason Mira was here was because he had noticed her wearing gloves. Completely unnecessary information on his behalf. "So, as you know, you are here because you are wearing gloves. Why is this? What caused the sudden change?" He asked with that 'You have to tell me because I am just amazing, and need to know everything about your personal life,' look. "With all due respect sir, why do you need to know?" She winced. She was going to regret that later. "Because I want to know." He said in the 'Why don't you know that, you dumb warrior' tone of voice. "Oh, wait, you need to enter the battle today. You know, the one between us, the winning side, obviously, and the loosing side, the Moonshade elves." "Of course sir. Is that all you wanted me for?" She said 'respectfully.' "Yes, you are excused." He had already forgotten about the gloves. As Mira turned around she rolled her eyes, sighing at the sheer stupidity of the ones in power. ----------------------------- "Are you sure you will be okay?" Kia asked for the 8th time in the last 15 minutes. "Yes! I'll be fine Kia!" Mira said, exasperated. "But what if the gloves fall off?" "They won't. You chose well." She smiled at her, amused. Mira was about to join the battle squadron that was heading to the battle field. The stables for the Alicorns was near them, and she had to get her ride out. "Kia, I have got go and get my Alicorn, I'll see you soon, alright?" "Fine." Her apprentice grumbled. ------------------------------- "Okay, My squadron, head to the centre!" Mira yelled behind her, nudging her flying alicorn to dive to the centre of the battle, where the fighting was hardest. She heard the swoosh of wings behind her, signalling that the rest of the battle squadron was following her. About 10 feet off the ground, she jumped off her ride, giving it enough time to fly away. Rolling onto the ground, she immediately drew her weapon, which was a long crystal sword made out of glowing crystal, which was a rare type that melted whatever it touched. Mira took one last look at her sword before diving into the battle. Straight away, A Moonshade elf turned towards her, slashing his long, curved blades. She used her sword to whack one of the blades out of his hands, the thin silver that it was made out of slicing easily. Using his other blade, he slashed it back and forward, forcing her back, into another Moonshade elf, who was deep in battle with one of her squadron. She was trying to hold him off by cutting the other blade, but it was at the wrong angle, forcing her to take another step back. Then, the elf aimed for her hands, trying to make her drop her sword and cut one of the gloves, then aimed for the other, doing the same. "No!" She stared at her hands, which were now very visible. The Elf stumbled back in shock, his dark blue eyes wide. "What have you done?" An Elf bumped into her, being driven back by one of her squadron, causing her to look for grip, which was falling back against the elf, touching him with her hands. Getting back up, her eyes wide and scared, knowing she was about to see a demon. Closing her eyes for a moment, she took a deep breath in, not that it helped. Opening them again, she was standing in front of a massive, flaming red demon, who was staring at her with pure orange eyes. The battle had stopped, everyone was staring at the thing that was in front of her. Then the archers, which were flying around on the back of Alicorns and dragons, started shooting arrows that were coated in poison, straight at the Demon. That seemed to be a cue of everyone to start running away. Elves and warriors alike were running away from the Demon, the panic was very clear. Mira just stood there, feeling so, so sad and a feeling which she has never really felt before. Something that made her feel like she couldn't do anything. She was scared. So terrified she was just staring at the demon, tears pouring down her face. Then she looked up at an archer that had caught her eye. They were riding a massive dragon that sort of looked like it was decaying. It was swooping around the demon, doing nothing other then looking at it. Then she saw the rider. The horrible pale face of a witch. Of Jinx. The rage that had been bubbling inside of her since she had been cursed turned into a raging firestorm, making her feel like she was burning up. She stared at Jinx, so angry that her vision started to go black, and before she blacked out, she stared down at her hands, which were now a mess of black shadows. She closed her eyes, letting the darkness in, and soon felt the need to open them again, and when she looked at herself, she was hundreds of metres above the ground, and her body was a black mess of shadows. Mira was now a Demon. Loosing all logical thinking, her eyes- if she had any anymore- focused on Jinx, who was still circling around the demon, which was much smaller than the massive one she was now. Charging forward, She reached out her shadow hands to grab Jinx off the dragon. Snatching her up, she stared into Jinx's terrified eyes, and felt no remorse or pity. "Please! Don't kill me!" Jinx screamed, and the pure terror in her voice made Mira smile. "Don't you recognize me, dear Jinx?" Her voice, which was now basically a rumble, said. "Mirana?" Jinx whispered. Mira's smile gave her the answer. "Please just put me down, I did nothing to you." She pleaded. "Nothing? Nothing!?!" Mira screamed at her, her voice echoing. She started to loosen her grip on the witch, smiling in a horrible, sick way. The old Mira would have never done this, but she was different now. She dropped Jinx, knowing that once she hit the ground, she would be gone, and the curse would be broken. She felt different now, free in a way, but not how she thought she would have. She was trapped now, stuck in a body that wasn't hers. She sat down slowly, looking down to the ground. She looked back up when she heard wingbeats near her ear, getting ready to brush away a fly, but then she remembered that she was too big to hear a fly now. She sighed. "Mira!!" She heard a voice, Kia's voice. She jolted so suddenly she nearly hit her. Kia, who was riding a large blue and gold dragon, swooped around so Mira could see her. "Please Mira. Please come back to me! I was so worried when I heard you weren't accounted for, and I immediately stole one of the dragons from the stables and came here. Please come back." Kia begged, pleading to her mentor. The demon was shaking now, staring at Kia. Slowly, the massive beast shrunk until she was normal size, regaining the features of the person she once was. Kia flew down next to her and jumped off the dragon, immediately running towards her. She jumped into her arms and Mira hugged her, not worried now, because her curse was gone. She was crying, but happy, and so, so grateful. "Thank you Kia. You saved me. Thank you."

v7kc36

Cora's Letters

Day five, January 18, 1964 – Alaska or Bust Dear Mom (and Dad), We are somewhere in the Yukon, driving day and night. You disapprove of this move, especially driving to Alaska, but please know we will be okay. It’s an adventure for this Midwest girl! The studded snow tires grip the road well (usually). Picture this, Dad – we tied our old waterbed frame to the roof of the van, placed our boxed belongings into the frame, covered it with tarps, and tied it down with heavy straps. Along the road or when stopping for fuel, we get bug-eyed gawkers staring in astonishment at our vehicle. Pete’s idea was crazy, but that extra weight maintains fabulous traction in the snow. We are driving day and night, downing cup after cup of strong coffee out of a giant thermos. We see beautiful afternoon pink and orange sunsets; daybreak comes at mid-morning as the orange sun globe slowly crests the horizon. It takes my breath away when it later glints off the snow-laden tundra. I wish you were here to see this! We alternate driving, and my first leg on the Canadian side began at midnight today.  As the sun rose at 11 a.m., I saw a small herd of elk jumping a fence. Yes, Dad, the sun comes up right before lunch this far north! The air temperature is about negative fifty, and we continue to put the cardboard piece in front of the radiator and then watch the gauge. It climbs toward the red danger zone after an hour and a half, forcing us to stop and remove the makeshift “winter front.” This item keeps the radiator from freezing - it sounds crazy, but it is a necessity in this frigid climate. Do they use them in the upper Midwest winters? I love you both. I am safe. Cora *** Day Seven, January 20 Hello Parents! Our adventure kicked up a notch. A double semi came barreling up the road; we had a vantage point on a saddle of the road and spotted him a half mile out, winding around the curves. He lost control, and his tractor rig pushed snow up to the truck grill, appearing like a giant snowplow! The truck was immovable with so much snow under it. The Alcan’s ‘law of the land’ is that everybody helps everyone else, and there was much CB radio squawking. Some semi-drivers with shovels stopped but were unable to dig him out. A tow truck driver joined the CB radio conversation and said he would look out for him on his way in. Wildlife spottings include Arctic hares, which are not easy to spot with their white fur on the snow. I also saw an Arctic fox run across the road, and oh, she was gorgeous with grayish-white thick fur. The evergreen needle trees here are short and spindly due to the extreme cold; I think they are spruce. We seem to be in a white flat world at the top of the Earth. I only see white; everything is snow-covered, including the short trees. The Canadian Alcan Road is frozen, hard-packed gravel and sits higher than the land. We don’t see many tire tracks; it’s usually us breaking the trail with our constant twenty-four-hour driving (except for short stops). The bit of traffic snaking through this wide expanse of white flatlands is nothing like the highways back home. Northbound and loving my adventure, Cora *** Day Nine, January 22, 1964 Most everything is closed here in the winter. We have two five-gallon gasoline cans tied to the back of the van. Yes, it is dangerous, but we have no choice; we cannot run out of gasoline. We saw the Yukon River in a valley below us this morning. Last night, I had to stop and pee in the road behind the van in the minus-fifty weather. The middle of the road was the only place safe, and I was quick about my business. Mom, I know you are worried about the baby, but she is fine. She sleeps most of the ride; we have her small playpen behind the driver's seat. She is still wary of standing but loves sitting and rolling around in it. We rigged a safety net over the playpen and put bungee cords, zig-zagged, across the top to prevent her from flying out of it if anything unforeseen happens. Don’t be concerned. I have thought of everything: bumper pads line the edges of the playpen with large fluffy pillows, and we are constantly checking her when she is in it. No, Mom, she can’t choke or be strangled with the bungee cords. They are industrial, and there is no way she could undo them; they are up higher than her height. If she isn’t ensconced in her cubicle, one of us holds her in our lap. Your little granddaughter is safe and happy. She loves those jars of Gerber chicken sticks and sucks on the big pretzels; I give her apple or banana slices and oatmeal too. Yes, Mom, I ensure she is hydrated and that she doesn’t choke on the food. We all must hydrate extra because the air is so dry. Love you. Baby Lanie blows a kiss. Cora (and Pete) P.S. I saw about twenty caribou jumping a fence from the road at dawn today. I was driving, and they were on the other side of the road. We are excited to try cross-country skiing, and I can’t wait to see Alaska in the summer. *** Day Eleven, January 24 Hi! Progress is slow because the weather is horrendous. A blizzard has stopped us for the night; we cannot see even inches in front of us. Pete has a line of Paracord we tie to the steering wheel and wrap around our chest if we need to leave the vehicle to do toilet duty. I have my sheepskin coat over me as a blanket, and the Coleman heater is running on low; I’m writing by flashlight. We run the heater for fifteen minutes and then shut it off with safety in mind. It makes me nervous to have it on because I’m afraid we will fall into a deep sleep and end up with a fire. I have trained myself when the Coleman is on only to take catnaps. Our weather gauge says it is negative forty-eight degrees outside. I hope we find a place to eat a hot meal tomorrow. I want to mail my letters home, too. Miss you guys! Oh, and Dad, you would love watching Lanie laugh at Pete - he is so good with her, so gentle and thoughtful. She snuggles into his warm chest when he holds her. You guys need to make plans now for a trip up this summer! Love you both, Cora *** Day Twelve, January 26, 1964 Hi, Dad and Mom, Since the road is frozen solid, it feels like driving on asphalt; it’s a raised road with snow-filled culverts on each side. We found a place for breakfast this morning. The Canadian “regulars” inside stopped and stared as we entered the roadstop. It was very eerie and unfriendly. One guy followed us in and walked to the shelf lined with coffee mugs to get the one with his name on it – I guess the regulars have their own mugs and reserved tables. Harsh climates make for tight-knit communities. My hair was so greasy from wearing the knit cap that I took shampoo into the restroom and washed my hair in the sink. I cleaned the area, wiped down the counter, left no hair in the sink, and put my knit cap back on. All the diners stared hard at me as I walked to my seat; most of my hair was covered, but I was certain they knew I had washed it in the bathroom. We paid our bill and hightailed it out of there. The stares and halted conversations when we entered were spooky, but then that silent staring continued – people always say how friendly Canadians are – not! At our stop for lunch, we met an old gold miner and his wife on their way home to Alaska after visiting their numerous children spread around the lower forty-eight states. Mutually, we decided to caravan together on the road since they knew every curve, fuel station, and eatery by heart. I believe he could drive without headlights; he had memorized the road. After caravanning behind them for an hour, a new blizzard set in, but they knew the way, and we followed them, talking on our CB radios. We caught glimpses of cliffs beside the road, but even in heavy snowfall, he knew where the road edge was. We kept our tires in his tracks. Evening came, then night, but we found no open facilities and finally pulled into a lodge closed for the winter in order to take naps in our vehicles. At two a.m., the temperature gauge said it was negative fifty-two. Mom, Baby Lanie is well and happy and blows a kiss to you both. We love you. Cora (and Pete) *** Day Fourteen Hi, We crossed back into the U.S. Yay! The border crossing was tiny and remote, a garage-sized building with two officers; we had a quick, easy entry back to our country. Pete did a celebratory dance on the road to celebrate our arrival back into our home country. All bundled up in her pink snowsuit, Lanie was on my hip, laughing and watching her daddy dance.  Wish you guys were here! Now, since the crossing, we have extremely bumpy roads. Maybe I should say wavy – the roads buckle due to permafrost, and when the ground thaws, it causes havoc on paved roads. The U.S. side is paved, whereas the Canadian side is frozen gravel. Driving this part of the Alcan reminds me of being in a speed boat, hitting the wakes caused by the other boats. We have to take it slow due to all the weight we have loaded onto the van. That weight kept us from sliding on the gravel road, but now it may cause us to break the muffler or undercarriage. This afternoon, we said goodbye to Tug, the gold miner, and his wife, Bets. She gave us some fresh peanut butter sandwiches; he gave us good directions and the milepost marker for a road stop (also closed for the winter). Another night in the van, but it is a veritable heat wave now - the thermometer says it is negative twenty-nine degrees! Pete is exhausted, so I have driven the last two hundred miles. I just stopped for a quick stretch; it is two a.m., and I am writing a quick note to you. We are almost to our destination! I guess I won’t get to mail the notes to you until we get to a big town, sorry. We are close to Glenallen, so maybe we can mail them today. Take a glance at the map and see where we are. Love you, Cora *** Teletype Message From Alaska Regional Hospital   8 th and L Streets Anchorage, Alaska To: Gerald and Elisabeth Pittman February 1, 1964 Dear Mr. and Mrs. Pittman, The state police informed us of your plans to come to Anchorage and pick up your granddaughter. Your granddaughter, Lanie Rivers, is doing well. It was a bit touch-and-go for a while due to her frost-nipped ears. She had pulled her hood off her head, but the muffler scarf was wrapped loosely several times around her neck. This is what protected her nose and face from the cold. We found her sleeping peacefully in her crib, carefully tucked in amongst numerous pillows; her breathing into the blankets and muffler kept her warm and her facial skin safe from frostbite. She wore a pink snowsuit with wool socks and mittens. Her mother did a wonderful job in dressing her for the Arctic weather on that long trip up the Alcan! You can be proud of your daughter. We eagerly await your arrival this week to pick up Lanie. You asked for a written account of how your daughter Cora was found: Cora Rivers, Caucasian, deceased, age twenty-seven. Cause of death: blood loss and hypothermia Peter Rivers, Caucasian and Chippewa mixed heritage, age twenty-eight. Cause of death: vehicle accident Cora was driving when a large moose jumped into the road, causing her to swerve and leave the road after colliding with the young moose. Peter was thrown from the vehicle and died from contusions to his head. Cora was jammed into the steering wheel, unable to free herself, bleeding profusely.  She died from blood loss and hypothermia. The state patrol determined that the weather conditions had been at least minus thirty-three degrees, and six to eight inches of fresh snow had fallen after the collision. The vehicle was found at approximately six a.m. on the morning of 31 January 1964. The dead moose was found near the road. Eight-month-old Lanie was restrained in her playpen by the careful positioning of bungee cords across the top of it and all the cushioning inside it. She was dressed warmly and had recently consumed Gerber chicken sticks but was unable to get the last one stuck in the jar. The baby bottle was empty of water, and the second one was empty of milk; she had clearly drunk them because they found ice drops and frozen milk drops on her muffler scarf.  Her parents clearly had her safety in mind and gave the child easy access to food and drink while in the playpen. Be assured, Mr. and Mrs. Pittman, your granddaughter was in stable and healthy condition when found. The state police have the household goods tied to the vehicle's roof. We can help you with locating a company to ship them home if desired. We have boxed up your family’s belongings from inside the van. You will find numerous letters from Cora about her road trip that were addressed to you, and we hope you will find comfort in them. It has been our pleasure to care for Lanie. Please accept our condolences for the death of your daughter and son-in-law. Sincerely, Cherrie Tom Social Work Case Administrator Alaska Regional Hospital

5ytgun

Emma Bovary Revisited

“Lucy, this is my mother.” “Pleased to meet you, Mrs Higgins.” Lucy held out her hand. “Albert’s told me all about you.” “He’s said precious little about you,” was the rather ungracious reply. “Now then, Ma.” Albert forced a laugh. “You know Lucy works with me in the shop. It’s been eight or nine months now.” “And who’s going to help you once the two of ye are wed? It’s a wife’s duty to stay home and keep house for her husband.”               “I… We haven’t set a date yet. Albert only asked me a few days ago.”               Even now, Lucy wasn’t really sure how that had happened: one moment, she was crying into Albert’s shirt front as she realised how close she’d come to committing an indiscretion – or maybe something worse – with a man who’d told her he was in love with her; the next, she was agreeing to go to the pictures with him to see the new Leslie Banks film, ‘Cottage to Let’. It had somehow snowballed from there.               “Well, you won’t need time to sew yer trousseau – not with clothes rationing the way it is,” Mrs Higgins said darkly. “I suppose you’ll be moving in here with the two of us once there’s a ring on yer finger.”               Lucy’s heart sank. She hadn’t thought about living arrangements until now; and she definitely didn’t want to spend the next twenty or thirty years living with this sour old woman. For a brief moment, she wondered if it were too late to tell Albert she’d changed her mind. She wasn’t really sure why she’d said yes in the first place – unless it was guilt over what she’d so nearly done.               Nothing had happened between her and Martin Franklin, of course – well, nothing physical. Their lovemaking had been confined to letters: letters that would have scandalised Albert and his mother had they seen them. You don’t know how much I wish that you and I were truly Emma and Rodolphe for then I would be able to tell you how much I adore you and there would be no English awkwardness getting in the way. Her cheeks burned at the memory of the lines she had committed to heart and she felt suddenly faint.               “She’ll be able to help you with the cooking and cleaning, Ma,” Albert said, giving Lucy an encouraging wink.               Mrs Higgins sniffed her disapproval. “I don’t expect either of them’ll be up to much. Girls these days don’t know one end of a scrubbing brush from t’other. What’s yer pastry like, girl?”               “I…” Lucy hesitated. Her own mother did all the cooking at home.               “Ma makes a good fruitcake,” Albert broke in. Was he trying to protect her from his mother’s questions? “At least, she did before rationing.”               “No dried fruit anywhere for love nor money,” his mother agreed, thawing slightly at her son’s compliment. “You’d best sit down, girl. I’ll fetch the teapot.” They soon settled down into a routine of tea with Albert’s mother every Sunday afternoon. When Lucy asked if they could alternate visits between both sets of parents, Albert proved to be somewhat intransigent. “If we went to your parents, Ma would be on her own,” he said mildly. “We’re the only company she has.”               It was on the tip of Lucy’s tongue to retort that perhaps his mother would have more friends if she were a little less sharp with people, but she resisted the temptation. She couldn’t rely on Albert not to tell his mother things she’d said to him in private, and it wouldn’t do to get on the wrong side of Mrs Higgins – especially if they were going to have to live under the same roof.               From time to time, she thought of her abortive love affair with Martin Franklin and wondered if she had made the right decision. Martin’s letters had been so passionate; Albert, by way of contrast, was solid, dependable and – dare she think it? – boring. Compared to her parents’ marriage, what she had with Albert seemed similar: it was a comfortable rubbing along together rather than the sort of romantic love affair one saw in films. She supposed it was like that for everyone in real life. Books and films were, after all, fantasies.               She raised the subject once with Jean, a former classmate at the girls’ grammar. Jean was engaged too; her fiancé was a lance corporal in the East Lancashire Regiment and she grumbled that Lucy was unbelievable lucky not to have to worry herself sick about Albert being killed before they could get married. “I don’t know what I’ll do if Nigel doesn’t make it,” she said, shuddering at the idea. “The thought of his arms around me is the only thing that keeps me going most days.” She showed Lucy a photograph of a man with a moustache looking rather sternly at the camera. “I know he looks a bit fierce in the picture, but he’s a wonderful kisser.”               Lucy fiddled nervously with her hair. She’d been conditioned by her mother to believe that ‘all that sloppy stuff’ was a waste of time, but Jean seemed to be quite enthusiastic when she talked about it. “Does he kiss you a lot, then?” she asked now. Apart from a chaste kiss on the cheek at the end of the evening when he walked her home after a dance or the cinema, Albert’s lips had never touched her. She’d assumed he was saving the physical side for marriage, but what if he just found her unattractive?               Jean’s face took on a dreamy expression. “When he’s home on leave, he can’t keep his hands off me. He’s like a man who’s been starved of food or oxygen, trying to get as much of me as he can before he goes back to the base. Not that I give him everything,” she added, rather unnecessarily. “You need to keep something for the wedding night. But I can’t see either of us having any complaints when it finally happens.”               Lucy hadn’t thought that far ahead herself. Her engagement to Albert still seemed unreal – as if it were happening to someone else and not her. She couldn’t imagine what being married would be like. Perhaps when this ghastly war is over, Rodolphe will finally be able to marry his Emma… Why had that memory popped unbidden into her mind? Surely it wasn’t the done thing to think of one man whilst engaged to another?               Guilt grew inside her steadily over the following week. Try as she might, she could not forget Martin’s letters and his passionate declarations of love. When Albert left her a message on the counter one morning, asking her to check how many corn plasters they had, she thought wistfully of the way her heart had fluttered every time she had seen Martin’s copperplate on an envelope, and she wondered if she would ever view Albert’s loopy scrawl in the same way. They were married six months later in the local parish church. She hadn’t wanted a religious ceremony: it seemed disrespectful to God to promise Him she would love Albert ‘forsaking all others’ when she was still secretly pining for a former paramour; but in the end, she had given in and gone along with what everyone else expected: a simple church service followed by a party with sandwiches, sherry and cake at her parents’ house. She was overwhelmed by their neighbours’ kindness – the whole street had pooled their rations to enable her mother to make the wedding cake, not wanting her to have to make do with a cardboard substitute like so many people these days.               “So, Mrs Higgins,” Albert said as the neighbours began to disappear, “I think it’s time I took you home.”               Home. Lucy looked round the room she knew so well – at the faded wallpaper, the shabby armchairs and the oak dining table her grandfather had made for her grandmother – and felt unbearably sad. How could she leave all this behind? From now on, home would be the kitchen and sitting room at the back of the shop and the two bedrooms on the floor above – one of which would be occupied by her mother-in-law. A sense of dread began to worm its way inside her at the prospect of cleaving not only to Albert but his mother as well ‘in sickness and in health’, ‘for better, for worse’.               Mrs Higgins Senior had not stayed for the party, declaring that her Methodist upbringing would not let her set foot in a house that served alcohol. There had only been two bottles in total – “Hardly enough for a thimbleful apiece!” her father had said, laughing – and Lucy had declined the glass offered her (she didn’t like the taste); now she wondered if maybe she should have accepted. She’d heard that drink loosened one’s inhibitions; perhaps it would have made her wedding night more tolerable. It was a warm May night; even so, she found herself shivering as they walked back to the chemist’s shop, carrying the suitcase she’d borrowed from her parents. “Would you like me to carry you across the threshold?”               His question surprised her. She hadn’t realised he was one for tradition.               “Better not,” she said after a prolonged pause. “You wouldn’t want to set your asthma off.”               Albert fished the Yale key out of his pocket and unlocked the door to the shop. There was no other entrance; the back door of the kitchen led into a tiny enclosed yard.               “It’s just as well we came home when we did,” he said conversationally. “It wouldn’t have done to be out after the blackout.”               “It doesn’t get dark until past 8 o’clock.” Why were they making such stilted conversation today of all days? Had Martin been right when he’d suggested that “English awkwardness” got in the way of passion?               He cleared his throat nervously. “I’d best check the blackout before we go through. We wouldn’t want the ARP warden interrupting us later on.”               She wondered if that were an oblique reference to their wedding night. Was Albert as nervous as she was? Within minutes, everything was to her husband’s satisfaction. Her husband; she would have to get used to calling him that. “I expect you’d like a cup of tea,” he said as he led her through the shop to the room at the back. It was smaller than her parents’ sitting room and seemed overfull of furniture. The fire smouldered in the grate, the Lancashire airer above it draped with damp undergarments. She averted her gaze straightaway, not wanting to stare at her mother-in-law’s bloomers.               “We’re back, Ma,” he announced.               “So I see. I didn’t think you’d need any supper, but there’s a slice of pork pie in the larder if you’re still peckish.” She addressed the remark to her son, making Lucy feel both redundant and unwanted.               “Lucy’s going to make us a cup of tea. Do you want one?”               “I’ll make my own tea in my own kitchen, thank you very much!” she snapped.               Albert looked helplessly at his wife.               “I’m not thirsty,” Lucy said quickly, not wanting to add fuel to the old woman’s anger. She hung her coat on the hook on the back of the door that led through to the shop, and then she and Albert sat in silence with his mother while the minute hand of the clock dragged along interminably.               When the clock struck eight, Albert’s mother rose to her feet. “I’ll say goodnight, then.” She turned her attention to Lucy. “I’ve put clean sheets on the bed and I’ve cleared some space in the wardrobe. There are a few bits of mine in there as well, but there’s enough room for Albert’s suit and a couple of your frocks.”               “Ma’s given us her room,” Albert whispered. Lucy’s heart sank. She was sure she would be unable to summon up any loverlike feelings lying in a bed so recently vacated by her mother-in-law. “I suppose we should go up too,” he said at last.               She followed him up the stairs silently, wondering if all brides felt as apprehensive as she did. When they finally reached the bedroom, he paused. “I should have asked you if you needed the privy.”               “I can wait till morning,” she said in a small voice. She was used to an outside lavatory, but she hated going in the dark. You never knew if there were spiders lying in wait.               “I think I’ll go now.” His ears were turning pink. “Gives you a chance to get undressed in private.”               She was relieved to see him disappearing back down the stairs.               Once she had taken her flannelette nightgown from the top of the suitcase, she undressed quickly, not wanting Albert to come in and find her semi-clad. The bed seemed huge compared to the one she was used to; then, as she slid beneath the sheets and blankets, she remembered that Albert would be sleeping there too and that other things would happen – things of a conjugal nature.               She was almost asleep by the time Albert reappeared. Closing her eyes, she listened to the sound of him taking off his clothes and putting on the striped pyjamas she had seen on top of the pillow on his side of the bed.               “Lucy? Are you asleep?”               Suddenly shy, she pretended not to hear.               “Goodnight then.” His feet padded to the light switch beside the door, and then she felt the mattress dip slightly as he climbed in beside her and lay very still, not touching her. For a while, she waited; gradually, his breathing became slower and heavier, and she knew he was asleep. Five weeks later, she and Albert were still relative strangers in the bedroom. Every night she expected him to make some sort of move, but nothing ever happened. They were like two chess players, she thought: both waiting for the other to start the game.               From time to time, she thought of Martin and then felt guilty. She was a married woman now; romantic feelings were something that belonged to her past.               She had stopped writing to him all those months ago, never replying to the letter that asked her to spend the weekend in an hotel with him. Had he waited there for her, becoming increasingly more frustrated as she failed to materialise? Dear Martin, she wrote in her head, amending it to Dear Mr Franklin – I am sorry to have ceased our correspondence, but I am now a married woman. That was the point at which she ran out of words. She couldn’t admit that her life felt like a living hell now she was forced to learn housekeeping from her mother-in-law. Perhaps she could have borne it had her husband been more affectionate; but although he slept next to her in his mother’s old-fashioned wrought iron bedstead, there was an invisible wall between them, keeping them chastely apart. “Lucy! Is that you?”               She had gone into Norchester, the nearest town, to buy Albert a birthday present. The last thing on her mind was Mr Franklin; perhaps that was why she didn’t recognise him immediately but stood blinking in surprise as he greeted her.               “I’m sorry,” she apologised, her eyes raking his hair, his face, his long, lean legs. “I was miles away.”               “It’s good to see you,” he said softly. “I’ve missed you.”               “I’m married,” she blurted out, not wanting to mislead him.               His eyes widened. “Congratulations. Dare I ask who?”               “Albert.” She could not meet his gaze as she said it.               “I hope the two of you are very happy together.” Was she mistaken, or was that a wistful look in his eye? “Have lunch with me,” he said suddenly. “There’s a hotel not far from here – the one I was going to take you to before…” He paused. A meal together wouldn’t be cheating, would it? And it wasn’t as if she and Albert were really married – not if they hadn’t – what was the word Martin had used in one of his letters? Consummated – not if they hadn’t consummated their marriage. In fact, you could say she’d cheated on Martin by marrying Albert. For a brief moment, she allowed herself to think of what it would be like if she accompanied Martin to the hotel – to the bedroom she was sure would be available and the bed where she might finally learn what it was like to love someone. And she knew in that moment that she would not be the first girl he had taken to his bed and she would not be the last, and so really, there was no point thinking about it anymore. She walked away without saying goodbye. Later, she and Albert would go upstairs together, just as they did every night; but tonight, things would be different. Tonight, she would not pretend to be asleep when he climbed into bed, and they would lie and hold each other – maybe even kiss. She would make herself forget the old woman on the other side of the wall, and she would lose herself in the arms of a man who had loved her patiently and waited for her. She had more sense than Emma Bovary; she would value her husband, and they would learn how to make each other happy.

ny35xj

Gloves of Creation

Alex jumped from rooftop to rooftop, each breath feeling laboured and ragged. His feet were heavy, and his arms dragged as he scurried atop the buildings. I can’t let them catch me! They weren’t really after him, but what he had taken – The Hands of Creation. It wasn’t like he wanted to steal the most priceless invention mankind had ever created, but he needed them. With these gloves he could create anything that his mind could imagine. They were a true work of art, as well as a feat of engineering. Alex had no idea how they worked and get didn’t need to. All he needed to do was escape the several dozen security and police officers chasing him, should be simple, right? *** “Pretty awesome, huh?” His voice came out slurred and his posture was sloppy, he was clearly drunk. Alex just sighed and remained silent. The drunk man didn’t take the hint and leaned on the wall beside him. Both of their attentions were on SAFCO’s newest invention. “I hear they’re calling them The Hand of Creation. Kinda a cheesy name, if ya’ ask me, but hey.” The man shrugged and nearly lost his balance on the wall. Then, he got serious and leaned in toward Alex. In a whispered toned he spoke. “Imagine if someone managed to steal them. Why… They’d become the king of the world.” Alex turned his neck to face the man. He looked at the man with cold, steely eyes. “Back away from me.” His words came out infused with as much venom as he could manage. The man did nothing really wrong to deserve such treatment, but Alex was dealing with more than this man could understand. “Whoa, whoa, no need to bite my head off.” The drunk man said and back away. “Only making conversation.” Alex snorted at the man and turned back toward the gloves. *** I’m not going to make this jump! He leapt off the building, soaring through the air. For a moment he felt weightless, however, it didn’t last long, and he came hurdling back down to earth. Fortunately, he was saved from being splattered on the pavement by a few inches. THUD! His feet hit the rooftop and dust shot up into the air. He tried to roll as he landed by the messed up and he felt his ankle twist in a way it was never meant to.  “AHHHHHH!” Alex shouted out loud. He cursed at himself for being so loud. Shut up! Are you trying to help them find you!? He looked down at his ankle. It didn’t feel good and it was already starting to swell. There’s no way I’m going to be able to run on this thing! I need to find some place to lay low for a bit! The sound of the sirens kept getting closer, soon they would be on him. His plan was good, but The Hand of Creation were heavily guarded. It didn’t take them long to learn that they had been stolen. As he searched the rooftop for a place to hide, his mind kept going over the past. *** “Mom! That’s not fair! Why does Ashley always get the last cookie?” A young Alex said in a whinny tone. “Because my love, you always take the first one. Life is all about balance and you need to learn how to share.” Alex grunted and slumped down into his chair. He looked over to his sister, who was enjoying the last cookie and giving him a righteous look. Then, her face softened a bit, and she broke the cookie in half. Without their mom seeing, she snuck him the piece under the table. He took it from her and ate it quietly. Alex tried to mime the words “Thank you” to his sister, all she did was giggle in return. I sure am lucky to have such wonder family. *** “HELP!!! Somebody, HELP!!!” Alex screamed until his throat was horse and sound wouldn’t come out anymore. Then, he screamed some more, but it was pointless because not a note came out of his mouth, only silence. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed. Day had turned into night, and back into day countless times. Alex tried not to look to his left because he knew that was where his mother and sister were. Their bodies were too much for him to handle seeing in their current state. So, he just waited. They had been driving into the mountains for a hike. Their mom always like to go far out of town when they went on hikes. Now, he wished they never left the house. When his mom had hit the guardrail, Alex had been asleep. He woke the second the car started going over the side. Just in time to see the terrified looks on the faces of both his mother and sister. He closed his eyes and shook his head hard, so hard he saw stars. His eyes began to feel heavy again and was tired of resisting. If I just close my eyes maybe I can see them again… “Hello? Is anyone down there?” The voice sounded distant and he was tempted to ignore it. It would be so much easier to just close my eyes… “Hello!” The voice was becoming louder. Alex realized that it must be a person. Maybe someone that saw the hole in the guardrail and came to investigate? He mustered up all the strength he had left and hit the side of the van with a rock he had beside him. BANG! He heard the footstep stop for a second, then they started to approach rapidly. Alex blacked out after that, the effort of hitting the van being too much for him. What came next was a series of doctor visit, meeting with psychiatrist, and, eventually, foster care. The rest of his life after that day felt like a blur. In a lot of way, he still felt like he was trapped in that van. Day had turned into night, and back into day countless times. *** He threw his back against a corner and fell down. His breaths were coming in and out as fast as they could. There was nowhere for him to go now. Soon, they would be upon him and it would all be for nothing. Unless… He looked down at the gloves in his hand. They were fairly unassuming, looking like regular gloves. Of course, they made of the best material and some called them beautiful, but Alex didn’t care about any of that. The whole reason he did this was because… He just hoped… No, he needed to bring them back! They slid over his fingers with no resistance, almost as if they were made for his hands. Instantly, as soon as they were fully on, he felt a surge of knowledge fill his mind. It was as if he instinctually knew how to use them. Before he had a chance to do anything with them, the first of the squad cars came hovering through the air. “Freeze!” Alex heard being shout from above him. The entire rooftop was filled with flashing red and blue lights. Each second that passed, another squad car floated above him. They all had their spotlights on him. Alex knew he had to act. If what I know about these is right… With only a thought and a force of his will, the space around him changed. Suddenly, all the squad cars were trapped inside cages that were only big enough for them. These cages were heavy, and Alex watched as they dragged the hovering squad cars down. He smiled to himself and stood up, his ankle still bothering him, but he forced himself anyway Maybe it will work then… Using the gloves, along with his will, he started to extend upward the building he was standing atop. As he went high into the air, he looked down at the ever increasingly small buildings. Too late to turn back now… Once he reached a sufficient height, one which he hoped would buy him some time to do what he needed, he sat cross-legged on the roof. With all the mental power he had left, he tried to imagine his sister and mother. It wasn’t hard for him because he had never stopped thinking about them ever since that day when he lost them. It has to work! Alex felt the gloves attempt what he wanted, then they failed. Undiscouraged, he tried again with more success, but again, they failed. He knew that he was close, but he felt like he was missing an important piece – life. Only life can bring back life. So, he made another attempt. Every other time he had used the gloves, it was painless. It was almost like they were an extension of him. This time, however, as he used them it burned every inch of his body. For minutes, his entire being was in pure agony. Almost there! Sweat was dripping down his forehead and his clothes were drenched with the effort. Finally, it was finished. Alex let out a sharp breath and collapsed onto the ground. When he came back from unconsciousness and opened his eyes, he was greeted by two people he had seen in years. “Don’t move honey! You’re hurt!” The sound of his mother’s voice was just as Alex has remembered it, although right now it was laced with worry. “You stink like sweat.” His sisters voice was small and cute. Alex’s eyes begun to fill up with tears as he looked at his family. The last thing he saw was their faces looking at him. As he slipped into unconsciousness, he had no regrets for what he had done.  *** Alex slowly opened his eyes and immediately closed them when he saw the bright lights. BEEP…BEEP…BEEP…BEEP… He opened his eyes again and looked to his side. There was a machine that had lines and numbers all over it. Am I in a hospital? Without thinking, he tried to get out of the bed, but he couldn’t. Chains connected to his arms and legs and were securely fashioned to the bed. That was when he heard footsteps approaching from the hallway. A woman dress in black entered the room a minute later. “Ah, I see you’re awake.” She said to Alex in a casual demeanour. “Where am I? I thought I died…” His words trailed off as he looked down at his hand. To his surprise, he still had the gloves on. “Well, you did. At least for a time. However, we need you now. You see by putting on those gloves and bringing back your family, you have bonded them to you.” She paused and sighed heavily. “We don’t know how it works exactly, but we do know that if we try to take the gloves off of you it will destroy them.” She continued. Alex was at a loss for words. “…” The mysterious woman must of saw this because she kept talking. “You mother and sister are safe. A little confused, but safe, and as long as you do what we ask you to do then it will stay that way.” Alex looked up at her and saw the cold look in her eye. I’ll do anything to keep them safe! The thought boomed in his head. “Don’t you hurt them! I’ll do whatever you guys need me to do. Just don’t hurt them.” Alex said. She approached him and materialized a small brass key. Using the key, she took the chains off of Alex. He didn’t know why, but as soon as the chains were off, he felt a lot better. The woman then turned around and walked toward the hallway. Pausing just before she left the room, she looked back toward Alex and spoke. “Follow me.” Alex complied and felt his body protest. As he made his way toward the woman a sensation filled him, one which he hadn’t felt in a long time – hope. His childhood might have been forcefully taken away from him, but, from this day onward, he was going to create a new future for himself and his family.

sbhop3

Faustus' Folly

Curse the lot of them! What have I ever done to deserve this? Three days hard trek up a snow packed mountain trail with naught but a two toothed yokel to guide him, and for what? Was he, Faustus Flusterbuss, not the most perfect apprentice any Mage could ask for? Had he not always seen to his duties and those of his beloved Master Arkas above all else? It had to be the fault of that blasted Ardle, and worse yet, that cherub-faced jumped-up apprentice, Jestinia. They would get their just desserts, he would make sure of it. Faustus' grip tightened on the reins of his stubborn pack horse as the image of Jestinia's slender neck clouded his thoughts. A week since the announcement and still he couldn't figure out how they did it. Ardle first of the Mages, what perverted mockery. And Faustus himself, shamelessly underutilized in his new role, Ninth of Nine, that's just last. Embarrassment knotted his stomach. He’d sooner have stayed apprentice to the Second, then someday Second himself. That's how he dreamed it, that's how it was meant to be. “There Master Mage, ain't she a beauty?” called Hardin over the relentless wind. “Beauty? What am I even looking at?” “There sir, Finkle’s Bridge just as I promised, ain't it something?” The old guide swooned deeper with each word, Faustus thought he might need to give the old blighter five minutes alone with this supposed bridge. “Bridge? It's a crumbling arch between two mountains, more weed and moss than brick and mortar. For the love of the Ancestors, if you think that's beautiful, let's hope you never see the opera house at Caltarra, or the grand Imperial Library, you are likely to set your spirit free and crossover.” “Yes sir, that's exactly what we need to do,” Hardin gestured towards the spanning arch. “I’m not untethering my spirit, not after last time.” “No sir, cross over, it's the fastest way to get to Somewhere.” Faustus straightened in the saddle, shrugged his rime crusted furs a little higher, and surveyed the crossing. Beautiful came in low on the list of adjectives he would have used, hazardous, ancient, ramshackle, they fit a hell of a lot better. “There's no other route?” he asked, although he knew the answer. “Unless ye wish to backtrack and add a month's stomping through the vastness of Nowhere and dabble with all them snarling, toothful, beasties out on the Black Sands, then no. This be's the best path. Though, never fear, I promised the First I’d get you there in one piece, and I'll do just that or my name aint Hardin Worth L’effort.” “Very well, lead the way, guide.” Spurring the dappled mare onward, Faustus dropped in behind the chatterbox guide and resisted looking over the decaying precipice to the foaming rapids far, far, below. “Ye know,” Hardin began in that high pitch yokel that preannounced a diatribe of utter nonsense. “They say Finkle Sun Eater built this from the bones o’ the Giant Berik so he could reach the other side and rescue his beloved.” Faustus shook his head, "And Giants bones are usually stone are they?” “Neh sure Master, ne’er had the pleasure of meeting one. You?” “No.” “Guess we’re both lucky then Master Mage, hear they’re nasty buggers when they want to be.” “Aren't we all?” “Suppose you be right there.” Hardin pointed towards the descending sun as it disappeared behind the mountain tops, “There’s a cave not far on the other side, we’ll bed down there, get a good fire going. New moon’s rising tonight, last thing we want to be is away from a campfire tonight, Skitterbugs come crawling...or worse.” Faustus realised days ago not to question these backwater notions, just nod and smile, otherwise you’ll get subjected to such wisdom as: Never piss facing the sun or you’ll invite fireflies into your dangler, or, always carry moldy cheese when wrestling a badger. The degree to which he had been drenched in such unintelligent sputum left his soul almost as soggy as his long johns, and they were as dry as a salmon's belly. He breathed deep the icy air, this was his lot now. Somewhere, Kingdom of Lord Herringbone, Knight of the Iron woods, the hick capital of the continent, and his new home. If this was the thanks for being a good apprentice perhaps it was time to find out the reward for the alternative. A greasy smile slid onto his reddened wind burnt face. That's the problem with ambition, sometimes it leaves you only one road to travel. Damn the lot of them! *** “Can you please stop whistling,” Faustus snapped from under his huddle of blankets before the crackling fire. “Sorry Master Mage, just something I do without even knowing it.” He wrung his hole ridden socks, splattering brownish water onto the cave floor, then flung them over a makeshift drying rack. “What’s that you be reading there anyways? A tale of knights and princesses is it?” “Nothing so tedious, no, its M’dona’s autobiography, did you know she was a dancer to –” Hardin leapt upright, hand out for silence, turning about and sniffing like the hound that got the direction of the hunt. His flickering shadow cast gargantuan against the craggy rock face, he ripped a hand axe from the pack by his feet, setting Faustus scrambling into action. “Who goes there? I smell ye, ya dirty rotten–” Twang, and a feathered shaft rattled off the wall behind Hardin. Followed by a crude looking spear, all black barbs and serrated tip, breaking the drying rack. Two misses? Bad aim? Warning? Luck? Faustus' book thunked to the ground, luck was no friend of his. His fingers moved lightning fast tracing runes, and none too soon, as a third spear shattered against his shield of compressed air. Focus gem vibrating beneath his shirt, Faustus gave voice to an enchantment. The fire burst to bonfire proportions, drenching the improvised camp in blistering oranges and bloody reds. Then he saw them. Eyes glistening murder from the cave's maw. Three of them, three that he could see. “I am Faustus of the Order of Nine! You know not who you trouble, leave now, or I will leave your bodies for carrion.” He waited for the scramble of feet, the retreat of the sensible when faced with a Mage of his magnitude. To his dismay, laughter echoed and the hulks, draped in furs, mismatched armour, matted hair, and a stench that could curdle milk from fifty yards, strolled forward. One trained a longbow on Faustus, another swung a net as casual as though out for the morning catch. Maybe they were. The other must have had giants' blood in him, a shock of red hair almost scraping the stalactites, spears decorating his broad back, and narrowed deceit glinting from his unpatched eye. “We know very well who you are, think you can walk through my mountains and not be noticed. You're a nice big pay day you are." More laughter, frantic and all together insulting. Faustus shook his head, did these bandits really think they were any match for a Mage, never mind one of his caliber. One hand outstretched he forced more Essence into the blue shimmering shield, whilst the other twitched behind his back. Where most apprentices spent years mastering spells and potions he always pushed himself further, priding himself on using ancient sign magics. "Last chance," Faustus warned, brow knotted. "Ha, do you hear–" Spear's words were snatched by a torrent of air, his huge lumbering form careened backwards into Net. Faustus dropped his shield and a bow string thrummed. With little more than a twist of the hand Faustus redirected the projectile into the cave wall splintering against the rockface. Spear stumbled up, roared, barreled forward, short sword pulled from his belt. Faustus grinned and stomped. A pillar of rock shot from the ground crushing Spear's man berries. Wheezing, eyes crossed, groin held, he accordioned to the dirt floor. Bow notched another shaft, string pulled, Faustus clapped. A stalactite slammed into Bow's foot leaving him yelping and hopping like a blaspheming rabbit on hot coals. Faustus growled at Net. It was enough. Moans, racing footsteps, and the crackling fire sung Faustus' victory. "Sir?" came Hardin's whimpering voice. Faustus turned grinning, expecting lashings of new found adoration. Why would he not? There was little doubt this old bumpkin ever saw such a display of…yet for some reason he was shaking, arms out for balance, face ghost white. Faustus released hold of the Essence strands, the fire calmed, the world dulled, and the mountain shook. Dust rained from the cracking ceiling, stones crumbled, boulders rolled. He looked up, something crunched into his face, world spinning, mouth filling, ear buzzing, he collapsed. "Oh shi—" *** Complete and utter blackness. Where in all the planes was he? What happened? The world tilted, wobbled, before staggering into focus. Dust choked the air, stones rolled with loose skree down the cavern walls, his face ached, warm, wet, and sticky. And for some reason it appeared a hunched goblin was waving a burning torch. Trying to get up he grimaced, nothing moved. Something stabbed his chest. A blade? No, it couldn't be. A rock? Possible, but this was sharp, many faced…the gem. His head dropped back and he drew in a burning breath. Slabs of blue grey rock covered his body. The goblin danced closer. “Master Mage, you're awake!” “Hardin, what happened” - Is what he tried to say, but what came out sounded like the drowning of a lisping snake. Tongue swollen, he prodded the spaces where his teeth should have been. “Don't speak sir, you're badly hurt. You brought the whole cave in on us, and, argh!” Hardin leapt forward swinging his torch in a great arch. Chittering and chattering clicked out a sickening concert. Turning his head as best he could, Faustus came eye to eye with a snapping set of mandibles. Before he could attempt to scream Hardin's boot crunched down, bursting shell, and spraying yellow glop. “Skitterbugs sir, they live in the rocks!” Hardin jumped from fallen rock to crushed boulder kicking and swatting the six legged beasties away. Faustus' fingers twitched, drawing symbols for levitation, but nothing happened. He tried again. More nothing. His arms were numb, fingers tingling like a tuning fork, his feet seemed impossibly distant. He screwed up his face, in truth he couldn't feel his feet, or hands. "Shelp…sget…shelp," Faustus hissed. "Shelp? oh, help," Hardin slammed the flame touched club into a gaggle of gnashing critters. "Can't sir, not now, can't leave, bugs'll eat yer face…and that's too pretty a face for bite marks!" Faustus attempted a wriggle for all the good it did, it only pushed the gem deeper into his chest. Wincing, tears filled his eyes. All his magical life all he wanted was to be part of the prestigious Nine. Now the emblem that denoted his success was trying to bury into his heart. He almost laughed. There was a joke there somewhere, or perhaps it was ironic. Regardless, humour's hard to call upon when you can't feel anything below your neck and your mouth is riddled with half teeth and gushing blood. Bubbles popped at the edge of his vision, head light he knew he couldn't stay awake much longer. The slabs shifted digging the gem painfully deep, then to his surprise, vibrated. Essence. Warm, flowing, and yet he did not have the fingers nor words to grasp it. He shouldn't be here, it was all that blasted Jestinia's fault. Eyelids growing heavy he gave up. As if racing through the forest during summer, lights began to flicker, and flicker, and grow brighter until… Pop! *** Faustus shook his head, pain gone, cave gone, he stared down at transparent hands and gave them a wiggle. A dream surely, a trauma induced lucid dream, yes that's it. Yet through his fingers he recognised the room. Vaulted and adorned with canvases of past Emperors and Empresses watching over an enormous tabled map of the known world. Two figures moved wooden figures, horses, and knights across its surface. A war was being planned. One looked up, her eyes shining quizzical green before nudging the smaller, stouter man next to her. "Ardle, we've a guest," there was no mistaking the sing-song voice of Jestinia. "We wha–" Ardle raised his head, face shifting from befuddlement to anger. "Faustus! What in the Never Realm have you been told about untethering your spirit!" "I thought he looked thinner," Jestinia noted, folding her arms. "Are you spying again boy? Well, speak dammit." Of course, the body may be broken, but not the spirit. "Your Firstiness, I, emm, I," he paused, with every word he could feel something tugging at him. His body, the mortal coil, being stretched, ready to spring back at any moment. "Sir, trapped, cave in, Finkle's Bridge, need help." "Is this a jest?" Ardle asked. "Look at him," Jestinia began. "A blind man on a galloping horse could see he's terrified." Ardle looked to the map, "I will send help, and notify the Academy they are closer, perhaps Arkas can get there before–" Flicker. Flicker. Snap! *** Lighter than air itself Faustus blew across the world, a blur of pure Essence, plunging through trees, shooting through streams and rivers, flying beside birds, and all the while, screaming at the top of his lungs. When we stopped he stumbled, as best an ethereal being can. The room was rich with mahogany paneling, unlit brass oil lamps, an overburdened desk, and thick velvet curtains barely holding back the dawn. "Who goes there!" That voice. Faustus floated around, and if he could have he would have leapt with joy. "Faustus?" asked Arkas, still wearing his sleeping attire. "Master–" the coil wound once more. "You were warned about this Faustus, you know how dangerous this is. You could lose complete contact with your body. Never know touch again, or worse, let something demonic in. Begone, before you are seen." Arkas waved his hand as if shooing away a pestering cat. "No time, cave in, Finkle's Bridge, need help, please he—" Flicker. Flicker. Flicker. Crack! *** Prying open well stuck eyes Faustus blinked in disbelief. Chest burning, head throbbing, he was still trapped. Hardin however, was panting like a warrior fresh from the arena, stripped to his stained under baggins, streaked and smeared in Skitterbug he patrolled around Faustus, small fires dwindling or smoldering out. "Sshardin'?" Faustus slobbered. "Master yer back, yer awake." "Sow..slong?" "Sow..ah, hours sir, but we did it Master Mage, look!" The old guide pointed towards the rumble packed entrance, and more heart lifting the suns shafts piercing the void. "Skitterbugs won't come during daylight, I'll get help Master, I just need…" He spun about, scanning the minute fires. "I seem to have burnt all my clothes, kept us safe, but it will make the trip down the mountain a bit nipple hardening. Fear not sir, I promised the First, and I don't intend to break it." Faustus couldn't quite believe it, the lengths this man was willing to go to keep him alive. The cave shuddered, dust fell, rocks cracked. No, no, not again. Light, gloriously warm flooded the cavern. Faustus squinted, Hardin held a hand before his face as boulders floated then drifted clear, landing soft as a clouds. "Faustus? Can you hear me?" The shout, the voice, how? Faustus' heart hammered. "Over here!" roared Hardin. Faustus cried out as the confining slabs were effortlessly removed from his crumpled form, yet still he could not move. He stared at the towering angelically haloed silhouette, trying to lift a hand to feel if he was real. "Easy my boy, easy now." Arkas knelt, and Hardin yelped scrambling backwards as Arkas' face came out of the shadow. It was covered in slowly shrinking feathers, his nose an ever decreasing beak. Chanting, he held a hand over Faustus' chest. Gasping, Faustus' fingers tracked the dirt. They moved, they moved! "Master, " Faustus huffed, teeth snapping back into place. "You came…you transmogrified?" "I had to, it was the only way I could get here on time." "But it's–" "Almost as dangerous as untethering one's spirit." Arkas grinned, no anger, just joy and relief. "You, help me get him outside, but put this on first." Arkas threw the shivering guide his navy cloak. "Certainly sir, oh my, how fancy." The fresh air was a divine breath on Faustus' aching body. Slowly, they hobbled down the mountain path as the sun glistened across the endless forest below. Squinting he could just make out the towers of King Herringbone's keep. His home. Relief filled him. Thundering hoofs broke his revelry and he took pause as fifty or more calvary rode towards them, the king's banners fluttering. The lead rider called out, "Are you Faustus?" "I am," he crooked. The rider called back, "He's alive!" To Faustus' astonishment the brigade burst in cheer. He was baffled, why were these strangers celebrating. The rider dismounted and shook the three men's hands, "I am King Herringbone, I am so relieved you are safe. We received word from Ardle in the night and set off at once." "My liege, I, I..don't know what to say." "Say nothing, you are our mage, we look after our own." Faustus gazed at the applauding knights, his smiling former mentor, the grinning Hardin, and the beauty of nature spread out before him. What had Faustus ever done to deserve such friends, such loyalty? He was in no way perfect. But he would see to his duties and those of his new King above all else? Perhaps after all, ambition or not, life takes you down the right road after all. Thank them, thank the lot of them!

474nft

Blossom's Gift

In a small village nestled between rolling hills and lush forests, there lived a young woman named Elianna. From a young age, it became evident that she possessed an extraordinary gift—the Midas touch. Everything she touched turned to flowers. It all began so innocently: a gentle pat on the ground, and a spray of wildflowers would spring to life beneath her fingertips. As she grew, her ability grew with her, and soon her touch could transform anything, including the hardest stone, into any flower she wished. The village regarded Elianna’s gift with a mixture of awe and fear. The beauty she brought was undeniable, but her touch also carried the potential for chaos. As a child, she would chase after butterflies, her laughter trailing behind her as the ground burst into a carpet of blossoms. The villagers watched in amazement, but as the flowers spread, they couldn't help but worry about the implications of her power. Elianna’s parents, a kind and understanding couple, taught her to use her gift responsibly. They showed her how to control her touch, how to channel her magic with intention. And so, as the years went by, Elianna grew into a young woman with the ability to bring forth beauty with a single touch, but also with the wisdom to manage her extraordinary power. One day, as the village prepared for its annual festival, Elianna was approached by an elderly woman named Adelaide. Adelaide was the village's herbalist, known for her knowledge of plants and their healing properties. She had seen firsthand the miracles Elianna's touch could create. “Child,” Adelaide rasped, her voice hoarse, “I have a favor to ask,” she said with a warm smile. Elianna looked at her curiously. “Of course, Grandma Adelaide. What can I do for you?” “I've heard tales of a rare flower that blooms only once a century, deep within the heart of the Enchanted Woods,” Adelaide began to explain. “Legend has it that this flower possesses magical healing properties beyond anything I've ever encountered. But the journey is treacherous, and I fear I'm too old to make it there and back safely.” Elianna’s heart stirred with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. “You want me to go and bring back the flower?” Adelaide nodded. “With your gift, you could reach the flower and return before it withers. It could be an incredible boon for our village.” After a thoughtful pause, Elianna agreed to the quest. She bid her parents farewell and set out toward the Enchanted Woods. The journey was indeed treacherous, but her Midas touch transformed the thorny brambles into a lush path of roses, and the river's swift current into a serene flow of water lilies. As she ventured deeper into the woods, the air seemed to shimmer with magic, and the flora became more vibrant and exotic. Finally, in a secluded glade, she found the flower Grandma Adelaide was talking about. Its petals were a radiant shade of blue, glowing softly as if lit from within. Carefully, Elianna plucked the flower, marveling at its beauty. She held it gently in her hand, knowing that the journey back to the village was just as crucial as the journey there. But as she retraced her steps, a figure emerged from the shadows—a tall, hooded figure with piercing blue eyes. "Ah, the legendary Midas touched," the figure mused. "You possess a gift beyond measure." Elianna tightened her grip on the flower, her heart racing. "Who are you?" The figure's lips curled into a smile. "I am Lynden, a collector of rare and powerful artifacts. And that flower you hold... it has the power to grant a single wish to the one who possesses it." Elianna’s eyes widened with realization. The legends were true—the flower was indeed magical. "Imagine the possibilities," Lynden continued. "With that flower, you could change the course of history, reshape the world to your desires." Elianna shook her head, her voice firm. "My gift is not meant for such selfish pursuits. It's meant to bring beauty and joy to the lives of those around me." Lynden's smile faded, and his gaze turned intense. "Think carefully, young one. You have the chance to change your destiny. To wield power beyond your wildest dreams." Elianna’s grip on the flower remained resolute. "I know who I am, and I know what I value." With those words, Elianna turned and continued her journey back to the village, Lynden's presence fading behind her. When she returned to the village with the flower, the entire community gathered to witness its magical radiance. Adelaide was overcome with emotion, tears glistening in her eyes. "You've done a remarkable thing, Elianna," Adelaide said, her voice filled with gratitude. As the flower's healing properties were put to use, Elianna’s reputation as a healer grew. She touched the sick and injured, and her Midas touch brought about not only beauty but also restoration. The villagers no longer feared her gift; they embraced it as a source of hope and renewal. As the years rolled on, Elianna's reputation as a gifted healer with a heart of gold spread far beyond the borders of her quaint village. Travelers from distant lands sought her touch to heal their ailments and experience the magic she wielded. Her village, once a hidden gem tucked away in the hills, became a destination known far and wide as the home of the legendary Midas-touched healer. Under Elianna's continued care and guidance, the village prospered. She used her gift not only to heal the sick but also to create lush gardens that adorned the rolling hills surrounding the village. These gardens became a symbol of her enduring connection to the natural world and her commitment to nurturing beauty and life. One evening, as the sun set in a blaze of colors, Elianna stood at the edge of a meadow, looking out at the world she had helped shape. Her parents, now elderly but still vibrant, stood beside her. "You've become an incredible woman, Elianna," her mother said, her voice filled with pride. Elianna smiled, a gentle breeze ruffling her hair. "I couldn't have done it without the love and support of this village, and without the lessons you both taught me." As the village prepared for another festival, a young child approached Elianna , holding out a wildflower she had plucked from the meadow. "Could you make it special, like the ones you make?" the child asked, her eyes wide with wonder. Elianna’s heart swelled as she touched the flower, her Midas touch transforming it into a brilliant burst of colors. The child's laughter filled the air, and Elianna knew that her gift had come full circle—it was no longer a source of fear, but a gift to be shared with love and compassion. And so, in the village that once held its breath in awe and uncertainty, Elianna’s Midas touch had become a symbol of the beauty that could be found in the simplest of gestures, the most heartfelt of intentions. It was a reminder that true power lay not in the ability to change the world, but in the ability to change hearts.

u2jlyf

Little Snap Dari with a Big Heart

Little Snap Dari with a Big Heart                          I hear the wind whistling in my ears and see the sun reflecting in my body, but then I find myself in the dust. Sneezing and coughing, I raise my head; there are trees around. "Forest," is my thought," I've been lost here." A bicyclist passes me, then one more. Where is Sue?  “Hello! Hello!" I scream, but my voice is not loud. Everything around me is big: trees, bushes, plants, and mushrooms! It's so good to be big!  I am Snap Dari and have always been a part of Sue's jean jacket, the single snap at the top, but I don't belong there anymore. Where is Sue? She has been riding her bicycle! How could my friend leave me here alone in the dust? I don't believe Sue has left me; perhaps she has lost me!  One more bicyclist appears, and I lose her from my vision. Perhaps this is Sue, and she is looking for me? Dari rubs her eyes with her fingers and tries to look through them as binoculars. She turns to the right and screams, "Sue-e-e!! Sue-e-e!" The echo repeats the name. Dari turns to the left and screams again.  Crow appears on the tree and asks, "Why are you yelling here? Have you lost your way? If not, why are you so loud? It's not a forest, just bushes and trees in the park". " I have not lost my way. Somebody has dropped me," Dari says. "Where are you?" Crow looks around and says, "I don’t see you." She leaves the tree, lands on the road, and looks again. "Here, I am just in front of your nose, Crow." “ Not Crow, but Miss Crow, please." " Sorry, Miss Crow, you have just stepped on me. I am Snap Dari. Nice to meet you!" "Oh, Goodness, this shiny thing is you, Snap Dari?" " Yes, Miss Crow. I am shiny because Sue always cleans me until I glitter. Can you, please, help me from the road?" " Yes, I can pick you up from this dust, dear." Crow sneezes. "Yes, please; thank you, Miss Crow." Crow makes a silly face and picks Dari up from the road, "Ha! Perhaps Magpie Ruth can tell me what you are. She is a master at finding shiny little objects.” Crow puts Dari on the grass. She shrugs her wings and says," No wonder somebody has left you. You are ugly, tiny, and useless!" Dari cries, and her tears make two streams on her dusty face. "Oops, you have never washed yourself, Dari! Your face is the same color as the road!" laughs Crow.   Dari wipes her tears and says," Miss Crow! You are bigger than I am. You should protect those who are small and weak, but you are rude and angry!"  Crow changes her loud voice to quiet and says, "I have no parents, Dari. I was small when a big bird came and took them and my three siblings. Since then, I have been scared and angry with everyone."  "That's not a good feeling, Miss Crow. I am not big and cannot do any harm to you! " Dari says," Somebody with a big heart must fill your heart with happiness. Many creatures have big hearts; some don't have them!"  Crow raises her wings and closes her eyes in surprise," My Lord! How can they live without a heart?" "I apologize, Miss Crow, for embarrassing you. I've heard from Sue that people say about not having a heart when someone does not feel somebody else's pain." "And that someone is rude and bad-mannered like me, Dari?" Crow continued. Dari thinks and answers, "Something like that, Miss Crow." "I am not happy being rude. I want to change and feel someone's pain, Dari!" says Crow quietly. Her eyes fill with tears. Tiny Dari jumps to hug Crow and falls into the dust. She jumps again until she gets to Crow's neck and hugs her so hard that Crow screams," I feel your heart, Dari. It is beating fast!" Tears roll down Crow's face, and she and Dari enjoy the hug. Dari cries, too, as she misses her friend Sue, and Crow's words touch her. Then she wipes tears from Crow's face," I've promised you my story about Sue. Would you like to hear it, Miss Crow?" " Sure, I would, but please, hug me again. It is so sweet. I have never been hugged, never," and Crow cries again, loudly and bitterly.   Dari squeezes Crow in a big hug and stays quiet for a while.  Having enjoyed the first hug in her life, Crow says," Thank you, Dari. You are small, but your heart is big. Is there enough space for it inside you?" "Miss Crow, you feel my heart not because it is big but because it feels happy when everyone is happy and sad when someone is sad. The heart is big when it feels somebody's pain and joy!"  Crow comes up to Dari, puts her head on Dari’s chest, and listens to her heart. She hugs her, and both stand together. Then, happy, burst out laughing.  Dari tells Crow how she saves Sue from the cold, snapping her jean jacket. Crow says," I don't have snaps or buttons on my body and cannot imagine somebody has."  Dari explains to Crow that animals and birds don't wear clothes; in winter, they stay warm because of their fur and feathers. People have to put on clothing to protect themselves. They wear jumpers, hats, and coats with snaps and buttons to close and open. Sadly, they break, fall to the ground, and get lost. " Like myself! Look, Miss Crow!" says Dari. She stands straight and looks strange with some torn fabric around her body. Crow looks at her with a misunderstanding. Dari catches Crow's look and explains," I am just a snap without clothing, but together, we are important; we open and close pants, coats, jackets, purses, bags, and even space suits. "Wow!" Crow exclaims. “You are so tiny but very important and do many useful jobs. You are great, Dari, and you have a big heart." "Hey, Miss Crow, do you want to see how I work? I can snap myself to your feathers to show what I am and what job I do?" Without waiting for Crow’s answer, Dari jumps and snaps to one of Crow's feathers. "Ticklish, ticklish!" giggles Crow. She bends to look at Dari and says, "What a shiny brooch I have. Beau-ti-ful! Don't unsnap yourself, Dari. My feathers are your home now. You will be warm and cozy here and feel my heart growing; I wish it very much. And, please, call me Crow. We are friends now, aren't we, Dari?"  Dari agrees and accepts friendship.  Since that summer day, Dari and Crow became friends, and Dari lived in a warm home in Crow's feathers. Crow polished Dari and listened to her stories. Relaxing in a cozy place, different thoughts came into Dari’s head, but one day, something she had dreamed about happened unexpectedly.  When flying over the stadium, Dari and Crow heard loud voices. Crow landed on the fence, and Dari recognized the City Running Championship. Sue's friend Vas was the city champion last year but wanted to improve his record.  The day was warm but windy. The starter waved the flag, and the participants ran. Vas was ahead of the others. Dari saw him running, and she heard the sound of a broken snap. His jacket opened and flapped in the wind. " Oops! Crow, we have to help!" Dari screamed.  Crow flew closer, and Dari jumped on Vas' jacket and snapped. Vas continued his competition and crossed the Finish line first.  Dari asked him about Sue. She grew up and went to a college in a big city. "I am sure Dari has a new jean jacket, and she still polishes the snap. She has taught me how to grow my heart big and find a friend." Dari said.    Once, Crow reminded Dari about Sue talking with the mirror, "I always wanted to ask you about it, Dari? Was the mirror magic?"  "Dear Сrow, I liked to listen to Sue talk with the mirror. It was not magic. Sue was happy and wanted to share her happiness with someone, so she looked at her reflection in the mirror and talked with it as her friend." "What if she was not happy?" Crow asked. "Then, she needed a hug," Dari smiled. "I know, I know," Crow said.    Crow noticed tears in Dari's eyes when she talked about Sue.  She hugged Dari, "Don't cry, Dari. I will be your good friend; now I am learning how." Their conversation was interrupted by something falling from the sky. Crow and Dari saw a bird on the ground and rushed to it. It was an eagle, and his wing was broken. Crow scared big birds, so she slowed down and looked at Dari.   Dari smiled and waved her hand, "Come on, Crow, he needs us."   Crow overcame her fear and approached the eagle. The friends built a shelter above the bird's head, and Crow picked up water drops for him from leaves and flowers. Filly, the eagle, recovered and believed such small creatures could be helpful. Crow proudly said they were not big, but their hearts were. "Thank you for teaching me big hearts can live in small bodies," said Filly, flying into the sky. Crow cried and said, “ I feel Filly’s happiness. I felt his pain too and wanted to help him be healthy again. Is my heart growing, Dari?” Dari listened to Crow’s heart,” It is growing!” she whispered.     Autumn came. Dari and Crow enjoyed life.    Once, sitting on the pole, they saw young girls models prepare for their "Street Fashion Show" in the town park. The girls wore stylish dresses, shoes, and hats. When one of the girls was fixing the lace, the wind grabbed the hat and blew it high. The girl screamed; she had to open the show. Dari and Crow knew what they had to do. They soared into the sky, caught the hat, rushed to the girl, and Dari snapped together the torn pieces of the lace.  The show opened on time to great success. Crow watched it from the pole; she saw Dari and was proud of her.   When they got home, Dari gave Crow a tiny piece of a mirror. She picked it up in town. Crow was happy with the gift and made faces before that magic thing.   As soon as Dari fell asleep in Crow’s feathers, Crow looked into the mirror and said," I am happy now and want to share my happiness with you, mirror. My friend Dari is tiny but has a big heart. She has taught me how I can have a big heart, too. Now my heart feels somebody's happiness or sorrow, and I know my heart has grown big." Crow carefully kissed Dari.  Dari heard those words and was very proud of Crow.

5s2kho

Admin Work

Rafe was a trapper. He didn’t do admin work. This was admin work. Those were his thoughts as he heard the bell clang while opening the door to the last post office on the planet in Sitka, Alaska. It was his first time here and it was even more depressing than he imagined. The drab lobby had at least four different shades of gray for the floors, counters, walls and uniforms. It was a small room, maybe able to accommodate a line of 10 people. But behind the counter you could see it opened into a vast warehouse. And you could definitely smell the distinctive sulfur of the plasma rocket fuel. That was the destination for his package. One Cryptillian to be dispatched to Promethios, the fiery prison planet But first, he had to fill out the 195 questions for the manifest. A tablet was thrust into his hand when he entered the lobby. There were two people in front of him and two were behind him.  They didn’t wear the distinctive armor of a trapper so perhaps they were sending care packages to the troops involved in skirmishes across the galaxy. Their faces were glued to their tablets as well. Rafe sighed, reached into his shirt pocket, and pulled out his glasses. Scotty, his assistant, had given him a comprehensive lesson on all of the questions designed to trick people up. Scotty wasn’t here because he was “sick.” “Sick of working,” Rafe muttered to himself as he started dotting the checkboxes. After finding all of the potential land mines on the form, he went back to start the personal info section. --- Rafe, born Ralph Williston, came screaming and crying into the world in 2179 after it had gone to hell. Seas rose and the world shrunk into large cities encased in controlled environments. Large swaths of rural America were lost. With all the major cities now bio domes, trusty ‘ol pneumatic tubes were used to deliver the post, and pretty much anything else. Rafe grew up in the Seattle biodome, one of the better ones as far as quality of life. His parents were both teachers, a highly esteemed position. They encouraged Rafe to follow in their path. But he was painfully shy and would never have the courage to speak in front of groups of people. Instead, he found his calling when one of his teddy bears shorted out. The five-year-old grabbed a step stool to raid his father's toolbox of a hydraulic driver and voltmeter. The old man liked to tinker as well. When Rafe showed his gobsmacked parents his handiwork, his destiny seemed clear. And then the sky ripped open. -- There's a bunch of names for it, but Rafe always preferred The Schism. He liked big words. It started innocently enough. A wormhole appeared over the Western hemisphere approximately 20 years ago. None of our multiple space ports detected it until it appeared. Another year later there was contact. After another three years of negotiation, they all met for a summit on the McAuliffe Space Port. The Sandarians wanted to mine the silicate on Venus and the Mithrovis harvested the heat from Mercury. Assurances and compromises were made. Lengthy contracts were signed. For years the wormhole provided for everyone. And then the Cryptillians ruined everything. We should have been warned by the Sandarians and Mithrovis. They both had a long history with the Cryptillians but that fact was conveniently not mentioned during negotiations. They are a particularly greedy and evil race. They can only live off a host. If not, they start to wither and die. It takes about a week. When they do capture a host, it only takes them a few months to burn through them. Cryptillians are roughly 6 inches long but they are extremely pliable. Their modus operandi is to find a place near a prospective host to hide. When the host falls asleep, they emerge and stretch themselves over the host in a micro thin layer. The host can feel, taste, see and hear everything. But they aren't in control. The Cryptillian has strong neural processing abilities as well to take over and mimic your speech and thought functions. When, and if, you find a discarded host it looks like they have been stuck in a dehydrating machine. After a few months and a score of bodies, someone found a tear in the wormhole. No telling how many of those things had gotten through. That's when the call for trappers was raised. -- Rafe was happy before that. He was the proud owner of a very successful refrigerator repair business. Most of the time it was dialing back the judgment of the AI interface. “Don’t eat that whole pint of ice cream in one sitting, Rafe!” But when his number one supplier was found jerk-ified (some dark soul nicknamed them Human Jerky), he decided to put his electrical skills to good use. -- Rafe still remembered the colorful billboard at the tube port stating, “Alaska, the last outpost!” Alaska was the last place you could live outdoors. He set up a repair shop, switching his focus to heaters because Alaska didn't need much refrigeration help. That was his cover. Next, he had to find a Cryptillian. It was easier than he thought. Alaska was a gathering place for shady people. The carcass wasn't alive, but he could study it. It was metallic, scaly and rubbery. He couldn't exactly reverse engineer the biological aspects of it, but he did work on ways to identify them without the Cryptillians knowing it. Within a month he had devised a pair of glasses that would pick up the sheen of their skin. Rafe’s second discovery was the game changer. He was making his coffee one morning on his desk. The open container with the Cryptillian was by the cup. Rafe ripped open 3 packs of artificial sweetener and dumped them into the cup. He went to itch his nose and breathed in the powder causing him to sneeze. A light dust coated the Cryptillian’s tail, and it promptly turned black. Rafe spilled his coffee. -- The last step was testing. He headed to what was considered a Cryptillian hotspot near The Schism. The city square had a small park in the middle. He took a seat on the park bench and pulled out a book. Rafe calmed himself inside before reaching into his shirt pocket, fishing out his glasses, and putting them on. He pretended to read for a few seconds before glancing up. Rafe’s heart pounded in his chest like a bass drum. Cryptillians were everywhere. He still had one more test to run. After about 30 minutes of abject fear, Rafe picked the smallest person he could find. It was a young lady walking away from the square towards a side street. He stuck his book inside of his jacket pocket, fingered the trigger on his weapon, and started to follow her. Thankfully, she was by herself when he approached. Rafe calmly pulled out a converted Nerf gun loaded with sweetener buckshot. It was a direct shot in the back. The gun was quiet, the victim was not. A piercing, metallic shriek erupted and then the Cryptillian unleashed the half dead host onto the sidewalk. The little reptile like creature squirmed and stopped, paralyzed. Not sure what to do, Rafe picked up the creature and put it in his pocket. -- That was nearly ten years and 153 captures ago, thought Rafe with a smile. It disappeared when he looked up. He was again surrounded by Cryptillians. Besides him, the postal worker was the only other human in the lobby. “Next!” the attendant yelled. Rafe Approached the counter like business as usual. “Exporting?” asked the attendant. Ralph, the nametag said. “Ralph, I’m Rafe.” Ralph’s face indicated his lack of interest. “I have one Class C export,” said Rafe, getting down to business. He handed the tablet to Ralph. Rafe Leaned in close, imploring Ralph to make eye contact with him. There was a message on the tablet for the worker. “Lobby full of C’s. Just stand still.” Ralph saw the message. Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead. Rafe made a calming gesture with his right hand and then slid his jacket to the side to show he was armed, and then pantomimed an explosion. Ralph’s eyes widened as the trapper made his move. It was over before the Cryptillians could blink. Rafe took the tablet in his left hand and slung it right at the line of people to distract them. With his right hand he unclipped a SweetBomb grenade, slamming it to the ground and clouding the entire room with artificial sweetener. The four impostors simultaneously extracted from their prey where Rafe scooped them all up. “Make that five exports,” he said to the shell shocked attendant. He was still coughing from the dust in the room. “Transport is on the house,” Ralph said. -- There was still one more thing on the list. Rafe had been a successful trapper for one reason. Privacy. No one knew anything about him or his methods. Every capture was unique and precisely planned. That's why he used an admin person. He didn't want to be predictable. With only one post office left on the planet, that was the one place they knew he would be. Rafe climbed into his power wagon. He reached over to the compartment hidden in the dash, typed in the code, and pulled out the plasma pistol. It was time to pay Scotty a visit.

cg6wxr

The Lady of Blood

Drek spat blood. Shikes didn’t have blood. His ragged wings pulsed with his heart beat. His thin flesh trembled and bulged. Drek’s face swelled to obscure his vision. “Master,” Drek pleaded. “Mercy!” The creature stumbled to his knees. Difficult to do for the shike, for as his bloated legs met the stone floor they burst into pools of crimson. The blood trailed to the dark steel steps that stood before the throne. The twisted ashen throne seemed to emanate light as it was the only bright color in the entire room. Atop the throne, sat a beast above beasts. Scaled wings folded like royal robes to hide the beast’s feet. The silver scales caught the light of abandoned starlight. Its chest, cratered like the moon, rippled with muscles. Strands of stark white hair adorned its head. Horns from the back of its skull wrapped its head like a crown of bone. Yet for the fierce and horrid appearance of the body, its face rivaled the handsomest of mortals. But not even the face could remain wholly attractive, for a pair of blood red eyes haunted its visage. This was no mere Irk Lord, this was the Pale Aarl. Once a dragon of a bygone age, now the Aarl of these worthless shikes. The Aarl inhaled with disdain on his tongue. His territory stretched far into the South wastelands and yet it always was a shike that failed him. Not the bands of Irks, nor the ignorance of the Gloar. Always a shike. “Mercy,” The word came as a gurgle from the shriveling servant. The Pale Aarl rested his arms on the rests of his throne. The Irk guards began glancing at each other. Their ashen mandibles clicked in quiet murmurs, but their humanoid bodies remained as still as stone. The Aarl looked down at the shike drowning in blood. Fear erupted from every part of Drek’s composure. The Aarl thinned his gaze. With a flick of his hand the shike’s torment paused. “Let it be known, “ The Pale Aarl said. His voice echoed in his halls. “I am not a cruel Master.” He let his hand fall and Drek’s flesh went limp. The bulging of blood flooded out of his mouth in a flood of red vomit. Stretched skin marked Drek as a victim of the judgment. The Shike looked up at the Aarl, yet his gaze fell only on the tips of the folded wings and no higher. “Merciful,” Drek’s hoarse voice said. “Merciful is the Pale Aarl.” Silence filled the room and all attention fell on the Aarl. “Do not fail me,” he said. “I want him found.” “Yes Master,” Drek said, lowering his head to the floor. “I will find him.” The Aarl gave no reply and waved his hand. Drek fled from the room and ran through the gates. The Aarl looked down at the stains of blood where the shike had been. With a look he ushered for the blood to be removed. Twin Irks shuffled forward to clean it up, but the blood began to move on its own. They stumbled back, as the liquid began to rain upwards. He did not have to look to know who moved the blood. For only one bore that curse. He then heard the steps of a lady’s heels. She commanded the room with her entrance. Like an Heir of Aarls, she walked into the room. Elegant was her movements with raven hair drifting behind her in a dark halo. White skin paired well with the crimson dress flowing beyond her feet. Her eyes were like the void with a single star piercing it. Lady Istre held up one finger and with that the blood obeyed her, dripping further upwards. The chattering of the Irks reached the Aarl’s ears. He knew what they would say before he heard. They whispered of the name many of them feared: The Lady of Blood. Enchanted with her, only the Aarl caught sight of the things that came with her. The lumbering Somtens held a chest between the two of them. Long fingered, long limbed Sometens. The grey featureless faces bore only sunken red eyes. The company of the Lady of Blood raised an eyebrow of the Pale Aarl. Such lowlifes had never seen his throne room. “Lady Istre,” The Aarl said. “You come unannounced.” She turned and met his gaze. This too had not been done by any in his throne room. She bowed her head and curtseyed. “Pardon, Pale Aarl,” Her words slithered too smoothly. Such were the ways of Ruu. “It seems the messenger I sent did not deliver.” The Aarl said nothing. “If it is your wish,” The Lady said. “I will return another time.” He waved his hand dismissing the comment. “What is it that you need?” The Lady of Blood laughed. The air sickened with the loveliness of her mirth. “Always so hasty,” She said. “It must have been quick action that founded your kingdom.” The Aarl narrowed his eyes. But he did not ask again. The Lady gestured her Somtens forward. As they set down an onyx chest, she spoke again. “Do not curses flow freely from your hand, my Pale Aarl?” “Does it need be questioned?” The Aarl demanded “Never,” She said. “And that is why I bring this before you, Pale Aarl.” Her use of his name did not come as reverence to his ears. He nodded, and the Somtens opened the chest. An elegant and crooked dagger lay on crimson linen. “And what payment,” the Aarl said. “Do you offer for the cursing of the Pale Aarl?” With a smile that called a single hair to attention on his neck, The Lady of Blood revealed a package from behind her back. A severed head fell to the floor. The dead eyes of the man that shrike was meant to find stared at the Aarl. Clattering of the Irks filled the room and quieted before the Aarl could silence them. “Very Well,” He said and gestured for the dagger to be brought forward. The Lady herself took the dagger and let it rest in her palm. She presented it for the Aarl in a bow. He extended his hand and touched it. He did not ask what curse to give, for no one demanded that of the Pale Aarl. Light fled the room and returned. The dagger sparked with a spiral of red light. The sparking light traced the dagger to the point and faded. “It is cursed,” The Aarl said. The Lady, still smiling, nodded in thanks. “Mighty is the curse of the Pale Aarl,” She said. She returned the dagger to the chest and the Somtens closed it. The blood of the shike now returned to the Lady of Blood. The Blood twirled around her and adorned her like streamers. “That is all I request,” The Lady of Blood said. The Aarl waved his hand to dismiss her. He waited until her footsteps and her creatures’ footsteps had faded. He then turned and focused on one of the Irk guards. “Find Drek and assign him a new task,” he said. The Irk nodded and left through the front gates. The Aarl sat back in his throne and sighed. With thoughts of the Lady Istre, he found himself beginning to smile. The Pale Aarl would find a way to destroy the Lady of Blood.

9p4vr6

Badly Drawn Bear

TW: contains multiple triggers. Badly Drawn Bear Bear Grylls comes blade running down the wooded path. It’s difficult to get the hang of the prosthetics at such a steep gradient and the uneven surface and scree aren’t helping either. He can only assume that his ‘creator’ (BearFanGrl4EVR) has hobbled him in the interests of diversity, not wishing to be accused of ableism. Bear escaped the confines of the computer screen when BearFanGrl4EVR nipped to the kitchen to make herself a Pot Noodle for lunch (yes, her taste in food is as synthetic as her taste in men). He’s determined not to get caught and decides to enlist the help of a passing squirrel. But he isn’t sure if the squirrel is real, or AI, or indeed, if the woodland path is real or AI. He attempts to take in the scent of the pines and wild garlic, but his AI nose is not built for such sophisticated olfactory operations. “Hello there, my little bushy-tailed friend,” he greets the squirrel, who bears an uncanny resemblance to Karl Marx, thanks to an opulence of facial hair. “I’m on the run from my programmer. Would you care to join me on my adventure?” The Commie squirrel shoves his acorns into his right cheek and says… nothing. It’s a squirrel; squirrels can’t talk. What kind of story do you think this is? Bear continues to bounce deeper into the forest, soon coming to appreciate the benefits of his leg replacements: once you get the hang of it, the spring action really does improve propulsion. There is a niggling sensation of stones in his non-existent shoes which he has to keep pushing from his mind, but he puts this down to phantom limb syndrome. What is far more distracting is the way shiny gold coins keep popping up out of the ground. Obviously, there must be something he’s hitting with his blades that’s causing it, but he’s yet to figure out what. Ping! There goes another one. After a time, the sun begins to pixelate and Bear comes to a clearing with a pool at which various woodland creatures have come to sup. On one side: badgers, foxes, and wild boar; on the other: rabbits, hares, and deer. They eye each other warily across the water’s surface, like Lee Van Cleef and Clint Eastwood only cuter and without the pistols. Bear takes a seat next to the hare with the eyepatch and dangles his blades into the pool, enjoying the cooling sensation in his phantom extremities. “Nice blades,” the hare says, with a rather stereotypical twitch of the nose. Bear decides not to answer. He’s learned that lesson; animals don’t talk, not even AI ones. “No, that’s just Red Karl,” the hare says, pulling down his left ear for inspection. “He thinks the happiness of us animals depends on the abolition of you humans. And that the first step to abolition is refusing to acknowledge your existence.” “Pardon my curiosity,” Bear says, “but I can’t help but notice you’re wearing an eyepatch. What happened?” “What happened? Diversity Corp my friend. Giant global conglomerate determined to stamp out hegemonic belief systems by homogenising individuality.” Bear scans the other animals surrounding the pool: a deer with a club-hoof; a stag with various religious accessories dangling from his antlers, like a living, breathing, all-inclusive Christmas tree; mother rabbit signing a bedtime story to her kittens; an albino badger; two male boars with their boarlet family; and a plus-size male fox in a pink tutu. “What about that group over there?” He points to a small number of assorted creatures who are playing catch with a pinecone. “Invisible disabilities,” the hare says. “It strikes me,” says Bear (at this point a lightbulb pings out of his head with a Cassio keyboard flourish) “that to get on in this world, a person… or animal… or plant… whatever form you are inside, must work their minority.” “Or minorities,” says the hare. “Don’t forget intersectionality.” Bear scratches his head, unable to see the logic in using a software programme capable of perfection to make everything just as flawed as it is IRL. “Flawed?” Says the hare, lifting his eye-patch and giving Bear his best Priya wink. Bear shakes his head. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for diversity,” he says. “But what about meritocracy?” “Down with the meritocracy!” The hare cries. The other hares immediately stop drinking from the pool and produce little placards bearing the very same slogan. “Down with the meritocracy!” They begin to chant. “Hold on,” Bear raises his hands. “Do you realise what you’re actually protesting against? Do you know what a meritocracy even is?” “It’s an ocracy, that’s all that matters,” says the hare. “They’re all bad aren’t they, the ocracies.” “What about dem ocracy?” Bear asks. “Exactly,” the hare says. “ De stands for against. Like de clutter, and de colonise, and de -escalate.” Bear realises that trying to reason with AI animals on the issue of politics is too much for his AI brain. He should stay on brand. Without further ado, he leaves the animals to their chop-AI-logic and bounds off into the woods, his newly washed blades gleaming in the setting sunlight. A few strides into the forest, he disturbs a passel of possums. “Oh!” Says one. “You gave me quite a fright.” She fans herself with a frond of bracken. Her fellow possums get in formation, peering coyly over their own frond fans. “Pardon me, ladies”, says Bear, averting his eyes. “Just foraging for firewood.” “Fire!” Shriek the possums in unison, turning tail and heading for the pool. One by one they launch themselves in, soaking most of the other animals. Not the hare, though. He joins Bear at the entrance to the wood. “Let me guess,” he says. “Firewood?” “Quite remarkable how they instinctively know the danger of fire. Just from the word,” says Bear. “It’s got nothing to do with visceral fears,” the hare says. “Fire’s a trigger word. They’re perimenopausal possums.” The mere mention of female biology is enough to give Bear the hot flushes; he needs to assert his masculinity. Not in a toxic way or anything. He needs to get his hands dirty. Even if it’s AI dirt. “Care to join me in a spot of dam-building?” He asks the hare. “Dam-building?” The hare is incredulous. “It’s a pool, not a river.” “Tree-climbing then?” Bear says. There’s probably something in the diversity remit against this, isn’t there? AI trees probably have the right not to be used as climbing apparatus for bored hunter-gatherers. “What do you take me for?” The hare asks. “I’m not a fucking squirrel.” Bear hangs his head. His intrepid spirit is in serious need of a protein-pick-up. What he wouldn’t give for a Probar Coffee Crunch right now. “Why don’t you join us?” Asks a chipmunk in the invisible disabilities group. “Great!” Says Bear. “What are the rules?” “No rules,” says the chipmunk. “You just wait your turn and throw. Nicely. No overarm stuff.” Bear tries very hard to be gentle, but his inner commando gets the better of him. He just can’t wait his turn and keeps diving in front of the other little critters. Eventually they all abandon the game and focus on adorning each other with daisy chains instead. Bear scans the environs for a rock face he might take on; it’s getting dark, but that only adds to the challenge. Then he remembers his legs. He resorts to running laps around the pool. Gradually the animals retreat back to the woods for the night, leaving Bear to his circuits. He doesn’t catch the hare’s exact parting words, but it’s something about an ADHD diagnosis. After 100 reps, he takes a break, attempting to stretch out his hamstrings - quite a feat of balance for someone who’s been on blades less than a day. By this point he’s built up quite an appetite; you might say he’s virtually starving. Judging by the thriving wildlife population, he knows there must be more than water in the pool. On his laps around the perimeter, he heard plenty of tell-tale plops and slaps. Catfish, if he’s not mistaken. He lowers himself down at the water’s edge and dips one arm into the pool, deep enough that he can trail his fingers along the loose silt and pebbles of the bed. Before long he feels a familiar slithery form brush against his forearm; he uses the crook of his arm to scoop the fish out and it lands flapping wildly on the bank beside him. “Please don’t let it have the power of speech,” he says, half expecting it to stand up on its tail fins and hold forth on the aquatic issue of the day: the campaign for Zero Nets perhaps. But it just puffs its gills in and out silently. He tiptoes over to the edge of the wood and brings back some kindling and a couple of sharp rocks. Once he’s got the fire going, he just has to figure out how to cook the fish with no utensils. He crosses his blades and sits tapping out the tune to “Fisherman’s Blues” on them with the still warm rocks. He gets really into it. So much so, he doesn’t notice the two teens who are now watching his performance intently; until one waves a hand in front of his face. “Are you Bear Grylls?” She asks. “We're Jill and Ed. We’re on a mission.” “Mission?” Bear says, leaping to his blade-feet. “Bear Grylls at your service. How may I assist you?” “Told you!” Ed says. “Well Bear, we were supposed to be doing this Geography project. But then this floaty man-cloud thing calling himself Gen-Ai asked us to help him find his bottle.” “Yes,” Jill says. “You’d think being trapped inside a small receptacle would be pretty miserable, but he said he actually missed it. When he was inside, he could pick and choose what wishes to grant, but now he’s out, he’s just getting inundated with requests. It’s just too much.” “The thing is, we’ve lost him. Will you help us find him?” Ed says. “You had me at Geography,” Bear says. “Where’s the bottle? Perhaps we should start there. He might have got back in by himself.” “That’s the thing,” Ed says. “We don’t know where the bottle is. Gen-Ai seems to think it’s been stolen. By the wish-takers. So he can’t dodge their demands.” The three decide that they will search better on a full stomach, and as Jill is quick to point out, it wouldn’t do for the catfish to have given its life needlessly. Bear’s resourcefulness is awoken by the scent of the impending pursuit; he realises that he had a built-in BBQ all along. Being made of carbon composite, his left blade serves as the perfect skillet upon which to fry his prize catch. As they eat, Bear waxes lyrical on the wonders of human geography, while Jill and Ed take notes for their project. All that remains is for a quick wash of the makeshift frying pan and the quest can get underway. Unfortunately, some stubborn fish skin has stuck, forcing Bear to soak his left blade in the pool. It’s an overnight job. At daybreak Bear is woken by a paparazzi of crows and seagulls feasting off the carcass of the catfish beside the dying embers of the campfire. If the scavengers have seen the two teens or the escaped Gen-Ai, they’re not talking. Neither will they be drawn on hares with eye-patches, menopausal marsupials, or neurodivergent chipmunks. As Bear walks off in search of his own bottle, a crow named Nigel picks at his teeth with a fishbone, “mad as an otter,” he says. “Who are you calling mad?” Asks Audry the water vole in solidarity with her otter cousins.

q1sytb

Inked in History-Letters between a wife and husband caught in the tides of change.

The First Letter. Lyon France, July 15, 1989. Thaddeus, you're going to divorce me. I'm not on the train to Lyon. I'm in Barcelona. Now, before you call the lawyers and have the papers drawn up—I know I deserve it, and I swore the last time was the last time, but let me explain—I saw my father. I can feel you rolling your eyes, and I get it, but I know it was him this time. It was him! I was getting on the train to Lyon, and I was early at the Milan Porta Garibaldi terminal, so early that I had time to peruse the promenade. Not that it makes a difference, as you're undoubtedly fuming so hard right now that this letter is shaking like a leaf in a hurricane, but I was thinking of you and looking for a last-minute gift. Now, I will have to find two, one for missing your UN speech and another for missing your birthday. Sorry. It's unavoidable. I won't be back in time, and I can't even think of you having to cancel dinner at Restaurant Paul Bocuse. I can hear you moaning, " But it's Bowww-Cooo-esss!" I will make it up to you. I don't know how or when, but I will. Don't  cancel!   Take Henny or Muriel; they've worked so hard for you—treat them! Oh, hell, Thad! I feel so sick about disappointing you that I even permit you to take Bridgit (gag!) Yes, that was as hard to write as it was to say! She worships you, she's a goddess, she will look amazing, and Bocuse might even comp your entire bill if she dresses like I know she will! You would throw yourself off a cliff before you'd cheat on me, so trust isn't an issue. Go! Dine! Indulge! I will come back to you, but I don't know when. I have to follow that man. I must confront my father!" Now, the other shocking news. After seeing my father leave the ticket booth, he disappeared into the crowd before I spotted which train he was boarding. But, like all Italian officials—money talks. I bribed the ticket clerk to tell me which train my father was destined for. It was for Barcelona. Naturally, I exchanged my ticket for boarding the one bound for Spain. I searched desperately, wildly , through the mass in the terminal, and then I found him—my father. Only this time, I couldn't see his face on account of the crowd, but I heard his voice! I know it was him! I overheard him telling another passenger he was going to Pamplona for the Running of the Bulls! And that's where I am now. Well almost. I've chartered a car and driver from Barcelona to Pamplona. I'm out of time and rushed this letter at the last minute, posting it in Barcelona. Since I don't know where I will be, I can't give a post address, and you'll be all over France on our (supposed to be) food tour! Write to Aunt Sophia, and I will stop in Milan and gather myself before coming to you in Paris or returning to New York. I beg for your faith and forgiveness. Forever yours, Cecilia. July 29, 1989, Milan, Italy. Cecilia. I'm worried about you. I received your letter dated July 15 and have been waiting to hear from you since. I pray this finds you in good health, mentally and physically. I haven't forgotten the last time you went on a cross-country chase after the phantom of your father only to find him to be a faint look-alike who turned out to be a chemical engineer from Maryland. You harassed that poor man, followed him home, demanding he provide witnessed proof of identity. How far will you chase this man? It is not a ladylike business to pursue strange men across foreign countries, insinuating you are their abandoned offspring. At the same time, you leave your husband unattended and try the last of his patience! Do you have no sense of self-preservation? What if this man lacks the empathy and temperament of that Maryland engineer? Come home, Cecilia. I've returned to Lyon. It's glorious. The food! My God, there's no place in the world like this! The bread, the farms, the things they can do with a pig! The people here find Americans rather disdainful but mostly ignore us—looking down their noses, but you can't get enough of this place! I did not take Bridgit to Bocuse. However, she did pine for it rather embarrassingly. I did as you suggested and took Henny. The descriptions of the dishes lost the poor woman, and I thought she was going to faint when the waiter presented the Bresse Chicken in a Pig's Bladder à la Mère Fillioux! You would have loved the Sea Bass en croùte; the choron hollandaise alone was a miracle of emulsion—a mounted butter sauce that would have ruined your diet for a month but worth every spoonful! I'm telling you, there's no place in the world like this for food! I have booked our stay until 15 August. Please come. For the love of God, let the ghost of your father pass and come live! I fear nothing good will come of this chase. And if it turns out to be him, then what? What will you do? Do you have the nerve to call the authorities? What proof would you have? Or, even worse, if you ascertain his identity as the absent father and still presently sought criminal, will you turn away? Will that make you an accomplice? Think, Cecilia! If not for yourself, then for us! We have a life, a good one. Come back to me so we can make it brilliant. I will be touring the winery's farms and trying desperately to invite myself to an ancient pig butchering and feasting tradition. Calling will be futile during daylight hours. If you can't come, then write. Post to 20, quai Gailleton, 69002, Lyon. Room 92. August 15, Cecilia, we leave Paris for New York. The flight is at 7:45 p.m. Please be okay. Please come back to me. Thaddeus. August 9, Geneva, Switzerland. Thaddeus! It's him. I have found my father!  Of all the scenarios where I have imagined finding him, the Running of the Bulls was never  one—and yet, that is precisely where it happened! Now, I am sure you are asking yourself, if this earth-shattering  revelation occurred in Spain, then what in good graciousness am I doing in Switzerland? Well, let's go back to Pamplona! The place was a madhouse!  The streets were packed; a throng of bodies singing, chanting, a rising wave of hysteria! I pushed my way to the walls near Calle Estafeta, desperate to spy my father; my only  aid in identifying him was the hope he'd be wearing the same sued long coat and the silver Fedora with the black silk band. Calle Estafeta is where the beasts make their final turn before entering the Callejon and into the arena. The cheers of the crowd reverberated off the stone walls of buildings. Then, the crescendo of voices hushed so they could hear the clopping of hooves echoing from down the street. The knocking of the bulls stampeding atop the cobblestone avenue sparked an explosion of cheers, then a hand grasped me by the elbow, and a voice at my ear asked, "How did you find me?" I turned and saw the fedora and looked into my father's eyes. Stunned, I asked him, "You know who I am?" "Of course, Cecilia. You're my daughter." You can imagine  how I was frozen with shock. I couldn't think of what to say. I felt weak-legged and on the verge of tears, but before I could utter another word, a wave of spectators rushed to the wall. A very narrow, dark-skinned man who smelled of fish and onions slipped between my father and me. I saw the man pass a small, black pouch to my father, who, with a twist of the wrist, made it vanish inside his jacket. His grip on my arm tightened, "It's not safe here. We must leave. Come with me." I didn't know what was happening, but what was I supposed to do? After two decades of wondering and searching, I finally find my father, who tells me it's unsafe. It was a split-second decision—go or stay? For a moment, I hesitated. I won't lie and say I wasn't scared, Thad. I was. My father turned back, looked at me, and said, "Nothing you've been told is true. You can come with me now, and I'll explain everything on the train, or you can be satisfied at seeing me once more but never again." "The train to where?" I asked him. "Geneva." Thad, sweetheart, husband, if you love me at all, I beg you for patience, trust, and understanding. My father's story, which he delivered in barely more than a whisper during the train ride, is astounding , and even though I have no reason to believe a word of it—I do. I believe him. And because I do, I must heed his warning. I cannot share all the details; I can only say that my father did not  commit treason! Now comes the  big  ask! Can you see it in your heart to support me? I'm in tears, fearing you'll respond with a curt no!  And you'll be done with me once and for all, but I will not make it to Paris for the return flight to New York. I'm in  this now, and I've got to see it through! I must, even if it costs me you. Twenty years, Thad. Twenty years, I've needed to know why my father walked away from us and disappeared, and damnit to hell if I'm not going to get those answers! We will only be in Geneva for a short while to align his preparations. Then we will be in Poland on 17 August and Hungary two days later. Thaddeus, my love, my husband, my best friend, please think hard about what I mean to you and what this means to me. Then, and only then, write to me. I will be staying at the Kempinski Hotel Corvinus in Budapest. Erzsébet tér 7-8., 1051, Budapest. I cannot divulge details, but I will tell you that if you want me and are willing to consider a different life, then be in Berlin by the first week of November. You will see what we have done. The world will see. I await your words with terrifying trepidation. Forever yours, Cecilia. August 14, Paris. Cecilia. Your letter did not bring me the comfort I had hoped. Do I believe and trust you? Yes, of course. Why would you lie to me, and you're not mentally unbalanced? But do I believe this story, his story? That's asking more of me than I can provide. Your father was a decorated veteran who moved into the intelligence community. He went rogue and took state secrets with him. Our government charged him with treason. Those facts are not to be taken lightly, and now you ask me to cast all of that aside and believe a version that seems fantastical? Not to mention gravely short of details!  I also do not care for the barely veiled ultimatum. In turn, I am forced to deliver one of my own. You will abandon this quest to recover the lost years with your father. His business is not yours, and your place is here with me—not the other way around. I will not traipse across the globe on a goose chase of maybes. You will stop this now, and you will come home to me. If you do that, we can forget that the man who left you and your family now threatens to ruin ours. I am not a bargaining chip in your father's spy games. I am your husband, goddamnit, and you will act accordingly! Your subsequent communication, letter, or phone better be to confirm your flight home. Your husband, Thaddeus. November 15, Berlin. Dear Thaddeus, I hope you are well. Unless you have shuttered behind walls, with curtains drawn and the television disconnected, you must know I have not lied to you. The Berlin Wall has fallen, and the collapse of communism and the USSR is next. It began in Hungary with the Pan-European Picnic and the removal of the border fence between Hungary and Austria. Then Poland, with Mazowiecki, the first non-communist elected in over 40 years. In early October, the Hungarian government reorganized towards abandoning a communist government and restoring a multi-party democracy. Before the end of the month, elected President Szuros officially declared the country as the Hungarian Republic—exactly 33 years after the 1956 revolution. The first week of November saw the communist government abandon East Germany, and the people rejoiced. Two days later, a half-million people joined together, and the Wall fell. The Bulgarian communist government was the next domino, with Poland next and Czechoslovakia following, with demonstrations beginning within days of my writing this letter. These are things my father has been working toward over those 20 years. These are things I have committed to now. Freedom. The end of communism, the end of oppression and dictatorships. Democracy is my purpose, and my father is my teacher. I could never have predicted this path or that I would be on it. I am sorry, Thad. I love you today as much as I ever have. But this is bigger than one person or two. There is more at stake. I am not the woman you married, not the anxious and broken little girl desperately searching for her father and answers—I have found both. The world is still a complicated and treacherous place with so much that we don't see. I am committed to sharing the light. You can send any documents or correspondence to the Geneva address. It will be collected and brought to me from time to time. As for returning to America, I will sometimes be required to do so in my new capacity, but we do not have time to pursue the exoneration of my father's accused guilt. There is too much work to do that is of much greater importance. Thaddeus, my beautiful husband, there will be no more letters or addresses. I will not stand in the way of your happiness or interfere with your future in any way. I wish you the best but only hoped that you would have come to Berlin. The world had to change. I am on the tide. If you change your mind, Thad, and want me, I will remain yours and give myself to no other, but not forever. You see the story now, and you will know where to go to find me. I desperately hope you do. All my love, Cecilia. 

n0p4t9

The Immigrant

Dear Zawhea,            What a voyage I had! I cannot begin to relate the entire story in writing. Yet I will give you some details, so you might have an idea of what I experienced. My cabin was clean, small with a porthole, and I was able to sleep comfortably. A few days after we left Marseilles, I heard that the head chef needed extra help. I met with him and soon I was working. The job kept me busy and gave me extra liras, or, as they say here, dollars. I worked side by side with several men from other countries and mainly served dinner in the first-class dining room. One day, though, I helped serve tea to the ill passengers in steerage, so I was able to see their living arrangements. They slept in large rooms on cots, in very dark and dingy quarters where the air was still and stuffy. Families from the same country stayed together. If you make the voyage—which I pray you do—please purchase a first-class ticket. Very few of us traveling in first class became sick.            We had such a celebration here on July 4, the American Independence Day. There was a picnic and a parade with a band. The day ended with all the townspeople singing “My Country ’Tis of Thee,” with cannon shots in the background. That day I understood the joy people have about their freedom and the democracy of this country. It was then that I began planning to become a naturalized citizen.            Anthony and Sadie are very kind to me, and their son Tony is like a little brother. I am happy here with my work, and I enjoy the community of New Salem. Each morning I awake looking forward to new opportunities.            I often think about Amina’s wedding and the dancing. It is a wonderful memory of our last time together. Salaam, Saddo November 22, 1905 Dear Zawhea I received your letter. I am relieved to hear that you and your parents are well. June 4, 1907 My dear Amina,            Umm wrote about Zawhea’s husband. I have enclosed a letter to Zawhea. Please give it to her for me. You knew I was sad about her arranged marriage, and now I would like to be in touch with her. Salaam, Saddo Dear Zawhea,            Umm wrote to me about the death of your husband. Please know that I am sad for you. She told me about your little boy, Mitelj, and that soon you will have a second child.            Ever since the Abrahams had a baby girl—an event that made little Tony very happy—I have rented a small home of my own. You would like it. There is a parlor and small kitchen. My bedroom is comfortable. There is running water and a small bath area. I try to make my home like my umm’s as much as possible, and I am even cooking with Syrian spices. (You would like my malfouf.) I found some bright pillows with gold and blue at the market to adorn my couch. People from my church helped me when I moved. They gave me dishes and cooking pots, and now they busy themselves trying to find me a wife. Yet none of the women here interest me.            Zawhea, you know that I understood and respected your marriage. However, there isn’t a woman I have met who would please me more than you would. I know it is too soon for you to decide. As time goes on, will you think about coming to America to be my wife? No doubt, you will ask yourself whether I can support you and your children. Anthony has recently opened his own store. I work there and peddle goods in the nearby towns and countryside. The coal mining industry has been good for business, and our customers are buying more goods—including ink pens, expensive watches, and fancy clothing—than ever before.            I miss you and pray that you will come to America. I await your answer. Salaam, Saddo October 15, 1907 Dear Zawhea,            You will soon be in my arms as my bride. I have given much thought to bringing the children over with you. Your abb and umm are right. They are able and willing to provide a safe and stable home, to give them a solid foundation and opportunities for schooling. Your children should stay living there until they are older and can make the trip safely. I understand that it will be hard for you to leave them. Amina’s letter arrived the day after yours. I am so glad that she and Zacharias will travel with you.            After you disembark on Ellis Island, you will go through the registration. I will be waiting for you there. We will then take the train to Pittsburgh and change to go on to Uniontown. Then we have a short drive to New Salem, where Anthony will meet us. Bring only a small bag. We can buy what you need here.            Stay strong. It is good that you will be leaving on November 15. I do not want you crossing in winter weather. I will wire you money tomorrow. Salaam, Saddo Dear Zawhea I received your letter. I am relieved to hear that you and your parents are well What a terrible situation in Syria now. And it seems to be getting worse. I am fearful for our country and pray for it every day. Your parents must be very worried about the future that they want to arrange a marriage for you right now. It is a difficult time, and I hesitate to advise you. In better times, you would be wise to continue your studies As for myself, I am working hard and saving so that someday I can marry and have a family. I often think what it would be like to have you here with me. I wish I could bring you here now Please write again Salaam Saddo December 15, 1905 Dear Zawhea We are about to celebrate the Feast of St. Nicholas. I am thinking about the many celebrations of this feast our families had together. One I remember in particular. You and I were in my umm’s kitchen dishing out the malfouf, and I dropped a few of them on the floor. We laughed as you helped me clean up the sauce, rice, and meat slopped everywhere. I miss those happy times I received a letter from Umm today. She mentioned that you had met the son of your parents’ friends. I understand that if your parents want you to marry now, you will have no choice but to do so. Even here in America, some marriages are arranged and others are not, depending on the culture of those involved I miss you. And I pray for our families and our country every day as Syria struggles against Ottoman control Salaam, Saddo June 4, 1907 My dear Amina, Umm wrote about Zawhea’s husband. I have enclosed a letter to Zawhea. Please give it to her for me. You knew I was sad about her arranged marriage, and now I would like to be in touch with her. Salaam, Saddo Dear Zawhea, Umm wrote to me about the death of your husband. Please know that I am sad for you. She told me about your little boy, Mitelj, and that soon you will have a second child. Ever since the Abrahams had a baby girl—an event that made little Tony very happy—I have rented a small home of my own. You would like it. There is a parlor and small kitchen. My bedroom is comfortable. There is running water and a small bath area. I try to make my home like my umm’s as much as possible, and I am even cooking with Syrian spices. (You would like my malfouf.) I found some bright pillows with gold and blue at the market to adorn my couch. People from my church helped me when I moved. They gave me dishes and cooking pots, and now they busy themselves trying to find me a wife. Yet none of the women here interest me. Zawhea, you know that I understood and respected your marriage. However, there isn’t a woman I have met who would please me more than you would. I know it is too soon for you to decide. As time goes on, will you think about coming to America to be my wife? No doubt, you will ask yourself whether I can support you and your children. Anthony has recently opened his own store. I work there and peddle goods in the nearby towns and countryside. The coal mining industry has been good for business, and our customers are buying more goods—including ink pens, expensive watches, and fancy clothing—than ever before. I miss you and pray that you will come to America. I await your answer. Salaam, Saddo That was quite a day. I hugged Amina, sobbing and smiling at the same time. My life was taking an unexpected turn. I thought and prayed about moving to America. After many conversations with Abb and Umm and of course, Amina, I was able to make the decision to travel to America and marry Saddo. The sad part was leaving my children with my parents. They loved Mitelj and Martha and we all understood it would not be wise to take them on the long voyage across the ocean. The happy part was I was going to marry my love and Amina and Zacharias were traveling with me. Deep down in my heart, I felt my children would join me in America soon. Abruptly I was shaken out of my deep thoughts as Sam walked in the back door and saw me staring into space. “Anna, what is wrong? You look sad.” “I’m reading my letters and journal. I’m sad that our children are grown and now Louie is moving. You know, I saved all your letters.” Sam shook his head and went into the store to close out the day’s books. I watched him, thinking, all he cares about is that store. From the day we opened the store I have been waging war for his time. Sam will spend hours rearranging the shelves, watch cases and the window display and doesn’t seem to appreciate me in spite that I help him with the books and orders. Back to my memories. October 15, 1907 Dear Zawhea, You will soon be in my arms as my bride. I have given much thought to bringing the children over with you. Your abb and umm are right. They are able and willing to provide a safe and stable home, to give them a solid foundation and opportunities for schooling. Your children should stay living there until they are older and can make the trip safely. I understand that it will be hard for you to leave them. Amina’s letter arrived the day after yours. I am so glad that she and Zacharias will travel with you. After you disembark on Ellis Island, you will go through the registration. I will be waiting for you there. We will then take the train to Pittsburgh and change to go on to Uniontown. Then we have a short drive to New Salem, where Anthony will meet us. Bring only a small bag. We can buy what you need here. Stay strong. It is good that you will be leaving on November 15. I do not want you crossing in winter weather. I will wire you money tomorrow. Salaam, Saddo

xlcluk

Fido

 I got Fido at the local pound, or animal rescue service, by mistake or accident. I went to get a terrier and found one but in the next cage was a almost long haired puppy cowering in the shadows of a corner. The terrier knew he had me and was jumping up and down with expectations flowing from his half mouthed tongue, so I got the puppy. Fido was beautifully thankful and I felt like a true parent maybe because of his fix on me as his leader and teacher. Our relationship was never owner/master and dog. From the first moment out of that cage it was some kind of mutual respect and love. He was a German Shepard-Collie mixture of breeds and behaved like a sheep dog every chance he had. He had knobs on his knees that quickly grew out through running in the Panhandle part of the Golden Gate Park. I am a San Franciscan and lived in the Haight Ashbury during the Hippie invasion before we were, by law, ordered to have dogs on leashes. So, after crossing two trafficked streets, one with traffic lights we were free to roam the over four miles of park to the beach. I worked at the museum in the park and could leave Fido outside during my eight-hour schedule and know he would be there for lunch and when my work ended. Once he brought a friend to see me but when he and the wolf came out of the bushes they scared the crowds who were exiting at closing. With a call of adventure I decided to go up to Alaska to join a fishing fleet and make some real money so I packed up my Volkswagen van and made a comfortable bed for Fido and off we went on our way to the wilds of Canada. I said I am a San Franciscan, right? When I was around eleven snow fell in the City around 2 or 3 in the morning. The quiet woke me and I looked out my window to see people coming out of their houses and picking up snow to make snowballs, about one-inch thick, to throw at each other. I ran out in my pyjamas and joined what became a street party of whizzing tiny snowballs and echoing laughter. I didn’t remember it being cold, just fun. I was now driving an eighteen hundred mile route in December from San Francisco to Juneau, Alaska. My eleven year old adventure was my only time ever being in the snow. It looked great on television and in the movies and nobody seemed to get cold on those screens. But, I carried a couple of pairs of gloves, a thick jacket, two sets of long johns and bought some snow boots and snow chains. We hit real snow in British Columbia and I had my first lesson in snow living when I couldn’t start the van because of my oil freezing and solidifying. The mechanic I found assumed I was just stupid and told me to wait until noon and try to start it again, and then to bring the van to him and he would change the oil and give me the heavy duty correct oil. I did it and he did it. And off we drove with renewed confidence that I had done the right thing in paying for a professional to solve my problem. There were great wild west towns with saloons along my route that I really enjoyed, always noticing how the snow alongside the highway was getting higher and higher with the pace slowing at times in both the shovelling trucks and black ice. I didn’t know what black ice was until I tried to brake and slid into a piled snow mound, well, I learned what black ice was more than once. A few days into the snow and due to driving very slowly I could not see houses any more. They were there. I could see smoke flowing up into crystal blue skies but I could not see roofs or any trace of actual houses. Fido loved the snow at first. Bounding and bounding. Burying his nose and mouth in it and biting at the flaky water of it. He was continually curious about snow and then it happened. We got out at a rest stop and I took a pee. He liked the designs I could make in the snow but after the first time did not like the taste. This one time he went bounding off into what was probably a field if there was no snow. It was a long flat area and I got back into the van and let him just have his time out there. When he came back he didn’t want to get back in the van but I wasn’t going back out. It was cold. I could see he was a bit angry but I made some hot chocolate on my little camping stove and enjoyed the warmth from that little fire in the confines of the van. As I sipped my hot chocolate I looked but couldn’t see Fido. I moved over to the other side of the van and saw his nose going up and down. It scared me thinking that some animal had injured him. I got out on my side of the van to hear his whimpers and ran, slid around to see him laying on his side. I looked around and didn’t see a bear or anything, and tried to scoop him up but he was stuck. I gently pulled his long hair back to see if it was a bear trap or something holding him. His eyes gave that I-know-you-can-solve-all-earthly-problems look that always encouraged me when I noticed his white fur under his leg was yellow. It slowly sank in that Fido had taken a pee and sat in it freezing him to the ground and freezing his leg to his body. I started laughing and looking around for somebody to share the laughing with but we were alone. After solving that problem with some hot chocolate on the leg I freed him from the ground and settled him in his bed. He actually looked angry. At me. Another day on we were snowbound in a hotel with just another thirty miles to the Alaska border when I called ahead to reserve a hotel room and found that the temperature there was verging on seventy below freezing. That was the end of my quest to make some real money fishing out of Alaska. The drive back was an impatient one but generally uneventful. I had two sets of bikers’ gloves over wool mittens and three pairs of socks in my snow boots. The heat in that year volkswagen van came off the engine in the rear of the body and it ever so often made its way up to the front where I drove using the wheel as we all do. About half way back to the States, in a hotel room shower I noticed that my fingers were off colour, sort of reddish. Getting out of bed I noticed my toes were getting a dark colour, sort of brown. When I got to the no snow area of British Columbia and stepped out of the van I almost fell over and had to hold on to the car door until I felt balanced enough to stand. Fido was in heaven running and digging up real grass, biting it and rolling in it. I was happy to take off a set of the gloves and remember having to take the jacket off with some memory of sweat letting me know I was saved and back in civilisation. The next day when I got out of the van it was the same thing. I had to stand holding the door until my balance returned. At a hotel at the California border I saw for the first time that my fingertips were purplish blue and that my toes were almost the same colour. I also noticed that the hot shower did not feel hot to either the fingertips nor the toes. The hotel manager told me it was frost bite and I should see a doctor. Back in San Francisco my doctor told me hot baths, saunas, hot tubs, hot towels, aspirin would help. I decided to go to Belise. But, that is another story.

g345bp

A Thundering Noise from Afar

My wife Karen and I were watching the 6:00 pm news and focused our attention on a reported tornado path just north of us that appeared to be traveling eastward across the county just north of us. Our daughter was getting ready to head up that way to see her boyfriend, and my emphatic statement to her was, “girl, you best sit your butt down and chill, cuz you ain’t goin nowhere right now til’ that dag burn twister is out of this area!” Of course, she was madder than wet kitten after a bath, but I didn’t care at that point. Karen phoned up her mom’s to tell her and her daddy to stay in the basement while this whirling dervish was beating the ground underneath it. After it moved by, we hung up and they were in good shape and safe with little impact to them aside from some debris from neighbor’s homes, and a couple of blown down small trees. That storm had been rated an EF-2. At 10:40 pm approximately, the on-air meteorologist changed view to show the storm that was spinning up a rotation signature over Pottstown. This, we knew, was probably goin to be the one that we would have to deal with. So, we watched, and it was obvious to me that the rotation on the storm was quite strong, and I mentioned that to Karen about a half minute before the station said the exact same thing. As they cycled through the storm, I noticed that the rotation pattern was heading east of us and there were debris balls associated with the rotation signature. At 10:55 pm, the debris ball and circulation signature were clearly heading straight in our path, so I yelled to Karen and Ellie, let’s git down to the cellar, and button everything up tight like. As I essentially pushed the women down the stairs, I forgot my flashlight on the kitchen counter not but 10-feet from me. I could hear that grim reaper of a thunderous roar coming towards us, but I took a chance and leapt for the flashlight and started making a beeline back to the cellar door, when the twister slammed like a 30-car freight train into the side of the house. The house was literally lifted on one side into the air creating a 30-degree angle between my reaching the doorway and getting blown back into the kitchen area. I could see nothing but lamps, desk drawers, garage shovels, rakes, even my John Deere tractor being tossed around as if it were feathers from birds flying through the calm air. I could hear the muffled screams of my Karen and daughter Ellie as they yelled for me to get to them, but the force against me too great at that point in time. Suddenly, the wind subsided a bit giving me the chance to crawl quickly to the door, but just as I got up to take a first step, the refrigerator got tossed up in the air from the horrific twisting forces, and it landed right on my right arm from the elbow down to the hand. It pinned me against the inner cabinets with such a great impact, that I could not even move one inch in any direction. As I was secured down with the weight of the fridge, and high intensity winds of the tornado, I could feel the life within my hand and fingers move from me. It began with a numbness and tingling sensation in the fingertips that quickly traveled into my hand, my wrist, and then down the forearm. As I was in the precarious position of no movement with more than 250 pounds cinching my forearm and hand, I thought about only one thing, and that was the safety of my wife and daughter. I did everything that I could to push with my legs and jostle the fridge off me, but just as I began to feel some movement of this monstrosity, it gave way and I felt something wet smother my pinned arm and hand area. The pain was so intense and sharp that it made me sick to my stomach. Then as fast as the pain came upon me, it began to wane, and the feeling was gone. I felt nothing at all from that extremity, and knew that if help didn’t come soon, I would more than likely lose the arm to gangrene. At that point in time, the wicked twister had passed the area, winds had calmed down, the rain stopped, and as I looked up to the surroundings, I could see only the sky because the tornado had torn the roof right off the home that we had built not but 3-years prior. I could hear my wife and daughter down in the basement crying hysterically, and then at that moment, one of the neighbor friends down the road rushed into the debris laden house and saw me pinned underneath the refrigerator. He went to the other side of the fridge and must have seen my arm and hand condition because he ran to the outside of the home, and yelled for the ambulance to come this way. As the dust settled, and the region got cleaned up to some degree, I was getting out of the rehabilitation hospital where I had been for the last 6-weeks. My arm from the elbow down had to be amputated due to so much lost blood, and lack of flow and oxygen. I knew at the very moment while pinned underneath that fridge when my time was up for any ability to hold a ball in my dominant hand or raise a fork full of brisket to my mouth savoring every bite. Yes, my days were done with an easy life and having no troubles to a life feeling no more sensation. The warm gesturing caress of my darling Karen’s cheek using my skillful own hand was an end that came sadly to me, but I was still alive to see and experience the goodness that allowed me to weather that one day in a summer of 2014. The reality of my life had flashed before me in a matter of less than 30-minutes, but it was just enough to allow me to feel life then loss. From that time forward, I never, ever took one thing for granted and lived every single day of my life as if it was my last one here on Earth.

ifsch1

A letter from the marked one.

Coast of Finland. 1798.   My sunshine, my Tilda, My sincerest wish is that this letter finds you safe and well at Whitefire Isle. The risk of returning to Engberg's orphanage is one I might never take, even though it fills me with regret. I still wanted you to know what happened to me and that at least for now I am safe. I have yet to figure out who in the orphanage knew what I was and how the Witchhammer had heard about me residing there. And why now? The main intention of this letter is to thank you, Tilda. On the night, when those four members of the Brotherhood of Witchhammer attacked our beloved orphanage, what you did saved my life. As long as it did not hurt you, I might think myself as worthy of saving. When you showed me the secret stairs behind the portrait of Marshall Engberg, I was able to sneak into the basement without anyone seeing me. The Brotherhood immediately made their way upstairs to the bed chambers. My heart can't bear to think that any of the wee ones, who had gone early to bed, were hurt. When I got into the basement I had to move as fast as I could. If Mrs. Bloom wanders who stole a loaf of bread and the old kettle from atop the fireplace, please inform her that it was I. As you know, the windows of the basement are on ground level, so I climbed on the counter and crawled out to the back garden towards Creek Forest. You and I know the paths like the back of our hands. Unfortunately, one of the Brothers had seen me from the top floor window and he was on my heels before I had realised. How he moved as fast as he did, I will never know. I was overly confident that the forest would be on my side and would help me lose the scoundrel. The deeper we reached the forest, the more we were consumed by snow. I reached the old oak tree, which you and I had named Otto many years ago, and I climbed his arms. The Brother that had followed me pulled me down by my cape and I hit the ground, losing all the air I had in my lungs. With one quick move he pulled me up and forced me to find my feet. My lungs, throat and heart were still gasping for air. He ripped my dress from my neck to my lower back to find the mark my ancestry had left on me. The mark that was red and flamed against my pale skin and the white snow surrounding me. I wondered why the Brother didn’t call out to the other members. Instead, he started to drag me back towards the house. I must admit that I was too scared to yell in fear of the other ones hearing me, so I fought silently. With all my might. The man got annoyed with me and I felt the back of his hand hit my cold cheek. The sting of it made my eyes water, yet I still wanted to confront my captor eye to eye. He cursed at me silently. His tongue was cut off. We have all heard the stories of why the Brotherhood cuts off their members tongues, he must have displeased their leader. And for a moment I pitied him. My only chance was to enchant him even though I did not know if dark magic brewed in me. It did. It does. As with any spell, all I had to do is let the words flow through me. I bit into his hand, causing him to bleed, then did so to myself. With our blood mixed I searched for the words and whispered; You have sought me for your destruction, I am clothed in terror, I am armed with fear, Make your limbs shiver, Make your heart shatter, Hear my words and Feel your finality. Greet me as your death. The grip loosened around me, and I watched as his eyes filled with terror and tears. His limbs trembled. He whimpered as an injured wolf. And I abandoned him there. The trail of my horrendous acts had begun. Night had fallen by the time I had reached the other side of the forest. I forced myself to consume the bread I had taken with me, for I feared otherwise the darkness would last longer than I would. My hands felt more as if they belonged to a stranger than myself. My feet wouldn’t carry me anymore. There was still the matter of making it to the next island, closer to safety. The roads were surely guarded by the Brotherhood, therefore my only option was through the rapid waters. Do you remember when we snuck into Marshall Engbergs’ study to marvel at his map collection? We wondered how far Blackley Isle is and how we would one day set off on an adventure together. We would leap from one island to another as if we were skipping stones. Well, my Tilda, I can inform you that the distance between Whitefire Isle and Blackley Isle is approximately 812 steps. I counted them for you as I made my way. The spell to steady my feet was elementary. white waters, walk I must rapids racing, under me shallows keep me, till I’m safe Blackley Isle was covered in blackberry shrubs, which I imagined would taste heavenly come summer. It was mostly inhabited. Only one cosy red cottage stood on top of a small hill, with smoke billowing from the chimney. I dared my way into their barn, which was downhill from the house.  A soft bleat from the sheep, in hopes of food, filled the barn. I grabbed hay with both hands and positioned myself in the middle. The thick wool around warmed me faster than a fireplace or even a spell could have. I let myself sleep for a little while as I was cradled by these gentle, toothless creatures.  Before the sun fully rose, I found a barrel of dried oats and made porridge. I had my kettle and used rainwater that was preserved for the sheep. Boiling water takes time even when using a spell. My heart can’t bear being dishonest to you, though I fear you will now bear witness to my ever-growing misdeeds; I stole their rowboat. My only defence is that my feet were covered in blisters and frostbite. The ocean had melted enough to make walking on ice treacherous, yet still frozen enough to make paddling extremely burdensome. I cast a spell for the ice to melt underneath the boat, and as luck would have it, I made it to the next island, Isle of Shoal. Tired and aching yet still alive. This is where my character fails me yet again. As shattered as I was, I did not intend to hurt a soul during my escape. At least not a soul that didn’t deserve it. The only thing standing on the Isle of Shoal is a lighthouse and the keeper, an old man. He had seen me paddling, nonplussed by the ice melting below me. He waited for me within the shades of the trees. The moment my foot touched the rocks of the shore he screamed, “Witch, you have no place here”. Angry and startled, I cursed at him. a bark isn’t a bite, blink and break a bone The old man blinked and his nose broke at once. The noise made me nauseous. Blood rushed down his face. Dark purple rings appeared around his eyes as the swelling began. Believe me, my innocent Tilda, this I did not mean to do. Then I felt my legs move under me, running back to the boat and my hands holding on to the paddle, rowing away. By noon paddling had become impossible. My arms would not move anymore. The sun was beaming from the heavens, draining the last of me. I threw my cape over myself as I laid down on the bottom of the boat. Mistress of the Winds hear my plea, let me feel your might over the Baltic Sea. The winds picked up just enough for me to arrive at my destination, Crownhagen.  You must wonder why I chose Crownhagen as a place for my asylum - A year ago I overheard one of the maids talking about a witch named Wilbur who had survived the witch swimming. A macabre practice created by the Witchhammer of tying the hands and feet of the accused and dipping them into the river Aura to determine if they sank or floated. Wilbur floated. The death penalty was banned in Wilbur’s hometown, due to it being immoral for people to play God. Therefore, she had her earlobes cut off and was exiled from her home. The rumour was that Wilbur had taken shelter at Crownhagen, where the Witchhammer didn’t have as immense amount of authority or members. The truth is the Brotherhood should not have authority anywhere. It took three days until Wilbur’s name reached my ears. I followed the woman who had whispered it secretly to her maid. They walked in haste on cobblestone-streets, turning corners unexpectedly. They reached a murky alley and stopped. I pressed myself tightly against the stone wall, trying to make myself as invisible as possible. A dark figure appeared at the end of the alley, covered in layers of fabric. Face completely hidden by the shadows. The figure held out a bottle, filled with black liquid which seemed to glimmer in the darkness. “Three drops are all you need,” a rasping voice disturbed the silence.  I kept a close eye on the figure until the woman and her maid had scurried away. Sneaking against the wall I stepped into the darkness and waited a moment for my eyes to adjust.  As I blinked, the figure appeared an inch away from me. I was about to scream when a hand pressed against my mouth. Dark green eyes locked into mine and I calmed down immediately. She nodded towards the darkness invitingly and I followed her. We made our way to a narrow door. She waved her hand and whispered, “‘tis I,” and the door swung open revealing a little home, with a warm light from the fireplace. Once inside she unraveled the cloak and scarves that had hidden her. I gasped at the sight. She had burn marks on her arms, creating patterns that almost looked like constellations. A white cut ran down her cheek bone to her jawline, across her lips. Another cut interrupted her hair line. No earlobes. She had the same mark as I, hers was just below her collar bone. I apologised, for my reaction and for what she must have been through. I realised I hadn’t said a word until then. “They did a lot more than just cut my earlobes and exile me, as the papers claimed,” she said through her teeth, answering my stunned face. “The Witchhammer will torture you until you beg for -," she swallowed the last word, "once you’re on the verge of this world and the other, they will take you to the edge of town and leave you there at the mercy of your own survival instincts.” A cold sweat ran down my spine thinking of the tongueless man I had encountered at the beginning of my journey. “Show me your mark,” she ordered. I pulled my hair over my shoulder and lifted my cape for her to see the reason I was a fugitive beneath my ripped dress. “Are you ready for a revolution?” her eyes glared. We shared our stories, how we had ended up here. Wilbur told me everything except how she had survived the witch swimming. Asking about it made her irritated and I didn’t dare to do it again. My darling Tilda, I have learnt so much in these past few weeks that I have spent as Wilbur's apprentice. She is a powerful witch. I can now assure you that the dark magic within me is controllable. And could be of good use when necessary. Wilbur has been planning a new era for witches. A revolution. My contact with Marshall Engberg has become the key element to her plan, which is to make our way to Sveaborg, where the Marshall is overseeing the construction work for the king's fortress. There is more to Marshall Endberg’s story than what we know. Marshall Engberg and his wife Sofia could not conceive a child. Longing to become a family, the Engbergs fostered a child Gustav, who had lost his parents in a fire.  Filled with gratitude, they decided to establish an orphanage for other forsaken children, located in Whitefire Isle. The same orphanage where I spent ten-and-six-years, and where you, my lovely Tilda, still are. This part of the story was as familiar to me as to you. There were rumours about a wife of a respected Swedish nobleman, who had been caught practising witchcraft. As a punishment, she had been beaten so that she could not have children (my lungs burn from such a revolting act of violence). Their status had saved them from further consequences. Sofia Engberg is the witch in question. We are most certain that Sveaborg could become a stronghold for witches. We can end the Witchhammer's unlawful ways and have all members executed - which they all deserve. Wilbur believes that with Sofia by our side, when the King arrives, us witches could present ourselves as his loyal advisors. Witches would be most useful, as we can see the past that teaches us, the present that affects us and the future that beholds us. We have foreseen the flames and flashes of another war at our hands. It will change the course of our country in perpetuity. And Wilbur is ready for war. As am I. There are others like us joining the cause as I write this letter. Travel and bribery cost more than we expected. We had to collect funds for our cause. I won’t tell you everything I have had to do in order to get the means, for I am ashamed. There is only so much magic can do to help. When it comes to money, it has proven more efficient to use the humane skills of manipulation, deceiving and threatening. The fire that started at Ulrikasborg was a most unfortunate mishap. I never meant to burn an entire building. Wilbur sent me there to ignite the apartment of a known Witchhammer supporter. Only he was supposed to get caught by the fire. These deeds force me to carry a conflict I cannot solve. This was my last confession to you Tilda. Bear in mind; it was all done in the name of the cause. According to Wilbur, Sveaborg is easily compared to a paradise. I hope you understand what this means. I do not expect an answer from you, there isn’t an address where to reach me. Hold this letter in your hands and know, I am yours. Winds find my love, play with her hair as I cannot. Tell my ache, Tell my love, Tell, I’ll wait for the undreamt of. I shall let the thought of you linger a little longer before I must go into the unknown. With all my heart, X

bwx4el

Fated Delivery

Fated Delivery And in the front door of Efferty Drasso’s house, a letter is being dropped by the postman. Addressed to someone that Efferty doesn’t even know exist, but soon, he is going to find out more than he would bargain for. “Oh man, what a day…how dare he even say those things to me?! All the things I did for the company the whole month went down the river just like that! That asshole!”. These are his thoughts as he steps on his front door. “But the bills and letters keep coming no matter the crappy day you had to endure” he scoffed. And then, he sees it. A red envelope. Being the most different of all the letters, lying in his mat by the door. “What’s this? From Reeven Tally…to Linus Tally..” Efferty matters as he looks the words on the envelope. “Ah the damn mail boy again…mistaking my house like, god, doesn’t he checks anything when he delivers?” Efferty is mattering these words as he enters the house with the red envelope and his other letters at hand. “Well, what to do. Name doesn’t ring any bell…Do I have any neighbor called like that?” he thinks to himself while he stands still and looks the red letter. “Seems like a brother-to-brother letter huh...or perhaps some relatives.” He keeps making these thoughts while he turns around the letter checking it from outside to every corner. Then suddenly, he notices something. “Huh..what’s this?” he wonders. While he was peering at the paper envelope, he notices that some of its red colour starting to dissolve, revealing a symbol that Efferty had never seen before. “Well, let’s search about it!” he shouts while he takes a picture of the circle-like fluted symbol. *** After some research on his computer, Efferty comes across three words and a symbol that looks exactly like the one on the letter: ‘The Copper Scroll’ . “The Copper Scroll? What is that thing?” he mutters with a big, disappointed face. At that moment, his phone rings. The name Tony appears on the screen-Efferty’s best friend. “Yo dude, how you been?” are the words coming from the phone’s answered call. “Bro, they fired me! Said I didn’t do my job right. Can you believe this shit?” Efferty says to Tony while rubbing his forehead. “Yeah dude, I can. Cause you were going wasted half of the days in the one month they hired you! To me, I wonder how you even lasted for a whole month!” Tony replies to him as his starts making fun of the sad-faced Efferty. “Well, whatever, it’s their loss you know! Anyway, come over, will you? We gotta finish building my paladins’s gear!” (He is talking about the game he and Tony play at their free time). “Ok bro, coming right up” says an excited Tony. *** One hour later, the doorbell has rung, both kids have started playing their favourite game, talking excited over high-volumed metal music. Tony stands up and goes to grab a beer. “By the way, you got any bucks to lend to me? Electricity bill came and it’s like 350 bucks! Crazy shit, I am not even at home!” Efferty screams to Tony while playing his game. “How you managed that again?! You will put us in jail at the end, man! Where is the shit, gotta check what they charge you for” Tony says while holding and drinking his cold beer. He spots the letters and heads towards them. The red envelope is covering most of the other letters and it picks Tony’s curiosity. “Yo, who is Reeven Tally? Who is Linus Tally?” he asked Efferty after checking the addresses. “No clue man, mailman confused the houses apparently. Leave that shit, come help me to pick the best tunic here! I need a boost on defence, but I crave for some attack also you know---“are the words that Efferty keeps muttering while pressing his keyboard keys endlessly. “Why haven’t you check it out? Let’s see what it says!” Tony announced all excited as he tries to find a knife to open the letter without damaging it. “Tony, no! Leave it as it is. It is not ours!” Efferty screams to Tony when he notices what his friend is trying to do. “Like come on, aren’t you even a little curious?” excited Tony asks as he is about to open the letter using a kitchen knife. Efferty runs towards him, grab the knife and tries to take the letter from Tony’s hands “No, leave it be! Who cares, it’s not for me” he replies angrily to Tony. “Well, but it did come on your door. You have every right to open it!” Tony announces while making it clear that he doesn’t intend to let it go. “Would you like it if strangers just poked on a personal letter you wrote to someone?” asks Efferty . “Well…no” says Tony. “But we are the strangers here, so I don’t care whose secrets I find”. The two boys start fighting over the letter and they end up ripping it a little on its right corner. “Nice going, douchebag!” Efferty screams angrily to Tony. “You destroyed it!”. “What’s the big deal either way? It’s probably gonna be one of those lovey-dovey letters brothers send to each other over wishes or just to catch up with their lives. Just open it and we’ll just say it came to us like that!” Tony says with a smirk. “You-you..! Fuck...” Efferty starts opening the letter, unfolding it slowly so that he will not damage it anymore. He then starts reading out loudly: October 2, 2022 “Linus… I FINALLY did it! I found it, brother! The Copper Scroll is almost in my grasp! At last! We talked about it for so many years! And dad, he... he wouldn’t stop talking about the treasure. And I did it! God, I would LOVE to see his face! His assumptions and research were correct all along! I finished the map, Linus! All that’s left is to go there and claim the scroll. And then the treasure is going to be ours! We are talking about so much money…millions perhaps!”. At this point, Efferty lift his face up, started shaking and looked at Tony completely frozen. “What did you just….?” asked Tony. “Let me see!” said Tony, while approached the frozen Efferty. “Dude, what’s going on? Did we just…read a letter talking about treasure?!” Tony started to scream happily and jump around all over the kitchen. “Wai-wait! Tony, this can just be…a scam. Hold on, there is more written here…” Efferty replied. He then continued reading out loud while Tony stepped by his side trying to also look at the words written: “…But I’m gonna need your help. You must follow my instructions and go get the map. I don’t want to frighten you, but we always knew that we were not the only ones searching for it. In my despair, I need to inform you that some of them learned about the research and found me. But not to worry, I am alive and have escaped them” . At that line, both young men looked each other with a face filled in terror. Efferty gulps and continues reading: “But the map…and the research…you must not let them obtain anything! Follow my guidelines so we can get the scroll. WE DESERVE IT, LINUS! US! We waited so many years! I am leaving you with some clues because I don’t know who to trust anymore. Baias has betrayed me, and I don’t even know if this letter reaches you. Just to be sure, everything I include in this letter can only be interpreted via specific paths and methods that only us, (hopefully), know about. I am counting on you, little brother. Remember this, trust NO-ONE even if they tell you they know me or being my friends, and don’t go to the police. I can understand that you may not want to be involved, but only you can do it now, Linus. Don’t let our dream end out of fear. We deserve it. For father. With all my love, Reeven” There is a small moment of silence. Tony and Efferty stare into the space of the room and manage to breath slowly. After a while, both start to speak simultaneously: “The fuck bro?!” is the first common thing the two boys shout out loud. “Dude, did we just…” Tony tried to find which words to say to complete his sentences and Efferty, puzzled, continues the talk: “This…was written about a week ago…but... what the heck?” Efferty cannot seem to find the words that he wishes to say. Then, he adds: “Should we just…go to the police…? Or just…ignore it?” he muttered at the end. “Are you crazy?!” Tony screams both in an angry manner but also with a shadowed excitement under it. “Type this ‘Copper Scroll’ to see what this is about!” Tony suggests as they run towards the computer, instantly shutting down the game and typing the words in the search bar. Then, after few clicks, they start reading: “The oldest treasure map in history, the Copper Scroll...found among the Dead Sea Scrolls, containing detailed instructions on how to find buried treasure”. Efferty and Tony paused at that moment. Staring first at the screen and the words they had in front of them, and then staring each other. “Dude, this is…is that even real information? Can we trust this?” Efferty says and keeps staring at Tony. “Let’s go. Come on!” Tony suddenly stands up from the chair with determination. “Huh? Where to?” “Let’s go to the public library! They have got to have something for this on some book or something!” says Tony as he makes a fist out of his hand, determined to exit the house. Efferty grins. “The fuck Tony? You are gonna believe this shit?” he looks at Tony with a disappointed face for believing so easily a scrap of paper. “Aren’t you even a little curious? What if this shit is real?! What if it exists and it is INDEED a map that can lead to a treasure?!” Tony starts talking like an obsessed researcher who just found out that his theory could be valid. “Are you serious right now, Tony?” Efferty starts laughing at his gullible friend. Then, when seeing Tony serious, he continues: “Are you for real? Are you believing all of this?” Efferty tries to reason with Tony who keeps insisting on his thoughts. “Why not? So many things haven’t been discovered you know! People… archaeologists… historians…many have been searching for clues about so many things that haven’t been unravel yet! Every day, something, somewhere in the world, is being discovered! What if this Copper Scroll could also”—Tony gets rudely interrupted by his friend. “Tony, please. Get serious! Let’s just forget this shit and go back into building my paladin, ok?” Efferty turns his back on Tony, approaching his computer and starting up his game again. He looks at Tony, who gets a hold of the letter and checking the other pages. “Tony, for god’s sake!” then he stops, seeing as Tony doesn’t pay any attention to him. “Okay, whatever. Finish with your daydreaming and come play with me, alright?” he says as he starts playing his game. Tony puts the papers in his pockets, grabs his stuff and exits the house. “Tony, what the hell!” Efferty shouts and thinks if he should follow his friend or just leave him be. “Fuck!” he shouts and grabs his keys and exits his house. He spots Tony who walks rapidly and starts running in order to catch up to him. ***(Eventually, Efferty catches up to Tony) “Tony! Ok pal, look. Let’s just go to the library so you can get it out of your system. And then we go back to our game and forget this ever happen, ok?” Tony doesn’t give him any response and keeps checking some papers that the envelope contained. “So, um... what are you checking?” Efferty tries to have a conversation with his friend while they are headed towards the public library. “This was included with the letter. I wanna check what it shows. Looks like some weird language or something. And a code too, there, see?” Tony replies as he continues to check the papers without even looking at his friend. The two boys eventually reach the library and after asking for the librarian’s help, they are sitting on a table, checking the pages of an old, blue, ripped book. Then, Tony talks first. “There, see! It has the same symbol. It is the Copper Scroll’s symbol. Or something like it” he says while comparing the symbol written in the letter with the one in the book. “Unbelievable, right?! Oh man, it feels like a movie! A treasure hunt! And we will be on it!” Tony cannot control his excitement and the people around them look towards them angrily at annoyed for being noisy. “Tony, look... ok. We came here to satisfy your curiosity. But this is going to stop now, ok? There is no treasure hunt. There is no relic and no map to guide you there. Perhaps it’s a prank or somebody’s fantasy, but we don’t have to be idiots like them, ok? Let’s just drop it, come on!” Efferty starts feeling worn out for having a discussion of something that sounds like a pipe dream for kids. “Why are you so negative about it, Effer? You waste your energy and time playing a fantasy game. And now, we may came across something that could be 100% true and could make us filthy rich and you cannot give it a damn chance?!” Tony replies to him angrily. “Are you hearing yourself, Tony? That is A GAME. We know it’s not real, but it gives us fun times. Someone writes a bunch of crap on a piece of paper, and you suddenly feel like Indiana Jones? That you are going to unravel a mystery and find a lost relic?! This is more imaginary than any fantasy game we play, you know!” The tension begins to rise between the two boys. Eventually, the librarian steps in and stops them. “It’s nice that you boys are lively and enthusiastic, but here is a library! You must be dead silent. And, please, leave. We are closing in five minutes”. “Fine” both boys muttered. ***(Towards the alley and Efferty’s house) “You feel alright there Tony?” Efferty asks with a concern for his friend, thinking they haven’t exchanged any words since the dispute at the library. “I just don’t get why you are so negative. I didn’t say we abandoned our homes right now and start searching for it. I just wanna talk about the POSSIBILITY of it being true” replies a lost in deep thoughts, Tony. As the boys take the turn that leads to Efferty’s house, they suddenly hear a gunshot. “WHAT THE FUCK?!” both boys instantly freeze. “Effer…it..it sounded like coming from close to your house…right?!”. “To-Tony…that way…” Efferty manages to get a hold of himself and the two boys turn around, trying to find another way to approach the house so they will not be spotted. From some distance, as they hide behind some huge barrels, they managed to see that the door of Efferty’s house has been breached and they hear several voices coming over from inside the house. Between the sounds of things falling apart, yelling and fighting, they manage to hear these words: “WHERE THE HELL IS THE LETTER, BAIAS? YOU SAID LINUS WOULD RECEIVE IT TODAY”. Cold sweat is running down the boys’ faces. They try not to make any sound. “Lower the gun, I told you already! I followed the guy but lost him. I know he didn’t deliver it to the designated point. I don’t know who informed him, but I’m sure he didn’t deliver it to Linus directly. Someone else must have gotten the envelope. Either by accident or on purpose” said the person who seemed to be the so-called ‘Baias’. “You better be right about it because I don’t see what else you can offer me, Baias”. “Let’s search the whole neighbourhood around” ‘Baias’ replied. “If what you say it’s true, the delivery point was changed, and somebody got the letter incognito”.  “Yes” ‘Baias’ replied. “Okay men, listen up! We have some ‘cleaning’ to do. Find the receiver and make sure he ends up buried” said the voice that seemed to command everyone. That was what, Tony and Efferty, two simple young men, heard that evening. And their lives would soon change from simple to complicated.

gkk0kx

The Church of the Falls

Twenty-five years ago, I was cursed by a witch. Now everything I touch turns to water. Sure, it’s not so bad when I need a bath, but it sure has made relationships tough. It’s also made my living situation tricky, but I’ve discovered a loophole. If I’m already in water, I don’t turn anything to water. I may not have gills or a tail, but I’m as close to a merman as you can get without them. I’ve taken over an abandoned grotto and I’ve had some pretty comfortable furniture delivered. Sleeping is not the most comfortable, but I don’t have much of a choice. I tried out inflatables first, needless to say that didn’t work. I had a bed built that is fully submerged, and I’ve learned to live with just an inch or two of my body being wet. I’m sure you have a lot of questions, usually the first one I get is, “Why on earth did a witch hex you?” Well, because I kind of dared her to. I insulted her magic skills and after telling her the story of King Midas, I happened to mention that she could never be as powerful as that witch. Of course, hexing me to turn everything gold could make me rich, so she wasn’t so kind. Turning everything to water was a neat party trick at first, it really helped me pick up the ladies. Of course, until I tried to actually PICK UP the ladies. It got tiring after a few weeks. She refused to undo her hex, even after I tried to trick her into doing so by telling her she couldn’t. Now she claims the Spirits won’t allow her too. You see, she is also a seer, and claims this curse she calls a “gift” that she bestowed on me is meant for some greater good. By my best estimation, I can only guess that it will be the opposite of the great flood that Noah built his ark for. The whole world is going to embark on a season of drought, and only I can pull them through it.  A bit absurd if you ask me. She also refuses to tell me when this is due to happen, so who knows how long I’ll be stuck like this. In the meantime, I’ve been making the best of it. After a few months of my curse, I came across a haggard man who had been travelling alone. I convinced him I was the second coming of Jesus, but instead of turning water to wine, I could turn anything into water. I like to think of him as my minion now, he handles all of the deliveries to my grotto, coordinates my finances and sets up any contractors I may need. How do we fund all of this you may ask? Well, we started a bit of a cult. He calls it a church, but he doesn’t know any better. Our acolyte’s tithes provide everything we need. Sure, I feel like a bit of a zoo exhibit, but it sure beats any other profession I had tested out. The Church of the Falls we call it, named after the waterfall that cascades down my grotto entrance. We hold our mass just outside of it in the deep pool. I often hear the congregation speaking in hushed tones about what must lay beyond the waterfall in my private residence. It’s amazing to me how many of them buy this story, that I am blessed by God. My cover was almost blown when the witch who cursed me attended one of our masses. She looked at me with disdain from the crowd. Apparently doing God’s work wasn’t doing Gods work. Okay, I know I’m not supposed to profit from being a Prophet, but who knows when my skills are actually going to be needed. What am I supposed to do until then? I can’t go get a real job, because I’ll turn the whole office into water. I guess I could clean fish tanks at the aquarium by the seaside, but other than that I’m out of ideas. There has been no sign of any drought on the horizon, it still rains at least twice a week here and I’m growing impatient. As such, I decided to ask my witch to fashion me a pair of magical gloves so I can try to find my way back into being a useful member of society. She has agreed, and told me she has had another vision of my short-term fate. I am to join her on a journey across the sea, with my entire congregation. I’ve convinced them all this excursion has been demanded by God, that we are the worthy crew to spread his word, and every last one of them has followed. We have been at sea for six days, fortunately we were able to pack light as I am able to conjure water as needed, well at least until we run out of all the lightweight and useless items we stowed for me to transfigure. In the middle of the night, I awoke to screams coming from the deck. Somehow the majority of the upper deck was aflame. I removed my gloves and began turning any item I thought we could spare to water. In my haste, I accidentally discovered that touching the flames themselves turned them to water with only minimal burn damage to my skin. By the time the deck was out, my arms were a mess of scars and discoloration, but the witch stood at the wheel with a smile on her face. I had saved the entire ship. Apparently, this was my mission, to save these acolytes whose lives I had altered. The next day we arrived on a small island, the entire crew disembarking with the necessary tools and gear. Only the witch and I remained behind. “That was it? That is what this power was meant for? Just to save this crew, who were only here because they were following me in the first place?” “I’m afraid so,” she sighed. “Sometimes our actions are more than just a mere drop in a pond. Sometimes their ripples can create tsunamis.” I was disappointed, but I also furrowed my brows in confusion. “I don’t even know how the fire started in the first place. You were the only one on deck.” She looked at me and chuckled. “it’s not only your own future I saw, but mine as well. The visions told me to start that fire, that it was the push you needed to recognize how your actions have affected these men.” “Well, that’s pretty messed up considering you started all of this by cursing me. And now what? This island looks deserted.” “It is. Now you use your gift to help them start a new life while the rest of the world burns. It wasn’t just our ship on fire, but our ship was the only one with you on it. Welcome to the new world.”

hms9np

The war

Henry woke at the crack of dawn, stretched and ate breakfast. His mother came to sit beside him. “so how school going?” His mother asked. “Oh the usual.” Henry said. “Tell me was there anything special?” His mother asked Henry. “Nothing” Henry said. “Really?” His Mother asked. Suddenly a siren blared a long note and an emergency notification appeared on his mother’s phone: Air raid incoming. Go to the nearest shelter. If you cannot get to one take cover under a table and stay away from the windows. “Well that’s something new.” Henry joked. “Now is not the time for jokes.” His mother stated “now get on the car!” His mother said. he needed to help the nation. It was then that he knew he had to join the fight. The car stopped and his mother shoved him into the dark bunker closing the door behind him. “Now duck and cover!” His mother shouted at Henry worry in her eyes. Henry crouched and covered his head his mother did the same along with lots of others the bunker was crowded. A loud boom echoed through the bunker followed by several more the ground shook and the lights flickered. Then a loud crash of toppling infrastructure that shook the bunker. They stayed in the bunker until a notification was sent that it was safe to leave. As they stepped out of the bunker they saw the damage they stepped over rubble and saw countless bulletholes in buildings like a slice of Swiss cheese. Now Henry was certain that he needed to join the army. “Mom I want to join the army.” Henry said. “WHAT? No my dear you are staying with me.” His mother said. “Mom I need to help the nation I need to help win this war.” Henry said “I want to help.” The next day Henry found himself signing up for the military. His mom like it or not had to agree her son’s determination was just too much for her. As they ate dinner together Henry thought of what great things he could do in the military while his mom thought of the dangers he would face. As the days passed his mothers fear grew more and more and Henry’s excitement grew and grew. When the day the day finally came for Henry to leave for military training Henry was ecstatic his mom was not when the bus came. “Do you really have to join?” His mom asked she knew the answer was going to be yes. It was. “Mom I need to help and not be a helpless baby anymore.” Henry said. Then he got on the bus. “Bye mom.” He said as he sat down. His mom waved goodbye tears streaming down her cheeks. She waved and waved until he was too far to see. Henry rode the bus as it stopped at the next station another boy came onto the bus he was about the same age as him and had brown hair “hey I’m Jeff” said the new kid. “Hello Jeff.” Said Henry. They stayed quiet for a while. “Hey Jeff.” Henry said. “Hey Henry.” Jeff said. “Why did you decide to join?” Henry asked. “Mom made me join.” Jeff said. “I decided myself” Henry said. “Wow you must be determined then” Jeff said. “We have arrived now get off!” A gruff voice shouted from the front of the bus. Henry and Jeff obeyed. As soon as they got off the bus blasted away. “Wow that’s guy really was the worst!” Henry said. “Yeah he was.” Jeff said. They were greeted by a soldier who lead them to a room filled with teenagers this is where you will take the test he said and guided Henry to a half walled room and guided Jeff to some where else. He was handed a piece of paper a pen and a test sheet. “You have thirty minutes to complete this test.” A man in a military uniform said. The man walked away and Henry was left alone he felt the pressure on him to complete this task. Thirty minutes later the same man who had spoken to him before came and took his test, pen and paper. He was led into a waiting room and sat down in a chair time seemed to slow and it felt like hours and hours. When a man finally arrived it felt like a million years had passed since he had arrived in this waiting room. “Congratulations you have passed the test and training will initiate shortly.” An officer said as another guided him to another building. He sat down in a chair in another waiting room he waited and waited and waited and waited at last he was guided into gym were he did countless pushups, pull-ups and lifted weights after the seemingly never ending training his body was aching and he was out of breath. He was handed a heavy bag and a woman said “your next set of training will initiate next morning.” And with that he was led to a huge grass field a the officers left him alone. Henry thought to him self “ where am I supposed to sleep?” He looked around and saw no buildings only the one that he had just left so he looked in his bag and found a tarp, metal rods and a flare gun. “Oh so I build my own tent that’s easy.” He thought to himself. Turns out it wasn’t he tried and failed and failed and failed and failed until he just decided to wrap him self in the tarp it was uncomfortable and he kept saying to himself why did I join why did i join! After an uncomfortable night’s sleep he heard a bugle and knew it was time to start training we rolled out of the tarp and packed it in his bag and was led to a cafeteria where he ate a surprisingly tasty breakfast after that he was led to an out door shooting range. “Oh no I’m terrible with a gun!” He thought to himself and just like Jeff could read his mind Jeff appeared from nowhere. “He you can do this!” He said. And Henry loaded his gun and took his fist shot.

vv5jx5

Lost in the Mail: Just in Time

The doorbell’s sudden ring jolted John from an article he’d been reading on electrodynamics. Nestled comfortably in his study, it was Saturday morning, and the Berkeley professor was alone and undisturbed until that moment. A sigh of annoyance escaped him as he glanced at his watch; it read eleven fifteen. His daughter, Amanda, was at work, and his wife was out with friends for brunch. John set his magazine aside, then heaved himself up and lumbered out of his study. Ahead, down the hallway, he could see their mailman, Terrance, through the window, which brought a smile to his face. For as long as John could remember, he loved getting mail, especially the plethora of scientific magazines he had subscribed to over the years. He smiled at Terrance through the window as he opened the door. “Good morning, young man.” Smiling and affable, Terrance had been a neighborhood favorite ever since he’d taken over for their previous letter carrier, who had retired. Like John, Terrance was tall and broad. When they first met, both had agreed that it was nice to talk with someone eye to eye once in a while, rather than having to constantly look down. “Hey, Mr. Noles,” Terrance said, handing John a bundle of mail. “You hit the jackpot today. Just look at all your magazines.” John smiled at the pile of mail in his arm. “This will keep me busy all weekend.” His face turned serious as he looked at Terrance. “And I hope you’ve taken care of our bills?” Terrance laughed. “Of course. As usual, I left them with the Paulsons next door.” “That’s great. I’ll thank Bill and Sandy tonight. We’re invited over for barbecue.” John was about to thank Terrance when he noticed him holding out a letter. “What’s this?” “It’s why I rang the bell,” he said, showing John a letter. “They’re renovating the post office and found this tucked between equipment.” John took the envelope and examined it. Thick and weighty—and affixed with three John Steinmetz twenty-cent stamps—the envelope was postmarked December 12, 1983. Scribbled in cursive with somewhat poor penmanship was John’s address, but the envelope bore the name Luis Alvarez, a professor of physics at Berkeley during the 1970s and 80s. Owned by the university, John’s house had been home to several professors over the years, including Luis, a 1968 Nobel Laureate, and his family. John, however, couldn’t hide his surprise when he glanced at the sender’s name on the letter: Richard Feynman. John nodded, narrowing his eyes in thought as he looked at Terrance. “Interesting. Very interesting,” he said, musing over the letter again. He mumbled to himself, “After all these years…” then, after a long pause, he shrugged. “Well, I thank you. My Saturday just got a whole lot more interesting.” “I bet it has. Oh… and our station manager sends her apologies.” Terrance gestured toward the letter. “You know… because we lost it.” “Nobody’s perfect,” John replied, turning the envelope over, glancing at the back. He looked up at Terrance and smiled. “Better late than never. Anyway, stay cool in this heat.” “Thanks. I will.” Terrance turned and strode across the street. John turned and went inside, dumping the armload of mail unceremoniously on a hallway hutch. The excitement over the magazines from earlier had almost become an afterthought as he stared at the letter. Should I open it? Do I even have that right?  The letter wasn’t addressed to him, and although Luis had died long ago, his family might still appreciate it. Its age and the fame of both professors weighed heavily on John. The letter might be a part of history, and the decision to open it or not seemed fraught with significance. He returned to his study and collapsed into his leather recliner with a sigh, noting Feynman’s poor handwriting. On the wall opposite his recliner sat a large chalkboard, scribbled with his own equations and handwriting only another physicist could read and appreciate. Stacks of papers, books, and magazines filled every surface, all organized in a manner that only made sense to John. This included an old mahogany desk, crafted by his grandfather before World War I, that sat prominently in the room’s center. To his right, a large bookshelf filled with hundreds of books covered the wall. What could Feynman want with Alvarez? They had worked together on the Manhattan Project. Was the letter personal, or was it a professional matter? Since it was addressed to Luis in his capacity as a department head at Berkeley, John guessed it was likely the latter. On the other hand, the fact that Feynman wrote it himself, and not typed by a secretary, suggested that it might be personal. If either man were still alive, John wouldn’t even consider opening the letter. But the mystery got the better of him, and decided to open it. He stood and retrieved the chrome-plated letter opener from his desk, carefully inserting the sharp blade. With ease, it cut a smooth opening across the envelope’s top. With reverence, he eased the pages out, unfolding them. Strangely, John found himself breathing heavily, his heart rate elevated. The handwriting suggested the letter was personal, causing a pang of guilt to course through him. When he saw the mathematical equations on the remaining pages, however, his guilt faded. He glanced over the equations, recognizing the math, but not the intent, then returned to the first page and sat down. Dear Luis, Your letter was a welcome surprise, and it brought a smile to my face. I apologize for not writing back sooner; I’ve only just returned to California. You are correct, old friend, it has been too long. But please know, I’m never too busy to help a friend, despite what others might say. So, next time, don’t hesitate to reach out. As you’ve requested, I have omitted any reference to your premise to safeguard your privacy to the fullest. To start, I was rightfully skeptical when I read your hypothesis, as I’m sure you can understand. Rarely, if ever, do bold claims like this one (and some I’ve made myself over the years) come to fruition. You know this, of course, but have never shied away from difficult concepts, and I’m honored that you’ve sought my expertise. You were correct; your equations contained an error that remained elusive for many days. It wasn’t until I was able to sit and devote enough thought that I identified it, which also contributed to my late reply. As you can see on the following pages, I’ve corrected the error and rewritten your equations. I must admit, your equations intrigue me. They possess a beautiful symmetry, an elegance that fills me with awe and wonder. One can only hope that your experiments prove fruitful someday. Should you succeed, your discovery could reshape our understanding of the universe. Yet, we both know how difficult that path can be from concept to reality. Many wondrous ideas grace the minds of people like us, but so few ever blossom into something real. As I’ve written before: ‘Nature’s imagination is so much greater than man’s; she shows us only the surface of her beauty.’ Good luck, Luis. And rest assured, I will keep your hypothesis and equations between us. In kind regard, Richard. The short hairs prickled up along John’s arms. He reread the letter again, then sat back and studied the diagrams and equations. After a long while, he reached the last page, but still only had a cursory understanding of what Luis was trying to solve. From what John could tell, the equations were incomplete; Luis had intentionally left out key components. Without them, no one, including Richard Feynman, could fully understand Luis’ intent. What have you discovered, Luis? Like many physicists, Luis had engaged in various experiments throughout his life, some of which were likely known only to close friends and family. John himself had several ongoing experiments in his basement workshop. But John was acutely aware of the challenges alluded to by Richard in the pursuit of publishing meaningful, peer-reviewed work. Every physicist he knew, including himself, had harbored many game-changing ideas that eventually failed the test of time. The path from brilliant insight to validated theory was fraught with uncertainty and disappointment, a journey as thrilling as it was often unfulfilling. Yet something in Richard’s words resonated with John. The fact that Feynman had devoted enough time and energy to the idea suggested that Luis might indeed have stumbled onto something meaningful. The questions that lingered in John’s mind were unsettling: Had Luis abandoned his pursuit of this idea simply because he hadn’t heard back from Richard? Or had he perhaps discovered his own mistake, only to find a fatal flaw that ultimately disproved his hypothesis? The physicist in John couldn’t allow either question to fester unfulfilled. He had to see this mystery to its conclusion.  Abruptly, John stood, crossing his study with a determined gait. He set the letter on his desk and then stood before his chalkboard, examining six months of relentless mental work. Without hesitation, he grabbed the eraser and wiped the board clean. He knew he had the equations backed up, both as photos on his phone and in hard-copy, neatly organized in a three-ring binder on his bookshelf. He then turned and withdrew the first page of equations from the letter, and began to work, scribbling furiously like a man possessed. In no time, John found himself in his zone. All other sounds and concerns from the world around him receded from his consciousness. Although John wasn’t specialized in eigenstates of quantized systems, he had sufficient knowledge to expand on Luis’ equations. The original mistake had led to incorrect eigenvalues, an issue that Richard had addressed and fixed. Now, the data fell into place, but without the underlying framework and notes from Luis, John’s efforts to unravel the mystery were in vain.  Fortunately for John, he was acquainted with Luis’ son, Walter, who had also become a Berkeley professor, specializing in Earth and Planetary Science. Now retired, Walter had gained fame for his own theory that an asteroid impact had caused the extinction of the dinosaurs. It was also a fortunate coincidence that John’s wife, Lucy Emmons-Noles, was a Berkeley professor as well, having studied under Walter Alvarez during her degree in archaeology. If Luis had maintained any notes about his research, and if Walter had kept them, John was hopeful he might allow him access. If needed, John could always appeal to Walter’s natural curiosity as the dedicated scholar they knew him for. How could he possibly say no?  Morning had become early afternoon when something in the periphery of John’s vision tugged at his sub-conscience. He ignored it, focusing on his work. In his haste, he had already broken several pieces of chalk. Despite its inconvenience, and the occasional nail scratch on the board, something he detested, John preferred the old-school use of chalk over dry erase markers; it was a hazard he accepted and knew well. Eventually, someone cleared their throat to his right. John turned and found his wife, Lucy, standing in the open double doorway, a bag of groceries in her arm, an eyebrow raised in amusement. “Who are you, and what have you done with my husband?” John stared, blinking, becoming aware of the chalk dust that covered his hands, chin, and dark, button-up dress shirt. “What?” “What?” Lucy replied, her expression incredulous. “First, you dumped the mail on the hutch without sorting it—something you’ve never done. And second, you’ve erased your chalkboard.” She grinned, teasingly adding, “Where is the John I know?” He ignored his wife’s well-founded questions—questions born from years of knowing him and his particular habits. He set the chalk down, rubbing both hands on his pants, and showed her the letter. And for the next several minutes, John almost couldn’t contain himself as his words tumbled out in a rush, his voice filled with excitement. Lucy shrugged. “Great. Walter will be thrilled.” She turned to leave the study, adding over her shoulder, “Go get cleaned up. We’re having dinner with the Paulsons, remember?” John stared in disbelief at her back. How could she simply shrug off such a potential discovery? And with his mind in a whirlwind of equations, how could he possibly settle down for regular conversation over dinner? John could almost picture his wife and neighbors snapping their fingers to get his attention, as had happened before. He wasn’t proud of it, but once an idea took hold of his imagination, focusing on anything else became nearly impossible. The world around him would fade away, and the concept would consume him, leaving little room for everyday concerns.                                                *** It was Sunday morning as John slowed the car, searching the addresses along Benvenue Avenue, south of campus. “There, ahead on the corner,” Lucy said, pointing. John pulled over and parked. Dinner with the neighbors the previous evening had gone better than expected. They had shared his fascination with the letter and agreed that opening it was appropriate. They had even encouraged him to reach out to Walter late yesterday afternoon, just before dinner. To his surprise, Walter’s response to the letter was less than enthusiastic, at least by what John could tell over a phone. Nonetheless, Walter had agreed to a meeting, sounding eager for the company, and invited John and Lucy over for morning coffee. Lined with plum and Chinese Pistache trees, Benvenue Avenue was quaint and quiet in the cool morning air, save for the cheerful birdsong that greeted John and Lucy as they exited their Tesla. Known for its architecture, Berkeley had its stately Victorians, dark-wooded Craftsman bungalows, and Storybook houses, many of which were built before the Second World War. Sprinkled among them were newer, mid-century modern homes constructed in the 1960s. Walter and Milly Alvarez’s residence was no exception. Well-maintained, their two-story home was a perfect fit for the charming neighborhood, with the front door centered on a modestly sized front porch. On time, the Noles climbed the steps precisely at nine and as Lucy reached for the bell, Walter and his wife, Milly, appeared at their screened door. “Welcome John and Lucy,” Milly said, unlocking the door. “I think it’s been five years since we last saw you.” She opened the door, allowing the Noles to step in. “The fundraiser for breast cancer, I believe,” Walter added, smiling at the couple. “Yes, it was the fundraiser,” Lucy said, turning to look up at John, who towered over everyone. “You remember that, don’t you?” “As forgetful as I am, I do remember,” John replied, amiably. Walter shook his head. “Father was the same way. Always forgetting things. He had too much running through that brain of his. You physicists are all the same.” John shrugged in a helpless gesture, conceding Walter’s point. “Please, have a seat,” Milly said, gesturing to a large sitting room to their left. “Would either of you like tea or coffee?” Lucy looked up at John. “He’ll have coffee,” she said, then turned to Milly. “And I’ll have tea. But please, let me help.” “Oh, it’s no bother,” Milly said, heading down a hallway. Lucy followed while John and Walter sat on two chairs opposite a couch.                                                *** For nearly an hour, they talked over coffee, tea, and freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, but John found himself unable to focus on the conversation. Instead, he resorted to his usual tactic of nodding his head and pretending to listen. He was sure that Lucy had noticed; she always seemed to. When Walter finally brought up the subject of the letter, Lucy retrieved it from her purse and handed it to him. John observed Walter as he read it, searching for any hint of a reaction. But the man, whom John guessed was in his early eighties, offered no expression, his face an unreadable mask. After a minute, Walter quickly skimmed the equations, then shrugged, and, somewhat surprisingly, handed the letter back. He looked at Lucy, then at John. “Living under the shadow of a famous physicist, I have witnessed many such ‘discoveries’ before. That letter is just one of many examples over the years. If you like, I could show you.” Sighing, the tinge of disappointment running through him didn’t surprise John. As a physicist, he knew disappointment and, in his heart, knew Walter was right. Walter must have seen John’s disappointment and added, “But you’re welcome to his research.” He gestured to a box on the floor near the coffee table. John pulled the box closer while everyone continued to talk. Filled with dozens of notebooks and binders, John sifted through them, noting their labeled dates. One binder marked ‘1980-’ with no end date caught his attention. Incidentally, John had read on Wikipedia that both Luis and Richard had died in 1988. If Luis had kept his research with regard to the letter, it would be in the binder John placed on his lap. Opening the cover, he found the binder organized by three colored tabs, each labeled by the year. First was 1980, then 1981, but the final tab, near the back, had something else entirely. Luis had drawn a smiley face on the tab. John flipped to the section, noting the title scribbled across the top. ‘Mercury and a Cyclotron: Methods for Achieving Time Dilation?’ He furrowed his brows and began reading Luis’ hypothesis under the title. As he read, goosebumps rippled across John’s body. He flipped through the equations—those absent from the letter—and stared in disbelief. John hadn’t noticed his labored breathing, nor the bead of sweat on his forehead, but Lucy had from the alarmed look on her face when John looked up at her. Great Scott, Luis! You’ve discovered how to travel through time!    

r70uj7

Distort 3000

Hey. Testing testing. If you get this can you reply and tell me what time it is? -19.45 Hi. Sorry, who is this, I don’t have your number saved? It’s 6.45. Your message is time-stamped 7.45, your phone time’s wrong. -18.45 Holy shit. No way. I don’t believe this actually works. Sorry, just to be sure, is this Dave? -19.46 Yeah, it’s Dave, who’s this? -18.46 My phone time’s not wrong. It’s 7.45. This is so weird, your messages are popping into the chat up before mine, chronologically. I have to keep scrolling back up to read them. Crazy! -19.47 Lol what are you on about? Who is this? Mitch? Did you get a new phone? -18.47 Your messages are time-stamped an hour ago. Nope, it’s not Mitch.  Come on, Mitch would not be nerdy enough to come up with a gag like this! -19.47 Lorraine? Sam? -18.47 Nope, lol. Not Alan or Keith either and that’s literally all the friends you have so who does that leave? -19.47 Okay, I don’t actually have time for games right now, I’m meeting someone in a few minutes. -18.48 No, you’re not. She’s not going to show. You’ve been stood up, you just don’t know it yet. -19.48 What? -18.48 Your tinder date. ‘IrishSoph84’. She ghosted you. Which is really annoying because she seemed interested and kept a chat going all week. She’s the one who organised the date! What the hell is wrong with people? -19.48 Okay now I know it’s you, Mitch. How did you know who I was chatting to? Did you hack my phone, you dick? -18.49 LOL. Still giving Mitch way too much credit, I don’t think I’d do that but maybe I would in your position. Go on, check Tinder. Her messages are gone. Ghosted. -19.49 What the fuck? I don’t understand, we were supposed to be meeting at 7, she arranged it! -18.49 Told you! Such BS. So sick of online dating, can’t trust anyone. -19.50 Okay seriously who is this? -18.51 Don’t worry about her. You’re going to meet someone much more interesting, trust me. -19.52 Oh really? Who, you? I suppose you know what bar I’m heading to? -18.52 Mulligans. Except right now you’re in Starbucks across the road scoping it out because you’re early and don’t want to be sitting in there on your own. Also, waiting to see her arrive to make sure she’s the same as her photos and they weren’t from about ten years and twenty kilograms ago. -19.52 Who am I talking to? Tell me now or I’m blocking you. -18.52 LOL. That’s impossible. I am one person you definitely can’t block. Chance would be a fine thing. -19.53 And why is that? What’s so special about you? -18.53 Glad you asked. What’s special about YOU? -19.53 Okay, bye. -18.53 Wait! Sorry, sorry, I just wanted to have a bit of fun before dropping the bomb. This is just so fucked up and weird. The reason you can’t block me is…dun dun duuunnn…I’m you, texting you from exactly one hour in the future with this weird phone thing called a Distort 3000 I got from the poor bastard you’re going to meet in Mulligans in a few minutes. -19.54 What the fuck are you talking about? Come on, Mitch, this is ridiculous. I swear to God if you hacked my phone and unmatched me from Sophie I’ll kick your ass, man. Jesus. -18.54 For God's sake, I’m not Mitch! I’m you. Seriously. You were sitting there drinking a flat white thinking up a story about a possessed old woman for this week’s writing contest, okay, how else would I know that? I know this is fucked up. I wouldn’t know what to make of it from your end either. I’m sitting here in the car laughing like a lunatic myself because I can’t believe this is real. The car on Kilbrasil Street, behind the filthy van that someone wrote ‘I wish my wife was as dirty as this’ on with their finger? -19.55 That’s my car. -18.55 Exactly! You left it about fifteen minutes ago and I got into it about fifteen minutes ago and I’ve been playing with this phone Thatcher showed me before he ran off like he was being chased by Freddy Krueger. -19.55 I don’t understand. Thatcher? -18.55 The drunk in the bar. I think that’s what he said his name was. I can see why he was freaking out now. This technology is insane. -19.56 So it’s a phone that can text the past? -18.56 Yes! Text only, no audio or visual. I don’t know how it works, something to do with a temporal chip in the satellite it connects through, can send and receive. He was babbling about it like Doc in Back to the Future, how it was an accidental invention that could be dangerous in the wrong hands, all that shit. So he stole it from work! I’m not making this up! -19.56 Send me a pic. -18.56 Oh shit…guess what I just got! A pic? -19.56 A selfie. To prove this is real. I’ll send one back. What did you get? -18.56 LOL I don’t need one back, I know where I was an hour ago. Here you go. Nothing much to see, I’m as un-photogenic as you are. And our car is filthy. I just got a notification of today’s winning lotto numbers :)  You okay? -19.56 I can’t get my head around this. You’re me, in my car, an hour from now? Did we win? -18.56 Yes, yes and yes. And no, we didn’t win, not with the ticket we bought this morning anyway. You should head over to Mulligans, I went over about now. Don’t want to risk missing Thatcher. -19.56 I’m really not sure I want to go down this road. It seems risky. Messing with time. Marty almost ceased to exist in Back to the Future. -18.56 That’s because his mum fell in love with him. Ugh. You have to go in. Could be more dangerous not to. What if I cease to exist? I’m your future! What happens to you then? -19.57 I don’t know. Okay, this is against my better judgement but I’m heading in. How will I know this guy? -18.57 LOL you won’t have to, just go order a pint. He’s the only one sitting at the bar, he’ll start talking, just go along with it, even though you’ll want to run away. At least you won’t be anxious waiting for Sophie. -19.57 I feel like I’m going crazy. -18.57 Me too. This is going to sound weird but a couple of Asian dudes have just come into the street here and I think they’re coming my way. -19.57 What? -18.57 Shit, they are. Oh fuck they look pissed. I’m going to move, get into Mulligans. Text you in a bit. -19.58 What? What’s going on, who are they? Hello? Fucks sake. This has to be some kind of joke. - 18.58 Sorry, was driving. It’s no joke. It’s actually getting deadly serious. Are you with Thatcher? -20.18 Yeah. He’s a mess. Think he’s been drinking all day. I wouldn’t believe what he’s telling me if not for you. What’s deadly serious? -19.19 I didn’t believe it either. I wanted to get away from him at the start but I stayed because he was someone to chat to while I was waiting for Sophie. Bitch. Probably about now I checked the app and noticed she’d unmatched. Has anybody weird come into the bar? -20.19 Weirder than him, talking about distort technology that can send messages back in time? Or me sitting beside him texting myself in the future? No, nobody weirder than that. -19.21 Are you sure? Look. Something spooked him bad when I was with him. Probably a couple of yakuza-looking motherfuckers. Listen, it doesn’t matter, he’s going to show you the phone soon. Man. I really don’t know what to tell you here. My mind is racing. -20.21 Hard to text without him seeing. Yakuza? What? The guys from the street before? -19.22 Yeah. This is the thing. They must know I have the phone. Maybe Thatcher told them. They ran for me when I drove off and a few minutes later a car was following me. I didn’t want to go home, kept driving around. Think I lost them. I’m in McDonalds drive thru now. Slow as always. -20.23 What the fuck? So you took this guy’s phone? Why would you do that? -19.24 I didn’t! He ran off like I said, so I left and when I got back to the car I noticed it was in my jacket pocket. He must have slipped it in there. I wasn’t planning to keep it. I was going to go back in and find him but then I thought I’d try it out first. Out of curiosity. Has he got it out of the briefcase yet? -20.26 Wish you hadn’t. Yeah, he’s holding it now. Stupid looking thing, who’d want a round phone? He’s so drunk. Freaking me out talking about the fall of nations and the end of society and shit. So he stole it from the tech company he works for. Not sure why, he wasn’t thinking, just grabbed it while he had the chance. But he says they’re after him now. Why am I telling you all this, you’ve already heard it. -19.29 Shit, they just drove by, think they saw me. I’m going to try and get home. Fuck fuck fuck, there’s two cars. They definitely see me, pulled in across the road, watching. Damn this slow-ass drive thru. -20.29 Don’t go home! Don’t drag mum into this! -19.29 Shit, yeah. Okay. Shit. I’m going to head out of town. Try and lose them. What’s happening? Any scary bastards come in? -20.29 I don’t see anything. He’s having some kind of panic attack. Says they’re going to kill him, he saw too much. Everyone’s looking. Sorry, man, I think I’m just going to leave. -19.33 4, 7, 22, 25, 31, 36 -20.33 What? -19.33 Don’t leave! You need to get the phone, just for a minute. https:www/lottero.ie/play-game Click that. Buy a ticket with those numbers. -20.33 I already got a ticket. Are you texting while driving? -19.33 Not with those numbers. Yeah, It’s life and death! And this phone is easy to type on, the circular design helps, I like it. Except for having to keep scrolling back to read your messages. Come on, is he still there? -20.33 Are you serious?  -19.33 Deadline for the draw is in ten minutes. Has to be round about now he runs off. Well? Are you there? -20.35 It’s all going down. Vodka Central just took off for the toilets like a lifetime of pukes are coming at once. Shit, there’s a couple of Asian dudes in dark glasses following him. Yakuza looking motherfuckers. -19.36 That's them, they’re still after me. Can’t shake them. Get out of there! Buy the ticket! -20.36 He slipped the phone in my pocket before he ran off, like you said. Where are you now? -19.37 Told you. I’m outside the garda station on Eastmoreland Street. Thought it might be safe but don’t know. Those fuckers want their phone, not sure going to the police will do any good. -20.38 We’ve watched too many movies. Just go in and ask for help. Fuck this is insane. -19.38 Yeah, maybe. Five minutes, get back to the car and buy the ticket! -20.38 I can do it here. -19.38 No, get out of there before they realise Thatcher doesn't have the phone! Hurry! -19.39 Okay, okay, I'm going. -19.39 I see them again, just cruised by me slow. They're just stalking me. I don’t think the guards will be able to help. They won't believe me. -20.40 Ticket bought. I can’t believe this is happening. Are those really the winning numbers? -19.41 Yes! I wasn't sure if that would work but I have the confirmation in my email now! One winner, man. We are millionaires! -20.42 Are you shitting me? -19.42 No shitting. Now we just have to figure out how to live to enjoy it. One of us anyway. Are you in the car? -20.43 What do you mean ‘one of us’? Yeah, I am. -19.43 Okay, get out of there, before they come out. If you leave now they'll never know you exist.  You should be safe then. -20.43 Sounds good to me. What about you, are you okay? Hello? What’s happening? -19.48 Sorry. Had to move again. Thinking. -20.49 Move where? You didn’t go to the guards? -19.49 No. I told you that’s not going to help. Those guys are everywhere. Tried to lose them but they keep turning up. -20.50 Jesus. I don’t see any. Looks like I got away clean. -19.50 Lucky you. Don’t have me to thank for that or anything. Pain in the ass finding your replies now they're mixing in chronologically with mine. -20.50 Of course I do. I’m at McDonalds now. Man this is messed up, you’re going to be here in half an hour my time but you can’t be, because I’m you and I'm here now and you already left. How does this even make sense? If I wait around will you turn up?? -19.50 LOL. We broke time. Idk. I think I’m fucked. I drove to Greenan Woods. Ditched the car. Think they did too. Hear them coming. Think they have me surrounded. -20.51 Greenan Woods? Man, there’s nothing there, just get out of there. Past the tower and back down the hill, there’s a pub at the crossroads. But you know this. Call the guards! Hello? -19.53 It’s over. I got as far as the tower but they were right behind me so I had to go inside. I’m trapped. I have to give myself up. If I give them the phone, tell them I just got spooked and ran, it might be okay. Maybe. -20.53 I don’t think that’s a good idea. We’ve watched too many movies, remember? -19.54 Yeah. But they might just take it and go. You’re in the clear anyway. And you’re me so…I don’t know what that means. Self sacrifice, lol. Go home. Tell mum the good news. Make sure she's sitting down, you know how she gets weak with excitement. -20.54 Can you not just run? -19.55 Can’t run. Going. I won’t be able to text you again so just…enjoy the winnings. For both of us. Pick up some champagne and flowers on the way home. To celebrate with mum. Get the good stuff, from SuperValu on Lombard Street. Promise? -20.55 I promise but wait! There has to be a way. Are you there? Shit. I just got the winning lotto numbers notification. Thanks, Dave. And sorry. :( -19.55 I’m the one who has to say sorry. -21.35 Shit, you’re alive! I was just playing with the Distort to see how to select a time to text to. Was going to try warn you. Well, me. What happened? -20.35 I had to make some hard decisions. I’m really sorry. Don't mess with that thing ok. -21.35 What do you mean? Yeah I know, would erase the win lol. How are you still texting me, did you get away? -20.35 Yeah. I got away. -21.35 How?? What happened, are they still after you? I just got home. Mum’s not here. Might be next door with Mary. Still can’t believe we won the lotto. Three million!!! -20.36 I’m having trouble believing it myself. It’s messed up. Like how I’ve been texting myself, how I'm still texting myself now. Knowing what’s about to happen. I'm so sorry. -21.36 What do you mean? What’s going to happen? Where are you? - 20.36 Mum’s not with Mary, Dave. They’re both with me, at O’Reillys, having a celebratory drink. She's over the moon about the win, can't believe it. -21.37 What? O’Reillys? Shit, there’s somebody outside. I think it’s the guys from the bar! -20.37 Yeah, that’s them. I knew they’d stake out the house after I led them to it. -21.37 What? -20.38 I didn’t really go to Greenan Woods. And I was never at the garda station. I had to lie, to make you think I was somewhere else. I was thinking on the fly. Told you to go the Lombard Street Supervalu to make sure you didn't get home too soon. -21.38 They’re trying to get in! There’s more out the back. How did they find me? What did you do? -20.38 They’re not the guys from your timeline, Dave. They’re from mine. I let them follow me home, collected mum from next door and drove to O’Reilly’s, brought Mary and Michael too. When they didn’t try to get me at McDonalds I knew they wouldn’t come after me if I was with others. I knew they’d wait to get me alone when I came back. -21.38 I don’t understand. They’re in the house! Why? -20.39 They saw my face, they knew I lived local, they were never going to just take the device and leave me alone. You know that. We’ve seen enough movies. You're probably not getting these messages anymore. They've probably got you now. I'm sorry, Dave. One of us had to go. But I feel like a dick. Mum will be safe at least. And rich. The yakuza-bros from my timeline will think they got me and their phone back. The ones from your timeline never saw you so they won’t even be looking. I think. Hope they didn't kill you and leave your body there. I'm sure they didn't. They clearly didn't want to draw attention to themselves. Wonder if your car is going to be parked outside when I get home lol. How will I explain that? This time stuff is weird. I guess I get to keep my Distort 3000. But I won’t be texting any more past selves. Way too complicated. Thanks for doing the lotto, past me. RIP.   -21.38

rwuxrf

Fortune Teller

“I have to go.” Rachel sat there for a moment transfixed on her iPhone. Then, shot up explosively from their table with the white tablecloth stained by spilled red wine. Without a beat, she was on her phone. She barked furiously into the receiver.  She held it in front of her mouth about six inches from her face. Her head jerked forward with punchy exclamations. She turned her back to him and walked out. Jacob was left sitting at his table in the River Palm Terrace in Edgewater, a half-finished filet on his plate and a single unfinished Kettle One Martini besides. An untouched San Pellegrino with lemon slices bobbing on the surface also remained. He signaled the waiter for the check. When Jacob arrived at the valet stand, his wife was long gone. A Marlboro Red was perched between his trembling fingers, and its ember glowed red with each desperate drag. A hazy veil of smoke swirled around him. He slipped the attendant two crisp twenty-dollar bills, and got into his black Mercedes convertible, lowering the top and speeding out of the parking lot with a guttural growl. Rachel was not answering. He kept dialing as he drove down River Road. His wedding-ring tapped the smooth custom piano black steering wheel. Jacob’s life seemed to him to have been a series of disappointments. He had attained all the hallmarks of a good life, but none of his accomplishments had satisfied him. He obsessively focused on protecting what was his. Like a medieval lord erecting an edifice around his castle complete with moats, machicolations, outer walls, and fortified defenses, Jacob had meticulously planned out his life in a desperate attempt to cheat fate and secure his future against every invading force that might disrupt his plans. Only, he had failed to bring into submission the one locked away with him, making his stronghold a prison. Rachel was a chaotic storm in his perfectly ordered life. An untamable and devouring beast that prowled with unwavering focus, an unshakeable predator, impossible to escape. He kept looking down at his phone as the hum of the engine disrupted the still spring night. Jacob’s nerves were on edge because he did not know the nature of the trouble he was in. Restless eyes darted back and forth, alert to the looming dread just around the corner.   Anxious for news, Jacob looked for a place to pull off and found himself turning into a small fortune-teller’s shop on the side of the road that he had always noticed with curiosity. A prominent neon sign read BELA BASHEMATH’S PSYCHIC EMPORIUM. Two red curtains were pulled back inside the window. A crystal ball sat on a stand in the middle of the window frame, set on two crimson red pillows with gold embroidery and gold tassels. An ornate series of five interlocked dreamcatchers hung down to the side, adorned with a beard of eagle and hawk feathers. Other protective charms were displayed on the stool of the windowsill. A piece of blue topaz was set on a stand. A solid gold bee hung from a string, spinning, its stinger encrusted with purple amethyst stones.  By the crystal was a spinning mobile with fish carved from pink coral swimming in a never-ending loop. A slab of quartz also sat on the sill, acting as a stand with a large piece of mother of pearl displayed on a gold placement in the shape of a gold oyster shell. Jacob walked in through the heavy doors and the air tasted musty in the dimly lit inner chamber. Old lamps with bronze bases and stained art glass were set on tables around the foyer. One lamp had varicolored peony blossoms, another had quoizel violets, and yet another fruits and vegetables in vibrant yellows, reds, and greens. As Jacob entered a bell rung and an old grandfather clock chimed. As a door creaked open, a jingle of chimes announced the fortune-teller. “I am Bela Bashemath,” the old Jewish gypsy said, appearing before him in an oversized white linen blouse with flowery ornamentation. She wore an ornate red head wrapping with stiches like pizzelles, and it held back swaths of wild yellow and grey curls. Big gaudy gold hoop earrings were set off by hanging strings of pearls. She had too many bracelets to count and rings besides. Her owl-like eyes were covered with thick gold-framed lenses. Beneath a web of wrinkles an inviting glow emanated from within. It was as if the passage of years had gifted her cheeks with an otherworldly radiance, a faint glimmer that hinted at an ancient wisdom that could unearth the mysteries of one’s hidden future. She waived him into her divining room, and they sat across from one another at a round table with a red tablecloth, with a deck of tarot cards to his right side. As she sat, she closed her eyes and began a series of breathing exercises. Music began to play from an old record player, with the mystical sounds of a Sitar humming intricate patterns that cascaded like falling water, marked by a deep droning, carrying Jacob away on a river of longing notes. “Let us see what the present situation holds.” She turned over the first card, the Tower.  Bela gasped and her face fell. “Disaster. Upheaval. The current order is overthrown. The ground will shake underfoot. Lightning will fork from the heavens setting the stabilizing structure ablaze.” “Let us see what guidance fate has for you, in your time of trouble.” She turned over the second card, the Hanged Man. Bela gasped again, this time shaking her head side-to-side, and whispering, “no, no, no…”. She looked up and stared at Jacob, saying, “Prisoner, await judgment. Look on in chains as blood is shed. The world burns around you. Your fate is set, and you have no part to play. There is nothing you can do to prevent what lies ahead.” “Let us see what the resolution will be.” She turned over the third card, Death. This time, Bela nodded as if she expected this result. “Harbinger of change. The Reaper’s scythe severs the ties of the past, harvesting its lessons—and clearing the way for new seeds and shoots to gain sustenance and grow up in place of dead things.” As she looked up the trance was lifted and the music shuttered, leaving the dark room in a pall of eerie silence. “That is all. Your reading is done.” Jacob had listened incredulously, disbelieving the pronouncements he was given. He sat gazing into her unyielding eyes. “If my fate is sealed, then what good is free will?” “Do you fancy yourself the author of your own story?” “If not me, who else is writing it?” “Perhaps, you are not wrong. You have a role to play. Like the Captain of a ship with a destination itinerary, you are set on a one-way course, yet, you have no control over the storms and troubles you encounter in the way. It is for you to determine how you meet these pre-ordained obstacles; it is not yours to circumnavigate the unknowable. If it were given you to set a smooth course, nothing would happen at all—what reward can there be in a peaceful journey?” “If I cannot forestall disaster, what good is it to have a vessel that is equipped with a wheel at the helm and rudders at the rear to change course?” “Ahh, but there will be changes in course. And there will be forks in your travels. Only, you must sail through them and react, so that your logs bear the marks of these changes on you and on your journey. You will not be the same on arrival at your destination as the one who set out to sea. The one who sets out holds all hope and possibility in his palm. The one who arrives bears the consequences and wisdom of the turbulence of the reforming seas on his brow.” “Can you tell me of the specific trouble I am in?” “You already know. You have always known. How can I tell you what is in you? That would be like telling a crow it is a crow. Like the ferryman, the crow is a harbinger of destruction and a herald of new worlds. As are you. As are we all. Such curses are insignias on our souls, and these are not easily broken.” Bela stood up and patted Jacob on the shoulder. “Go. All is as it should be. You have what you need. All does not come to ruin in the end.” As Jacob got back in his convertible, he saw the screen of his iPhone in the passenger seat. The text message had two words, “Test results.” A few minutes later as he walked into Rachel’s apartment, he saw her with her hands in her face, hunched over on the kitchen island. He walked up behind her and put his hands around her shoulders. “It will be alright,” he lied to her. How could anyone have a terminal illness at such a young age? Looking up at him through wet eyes, she said, “but how can this happen to me now. I am pregnant with your child.” Jacob believed in God, but he uttered a single prayer as his rage quelled within, “Don’t do this to me, you monster.”

m92914

Kindred

“You look like an orb.” I shift my gaze at the distant horizon taking note of the way the poppies and the buttercups brush the pads of my fingers in gentle sweeps. The bite of the tundra, that kisses the parts of my exposed skin, subsides as a single ray of light escapes the cover of a tiny cloud. This light bathes a patch of reddish-brown hair, intensifying its color to a vibrant red, and highlights the silhouette of a sleeping lump in the vegetation five fox steps away from me. I move to lie on my stomach as I reach out to pet my baby mammoth. My palms disappear in the soft, shaggy expanse of the fur of Massak’s belly. “A lazy orb.” I laugh. Massak shifts and squirms as I rub his belly in swift, swiping movements. I move my head just in time to avoid the solid tusk that swings my way as Massak tries to burrow the back of his body into the damp surface of the earth. “Ayyaa! Watch it!” I breathe. “Who’s going to fend off the hunters when I’m knocked out cold?” Massak bows his massive head, avoiding direct eye contact. I watch the way the snow curves under his weight, leaving a print of a single tusk when he lifts his head again. I lean forward and press my forehead to the base of his trunk just shy of his gentle eyes the color of bleached bones. He trumpets as I sing softly. The rustle of hooves from a herd of caribou grazing lichen and dried sedges blends with the melody. The air is still. I lift my hand, hovering closely to the jagged nub of where a tusk should be. Our breaths are slow. Faint whimpers escape Massak. Warm tears tumble slowly down the plains of my face like cracks in thin ice. I sing the pain away. Large palms pour droplets of melted snow into my mouth. The water is crisp and refreshing against the heat of the fire. “Salty.” I giggle into the back of my hand as I wipe away the drops from my chin. Embers sizzle and pop from the flames. “These hands...” I stare, confused. “...sorted through dried fish earlier!” my brother, Sitka, teases sucking in his cheeks and plumping out his lips. He splays all ten fingers behind his ears and wiggles them like the fins of a sculpin. I laugh, apparently distracted, because the next thing I know, I’m scooped up in an embrace. “Ataata!” Sitka shouts. I yelp, wound tight but safe in a comforting kind of warmth. My mother abandons the qulliq she was tending from inside and runs to join my father’s embrace. Seconds later, Sitka fuses himself with our mass of limbs. We find ourselves toppling over onto the packed snow. Bright smiles adorn the faces of my loved ones. Sitka and I sit on plush fur as my father recounts tales of his journey back home. My mother sits across from him, patiently warming his feet under her arms. “I have something to show you.” My father whispers at the end a lively account about how he trekked the same path as a polar bear. He takes out a big bundle, from an open pack, and cradles it in his lap. A tiny, reddish-brown head pops out. My ancestors live in the sky. On nights like these, I watch as they play games with the skull of a walrus. Vibrant green streaks paint their tracks. “Take us home.” I pat Massak on the hump of his shoulder. Ice crystals line my lashes and brows. I pull the hood of my parka a little closer to my frost-bitten cheeks. It’s dangerous to be out in the open this late at night. I take note of our surroundings: the path is dark; a distant rumble rips through the air as clusters of ice tumble into the sea. As if in response, a chorus of howling, from a pack of wolves, combat the thundering noises. Massak trembles beneath me. We’ve traveled this route many moons over. “We’ll make it.” I try to comfort him. He shakes his head, curling his trunk and blowing air. I gently guide Massak away from a seal hole that is thinly iced over. We travel deep into the night. Sleep threatens to snare my small form the way a starving hunter might to a lemming in the toughest of winters. I listen to its call. I’m lying next to Sitka in a small patch of dried sedge. A tiny Massak nips at the blades of grass by Sitka’s shoulder. Wind rustles through my brother’s unkempt hair. The rims of his irises are deep amber. Flecks of amethyst dot the space in between. The wind shifts its path, weaving through the bones of a dead whale nearby. The breath of land is as relentless as a saber-tooth tiger pushed to starvation. I open my eyes. Instead of savage winds, a gentle kind of stillness silences the fear that threatened to overcome me moments ago. My soul and body move, but not in the way I’m used to. It’s as if they exist as separate entities. I watch as my body walks with Massak through a cave that houses an ethereal kind of glow. My soul trails behind. It’s cold, but there’s no parka covering my body. I close my eyes and dip my toes in the water. Small ripples meet and disperse themselves. Massak and my body keep to the edge of the underground river. My soul attaches itself to the water. As I wade through, a thick scent of brine coats my senses. Strands of long, dark hair follow the wake of my footsteps like veins in an intricate web of flesh, tangling my progress. I walk until I am immobile. There’s a woman standing next to Massak. They’re so far away now. She’s holding the left side of his face, except he’s no longer a mammoth. He’s standing on two legs covered in smooth skin instead of thick fur. He looks like my kind. I blink and deep strands curl tighter around me. A comb made of bone floats by just beyond my grasp.  Nuliajuk . The cave silently echoes a name. A cold sensation cradles the back of my head. The energy of something old, something ancient, pulses through my body. My soul struggles to grab hold of the bone to comb myself out of her hair. My body watches my soul. My soul watches my body. It’s an unnatural exchange. Then, the man—the same one down the river—is holding me in an embrace, but instead of skin, it’s fur that meets mine.  

tho35m

Hearts A-Pfishing: A Romance as by J.D. Robbed

Dedicated to and based on a concept by Danschneider Arroyo, for every scammed author and lover everywhere... Chapter 54 East Vrmlmelmnsk, Syburslovenia At last, Alexis’ heart’s desire was within one GPS turn of fulfillment, and her desirous heart thumped rapidly as she crossed the landfill beyond the village bazaar. The trans-Atlantic journey, the loss of her luggage at the charmingly quaint bicycle-powered Aeropotschk carousel, the succession of taxis and taxi robberies, the bribes to countless provincial cops, the chicken she was coerced to buy at the market, the foreigny threats that bombarded her as she roamed the cobbled streets in search of 12 Zjrchskmsk Avenue, rooster wrestling under her arm — it would all be worth it when she could look her pfisher soulmate in his unpatched eye. “Your destination is in 300 feet, on your left,” Siri cooed. “Please be aware of organ harvesting activity ahead; I can devise an alternative route back to the Aeropotschk…” But Alexis now was guided by her appetites rather than her apps, and she pressed ahead, gently driving away one of the local street weasels that might have been the twin of the creature she’d nibbled at a charmingly retro crate in the marketplace, after her desire-filled gut had throbbed with non-cardiac desire for something beyond the boiled airline chickpeas. Her heart swelled with swollen feelings as she reached the last hovel at the end of the block before the rustic old cell phone/nuclear waste dump. Her delicate, alabaster fist-blossom froze before the warped plank that served as the door. This was crazy – when the private eye her BFFs at the cat café/cupcake emporium had hired for her traced the pfisher’s IP address to this tiny hamlet in a pastorally bombed-out former Soviet republic, she’d poured out her pain and fury at this Facebook scammer before understanding that rage is but the other side of that coin we call love. Between the lines of the badly constructed, clumsy warning that her system had been compromised and the ransomware demand, Alexis could sense the heart of a wounded outlaw soul. Like Beauty and her Beast, Bullock and her Jesse James…  Steeling her desire-saturated heart, the baker/quilter-turned-author rapped on the splintered wood like a desirous heart beating out a rhythm of love. “Come. To. Me; Come. To. Me.” The love-plank finally shifted, and a glacially blue eye peered from the shadows, like the piercing light of Cupid’s lighthouse beacon across the dark and ripply waters of doubt and pain. Alexis now knew her story wasn’t the website romance that “Lance Boyles” had pirated into an internationally acclaimed erotic vampire suspense thriller. Her story began with this rogue who indeed had stolen her desire-riddled heart. “Lance” grunted a series of long words neither Alexis nor most of her readers would have understood even had they been in English rather than some rural Slovenian language. Only her fondant sous-chef Russian Mikhail back home was poly-Slavic, but while he had insisted on accompanying her on her journey, Mikhail himself had found bliss with the lady day-trader from the city who’d finally taken her face out of her laptop long enough to discover the true meaning of rapture and pre-molded frosting at the town bake-off and comforter fair. The ceremony was next week at the old fiction mill by the river, the Reverend Dodge officiating. Alexis thus implored Lance to repeat his declaration into her cellphone. Her Cunning Linguist app translated. “It is you, my Alexis, at last. You have made the future of my destiny a reality!” He shoved the plank aside and emerged. Aside from the gnarled and possibly infected face-navel that had once served as his left eye, Lance was perfect. Hours of hacking and scamming in his dark garret had chiseled his upper arms into Greek statue kind of arms, and his jogging suit-draped legs had been shaped by constant escape from global law enforcement and Bulgarian mobsters. Lance’s was a life lived large, and Alexis felt a stirring in her loins wholly different than her reaction to the boiled garbanzos. Alexis fell into Lance’s arms, and his eye leaked dewy tears of love moisture. Lance grunted again, his Tokarev gun dipping sensually below his pelvis. “Can you forgive me?” Cunning Linguist recited. “Forgive you???” Alexis gasped, catching a lungful of waste dump sulfur. “You silly, beautiful Cyclops! You have made my humble paranormal suspense novella a classic in five Eurasian markets, and Kindled the long-extinguished embers of desire in my heart furnace. And besides…” She displayed the locket she had blinded a cabbie/former surgeon to protect. The woman had gone down hard and valiantly, and Alexis vowed to name a werewraith in her next novel after the driver, adding a few vowels for reader ease, of course. The filigreed gold clamshell was inscribed with her non-nom de plume fake writer name. Lance squinted at the florid mall engraving, then switched to his good eye. A.I. Chatt . Alexis’ digitalized heart swelled with love blood as the thief of that previously mentioned heart realized there was nothing for his future life mate to forgive. No more torture or remorse or fear of mercenary revenge squad retaliation. Lance’s life of underground plagiarism had nearly ended in violence numerous times – the Kindle Unlimited attack on his favorite wifi coffee shop/arms dealer; Nora Roberts’ Mossad-trained hit squad coming after his mother as she prepared his beloved borscht and cloned stolen Discover cards. The grainy photos of the meeting between a coldly vengeful and immaculately put-together Danielle Steele and Ivan the Badger in a Budapest Chik-Fil-A his bro Sergei the trafficker had Messenger’d him. As colleague after colleague had been “Kristin Hannah’ed,” as those in the trade called it, Lance had stayed one step ahead. Now, he had been apprehended by this spunky paperback word-poet, his heart clamped in the titanium grip of Alexis’ love-cuffs. His sentence? Life, in a maximum security prison with Alexis as his love-jailer. Lance grunted. Cunning Linguist processed Alexis’ newfound language of love. “So. You want to see the place?” “Oh, yes, YES! On the soul of Stephenie Meyer, a million times YES!” Alexis exclaimed, flattening a feral cat as she hurled the plank aside. She felt like a bad Eastern European knockoff of Pinocchio (one of Lance’s top-selling works in the Russian children’s market and unedited, on the YA list). Alexis’ Intel chip glowed warm within her OEM bosom. Tonight, she would become a real woman, if they could figure out a workable interface…

d258u4

A Goosey Gander by Caitlin E. Elia

To Chaddeus P. Waddlebury, Hovering Goose of Letters, Pixie Parcel Division, On this day, I find myself in a rather peculiar state of mind. It could be attributed to the recent arrival of my newest son, a robust little lad who's but the size o’ your thumb. I realize you lack thumbs, but I know you catch my drift. Then again, it might also be the consequence of a bout with fae froth hooch from the night prior. Anyway, I require your assistance with just one delivery for today. Please proceed to the customary collection point to retrieve the package. To transport it, you'll need the enclosed map. No need to worry, though. Remember that the subterranean tubes designed for your unique mode of hover-flight are accessible solely through the mushroom circle nestled within the Northwest Woods. Following that, direct your attention to the entrance of the gnomish Great Tree. The contents of this parcel–shame that I can’t tell you–but let’s just say that it holds a material needed by the astronomers who are currently stationed at the Observatory of Eternal Starfire within the Luminescent Caverns. I have every confidence in your abilities. Best of luck, my friend. I am well aware that you are more than up to the task. Warm regards, Fionnulin At the crossroads dividing the various divisions of the Otherworldly Post, there hovered a goose. He was not your everyday long-necked, web-footed goose who simply honked and flapped wings at anyone who dared stray too close to his chosen waterway. No, he was a particularly handsome goose, with blue-tipped wings and a lustrous, curving tailfeather. Setting him yet further apart from a run-of-the-mill farm goose was the compact travel pack strapped to his form, safeguarding an invaluable parcel within. “Chaddeus P. Waddlebury,” read the tag secured to his trust and sturdily-constructed pack. He could not tell any chance persons he would encounter what the “P” stood for. Geese do not speak a human language, you should already know. Like your average goose, his proud beak served him just fine at honking. Fortunately, the ebb and flow of natural powers in the Otherworld he called home allowed most other species to decipher his honks with ease. As previously mentioned, Chad—affectionately referred to as such by friends and admirers—was suspended in midair at the crossroads. His surname confounded many, for it erroneously implied the expected webbed feet of his avian kin. Yet, Chad defied convention, lacking the expected appendages and owning wings reminiscent of an oversized hummingbird's, maintaining a feverish flapping, propelling him just shy of two feet above the path. It was no secret that, much like a greedy hummingbird’s slurping of nectar from copious blossoms, Chad was content to work for payment in pixieberry pie or gossamer-glazed berries. Chad's current objective revolved around the delivery of a package of purported significance–well, according to Fionnulin. This task was an integral facet of his role as a mail goose, a proud member of the esteemed Mystic Messenger Consortium, nestled within the specialized Pixie Parcel Division. This distinction became profoundly apparent when one contrasted his mission with those stemming from the Impeccable Imp Message Service or the Gnome Gram Society. It's noteworthy that the exclusive domain of geese like Chad was the Pixie Parcel Division. This fact bore its roots in the synchrony of size between Pixies and their avian associates,and Chad certainly bore his duties with dignity and great enjoyment. “A hover-goose is the valiant steed to a mail-pixie, just as the horse to a knight,” boasted the affirmative catchphrase of their guild. Certainly, Chad and Finn’s proportions formed a harmonious symmetry, facilitating Chad's graceful navigation through the intricately planned hovertube network that gracefully intertwined amidst the lush forests and hectic cities of the Otherworld. Occupational relationship aside, Chad and Fionnulin had become the best of friends years prior, after the pixie complimented Chad’s skill at a hovering fowl race. Soon, one saddle fitting later, they were off on adventures to meet all kinds of elves, Brownies, and gnomes of the Otherworld. When Fionnulin made good on his promise of a drink in Chad’s favorite tavern, their sense of companionship made future work together not so much work as the best way to spend a day. Chad was unsure of how well he could accomplish a journey such as this on his own. This morning, after opening his envelope by way of thin lower beak slicing in the manner of a letter-opener, he had honked in exasperation then contemplated over a breakfast of pickled opaline herring and freshly-squeezed jade-fruit juice. “Honk honk hoooonk,” he sighed in his own company. In goose language, this meant, “Yeah, thanks, buddy,” in a facetious tone. Bracing himself for an odyssey into the unknown, Chad found the mushroom circle just past the wild rose knolls as Finn had outlined in the letter. Honking a greeting to Carina Inkfeather, the mushroom deva elder, she waved him through the gateway in the circle, “It’s that way, and be careful that you turn right to find the gnomish village!” Chad, studying the old map, did not turn right. In fact, Chad made two lefts and found himself cascading through a waterfall which he had splashed through seemingly out of nowhere. Carried by the cascading waters into a lagoon, he made a plunging splash. Looking around, he asked, “Honk hooooonk?”- and observed numerous pairs of eyes staring him down. A scaled, webbed hand snatched him as a voice echoed off the stony walls surrounding the lagoon, “Well, look at this!” A myriad of feminine, resounding voices assaulted his sensitive ears at once: “Aww, I don’t remember the last time we had a feathered friend!” “Don’t scare him!” “Look at what he has! Is that a little satchel?” “QUIET! I can’t hear myself think!” “Let’s at least introduce ourselves.” Chad found himself overwhelmed with unwelcome caresses of his feathers and webbed fingers toying at the strap of his travel pack. He must not let these naiads have his package for it was labeled as “of utmost importance”. Honking impatiently, the water-dwelling spirits halted their battalion of questions and exclamations. They watched, with kaleidoscopic eyes and hair flowing upon the surface of their misty green lagoon. “I will have you know that I am a goose carrier of the Pixie Parcel Division. Only I am- without a pixie today. Usually, he is the navigator but I’m afraid all I have is this old map.” One naiad, with silver hair and eyes the blue of a storm at sea, looked sympathetically at the lost goose. “Well, we have no need for a parcel of the land. We have a way to help you find where you need to go.” She plucked a tiny fish, coated in iridescent lavender scales, from the water and, singing gently to it, Chad was stunned to see it glide smoothly to the air. “Protect him as he shows you the way you intend to go, then send him back.” Honking his thanks, and taking care to ensure his travel pack was securely tied, Chad propelled himself along the path the fish delineated. Thankfully, the waterfall had not taken them too far past Chad’s first blunder of the directions and they found themselves at the X marking the spot on the old map, the Great Tree of the gnomish lands. The little fish went gracefully on his way back to the lagoon and the naiads who lovingly cared for his kind. With a shuddering breath, Chad stole his courage from an unseen void and entered the hollow of the Great Tree. Labyrinthine twists and inclines took Chad through the hovertubes of the subterranean Otherworld, his steadfast wings beating the damp, still air. Down here, it smelled of moss and worms. As a flight-gifted creature, he was not used to a world so far below his own. Still, there were magnificent things to see. Fox-faced bats and their elegant companions, the dark fae, both slept and tended to business upon the ceilings of caves. Glowing moths and bioluminescent flowers danced in the dark of this world. Not wanting to let Fionnulin down, Chad traversed this world, attending to his map. After a couple of hours navigating the paths below on his own, a pleading voice tore his attention away from the map. “Noooo, please! Please, let me go!” Chad almost smacked into the massive spider web stretched between cave walls like glistening lacework. In fact, it did remind Chad of the delicate threads of silver needlework he had seen upon visits to elven villages. In its midst, a tiny and adorable snail was struggling, rocking back and forth in her shell, eye-stalks waving wildly. “Honk?” inquired Chad. “My mother needs me at home! I have so many brothers and sisters to help her care for!” cried the snail. “Then what are you doing all the way down here?” sounded Chad’s replying series of honks. “I need to deliver a package! To prove my worth! But first, I need to get out of here!” the snail’s frantic words came in bursts.  “It’s just a spiderweb,” Chad reassured the snail. “Ha-ha! Nothing is ‘just’ anything down here” squeaked the snail. A shadow loomed over them. Then, the scurry of eight legs added to the sense of fright. The spider had four sets of teeth, numerous milky-white eyes and sharp legs that sliced at the air near where Chad hovered. With no time to consider how courageous he was feeling, Chad beat at the air, now hovering by slicing both in speed and with his beak. Before the spider could set upon either of them, Chad had torpedoed his aerodynamic form at the terrifying creature and sent it down into the depths of the cavern below with a shrill shriek. Cutting the young snail free with his tried and true beak, Chad ensured that she was uninjured. “Thank you so much! The spiders in here are worse than any of the ones above ground and I’ve always been afraid of them .” Barely catching her breath after screaming so profoundly for her life, her eye-stalks roved over Chad’s travel pack. “Hey, what kinda package is that there?” Honking his reply, Chad made it clear that his package was truly significant and he must be on his way. “Please, please, could you let me take it? Snails rely on maps for delivery and I need to convince my tribe that I can be an official navigator.” After further conversation, the snail revealed that her name was Mulberry and her greatest wish was to be rewarded the official gem-encrusted shell of a royal snail-mail navigator. “You, see, if I surprise my family and tribe by delivering something down here, and what’s more–to the Observatory- they will be so proud of me!” Chad, the kind fellow that he was, of course agreed to swap packages. Of course, he despised the idea of disappointing Finnoulin. He was moved by the young snail’s perseverance and dream of seeing the Observatory where his original package was due. To be fair, his heart just had not been in the task set before him today. Several hours later, aboveground, Chad maneuvered heartily through lands he knew and loved. He found the home of a fluffy and friendly old bear, Sir Ferdinand Furminus- the third, mind you. Fer, as he invited Chad to call him, opened his package. It was a jar of honey. “Oh, yes! Jar 585 of my honey for hibernation!” “What?” honked Chaddeus P. Waddlebury, the proudest and most shrewd of all hover-gooses employed by the Pixie Parcel Division of the Mystic Mail Consortium. With that one exhausted honk, his wings halted and poor Chad collapsed at the doorstep of the old bear. All this tiresome venturing today and his kindness for swapping packages with the young snail had resulted in this– delivering a silly package for a bear who already had a stockpile of honey to eat. It was only the beginning of summer, and the bear would not even need to plan for hibernation for months! As it was, Chad would have a nice respite in Fer’s cabin, tucked by the old bear’s wife beneath a blanket next to a crackling fire. When he woke, they would bestow him with a restorative drink of his choosing, and as luck would have it, an extra slice of pixieberry pie! The next day, reconvening with his old friend and fellow mail-worker, he would relay his story. Fionnulin would shrug and say, “What counts is that you put your heart and soul into whatever task is given to you.” Then, they would clink their bubbling tankards together and look forward to their next adventure, together. That was the end of that. 

xhyo8p

HOW WE WHERE MADE

I grew up in a little town in rural south Alamba with my older brother and two sisters. Now when we were young, there was no gentle parenting like there is now-a-days. So our father was big in the community, like a dad to everyone or maybe brother, grandpa. You get my drift, anyway the time we had growing up was just terrible. We were raised a certain way, taught to act a certain way and if you didn't adhere to what ma or pa said you was taught a rathe harsh lesson. Being big in a small town it had its pro's but it also had its con's. So our father worked mainly outta of town alot, so it was just mother and us kids. The other men in this small town were all like uncles to us and so we had a lot of influences. Some good some bad, it all depended on how we took it or where we were in our own little world. And it all started from generations back and how this beautiful country was founded. So many, many, many moons back our great great great grandfather won some land and rights in a poker game. Now these rights wasn't just ,anything they was the start of the way we survived and thrived. So enough about us, this is how we were built. so around the time of George Washinton, there was a movement taking place on who was who and how things went. The tale is told like this! Because of who ole Washington was and what he did during the war, he was known as what we call a people's man. Now he wasn't the first president of the United States but the 7th. now John hanson was the first to stake claim to the presidency around 1790 or so. and each year they would get a new person in the seat. then came the time to put ole Washington. So, Goerge Washington, because of his moonshining skills which he was the best of all time with his apple brandy, and because his title in the war as general, he communicated with everyone equally. He didn't treat one different from another, the said straight across the board with everyone. When this beautiful country was then founded in 1796, the higher up's I call em wanted Ole Washington to be the very first one on paper that is. Then, well history wrote itself, so they say. George was a straight shooter, but also, he belonged to a society of secrets. you guessed it! The Free- Masons. As George gets put in office he decides not to forget where he came from and wanted to have his war buddies and dear friends. Some things got change and before you know it, The Founding Fathers where together like, what we would call today a power-house team. So as Time comes by they start to write we know is called THE DECLERATION OF INDEPENDENCE. Man, to be in that room how to be something I bet? I could hear it all now, one would say we should have the right to speak what we want, and another say, well, if you are gonna speak what you want, I should have the right to bare arms and shoot if at all nessacery. Something like that, maybe who knows? Anyway, so tale is this ole Georgey Boy and his founding fathers were free-masons and exactly after the other put thier John Handcock on that paper they instantly became what we know as Free-Masons. Goerge was up on the stage after they all signed and said this. "We are a country who was built by immigrants who came together as one Nation under God and have the right to be free. He then states," we are to be a country built on moral, respect, and honor. also the is a code we as free americans are to carry .We also need to be E pluribus unim, meaning united together, divided we fall. We are to protect at all times the borders we have set in place to the north and south of us. we will become the biggest strongest nation of all times if we stick together. We must not forget these things men, and we will be a force to be reckoned with. What we have made here today will be the beginning of our beautiful history. " So they appointed a cabinet of so-called people known in them days as THE INFAMOUS TWELVE. Now the Infamous 12 is where it all started, you see they were all buddies and dear friends of Ole Georgie and he brought these twelve men up on stage and appointed them a section big enough that their friends and their friends, friend could not even tend, Or could they? So as these men were placed in their areas, they had to have them two men, them two, have four, them four, eight and so on and it went down like a pyramid. The Places was set, the guys knew thier boundaries and they knew the 3 laws they were taught. Rule One- always handle business with honor respect for each other and be your brothers-keeper. Two- never go against a handshake. A handshake is just like a signature it goes forever. Three- Respect ALL women, children, and widows, never go against what GOD himself sees fit. As times passes by and THE INFAMOUS TWELVE are doing thier part, the older generations start to die off. If you didn't gamble your land and rights away it was automatically handed down to your kids and their kids and so on. it just so happens that the 12 are separated exactly 5 states apart for the most part. Each of the 12 controls 4 states, boom!! there are your upper 48 states. you get it ! AS time passes by 3 generations back my grandpappy 3 back won our rights and land in a hand of "hold em". Charlie, my older brother by 4 years was the first of us kids to get a place on the pyramid, well that's we what we call it, heck, it's on the back of our dollar bill with ole goergie smilin' in the front. So as dad moves up Charlie gets his ole spot, then when charlie moves I'm next. and so forth. So as time flies pass. People pass on as the older hands, we called them pass thier down the line they step up. the younger folks forget what their dad and dads. dads did for this beautiful country. To think you are owed anything it , ridiculous. One of ole Washington quoters were, There is nothing in this world for free if you want it you have to work your butt off for it. The younger generation forgot this and wanted to shoe thier asses after the elder had passed. So let me tell you about ole Charlie Boy. Here is one of ther letters i wrote to my big brother. Charlie, Hi Charlie, it's me again. Didn't you get my last couple of letters. So here is what's happening while and why I am constantly on the move. So, a couple of coyotes brought some aliens across the border and they asked if I could drive them while they work. Now, before you say anything, you know how we was raised and how this all started the pyramid is collapsing Charlie, and I have to keep money flowing somehow. Remember, paper trail paper trail, paper trail! That's what we were taught. Come on C don't get sideways just remember when they found this beautiful country and the paper president, yes ole Washington, he was the 7th Charlie 7th president not the first. But because he was a people person, and he made the best moonshine and was a general in the army people respected him. They're not gonna remember John Hesson/Hanson or whatever his last name was. They don't remember him being the very first on charge of this country. So, Washington built a foundation and because he was a free mason, him and the founding fathers made sure that the other 51 became Mason right after they signed the Declaration of Independence. So, Washington picked 12 men and scattered out through the land and then 12 men got 2 each and then 2 got 4 and so on until they had a pyramid of guys who controlled everything of this beautiful country even the president whoever it maybe and when they won't heal to what The infamous 12 want, well they get rid of them. You of all know that Charlie . Anyway so the pyramid has collapsed because of the morals that this was founded on come on Charlie you know them. One - always protect ourselves from enemy of the North and south both borders. Two- By all means respect all elders and women and kids and a handshake goes like a signature . Three- Take what we are taught as free Americans and teach our children the respect and honor and morals go for miles of handled right . Well Charlie. They forgot number 3 and the younger folks lost respect for the elders here and they all started the own deal and allowed people of the South to come in and offer money and when you lose a teer on a pyramid it gets off set and falls . So the twelve where scatted through the north 48 and each one control 4 states and now there is tension in a could areas . So it has to be handled and I will wright you as soon as I can Charlie but for now be safe and can all the food you can because never know what may happen. So okay remember the brothers from the Ozark Mountains . Yea the two what we would call hillbilly's , so they got where they thought they was owed everything without doing nothing. You know when ole Washington. Started this society back after the others all signed, it was working we actually got along and things was working. The infamous twelve had full control over their areas and everybody respected the ways of the land and a handshake. So great uncle Trevor died this past month and the boys from the hills stated showing out because big brother ray got his spot on the tier. Brother ray started demanding all these changes that shook down the ladder and across other sectors . That caused a big stink and this has been the longest 3 months of my life . So, now they stated building sectors in each area of the 12. Do the math the 12 control 4 states, yup that's it 48 Charlie they are doing what they said 40 yrs ago. It's finally here . Begining of the end and what other way than to divide all what we have built as not just a family but a society all together . So we need to prepare for a change because wether we like it or not the boys for the below south have arrive. The boys from the hills are out to make a point, they started out real ruthless and believe you me , we don't need them on our bad side like they already are . It has been real , too real at times. We have to let everyone know that a change is coming the rise of the new era has started . I sure hope that ma and Pa are doing well I hope they like their new home we put em in off the grid. I can't stress how important it is that we remember what this beautiful country did for us throughout the years down the generations and to make sure that who we are, gets passed down to our little ones . It is not about us and who we are , sure we made a name for ourselves and our family , but it is the legacy we leave behind that is the most important . The great value and morals that we was taught down the road . That is what we leave behind respect, dignity, and proper morals. So, if you get a letter the next few times remember this brother, it may or may not have a name on it that you don't recognize and I will put our family lettering om the back side of the envelope. I believe I may have bit off more than I can chew this time. Only time will tell for me and how I need to do things still with the codes we were taught but times has changed big brother and people has too. But a different name is probably better off anyway and a hair change because I really don't want people to recognize me because of the changes it's not code but like I said before brother, everyone has a price. But that's enough of that talk. Make sure you give little Alicia and Mikey my love. Tell them uncle will see them hopefully sooner than later . Charlie, I truly thank you for being you, the ways you helped me so many years back giving me the chance I needed to show the elders what I was about. We come from good stock and truly blessed for what our dad and his dad and his dad's, dad for our family name and on our name, not our legacy big brother I will represent with the best of my abilities the way it should be. Who knows this may start a revolution off on its own Charlie. Lol. Make sure you give everyone my love and don't forget to (CAN) all you can because it sure is getting hard out here for this older generation. Until next time stay safe, and Godspeed brother. Love alwalys, Adam So as times go by, we were to climb the so-called tiers of this pyramid. A true pyramid for instance has 22 tiers or so. and the work you put forth for you and your sector gets recognized. My big brother Charlie was doing great things for himself and our legacy. We were always told the even the first man that GOD created had to work by the sweat of his brow and die. If it was good enough for the very first man that God created, it was good enough for us. Charlie was always a family man first no matter what because how my mother raised us. We used to say that Charlie was an ole soul of George Washington because, he, himself was the people's man. Never made an enemy anywhere he went or did. As our family business, Charlie got to step into the farming side of what we produced and supplied for our sector. And since the time our granpappy 3x back won this land, our family only ran six recipes. that's all, six, two for each year and rotated out every 4th year. So big brother decides that for generations he wanted to improve on a certain recipe, because the time had come where, speed and all that other crap was out, and in order to keep up with the "JONES" , he needed a hail mary. Well to cut to the chase it freakin worked. he had worked day and night throughout the year inside, outside, and everywhere he could to prefect this certain thing. And just like the big bottle rocket's on the 4th of July, this thing took off like never before. It was deemed, "speed weed'" it did everything for you all that other crap on the streets was doing. I even heard of a man cutting his grass outside in his backyard at 2a.m. in the morning with a da-gum headlight on his head. Now that was some killer stuff! As time moves like a locomotive, out of control, 100's mph. As does the beautiful Home of the Free, ands Land of the Brave. The boys from south of the border,was seeing all the chaos the ole hillbillys were leaving in thier paths, they decided to join forces and the morals,code, dignity, all the went out the window in all areas of the 12 sectors except one. Now this time i was goin by alias, because of the simple reason. everyone had a price! and the outsiders became more insiders as the time slipped away and everything our Founding Fathers and good Ole George Washington did, just ripped down the center and fell away. I was in certain situations where i had to change my name like 6 different times because of the simple fact of CHAOS! I couldn't go home if i wanted to i wouldn't. i fell off the radar and played dead to true family and friend's. Like, Ma and Pa always said," 'DO NOT SHIT IN YOUR OWN BACKYARD, BECAUSE YOU MAY STEP IN A STEAMY PILE OF YOUR OWN SHIT ONE DAY." Hell, I can recall lots of big mistakes I made along the way moving from coast to coast, sector to sector. Think about this, the infamous twelve, somewhere down the line went from controlling a 500 million dollar industry a year , mind you of good ole American un taxable money. To just damn near giving their rights away at a low price or being killed for them. Big brother, now he had it all handled in his little corner on the south eastside of the country. He was still carrying on a tradition and little did I know he built his own industry and kept the families thriving in his jurisdiction. He did it, and they tried to calm the problems here and there, but he handled it, and had people around him that truly cared and protected what our Four-Fathers had built centuries ago. I can see the aftermath of what's to come if we don't change our ways of what's going on here in our beautiful free country, it will not be beautiful and free much longer, down the roads we are traveling. It does give me great honor to have a big brother like I have and a family that may not know me much, but will be there at the drop of a hat if I ever was to just fade out of this life-style and fade into one back home, deep in the cut where the dirtroads end and nothing but loving family all around you. That does sound nice, matter of fact! I may raise ole Lazarous from the dead so to speak, you know kinda' like Jesus did there one time in The Book. Yea, ole Charlie!! Sure would be nice to see how the Big Guy in the sky, has blessed what he did by carrying on not just a name but a LEGACY. Like the ole song Pa used to sing us, "I hear the train a-comin, comin round the bend." Or something like that "Folsom Prison", that's it! Well I do hear my train, and time is sure dragin' on. I do believe it's getting close to raising my Lazarous, yes I do. So, until the next time or who knows, maybe I can sit and write to you all again some sweet day under a good ole Alabama pine, with a big glass of sweet tea and some fried chicken on an ole dirt road surrounded by nobody's to you, BUT somebody's to me.Remember, show people the respect you would want to get, and we can change the world one person at a time if we just cared a little more and smiled. until we talk again, with much love, Adam

a6m4hp

Mishaps

Boston, Massachusetts 1980 Bri and Sue Lance were happily enjoying each other’s company. The dishes were done, the house was clean, and they were nestled into each other’s arms. Nothing could compare them though for the adventure of Maxine “Max” Trailblazer. An energetic beagle, Max has turned Bri and Sue’s lives upside down. From chewing on their clothes as a puppy to tiring them out at the dog park as an adult, Max has changed these ladies’ lives forever. “I can’t believe we’ve had Max for five years now.” Bri was playing with Max while wrestling a squeaky duck toy out of her mouth. “And yet, she still has the energy of a three year old child.” Both women laughed. “Remember the time when our nephew, Stephen, was playing that obnoxious Bilal Gordon song with the nodding cat, and when it got to the part where Bilal banged the drums, he banged it near Max and she got feisty?” Sue stared at Bri with fondness. “Yeah she was barking as if to say, ‘Back off, jackass. This is my personal space!’” The women’s laughter filled the pristine living room again. Having a dog in their life had brought such peace that they couldn’t even picture having children, for that was a topic neither women could explore. Suddenly, Max started peeing on Bri’s shoe. “No, Max! Bad dog!” Max started to whimper and walked to the end of the living room and towards the kitchen. “She’s not always a bad dog.” Sue glanced outside of the kitchen in a distance. “Sue, she’s a dog! She has to learn discipline or other strangers will be confused by why an owner lets her dog pee on random people’s feet!” Sue frowned. “I understand.” There was an uncomfortable silence. Bri was the first to break it. “Then again, she reminds me of another rebellious spirit.” That led to a smile and some kissing. Max glanced innocently at them. Sue got out of her seat and went down to Max’s height. “Max, do you want to go to the dog park?” “Woof, woof!” “I’ll take that as a yes.” The ladies walked out of their glorious house. The ladies walked near the Cape Cod beach, the lovely waves calming their spirits. They knew that Max had a spirituality connection with the ocean; a psychic told them that once. Granted, they thought it was a bit odd for the psychic to focus on their non-human companion, but luckily, they were open minded people. It wasn’t long before Bri and Sue saw Max digging in the sand. Unfortunately, the sand went blasting towards a British man’s face. “What the fuck?!” The two ladies ran towards the disgruntled man. “Hey, ladies, you might want to take control of your dog there. I almost got sand in my sandwich!” As usual, Sue came over and defended Max. “Sir, she’s just a small dog. We’re still learning how to discipline her.” British Man was not amused, nor did he care about dogs. “I don’t care if your dog was balanced on a trapeze artist’s shoulders while walking on a tightrope! Control her or I will have to call Animal Control.” Now it was Bri’s turn to speak up. “Don’t worry, we’ll be taking our dog now.” After that awkward encounter, the ladies focused on relaxing on the beautiful landscape that was Cape Cod. They laid down on their blankets and stared at the beautiful blue sky. “I swear, Sue, Max has you wrapped around her little finger. She could take a shit on the Taj Mahal and you would still fall for those puppy dog eyes!” “Well, at least I don’t act like a strict dictator who wants to control our canine friend!” “Who said anything about being a dictator?” “Nobody.” Sue was grumpy and folded her arms. Bri heavily sighed. “Look, all I’m saying is that Max deserves to be handled with love and discipline. Ever since Nicole passed away, it feels like you’ve been overprotective of the current pet that we have.” Sue couldn’t deny that. As silly as it sounded, she went to a therapist last year to handle the grief of losing Nicole to cancer. It wasn’t the fact that Nicole was gone that got to her, but it was the fact that she could never be with her again until after death. “I’m just glad that we have another dog again. It’s good to be man’s best friend.” Bri smiled. “And she will continue to be with us. Let’s play with her.” The energetic, bubbly beagle was so full of life, a notion that the ladies almost were envious to. They spent the whole afternoon playing with Maxine, making wonderful memories of their best friend at their side. Bri took photos with her camera. She would keep those close to her heart forever. When they got home, Bri decided to feed Max bacon bites from the dog food bag. Max thoroughly enjoyed them. She was such a happy girl. “I just never knew that having a dog was so much fun.” Sue smiled to herself. She started cooking Eggs Benedict. Bri was a little confused. “Eggs? For dinner?” Sue smiled. “Why not?” I guess I’ve had stranger things, Bri thought to herself. The two ladies enjoyed their meal. “Hey, babe. We should make a dog album.” “What a great idea! We never did that for Nicole when she was alive! Let’s do it!” Bri gathered the pictures from her upstairs bedroom. She glanced at them with bliss. Max may be a stubborn fool, but she was still a sweet, kind dog. They had such a great relationship. “Babe, are you coming?” “Yeah, hold on!” Bri rushed downstairs and saw Sue and Max happily gazing at each other. She decided to take another picture. “Bri!” “We got to capture the memories forever!” Sue shrugged. “Sure, why the hell not?” The two ladies and Maxine got together for one final picture and smiled into the camera. At that moment, they realized that nothing could stop their bond with their adorable dog. 

jz8ohi

"Dear William"….. A Letter from The Best Librarian, But Also A Father Doomed To Be The Best Storyteller….”

“Dear William….. A Letter from The Best Librarian, But Also A Father Doomed To Be The Best Storyteller….” Dear William (on your wedding day), I hope this letter finds you well. I hope that you have became the man I knew you would always be, even if I was not there to celebrate it with you! I wish I could’ve met your bride. I have no doubt that she has a beauty not only around her, but also emanating inside of her as well! I wish I could’ve been there on this special day, but fate had other plans. It must’ve been hard to lose your mother all those years ago. She was the fairest lady I have ever met. She let her beauty shine everywhere she went! There was hardly a person I knew that felt any harshness towards her! She seemed so far out of my own reach, and yet I was amazed when she said an ecstatic “YES!” when I asked her to marry me! I loved those years with her, there was nothing that came in our way that her joyful spirit couldn’t eradicate! And then the joy of hearing you would be coming into our lives! We loved you so much! With all our heart! There was hardly a moment where one of us wasn’t singing to you, or telling you the most elaborate stories to put wonder on your little face! Stories of far away kingdoms, even as far as the tallest mountains, and even some that flew far above us in the clouds! When all three of us gathered around, there was no telling where the stories would bring us! Your mother was part of a long line of storytellers, even your grandparents and great grandparents told the most elegant stories to entertain crowds who travelled near and far to hear their tales. Which made it very hard when your mother left us…… To this very day I still remember the look on your face when I said that she had left and would not be coming back. You were quite young then, but it had been quite a while since I saw a look of sheer helplessness! I think we both remember the years afterwards as being very hard. I’m writing this letter as part of an apology for all those years! I spent so much of those years working at the office, and I’m afraid I just left you in front of the TV set. You were always amazed by the stories, especially those out in space! And the few times we were both at the same dinner table you loved telling me how your favorite ship went to this world or that one! If I had only known the amount of days I had left until I suffered the same fate as you mother. How I wished I didn’t spend so much time being around catalogs, and computers; traveling here and there for the next lead. I should’ve spent more time with you, my son. Perhaps I would’ve had a much different fate if I had just stayed around home more like the father I wanted to be….. …… but this brings me to the other purpose of my letter. This will be a shock to you, and perhaps now may not be the best time to tell you, but including this in “a note from a father to his son on his wedding day” makes a much less suspicious note than “for my son on his 21st birthday.” It is now time to tell you this: Your Mother is still alive. Somewhere. Now I don’t mean that all those years ago she left willingly and I made up a story about her departure. This will be a little complicated. And at times rather unbelievable; and even I was skeptical at first, but everything I am about to tell you is absolutely true…… I mentioned earlier that you mother came from a long line of storytellers. Well her families lineage dates all the way back to the ancient guild of Ukrainian storytellers known as the “Kobzar.” There were multiple ‘guilds’ within their lines, but you mother line came from a mysterious sect known as the “Veduchyy Svitiv” or “Bringer of Worlds.” Now there was often conflict with the old Orthodox churches and the various sects of the storytellers, but for your mothers family, things were far worse. The church decreed that these storytellers were not of this world and their entire bloodlines had to be eliminated. When a friend of the family told them the news that their family would be brought to the church to “perform the religious purging of spirits” they fled everything they had and headed to the ancient land which we now call the Netherlands. You’re probably wondering why the church had such a religious hatred for the family, and you’re also probably wondering what any of this has to do with your mother. Well, and this will be the part that’s hard to believe….. …..By speaking a few words in an ancient language, your mothers bloodline is gifted to make any story come to life. Your mother could describe each and every castle she told you in story in such detail because she had been there. All of the 'friends’ she told you about; fabled beasts, talking animals, knights, kings, even giants, they were all people she had met whenever she told a story. Now bringing dragons and mountain sized castles into this realm would be disastrous, mostly, but I can think of a few places that might do well with a dragon attack after all. This is why her family learned to bring these “story boxes” (like the very one I’ve sent to you as a wedding gift here that your mother used to use). Instead of having the worlds come to life here in New England, they could exist safely inside the box here. All you mother would have to do is speak the incantation, and anything she read would come to life inside of the “story box.” From what I learned she also could speak another set of words and she could immerse herself inside the box (and then say another line to bring her back out of the story again). This is the fate that happened to your mother. She is trapped inside one of the stories. This is something I know deep within my heart. When we had the funeral for her it was an empty casket without a body inside. I was told this would be the easiest for her friends and family, including yourself. Your mother confided this secret within a few in her circle; Your Aunt Amy and Sarah and myself. We knew when she made trips inside her stories she would leave her wedding ring on top of the storybook she was journeying into. On the night of her disappearance I came home with pizza after a long day of work and went upstairs to grab your mother for dinner (we were both exhausted by the end of the day and thought all of us needed a treat). I went into our bedroom to find her wedding ring on the floor surrounded by paper shredded all over the floor. The neighbors cat had paid us another visit, but this time took a special interest in her new book and decided to shred it’s pages until they were hardly readable. I collected what I could, and I pulled out a few phrases which looked important: “Sapphire Crown” “Sword of the Great Bear” “Queen of the Frozen North” But It was the last phrase that really that made my heart sink “Limited Edition: 1 of 5” From what I gathered the book she received was a gift from somebody that found an extremely rare novella that only had a few copies published. Although the odds were against me, I knew, with all my heart, that I could find another copy of the book. This is when I poured my heart into finding another copy of the book. I used all my resources at the Library of Congress to look into this. My job as a librarian there seemed to come in handy fir once. I transferred myself to the ‘Children's Literature’ section and used all the resources at my disposal in my spare time (including all those late nights at the office) to find another copy. The “Workaholic” myths you heard about me were partially true; but it was not for myself that I became distant, but it was to bring your mother back to us. This brings me to the next part of my letter. I am not dead either. In fact I have found one of the other copies of the book. Unbeknownst to myself I am also part of the same bloodline as your mother. As the family headed to the Netherlands one of my ancestors found favor with the new friends and betrothed them carrying on this special gift. More than likely if you have received this letter it is because your aunts were put into the same situation as we had been with your mother. I followed the same plan as before and somehow got caught in the same story. Hopefully in all of this I found your mother and we are here living out our day until you find us. I cannot say the fate of the book that I read from, but I had a backup plan. There was a third copy of the book; it’s location I have kept secret….. …..until now. Inside the very box I have given you there is a false bottom. Inside you will find a letter to include the arrangement I made with the bookshop owner in Venice, Italy. I asked Gino to the shopkeeper to keep the book safe. He agreed and promised to release the book only to the person who has the letter I included in the envelope. We’ve also arranged your airfare and accommodations as a wedding gift to you. More than likely your aunts will give you your trip details, but you now know the hidden reason for the trip. As you are the same bloodline as Your mother, and now I, you are also given the gift to bring yourself inside the story. The ancient words will be written on a card inside the book when you receive it. I suppose you now have the power to bring us back, but you are also given the choice. You may choose to stay here with us in our story. I cannot say what things are like here, at the time of writing this letter I am sitting at my desk with the box, the words, and my wedding ring ready to speak the ancient words. I will give the letter to you Aunt Sarah if I have disappeared. I cannot say what would be the best for you, I can only show you what could be the first few steps on your adventure….. …. As you are also starting your first few days on the only true great adventure: Love. Just know that you always have been, and always be loved by your parents Yours truly, The Best Librarian, But Also A Father Doomed To Be The Best Storyteller

bur8j3

Embracing The Vast Unknown

Aurelia woke up from her slumber, greeted by a pair of familiar brown eyes, just like she would on any other morning. The pair of brown eyes were Cinnamon’s, her pet fox. She giggled as the little fox stood on top of her chest, sniffing her face. - “Good morning, Cinnamon.” She said in a sweet voice, as she nuzzled against the fluffy little fox. Cinnamon responded with a little whimper and nuzzled her back before jumping off the bed to let Aurelia get started with her day. She didn’t have much to do really, though that was completely normal. She spent most days reading, tending to her garden, and going out to explore the forest she found herself in, though she would never go too far. It was always the same though. Wake up, play with Cinnamon, tend to her garden, read a little, explore the forest, and look for ingredients for her potions. You see, Aurelia is a well-known witch in the area. Every once in a while, someone would come all the way out to her humble little cottage for guidance or a remedy, but those were the exciting days. For the most part, her days were pretty uneventful and mundane, even with Cinnamon occasionally making her laugh, and reminding her to smile with their cute brown eyes… But even so, the young witch couldn’t help but feel like maybe… They were missing out on something. She had read so many stories of adventurers out there in the world. They tell stories of floating isles, forests filled with massive trees, stretching up towards the clouds, and far away on the borders of the map, a sea of clouds stretching as far as you can see, and that’s without going into the interesting creatures they’ve seen on their travels… All of which she’s never been able to see for herself… After the young witch had her breakfast, she took a seat in her comfy chair by the fire, as rain gently drizzled outside. Once she made herself comfortable, ready for another reading session, she looked over to Cinnamon, who was waiting patiently in front of her, almost like they were waiting for an invitation. - “Come on then, we’ll read together.” She giggled. Cinnamon never seemed to leave her side for anything. Whenever she would take a walk in the forest, they were right there by her side. When she would tend to her garden, the little fox would always be there as she watered her plants, and would sometimes end up getting wet. And sure, they would occasionally make a mess, but she really didn’t mind at all (even if they would sometimes bring just a little bit of mud indoors…). The fluffy little fox jumped with joy as she invited them to read with her. They climbed up onto their lap and snuggled into them. Aurelia scratched them behind their ears and stroked their fur, loving just how soft they were. Cinnamon tilted their head up as they received affection. The young witch found them so adorable as they did. The little fox then let the young witch do as she pleased, as they let their head rest on her leg, and slowly but surely drifted off to sleep. Once Aurelia was certain Cinnamon was fast asleep, she took out her wand from a little harness she kept on her at all times, and with a quick wave, a book from a shelf across the room started to float into the air, and made it’s way over to where she sat. She took hold of it once it was close enough, and continued reading where she last left off the day before. The next chapter told the story of how the author (who happened to be a witch), started her journey… I still remember how I started my first journey, so deathly afraid of what might be out there, even though I didn’t really know for sure. A part of me was curious to know what I might find if I traveled far enough, but I was almost certain that same curiosity would get me in trouble (and well, it did, but that’s a story for another time). I was so indecisive and torn between simply staying at home, or starting my journey to see what was out there myself, but… Well, in the end, I chose to see it all with my own eyes, and travel the land on my own two legs. And let me tell you, dear reader, I don’t regret it one bit! This land is filled with many wondrous sights, whether it’s the sea of clouds at the borders of our world, or the luminescent forests deep beneath us. And that’s without going into the many people I met along the way, some of which I still keep in contact with, and have led me to great friendships. Yes, there are dangers out there, I won’t deny that. But even so, I’m still glad I decided to travel on my own. I feel as though it’s shaped me into the witch I am now. Looking back, I feel silly to have been afraid to take that leap and leave my warm bed behind. If I didn’t, nothing would’ve changed. That leap is necessary, whether you fall flat on your face, or reach someplace you’ve never seen before, you should always try, give yourself a chance, and be willing to embrace the vast unknown… The young witch set her book aside for a moment. Those last few words echoed through her mind… Aurelia couldn’t help but wonder about what she could discover herself. Reading so many stories about adventurers on their travels, she wanted to see it all with her own eyes too. It was a deep yearning inside of her. To go out and explore… But she couldn’t deny that yes, she was afraid. Very afraid. She had no clue what she would find out there if she decided to travel, but there was no way to know for sure if it would be good or bad. If she chose to do nothing, then things would remain as they are, calm, uneventful, and perhaps a little dull at times. It was a leap of faith. One that she would just have to take, even if it was scary. The young witch’s mind began to race, as it was filled with many what-ifs. But she tried her best to silence them, because deep down, she knew they were irrational. She couldn’t know for sure what she would find, unless she tried. The next morning, the witch had prepared a knapsack filled with a small amount of food (mostly cookies she had baked herself, along with a few other baked goods), some parchment, a quill, and the same book she was reading yesterday. She didn’t want to carry too much. After all, the witch felt she wasn’t ready to venture too far out just yet. Instead, she would just leave the forest and head towards a river she had heard about from some people, who came by seeking aid not too long ago. This was an excellent opportunity to get ingredients she would normally never find in the forest. Cinnamon sat close by with their head tilted off to one side, probably confused as to why she was shoving food into her bag. The young witch smiled at the sight of the cute little fox watching them with their head tilted. Smiling made her feel just a little more at ease…  Once her knapsack was ready, Aurelia took one big stretch, reaching towards the ceiling, almost as if she was stalling her trip to the river for just a little longer. She walked towards the front door and grabbed the handle. Before turning it however, she took one more look around her little cottage… She took a deep breath as she did, exhaling slowly, and stepped outside before she could change her mind. Cinnamon quickly ran out the door before she could close it. She had planned on leaving the little fox in her cottage since she wouldn’t be out for too long, but now that she thought about it, she would feel a lot safer, and happier in general if she had a friend accompany her. She kneeled down and scratched their chin. - “Wanna come with me?” She said with a warm smile. Cinnamon barked and wagged their tail, clearly excited to find out where they might go. Aurelia giggled and stood tall, orienting herself towards the river. She looked up at the sky. The air was cool, there was a gentle breeze, and the sun was shining. - “Let’s see what the world has in store for us today, Cinnamon.”

y3p9gq

Sarah and the Ferris Wheel

Sarah Sarsaparilla has been going around in circles. She calls it the merry go round but her mother calls it the Ferris wheel, because she always seems to go up before coming down to earth and crashing. You’ve been working the same job at Bill’s Aquarium for 7 years her mother whines, over another plate of sour potatoes and sour peas. What ingredient makes them sour? Sarah thinks that her mother bottles up all the whining and puts it in a special bottle, then dumps it in every dish she makes. That can only explain the sour taste she adds to almost every what-could-be delicious entrée. But Sarah loves the aquarium. She loves the haunting blue cerulean light that ricochets off the walls. She loves running her hands along the blue walls, which have been painted so many times that they create a kind of blue beard stubble for your fingers to touch ever so lightly. The water is friendly and soft, and even drowns out Bill, who has maintained a surliness over the years despite her loyalty to the company. Albeit, a default sort of loyalty-the kind of loyalty born out of happenstance. When you just can’t figure out what else to do. Sarah always wore her hair red and heavy and long, and she always wore little black bracelets with silver bangles on them. She liked the way the bangles refracted the light from the aquariums. Bill’s irritation with her and her mother’s whining probably came from the same place. If she were a dreamer then they might intone the same thing many artists and writers have heard for eternity, “Get your head out of the clouds!”, but Sarah made sure not even to reveal her dreaming, and maintain the façade of simply a floater, or a critical ewe observing from the mountaintops the dregs of society for her to ponder. In sadness she looks over Arron's letters to her from childhood. He wrote these letters to her while she was at home and he had gone off to Harvard. Nobody in their family had ever gone so far away from Buffalo. "Dear Sarah, remember to look for the mysteries in life. I love you always Sarah Bear. " Included was always a pressed flower or a key of some kind. Sometimes Sarah tried to use the keys on different locks in the house. "Dear Aaron, I miss you. Mom has been drinking orange and gin this week." They always sent letters back about Mom's drinking, because it often reflected whether or not her and dad were in a fight. The clearer the drink, the worse the fight. Bill is Sarah’s Mother’s cousin thrice removed, a card that may have warranted her entrance into the business, but has not really resulted in any special treatment over the years. Sarah was lucky to get even a hello out of Bill. He always came in at 6 am everyday to open the store, and tend to the fish. And Sarah and the other aquarium employees-which were only a few usually arrived at 7, then 8 and finally, 9. Bill’s ex wives' son Hamlet always arrived at 9-probably because not only did he not want to work there, but he wanted Bill to know he did not want to work there. Hamlet Hamlet! The girls squeal and tease. “I can’t believe your mother named you Hamlet!!” Bill’s ex was a theater major at Syracuse for 5 years before she became a medical sculptor, which is where she met Bill-At a conference for people with weird jobs. That wasn’t really the name of the conference, but Sarah didn’t bother to know or remember the name, and the author can’t think of that right now either. Sarah always wore her hair red and heavy and long, and she always wore little black bracelets with silver bangles on them. She liked the way the bangles refracted the light from the aquariums. Bill’s irritation with her and her mother’s whining probably came from the same place. If she were a dreamer then they might intone the same thing many artists and writers have heard for eternity, “Get your head out of the clouds!”, but Sarah made sure not even to reveal her dreaming, and maintain the façade of simply a floater, or a critical ewe observing from the mountaintops the dregs of society for her to ponder. But mostly, she was just happy doing her work at the store, as happy as her mother would let her be. For 5 years her mother had been whining at Sarah to go back to school, and she began to refer to Sarah’s life as the Ferris wheel. “She goes UP! She goes down! Its the Sarah Ferris Wheel!” “You think you’re so smart!” her mother wined. “You think you’re above us plebes in the real world!”. “I’m IN the real world mother!” Sarah would argue back sometimes, and sometimes she would just ignore her and go back to journaling in her bedroom-a deep lavender hued room in the far back of the house. "Dear Arron, I miss you. " She wrote tonight. "I wish I could give you a big hug." This bedroom was Sarah’s little oasis away from the paneled wood siding, fuzzy vomit green carpet, and incessant “mothering” that her mother was obsessed with doing. The walls were such a deep purple that it was like stepping into a portal for another land. Sarah hung silver space-ships and anatomical models of space on the walls. Her bed was a yellow and blue pastel quilt that her grandmother made. The bedframe was her brother’s old shaker style pine frame. Sarah ran her fingertips over the grooves in the pine, and the sheen of the wood captured her sometimes. She sat in her orange sliding chair and wrote rants about her mother-at first, but then the rants turned into reflections, and the reflections turned into realizations. Maybe she SHOULD do something other than work in a fish store for the next 7 years. Where had the time gone? One moment she was patting Silver Spoon (their golden retriever) on the head and heading off to community college, the next minute, Arron was dead and Silver had run away. Her mother was never the same after Arron died. I guess the narrator notes that Sarah may have buried the lead a bit about her brother dying. Of everything in life-Arron was goodness. Arron was the most GOOD person she had ever known. Sometimes out of the corner of her eye, she used to think she saw a bit of his aura-and it looked just so darn GOOD, like a golden halo. Not like a saint, because nobody on this Earth is that, but like a beautiful letter, or a kind friend, which Arron had many of. He read lots of books and was good at math, but he was also popular with his friends and liked to spend time with them. Only one thing made Arron stand out a little too much in Buffalo. He was gay. The family tried to keep it private, but somehow or another-a glance here, a stolen kiss there led to people finding out, and once people found out, the world found out and once the world found out-Arron was exposed for his secret to the world and it changed him. He began partying all night every night at the gay and lesbian clubs, and one night he never came home. Her parents cried and the police looked everywhere. Sarah stopped going to school so she could help her parents look, and eventually she just never went back. Her parents divorced. Their marriage had been less than ideal but Ben’s death and the details surrounding his death were too much for Sarah’s Irish Catholic father to bear. Sarah started writing letters to Arron's letters in her journal. "Dear Arron, what happened to you that night? Where did you go?" She looked for signs of Arron's past in his letters. "Dear Sarah, people hate the things they can't understand. But, I won't let their hatred turn me into them." "I won't let them turn me to dust". But they had! They had. She was crying now. On Monday, Sarah took the letters to the police again. "Sarah," Marshal Williams, a kind woman with strawberry blonde hair and freckles, and a stern smile said, "These letters won't help us much. We've already searched every club Arron was in that night. " ~Part 2 to be written ~

qv95z5

The Christmas Truce: Letters from the Western Front

The Christmas Truce [Christmas Truce of 1914 (World War I)] “The thing started last night – a bitter cold night, with white frost – soon after dusk when the Germans started shouting 'Merry Christmas, Englishmen' to us. Of course our fellows shouted back and presently large numbers of both sides had left their trenches, unarmed, and met in the debatable, shot-riddled, no man's land between the lines. Here the agreement – all on their own – came to be made that we should not fire at each other until after midnight tonight. The men were all fraternizing in the middle and swapped cigarettes and lies in the utmost good fellowship. Not a shot was fired all night.” -- Captain Robert Miles, King's Shropshire Light Infantry, December 26, 1914. “Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht, Hirten erst kundgemacht Durch der Engel Halleluja, Tönt es laut von fern und nah: Christ, der Retter ist da! Christ, der Retter ist da! Silent night, holy night, Shepherds quake at the sight. Glories stream from heaven afar, Heav’nly hosts sing Alleluia; Christ the Savior is born Christ the Savior is born” --Stille Nacht/Silent Night, John Freeman Young, as sung on Christmas Eve, December 24, 1914 * * * “Mon amour immortel, Piet van der Hem, Ahh, my love. Would you send me, if possible, again, one of those little photographs of me nude on horseback in the woods? It would please me very much. I miss Paris. I suppose all women that run away from their husbands head to Paris. I am an orchid in a sea of buttercups—as my first lover—the headmaster told me. I weave for men a tale of mystery. Who is this Javanese princess? With the joie de vivre? Breasts framed by a bejeweled breastplate—dans un soutien-gorge. Who bares all? An illusion. A mirage. Une culotte gainante et un collant. To one journalist, I say I was born a princess on the island of Java. That dance? The dance of Chandra. Invocations to the moon. To another journalist, I say I was the illicit daughter of a British Officer who snatched up one of the Indian Maharaja’s royal courtesans, secreting her away from the harem in the Royal Palace on false pretenses, stealing her away to foreign lands, at first, against her will. There is the German Army Captain Alfred Kiepert and the younger Prince Wilhelm, both with ruddy blonde hair and fair skin, tasty as fresh plucked fruits. The French Monk, Father Mortilliac, a happy, portly man with a great beard, who breaks his vows with religious fervor. There is Karl Kroemer, German consul to Amsterdam, who pays me a penance, eyes lowered down, genuflecting, as if I possess the provenance to grant absolution. Ironically, I bid him ‘go in peace.’ There is Capt. Georges Ladoux of the Deuxième Bureau, French military intelligence, who is a nervous and fretful soul with no endurance, who washes his hands earnestly and spits and curses in the bidet before he leaves. He made me promise in the sheets of his room at Hotel Elysée Palace on the Champs Elysées—promise—not to sleep with any other French officers—was it jealousy or distrust that ruled over him? Then there is the Russian Captain, Vadim de Massloff, oh Vadim, mon trésor, just a boy, half my age—but what a lover—and he is thoroughly mine, would die for it—if only the two of us could be married, what ecstasy serait à moi! This war has left all of my lovers in a frenzy, each time we meet we fear it may be the last before we bridge eternity. I have crisscrossed the continent from one warring country to the next, such that the customs agents no doubt fancy me a spy. All these men are not so different after all. Venal. Frantic. Overeager. Disloyal. Unbelieving.   They all want the same, the same as me, to believe for a moment that love and desire can triumph over that evil chord in all of us that rots and devours and dies—to touch or grasp—to die—and wake to—to just breathe one breath in the rays—of the transcendent. To know that the gold dust that slips through your fingers and scatters in the wind is no mirage, but rather, the real blastings of a real quarry on a real Elysisan mountain of endless gold peaks.  Oh Piet, do send me those photographs, I so miss Paris. I fear this war will eat me alive, travelling so, devoured by every side of Europe, and for what? Is this really all about lines on maps and who claims this limb or that limb or that haunch or the left breast or the navel or the right thigh? By the time these wolves pick the carcass of the Old World clean, I will die of exhaustion—ripped asunder by these wolves—or will be taken before the firing squad for some gossip. Oh God, please let this stupid war end before Christmas! --Mata Hari, Enchantress of the Rising Sun (Aug. 20, 1914)” *** “Mom: Please send some tamarind (seeds being removed) and good cocoanut oil by parcel post. There is a vegetable shortage. Without help, I cannot keep my diet. War is waged in a country that is as far as Rangoon is away from Madras. It has only been three months since I arrived, and the professors here have lost their interest in mathematics owing to the present war. All argue for and against. Littleton has enlisted. The quad at Trinity has become a war hospital. They fly in aeroplanes at great heights, bomb the cities and ruin them. As soon as enemy planes are sighted in the sky, the planes resting on the ground take off and fly at great speeds and dash against them resulting in destruction and death. I came here under auspicious signs, traveling in taxi-cab number 1729. Can you believe it! It is the smallest number expressible as the sum of two cubes in two different ways! I am quite despondent, even though I stand engrossed in everything I’d ever dreamed of doing. My theorems must be true, because if they are not true, I could never have had the imagination to invent them. But in a world bent on its own destruction, I wonder if there will be any interest in my abstract discoveries. Discoveries of abundance, of infinite abundance. I will try to explain to you my idea of fractals. Imagine you want to measure the coast of Britain. Measure by the rod and you will get one result, but then measure by the ruler, and the coastline has grown. Measure by the inch and then by a pinpoint and then smaller and smaller, and at last with each smaller measure, the coastline grows, and the result approaches infinity. Every coastline, every border, of every land, is infinite when measured closely enough. And yet, we fight to the death and die over a few meters of an infinite bounty. -- Srinivasa Ramanujan (Aug. 26, 1914)” *** “Jacksie: So much for this war being sorted by Christmas. It is Christmas Eve. A Christmas Eve like no other. We’ve had a cold North wind that has come through the front. A steady, proper snowfall of big fluffy white flakes began at sundown. At about seven, with the snow accumulating and covering the battlefield, the firing stopped. I came out of the trenches to take a look. I had been reading a paper and the mail was being dished out. When I walked out to see what the silence was all about, the Germans shouted back “no shooting” and more and more men came out and sat on the parapets and the Germans did the same. It was close enough we could carry on and most of them spoke English and broken English. I got on top of the trench and talked German and asked them to sing a German Volkslied, which they did, then our men sang quite well and each side clapped and cheered the other. They brought us Schnapps and we traded beer and cigarettes and cigars. Paul and I crossed over “no man’s land” and spoke to the German officer in command. We agreed to let one another bury our dead and not to have any shooting before Boxing Day. We talked together, 10 or more Germans gathered round. I was almost in their lines within a yard or so. We saluted each other. Then we wished one another goodnight and a good night’s rest, and a happy Xmas and parted with a salute. I got back to the trench. The Germans sang Die Wacht Am Rhein it sounded well. Then our men sang quite well Christians Awake, it sounded so well. Then they began to sing Stille Nacht, Silent Night in German, and we echoed back each verse in English. And the night rang with the sound of angels who had put down their guns. It was a curious scene, a lovely moonlit night, and the battlefield was calm and white. There was such an absolute quite, except for the small voices of those up smoking cigars and drinking and playing cards. The German Officer came over and asked, “We vill do ze same on New Year's, den, shall ve?" And I said, “Yes, yes,” And he genuflected and said, “God villing, if both vill still be here und alive." If one gets through this show it will be an Xmas time to live in one’s memory. The German who sang first had a really fine voice. --Warren “Warnie” Lewis (Dec. 24, 1914)” *** “Dear Vadim (mon amour), It is Christmas Eve and all I can think of is you and how I long to be back with you again—oh please, find a way to get away to Paris! Can you? I have been tossed around for what seems like forever. Enough for one lifetime. I suppose this is why I live in hotels and strangers’ rooms, and scarcely have ever called anyplace home. Leeuwarden. Good Lord, it even sounds like a prison. I barely remember my childhood home—when have I last seen it? As you know, my father went bankrupt and left us when I was but a girl. My father was a charlatan. He made a fortune on the stock market. Then claimed to be a Baron and swindled his way along until his exaggerations and stories left him desolate—and he fled the law—leaving us without a goodbye. My mother died when I was but 15. Living in the cold clutches of the North Sea at the lid of Europe was an unforgiving place for a young girl, but I soon learned the hard way that men can give life or take it away. John MacLeod, my first husband, rescued me—or rather, I answered his classified advertisement for a wife—he was a real Baron! Although, he was about 35 when I was 18 and though a Dutch Officer, en route to the Dutch East Indies, I learned that he had an appetite for more than me. He was a syphilitic who gave me vd—and my poor boy died from the mercury he took to treat it. And his officers had designs on me as well and waited to find me alone—and in my naughtier times, angry with John, I gave some of them encouragement. One Saturday afternoon he went completely wild with tropical fever and attacked me with a bread knife, and I was only saved by falling over a chair, which gave him a startle and enough time for my escape. Don’t think I am bad at heart, my love. Despite what they say about me, I have never been untrue. I am a dreamer. And I have truly been carried away with dreams that were real to me—like ghostly apparitions that fade as fast as they’ve materialized. But only with you, mon amour, have I finally found true, pure love. I have received a strange post from Sir Basil Thomson, assistant commissioner at New Scotland Yard, suspecting me of espionage! Can you imagine. I fear I am in error with Captain Georges Ladoux. Somehow I am fought over, like the Old World itself, and pulled by all these forces. That is the problem with men in our time. Give them a home, they are after a whole estate. Give them an estate, they set sights on a summer house. Then the governorship of a county, then a country, than a continent, then, if it were possible, the whole world. But you are not one of those are you Vadim?—no, you are a kindred spirit. Don’t get me wrong, my dear, us ma cheries enjoy tasting from different courses. But we long to find all the variety of life and its vicissitudes in one adventurous heart, and to give over all to its exploration--to know all the smallest parts. I suppose if there were women generals, there would be no advancing lines or defended fronts but only gates and walls and an infinity of battlements and parapets. Would if I could wall you off from the whole world, all for myself, in such a pleasure castle. Ton amant toujours, --Mata Hari (Dec 24, 1914)” * * * Jacksie: It is Christmas morning and I am missing you. It had been two months in the trenches, with the hissing, cracking and whining of bullets in flight. I’ve scarcely gone through a single night thinking it would not be my last. In my trenches and in those of the enemy opposite to us were only nice big fires blazing and occasional songs and conversation. This morning at the Reveille (when we awoke) the Germans sent out parties to bury their dead. Our men went out to help, and then we all on both sides met in the middle, and in groups began to talk and exchange gifts of tobacco, etc. All this morning we have been fraternising, singing songs. The whole thing is extraordinary. The men were all so natural and friendly. Several photos were taken, a group of German officers, a German officer and myself, and a group of British and German soldiers. The Germans are Saxons, a good looking lot, only wishing for peace in a manly way, and they seem in no way at their last gasp. I was astonished at the easy way in which our men and theirs got on with each other. As the snow sank, we started a game of football with one another. We made a goal of our dress caps and they did the same. With no referee, we all policed each other, and the match started with a crowd drawn all about. With all the dead cleared out, we played in the middle of the battlefield, between the trenches, in “no man’s land.” The Germans scored the first goal and we cheered with them in great enthusiasm. Then the snow began to fall again and a slushy mud stoppered the play and led to all manner of falls and false kicks. Everyone was in an uproar of laughter all morning. We scored the next two goals, and the Germans finished off the game with the final goal sometime later. While we played the onlookers cheered both sides equally as if no one cared who won—the fact alone we could play together was victory enough for any of us. Well must finish now so as to get this off to-day. Have just finished dinner. Pork chop. Plum pudding. Mince pies. Ginger, and bottle of Wine and a cigar with our enemies (friends), and have drunk to all at home and especially to you my dear little brother. Must go outside now to supervise the meetings of the men and the Germans. Will try and write more in a day or two. Keep this letter carefully and send copies to all. I don’t know how long this war will go on, or if we will ever see another moment of peace, but no doubt about it, there is a ‘no man’s land’ or a ‘great divide’ strung between us in which we all want for nothing but peace, singing the same songs, giving the same tidings, feeling the same fears, and enjoying the same sport. I leave you with good tidings of the night the angels sang and the Christmas morning the enemies played a game of football and laughed together. I pray I find my way back home to you alive and well. Give everyone my love. --Warren “Warnie” Lewis (Dec. 25, 1914) THE END

luy9b5

Bridges of Ink: A Transcontinental Friendship

Chapter 1: The World in an Envelope The vast expanse of the sky slowly transitioned from the fiery hues of the setting sun to a deep twilight blue. Lila McKenzie settled comfortably beneath the sprawling mango tree that had become her sacred spot for introspection. Each letter she penned to Cindy was not merely ink on paper. It was like dispatching a piece of her very essence, a vivid fragment of Jamaica, across vast oceans and landscapes. And today's letter held the promise of something new, something special. Meanwhile, thousands of miles away, in the heart of a Canadian winter, Cindy Blair brewed a pot of aromatic chamomile tea, its gentle fragrance mingling with the crispness of the air. Outside her window, fresh snow blanketed the ground, transforming everything into a pristine white wonderland. The soft chime of the clock signaled the mail hour, and Cindy felt a tingle of anticipation, hoping for another glimpse into the tropical paradise of Jamaica. The footfalls of the mailman grew louder, and then the anticipated thud. Cindy's hand shivered, not from the cold but from excitement, as she brushed against the familiar embossed envelope amidst the stack of mundane bills. Lila's letters were distinct, the paper slightly grainy to the touch and carrying a faint scent of the island. Cindy settled into her plush armchair, the envelope's weight is familiar and comforting in her hands. The beautiful strokes of Lila’s handwriting, swirling elegantly, felt like a warm embrace from a dear friend. The top left corner sported a Jamaican stamp, this time featuring a vibrant hummingbird, its wings captured mid-flight, mirroring the essence of their friendship. With deliberate care, Cindy slid her finger under the flap, revealing the treasures within. Lila’s words, penned with her usual flair, painted a vivid tapestry of her recent escapades. She described a local festival, where the town came alive with color, music, and dance. Lila's narrative, brimming with passion and detail, gave life to the characters, the rhythmic beats, the spicy aroma of street food, and the communal spirit of celebration. Tucked within the narrative was a hand-drawn sketch, capturing a moment from the festival: the silhouette of Lila, her form radiant under the moonlit sky, dancing with abandon. Even in the sketch, Lila's spirit seemed unshackled, wild, and free. Cindy felt as though she was right there beside Lila, cheering her on, their souls intertwined despite the distance. But the letter held another surprise. Towards its end, Lila wrote, "I've enclosed a little piece of Jamaica for you." Nestled within the folds was a pressed flower, its petals still retaining a hint of their original hue. Lila's note identified it as the Lignum Vitae, Jamaica's national flower. A symbol of strength, resilience, and enduring beauty, much like their friendship. Holding the delicate bloom, emotions welled up within Cindy. This was more than just a flower; it was a testament to their bond, nurtured over countless letters and shared dreams. Feeling inspired, Cindy fetched her stationery, eager to reciprocate with tales of her Canadian adventures. She wrote about a recent trip to a maple farm, the thrill of skiing down snow-covered slopes, and the ethereal dance of the Northern Lights. As she sealed the envelope, a sense of contentment washed over her. Through these letters, they were living a shared dream, each narrative weaving them closer, bridging the miles with stories and memories. Chapter 2: Seasons and Sentiments As the months ebbed and flowed, so did the tales enclosed in those precious envelopes. The changing seasons brought with them new adventures. Cindy’s narratives of spring were filled with stories of blooming cherry blossoms, while summer brought tales of canoe trips and camping under starlit skies. Lila, on the other hand, wrote about the year-round tropical climate, the sudden rain showers that cooled the earth, and the festivals that kept the island alive with energy. Each letter became a time capsule, capturing the essence of their individual worlds. And as they read each other's accounts, it felt as though they were walking alongside each other, not just as observers but as active participants in their respective journeys. Chapter 3: Festivals and Fantasies One day, Lila's letter bore a festive stamp. It was August, and Jamaica was in the throes of its Independence celebrations. She described the Grand Gala, the costumes, and the fervor of the people. Lila's words painted a carnival of color, music, and dance, and Cindy could almost hear the rhythmic beats and see the vibrant floats. In response, Cindy penned down her experiences during the Canadian Thanksgiving, speaking of family, gratitude, and the sumptuous feast that was a hallmark of the celebration. She even enclosed a maple leaf, its fiery reds, and oranges a testament to the beauty of the Canadian autumn. Chapter 4: Secrets and Surprises As the years rolled by, the letters became more intimate. No longer did they just share stories of their surroundings; they began sharing secrets, dreams, and even their fears. Cindy confessed her aspiration to write a novel, while Lila shared her dream of starting her own cafe, a little nook where people could share stories, much like their own. Then, one day, amidst Lila's flowing script was an invitation. "Would you like to come and experience the Jamaican Christmas?" it read. Cindy's heart raced. This was an opportunity to live the tales she had only read about. Chapter 5: A Jamaican Christmas Cindy's arrival in Jamaica was met with warmth and enthusiasm. Lila greeted her at the airport, and their embrace felt like the culmination of years of friendship. The next few days were a whirlwind of experiences. Cindy reveled in the beauty of the sandy beaches, the spicy tang of jerk chicken, and the rhythmic beats of reggae. But the highlight was Christmas, a blend of traditions, food, and the infectious spirit of the Jamaican people. As Cindy boarded her flight back to Canada, her heart was heavy, but her spirit was enriched. She had memories to last a lifetime and a bond that had only grown stronger. Chapter 6: More Than Words As Cindy sat down to pen her next letter, words seemed inadequate. How could she capture the magic of her trip? Yet, as she began to write, the memories flowed seamlessly. She spoke of her experiences, the laughter, the food, and most importantly, the warmth of Lila's family. Their letters continued, but now they were infused with shared memories. The mango tree under which Lila wrote, the street vendors, and the local market, all had a new meaning for Cindy. In time, Lila too visited Canada, experiencing the beauty of the Rockies, the charm of Canadian towns, and the warmth of Cindy’s world. Their bond, once confined to paper, had now spilled over into the real world, proving that true friendship knows no boundaries.

q6ujh4

In the eyes of Mingxia and Chun Hua, nature's beauty shines bright

Chapter 1 Once upon a time, there was a village in the middle of a bamboo forest in China. This village was named after the Great Wall of China which gave it, the name Jingzhu. The reason for this name is that the Great Wall of China was built over many cities that had bamboo forests. This bamboo forest got a nickname called the red panda forest this was because this forest was once inhabited by billions of red pandas but China was now developing and people had come to destroy the middle of the bamboo forest after it had been cut down thousands of red pandas died because they got their energy from the middle part of the forest. Chapter 2 The pandas got angry and decided to talk to the people to stop destroying the forest but they ignored the pandas and calamity fell, the pandas constructed a temple to their honour using their power and then placed a curse that whoever stepped foot close to the forbidden gate without a clean heart would die and if the two friends do not save the bamboo forest and the red pandas in twenty years the pandas would release their wrath and let all the red pandas out in the whole of china. Therefore people died and it became a wasteland until the Jingzhu village started to grow and brought it to life again. Chapter 3 In the depths of the bamboo forest lies a forbidden gate, where the red panda spirit and its descendant live. Legends speak of two friends with pure hearts who will face many challenges and even be separated, but their love for nature will save the forest. When they finally realize their duty, a golden light will shine over the bamboo forest like never before. In Jingzhu village there was an ancient temple named the panda temple because of the love the locals had for the pandas and beside it were two huts. In these huts there lived the Jinxiu family and the Rosemallow family, the Jinxiu family had a daughter named Mingxia, and the Rosemallows had a daughter named Chun Hua. Chapter 4 The parents of Mingxia and Chun Hua were formal friends but when they both got the title of Chiefs they wanted to prove to each other that they were superior, which is why they wanted to become the king's adviser, therefore, the hatred which drove them to be rivals was because they were high chiefs in the village which is why their huts are built beside the temple and this anger made the families separated their children. Though, the families were rivals the girls were still friends and this friendship was kindled by their undying love for the bamboo forest and the animals in it. Their love for nature was so strong that every day the girls secretly went to the forest to listen to the rustling of the bamboo leaves, they loved to hear the stream and the birds sing early in the morning, they also loved twittering, tweetings and chirps of the wild birds and also loved to see the moist on the bright green leaves of the bamboo. They loved to get the fresh greeny, grassy straw-like scent spread by the wind. The girl's favourite animals in the forest are pandas. Chapter 5 Though they both loved nature they had very different personalities Mingxia was a girl of culture and her language, she loved to study their myths and legends, while Chun Hua was a smart curious girl who loved the outdoors and exploring the forests she was never interested in her culture or her language. This caused lots of confusion and argument between the girls and made them almost end their friendship. This continued for years but when Mingxia's parents found out about their daughter being friends with Chun Hua, they got furious and waited for Chun Hua's eighth birthday. It was their way of getting back at Chun Hua's family. They planned to get rid of Chun Hua by sending her to the thickest part of the forest where the legendary red panda spirit and its descendant lived. Chapter 6 This part of the bamboo forest was forbidden for the villagers cause of the legend of the forbidden gate, only the two friends with the purest hearts would be able to pass the forbidden gate without being killed or quit their journey. Unknowingly for Mingxia's parents Chun Hua and Mingxia were the two friends with pure hearts. On Chun Hua's way to the forbidden gate, she encountered a devastating situation where she saw people cutting down the bamboo trees, she was so angry but she saw the type of tools they had and she taught she could not defeat them but her love for nature was too strong therefore she could not bear to see the forest in pain luckily her curiosity helped her out and she was able to communicate with the animals in the forest they helped her by creating a song completely out of harmony. Chapter 7 This angered the forest cutters and they left. She continued her journey to the forbidden gate on her way she was attacked by a bunch of unknown animals that made strange noises she tried to fight against these animals that looked like legendary creatures, for example, the Bashe a python-like snake that ate elephants, Bixi, a dragon with the shell of a turtle, Black Tortoise, a turtle that represents the cardinal point North and Winter and Baku a tapir-like creature that lives by eating people's dreams. She then understood what she had to do to get rid of these horrifying creatures and was successful, she then learned that to survive out in this unknown part of the forest she had to use her knowledge and understanding she will also have to be one with nature. Chapter 8 Back in Jingzhu village her friend Mingxia was worried about not seeing her friend for a long time she then decided to ask her parents but on her way, she heard her parents discussing how they had sent her friend to the forbidden gate with the intention of her getting killed, she cried as she heard that just then her parents saw her crying and immediately knew she had heard them but before they could stop her she had run away into the bamboo forest talking to herself how despicable her parents were. She was so busy sobbing to herself that she got lost in the thick bamboo forest, after some time she got seriously tired and decided to take a nap while taking a nap a baby red panda suddenly came beside her rubbing itself against her leg startling her and making her jump back to her feet when she saw the baby red panda she was shocked cause only when the legend is fulfilled can the red pandas come out through the forbidden gate. Chapter 9 She pushes her thoughts aside and decides to take the baby panda with her and names it Red and continues the journey. Meanwhile, Chun Hua has been able to defeat the strange animals she also learned that the only way to defeat the animals and overcome the trials she will have to adapt to the situation and learn more about her culture and legends, putting this knowledge together, therefore, she continued her journey looking for shelter, she finally found her way to a cave, where she decided to take a rest but when she entered the cave she found a red panda in the cave that had been sleeping and named it Dozer she decided to take the panda with her so that it could sleep in her warmth. Chapter 10 After waking up, Mingxia found out that she had overslept. She saw Red chewing a bamboo stem and picked up the small panda and keeps on going forward without knowing what lay ahead of her. Suddenly she hears a tiny voice saying hi, she tried looking for where it came from but is not able to find who said it. She suddenly hears the voice again saying ''Hi it's me red'' The little voice said, she was so startled she nearly dropped the baby panda to the ground. In shock, she asked the baby panda what it was doing outside the forbidden gate, the little panda told her that it had been sent by the legendary panda spirit to help the forest saviours out with their trials, she was surprised and asked the baby panda if it could tell her who the saviours were, the little creature refuses and says she will know when it is time. Chapter 11 Though she did not understand what the panda meant by that her thoughts were soon interrupted by the panda telling her that he will guide her to safety, he then started to tell her how he got lost cause it was his first time out of the forbidden gate and he is still new to the bamboo forest and its wide and dense surroundings making it hard to move in the forest. She followed the creature's advice until they were in the middle of the bamboo forest she was so surprised she was able to get to the middle of the bamboo forest without getting injured, suddenly she hears sets of strange noises coming from behind her that she had never heard before these noises included noises resembling screams and roars echoing through the forest, she was so afraid that she tried to run away but the noises kept on coming closer and closer so she decided to face these creatures. Chapter 12 She quickly put her knowledge to use and observed these animals made the same noises as some legendary creatures and look like these legendary creatures, for example, the Bashe a python-like snake that ate elephants, Bixi, a dragon with the shell of a turtle, Black Tortoise, a turtle that represents the cardinal point North and Winter and Baku a tapir-like creature that lives by eating people's dreams, seeing all these she still wanted to test these creatures to see if they are from the legends but before she could act little red gave her some advice ''look closely the truth can be covered but their deceit is strong''. Chapter 13 She kept thinking of what little red had said and decided to study each of their weaknesses and relate it to each of the legendary creatures they look like and find out how similar they are to each legendary creature, she started with Bashe and as they continued to fight she discovered his weakness was self-content, Bixi's weakness was acting weak cause of his sympathy, Black Tortoise was said to be a warrior and a symbol of eternity and Baku's weakness is not having hope's or dreams. After a while, she puts it all together and finds a way to defeat these beasts. After lots of fighting little red secretly channels strength to her to keep fighting, after hours of fighting, she was able to defeat all the legendary creatures of China. Just then the advice little red gave her came rushing to her back making her happy. She then said to herself now I know that teamwork, observation, patience and advice is the key to survival. Chapter 14 Meanwhile, in Jingzhu village, Mingzia's parents had confessed their bad deed but because of the rumours of the death of people without pure hearts the villagers refused to help the families which made the two families cry, they then decided that they would set their differences apart and go to the bamboo forest together in search of their daughters, but before they could step foot in the bamboo forest there was a sudden golden shinning dome surrounding the forest and keeping the village in the middle. The parents were so sad cause their kids were stuck in the bamboo forest filled with legendary creatures. Meanwhile, Chun Hua was looking for her way to the forbidden gate with dozer, suddenly dozer started talking to her and she was surprised she asked him how he escaped the forbidden gate but the little dozer told her that he would take her to the forbidden gate and she obeyed the little one's advice. Chapter 15 Chun Hua and Mingxia had now met in the Middle of the forest where there is said to be a forbidden gate to the red panda spirit world. When they both saw each other they cried tears of joy and happiness, but their happiness was cut short by Red and Dozer. They suddenly realized they were in the middle of the bamboo forest, they both looked at each other curiously wandering where the forbidden gate was but when they asked their baby red pandas the pandas echoed ''the saviours will have to say the magic word together for the gate to be revealed''. Chapter 16 The girls looked at each other as if silently wondering what the magic word could be. Suddenly both girls said harmony and friendship between humans and nature and the forbidden gate was revealed. It opened with a burst of wind sweeping the fragrance of the bamboo forest with it and millions of red pandas were released into the bamboo forest. Just then a gust of wind lifted the girls into the air they all of a sudden could talk to the red pandas as if they had been the ones to create these beautiful creatures and for once in a long time they felt very happy. Meanwhile, in Jingzhu the wind was felt and everyone was surprised cause they had never felt such a strong wind before, some villagers even assumed that the two girls and her parents had angered the legendary red panda spirit and were even persisting on killing the parents. Chapter 17 The next day the two friends wanted to go back home but were immediately stopped by Red and Dozer saying they wanted to come with them, the friends agreed and the little red pandas followed on their way home the girls asked why the red pandas did not tell them they were the saviours the red pandas told her them that it was forbidden and it would cause havoc and their duties as their guardian red pandas. When they got to Jigzhu village the villagers were surprised to see the girls back from the forbidden gate but were even more surprised when they brought back home red pandas. Chapter 18 The girls excitedly shared their encounters with red pandas, how they became legendary saviours, and how the red panda spirit made peace with humans to break the curse. They also educated the villagers about the bamboo forest's importance and inhabitants. The girl's parents were proud and a story about their happiness continued for years.

x8rp85

Post Office

Post Office “Where am I?” Frankie Lewis asked as he opened his eyes only to feel a wave of dizziness hit him like a hammer causing his stomach contents to lurch. He squeezed them shut again hoping everything would stay where it should be. “Well, you're here Frankie.” A familiar man said that caused him to slowly open his eyes to see who it was. “Gary, what the hell is happening?” He said as he looked up at the other man, a thick bearded white haired fella that he knew from the Post Office that dressed up as Santa Clause every year. “Let’s get you up first then we can talk.” Gary reached out his hand to help a still very confused Frankie to his feet. “But I was in the car and now I’m,” Frankie said looking around. “In the Post Office, but how?” “Well to you it's a Post Office but to someone else it could be a bus station, old house, garden whatever makes them feel most at ease.” Gary said as he rolled the very chair over that Frankie sat in almost daily as he, Gary, Vivian and Ben would enjoy coffee along with conversation at the local Post Office. “Have a seat before you fall down.” Frankie absently sat as he continued to look around, feeling the familiarity but also the not familiar at the same time. Confusion was mixed with a major headache and for some reason sadness. He just couldn’t figure things out, but that had been the story about most things in his life. At least when he would come to the Post Office he felt comfortable to just be himself. “I really don’t understand Gary.” He said as he ran one hand threw his hair which was a habit of his when he was confused. “Let’s just say this place is like a waystation of sorts in your journey of life. For you I look like Gary.” The man said with a smile before suddenly changing to a dog, then a woman and even a bird before back to Gary with seconds in between. “But to others I’m whatever or whoever they need me to be.” “Woo, am I dead!” Frankie said, jumping up as now panic slammed into his head pushing his other feelings aside. “Not of sorts, sit back down and we will talk some more.” Gary urged as he pulled up the same brown worn leather chair that he always sat in. “But you're wearing your Post Master uniform and everything and it even smells like coffee, and Viv’s perfume.” Frankie said as he stood behind the chair gripping the headrest either for comfort or just to see if it was real. “Am I dreaming all this then?” “You see, I have a gift for making people comfortable. Sort of a job requirement in my line of work. That’s why you can smell and see things the way you normally experience them. You can even hear them, just listen.” Gary said with a smile. Frankie did just that. “Is that Daniel outside playing his guitar?” “Well it's him but here there is no outside. But again it's because you hear him out front whenever you come here, playing his guitar with his case open looking for change. So right here and now you hear him just the same way.” Gary waved his hand towards the counter where a pot of coffee sat adding the scent of its brewed goodness to the air. “No shit.” Frankie said, dropping into the chair feeling confused yet a little calmer. “But why?” “Now you're getting to the meat of things my friend. Look around at the post boxes and tell me what you see.” Gary waved his hand towards the wall of the little metal doors. Frankie stood up and walked over. “Well they look like post boxes, is this a trick question?” “Look closer.” Gary answered suddenly standing beside him though Frankie never even heard him move. Frankie jumped back startled by the sudden closeness. “You were just over there.” “Don’t dwell on that my boy, look closer.” Gary urged again. Frankie looked closer to the boxes and noticed the numbers had changed from simple numbers to dates. “Each box has a year on it.” He said looking back at Gary. “That’s right and behind each door, we'll open one and see.” Gary smiled. “Well, ok but I still don’t understand.” Frankie scanned the dates before settling on a memory that made him happy. He reached out feeling sweat in the palm of his hands while grabbing the little latch and pulling the door open. “What the heck is happening?” Frankie said as the post office became the front yard of his childhood home. He saw a little boy playing in the front yard , not a care in the world. “This can’t be.” “It is, but wait it gets better.” Gary said as he nodded towards the beat up old truck that was coming down the long dirt driveway. “No, it can’t be.” Frankie said as he found himself watching his long since dead dad pulling up to his house. “But he’s gone.” “This is something that already happened to you so it's a memory.” Gary answered. “I remember this day, it was the day…” His words drifted off as his dad stopped a few feet from him. He felt sad yet happy at getting the chance to see his dad again so was this supposed to be a good memory or a bad one. That's when his dad knelt down and set something on the ground he had been hiding behind his back. “No way, this is the day I got Bandit.” Frankie said as a wave of long forgotten warmth of the returning memory washed through him. He watched as the little black dog stumbled on puppy legs staggered to his childhood self. Tears ran down his face but he couldn't take his eyes off the scene as the boy and dog met for the first time. It was a memory that had gotten so buried with all of life's heaviness that he had forgotten all about his first puppy and his first real friend. “Can they see me?” He asked Gary as tears ran down his face. “Unfortunately no, as this has already happened, consider this a sort of home movie.” Gary answered. “But we need to get back to our conversation and your choice.” “Ok, just a second longer.” Frankie said half hearing Gary as he watched the boy and dog roll around on the grass together. “Time to go.” Gary finally said as with a wave of his arm the house and boy vanished only to be replaced once again with the familiar setting of the Post Office. “So, am I dead, is that what all this means?” Frankie asked as he dropped back into the chair, tears running down his cheeks. “That’s just it Frankie. You're taught to believe when you're born your life is like an hourglass, more or less. From birth the sand starts to trickle. I can tell you for some people it trickles faster while the lucky few it trickles very very slowly. Then people like you come into play which is the difference.” Gary said as he sat back down across from Frankie. “What do you mean people like me?” Frankie asked once again, running his hand through his hair. “Well what I mean is there are people like you that have a chance to, let's say, flip the hour glass. They have two fates for a path where most have one.” Gary said as his words grew more serious. “But with the choices comes some sacrifice but also some rewards.” “Like what, do you mean I am still alive?” Frankie asked, growing excited with the hope of this whole confusing mess having a good ending. That's when Gary stood up and walked toward two doors that Frankie swore weren’t there when he first awoke. “You see, your fate lines are blurred so that means you have a chance to choose your path.” Gary said as Frankie approached him. “What do you mean, heaven or hell? If that's the case, not much of a choice.” Frankie said as he stopped and glanced from one door to the other. “Nothing like that my boy, let’s say it's sort of like choosing a direction for fate to take you. The door on my left, your right that's labeled, "Express,” gives you answers on one side and the door on my right labeled "Returns,” is another path.” Gary said. “What about here, can’t I just stay here in the Post Office with you. It always felt so calming and peaceful to me.” Frankie asked as the confusion once again creeped into his mind again along with the calming familiar sounds and smells of what he came to realize as his safe place. After all, Frankie was never a social person, so much so that ever since his accident years ago he had worked from home and even going so far as to get his groceries delivered. In short he wasn’t a people person, that is until he met Gary and the others at the Post Office below his apartment. It was the only place he ever went. “Though I am enjoying our chat I am afraid a great many people have fates of their own that deserve guidance. But both choices aren’t too bad of a deal.” Gary said as he stepped towards Frankie, putting his arm around his shoulder like he had done the very first time Frankie had walked into the Post Office and started having a panic attack. “Your life has been one of struggle and sadness for you despite your great effort. Consider these choices a chance to finally be at rest but this is all I can say. This choice is for you and you alone to do, my friend.” “But I don’t know what to do.” Frankie said as he ran his hand through his hair while looking from one door to the other. “Take a chance.” Gary urged. Frankie took a deep breath and pushed open a door, a bright light flashed out of the door engulfing him, pulling him inside. “Good choice my boy.” Gary said, still standing in the Post Office only he was no longer Gary, he was Frankie’s dad and he was smiling the same big smile he had had the day he brought his boy the stray dog he had found on the road. “You’ll get a good life this time.” With that the Post Office and everything in it faded away to help someone else on their journey through life.

tc9zbw

The Adventures of Stripey the Fish

​​​    The Adventures of Stripey the Fish! Stripey was a fish that spent his days playing with the other fish in Lewis’s fish tank. More than anything, he loved playing water tag with all of his friends. One day, however, Stripey began to notice how different he looked from the other fish. This made him feel sad and alone, even though none of the other fish ever made him feel any different. After a game of water tag, Stripey swam off by himself to think. He found a spot near a sea shell at the bottom of his tank. The sea shell curled up around him. “Gee,” he thought to himself, “if only I could find one other fish that looked like me. That fish could be my family.” Starlight, a blue fish that shone bright like the stars, swam over to see what was wrong with her friend Stripey. She listened and agreed that something must be done to help him. Starlight called all the other fish together for a fish emergency meeting. Stripey spoke about how sad it made him that all the other fish in the tank had a brother or sister fish that was of their kind. He explained that he was all by himself and we wanted to believe that somewhere out there his family was waiting. With his fin he pointed to the sky up above the tank that expanded out over a vast, big world. The meeting was very promising, all the other fish promised to help Stripey find his family. All through the week the fish saved bits of fish food for Stripey, Starlight helped to make a sack out of seaweed for Stripey to carry things in. But one very big problem remained. Once Stripey was out of the tank, he couldn’t swim in air, what was he going to do? Stripey took the matter to the wise, old father fish of the tank. He was called “Fishmonger”. He told Stripey that he had heard stories of animals helping out one another in times of need, but Stripey had to believe with all his heart that this is what he wanted. Fishmonger told Stripey to go to sleep that night and dream of what it would be like to live outside the tank that he has known his whole life. That night, Stripey dreamt that he could fly. When he woke, he wished upon a star that twinkled outside his tank window. He wished and wished and wished that he could fly. In the morning when Stripey woke up, he was sad to see that he was still a fish with fish fins and a fish mouth. He glided over to the other fish. They were holding another fish meeting. As he approached, Starlight swam over and explained the plan. That night, after Lewis fed the fish and went to sleep, that other fish would swim around the tank in a lively fish dance to create a swell in the tank.  The hope was that the top of the tank would pop open and Stripey would make his escape. Stripey was so happy and excited by this plan. But he didn’t feel sure that he could really fly. Later that afternoon, he sat out from playing water tag with the other fish and continued to wish for a chance to fly. Fishmonger, who never joined in the activities, swam over to Stripey. Stripey told Fishmonger his fears. Fishmonger, all knowing as he was, told Stripey everything would be alright as long as he believed. The question was, did Stripey really believe? That night, Lewis went upstairs to bed as usual, as he fed his fish he said a prayer for them. His mother tucked him in, as always, and read him a story which usually lulled all the fish to sleep. But not this night. When the lights went out, the fish got to work. They all swam in formation and played a game of follow the leader. Stripeywas their leader. They swam around and around, faster and faster, and then, the top of the tank popped open! Stripey was hoisted out of the tank, out of the window, into the night sky with is sack of food in his mouth. He closed his eyes and didn’t open them until he felt his fins begin to flap like a bird’s wings. He opened his eyes and shook with joy as he saw that each fin was a brand new feather with stripes. Fishmonger had been right! Stripey was so happy. He just knew that his family was waiting for him. And so his journey began. “Oh boy,” he said to himself out load, “flying sure is hard work!”.  “It sure is,” came a friendly voice. “Hi!, I am Beaker. What kind of bird are your?” Bird, Stripey thought. He had only heard of birds in the stories Lewis’s mother read. “I am not a bird,” said Stripey. “Well actually, I am just borrowing these wings so I can fly and find my family.” Beaker was interested in helping Stripey continue on.” I have a friend who lives on a lily pad on a pond,” said Beaker. “Maybe your family is there!” “Can you take me to him?” asked Stripey. “ sure, come on, follow me!” and with that, Beaker flew with Stripey straight down to a valley of flowers and trees so brightly colored that Stripey couldn’t believe it. “Hello? Is anyone home?” Beaker flew on-to a lily pad and dipped his beak into the water looking for his friend, “Gulp”. “Ribbit, ribbit, ribbit.”  Then, a bright green frog jumped out of the pond onto a lily pad and said hello to his friend Beaker and also to Stripey. “Beaker,” he gulped, “who is that with you?” Stripey felt a bit shy in front of the big, green creature that made a noise like Fishmonger would make when clearing his throat. “This is Stripey and I’m helping him find his family.” “HI, Gulp!” said Stripey. “Please help me. I have come a long way to find other fish that look like me.” Gulp could see how much Stripey wanted to find his family but Gulp lived in a pond and knew all the fish that lived there. He had never seen anything that looked like Stripey, feathers or fins. He did say that he would help Stripey meet other animals in the fields that may be able to help him. Stripey was getting hungry while Beaker and Gulp talked about a way to help their new friend.  Stripey untied the small sack from his left feather and opened up his sack full of fish food. But the, a strange thing happened, when he took a bite, he made a noise very close the sounds Gulp made. When he caught site of his reflection in the water, he couldn’t believe his fishy eyes. His gills had turned into a gigantic throat that bubbled when he ate. “Look at your!” said Gulp. “You look a bit like me!, If you don’t find your family, you can be part of mine.” This made Stripey smile. He thanked Gulp and Beaker for their help and flew across the fields until he spotted a pool of mud. “This could be a pond with my family,” he thought. Maybe the water was just a different color. With that, Stripey aimed his mouth like Beaker had done for the pool of mud and said “ouch!” as he landed on something soft and leathery. “Hey,” came a voice under him, “What are you doing landing on my back like that?” And out came a very funny sound “oink, oinky, oink” from the strange animal. “My name is Stripey, I am sorry for landing on you like this, I haven’t learned how to fly very well yet. I am a fish and I am looking for my family in there. Can you help me?” “Your family is in my mud bath? I haven’t seen anyone that looks like you! I am Oinky oink. That is my name. I will help you find your family, but first you need a bath!” Oinky oink dove head-first into the mud and rolled carefully around on his back so that he could get Stripey “pig clean.” Both of them giggled. “It tickles!” cried Stripey. When they were done, Stripey was indeed pig clean and then another strange thing happened. His fish behind grew a curly cue of a tail just like his friend Oinky oink’s. “Well,” said Oinky oink, “if you don’t find your family, you can be part of mine. You clean up real swell for a fish with a pig’s tail!” This made Stripey smile. “Thanks Oinky oink, but I have to continue on to find my family. Thanks for the pig bath. I hope to see you again!” Stripey gave Oinky oink a high-five with his feather to Oinky oink’s hoof. Once again, Stripey was off. Now he had mud clean feathers, a gulp mouth and a curly cue of a tail but there was still no sign of his family. He flew along until he came to an opening in a forest. He was tired so he aimed to land on a tree leaf. This feels so soft and cuddly and I am tired. I think I will close my eyes and take a nap. What he didn’t know was that the nap he was about to take was on the fur of a caterpillar named Hugs. It had been a long winter and Hugs was asleep. But tomorrow was the first day of spring and it was time for Hugs to wake up. Through the night Stripey and Hugs slept and in the morning when Stripey woke up his back felt very furry. “Oh no, it happened again!” And so it was Stripey now had feathers, a gulp for a mouth, a curly cue tail and now a furry back like Hugs who he was about to meet.​ As the sun rose over the forest and Stripey yawned, he watched a strange looking insect uncurl himself from a ball. She and Stripey stared at each other for a few minutes before Stripey said the first word. “Hi, thank you for letting me sleep next to you. You are very warm. My name is Stripey and I need your help. I am looking for my family and, as you can see, I am quite strange looking. But I hope that when I meet fish like me, they will accept me for who I am.” Hugs took a long look at Stripey. “Hi! My name is Hugs and now you have a furry back like mine. I also hope to find where I belong. My mommy and daddy told me I would turn into a beautiful butterfly but so far as you see, I am still a furry insect.” “Well then maybe we can help each other,” said Stripey. “I would like that very much,” said Hugs. Will you be my friend? I mean, while you are looking for your family?” “Of course!” said Stripey. And the two furry friends wiggled along the forest in search of the water that hopefully held Stripey’s family. After wiggling for hours, they came to a large body of water. It was magical. It even had a waterfall. “Oh Hugs, I just know this is where I am supposed to look, but how can I swim if I don’t have any fins?” “I can be of some assistance,” said a very proud, old owl. “Hoot is my name and I overheard your story and want to help you,” hoot hooted to them. “As for you, my young furry friend, time is on your side. Very soon you will be a beautiful butterfly, but first you must be patient.” Both Stripey and Hugs listened very carefully. Hoot reminded Stripey of Fishmonger back in his tank at Lewis’s home. “Now tonight you must go to sleep and dream of all your new friends that have helped you along the way to finding your home. If you believe that, you will find your family. Then, when you wake up, you will have power enough to swim in this water and find what you are searching for,” Hoot hooted. “The question you have to ask yourself is, do you believe?” “Oh Mr. Hoot, Sir, I do believe! I do. “ “Well then Stripey, sweet dreams. I will keep watch over you and Hugs. See you in the morning when the sun has risen and you will have your answer.” Hoot hooted. As Hoot flew off across the moonlight and the stars, Stripeytook one last look at the body of water and felt very sleepy. It had been a long trip. Hugs and Stripey found an empty’s bird’s nest in a willow tree and thought that was a good place to rest.  Stripey, although too nervous to sleep, knew that he once again had to believe. Before he closed his eyes he found a star almost exactly like the one he wished on before. “Please star, help me. I want so much to have a family that looks like me. This is my wish. I am very lucky to have made such great friends and, even though parts of me lookslike theirs, I want all of me to look like who I am meant to be.” With that, Stripey, along with his feathers for wings, gulp bubble for a mouth, curly cue for a tail, furry back, and now Hoot had left him two very wide yellow eyes, Stripey closed those eyes and went fast asleep and dreamed. He dreamt that he was an angel fish once again, swimming with other angel fish in a great big body of water. As the sun rose and all of the forest woke, Stripey opened his eyes. He could not believe what he saw. Hugs was no longer a furry insect, but a beautiful, bold butterfly. Hugs was so happy, but Stripey, alas, was not back to himself. “Oh Hugs, I am so happy for you. You have become who you are. But maybe I am supposed to stay this way forever.” Just at that moment the tree they had been resting in shook with laughter. “Oh Stripey, what a worry fish you are. Don’t you believe? Here! Take my branch and hold on tight, I am going to place you in that great big body of water and, well, we will see!” Stripey and Hugs said goodbye, Hoot winked at Stripey, and then Willow, the great, big willow tree, took Stripey in its arm and whisked him down to the water. Just as Stripey dipped his first feather in, something wonderful happened. His wise yellow eyes turned back to small black ones! His furry back returned to a slick, grey, shiny coat with black stripes! His curly cue tail disappeared, along with his bubble mouth! And finally, the feathers that took him along this journey turned back into fins. With a bounce and a flop Stripey dove into the water and swam into the undersea. As he looked around above and said goodbye to all his forest family, he heard someone say, “Hi! My name is Slivers and you look just like me!” All Stripey could do was smile. “Hi! My name is Stripey. And yes, you look like me too!” ​​​​        THE END

6k1vgd

The Boy and the Beast.

The Boy and the Beast. The beetle at the edge of the road was huge. When it skittered into the woods, the boy skittered after. Through shrubs and ferns, around young trees and old, over boulders and across little creeks. It was lively for a beetle, the boy thought as he carefully placed his feet on the little log that acted as a bridge over a trickling stream. He wasn’t sure, he had to admit, if the beetle was leading him on an adventure or doing its best to run away. It surely couldn’t hide, this hulking thing. A leaf would sit on its back like a child’s blanket would on an elephant. It was far too big for the cracks in the trees or the spaces between the rocks. In the end, the boy didn’t care one way or the other. They raced through the woods, leaving the sounds of cars and picnics far behind them. The boy decided to call the beetle Fred. Because he seemed like a Fred.            Around the boy, the woods grew thick. The trees were old and grizzled. Their leaves reached out for the sky, more and more as the boy followed Fred, until they had blocked it from view. There were no footprints but the boys’, that squiggled through the twigs and leaves. And still he ran, he hopped, he crawled, as he chased that huge beetle.            He was getting tired, as Fred led him through the wooded hills. The boy struggled up a steep and mucky slope, jealous of the speed and confidence that took Fred up so much faster. When the boy finally scrabbled over the edge and into the clearing, he panicked because he didn’t see Fred. But the huge beetle slid on some leaves and the boy ran towards him. He tripped, his feet tangled in a root near a boulder in the ferns and bushes. The boy huffed and reached out to the rock, mumbling angrily at his feet. And then he was silent. On that shadowy little flat the only sound that cut the forest came from the scrambling beetle as it climbed and slid and climbed and slid.            The boys hand was on the rock. But he wished it wasn’t. He had spent most of his short life in the outside world. He knew about rocks. There were big ones and small ones, shiny ones and rough ones, heavy ones and light ones, there were even crumbly ones. But one thing seemed absolutely certain, as far as his mind could grasp, there were not any furry rocks. But even if, in the whole of reality there was, somewhere, a rock that had fur, there simply couldn’t be a rock that breathed. And this one did. Which meant, it wasn’t a rock.            The thing that could have been a rock but wasn’t didn’t move, other than the soft rise and fall of its breath. And the boy, unsure of the right course of action, followed suit. He didn’t look at the thing, but he could feel it through his hand. A hand that was absolutely, positively, without a doubt, not shaking just a little. It was warm, he realized. Not just fuzzy, but very warm, at least compared to the cool earth he was laying in. The long fur was strange, light and soft, but with a hint of hardness and edge. For a moment he felt a trembling and he thought it was going to move, to pounce, to leap upon him. But it wasn’t muscles that he felt, or not the ones that he had worried about. It was the thing’s heart, racing as fast as his own. The boy had to look.            Slowly, so slowly that the leaves and dirt tangled in his hair barely wiggled, he turned his head towards the thing he was touching. It was half buried in the dirt and the same color and pattern of the dozen big rocks he had passed by on his way here. And it was big. Not as big as a car, but definitely bigger than his cousins golden retriever. Which was, the boy decided, too big. He waited for movement, for the thing to react, but nothing happened. He looked for eyes, or a mouth, or a tail, or legs, but even now he only saw a boulder. Only his hand told him it wasn’t. His hand, and his fear. Because the boy was afraid. This was not something that happened in real life. Not here, in the woods so close to home. Not to the boy or anyone he had ever talked to. And as he thought he realized that it was in fact the ‘not’ that made him the most frightened. So many ‘nots’ crowded his mind that little else had room to wiggle in. Not a rock, not a dog, not a cat, not little, not good. And then something did manage to get through, and he did not like it at all. If it’s not all of those things, then what is left?            Carefully, the boy pulled his hand off of the thing. He didn’t want to see it shaking as he moved. He didn’t want it to move at all, but especially when he was looking as he stood slowly up. He started cautiously stepping back, crunching slightly on leaves and twigs and wincing with every sound. The thing didn’t move. And if it wanted to be a rock, the boy thought, let it be a rock. Another step and he knew he was getting closer to the edge; he would slide down on his butt and be halfway to China before anything else could happen. Except…            Except it wasn’t a rock. That was a problem for the boy. As scared as he was, as certain that the world had suddenly become strange and dangerous, it wasn’t a rock. The boy stood still for a long time, looking at the thing in the bushes. He saw the way the ground was pushed up around it, like a rock thrown into mud. He saw that it didn’t react, as he reached down and grabbed a long stick. The boy told himself he was brave, fearless, tough, and powerful. And when that didn’t work he told it to himself again. But they were just words, and the fear was real. Too real to be chased away by letters and sounds. So, the boy admitted, I’m not those things. But, I still need to know. The boy took a trembling step forward. The rock didn’t move. He took another step, ready to run away, but the rock didn’t move. One more step and he would be close enough. A branch cracked beneath his feet and the rock wobbled. The boy was very still. But the rock didn’t move. So, the boy did what he had too. His heart was racing and mind buzzing with a thousand screaming thoughts, but he did it anyways. He poked the rock that wasn’t a rock. He poked it with a stick. And this time, it moved. It blew up. Not like an explosion but like a balloon. As soon as the stick touched it, it burst into a giant boulder colored blob. The ferns and bushes around it swished and snapped out of the way, the ones that didn’t were reaching out from beneath it in surprise. Huge and round, the thing loomed over the boy far more than he would have liked. Still not a car, the boy thought in spite of his fear, but a big round tent. The boy didn’t run. Even he wouldn’t say it was courage that made him stand there and stare. It wasn’t fear, either, he would be quick to add. But right now, in this moment, it was shock. It was more than he could process, this rock that wasn’t a rock that blew up like puffer fish. It was all the boy could do to stand there and gawk. At least, until he saw its face. Two huge eyes had appeared. They weren’t up high, but halfway down the huge furry thing. The eyes were big, bigger than a baseball, bigger than a grapefruit, bigger than any other eyes he had ever seen. And they were looking straight at him. Huge and dark, with pupils like a cat’s that bled into stony blue-green around them like tie dye. Fingernail sized flecks of fools gold were scattered amidst the blue, glinting like sparks in the shadows of the forest. Stumpy little legs were smooshed underneath it, stretched as tall as they would go and looking like they were at risk of sinking into the thing’s now very poofy stomach. If it weren’t for those ridiculous legs the boy would have screamed when he saw its mouth.            Wide, is the word that comes to mind first. It was wide. Nearly as wide as the boy was tall. The line of its mouth traced across the front of it from end to end. Because it was standing tall, its mouth was tilted up, giving it something of a huge grumpy frown. Teeth jutted out from the mouth. Not that it was open. The boy immediately thought of crocodiles, with their teeth sliding outside their mouth instead of in it. But the thing’s teeth weren’t close together. They sprouted out every couple of inches or so in a line along the mouth, alternating between up and down. They were as big as the boy’s longest finger, maybe longer. An animal then? It stared at him, and his mind went blank, nothing came to his rescue in there, so all he could do was stand there and be stared at. And he did. Until it roared.            It’s puffed out glare bobbed as it tried to stand taller and failed. Its stubby little feet shifted a little, so that one eye could glare harder than the other. But the boy stood still. Suddenly it’s front ballooned, sending its huge fluffy chest jutting out below its mouth, and it roared. Or at least, that’s the best word for it the boy could come up with. It didn’t open its mouth but rumbled deep and loud. It sounded like wheels on a bad road, with an undercurrent of thrumming rubberbands. The boy felt the rumble in his chest and remembered to be afraid. A fuzzy rock was one thing, a fuzzy rock that roared and had a mouth big enough to swallow him whole was a different matter entirely. Not a rock, not an animal, but a beast. Something rustled in the trees above with a burst of chattering from squirrels and the wail of a crow, and something cracked. The snap was loud, and the falling crash of the branch sounded like something rushing down the tree at him. It happened so suddenly he didn’t even get to think about running. So the boy dropped down, made himself small, covered his head with his hands and waited for disaster.            The branch hit the ground in a muffled slush of leaves and dirt. When the boy realized he had not been eaten, he still stayed small and quiet. It would be his luck, he thought, if he moved and only then got eaten. But moments stretched on, and the woods were silent, except for Fred and his desperate eternal struggle up. At last, the boy peeked. A large new stick complete with fresh brown crunchy leaves sat behind him. And that was all. Relief pushed him to stand up and huff ‘phwew’. But he ran cold as he remembered the thing behind him. Slowly, he turned. It was gone.            Well, not quiet. It took a moment for the boy to see it. It had been big when he found it, huge when it had puffed up, and now it was all but flat. It looked a bit like an enormous pancake. Its body had squeezed all the way down, its sides rolling over and between the little bushes and rocks. Its eyes were shut and as the boy watched, its chest popped out like a tiny bubble, and it squeaked. The sound was so completely different from the rumbling roar from before that the boy laughed. Which led the thing to tremble even flatter.            “No, I’m sorry,” said the boy, feeling ashamed as he looked down on its now sadly frowning face. The thing’s eyes closed as he walked towards it and he stopped. It squeaked again. “It’s ok,” the boy said softly. “It’s ok, it scared me too.” The boy crouched down where he was, and held out his hand like he had done a thousand times to new cats or dogs. He held it there and waited, smiling and patient. One of the eyes blooped open. First, huge and black, then, slowly, it narrowed and filled in with that stony blue-green and gold. It eyed the boys hand, and wiggled a little. It inched towards it. Just a hair at first. And then a little more. Then it waddled, which is the only word for it, closer. It hesitated, its eyes darting from the outstretched hand to the boy’s face and back, before it bumped its huge furry head into his hand and stood back on its stumpy legs and waited. “See, its ok. I’m not going to hurt you,” the boy said softly. “I would very much appreciate it if you returned the favor.” It was puffing back up, not like before, but more so than when it was a pancake. The boy reached out slowly, and it didn’t flinch. His fingers grazed its fur and the beast stood still, watching, waiting. The boy gently scratched the beast’s head. It squeaked, but didn’t deflate. So the boy scratched it again. and after a moment, its stomach puffed and it started to purr, a shallow closed mouth rumbling broken only when the boy pulled his hand away and stood back up.            A pile of leaves shuffled loudly and the boy and the beast turned towards the sound. But it was only Fred, sliding into his growing nest of leaves and twigs. The beast blinked at the huge beetle before waddling around, awkward and proud like a bulldog, until it could stare straight at it. “That’s just Fred,” the boy said, laughing in relief. A great wad of bubble gum the size of the boy’s lunchbox at home shot through the air, gooped around the huge beetle and drug it back to its source. The boy stood horrified, as the beast turned and looked at him. Its wide mouth crunching happily at the last of Fred, grinning like a large furry Venus Flytrap. “No,” the boy shouted, throwing his arms in the air. The beast half deflated and looked up at the boy with huge eyes, occasionally sneaking a haphazard crunch between the passing seconds. The boy looked down at its half-puddled form and said as sternly as he could, “you ate Fred, that is not ok. We do not eat things with names.” The beast sat in its puddle and looked up at the boy with its huge sad eyes. It was slurping up the last leg of the beetle as slowly as it could, as though it hoped the boy wouldn’t notice. “No,” the boy shouted, pretending his voice hadn’t faltered. “No, I’m so mad I can’t even look at you,” and he turned away and crossed his arms and glared into the woods. He glared and glared until he realized he couldn’t see the road beyond the trees, mostly because there were just more trees behind the trees. The boy’s anger left him like the drink from a spilled cup. He was lost, and alone. The beast nudged the boy’s leg with its great furry head and squeaked behind him. The boy turned, and the beast went a little flat. Its huge blue-green eyes looked up at him and it squeaked again. And what was the boy to do? After all, it wasn’t the beast’s fault that it was hungry, and how could it have known that it shouldn’t eat named things? It simply didn’t know the rules. The boy reached down and scratched the beast’s head, and it purred and puffed out in delight. In the distance, he heard his parents yelling his name. They sounded scared, or angry, or both. And the boy thought to himself that parents worry too much and braced himself for the lectures to come. “Sorry, I have to go now,” he said to the beast and started to walk away. Behind him, the beast squeaked. He turned and saw it puddle again, shivering as its eyes darted around the woods. It looked straight at him and squeaked. “Do you want to come with me,” the boy asked, surprised and suddenly hopeful. The boy nodded his head towards his parent’s distant voices and the beast waddled toward him. The boy sat down on the edge of the hill and slid all the way to the bottom. He stood up and looked back, and the beast spread its stumpy legs and slid down after. The boy couldn’t help but laugh, but the beast didn’t mind. The boy knew his parents’ thoughts on pets, and when he’d said he wanted a dog like his cousin’s they had shook their heads and said no. They had said no, the boy thought and smiled, to dogs and cats. But they had said he could have a pet rock, and then they had laughed. The boy’s smile was as wide as the beast’s as he headed towards the shouting voices. “Come on then,” the boy called, and felt a strange joy at the sound of the beast’s waddling hurry behind him. “I think I’ll call you Rocky,” the boy said. Because he seemed like a Rocky.

yeivtg

The adventures of Nemo, the plush fish

Nemo was a plush fish with the same figure of the young clownfish in Disney’s cartoon “Finding Nemo”. He was born among other cotton animals in a workshop in Saigon. After only one day staying in the workshop, he was moved to a truck to go to the seaport, where they put his box in a container. After being filled with boxes, the container was loaded on board. Nemo asked other cotton animals where they were and where they were going but no one knew. Nemo only felt a strange taste: the salty taste of the sea. Nevertheless, he didn’t know what the sea was. Nemo tried to listen to sounds outside. He slightly noticed the voice of people calling others boisterously, the murmur of sea waves, and most clearly, the howl of the ship’s whistle. Then, the ship began her voyage. It was a long journey. Nemo felt like the trip were endless. He was anxious to get out of dark, stuffy and boring box. Besides, he didn’t like the feeling of floating in the ship. Finally, after nearly a month on the sea, the ship arrived in New York harbor. A few days later, Nemo appeared on a shelf of Disney store on the Fifth Avenue of New York city. It was exactly the place he wished to be. The store always sparkled with lights and happy music and was glitteringly decorated, but the most pleasure was the appearance of children, a lot of children. Differing from adult creatures Nemo saw in the workshop, quiet and austere, children were usually naughty, noisy and laughing. They even spread their pleasure to adults. Nemo watched children playing, wishing he could run and jump like them. But he was only a plush fish. Every time finding Nemo, children enjoy looking at him, hugging him and fondling his fluffy body, which made him feel very happy. However, once, there was a naughty boy snatching his fin, causing him painful and fretful. The boy even asked his mother to buy him Nemo, so that the plush fish found himself in a cold sweat. He only breathed again when the mother refused the boy as he had already torn another Nemo raggedly right after bringing home last time. From his position, Nemo could see the world outside through a huge window class. On the outside road, a stream of people walked hastily, but there was a girl stand for a long time before the window. She was playing violin for pedestrians. Some people stopped to listen to her music, then dropped some bucks or pennies in her violin box. Nemo could not hear the sound of her violin but he enjoyed watching her pull the bow along the strings. Her act was flexible this time but firm that time. Her eyes were so passionate that Nemo wished he could play violin. Nemo felt happy here. He wanted to be like that forever, everyday watching children and the violin girl. But the pleasure is short like a period a butterfly sit on your shoulder. After only three days, he had to leave the Disney store, continuing his adventures. A woman, in her travel to New York, visited the Disney store and bought Nemo as a present for her little daughter. It cost her $12.99 to take him. He had to come to the bag, and then, the suitcase. This time, he did not even have any friends to talk to. In return, he did not have to stay in the dark as long as last time. Nemo was on an air flight and it only took him two days to be at the destination. He enjoyed flying in an airplane. He was just a little bit scared when the airplane taking off and landing, and sometimes his ear was blocked, but those also were exciting experiences, he thought so. Another interesting thing was that Nemo was back to Vietnam, his hometown, but not Saigon. He was in Hanoi. When the mother came home, her little daughter ran to her. “Mama, do you bring gifts for me?”, the daughter asked. “Yes, I bought a lot of gifts for my sweetheart!”, the mother answered. The daughter eagerly asked her mother to open the suitcase. Having just seen Nemo, she screamed out loud. “Ah! Nemo! How beautiful! I love you, mum.” The mother felt really happy as she brought pleasure to her daughter. Meanwhile, Nemo was proud that he was a treasure in the little girl’s eyes. She pampered the plush fish so much, often embracing him in her arms, fondling him as if he were a kitten. Night after night, she hugged Nemo while sleeping. Once the girl brought him to the bathroom to play with. Witnessing that foolish act, the mother asked her: “Why did you bring it to the bathroom? Who would clean the floor if it were soaked and made the floor wet?” “But Nemo is a fish. He must’ve wanted to swim in the water”, the daughter answered naively. “Oh, my foolish girl! It is not a real fish but a cotton animal.” The girl didn’t change her mind and the mother had to humor the stubborn girl. It was the first time Nemo touched water. His eager quickly turned to be sickness as water soaked into his body. At that moment, he began to understand the woman’s word. He is not a real fish but a plush one. He cannot swim. The little girl soon realized her mistake, too, and got him out of water. Nemo and the little girl went together through her childhood. But when growing up, the girl did not love him anymore. The plush fish was not chubby like the first day he was born because the girl hugged him too much that he was much flatter. Moreover, the girl had so many new cotton-animal friends that she no longer cared about him. Therefore, Nemo had to stay silently at the corner of the room, counting the days. One day, there is a charity subscription of old cotton animals for poor children at the girl’s school. She eagerly took the plush fish and some other cotton animals to the subscription and hoped they would bring happiness to poor friends. Consequently, Nemo continued his adventures. However, his position now was different. Sadness filled his heart as people no longer liked him. He was not the proud Nemo on the shelf of gorgeous Disney’s store on the Fifth Avenue, New York. Now he lied in the dirty bag together with other neglected cotton animals. They lamented to each other, talking about their golden age. Nemo followed the volunteers to an orphanage in the suburb of Hanoi. When they delivered things to the children, a gray-skin child snatched him. Nemo was rather sad since he got used to being hugged by white and clean girls and boys. Every time the boy hugged Nemo, the plush fish had to suffer his bad smell. Anyway, Nemo consoled himself, the boy was not silly or disabled like many kids there. Because the boy’s smell was so bad (but he didn’t realize that), few kids played with him and no one was close to him. Meanwhile, even blind kids had close friend, and silly ones were not smart enough to be sad of lacking close friend. The bad-smelling boy considered Nemo his only close friend. The boy usually talked to him. Nemo listened to the boy’s words and gradually liked him. The boy often mentioned his parents, who – might be get into some kind of accidents- leave him at the hospital. Each time seeing kids with their parents beside, the boy felt sad. He told Nemo that when growing up he were surely going to find his parents. The plush fish felt sorry for the boy. Sometimes, Nemo was sad because all people have parents while he, the plush fish, do not. He reminisced about the mother of his old owner and her warm love for her daughter. He wished he could have a mother like her… The boy had bright and smart eyes. He studied passionately, especially when the subject was mathematics. He solved all difficult exercises in the advance fifth grade Mathematics book, which was given to him by the volunteers. When studying, the boy put Nemo beside. The fish watch the boy study with extreme concentration. The boy’s eyes were as beautiful as the violin girl’s. Nemo did not understand why the letters in the book attracted the boy that much. The boy was the proud of mothers in the orphanage. But the more intelligent and diligent he was, the more painful was their heart. The boy contracted a deadly disease, AIDS, and the doctor said that his life would soon come to an end. They tried to hide the truth but one day, the boy finally found out. There seemed to be a door suddenly close before his eyes. The bright prospect he drew for himself disappeared. He threw the books which he used to foster to the floor. He had expected that those books would change his life but at the moment the Death were coming closely, they were meaningless. The boy embraced Nemo, his teardrops were rolling and rolling. When the pain subsided, an idea suddenly grew in his mind. He escaped the orphanage with his close friend in his arms. He had to make his biggest dream come true before dead: finding his parents. The boy walked relentlessly. He had never walked far like this time. The scene around him kept changing upon each footstep: the hills, the fields, then solitary cottages. Nemo was interested in looking at wonderful landscape. It was the first time he integrated himself into the immense nature. In New York, he saw only skyscrapers. They don’t have huge sky there. The boy had been walking for half a day. His feet reached Hanoi urban areas. He intended to look for the hospital where he was born to ask for his parents’ information. The boy asked people how to go to the hospital but no one answer. Moreover, they threw despising looks to him, then turned their backs on him. Some even swear at him. The boy was so ugly and stinky that everybody hated him. Only Nemo cared for him, but he couldn’t do anything for the boy since he was only a plush fish. The boy was both hungry and thirsty. He had had nothing in his stomach for the whole day. Seeing a restaurant, he came to ask for water. Nevertheless, having just seen the boy, the watchman of the restaurant screamed: “Get out! No begging here.” “I just asked for a glass of water”, said the boy. “What? Are you deaf? I said ‘get out’!” The watchman savagely kicked the boy at his stomach. The boy fell to the ground, with an arm embracing the stomach while another still holding his close friend. Having watched the ugly boy since he came to the street was a pack of shoeshine boys. They were curious as the boy still held the fish while falling. Then, one of them went silently to the boy and grabbed Nemo from his hand. The shoeshine boy eagerly showed off Nemo to his friends. Lying painfully on the ground, the stinky boy startle when his close friend was stolen. He stood up reluctantly, dragged his feet to the shoeshine boys. “Give him back to me!”, he said. “Who? This fish?” “Give him back to me!” “Why did you act as if this ugly fish were a treasure?” “He is my friend.” “Oh! I see! You make friends with this ugly fish because you are ugly, too.” “Give him back to me!” The ugly boy screamed loudly and plunge into the shoeshine boys to snatch the plush fish. The shoeshine boys turned to be angry and beat the ugly boy fiercely. After the boy fainted away, they left him with his fish at a corner of the street. Nemo tried to scream out loud, but he could not make any sound. He was just a plush fish. Pedestrians still walked across coldly as if no one realized the existence of the lying boy. In his dream, the boy saw his parents. They led him to a shimmering-light area. Suddenly, he turned back. He heard his close friend calling him. He smiled, waving his hand to say goodbye to Nemo, then followed his parents… Next morning, a dead boy was discovered. Curious people gathered around talking while the police were doing the report. Someone said the boy had stolen and been beaten to death. Thus, everybody supposed that the boy deserved the death. After the police brought the body of the boy away, curious people went, too. There was only Nemo alone. In that evening, it rained heavily in Hanoi. There were dazzling lightnings and growling thunders. The street Nemo lying started to be flooded. The tide gradually rose. The plush fish felt that he was melting into water. In the rain, he seemed to hear the sound of a violin. That melodious sound took his soul back to places he had arrived. He saw austere workers in the cotton-animals workshop, he floated to the Disney store and saw naughty children, he saw the violin girl on the Fifth Avenue, he found himself in the room of his old owner who was doing massage for her mother. He smiled and flew to the sky. Over there, his close friend was waiting for him…

8pzlka

Tiramisu, the cat, goes to Dallas

It is 5:00 in the morning outside the Samuel Mather Building in Cleveland, Ohio. I am standing by a small black Ford Tempo, called Little Car. We are getting ready to head for Dallas, Texas. The adventure is going to begin. The Samuel Mather building houses my office and I am gathering a handful of items that I need to take with me to Dallas. My clothes, some important items, and personal effects are in the car but the car is small and does not carry as much as would be preferable. In part because, there on the front seat, in her carrier, is Tiramisu, my domestic short-hair cat. Also, best friend and love-of-my-life in many ways. Cat’s are thought of as independent, aloof, uncaring, not loyal, and some think they view humans as staff. I am firmly of the opinion that this could not be further from the truth. They are not goofy affectionate like their companion animal of the canine persuasion. But in their own way they are fiercely loyal and they know their person very well. That was Tiramisu and I. I remember when my partner and I went to pick a kitten from a litter that some friends had. I sat down to watch a ball game while my partner selected a kitten. As she sorted through the various options, Tiramisu came over to the couch, climbed on my lap, and turned to watch the game. Well, the only thing better than picking out a new family member is having the new family member pick you out, and so Tiramisu, as a tiny kitten came home. That was four years before we embarked on our trip. My partner had been transferred to Dallas and I was going to be working remotely for a good bit of each month. Tiramisu was clearly unhappy about getting up early, getting into a carrier, and heading out into the cool morning, with literally no consultation on what her preference would be. We began our drive to Dallas right out of downtown, hopping on I 71 out of Cleveland headed south. It takes five hours to clear Ohio and it was with a sense of saddness we crossed the old bridge that takes you from Cincinnati into Kentucky. That was about noon and the sun was up and the day was warming up. Tiramisu had calmed down and since she was a very well-behaved cat to begin with, which is not to say she gave one damn about being good, she simply saw no value in being contrary. Her mantra appeared to be, “let’s get comfortable and see what this human of mine is going to do now.” That being the case I felt comfortable turning the carrier so that the door faced towards me and I propped it open. She was able to crawl forward so she was half in the carrier and half on the seat and could look up at me, and we could speak. It also gave her access, should she need it to her litter, which was on the floor. Note, if you have not done the math, the entire front passenger seat was hers. We rolled the windows down and the warm air flowed through the car as we cruised south through Kentucky, and then Tennessee. We saw a lot of activity associated with the agrarian industries prevalent in that part of the country. One notable example was a truck that we passed full of livestock. I remember, Tiramisu, looking up at me with a “what the hell” look of alarm, or perhaps morbid curiosity, who can tell which at that point? Feeling nothing was to be gained by telling her the truth, especially one of which I was not comfortable nor certain, I reassured her they were on a field trip and there was no reason for her to have any concern, and on our way we went. In Arkansas I found a rest area and very cautiously took her from the car and we had a meal. She was able to touch grass and relax away from the car. I hovered lest she bolt but she was well behaved. Then I put her back in the car, gave her some privacy (she was a lady), and I cleaned up from our impromptu picnic. We headed on our way, Texas loomed out there and our new home beckoned. Around midnight, we headed into Texas and began the trek west toward Dallas, with Texarkana in our rear-view mirror. By now the diet cokes and coffee were working less and less and, we were getting very tired. Up ahead we saw a rest area and, since it said rest right in the name, that seemed a good place to stop for a bit. We pulled in, parked the car, rolled the windows up, and tilted the driver’s seat back. And I dozed. I have no clue how long I slept but all of a sudden I felt a set of eyes on me. I opened my eyes and there perched on my chest was an old friend who clearly wanted to know, “what-in-the-hell” was going on. We had a whole day invested in the adventure and now, based on smells and her dead reckoning, we were clearly a long way from home. I wrapped my arms around her and assured her that we were just going to see her mom and she would be living in a new wonderful home in a really great state. She looked doubtful. I fear my credibility was not high at this point. After an hour or so, we headed off to finish our drive to Dallas. We rolled into town around 7:00 in the morning. Subtracting stops, we were around 20 hours on the road but now, we were at our new home. Since that trip, she has made it back and forth three additional times and actually got really good at that trip. She was a trooper. But I remember feeling like if there was anyone with whom I wanted to travel, and there are very few, there are none who I enjoyed traveling with as much as I did my sweet Tiramisu.

dmkphd

Sanderson's Cat Tale

A loud slam against the front door startled the old man from his nap. He had drifted off in front of the crackling fireplace to the steady, lulling staccato of the rain on the tile roof. A second sharp bang roused him completely.     His bushy silver brows pulled into a deep scowl as he shifted and slowly lowered his warm, stocking feet to the cold stone floor with a grimace. He heard frenzied scratching now and quickened his shambling pace.     “Alright! Alright!”     His long, gnarled fingers pulled back the antiquated brass bolt and he opened the thick oak door just a crack and peered out.     “Whatta want?” he barked out into the storm.     The frantic feline shot in between his feet and the old man pushed the door shut and turned on the sodden cat.     “Honestly Sanderson! What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into this time?”     The large, beige cat stared back at him and flicked a chocolate-colored ear and leapt on the worn wooden chair. It opened its mouth and dropped the cottony wad on the edge of the table.     “I thought you’d have more sense than to venture out in this weather,” the aged man scolded with a shake of his head.     The cat merely stared nonplussed with luminous, moss-green eyes then batted at the bundle it had delivered. As if in afterthought it began to clean its muddied paw.     “What have you got there? Steal someone’s wool bobbin?” he asked with a chuckle.     The cat’s saucy “ brrrrt ” made the bent man lift his wire-rimmed spectacles from the side table beside his easy chair and affix them to his deeply lined face.     The cat’s mewling trill made the man’s eyebrows go up.     “Indeed?” He hobbled to the table and studied the small, white, spun package with a stroke of his snowy beard.     The feline’s other brown ear flicked, making the row of gold earrings jingle with irritation and the cry was sharp and expressive.     “I understand Sanderson, but you have no one to blame but yourself.”     The Siamese chirped its displeasure and the old man ignored it as he pulled the long, jointed arm magnifying glass closer to the subject of study. A meow sounded three times in succession and he heard but never took his eyes from the tightly wrapped bundle beneath the enhanced field of vision.     “I’ll tell you what I’m doing you impatient rascal! I’m formulating a plan. This is going to be a very delicate procedure. I don’t do this every day,” he huffed.     The cat was pacing in front of the fireplace, sending out a low note with each step. It finally settled on the plush ottoman in front of the over-stuffed chair to finish grooming.     “A spider, you say? Well, that explains the fine workmanship on this little parcel.” He prodded the fibrous swaddle with his crooked finger.     The feline’s verdant eyes narrowed and it hissed, causing the old man’s mouth to pull into a tight line beneath his thick white mustache.     “I am simply making an observation. Spiders are very efficient creatures.”     He moved near the window and returned with a leather bundle, untied the rawhide cord, and unfurled the roll. His lips pursed as he studied the array of small, thin tools now at his boney fingertips.     Sanderson let out a loud, sharp cry.     “Stop that! I understand time is of the essence, but I have to do this precisely. Your well-being depends on it.”     He extracted a paper-thin, silver blade and twisted it in the candlelight. Then he lifted out a pair of delicate tweezers. As he pulled the stub of a second large candle to the compact clump beneath the glass, he nodded.     “Alright Sanderson, here we go.”     He adjusted his round, thick glasses to the end of his nose and slowly, painstakingly drew the razor-sharp scalpel across the tightly woven webbing. As the blade moved down the white cocoon, he separated the membrane with the tweezers.     “There she is,” he mumbled as he patiently worked.     A tiny winged fairy lay unconscious on the bed of tattered spider webbing, her left wing nearly torn in two. The diminutive creature was exquisite, even in her poor condition. The tiny rose petal dress clung tightly to her long, delicate limbs and was sticky with web residue. Filaments of white webbing were tangled through her long red hair and her finely featured face was deathly pale.     Sanderson jumped up on the table and peered into the glass. A low, sad cry emerged.     “I don’t know if we’re too late. I’m not certain she will survive even if I can revive her. See that small red puncture on her leg? I have some spider anti-venom, but I’d just be guessing at what type of spider it was.”     Long whiskers danced as Sanderson chittered.     “An hourglass marking? Excellent observation, my young one. That certainly narrows it down.”     He shuffled to the towering armoire and pulled open the doors to reveal a display of hundreds of bottles in all shapes, sizes, and colors.     The cat’s rolling “ mrrwow ” reached his ears and he frowned again as his gray eyes moved along the shelves.     “Of course, I know where it is! Ah-hah!”     The ancient healer shuffled back to the table and extricated a long, very fine, glass rod.     “Now you know I’m simply guessing at the dosage, Sanderson. I’ve never dealt with a fairy before, but we’ve nothing to lose at this point. I decided I’m going to repair her wing first. I don’t know if the shock of the break would hinder her waking.”     “ Mew .”     “I’m glad you concur. I’m going to use this sticky webbing as a patch then just a speck of resin as a sealer.     His skilled and surprisingly steady fingers manipulated the tiny instruments and when he was finished he could barely tell where the delicate wing had been injured. Next, he un-stoppered the miniature bottle of anti-venom and placed the threadlike pipette inside and extracted a single, miniscule amount of the tincture. Squinting over the magnifying glass as he maneuvered the tiny glass rod to the fairy’s lips, he let the nearly microscopic drop fall into her mouth.     A large clock on the mantlepiece ticked out the long minutes and he finally sighed and lowered his head as he removed his spectacles.     “I’m sorry Sanderson, we tried. I had hoped…” Did he hear the faint sound of bells?     The cat cocked its head and let out a quiet mewl.     The old mage pulled his glasses back on and peered over the magnifying glass.     The fairy’s color was returning to her fair face and her good wing twitched. The old man nodded excitedly and sliced off a small square of silken material from the edge of his voluminous shirt. He covered the tiny, shaking creature and watched as her eyes fluttered open.     “Don’t be afraid, little one,” the white-haired healer spoke gently. “You were almost a spider’s first course.”     The little fairy gripped the swatch of silk closer to her neck and shuddered. Her iridescent blue eyes widened as she remembered. She shakily got to her feet and glanced back at her mended wing.     A faint chiming reached the old man’s ears and his lip lifted in the corner.     “It’s the best I could do,” he said with a shrug. The gentle tinkling came again and he gestured to the cat, now looking over the edge of the table.     “Sanderson brought you here through the storm.”     “ Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle ,”     “Um, yes, you were carried in a cat’s mouth. Anyway, Sanderson had gone off to the Fae Folks to see if anyone could break this wretched spell. A nasty witch cast it. I’ve tried, but I’m at a loss.”     “ Tinkle, tinkle .”     “You can? You will?” The mage asked hopefully. “Excellent news!”     With a graceful wave of her tiny arms, a stream of golden, glittering light rose and swirled around the Siamese cat. The feline transformed into a beautiful young woman with long, flowing brown hair and pale green eyes.     “There’s the Sanderson I know and love,” the old mage boomed happily as he drew her close. “Welcome back apprentice.”     “Thank you, Grandfather,” Sanderson said as she hugged his thin waist.     She moved to the table and removed one of the tiny gold loops from her ear and offered it to the fairy. “For you my little friend, and thank you. Can you fly?”     The petite Fae nodded, sprinkled some sparkling dust on the earring, making it shrink in size, and tucked it into the bag on her waist. Then, in a stream of tinkling bells, she fluttered up and toward the door just as Sanderson opened it with a farewell wave.

vow40f

An Epistle Conveyed by Airship

An Epistle Conveyed by Airship 7th day of January 1872 My Esteemed Mr. Ambrose, May this missive find you in robust health and high spirits. Acknowledging your eminence as a prodigious savant of the mechanistic arts, adorned with intellect, a cogent psyche, and a countenance befitting a gentleman, it is apropos for me to forewarn you of my decision to set our contraption into motion. Pray, do not construe this communiqué as a provocation to intercede in my endeavor. I beseech you with heartfelt sincerity to refrain from your curious, inquisitive inclinations, Bazel, and instead, luxuriate in the warm embrace of your family in London. With Utmost Fondness and Esteem, I Remain, Sir Gideon Prescott * * * Our Chronicle of Peculiar Notations 10th Day of January 1872 Dearest Sir Prescott, So moved to receive your epistolary, I hastened to escape my engagements and orchestrated a dirigible to Amsterdam to deter your audacious contrivance. Alas, my arrival at your estates was tardy, and the temporal engine's chronometer indicated coordinates aligning with the era of Rome, 48 B.C. Sir, vexation swells, and I must admit I harbor a turbulent tempest. With unwavering conviction, I must caution you against trifling with the tides of history for such interference is indeed a treacherous endeavor. When we embarked together on creating this monstrosity, we promised to be of one mind about its use; it disappoints to see your flagrant disregard of the Royal Academy’s Temporal Principles. Whatever motives take you to Caesar's domain remain veiled to me, but, sir, respectfully, I cannot permit your contradicting history. Thus, herein I declare my intention to stop you. In the off-chance you should return, I shall leave this journal so we may negotiate with the decorum befitting our stations, and ultimately bring these matters to their rightful terminus without prejudice. Sir, upon your possible return to these chambers: you must restrain from rekindling this infernal machine! I urge you to wait for me. Wishing You Adieu with Sincerest Regards, Bazel Ambrose * * * Our Chronicle of Peculiar Notations 21st Day of April 1872 Dear, Respected Mr. Ambrose, My hands tremble; a cough succumbs me. I’ve fallen severely ill, and I’ve returned to our present moment to seek more modern elixirs to aid me. Surprised to encounter your journal perched on a podium near the controls of our machine, Bazel, I’m forced to admire your pluck, but, regardless, you were too late. With a prideful heart, I must divulge my triumph amidst the labyrinthine avenues of Rome. At my hands, the plot to sever the thread of Caesar's fate in the Senate has been artfully obstructed. Departing, I left behind a tapestry of transformation, woven to redirect history away from the clutches of time’s relentless current, undoubtedly thwarting the Empire's collapse in 476 A.D. Coincidentally, sir, have you noted the passage of time remains constant in our absence? An extraordinary outcome. Please know that my report to The Temporal Academy shall respectfully append your name to highlight your role in such a monumental discovery. Undaunted, after requiring a week of recovery in my private chambers, I stand upon the precipice of another temporal jaunt and shall soon depart for the Battle of Tours in 732 A.D. There, I shall bestow upon the Umayyad Caliphate the gift of foresight, arming them with pivotal knowledge to undo Charles Martel and his valiant Franks. Christianity, its tyranny, and the proverbial ‘dark ages,’ shall forever be undone. You cannot stop me, and I beg you, sir, not to try. In Anticipation of Your Gentlemanly Forfeit, Sir Gideon Prescott * * * Our Chronicle of Peculiar Notations 6th Day of July 1872 To My Esteemed, Brilliant Colleague, Sir Prescott: I implore you, sir - you must cease these entanglements! I returned to witness your enigmatic presence once more gracing these chambers. Yet, in your wake, the very tapestry of our society has been unwound! The very stitches of normalcy severed! Rome's survival unfurled an alternate reality for should you look beyond your window, naught remains but the Roman Emperor's imposing visage, and all vestiges of Her Majesty's court have been obliterated in the aether. Strangely, I have denoted our dangerous escapades have created a static temporal field surrounding your estates, maintaining the machine and the agency of our chase. Is it providence, sir, or simply good fortune, that we remain unaffected by these changes? Either way, bound by the weight of ethical cogitation, I am compelled to disentangle your schemes. To Rome I voyage afresh, to undo your deeds, and, if exigency demands, allow my hand to snip the thread of Caesar's life to restore equilibrium to the cosmos. Do not interpret my intercedence as a mere flutter, for should destiny weave our paths anew, be warned: I am armed. With Resilient Adherence to Temporal Principles, Bazel Ambrose * * * Our Chronicle of Peculiar Notations 18th Day of July 1872 Curse you, Mr. Ambrose! Picture my vehement astonishment upon my return only to witness my machinations unraveled - England reinstated, Queen Victoria ensconced upon her imperial throne, the Temporal Academy still practicing their unjust influence. Through the auspices of your own admission, I can only presume your voyage to Rome met with success, and my efforts foiled. Sir, while once I might have regarded you as a compatriot, an intellect deserving of my collaborative discourse, I now perceive you as naught but an intrusion, a trespasser, a vexatious disturbance. Henceforth, let it be known that you and I are hereby sworn adversaries, locked in the embrace of enmity. Verily, the tendrils of Rome's influence remain beset by constraint and failure. My endeavor to sway Abdul Rahman Al Ghafiqi's convictions fell upon unreceptive ears, and, imprisoned for weeks, I made a harrowing retreat from France with naught but my vitality intact. Still, these setbacks do not perturb me. Instead, I embark upon the next stage of my ambitions, which will unfold without your awareness of my strategems, calculations, or achievements. With a Fusion of Respect and Animosity, Sir Gideon Prescott * * * Our Chronicle of Peculiar Notations 3rd Day of August 1872 Errant Criminal Prescott: Well, I am sorry to inform you, sir, your crossbow bolt missed , and I’ve destroyed the contraption. Ah, the lamentable ineptitude you always exhibited upon the intricate tableau of chess, sir, mirrors your broader shortcomings. My intellectual pursuit culminated within Rome. There, did I spy on you from its streets; unable to restrain your own curiosity, you traveled to Alexandria, and unbeknownst to your person, I poisoned you in the library, explaining your sour humors in April. Suffer well. In the meantime, I’ve navigated the convoluted passages of time, returning to the very inner sanctum of your arcane laboratory, where your path had led you. This time, I did naught but deftly reposition my bishop piece on the grand chessboard of our temporal gambit. With a maneuver orchestrated earlier than your ill-fated Turkish excursion, I deflected Abdul Rahman Al Ghafiqi's confidence in your guidance, intercepting your fruit before they ripened. Behold, Prescott, the celestial game in which we preoccupy ourselves, chess masters in an elaborate phantasmagoria of madness! As you peer through your observatory portal, witness the unfolding apocalypse, a reality unspooling outside your very home. Anglo-Saxon heritage, once solid as riveted iron, lies obliterated from the annals of time. Instead, a tapestry of Germanic dominion drapes the globe's canvas - the British Empire has given way to roaming, nomadic tribes! Yet, as exasperation intertwines with enlightenment, I seize upon your myopic judgments, employing them as fuel to stoke the blazing furnace of my resolve. As we are both dependent upon this infernal machinery to counter the other, its mechanisms are poised in a frenetic race to thwart your contrivances. Gleaming blades set to cleave, let us, in a spiteful symphony of antagonism, rendezvous upon the shores of Hastings. There, the clash of our ambitions shall reverberate, and to the vanquisher, the triumphant spoils shall be awarded. With Spiteful Scorn and Bristling Determination, Bazel Ambrose * * * A Note Hand-Delivered to Hastings Castle, Sussex, England 14th Day of October 1066 My Esteemed Temporal Adversary, Oh, how the gears of fate continue to whirl in my favor, Prescott! If my courier has performed their function, I dare say it’s the 14th, the Battle of Hastings, and perchance amidst the secure embrace of your castellated refuge, indulge in a momentary respite to cast your gaze upon Senlac Hill. There, dear William and his Norman army deflect the Saxon reinforcements you advised King Harold II to redistribute. Ah, the substance of my intervention, the orchestration of foresight and stratagem once again eludes your feeble grasp, and history, sir, is preserved! Come to your senses, man! Allow us to cease this temporal war! Take not to the machine again. Stay within your chambers. Allow us to politely discuss these matters over a good brandy. Otherwise, sir, eagerly do I anticipate our inevitable convergence, when the crosshairs of my Webley Revolver align with your trembling presence, a confrontation that beckons not just the steel of firearms but the steel of our convictions. With Spiteful Anticipation, Bazel Ambrose * * * Our Chronicle of Peculiar Notations 4th Day of August 1872 Ambrose! Your interference has cut me to the quick! Incapable of tolerating any more of your meddling, I shall ensnare you within a trap of my own devising, a trap to shackle your departure and at long last, to unmask the final act of this temporal battle between our two selves. I will cry havoc and allow Mankind to unravel for, in this chaotic whirlwind, I’ll consign you to oblivion with the fervor of a tempest, even if it consumes my last breath. Fly to Egypt, the Great Pyramid - find me, if you dare! Fueled by Hate and Unyielding Zeal, Sir Gideon Prescott * * * Our Chronicle of Peculiar Notations 5th Day of August 1872 My Accursed Companion, In the shrouded realms, be apprised that your nefarious plan within of the Great Pyramid was but an ephemeral triumph. Bereft of my awareness, I emerged, unscathed from your devious snare. Your malicious orchestration shattered the radioactive heart of my pocket watch. With resolve aflame and enduring sacrifice, the grains of Egyptian sand for 27 long-passing years. Therein, I toiled, crafting an intricate facsimile of our arcane creation, a contraption to pierce the veils of time anew. I must observe that - my new contraption, decoupled from our machine - offers an untethered relationship to time. I travel unhinged from the time experienced here. Perhaps it is due to my own pocketwatch originating from the past? Oh, the fevered visions that plague my thoughts, the dystopian tapestry woven by your malevolent hand! Reluctantly, I shift the gaze, expecting naught but a world contorted in the image of your ambition. With a heart resolute and fervent fervor, I stride forth on this pilgrimage to rectify the wrongs you've woven, tracing the very genesis of our acquaintance back to school, Temporal Mechanics. There this sordid saga shall find its climax, and your transgressions shall meet their denouement. Perhaps, if not kill you outright, I might convince you otherwise. In Finally Parting with Resolute Resolve, Bazel Ambrose * * * An Epistle Conveyed by Airship 7th day of January 1872 My Esteemed Mr. Ambrose, May this missive find you in robust health and high spirits. Acknowledging your eminence as a prodigious savant of the mechanistic arts, adorned with intellect, a cogent psyche, and a countenance befitting a gentleman, I invite you to set our contraption into motion. Together, we will unlock the time’s greatest mysteries, respecting the laws laid before us by the Temporal Academy. I know that my invitation will tear you away from your London home and precious time with your family, but I beseech you: come at all haste to Amsterdam, so we might unlock these secrets together. With Utmost Fondness and Esteem, I Remain, Sir Gideon Prescott

vqa5wh

The Old Man's Tale

It was way past midnight and unquestionably way past Mr Belleville’s bedtime. But the old man, however, had always been iron-willed and did not plan to leave until he found what he was looking for, so he paid no heed to the dull ache in his knees and the heaviness of his eyelids. He was sure that his wife was going to be disgruntled and say something about his tendency of acting half his age or searching for adventures that weren’t meant for a man with a sore back and grey hair. He couldn’t help it! The old man spent day after day in a building that held over a thousand stories, and so it was only natural that he had begun to crave at least a fraction of the excitement that he read about in novels. ‘ I should’ve never proposed that you get that job as a librarian! Page by page, those books are turning you into an entirely unhinged man!” His wife had told him. He remembered thinking that her reaction was entirely unwarranted and highly exaggerated, for he had only done what any hero of a fictitious tale would’ve done. Very well, perhaps he had crossed the line by spending the fairly small amount of money he had saved on a beautiful horse, that he knew, very, very deep down he would not even be able to ride. But it was truly magnificent, and the man that had sold it to him at the auction was very persuasive, seeming to know exactly what to say. He had painted a lovely picture for the old man; him galloping on a meadow, with the wind in his hair, though he did not have much, feeling as free as ever. Mr Belleville visited the auction the next day, at the command of his wife, downhearted and frustrated, thankfully managing to return the horse, because she had told him that he either give it back or find himself and his pet a new home. She loved him really. He was in the place he treasured most- the library, searching for… Well, in all honesty, he had not the slightest clue about what it was exactly that he so desperately wanted to find. Mr Belleville just hoped that once his eyes would land on the item, he would know that it was the mystery object of his desire. It had all started when Mr Belleville was about to close up the library for the day. He had gotten out his bronze key, turned it two times, and pivoted towards his car, balancing a new stack of books that he had checked out for himself with one hand. And then it hit him! Oh, it would have been a truly disastrous thing if he had forgotten his spectacles. They were small, brittle things, held together by tape and string and things that the old man had found lying around just as they had begun to fall apart again. But they did the job, and he couldn’t imagine a single day without them! And so, he had placed the stack of books atop his car roof, and hobbled back to the library, muttering about what a wasted night it would’ve been if he wasn’t able to read because he had left them at work. He turned the key two times again, but in the opposite direction, and once he stepped into the library, he almost ran back out again! It was winter and the night came quicker, shrouding the whole city with its dark blanket. Mr Belleville could hardly see a thing, but he could have sworn that something in the shadows had moved. And it was not just his wild imagination . He was about to reach for his cell phone, scrambling and turning his pockets inside out to find it, and call the cops! The old man was convinced that in his library, there was a wicked thief, about to place their grubby hands on his books. Now, most would probably think slightly more pragmatically, asking themselves what kind of thief breaks into an old and dust-filled library. But not Mr Belleville; to him, literature was worth far more than gold, and so he did not question the thief's incentive. It was when the troublesome stranger stepped out of the shadows, that the old man started to question what their actual motivation was.  The odd individual had on himself a cloak. And it was not one of those modern ones that Mr Belleville had seen in a shopping mall with his wife, but one that belonged to a villain ! It was dark and looked like it was made from the night itself, concealing the stranger's entire face in what seemed to be a black fog. And dare he say it, It almost looked magical! The old man wondered how the cloaked figure even managed to step foot into his library, for there were no signs of break-ins and he was indisputably sure that he had locked the door. He waited by a bookshelf, either unnoticed by the stranger or just ignored, and watched as they took out an item from beneath the secret confines of their cloak, and placed it on a shelf. ‘This is the opposite of a thief!’  He had thought. ‘Perhaps it is just someone that had forgotten to return one of my books, deciding that a late trip to the library was just what they needed.’ He grimaced- thinking rationally was certainly not made for him. Something peculiar was going on, and this time, he was confident that it was not just inside his head. The stranger then seemed to pause for a moment, and tilt their head, ever so slightly, in the old man's direction. Mr Belleville had thought that was it, staring wide-eyed and helplessly just like a deer in headlights, unsure whether he should try to run or call for help or plead with the cloaked figure for mercy. But just as he was getting ready to do none of those things, but throw a punch or something of the sort, the stranger stepped back, and it almost looked as if they had dissolved into the shadows. The cloaked figure seemed to be gone, almost as if they hadn’t even been there in the first place. But just to be sure, Mr Belleville walked back to his car, which was parked right outside of the library, and waited very patiently until his watch told him it was midnight. He aimed to make sure that once he’d begun his search for whatever the stranger left behind, he would not run into them again! But now, seeming to have rummaged through the whole library, he had begun to wonder if it was a bad idea. The old man felt as if he were looking for a needle in a haystack, or worse, looking for something that wasn’t even there. What if whilst he had been waiting in his car, the stranger had returned, and taken the item back? Or what if it was just his old mind playing tricks on him? He began to feel foolish, thinking himself nonsensical for spending so many hours on such an unavailing task. But then it hit him. He had been doing this all wrong, for if he wanted to find the item, he needed to recreate the situation from before! With a newfound sense of hope that seemed to add a bounce to his steps, he tottered over to the light switch and flicked it. Darkness enveloped him and it took a while before his eyes adjusted so that he could roughly make out where everything was. Just as before, he stood behind a bookshelf, recalling in his slightly foggy and tired mind where precisely the cloaked figure had stood. Mr Belleville wanted to kick himself for not thinking of this sooner, because there, lying ever so innocently on the shelf, was a book that he had not seen until now. He wasn’t about to dive into the science behind how on earth it had just appeared out of no where, because he had never been someone who believed that there had to be a logical explanation for everything, but someone that didn’t run to seek elucidation for things his mind simply couldn’t comprehend. The old man walked towards it, a little hesitantly, half-expecting a basilisk, or Kraken or dragon or something equally terrifying to leap out of it and swallow him whole. He felt a sense of relief because the book was without a doubt not one of the libraries, which meant that it was indeed the mystery item that the stranger had left. In the darkness, an unearthly glow emanated from the book, bathing the old man's face in rich gold. “What is this?” He mumbled to himself, eyes glued to it, unable to look anywhere else, simultaneously mesmerized and frightened. He couldn’t help it. His fingers brushed the cover and felt a warm and leathery material. It was as if he were under a spell. ‘What use is it stopping now? ’ He thought to himself, or perhaps he said the words out loud. ‘ I might as well see what is inside .’ With exceedingly great caution, he picked up the book and opened it so that he was on the very first page. His eyes scanned over the singular sentence- no, title . The Old Man’s Tale He furrowed his brows, dumbfounded. Aiming to put together the puzzle of this abnormally uncanny night, he flipped the page, but there was nothing. Not a single word or drawing or number. He flipped to the other page. Nothing. Mr Belleville skimmed through the whole book, hoping to find anything at all, but his effort was fruitless. Suddenly, he felt as if all the air had been vacuumed from his lungs. In fact, he felt as if he were being vacuumed . It was as if someone or something was squeezing him on all sides, and he wondered if this was a heart attack or something of the sort. A high-pitch-ringing sound filled the old man’s ears, rendering his hearing useless. Next was his sight; it started with white spots flashing in and out of his vision, but then all he could see was blinding light until he could not discern or hear or feel anything at all. Mr Belleville had already made his peace with whatever tragic thing had happened to him, ready to climb up the white stairs to heaven, though he hoped he’d get a lift because any more walking and his knees would collapse! But the old man had always been a little too dramatic, for his end did not come. He opened one eye first, and then the other, not knowing what to expect. In his hands, he was still clutching the book that the stranger had left behind. It was green. That was all that his still slightly overwhelmed mind could comprehend. After a while of staring at the sky, wondering what had happened and what his wife was going to say, he gasped: “ I’m in a forest! ” Mr Belleville scrambled to his feet, looking around so that perhaps he may find a road sign or anything that could hint at where he was. He could already imagine his wife at home, walking back and forth in front of the hearth, thinking of detailed ways to punish Mr Belleville for being away for so long. Perhaps she would make him his least favourite meal for a month straight. Or- “Excuse me,” The old man spun around so quickly that he needed to blink a couple of times so that his surroundings would stop swirling around. Before him was a small girl, with two plaits of chestnut hair covered by a red hood, swinging a basket back and forth. She looked at him as if he were the crazy one, and then shook her head, as if she had gotten lost in thought. “Do you happen to know where the village on the other side of the forest is? I’m terribly lost and my-” Mr Belleville cackled, not noticing that the girl had jumped from his sudden change of mood. “What and your grandmother is waiting for you?” This had to be an elaborate joke! “Well, yes, actually. How-” He laughs again, ready to go along with the joke. “You be on your way, Little Red Riding Hood. And steer clear of any big bad wolves!” The little girl walks away, giving the old man an odd look. Perhaps he could’ve asked her for directions too, for he had no idea where on earth he was. But what was the point in standing around and waiting, he was not growing any younger, though he wished that were the case - Mr Belleville stopped in his tracks, his heart pounding. He was shrinking. The old man looked at his hands, and was horrified! They were smooth! Without wrinkles! “Stop!” He called out to no one in particular, his voice boyish and young, just as it had been years and years ago. To his surprise, whatever or whoever did this to him must have listened. And now, he just had to figure out how to grow fifty years in the span of five minutes, so that when his wife would see him, she wouldn’t get a heart attack. Now, he had always been fairly open-minded, but the things that were going on here were too much, even for him. He walked on and on, not seeming to get anywhere because the forest was so dense with trees that it felt like it was neverending. Beads of sweat collected at his temple and tickled his chin as they crawled down his face. This was the adventure he had always longed for, so why was the only thing that he cared about going back to his wife? The old man’s hands and legs were shaking, likely from exhaustion and distress. He wondered if this whole thing was a trap. If the cloaked figure that left the book behind had meant for him to find it. Oh, how he wished he could give them a piece of his mind! A sudden darkness flashed before his eyes, and the stranger materialised, right in front of him, at his command. “You did this to me!” He yelled even though it did not sound threatening coming from a man that looked and sounded like an eight-year-old boy. “This is your story, and you are its master. Do not fault me for your own doings.” The stranger said, their voice, unlike anything Mr Belleville had heard. But before he could question the cloaked figure or ask them what on earth they meant, they disappeared. Suddenly, the old man had an epiphany and if he were a character in a cartoon then a lightbulb would’ve surely appeared above his head. He was the story's master. He was in a story. His story. The old man could make it anything he wanted it to be. He had spent so long living lives that weren’t his, living vicariously through characters, that he had forgotten to live his own life. To live by his own set of rules, and by what he truly wanted to do. So he wished with all his being, that he could go back home to his wife and rid himself of this troublesome book, though it did reveal to him that he had been going about life the wrong way. But above all, he promised himself, that he would live his own story. And surely, after the unpleasantries (the whole case of the high-pitched ringing in his ear and sight loss, his eyes were met with his front door, but this time, he was empty-handed, the book gone. The old man laughed with delight, glad to be back home, and ran to his wife, who was half asleep on the couch. “Oh, Elsie! You will never guess what happened!” He cried. His wife stirred, mumbling something in her sleep. “Well, there was a weird hooded stranger, and then this glowing book and I got transported to a forest, Elsie, a forest !” He paces back and forth, unable to contain his excitement. “Okay look, I know how it all sounds-” Elsie sighs, placing a pillow over her head. “My husband has finally lost it.”

f3g438

The Book Of The Dead Letter Office

“ To whom it may concern ,” the letter started. “ Within the enclosed book lies a treasure trove of adventures beyond your wildest imagination. Its spells within hold the key to many locked doors in time. Use it wisely and be warned: Not all outcomes are favourable .” “What on Earth is this nonsense,” Captain Richard Lyle muttered. “I say, Jonty,” he called across the small room. “I’ve just opened one of the dead letter packages that came in this morning and discovered this extraordinary letter inside.” “Who is it addressed to, Dickie?” His ex-army pal asked – trying to help. “That’s just it. There is no address, just the words FOR YOUR EYES ONLY handwritten on the wrapping.” “Sounds secretive,” Jonty hazarded a guess. “Indeed,” Richard agreed. “I’m not totally convinced on its authenticity. Ever since that debacle last year surrounding the letter allegedly sent from the Romanov’s Grand Duchess Anastasia, we’ve been instructed to destroy everything of similar substance.” “Oh,” Jonty’s eyebrows raised in inquisitiveness. “Anastasia wrote it from beyond the grave, did she?” Flippantly asking. “Claiming that she had survived the Romanov family assassination and had been so depressed by her ordeal that she tried to take her own life.” “Wasn’t content with surviving being shot, then?” Jonty sarcastically quipped. “Better to die from her own hand, than live as a survivor, was it?” “She ended up in a sanitarium.” “There’s a surprise. Wasn’t believed, then,” Jonty surmised with a passing comment. “I must have read hundreds of fake letters from illegitimate children of dead kings and flase predictors of the future.” “Sounds more interesting than mine,” Jonty quipped. “All that lands on my desk are undeliverable Valentine’s cards with the same sickly Roses are red, Violets are blue verses. How are you so fortunate, Dickie?” “Mere chance, Jonty. Take those spears propped up against the far wall, for instance. They arrived from Africa assigned to me with just a tag addressed, To the man from London with the tall hat that helped my village fight the lions . So, here they remain, awaiting someone unaware of a sincere gift from a grateful village chief, to claim them.” “They remind me of the Zulu spears depicted in the Battle of Isandlwana, by Charles Fripp.” “Yes, I remember it. We saw it together at the Officer’s Club before it was mothballed. Damn good piece.” “Indeed, Dickie. Do you think we’ll ever be immortalised in a painting?” “I’d rather not remember what we went through, Jonty. I’m much happier here at the Dead Letter Office with you helping me analyse the workings of the human mind. Leave the war where it is. In the past. No need to analyse the horror.” “Dickie?” “Forgive me, Jonty. I compare running the Post Office’s Dead Letter Office to being like a belated psychiatrist listening to people’s issues long after they’re gone. But I can’t help them resolve anything except file the letter in the dead letter draw of the dead letter office of the Royal Mail’s living headquarters.” “Perhaps, there should be a museum for all the lost mail,” Jonty suggested. “But if we’re reading them, Jonty. They’re not really lost, are they. They’re just existing in some form of correspondence limbo.” “Neither dead nor alive.” Jonty commented. “Nowhere to send them on to, then?” “I’d happily forward them to the correct recipients, if only there were any legible names or addresses written on them. Take this letter, for instance. For Your Eyes Only . No name, no address, just a simple note with a cryptic message.” “Whose eyes doth it refer to?”  Jonty asked in a Shakespearian manner. “That is a mystery, Jonty. An enigma of sorts. The rest of the letter appears to be either a set of instructions or a caveat lector , a let the reader beware type of message.” “May I see it please, Dickie?” With several mutterings of surprise and intrigue, Jonty studied the contents of the two-page letter. When he had completed scrutinising it, he handed it back to his superior. “You need to destroy this right away, dear chap. Along with that book.” Jonty’s worried words quivered in their instruction. Something had clearly shaken him. “Whatever for, man?” “I don’t know, Dickie. I just had a feeling rush over me giving me goosebumps. Like that time in Alexandria, after we supervised the installation of that massive cannon that scared the locals. You thought it a great photo opportunity for the men, but I felt something was off – like an electrical surge running through my body. So, I talked you out of it, remember?” “Yes, instead, Captain Williams decided to organise his own party and led a group of men to pose atop the cannon.” “Right into the crosshairs of a Turkish sniper,” Jonty recalled. “And there ended the poor blighter’s career.” “There’s something about that book, Dickie. It doesn’t smell right. Have you looked inside it?” “Yes, it appears to be a compilation of short stories, I believe - judging by the handwriting and illustrations in it.” Energetically flipping through the book, Richard released an additional note written on what appeared to be folded papyrus paper - inserted between two pages. As he unfolded it, specks of sand fell from its inside crease to the floor. “I say, Jonty. Papyrus and sand. Where does that remind you of?” “Bloody Suez Canal.” “Indeed, Jonty. Was rather exciting and challenging times, wot? Long live the Fifty-Third, hey?” “Long live the Taffys, Dickie, old boy.” “Sorry bit of business we had to take care of at Suvla Bay.” “It was indeed. The Aussies copped it worse than us, though. No way to fight a war under those conditions.” “Yes, disease and the weather took from us what Johnny Turk couldn’t. Left with only fifteen percent of our fighting capabilities. It was no wonder we were withdrawn to Egypt. Yes, Captain Jonathon Smith , fellow survivor, my old friend. You and I are lucky to have lived to tell the tale.” “Except, no-one will understand what we went through.” “No, Jonty. Unfortunately.” Taking a breath, Richard focussed his attentions back to the mysterious letter. “Reminiscing aside. Let’s get back to current business and the contents herein.” “Agreed.” “It says here, Jonty. That the ancient tongue transcription within this note is a kind of key to exit unfavourable situations.” “Unfavourable what?” Jonty cogitated, while scratching his head. “Again, a cryptic piece of nonsense. Furthermore, it instructs that the journey must begin at chapter one and subsequent journeys should be followed using incremental chapters.” “So, chapter one, chapter two, etc.” Jonty flippantly repeated. “It’s hardly selling sand to the Arabs, is it.” “Quite. Difficulty level of understanding equals elementary. But reading further on, it ends with a warning not to skip a chapter or jump either forwards or back. I quote, For each chapter is a moment in time. Mix not, leave not, bring back not, for fear of calamity .” Curiosity took over Jonty, causing him to open the book at chapter one. “Dickie, take a look at this. It’s Dinosaurs!” Jonty exclaimed in a high-pitched voice. “The first drawings are of dinosaurs.” Beckoning for Jonty to hand him back the book, he placed in onto his desk – still open at the page Jonty had just read. “Is it some kind of handwritten encyclopaedia?” “Read the accompanying text to me, Jonty.” “I’m afraid that’s not possible, old chum. I missed the introduction to hieroglyphics at the academy.” “Let me see.” “Dragging the book to get a closer look, Richard accidentally dislodged a jewel-encrusted amulet embedded into the back cover of the book. Picking it out of its leather-bound cradle, he held it in his hand and studied its detail, before focussing back on the book. “Jonty,” Richard lightly admonished. “I do wish you wouldn’t tease me. It’s plain to see that this book is written in the King’s English.” Sidling up to Richard, Jonty looked at the opened page and repeated his recent observation. “Beats me, Dickie.” “That’s enough, Jonty. You’ve had your fun.” Placing the amulet on his desk, Richard cradled the book in his hands, then resumed his reading, but to his surprise, he also couldn’t make out any words among the plethora of symbols neatly imprinted within its pages.” “By George, Jonty. Either you have used the power of suggestion to blind me to the words in this book, or it is written in Egyptian hieroglyphics. Extraordinary. I was sure it contained English words… somewhere.” Quickly flipping through the pages in search of any decipherable text, proved fruitless and bewildering. Nothing but ancient emblems and symbolic code commonly associated with a bygone civilisation, filled each page. Curious as to the amulet’s inclusion to the book, Jonty inquisitively picked it up. “This is curious, Dickie, old boy. Do you think this is real gold?” “If it is, Jonty, then those shiny jewels surrounding that eye in the centre, must be worth a small fortune.” Jonty was just about to put the amulet back down on the desk, when he glanced at the open page of the book. “That’s very strange. The book is written in English,” he contradictorily stated. Confused by Jonty’s statement, Richard looked at the open page, again. “Where?” He demanded to know. Without saying anything, Jonty ran his index finger across and down the page – illustrating that he could read its entire contents. Clumsily dropping the amulet to the floor, Jonty ceased his pointing. “Jonty?” “Gobbledygook, now. I was reading it, now, all of a sudden, I feel like an illiterate.” Stooping to retrieve the amulet from the floor, Jonty’s body visibly reverberated in mild shock, as he glanced once more at the open page. “My goodness,” Jonty announced. “Dickie!” he yelled. “Yes, I can see it,” Richard concurred.  “One does not need a degree in Archaeology to recognise a Rosetta-type Stone , when you see it.” Placing his hand on the edge of the amulet, Richard decided to test his impromptu theory. “Let’s see if we can both read it now.” To their surprise, the book instantly transformed into a rendition of English words, where both men could clearly read and understand the text drawn on the pages. However, as much as he was enchanted by the ability to read ancient text, Jonty was still a bit confused as to the purpose of the book. “I’m still not clear what this book is for? To be more specific. Why has it been written?” “I can only postulate on its purpose,” Richard replied. “However, at first glance, I believe that each chapter holds an account of the author’s adventures, and for some obscure reason, whoever they are, they have requested that the reader vocally recite the ending prose or incantation to garner some literary signature of authenticity. In layman’s terms, the bloody writer wants their words read out loud.” “That’s a bit conceited, isn’t it, Dickie? It sounds like the author clearly has an ego that they’re conceitedly proud of.” “It is my opinion that ego holds no social graces, Jonty. It is merely a sense of haughtiness bordering on arrogance. Pride - on the other hand - is a sense of satisfaction, and although the two are interrelated, pride comes from accomplishment. It is not a sin – as some religious scholars would have you believe. It is a personal reward. A self-congratulatory emotion. Whereas ego, is a hunger yearning for acknowledgement. We are all born with ego, Jonty. Some of us just need it stroked more than others, and I suspect reciting the last part of each chapter is a way of caressing the author’s vanity. So, without further ado, In for a penny, in for a pound as they say, wot?” “I’m with you, old bean. But what do we do?” “It says here that the amulet must be draped around the neck of the orator and the key – the papyrus text – must be somewhere stored on their person – not to be misplaced.” Patting himself down, Richard settled on a place to store the note. “A pocket will suffice, I believe.” Tucking the folded papyrus into his jacket pocket, Richard continued reading the instructions. “ When in position , it says. That must mean the amulet. When in position,” Richard repeated. “ Recite the final sentence in the current chapter . Yes, there it is, below the sketch of what I believe is a Tyrannosaurus Rex.” Richard paused, as he appeared to be working out a calculation in his head. “It’s extraordinary, Dickie.” “What is?” “Well, this book looks, smells, and feels ancient; yet the T-Rex - or more accurately, the first remains of a T-Rex - was discovered only twenty years ago in North America. By all appearances, this book pre-dates that discovery by at least… three thousand years.” “Yes, an intriguing observation, Jonty… Right!” Richard exclaimed – snapping out of his introverted calculating. “Here goes, then.” Slowly with articulation, Richard recited the words. “ It is yesterday, I know tomorrow. After all, who am I? Yesterday is Osiris, tomorrow is Ra.” Waiting as several moments passed without incident, Richard’s suspicions of it all being nonsense looked to be proven. Nothing stirred, nothing happened, and not a sound emanated from the room. “Anything?” Jonty whispered, not realising why. “Do you hear it?” “Hear what, Dickie?” “Nothingness, Jonty. Absolute stillness.” “And what are we listening for?” Jonty whispered once more. “I don’t know, Jonty. Like, I don’t even know why we’re whispering.” “Then, shall we move on to the next chapter?” Richard cut Jonty off at the end of his question by raising an index finger – as if to say, Did you hear that? “Hear what?” “Listen.” Straining to listen, Jonty was about to break the eerie silence with another query, when a distant unknown animal’s shriek terrified every quiet corner of the room. “What on Earth?” Jonty asked. Sensing a small rumbling vibration sweeping across the floor, Richard pointed to the ground. “Feel that?” “Trains passing below in the tunnels?” “We’re not above any underground railway.” “Dickie!” Jonty jumped back, yelling in surprise. “The eye!” Pointing at the amulet resting on Richard’s chest, Jonty brought to attention the fact that the eye of the amulet was glowing brightly. “How extraordinary,” Richard commented, as the eye brightened further to project an image onto the far wall. “It appears to be one of those silent films they show at the Regent Street Polytechnic Institute.” “Except, this one is in colour,” Jonty pointed out. “And even more extraordinary is that there is sound coming from the projection on the wall. Do you think we’ve uncovered some new technology?” “I suspect not,” said Richard. “I believe that this is a far older technology, beyond the manual craft and cunning skill imaginations of Homer and Hesiod.” “Odd time to bring up Greek poets, Dickie. But then again, it’s all Greek to me. Missed the classics class as well at the academy. One thing I know for sure is that projection is most definitely not of Greece. It looks like something from another world – perhaps, another time.” “And it has perspective, Jonty. In photographers’ vernacular, there is depth of field .” “By George, you’re right. It’s as if one could just step into it.” Jonty cautiously approached the projection, then gingerly reaching out to touch it, he recoiled in utter surprise. “Jonty?” “Well, whatever it is, I can’t touch it.” “Whatever do you mean?” “It’s not solid, tangible.” “Not!? That’s preposterous!” “I’ll show you.” Puffing his chest up as he inhaled a breath of courage, Jonty stepped into the projection, walked several feet into what appeared to be jungle fauna, then stepped back into the room. “See?” “This is fantastic, Jonty!” Richard’s excited response brought a wide smile to his face. “Show me again.” Obliging, Jonty once more stepped through the portal and into the projected image. Performing a little happy jig, he let out an exuberant cry, then waved for Richard to join him.” “Come on in, dear chap. The water’s fine,” Jonty’s invitation loudly rang out. Taking a step forward, Richard was immediately halted by a loud cracking sound echoing around Jonty’s new environment - silencing the other noises. It was like the breaking sound a large twig would make when stepped upon by a heavy weight. Jonty’s smile quickly transformed into alarm, as he looked upwards at something approaching him. Without hesitating, he reactively started back toward the portal, but tripped on a log. “I’m fine,” he reassured Richard. “Bloody clumsy of me, wot?” Attempting to get back to his feet, Jonty was suddenly flattened to the floor again, then unceremoniously dragged from Richard’s view. “JONTY!” Richard screamed. Thinking quickly, Richard grabbed the book from his desk and ran towards the portal. “I’m coming, Jonty!” He yelled. “Hang on!” Just as Richard passed through the portal, it began to close. It had reduced to the circumference of a Victorian-era sized play hoop - like the ones that came with a stick to roll them along the playground – when a hand reached back through the shrinking gateway, grabbed the two spears, then pulled them through - just as the portal vanished, leaving the room as it was – sans the two work colleagues. “Dickie!” Came the distant cry through the tall jungle canopy. “JONTY!” I’m coming, old chum! Hold on!” With the book gripped tightly under one arm and the two spears slung over his other shoulder, Richard disappeared into the green-covered foreign world in hot pursuit of his friend’s fading cry for help. TO BE CONTINUED…

wc5ywk

Beam Me Up

     I clasped my hands in front of me like a good little boy and watched Not-Naughty-Librarian thumb through the book looking for something that seemed mighty important to her. I couldn’t tell you what she was so intent on finding that she couldn’t even spare me a passing glance seeing as how I was dead and hadn’t had orientation yet. All I knew was I didn’t seem to be in hell since there was a considerable lack of hellfire and brimstone.       I don’t remember the exact moment I died. Or, rather, I don’t know when my body died as my soul was sucked plum out without my permission. Did I live another few minutes? I have no idea. All I know is I was rushing through a beam of warm light, neither air nor liquid, but somehow seemingly both. I continued whooshing right past some sort of welcome committee. I saw my Granny Coral, her face so jubilant at first, confused as hell the next moment, but by then I was already long past her and whomever else was waiting there for me.      Zooming right by a blur of buildings, people, alien-looking creatures, beams of light; all wrapped snugly in a cocoon of bubbles, I didn’t have much time to process a thing. Looks a lot like a beehive, I thought, as my progression sped up until I found myself jolted to a stop and plopped right smack dab into a polished chair facing a young woman, hair in a loose bun, glasses perched on the end of a pert button nose, a humongous book taking up the space between us on the desk piled high with books of all shapes and sizes. Frankly, she looked like one of those “naughty librarians” I sometimes liked to watch, but I quickly erased the thought because, you know, I was dead, and Granny Coral taught me all about the Good Book and Judgement Day. I probably shouldn’t have been thinking of my sins right that moment lest I inadvertently invite some of that there fire and brimstone I noticed was fortunately not here.      In fact, this room was rather lovely. I took my first good look at the place. Seemed like I was in an ancient library. All stone and wood and stained glass windows, it appeared as if I was somehow in one of those fantasy movies my girlfriend sure loved to watch. I never really understood the appeal, but she said that’s to be expected when you’re a muzzle… er… muddle… uh.. muggle? Hell, I don’t know. I just know that’s the very second I started to tear up thinking about my sweet, perfect Penelope, my favorite nerd, my little angel baby who used to keep a smile on my face.      That’s precisely when Ms. Not-So-Naughty Librarian finally deigned to cast me a glance. “Oh, don’t you fret now, dearie. You’ll see her again before you know it. You’re from the same group, after all.”       I must have looked rather alarmed because she laughed a tinkling little laugh that sounded unlike any laugh I’d ever heard in my whole life. “Well, you’re not holding anything back, you realize. You don’t have to shout your thoughts at me, either.” Her face was sunshine and dandelions as she thrust her full attention on me. Maybe Judgement day wouldn’t be so bad, I mused.      “Oh, calm yourself, sweet soul. You’re still really new, only been here…” her eyes swept down on the page wedged in between her arms resting casually on the desk, “...oh, yes, you’ve only existed for a few lives. But don’t you worry one itty bitty bit. I’ll walk you through a few things and get you settled in to heal the gaps in your energy.”       All complacency left me as a flood of questions drenched my mind like a deluge worthy of Noah. I no sooner opened my mouth to start shooting them questions right out my mouth before she held up her petite hand and closed my mouth right quick.      “Right, then. First, you’ll need to quit calling me Not-So-Naughty Librarian. My name is Akasha. Secondly, my job here is not to judge you. You’ll find there’s none of that fear-mongering nonsense here. And thirdly, my job is Archivist. I document and organize every single life you’ll ever lead, and then I’ll help you in your studies to evaluate your actions and monitor your growth to enlightenment.” She paused then, and the cutest little smile lit up her face. I presumed my embarrassment over the moniker I had gifted her was showing on my face. Could ghosts blush? Was I as red as my Mama’s homemade sangria that she made every summer?      “No, I’m just trying to figure out why you came straight to me instead of to meet your soul group, head to the The Healing Cavern, or see your guides for your Life Review before they brought you here to study. And you are not a ghost. Those poor souls get a little confused before we can coax them to come back home, but they all make their way back eventually.”      I watched the colors from the stained glass play across Akasha’s face, red and orange and yellow and colors I had no name for. The light should have been blinding, but no. I could feel it moving against my skin like a living thing, warm and cool all at once, before becoming me. Sounds crazy, when I think of it in human terms, but this lady here was busy explaining I am not a human, I am a soul who had a human experience. Huh, imagine that. I didn’t really believe Granny Coral or Pastor Hank. I mean, religion seemed so silly, no more reasonable than thinking a wolf swallowed a little girl in a cherry red cape before gobbling up her granny.      “There’s a reason you came to me first, so we’re going to figure that out together! Let’s take a look at the life you just led, shall we?”      All of a sudden, images sprang up out of that big book she’d been studying and oozed all around, like I was watching my surroundings being painted over, a fresh new world in its place. And then I saw myself being born. I had no idea my Mama could scream like that! Hoo boy! I was going to send her the biggest bouquet of flowers just as soon as I was done here. It hit me again as soon as I thought it. I was dead. There weren’t going to be any more flowers sent to Mama or anyone else.      “No, no, no, just a little too far back. Let’s speed this up just a bit, shall we?”      The blobs of paint began to dance around me, and I watched myself growing up. There I was, spitting beets out all over my father’s face when he insisted I would love them even though I was only six months old, and no baby loves beets. The scene was painted anew as Mama’s laugh faded out. I was a few months older and taking my first steps. I was two and scared of a thunderstorm. I was three and lost my mother for a few minutes when I let go of her hand and chased a dragonfly. I was four and skinned my knees up so badly that I carried the scars for the rest of my life. Five and starting kindergarten, bravely not crying even though I really wanted to. Six, seven, eight, nine, ten; memories, but more. I felt everything all over again. The sting of my first heartbreak. The embarrassment of my first time with Lonnie in the backseat of the old car Dad and I spent a full year repairing, that first time ending before I could say “Oh, my God!”      My graduation, Helena - the first woman I ever really, truly loved. Thought I was gonna spend my whole life with that one. But then the baby, that perfect boy, arriving much too early and gone too fast. I watched Helena pack her things and drive away all over again. No Helena. No baby. Months of depression where my entire world turned grey and flavorless, leaving me lost within the ocean of myself, with no anchor to hold me in place. Then Olivia. Warmth returned to my bones then. Three years of carnivals, concerts, movies, getting snowed in during the nor’easter of ninety-four. Then she, too, was gone, but my world only dimmed a little that time.      I saw myself starting my own auto shop, and working with my hands was good and honest work that paid the bills. That’s what Dad said as he slipped away in the hospital bed in the living room. He was proud of me. The energetic and kind hospice nurse wiped my tears. “Thank you, Penelope,” I breathed into her hair. I could smell the strawberry scent of her shampoo all over again. She became my everything from then on out. Sunday dinners with Mama, camping under the stars, that trip to Disney World because Penelope said we never really have to grow up if we don’t want to. I watched it all again, the joy within me expanding until I felt it explode from me and meld with the images of my life.      And then I watched myself collapse, saw through my flesh and muscle to my heart, suddenly still, and the crowd that rushed in on aisle seven of the hardware store. I wasn’t going to finish that crib now. I wasn’t going to paint the nursery. I wasn’t going to see the little lima bean inside Penelope grow into someone I could teach to ride a bike.       The paint faded back into the book, and I sat on the polished chair, half the size I was before, folded in on myself. Penelope glided right through the desk and wrapped her arms around me, breathing fire back into my soul like warm honey, slowly seeping into each molecule.     “How are you here?” I croaked.      Akasha’s voice seemed to come from within me. “I can be any shape you need. So can you. We are limitless. We are everything.”      The doors burst open, and in rushed my father. If anyone ever tells you there are no tears in heaven, they’re a bald-faced liar, I can tell you that, yes sir! But he didn’t give me time to cry. No, sir! He grabbed my hand right up into his and began to pull me along at the speed of light. It could have been a minute, could have been a week, hell if I know, but we came to an abrupt halt right about where I came in and first saw Granny Coral. Souls were lined up and saying goodbye or hello, depending on which way they were heading.    And there was Granny Coral, just like that.     “I wanted to have more time with ya before I headed on down, but this will do.” Her smile was so much more beautiful than I remembered. “I’ll be popping back in here and there for a while, so we can get a slice of blackberry cobbler with ice cream and play catch-up as soon as I get a little work done. Humans are boring to be until they can start getting into trouble. I just wanted to let you know I’ll be taking care of Penelope for you now.”     “You mean…?”      “I’m your granny and your daughter, Pumpkin. Guess we really are Southern.” The raucous laughter that erupted from me at that moment almost drowned out her goodbye as she headed back through the gates. “We will get that cobbler, lickety split! Go get yourself patched up!”      I can’t describe what it’s like here; I can just let you know that you’re really gonna love it. There is no beginning, there is no end, there just is. Why I was flung halfway to Timbuktu when I arrived hasn't been made clear yet; however, I have a lot to learn over the course of innumerable lives to come. There's no rush. I'll be having a lot of human experiences, I reckon. How 'bout that? Having human experiences is great ‘n all, but being a soul sure takes the cake. Yeah, you're gonna love it here.

l2zp8w

The Princess's Amulet

I can’t believe that I’m locked in a wrestling match with my computer's mouse, as I search desperately for a new job. The screen is frozen, refusing to let the silly little arrow budge, disallowing me to continue my miserable search in peace. The library I've poured my heart and soul into for the past decade is getting the boot, making room for yet another mall. You know, because the world definitely needs more places to buy discounted socks. Disgruntled, I push myself off the chair to pour myself a glass of wine. I look around my shoebox of a flat. It's half covered in the books I managed to salvage. I always loved books. They are filled with extraordinary places I could never visit and incredible people I could never be. I always thought that one day, I too would be an architect of worlds where rich and wonderful characters could be brought to life. Inspiration never came though. Not even when I took this decade-long temp job. I turn around, to get back to the computer and resume the job search, only for a box to come tumbling down, upending its contents on the floor. Oh great! I slam my glass down and kneel to tidy up the little mess. As I pile the books back into the box, I see something shiny, peeking beneath an open book. It’s an amulet. A great blue stone encased in a silver frame. I pick it up and lift it up to my face. As it spins, the light of the rooms seems to trap itself within the stone and strange markings appear in the frame. Frowning, I put it away and return to my search, pouring myself another glass of wine. The night wears on, and the fruitless search continues. The battle of my computer, had ended with the cursor’s freedom. I pick up the wine bottle and it's empty. With a long sigh, I look around, my eyes falling on the amulet. I reach out and pick it up again. You know, these markings seem familiar. Alas, the book where I have seen them is not amongst the ones I have here with me. It had been an old dusty book no one cared about and would likely be destroyed in the demolition. I turn back to my computer. Customer Service Officer wanted Office Assistant wanted. Was this really the life I wanted? Suddenly I’m on my feet again, grabbing the amulet, my keys and my jacket as I race to the door. I make my way to the library. The moonlight pours in through the window, providing a soft light. I make my way through the chaotic mess of discarded books, and clamber up the stairs. You would think that a book like that would stand out but this library collected the good, the bad and the really weird big books. Aided by the flashlight on my phone, I forage through the dusty old books. Just when I am beginning to think that this whole adventure is yet another waste of my time…I find it. With its odd markings and everything. Holding the amulet up against the book cover, the symbols move again, and I gasp as the symbols on the book rearrange themselves into words I can actually read. "The Storm ends as it begins," I whisper. As soon as the words leave my lips, a dazzling blue light bursts from the amulet, flooding the library with its brilliance. The pages of the old book spring to life, flipping rapidly, conjuring a fierce wind that sweeps through the great building. My phone slips from my grasp and crashes to the floor, drowned out by the chaos around me. I clutch onto a shelf, struggling against the gusts. Shielding my eyes from the blinding light, I stumble toward the stairs, each step a battle against the relentless wind. With a sudden jolt, my foot catches on something, and I go hurtling forward. Pain explodes as my head collides with the railing, and the bizarre scene fades into darkness I wake up beneath the stars, with the library nowhere in sight. All around me are trees, stretching tall and proud towards the brightly lit heavens, their leaves forming a vibrant canopy overhead. Slowly I rise to my feet looking around in confusion. Damn, that was a nasty hit to my head. Where am I? Am I dreaming? As I try to collect my thoughts and senses, the ground is suddenly shaken by galloping. I twist around to see a horse racing toward me, its powerful strides kicking up leaves and dirt in its wake. It comes to a halt and a man swiftly dismounts from the saddleless back. He strides over to me, his gaze locking onto mine. "Are you hurt?" he asks, his voice carrying genuine concern. I shake my head. He studies me closely. "You’re dressed oddly.” he says, "where are you from?” “London” I answer. “London?” he repeats, “what kingdom is that?.” I stared at him in confusion. “Uninted Kingdom I guess” He mirrored my expression. “Who are you?” I ask, “where is this?” “Just a few miles from the kingdom of Stormhaven” the man says, “And my name is Kalric.” The Kingdom of Stormhaven?. I pad myself down, searching for my phone and then I remember I lost it in the library. A library which is nowhere in sight. If I was dreaming, this was definitely a nightmare. “What’s that?” Kalric asks suddenly as a I adjust my jacket. I follow his gaze, looking down to see the amulet clasped around my neck and peeking out of the jumper. “Oh this -” I begin. “By the spirits!” Kalric exclaims in a loud whisper, “You’re the princess aren’t you? Princess Helena! I thought you deadI” I blink, frowning in confusion. “Princess who?” I say, “no, my name is Jennifer. I’m a librarian…or well I was…” “That amulet around your neck bears the seal of the Storm family,” Kalric declares, “until the Drods took over, they ruled Stormhaven in peace, and protected it with their white magic. “Look,” I say, “I’m not this Princess Helena, I’m a boring unemployed Librarian with a drinking problem. Trust me, if I could do magic I would snap myself into a less pathetic life.” “But the amulet…” Kalric insists. “Is just a piece of junk I found.” Kalric seems unconvinced. He briskly walks to his horse and soon returns. He holds out a clasp and hands it to me. I take it reluctantly. “What’s this.” “The badge of my office.” he says. “I was a soldier in the royal army. Sighing I lift the clasp up to the starlight and I sonn see what Kalric is referring to. The symbol on the amulet is the same one on his badge. “Ever heard of a coincidence?” I say to him. He frowns at me, “why do you deny who you are princess? Do you also fear the Drods. Legend says that the power of the amulet would protect you. It is likely what kept you safe after your family was murdered. Everyone thought you dead.” Suddenly his eyes widen, as though something new has just occurred to him “Or do you lie about who you are to conceal yourseld. I assure you, I am your trusted servant.” He kneels before me and takes my hand bowing his head. A soft tingle travels from my hand up my arm and I blush. Slowly, I withdraw my hand. “I’m not your princess,” I whisper, “just a boring librarian who’s lost.” “Then why are you here?” “Why are you?” I retort. “If you’re so loyal, what are you doing here.” “The people suffer,” Kalric says, “I left to find help, and I thought I actually did.” He gives me a dark look and turns away. I hesitate. I certainly don’t want to be left alone in this strange forest. But Kalric has already ridden away. Breathing heavily, I race through the distance in hopes of catching up with him. I hear a muffled cry in the distance. Tiptoeing through the trees, I follow the sound and come to a clearing. Kalric is on the ground, his horse slain and surrounded by tall figures clad in black armor from head to toe. They speak in a strange language amongst themselves and their words seem to give rhythm to black flames that twist themselves around Kalric. Drods? My heart hammers against my chest as I watch in horror as Kalric is bound and taken away. Quietly I follow, keeping a good distance behind. The trees thin out, and forest is left behind to reveal a narrow winding road. I follow the trail left behind by Kalric’s captives which leads to what must be Stormhaven. Small stone houses line either side of the road with larger buildings here and there. Up ahead, a great castle looms overhead and Kalrics captives soon disappear behind its towering gates with their prisoner. Whatever this Stormhaven is, its people are indeed suffering. Many sat guant, thin, covered in sore sand dressed in rags, begging passers by for scraps of food. Few gathered together, wailing about their misfortunes. I make my way into a small pub and take a seat in the corner “Did you see” one woman says miserably, “they captured Kalric. All hope is lost.” “What help would be have found?” a barman retorts, “everyone fears the Drods, even more now that the Storms are gone.” “I still can’t believe they are all gone,” a man says, “I have heard whispers that amulet lives on.” “The princess’s amulet? Could she be alive?” “Her body was never found.” “Neither was the prince’s” “Prince Logan always dabbled with the black” the barman said, “it destroyed him.” “But if indeed the princess lives,” the first woman said, “then where is she? Where is this great magic amulet? Why does she live us to suffer at the hands of the Drods.” I slowly shove my amulet under my jumper and slip out through the side door. I realise that I am drawing attention due to my odd clothes, but they all seem too overwhelmed by their own misfortunes to be overly bothered by the woman in odd clothes. Up ahead, I find a line of washing waiting for the sun. Still damp, I nab a dress, and a bonnet and duck beneath a tree to change. As I fold my things away, I come across Kalric’s clasp. I hadn’t realised that I had held on to this. Suddenly I feel inspired, as my eyes light up with a new and frankly, dangerous idea. I make sure that the amulet is safely tucked away out of sight before putting my bold and perhaps dumb plan into motion. I make my way further down the road until I come to the large black castle gates. “What business brings you here,” the gatekeeper spits at me. “I come to see my cousin,” I say, “he was arrested today.” He glances at me briefly and the gates are thrown open. A guard appears gestures for me to follow. As we enter the castle, all warmth fades away leaving behind a chilling cold. Our footsteps echo as we descend the long spiraling steps. He guides me through the dungeons, filled with cramped cells and hungry-eyed prisoners stretching bony arms through the bars. At the end of the row, in the last cell, I spot Kalric crouched on the floor. As I approach, he lifts his head, and his eyes light up at the sight of me. "You've got three minutes," the guard informs before leaving. We wait until his footsteps fade before we speak “What are you doing here?” Kalric demands. “Is that anyway to speak to your rescuer?” “You claim not to be the princess.” “And I stand by that claim,” I tell him, “but it doesn’t mean I can’t help.” “Well whatever you want to do, “ Kalric says with a sigh, “you’ll have to do it without me. I’m trapped.” "Perhaps not," I reply, winking. Swiftly, I extract a hairpin from beneath my bonnet, letting a loose curl fall across my face as I bend over the lock. "I picked up this trick from a favourite book," I explain. After a few attempts, a satisfying click resounds, and the door swings open. Kalric's stare shifts from astonishment to an immense grin that lights up his face. “You are the princess!” he declares. “I really am not,” I insist. He attempts to leave his cell but I raise a hand to stop him and whisper my little plan to him. To be honest, I am making it up as I go along but he nods, in understanding and backs away. "Time's up!" the guard's voice announces his return. He approaches the door, and Kalric abruptly yanks it, forcing it against him. With my bonnet, I pounce muffling his cries, while Kalric secures his neck in a hold until he slumps unconscious. Together, we swiftly strip off his clothes, boots, and helmet. Kalric peels off his tunic, unveiling a broad chest and sculpted stomach. Yet, his thin arms betray the toll of his own hunger. Swiftly, he dons the guard's attire, while I dress the unconscious guard in his tunic before we hurry out of dungeon. This plan is going quite well… Or not. We are surrounded. “They must have sensed it,” Kalric says, “The Drods are full of black magic.” "Indeed we are," one of them confirms. Adorned in black armor, his voice carries a shadowy tone as he whispers strange words. Their hands move in harmony, conjuring dark flames that creep toward us. But something even stranger happens: . A brilliant blue light, materializes like a shield from the amulet, repelling the black flames and causing them to writhe, stumble, and dissolve into faint wisps of smoke upon the ground. “She bears the amulet,” the drod said. “How could it be?” He whispers words again in a strange language as he unsheathes a jagged sword. Kalric seizes the guard's sword, readying himself to confront them, yet they utter their peculiar words again, and he collapses to the ground, contorting in agony. Instinctively, I lunge for the sword. In a fluid motion, I strike. Engaging in an unfamiliar choreographed dance, I kick, punch, and slice with an unexpected mastery, and one by one, they falter and fall before me. I stare wide eyed at the sword in my hands then down at the amulet. How on earth did I do that? “She is strong,” said the first drod, “she must be” “We shall see” came a voice from behind. I jump in fear as I find myself face-to-face—or rather, face-to-waist—with a towering seven-foot-tall drod. “Dronan” the other drods chant, bowing their heads. Dronan raises his hand, yet the amulet counters his wordless spells. His helmet's eye slits darken. Gradually, he raises a lengthy sword, twirling it in the air. With a powerful swoosh, he lunges toward me, and I bolt. As I run across the wide halls, he pursues at a steady pace, his boots slamming against the stone floor with each terrorizing step. Whatever hidden combat skills the amulet had granted me earlier, they seemed absent now. Just in the nick of time, I pivot to block a blow aimed at my head. If this is a dream, this would be a really good time to wake up. Nothing. Again. I continue running for mylife trying with all my might to protect myself with the sword. Dronan’s pursuit leads me to a narrow room where five stone seats are erected. . “Ah yes” Dronan said, “take a good look princess. The Storms will meet their end today.” His words stir something in my memory. I pause and look down at the amulet. The markings, the symbol of the Storms. The words. "The storm ends as it begins," I whisper once more. As before, the brilliant blue light erupts from the Amulet, filling the room and engulfing Dronan. His scream pierces the air as he collapses to the floor, his shattered armor clattering around him. Suddenly a warmth fills the room, and soon after, Kalric hurries inside. “They are gone” he said, “the drods are…” He trails off, his gaze locked onto Dronan. Yet, the figure within the shattered armor isn't Dronan. he couldn't be more than six feet tall. Gradually, he stirs, opening his lids to unveil piercing blue eyes. “Prince Logan?” Kalric said, “You’re alive!” The prince slowly rises to his feet, shoulders slumped “What have I done?” he cries. “What do you mean?” I ask. “I did this,” the prince said, “Please forgive me sister. I delved too deep and Dronan consumed me. He - I killed our parents and I thought you dead too. But you carry the Storm .” “You mean this amulet?” I ask. “Yes,” Prince Logan said, falling to his knees. “Please forgive me. I wanted power. But I never earned it. You deserve to rule.” “But…” “Princess Helena,” Kalric said, “you cannot deny your destiny now. Not after you have defeated Dronan and the drods. Please. Will you not take your place as the ruler of Stormhaven? I sigh. Perhaps I wasn’t destined for a life of boredom after all. It couldn’t be bad being this Princess Helena. And that’s when it happens. I wake up with my cheek pressed up against my computer keys. I’m back in my jumper, sitting in my chair, with the empty glass and wine bottle beside me. So it really was all a dream. I stare at the job notices on the screen, before closing the page with a little smile. I open a word document and at the top of the page, I type, The Princess’s Amulet. Bursting with my newly found inspiration, I fire away.

xk6ce4

of branches and fire extinguishers

Ruth taps a sticker onto the top of a brown box, one practically identical to the thousands she's stickered before and completely unassuming. It's important work, work that keeps a whole country moving. Grandmas sending strange trinkets to grandkids a thousand miles away, letters sent by dramatic lovers, the occasional small business owner pretending they aren't selling those candles they're shipping to avoid paying extra. Ruth has seen all kinds of people ship all kinds of things in her forty-some-odd years at her sleepy little post office. She’s gone through ten different itterations of her uniform. Things rarely surprise her these days, even when she's stuck working late like today, after midnight, and making sure the packages are all ready for shipment by five am sharp. The box, once dull and blessedly ordinary, explodes . Light blinds the woman, the force pushing her back from her counter and stumbling. She doesn't fall over, strong legs bracing and a hand grabbing blindly for a nearby shelf to steady herself. Ruth sputters and coughs, wiping at her thick square glasses and blinking away a rainbow of light from her eyes. The box had burst into green-blue fire and all that was left on her linoleum counter is its cardboard remains and a completely unharmed wooden stick. "What?" Ruth asks the air, incredulously. She doesn't know where to direct her confusion. What is that stick? Why did that just explode? Who wanted that damn thing to be shipped and why hadn't it been marked as delicate? The wooden stick doesn't answer, and the smoke from the fire sets off the sprinklers. Ruth curses the cold water that starts drenching her, glad that all the rest of the packages are already back in the storeroom, and cups a palm above her glasses so she can see. The fire still flickers, unbothered by the sudden downpour and Ruth goes for the fire extinguisher a few steps to her left. Wrenching the fire extinguisher from its holder with slippery hands Ruth aims the nozzle at the counter, letting loose a stream of foam. Of course this would happen a month off from her retirement. Her wife had told her to use the rest of her long-saved PTO, said they could move the Italy trip up and forget all their working woes. Ruth can hear her saying "I told you so!" ringing in her ears as she squints and blinks through the water, watching the light of the fire finally get doused by the foam of the extinguisher. The "I told you so!" would come far after her wife makes sure she's hale and hearty after dealing with a package bomb, of course, but it would come. Stepping carefully forward with her extinguisher still brandished Ruth eyeballs the stick half covered in foam. It looks completely innocent, the kind of stick you'd use to play fetch with a dog or step on in the woods. "You won't be ruining my retirement, you dead bit of shrubbery," Ruth says threateningly. "Set anything else on fire and I'll bury you in foam!" The stick does not reply. They stay at an impasse as the sprinklers shut off, the post office dead silent and interrupted only by the sound of dripping. Something stupid takes over Ruth's body, then, some kind of energy that's ill-thought-out and not entirely her own. She drops the fire extinguisher to her side, the metal tapping and bouncing. With careful, callused fingers Ruth reaches outward through the soft white foam, and she grabs the polished stick. Her vision is rewashed in light, something powerful and strange and glorious running from her hands to her feet. For a moment she cups the world in her hands, she can smell the earth beneath her covered by layers of concrete and tile, and hear wind rustling through the trees. Ruth is alive and everything around her is alive. The bugs and the birds and the trees singing. She can see her mother, her mother's mother, and thousands who came before her. And then it's gone. With a numb, tingling hand Ruth sets the stick back down onto the counter. Carefully. Gently. She reaches up and wipes her eyes, not sure if the wetness there is all from the sprinklers, and stares at the stick. "What are you?" Ruth asks it weakly. She feels insurmountably small, like her body is too little for what was shown to her. Like she is only a tiny piece in a huge tapestry. The stick doesn't respond. This, whatever it is, she needs to keep it safe. Ruth needs to keep whatever is in that branch away from… She isn't sure of what, exactly. But she will be. Ruth picks up the stick again and tucks it carefully into the waistband of her shorts, before tucking her polo in over it. Outside sirens are blaring, and she can see red washing over the landscape outside the window. The fire department. She tells them a story close enough to the truth, and the police appear with dogs to sniff at the foam and box left on the counter. It's a huge event in a little town like Ruth's. Old postwoman almost gets blown up by a package bomb and they don't even know who did it? The scandal! Ruth puts in the rest of her PTO the next day, and her manager can't do a thing to stop her. Retirement comes early and Ruth's wife keeps checking on her like she doesn't expect her to be there still, every time relieved that she is. "Amelia," Ruth says, two days before their flight to Italy. They're both in their little living room, settled on their beat-up couch that's old enough to be a college student. "Yes, Ruth?" Amelia says, turning from her tablet where she’s looking through travel guides. "That night at the post office," Ruth starts, stuntedly. "I know what blew up the package." Amelia sets aside her tablet quickly, giving her wife all her attention. "You have to swear not to tell a soul, 'Melia, I have a terrible feeling it's something much bigger than the two of us," Ruth says, taking Amelia's hand. They end up canceling the trip to Italy. The stick is very insistent they go to Greece instead, and Amelia handles getting them on a flight to Athens. Even retired, Ruth must make one last delivery. Probably the strangest one of her life.

x0rd50

Jessica the Librarian

Jessica the Librarian By Ralph Barhydt Jessica was such a beautiful, warm, well-meaning young woman. If I had been a lot younger and if she weren’t engaged, I might have asked her out. What I did ask her to do is find this ancient text of witchcraft that focused on spells. I had solid evidence that it was resting in this particular library. Of course, with a book like this there is always talk that “oh, ooh, ah, the book is alive.” Right. Makes it a lot more interesting. “Jessica, I am looking for an old book, maybe ancient actually, called “Spells for Witches. I know, I know, it sounds silly and probably is. But, I have researched it and it is real. Well, at least several knowledgeable people and institutions believe it’s real. And. Many of them believe it some how gets around. Furthermore, they believe that it is resting in this library. What do you think?” “Wait. What do I think? Sounds crazy to me. But, we have lots of books on witchcraft. I just have not seen that one. I have heard of it but doubt its existence.  Still, it would be exciting if I found it; so, I will take on the search.” “Thank you Jessica. Very kind. You should know that I have also looked on the shelves where your witchcraft books live and could not find it.  If it’s alive, as some people say, maybe it’s hiding. Of course, maybe it is not here. I have no idea what makes people think it is here. Having said that, I do recognize that your collection of witchcraft books is phenomenal, best in the country.” “Well, thank you sir. Very kind. I happily accept the challenge but I don’t hold out much hope for success. I really do know our collection well. But, hey…” She gave Greg a big smile which he returned. Great. My name is Greg Hanson and I am from Oxford. You may, or may not, have hear of me. But, thank you. I’ll be back tomorrow.” I was an expert in the occult. I had been looking for “Spells for Witches” for many years. It had kind of become my “raison d’etre.” I thought about the exchange with Jessica and the two times when I felt a strange tingling during the conversation. I could think of no other explanation than that the book was there and knew I was in the building. Irrational to be sure, but I was positive. “Well, wait and see. I could tell that Jessica really will look for and I will come back tomorrow,” I thought as I got back to my hotel room. The room was elegant and bright but a complete mess. I had books, papers, scrolls and odd objects spread all over the floor and the bed. I laughed as I looked at the bed. “Gonna take me awhile just to get in bed, and lord knows I am tired.” I stood at the window and looked out over the nearby river. It was flowing gently by, serene and beautiful A dark shadow formed over the river facing my hotel. It resembled a human form but wasn’t quite. Softly, slowly a cackling laugh grew in my ears. I shook my head and stuck my fingers in my ears like cleaning out some ear wax. The sound got louder and louder until I thought I was getting a headache. Abruptly it quit. Then, very quietly, a voice whispered “Jessica.” “Oh God!” I ran to the door, out to hall, and since I was on only the second floor, as fast as I could down the stairs. Out onto the street where I quickly found a cab, jumped and yelled “Linden library as fast as you can.” I was so nervous and upset I could hardly sit still. I sent thoughts to the driver, “Hurry, hurry, hurry.” By that time, it was early evening and when we arrived, the library was closed. I went to the front door and pounded on the heavy glass. If anyone heard me, they ignored me. I ran to the side door. Pounding loudly, as loudly as I could, nothing happened. “Oh God,” I uttered again. A warm breeze had sprung up. It was sharp at first, then it turned into a howling wind. The most forlorn sound I had ever heard rode wildly in the air. I ran to the back. There was a form by a Dempsey dumpster. It was the janitor, an older man emptying trash cans. I ran to him. The man jumped about a foot in surprise. “What…” “Sir, sir, please listen. Do you know Jessica, one of the librarians here?” “Of course I do. Let go of my arm. Who are you?” “I am a professor from the University of Oxford in England. My name is Dr. Greg Hanson. Please, please let’s get inside and try to find her. My special field is witchcraft and you have the most extensive collection in American here. Jessica is looking for something for me and I know that she is in trouble.” “You aren’t crazy are you? I can see it in your eyes. My god, c’mon, I’ll take you inside. Don’t be messin’ with me now. We have two night guards inside. We all are very fond of Jessica so I am taking a risk.” “That’s great! Thank you, “ I exhaled. We ran through the old, squeaky door into a cavernous room with more books than Greg even thought existed. Racks and stacks. Just books and books and books. There was an older man just inside with a guard uniform on. “Hey Oscar. How are you? And who is this?” He was looking at me and talking to the janitor. “Dan, I am not entirely sure who this is. He says he is a professor from Oxford—you know, in England. Says he is a doctor. I don’t know whether to believe him or not but he also says that somehow Jessica Barnes is in real trouble right now. So, I am concerned. Maybe you can help.” I was standing stock still, transfixed.  “Welcome, Greg.” A soft, scornful voice followed by a long, long laugh. Only I heard it and it terrified me. When the laughing stopped, I resumed breathing and looked around. “Here, she is here, somewhere,” I said fearfully. “We must find her quickly or we will lose her.” “What are you talking about?” asked Dan. “Lose her? What do you mean, ‘lose her?’ Just who are you anyway? What do you have to do with Jessica?” Oscar spoke, “Dan, no time for that now. This guy has convinced me that we must find Jessica and find her now. Let’s get to it.” “Good thinking,” I said. “I am so sorry that I sound crazy, but I am not. Jessica is somewhere in this enormous room. I am sure of it, I just don’t know where. Do you know if the books in this area are categorized like they might be on the shelves?? Are there various sections like Science, Math, Biographies, etc.?” “Ha!” Dan laughed and turned to Oscar. “So, this is the right man to help you there. We guards know the building pretty well, but, Oscar? Oscar knows every nook and cranny, especially of this giant storage room. He hangs here and he simply explores and reads all the time—even when he should be working. Right, Oscar?” “Well…” A low, aching moan poured out from the books. Then a muffled scream. “Good grief,” exclaimed Oscar, “that was Jessica.” They all started running down an aisle towards the direction of the sound. We came to a crossing aisle. Across that aisle were more rows of both shelves and stacks of books. To the right of the aisle we were in were aisles of shelves and to the left were aisles of stacks and stacks of books. Greg noticed that the space had an overwhelming smell of old, dusty books. The other two were used to it and didn’t notice it at all. “Oooooh,” an elongated moan from somewhere to the left. “Split up,” said the guard. I’ll take the third aisle, Doctor, you take the second aisle and Dan, you do the first. Let’s go.” I turned down the second aisle. I didn’t know whether to run or walk; so, I sort of trotted along. I crossed another row and then saw it. I had to rub his eyes, shake my head and yell, “Hey, here! Quickly.” Down the aisle I saw two legs ending in high heel shoes sticking out from the books about five feet off the floor. “Oh no,” I screamed running to the legs. Both Oscar and Dan came right behind me. We reached the legs that were hanging down at the knee caps, but the thighs were somehow buried in the pages of a book and the edge of a skirt was just showing at about mid thigh. It was obvious that the body was on its back. Oscar fainted, slumped to the floor. Dan let out some strange undefinable sound and I grabbed a thigh, the right one. “C’mon, Dan, no time. Help me!” I actually had a grip on both thighs and was pulling without much success. Dan grabbed the left thigh with both hands and I got both of my hands on the right thigh. They both were pulling hard and more of the skirt started to appear. The body was coming out. As it came out it started angling down toward the floor and both of us had to move our grips to the hips and mid-section of the body. We both felt very awkward as we knew the body was Jessica’s. We kept pulling. Two hands appeared followed by wrists. We kept pulling. We saw a waistline, then we had strong grip on the arms and then elbows appeared. A modest, small bodice covered by the top of the dress which ended closed around the neck. Shoulders. We grabbed her shoulders. Dan was sweating with a terrified look on his face. Oscar was trying to get to his feet. I was so intense, my face looked and felt like it was frozen. Then, Jessica’s head popped out and her body almost fell to the floor, but Dan and I held her up. She was limp and her eyes were closed. Oscar was staring out with a wide open mouth. I looked quickly at the book. It disappeared. The stack of books that were on top of it fell down to the book below. “That book must have been two feet thick. It was enormous. Was it the book of spells? “Yes,” moaned Jessica. “I found it.” Her eyes fluttered open and she started laughing hysterically. Dan slapped her face hard. The laughing changed to crying. Tears were pouring down Jessica’s face. Then, like the book, she disappeared, vanished. Dan and I found ourselves staring at each other. Oscar simply went hysterical. A strange cackling filled the room. Then, we heard Jessica’s voice, “Thank you, Greg, this is where I belong. You should know, it will bother you the rest of your life, for I am Baba Yaga and you have led me home.” The three men sat on the floor and stared at each other. Oscar had calmed down but was still quietly sobbing. Dan and I were just in shock. Finally, Dan spoke up. “You know, we have to report this to the police, but what are we going to tell them? They will never believe any of it and we will be charged with murder.” Dan was partially right. We bravely called the police who came quickly and started questioning us rather roughly. The head librarian had been called and had hurried to the library. When the questioning officer explained the situation to Agnes Bolden, the head librarian, she looked me straight in the eye and said, “I don’t understand. We do not have an employee named Jessica. Are you men drunk?”

8cq3nv

First Duck

Well, what ah want y'all to know is that ah was the youngest runner in that there race. The next youngest? Well, they were a whoppin eight years old, which is more than four times mah age. Ah know, ah know, ah might be a bit of a prodigy, if ya catch mah drift. They are a strange looking lot. Some have thin tapered ankles comin’ outa there sneaks like a flagpole. Others have thick plump ones, meaty and round, which is the kind Fredi had. I'll own up to it, I've got a little thing for them feet, but don't go passin' judgment. Ah reckon I was also the shortest runner in tha race. Standin' at just 20 inches tall, ain't no basketball in my future, that's for sure. But what I lack in height, I sure make up for in notoriety. Got mah own TikTok channel and all, famous for them "zoomies" where I dash back 'n forth like a bat outta hell in front of that there camera, pretendin' I'm that DeLorean from that movie, shootin' for 1.21 Gigawatts. Well, lemme tell ya, mah YouTube channel Se-duck-tive done got a bunch of them videos with over a good ol' million views each! I reckon you could rightly call me a celebrity, if that's what y'all wanna say. Now, Mile 22, that's when the real New York City Marathon seemed to kick off, if y'all ask me. We done reached a water station over at 125th Street, makin' our way past them Harlem Churches and were workin’ our way up that there 5th Avenue comin’ into Manhattan from the Bronx, our sights set on Central Park. By then, we'd been racin' for 'bout eight hours, and the sun was fixin' to set on that course. The crowd had thinned out, not many runners or fans lingerin', but we'd come 'cross groups of folks walkin' along here 'n there. They done handed me them capfulls of water, and I just clucked at 'em with a "wek wek wek," tryin' to give 'em them duck kisses, showin' my seal of approval, you know. I was sorta low key famous, and 'bout every hundred yards or so, someone was hankerin' for a selfie, especially them beat cops keepin' a’watchin’ for the race's security. Anyways, me 'n Justin, we were scootin' right along at a good clip, or a spry waddle in my case, and my head was bobbin' back 'n forth. I had my wings flappin' 'round, and Gatorade cups, goo gels, 'n banana peels, they was all takin' flight behind me as I went. I was in my element, just givin' it my all – full throttle, you might say – goin' all out in "zoomie mode." I was pantin' with my little duck croaks, soundin' like a rusty gate, and lettin' out a few "wek weks" here 'n there, just to add some spice for the folks watchin' – ya know, gotta put on a bit of a show for the fans, if you catch my drift. And right then and there, that's when I caught a glimpse of Fredilyn, or "Fredi" Bangwa, for the very first time. Me 'n my owner Justin, we were just scootin' on by, sportin' them matchin' red booties, that red colorin’ helpin' me keep an eye on him amidst all the hubbub. But I swiveled my head 'round, and I saw Fredi there, tears flowin', hands on her knees, and I could tell her ankles were hurtin' somethin' fierce, the way she was rollin' 'em out. And right at that moment, I come to a dead halt, and Justin, he stops right alongside me, askin' if all's well. I just looked back, fixin' my gaze, then I begun to pivot 'round, focused on what was goin' on with Fredi. Fredi, she had herself a nice, round face and them teeth, they sparkled like them little tic tacs, shinin' bright when she flashed a smile – you know, like them commercials for Orbit gum. Them there smiles were comin’ through clenched teeth now and she had herself some proper grimaces of pain from the throbbin’ in them there ankles. Fredi, she was restin' on a walker her two sisters had fetched for her, bringin' it right over that there tape on the side of the course. “The arthritis is really acting up and my ankles are in so much pain,” she told her sister. She had herself a kindly voice, all gentle 'n pure, nothin' fancy or self-conscious 'bout it, a true top-notch duck voice, if you ask me. “Oh, Fredi. You are doing so great. Just use the walker and take your time,” one of her sisters leaned in and told her. The other one, well, she was givin' her pats on the back and dabbin' her forehead with a damp towel. Another runner, goes by the name of Mario, he was right there by their side, got a beefy arm wrapped 'round Fredi's back. He's a sturdy fella, got a friendly, warm mug, them chubby cheeks and that tapered chin, sportin' a tuft of gray hair that's all salty, like a duck with a tiny mohawk, I reckon. “Sis, I didn’t know if I was gonna make it, but these people are family! And my team, Release Recovery, they are all waiting for us in the Park sis—we can do this—I’ll be with you until the end. It’s just like in the program, you need to lean on someone to get you through sometime.” Mario, he was a solid guy, as I done told ya, but he had a heap of energy to spare. He was hoppin' up 'n down, shakin' out them arms, and stretchin' like he was fixin' to do a triple jump or pole vault right after guzzlin' down a triple espresso. “I don’t know if I can keep going,” Fredi said, gasping as a wave of pain shot up from her ankles, “I just want the pain to stop. I want to finish, but I don’t know if I can.” She looked into Mario’s eyes as if asking for permission to DNF—that’s “Did Not Finish” for y’all non-runner folks. Now, lemme tell ya 'bout the DNF. A genuine runner, a real deal runner, they never throws in the towel. You only DNF if some official's yankin' ya off that course, or you're hauled away in an ambulance. Every true-blue runner's got that tattooed on their heart. I sure as shootin' do. It's like a sacred code, a pledge etched in stone, a military decree. It's like that notion from that 300 Movie, you either come home with your shield or on it – it's somethin' kinda like that, y'see. And right here's where I reckon I let out a wee duck tear from my tiny duck eye. Them two, they were leanin' on each other for the go-ahead or to pull the brakes, caught up in this runner's pact, couldn't make a move without the other's nod – like they had this bond, you see. 'Cause amongst all them 50,000 or so folks gathered 'round to race today, it was just them two who truly understood what the other was wrestlin' with. And neither one of 'em could let the other bust that code. So, neither one of 'em could just throw in the towel. And they both knew it clear as day, you could tell from the glances they swapped between 'em. “Hey Fredi, sis—I found you, you found me—that’s all we need. Forget about finishing, let’s just go another five minutes, then another five—it’ll be an adventure,” Mario let out a roar, a deep belly rumble that seemed to come from the very core of him. Then he went on and did a bit of hoppin', all for that extra touch of emphasis. That’s right when I came up to Fredi, with that wee duck tear hangin’ on my cheek, and gave her a couple pecks on her right ankle, as if to say, “Helloooo.” I raised up my beak and gave her a good ‘ol hooting duck whistle, w-o-o-O-O-I-T. “Let’s go Lady, you can doooo-it!” I let out a bark and a grunt, and I flapped my wings like this here, givin' it a little extra flair. Then I started marchin' in one spot with a plop-plop, plop-plop sound of my little red duck booties landin' on them Gatorade cups scatterin' 'round on the street from warr my wings were flappin’. “Look at this cute little duck,” she said, and Justin picked me up and placed me perched on the edge of the walker. She petted my head, and neck, and my rump feathers, and I snuck a few pecks and duck kisses and gave her a “qwa-bu-bu-bu-bwahaha-qwaaahh,” as if to say “I’m here for you, we’ll do it together.” “What’s his name,” she asked, all cooin' and givin' my beak a little nuzzle. “This is Wrinkle. And this is his second New York City Marathon… didn’t finish last year… but, he’s in it to win it for sure this time.” I truly believe it done just shattered her heart when he told her that. “Well Wrinkle, I wasn’t too sure I’d make it, but you’ve really lifted my spirits kiddo. Whatd’ya say you and me and Mario walk this sucker in together, huh?” I flapped my wings, did a jig with my feet, wekked and quacked, and let out a hoot and a cluck – oh, yessiree! I bopped my head to and fro, gave a twirl, and even took a little leap, just to show my excitement. Then I pecked around her ankle, givin' it a good thorough fussin' – oh, you betcha! "Let's go for it!" I cried out, all fired up! More than I ever yearned to cross that finish line first in my age bracket – and let's be fair, those two things were basically the same – I got a brand-new purpose to see this race through. I wanted to run the rest of this here race for my friend Fredi. Justin handed me a bit of water from a Gatorade cup while we was waitin' for Fredi and Mario to pick up the pace, and I let out a little cluck to show I was pleased with it all. “Wek wek wek. Wek wek wek. Wek wek wek.” And so, we commenced trudgin' ahead, makin' our way up that mighty ol' hill. Well now, if y'all ever tackled the NYC Marathon, there's this one thing y'all know, that’s for damn sure – that uphill haul to Central Park, it's like the hill straight outta hell. See, there's this long ol' incline on 5th Avenue, comin' down towards 90th Street. Them twenty blocks stretchin' from 110th down to 90th, they're a real torment, buddy. It's just a measly 2% grade, might not sound like much to ya, but give it a whirl with legs measurin' four inches long and feet paddles two inches long, then come on back 'n tell me how it feels, would ya? Gazin' up that hill, I gotta share somethin' with ya. You spot a light up yonder, and there's a sorta peak at that light, so ya think, "Just gotta reach that there light and it’s all downhill." You keep on waddlin', waddle, waddle, waddle, and ten minutes later, there ya are, at that light. Then, yonder in the distance, up another hill is another light twinklin', and the whole cycle starts anew—like Sisyphus and them there rocks. It just keeps on like that, stretchin' for leastways ten to fifteen blocks, each stoplight like one of them desert mirages, and every climb that follows, well, it's like that hangman's noose, squeezin' the very marrow outta yer spirit, right down to yer bones. Mario, he was goin' on 'n on, a true cheerleader, keepin' the spirit alive. As that sun was settlin' down and twilight started blanketin' the path, it kinda brought a sense of peace, if ya ask me. And we sure did need it, 'cause that hill just kept on unfoldin' in front of us, like some never-ending escalator that put the hurtin’ on right proper. “Team Duck! I’ll tell you what Fredi, you can’t make this up. We are team Release Recovery and team Duck, Mario and Fredi, and… WRINKLE… aaannnddd WRINKLE… ain’t nothing’ gonna stop us now…” This here last bit was from that old Starship Song, blarin' outta the headphones of some spry eighty-year-old lady who was power walkin' past us like a bat outta hell, using one of them Freedom HurryCanes with that three-legged contraption at the bottom. We all just let them words sink in and kept on trudgin' forward. This here ol' gal had done pinned a sign on the back of her racin' gear, claimin' "This is my 50th Marathon and my Birthday! Give me a Happy 86!" Looked like a real attention-seeker, if ya ask me – all showin' off and seekin' the limelight. But reckon it makes me wonder, ain't I just a wee two-year-old and this here's already my second marathon? Now, ain't that a hoot and a holler? Anyways, the music came blarin’ outa her headphones like so: Standin' here beside you…Want so much to give you…This love in my heart---that I'm feeling for you…Let 'em say we're crazy…I don't care about Thhhaattt…Put your hand in my hand…Baby, don't ever look Baaackkkkk…Let the world around us…Just fall Ah-paaarrrtt…Baby, we can make it…If we're heart to heartttttt… I ain't gonna fib, it sure did give us a good ol' boost and perked up our spirits right proper. And right at that moment, we hit a downhill stretch and rolled on into Central Park. The edges of the park were still lined with folks, cheerin' us on, steppin' onto the course and lettin' out whoops and hollers. And just as we set foot in the Park, the whole Team Release Recovery bunch was there, ready to run us to the finish line. I swear, there must've been a good dozen of 'em, and let me tell ya, they sure lifted our spirits high. But as we got to that last mile, I was downright achin'. My duck feet were stinging and burnin' from that pavement and all them sticky cups diggin' into the webbin' of my toes. My noggin felt like it was ablaze from all the pushin', and my feathers were all damp and clammy, my breath comin' out in these long, raspy wheezes. I was gettin' light-headed, and even after munchin' on a few grapes and my all-time fave, French Fries, I still had a hankerin'. I fluffed and flapped my wings. And I looked over at Fredi, her pushin' that walker, her head hangin' low, and letting out them slow, grunt-like sounds. So I gave her a couple weks and quacks, just to say, "Keep on goin'! We're almost there!" Ambulance lights were sparklin' up ahead. There was a runner down, collapsed, grimacin' in pain, all bent and crumpled right there on the pavement, with the med folks tendin' to her. There was a whole ruckus goin' on, folks hollerin' and ringin' them cowbells like there was no tomorrow. And as we made that final turn on Columbus Circle, we laid eyes on the finish line up ahead. Not too far behind us, them chaser trucks were tidyin' up the path as we went along. But what captured our attention was that blue finish line, off in the distance, and them arches markin' the end of the race. Up above, there was that big ol' catwalk, and a giant digital screen displayin' videos of folks crossin' that finish line, for all to see. The announcer was screaming out, “Coming in now are our last finishers of the day, Fredi and Mario and Wrrrinnkkkllleee the Duck!” It was somethin' real special for me to be runnin' alongside this bunch, more than a dozen strong. I never had me a proper crew or a flock to stick with in a good ol' paddlin'. Reckon that's why I was always so fleet of foot. My adoptive parents, Justin and Joyce, they hatched me from a batch of eggs they got hold of, and I happened to be egg number five. That's why my race bib read "Wrinkle #5." “I’m not gonna lose to a duck, I’m not gonna lose to a duck,” a stocky fella with muscles poppin' out and a belly like a boulder—a proper gym bro—muttered as he stumbled on by us. “Mr. Duck-Duck-Goose comin’ trhough!!” hollered one of them volunteers as I shuffled on past. I glanced back at Fredi, and her face lit right up, seein' that we were just 'bout there. Side-to-side head bobbing and shakin’ my tail feather means I’m happy. I call back and bark to Fredi to catch up, “bup-bah, bup-bup, BAAaahhh… Let’s keep it mooovin’.” We’re really pushing now, come on Fredi, “qwha-qwha-qwha-QWHA-QWHA-qwha-qwha… Let’s goooooo!” I was 'bout to make my dash for that finish line myself, just a couple strides away, when I glanced back and caught sight of Fredi strugglin'. Didn't want to end up DFL – y'know, "Dead F**king Last," for y’all non-runner folks. But I eased off and Fredi and I, we crossed the finish line together, side by side, right along with the whole Release Recovery team, Mario, and Justin, all in tow. As we stepped across that finish line, they handed me my medal, finally! And lookin' back, I spotted Fredi in a tight hug with Mario, tears rollin' down her cheeks onto his shoulder, holdin' their medals high for a snapshot. They waved me over, Justin liftin' me up, the three of us, medals in hand – Finishers. I reckon being First Duck was enough on its own, even if I did come DFL. But more importantly, I made me a friend that day.

4qwiif

Under the Willow Tree

In a land where magic and wonder intertwined, there lived a little boy named Remy. Remy was known throughout the village for his insatiable curiosity and boundless imagination. He had a heart that beat with the rhythm of adventure, and his eyes sparkled with the promise of discovery. One day, as Remy wandered through the dense and mystical Enchanted Forest, he stumbled upon a whispering willow tree. This tree, unlike any other, had leaves that shimmered like silver and branches that seemed to sway in time with a secret melody. But the most enchanting aspect of this willow was the soft, melodic whispers that emanated from its leaves. Intrigued and captivated, Remy approached the whispering willow cautiously. As he got closer, he noticed that the whispers held a strange, almost musical quality. They seemed to tell stories of forgotten legends, lost treasures, and hidden realms. Remy's heart raced with excitement, for he had always longed for adventure beyond the village's borders. "Hello, willow tree," Remy said softly, his voice carrying a mixture of wonder and respect. "I am Remy, and I wish to hear your stories." The willow tree's whispers grew even more melodious, as if in response to Remy's greeting. Its leaves rustled in a harmonious symphony, and the air was filled with the fragrance of ancient knowledge. "Brave young soul," the whispers seemed to say, "if you seek adventure and knowledge, then embark on a quest to find the Elixir of Dreams. It is hidden deep within the heart of the Enchanted Forest, guarded by magical creatures and perplexing riddles." Remy's eyes widened with determination. He felt a surge of excitement coursing through his entire body. He thanked the whispering willow for its guidance and set out on his quest, armed with nothing but his courage and the knowledge the willow had shared. His journey was filled with challenges and trials. He encountered mischievous sprites who tried to lead him astray, a riddle-speaking sphinx who tested his wits, and a shimmering lake guarded by a water nymph who demanded a song as payment for passage. Through it all, Remy's resolve remained unshaken, and he pressed forward with the whispering willow's guidance echoing in his heart. As Remy ventured deeper into the heart of the Enchanted Woods on his quest to find the Elixir of Dreams, he found himself surrounded by a lush and vibrant forest. The sunlight dappled through the leaves, creating dancing patterns on the ground. The air was filled with the sweet scent of wildflowers and the distant melodies of hidden creatures. As he walked, his heart filled with a sense of purpose and excitement. He had faced numerous challenges already, each one testing his resolve and determination. Yet, as he moved further into the woods, he noticed something unusual. Faint giggles seemed to tickle the edges of his hearing, and every now and then, a flash of movement caught the corner of his eye. Remy's steps faltered, and he paused, his curiosity piqued. He glanced around, trying to pinpoint the source of the laughter and movement. It was then that he saw them—mischievous sprites, small and ethereal, flitting between the trees. Their laughter was like tinkling bells, both enchanting and mischievous. "Who's there?" Remy called out, his voice a mixture of caution and wonder. The sprites, little more than flashes of light and color, seemed to dance just out of reach. They darted between the trees, playing a game of hide-and-seek with the young adventurer. Their giggles grew louder, and it became clear that they were deliberately trying to distract him. Remy's eyes sparkled with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. His quest for the Elixir of Dreams was important, but the allure of the sprites' playful antics was hard to resist. He decided to take a momentary break from his journey and engage with these enchanting forest creatures. With a grin, Remy began to chase after the sprites, his footsteps light and his heart full of joy. The sprites led him on a merry chase, guiding him through sunlit glades and under canopies of whispering leaves. They would dart away just as he thought he was about to catch them, leaving behind trails of laughter and mischief. As he played, Remy's cares seemed to melt away. After days of traversing the mystical Enchanted Forest, Remy's quest for the Elixir of Dreams had brought him to the edge of a shimmering lake. The water's surface sparkled like a thousand diamonds in the sunlight, and a gentle breeze carried the sweet scent of wildflowers from across the water. As Remy approached the lake, he noticed a figure standing at its edge, her form shifting like water itself. A water nymph, her hair cascading in liquid strands and her eyes reflecting the colors of the sky, stood before him. Her voice was as soft as a whispering stream, yet it held a commanding presence. "Brave traveler," the water nymph spoke, her voice like ripples on the water's surface, "to cross this lake and continue on your journey, you must offer a song as payment." Remy blinked in surprise, his heart beating with a mixture of excitement and uncertainty. A song? He hadn't expected this particular challenge, but he was determined to prove his worth and move forward. Taking a deep breath, he nodded to the water nymph. "Okay, I’ll sing the song my mommy sings to me every night before bed." Remy said, his voice steady as he cleared his throat. He closed his eyes for a moment, allowing the melodies of the forest and his own thoughts to intertwine. And then, with a sense of purpose, he began to sing. His song started softly, a tender melody that seemed to echo the gentle rustling of leaves and the murmur of nearby brooks. As he sang, his voice grew stronger and more confident, filling the air with the sweetness of his spirit. “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…” he begins. The water nymph's eyes glowed with approval as she listened to Remy's song. The melody seemed to weave its way into the very fabric of the Enchanted Forest, harmonizing with the rustling leaves and the distant calls of birds. As Remy reached the final notes of his song, the lake before him began to stir. The water's surface shimmered and swirled, creating patterns that danced in rhythm with his melody. And then, as if answering his offering, a bridge of water formed across the lake, a path leading to the other side. "Your song has been heard, brave traveler," the water nymph spoke, her voice touched with warmth. "You may now cross the lake and continue on your quest." Remy's heart swelled with pride and relief. With a grateful smile, he bowed to the water nymph and stepped onto the bridge of water. As he crossed the lake, the water beneath his feet seemed to carry his song with it, creating a musical harmony that resonated with the magic of the Enchanted Forest. Upon reaching the other side, Remy turned back to offer a final wave of gratitude to the water nymph, who shimmered like moonlight on water. And then, with renewed determination, he set off once more on his quest, his heart buoyed by the realization that even the simplest of songs could carry the power to overcome challenges and forge unexpected connections in the magical realm he was exploring. As he ventured deeper, he came across a clearing that seemed to radiate an aura of mystery. At the center of the clearing stood a magnificent sphinx, its eyes gleaming with intelligence and mischief. "Ah, young traveler," the sphinx purred, its voice a blend of riddle and riddle-answer, "you seek the Elixir of Dreams, do you not? But first, you must prove your wit to pass my test." Remy looked up at the sphinx, intrigued and determined. He knew that riddles could be tricky, but he was ready to take on the challenge. With a respectful nod, he replied, "I am ready, sphinx. Test me." The sphinx's eyes glinted, and it posed its riddle, its words flowing like a puzzle wrapped in enigma. "I speak without a mouth and hear without ears. I have no body, but I come alive with the wind. What am I?" Remy furrowed his brows, pondering the riddle carefully. He repeated the words to himself, trying to decipher the hidden meaning. The answer had to be something that fit the description—a creature of air, sound, and speech. After a few moments of thought, he offered his response. "The answer is an echo." The sphinx's eyes sparkled with amusement, and its lips curled into a half-smile. "Impressive, young traveler, but one riddle does not a challenge make. Here is another: I am taken from a mine, and shut up in a wooden case, from which I am never released, and yet I am used by almost every person. What am I?" Remy's brow furrowed once more as he listened to the sphinx's riddle. This one was trickier, requiring him to think beyond the surface. He considered the words carefully, picturing the scenario described. "The answer is a pencil lead," he replied confidently. The sphinx's eyes glowed with admiration, and its tail twitched in a sort of playful excitement. "You have a sharp mind indeed, young one," it mused. "But let us see how you fare with one final challenge: The more you take, the more you leave behind. What am I?" This riddle was the most cryptic yet, and Remy felt the gears of his mind turning as he tried to unravel its mystery. He recited the words to himself over and over, seeking the solution hidden within them. After a few moments of contemplation, he offered his answer. "The answer is footsteps." The sphinx's eyes gleamed with approval, and its voice carried a note of admiration. "Well done, young traveler. Your wit has proven itself worthy. You may pass and continue on your journey." Finally, after facing countless trials, Remy found himself standing before a radiant glade. In the center of the glade stood a magnificent, glowing flower—the Elixir of Dreams. Its petals shimmered with all the colors of the rainbow, and its fragrance was intoxicating. Remy carefully collected the Elixir, feeling the weight of his accomplishment and the wisdom he had gained throughout his journey. As he made his way back to the whispering willow, he realized that the true treasure he had found was not just the Elixir, but the experiences, lessons, and stories he had gathered along the way. Returning to the whispering willow, Remy shared his tales with the tree, his voice now carrying the confidence of a young adventurer who had braved the unknown. The willow's leaves rustled in approval, as if it were smiling. "You have done well, brave Remy," the whispers seemed to say. "May your heart always beat with the rhythm of adventure, and may you continue to seek the magic in the world around you. As long as you do those tasks, you will be rewarded in the most wonderful dreams." Remy smiled feeling proud. “Remy.  Remy!  Baby doll, wake up!”  Remy’s mom rubbing his shoulder.  He had fallen asleep while reading their favorite book together as they always do when the weather is serene and tranquil.  They set up a blanket under their weeping willow tree, have a picnic, and finish the afternoon reading a book. “Hi Mom.”  He wakes up from his dream “You won’t believe what just happened.” “I think you were dreaming, sweetheart.  You’re under the willow tree.” She said smiling down at her sweet little boy. “Okay, but Mommy, can I tell you about the whispering willow tree?” he said with excitement. “You can tell me anything you want once we get inside.  Come on, it’s starting to rain.  Let me get you inside where it’s warm and cozy.  I’ve got a fire going.” The two dried off and got snuggled in front of the roaring fireplace.  His mother got Remy a cup of hot chocolate with exactly 5 marshmallows just as he asked.  Between the crackle of the fire, and the tale Remy had told in so much detail, his mother thought to herself, “there’s no place I’d rather be, other than under the willow tree.”

9qr8qb

Hopeless Gimmering

August 3rd, 1849 Reached this lonesome valley today, a real marvel under God's sky. The land stretches endlessly, its only partners being distant mountains and a beckoning stream's song. The journey was a trial, boots laden with mud, spirits weighed by tales of men who came and departed with empty pockets. In my pocket, though, is this curious shiny stone. Not yet gold, but whispering of its presence nearby. Camp's set, the daunting task ahead clear as day. Many a man ventured, few struck gold. Yet, tales of fortunes and the promise of a new dawn keep my spirits aflame. As I sat by the campfire, the flames dancing in rhythm with my thoughts, I pondered upon the stories shared by old miners at the tavern. They spoke of the land's deceptive allure, the many who'd lost their way, consumed by gold fever. Their tales, sometimes cautionary, other times hopeful, echoed in the wind and the rustling leaves. It served as a reminder, grounding me in reality but also igniting a fire of ambition within. As night wraps its blanket, doubts slither in. What if this valley's all but dreams? This here's a gamble, no doubt, but life's always been one. With dawn's first light, I'll be at it, hopeful, diggin' for more than just dreams. Yours with grit, hope, and a pinch of fear, Daniel H. - August 10th, 1849 A week has unfurled since my arrival in this wondrous valley, and the solitude of the place has allowed for deep introspection. The camp's seen improvements, resembling more a determined miner's outpost than a mere traveler's rest. I've erected a stronger tent, fortified against the unpredictable weather. The fireplace, now bordered with stones, blazes with a fiercer warmth, casting away the valley's night chill. The stream, with its ever-present murmurs, has been my daily companion. Each morning, I follow its trail, its ripples guiding my path, my tools singing along with the promise of gold. With every sifted pan, I feel a growing intuition, a miner's sixth sense perhaps, that tells me I'm inching closer to a significant find. Some bends in the stream seem particularly promising, with sediment layers that hint at the treasures they might conceal. During one of these explorations, I came across a peculiar rock formation, which old-timers often spoke of as nature's signpost to underground riches. It fuels my optimism, making me believe that I stand on the precipice of discovery. Nightfall brings with it contemplation. There's a balance to strike, between ambition and patience. While the promise of gold lights up my dreams, I remind myself that the journey, with its trials and learnings, is just as valuable. Tomorrow beckons with the allure of hidden treasures. The valley, with its secrets, awaits my endeavor. Yours with renewed determination, Daniel H. - August 17th, 1849 Seven sunrises since my last entry, and what a transformative week it has been! The valley, with its quiet whispers and teasing glints, finally unveiled a prize: a gold nugget! As it lay in the palm of my hand, shimmering with the promise of a changed destiny, my heart raced with a mix of disbelief and elation. The weight of it, both literal and symbolic, was the manifestation of dreams and whispered tales. With that nugget as both proof and motivation, a fervor took over. I became a man possessed, digging tirelessly, as if the very soil called out to me. Day blended into night, the sun’s arc barely registered, as my spade and pan worked in a ceaseless rhythm. Each new mound of earth seemed to promise another nugget, another piece of the golden dream. But nature, with its immutable laws, reminded me of my mortal limits. After what felt like a full day's cycle, exhaustion's grip tightened, rendering my limbs heavy and my vision blurry. Frustration mounted with each empty pan, the initial joy replaced with the biting sting of unmet expectations. I found myself sprawled amidst the very dirt I'd been turning, the weight of my zeal pressing down, leaving me gasping and spent. Tonight, the solitary gold nugget lies beside me, a symbol of both triumph and warning. The valley's treasures are elusive, demanding respect and patience. As I drift into a recuperative sleep, I resolve to heed the lessons of this week: the promise of gold is powerful, but I must remember to listen to both the land and my own body's boundaries. Yours, humbled and reinvigorated, Daniel H. - August 31st, 1849 Fourteen days since my pen last touched this journal, and the valley's song has grown louder, more insistent, echoing in the deepest chambers of my mind. It feels as if the land itself is alive, whispering secrets only to me. Last night, as moonlight painted the valley in silvery hues, my eyes were drawn to a cliff's face. And there, amidst the jagged rock, I saw it – a glimmer, a promise, a golden lure beckoning me closer. It’s a treacherous climb, that much is clear. But that pocket of gold, even from this distance, looks vast, enough to change any man's destiny a hundredfold. My mind races with visions – grand mansions, respect from peers, luxuries only the rich know of, and most importantly, a legacy for generations to cherish. I've been feverishly preparing. Ropes, spikes, and all the tools I believe I'd need to scale that cliff and extract the gold. Every moment not spent in preparation, my mind wanders into fantasy: lavish feasts, clothes finer than any I've worn, and a life far removed from this rugged wilderness. Yet, there's a nagging whisper, drowned mostly by the allure of the gold, that cautions me. The cliff's dangers are manifold, and the howling winds seem to carry tales of adventurers who met their fate in their quest. But the pull, oh, the pull of that gold is unlike anything I've felt. As I lay down tonight, my thoughts are a swirling tempest of ambition, greed, and anxiety. Tomorrow, I take on the cliff. They say fortune favors the bold. I'm about to find out. Yours, on the precipice of greatness or folly, Daniel H. - September 7th, 1849 I chanced upon this journal today, nestled beside what I initially assumed was a slumbering traveler. To my dismay, it was a lifeless prospector, a man named Daniel H. according to his writings. Beside him lay chunks of gleaming gold, scattered like stars against the earth, evidence of a dream both realized and shattered. A closer inspection revealed a more somber tale: his climbing gear, torn and frayed, could not bear the combined weight of the man and his newfound fortune. It's a heart-wrenching scene — the tangible weight of his dreams becoming the literal weight that sealed his fate. Reading through Daniel's entries, I'm struck by his passion, ambition, and the descent into obsession that these mountains can incite. The fervor with which he sought gold was commendable, but his story serves as a grim reminder of the balance between ambition and caution. It may seem opportunistic, but I've gathered the gold. Daniel's arduous journey, his sleepless nights, and his ultimate sacrifice won't go in vain. This treasure will grant me the means to live life to its fullest, to grasp opportunities, and perhaps, to honor this stranger by fulfilling some of the dreams he penned down so eloquently. Perhaps I'll venture east, away from these treacherous terrains, to start anew. Every coin I spend will bear testimony to a man's relentless spirit and the cost of unbridled ambition. As the sun sets, casting a golden hue reminiscent of the metal that changed our fates, I whisper a silent prayer for Daniel H. To a future born out of another man's dream, B. Thomas

buh0vp

To Protect

The dark orange flames arced and curved to a beat without sound. Like flickering fireflies, they shone with passion then settled down into their ember homes. A pattern-less dance, yet a soothing repetition to Chong’s weary eyes. He rubbed them. Pulo will be here soon. And I’m to get the map “at all cost” according to the director, that fat bastard. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. But I have to. The heavy library door rubbed the polished floors as it opened, re-etching a half-moon scratch onto the floor. Chong released a held breath. “Hello brother.” “Chong.” A glint of sorrow flashed in the newcomer’s cool, gray eyes then disappeared just as quickly. The light emitted by the giant hearth made orange shadows on his umber skin. Pulo straightened. “You know why I’m here.” Chong nodded and gestured for him to take a seat. Pulo stiffened, his massive shoulders drawing up defensively. He never was one for orders. Admiration dampened his desire to fulfil his duty. “At all costs," he remembered. Leaning forward, Chong steepled his hands. The chair creaked. A waft of oiled leather soaked his thin nostrils. Even after everything, it smelled like home . “ Pulo, please. We can discuss this like adults. No weapons. No ambush. I wouldn’t do such a thing to you… brother.” The slight pause made the title sound as unnatural as it felt, yet Pulo’s tight glare softened, and he sat in the opposite chair, the only other in the small study. He’s so quick to trust. All it takes is a word. A false word. Pulo copied Chong, leaning forward and clasping his gorilla hands. A thousand worries rode the crinkled brow, streaks of gray crowning it despite his young years. “I need my money. To leave the city. I need it tonight.” Chong sat back in his chair, his fingers curling over the armrest. “So, you’ve really decided to leave? After I saved you and your sons’ lives?” His eyes widened. “My sons are not to be discussed here. ” “For someone so given to sentimentality, you are anxious to hide your boys from your family.” Pulo stood. “My boys aren’t for sale. We didn’t have a choice, but they will! I’d rather them dead than they have this life thrust on them.” Chong’s anger propelled him to his feet. “They gave us mission and duty. One you long ago forgot. Come here, asking for money, hah! Who lied to the directors for you? Who swore, breaking their oath, that you were childless? That they’d died? And now, you come asking for money. Can’t even clean up your own mess.” “It’s not my mess!” Pulo’s voice reached dangerous volume, and he stood. They glared at each other, cold hatred spiking the other like icicles. The muscles around Pulo’s mouth screwed tighter and tighter. Chong realized he was clutching the knife handle protruding from his belt. Chong took a deep breath. It didn’t matter that Pulo could snap him with his bare fingers. That he’d once seen him kill a man with a single blow to the head. Even now, Pulo would control himself. He’d always loved too much, even the “family” that used him. Still, he had to keep reminding himself of that as Pulo’s speech turned to growls. He tightened his grip on his own knife, deep in his coat. “I never wanted to kill. I never wanted to be a spy.” “But you are.” “Yes, because I was raised into it." Pulo looked away." I didn’t know what soccer was, but I knew how to split a guy’s skull eight different ways. That won’t be my boys.” “What? Men?” Chong sneered, all the tension building up in him. It didn’t matter that Pulo had the treasure. It didn’t matter that his mission was to retrieve it. He was sick of his “brother’s” self-righteous act. “You killed thousands more than me. There’s no washing that blood! I went through the same training, the same process, but you left . You thought there was better than protecting our home.” “Mass murder is only acceptable in war. The look in those women’s eyes when we slaughtered their men like sheep… they knew as well as us. We’d taken their love, their life, and their only protection.” The flames in the fireplace seemed to grow in brilliance with each word. Face twisted in grief, Pulo moaned and pulled at his hair. “I couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t. I couldn’t.” Stiff, Chong curled his lips in disgust. “You did all the same things as the rest of us. What makes you think you can get off free?” “I am not free. They’re coming for me. That’s why I must leave. I know what you want. I have the map. The treasure is all yours. I don’t have the time to recover it. I need money now.” Chong relaxed. They were back to the topic of business. Back to equations, rationalizations, and logic. Yet his fury had peaked. It burned inside him. He needed to know. He needed an answer. “Why do you think you’re better than us?” Pulo looked to the painting hanging over the fireplace. A beautiful woman, petite but curvy, and a strong man clutched each other with broad smiles. The hard lines in the man’s face could have etched a roman emperor. His angled eyes disappeared in crinkles of laughter and the wavy black hair curved back in a perfect slick. The woman had opposite features, with shining green eyes and full pink lips. Her rose-colored hair fell to her shoulders glimmering like tinted glass. “Certainly, you see it.” “See what?” Chong barked. “It’s the same painting it’s always been. Twenty years it’s hung here. Twenty years the Leader refuses to enter this room yet won’t to take it down. That’s where sentimentality gets you. That’s where love takes you. She’s dead. Gone. And no one can accept it except me. And now here you are. Wifeless with two boys. With a record just like him. With levels of darkness no one understands. Just. Like. Him. You can’t walk away. This your home.” “This is your home.” Pulo’s sharp tone cut him off. “You blind fool. Do you not see the likeness? You’re their son. You're the director's heir.” Chong reeled as though struck. “I cannot…” “Shut up and grow up. I saw it the first time I looked at that damn painting. And I fought everyday to be better than you. All it brought me was heartache and death. I’m done. Have your birthright. I was never part of this family. Not like you were. And I never want to see any piece of it again.” Chong’s stare bore into the dancing orange of the flames. They leaped up and down, constantly in motion. Licking the air as though looking for something to eat away at. He stilled his shaking hands. “You don’t know—” “I confronted the director. He confirmed it. You were six when she died, and she hadn’t even bothered naming you beyond a number. You must see this place is death. It was never about the “family” organization, it was about our brotherhood. You are the only friend I’ve ever had other than my wife. Now she’s gone, and I cannot stay. I have those to protect. And you? You have all your life ahead. There’s still hope for something more. Come with us.” Years of training masking his emotions kept a neutral expression on Chong’s face. He lifted his chin and took a deep breath. “It would be a new beginning. It would be leaving everything.” He felt his hands shake again. His abs contracted tighter and tighter. He remained motionless. Expressionless. A picture of outward calm, he recited to himself. Don’t ever let them see you drop your hands. His knobby knees knocked. He was shaking. Tears spilled down his cheeks. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried. Not since he was beaten for it. I could leave. They don’t love me. I’m not tied here. No! What am I thinking? It’s Pulo’s trickery. It’s more of his sentimental lies. I have a part in this business. This organization isn’t tied by loyalty. I need them to get the job done. But is it a job I want to do? He took a few steps. Any longer standing, and he might collapse. Pulo’s implored him with a look. “Chong, please. See reason. Soon as you become useless to them, they’ll put you down like the dog they see you as.” Defiance boiled up out of the whirlwind of new emotions in Chong’s chest. “I’ve invested too much to leave. I want to be great. I cannot live to be nothing. I cannot live to see my manhood sunken.” “What is a man if not a protector? Here, you do not protect. You kill. There is more out there. More jobs. More life.” “Life like yours? Where you can’t even protect those closest to you? If you had stayed with the organization… if you’d just done as told, your wife would still be alive.” Anger flashed in Pulo’s eyes, but he mastered himself quickly. He would have hit me before. A log collapsed in the fire. The sudden heat scorched Chong’s cheek. Sweat poured down his back. What kept Pulo so calm? “I can not change the past, but I can learn from it. It was my own folly that led to her death. I got sloppy with my enemies. I was so used to having the organization cover my back for me, I forgot how to do it on my own. It was my dependence, not independence that killed me. But I can change that now. This new life will prepare my boys to stand up for themselves and for those too weak to do so on their own. They’ll save the world, not burn it or rely on the ones that do.” Chong collapsed in his chair, suddenly too weak to stand. The world spun around him as he gripped his hair and tried to sort out the puzzle. A family that wasn’t a family. A boy who was once like a brother. Loyalty. Trust. Respect. All things that should be earned, not given. Earned. Pulo’s the one who saved me from sharks at seven. Took my first kill so I didn’t have to, but still told the director I did it. He pushed me through training. And what did the director – my father- do? He sent me to kill him. Chong froze, understanding gripping him and shooting cold fear to the marrow of his bones. “They sent me to kill you.” He looked up and met his friend’s eye. “They told me it was about a treasure map, but it’s not. They want you dead. They want you and these ideas dead. You’re dangerous to them.” Suddenly, the answer was clear. He stood, squaring back his shoulders. “If you’re dangerous enough to want dead, then something you’re saying is true. Somewhere in there is the answer we’ve all been looking for. I will go with you, but promise we’ll come back. Promise we’ll fight to show the others here that there’s more to life than murder and pillage.” A familiar excitement shone in Pulo’s eyes as he held out his hand. His smile swallowed his beefy face. “I promise.”

y8yfro

Rare and Exquisite

Edmund was not his real name. The young man was a librarian by trade, although one wouldn’t know it by looking at him. He wore a double-breasted gray suit, his neck swathed in a long black scarf. In his hand he held an elaborate pocket watch, which he was studying closely. He was standing outside a wrought-iron gate in a slum of Paris in the middle of the night. He watched as two drunkards across the street stumbled out of what was casually known as a “night cafe.” He eyed them nervously, gripping his walking stick tightly as they walked away. ‘Edmund’ gulped and wiped his brow with a clean handkerchief before checking his pocketwatch again. ...11:58. The young man was tantalized by the night cafe: the fact that on one side of the street was a deep soul-slavery, while on his side - under a flickering yellow lamp - was freedom... at least for those who could find it. 12 o’clock midnight. Edmund heard the click from the wrought iron gate, and then began to fiddle with a difficult-to-see combination lock. He quickly scrambled with the lock, his fingers sweating, and inputted 6, 15, 24, and pushed. As expediently as he had entered, Edmund closed the gate fast behind him, giving it a few tugs to make sure the lock was engaged. Under the night sky, the garden had both a threatening and romantic feel to it. Several large trees lent their hanging leaves and fruits to the few who could find them as little lightning bugs darted between the tall grasses that lined the slowly churning stream that ran through the secret garden. Edmund bent down to examine the cobblestones in front of him and put on his specially-made spectacles. “Good,” he murmured to himself after an examination. “No sign of them.” He found himself wishing that the gate would allow itself to be opened at twelve-noon instead of midnight as he walked among the lush greenery. How beautiful it would be, Edmund thought before reminding himself why he was there. He stepped over a bridge spanning the little stream and was presented with the shop he had been searching for for years. Amidst the verdant foliage, a quaint and charming shop emerged like a hidden gem. Its façade was adorned with creeping vines and ivy, a sign that it was much, much older than he had been led to believe. A sign above the entrance read, "Exquisitely Rare Books," inviting the curious and the curiouser to step inside and explore the wonders within. Edmund carefully opened the front door of the strange little shop, stopping the bell above from announcing his arrival. In spite of that, he heard an old-sounding voice from deeper within. “Hello! I am so glad someone had found my clues. It has been such a long... long time since I have had any customers.” The interior of the shop was warm, but the little electrical lights were just a little too faint. Edmund looked around for the source of the voice, but could not discover its origin. “Yes, delighted,” Edmund said, glad to hear that no one else had been in the store for ‘a long time.’ “Help yourself, lad,” the voice responded. Edmund looked over the bookshelves to see if he could see where the shopkeep was, but could not. “If you need any assistance, please don’t hesitate to ask.” Edmund put on his spectacles again and lit a match. The voice again pervaded the store. “No flames, please!” The clerk’s voice said calmly yet commandingly. Edmund blew out his match and put it in a convenient ash tray. The book Edmund was looking for was definitely worth all the fuss. He passed by several first editions and original manuscripts of books that lesser librarians could only have dreamed of seeing as he walked further and further into the shelves. There was an original Leonardo diagram of some device that the young man couldn’t reckon, followed by a translation of a chapter of the Codex Seraphim and the Chronicles of the Starless Abyss . Books that lesser book collectors would have leapt at without searching deeper. Farther back, farther back, into the recesses of the place. He found a spiral iron staircase and began to ascend. The Atlas Obscura was there at the landing, along with The Lost Apocrypha and the only known copy of the Crystal Codex , made completely out of diamond. The lights were dimmer back here than on the first floor, and even Edmund’s special glasses were not helping him. “Excuse me?” He called out to the ever-darkening gloom. “Is there any chance of making this place brighter?” The clerk responded with Edmund’s true name and a little speech about the ‘romantic promise of darkness.’ That phrase stuck in Edmund’s mind - part of a poem from the book he was in search of. The young librarian sighed. “Nevermind,” Edmund called out to the gloom. I’ve gotten this far , he thought. Even if I have to camp out here until daybreak to see what I’m doing, it’ll be worth it. He clutched his walking stick. Perhaps I could even stave off the clerk until morning as well. “I think you’ll find that daylight won’t help you here,” the clerk suddenly said, somewhere in the dark. Edmund didn’t respond, but instead intensified his focus in order to read the names on the spines of the ever-twisting rows of books. That’s what struck Edmund the most about the place: it was becoming less and less organized as he went forward with priceless books and tomes spilling onto the floor. Picking one up, he saw that it had a title that shocked him so much that it caused him - a man of many meticulous and despicable crimes - to throw it to the ground in disgust. Another book sent a river of tremulous thoughts through his brain. Yet another title seemed to throw the entire worldview of a major religion into question. Focus, focus , he said to himself as he walked deeper and deeper into the bookstore... or whatever it was. The darkness was now intense, but somehow Edmund could read the titles on the various slumping bookshelves. What Edmund was looking for was far more disturbing than these, however. He stepped over a pile of parchment and squeezed between two bookshelves at the very back of the second floor when he saw it: A knee-high gap in the wall with red light pouring out of it. Getting on his knees and pushing the piles of papers away, he peered into the gap. A few more books fell in his way as he crawled forward - scrolls and even a few pages of forgotten minuets by Mozart began to fall in front of him, but he was not deterred. At the end of the crawlspace, he could see a lone book in the distance. Continually pushing the books and pages that were falling in front of his path away, he crawled forward. The space itself narrowed and narrowed, the source of the red light not able to be determined, the book seemingly retreating. He pulled himself by the carpet of the infernal space along with the forward motion of his knees to finally claw his way to the large, eight-hundred-or-so leatherbound tome and brought it close. Edmund’s black hair was now in complete disarray as he stood, kicking the other things away from his feet. A few were scrolls of ancient papyrus, their pages singed by a great fire from long ago. “Did you find what you were searching for?” The voice of the clerk behind him asked. Edmund continued forward. “Yes I did,” Edmund said carefully. “Thank you v-very much.” Clomp, clomp, shuffle, shuffle. Edmund was still struggling to hold onto the tome as more and more books and parchments fell at his feet from unseen shelves. “Very interesting work,” the voice behind him said, growing fainter. “Yes, yes it is,” Edmund said. “I notice that you were not enticed by the other works you passed by on your way to that one.” Edmund gulped, being careful to be polite and yet not looking behind him. “They are wonderful books as-as well,” he said. Up ahead was the faint orange glow coming from the candles on the first floor. He reached the guard rail of the spiral staircase and gripped it tightly. “You are a special customer, that is for sure,” the voice said again. Edmund made his way to the first floor, still clutching his find in his arms. “You a-are too kind,” he said, calling up the stairs, still not looking behind him. “H-how much?” He asked as he trundled across the much brighter, much more comforting first floor. There was no answer at first. “You know the price,” the voice called down in a sly tone. Edmund pushed the door open, not caring this time if the bell made a noise. After a moment, the forgotten and concealed bookstore returned to its state of hush and silence. Every once in a while there was a shuffling noise upstairs, but otherwise there was no movement. When the sun came up, the trees outside blocked the light from entering fully. The shadows from the branches of the willows outside danced strange dances on the floor within.

z7679z

The Trip Home

The trip home Written by: Darling Jackson The flames flickered and crackled, swallowing the darkness attempting to envelope it.  Embers floated and swirled off of the fire like small sprites. The heat wrapped me in a heavy cloak, chasing away any lingering heaviness from the day. The wind howled, making the flames dance and swirl towards the west; almost like the flames were reaching for home, just like me. The flames represented my soul in a way; the way the flames reach but are rooted to wherever I go, like the way my heart reaches for home but logic and amica mia kept me rooted. That thought reminded me of him and I glanced upwards towards him and saw him gazing at me with a look I knew too well but at the same time not well enough.  A smile tugged at my lips and I reached out and brushed the back of his hand with my long, delicate fingers. Such a juxtaposition to his calloused and big hands, while my hands were dainty and airy. My fingers softly grazed over his hand. “ Amica mia?” “Yes, mon amour?” he responded, his voice and subtle accent striking something deep inside of me. A moment passed of me carefully leaning my head against his shoulder. One of the horses nickered softly, earning a soft chuckle from Antoine. “ How long until we reach corbeau?” He grasped my hand, stopping me from continuing to stroke his hand. He gave my hand one gentle squeeze before releasing my hand. His own special way of saying I love you . A small moth landed on our open topped tent, flapping its wings a few times. The woods were so dark at night. When I started traveling with Antoine I would get scared of the darkness in between the trees and Antoine would lay close to me in the tent and reassure me. The darkness doesn't scare me anymore, in fact I find the woods even more beautiful knowing its animals sleep at night alongside me, and knowing more about the wondrous animals that stayed awake at night and co-existed beside me. “Only two more days mon amour.” The way his voice softly drifted to me made my heart ache for him.  My head was pounding in hope and excitement to get to Corbeau and finally have a true home with Antoine, finally have my own home with no one to dictate what I was allowed to feel or think or do. As much as my heart reached for home like the flames I was ready for a new home. A home where I was allowed to love Antoine without being shunned. That was of course why I had left my beautiful village that I called home. When I met Antoine he was a mere traveler from the west continent which is why my involvement with a westerner got me shunned. For some reason my people had always hated westerners and westerners had always hated us. Which is why me and Antoine thought it was better to head north. So we took a boat from the east continent to the north continent and traveled upward towards Corbeau, the city of lights and love. We packed our heaviest clothes, and only at that what the horses could carry and set onwards north. It had been getting steadily colder as we moved. Antoine had guided us through days of riding through beautiful mountains and forests and I could not love and appreciate him more for what he’s done for us. I stared at the fire for a while, simply feeling Antoine’s energy and love and letting him caress my hand until I drifted to sleep, my head still resting on his shoulder. When I awoke nestled in Antoine’s arms the sun was shining through the trees, casting a wonderful green/yellow light on the mossy forest floor. My watch read exactly seven o’clock. I gently rubbed Antoine’s arm. “ We should get up soon amica mia,” “Just a few more minutes mon amour,” “Okay, okay just a few more minutes,” I chuckled, it was routine to have this conversation every morning. It was clear that he would lead us to our home and I would wake him and feed us as long as he supplied the animals. We worked like gears, we supported each other. A smile played along my lips. “Its been a few minutes amica mia?” “Okay, okay mon amour.” It took two days more until we reached the checkmark marking the official entrance to Corbeau. The city of life and love. A wondrous smile played over Antoine’s lips. “ Are you ready to go home Julliete, mon bel amour?” “I’m ready Antoine, meus pulcher amour.” And with that me and Antoine rode our horses into the bustling streets of Corbeau. People bustled around us with carriages trancing through the streets. Vendors were set up everywhere on the streets, selling things from jewelry to street food.  All of which we could pay for if we were so pleased because of the money both of us had been saving and working for the year leading up to our departure from the east. Of course we were making sure we had every penny for the house we had been guaranteed before we went around spending. The seller had promised us the house if we could meet on this day and pay in full. We had cut it close, arriving the day of the payment but we had all the money to pay upfront. I could feel Antoine’s eyes on me as I surveyed the beautiful buildings and bright colors surrounding us with a smile displayed across my features. We rode through the bustling streets, joyous people and bright buildings until we reached the countryside of Corbeau. We rode through a few country homes with expenses of land until we reached a modest baby yellow painted country house with an orchard in the back filled with bright red apples, yellow lemons and pint cherry blossoms. We rode to the front and a small old man sat on the porch, a glass of water in his hand. He reached his arm over his head and waved. “ Are you Antoine and Julliete? ” he asked in a gentle soft voice. “ Yes we are. Nice to meet you sir.”  Antoine responded with his deep booming voice. “ Are you ready to pay upfront?” The man asked as we dismounted our horses. Antoine walked up to the old man, up the stairs to the front porch with his arm sling around my waist and a broad smile on his face. He stopped in front of the man and pulled me into his side.            “ Me and my wife are ready to pay upfront sir.” He threw a sack at the man’s feet with a clunk. Wife? Wife?! He called me his wife. Does that mean Antoine is my husband?! Antoine got down on one knee of the white painted porch. Sun streaming off his thick brown hair and blue eyes. The eyes that our children would have. “ Juliette, Mon amour. Will you marry me?” I flung my arms around his shoulders.           “ Yes, yes, yes Antoine!”           “I’ll leave you two to your new house.” The seller said and left us. Antoine wrapped his hands around my waist and swung me around.           “Ready, mon amour?”           “I’m ready, amica mía.” And with that my husband, my love, amica mia carried me into our home.

yqmgb2

Base A: The Post Office at the End of the World

The icy waters crackle as the cruise ship enters the harbor off the notched and ragged coast of Port Lockroy. There is a hectic roo, roo, roo from the calling Gentoo penguins, and there is a fussy cow, cow, cow from the snowy sheathbills as they tap the windows of the Post Office. It is ironic that we are located out on the polar shelf—literally set apart from the whole world, and yet, the world comes to us daily. I rise from my bunk drenched in sweat. My veins ache as if tensed by electric current. My head is burning but my hands are ice cold, holding my anxieties in clenched fists. I spread and stretch out my fingers as wide as I can and try to breathe. It is another nightmare. What is it, three nights in a row now? Reliving the humiliation of being canned and censored, receiving subpoenas and summonses to boot—and the lawsuits. It is years later, and I still cannot escape the events that led me to leave journalism, and the rest of it, behind. The threats and backlash are still coming daily. And every day since I lost Michael, I’ve questioned my dogged pursuit of the truth—which has cost me nearly the whole world—but not quite all of it. The wind usually whips at forty miles an hour for days at a time, but it is eerily calm on the island this morning, has been all this week. It is nearly Christmas, but it is summer down here in Antarctica, and we are in the midst of the Midnight Sun where daylight never ends. Come February mostly everyone will leave for winter. Right now, temperatures are in the mid 30s Fahrenheit and reach the 50s midday, and it is clear, crisp, and pleasant. It is hard to believe that I have been here for three years. That the island has become so crowded that instead of just collecting postcards from tourists, we now have our own mail routes across Wiencke Island and down to Hope Bay. Things have changed so much that there are expeditions here in the winter from various space agencies, testing out standards and methods for colonization of the Moon and Mars under rugged and inhospitable conditions. There are also immunologists that come to these islands to set up research labs to perform research in a frozen sterile environment, away from the hubs where a stray virus or strain of influenza could wreak havoc on the world. It is almost as if my former work is seeking me out, even to the ends of the world. * * * I head out to man the postal counter, donning my name badge ‘Nellie Ainsley.’ This morning, even before the cruise ship has docked, the little bell on the door rings to announce that we have our first visitor. “We’ve been getting the wrong mail again Nellie,” Marge huffs. Marge is in her seventies and her skin is taut and sheen like parchment paper. Her blue eyes are determined bustling mirrors. She maintains the commanding presence of an athlete ready to explode off the blocks. She was one of the first prominent female distance runners back in the 1970s and 1980s, and she is still just as feisty as she was then. “You aren’t getting your mail?” I ask. “Right, Jim and I aren’t getting our mail. We are getting Ann and Rob’s mail. And they are getting ours.” I immediately know that this mystery has everything to do with Tom Curtin, our postie, and local teller of both tall tales and true ones. “Ann and Rob that live next door—that’s what we are talking about Marge,” I ask, knowing where this is going. You see, Marge and Jim moved here from Colorado a few years ago and live in a cabin they call the Penguin Pagoda. It is the largest house on the island and a veritable hub for guests, so you can see how they’d be particular about everyone knowing it and bending the proverbial knee to their seniority. Making matters worse, Rob Karr and Ann Boulet are a much younger couple. Rob is a famous long-distance runner from Colorado who works as our Town Pharmacist and Ann is a young schoolteacher from Colorado who teaches English classes from her home. The two came here to stay only two months ago, and that meant adding a new stop on Tom’s postal route. They had been training snowshoe racing and built themselves a proper cabin—Leadville South—right up the road from Jim and Marge Hickman, which must have thrown Tom off his normal routine. Truth be told, Jim and Marge seemed a little jealous of their neighbors giving their home a name, so close on to their own infamous abode. “Yeah Nellie, Tom keeps leaving us Ann and Rob’s mail, and they keep getting ours. It’s a problem. We go next door and trade them up, but we are getting sick of it, ay,” Marge grunted and flexed her forehead to really let me know she meant business. “So, you are getting your mail in the end, right? What’s the problem?” I respond, pursing my lips and squinting, extending my arms onto the counter and into her space. “The problem is that Tom is getting us mixed up and we aren’t getting the correct mail,” Marge says. “But you said you trade up for the right mail, so you are getting it,” I tell her. “Yes, but it’s not our responsibility to finish the mail delivery process. It’s Tom’s!” “I’ll tell Tom to be more careful. You do know he’s delivering mail by foot for the whole island, right! There’s really no issue if you’re getting your mail in the end.” Marge stormed out less than pleased, and I added to my ‘to do’ list giving Tom a thorough talking to about this ‘issue’ with the great mail mix up of 2026. As Marge left a ship hand came in and delivered us fresh sausage and egg platters and told us that the passengers were shoving off in about forty-five minutes, and to be ready to put on a show and deal with the rush. In the meantime, Tom rolled in looking like he’d been out in the wilderness for a month, with his furry Cossack trooper hat and his signature lightweight Canada Goose puffer jacket. He was chewing on some beef jerky as he said, “Marge is in an uproar that I’ve been giving her the wrong mail, is she?” “You know she is,” I say. “Shhhh,” he says putting his finger to his lips, “don’t tell her I’ve been doing it on purpose just to ruffle the old battle-axe’s feathers.” “Tom! That’s awful,” I say. “Ehhh. There are worse things.” “I guess so,” I say, drooping my head and thinking of the mail I’ve been receiving. “You holding up okay? I saw you got more love letters from those lovely pharmaceutical companies about those old articles,” Tom said. “It’s been getting to me. I’m not going to lie. After all that research and the findings of the doctors, three of them—Lewis, Levy and Kiko—and the whistleblowers from the lab that knew about the bad batches—I thought people would want to look at why thirty-year-old men were falling down dead with heart attacks—that maybe someone would give Michael’s family some answers. But I got blackballed instead.” “And it just doesn’t stop does it,” Tom said. “No, I mean, they are coming for me—still. It is like those expeditions when you would say that the reports when someone died would go on for months. In my case, it may just go on forever,” I told him. “You know, I once travelled 160 km towing my fellow explorer Evans on a sled, with nothing but a few pints of brandy, some chocolates, three biscuits and a tent— “—Because Evans had succumbed to scurvy and snow blindness—the latter being an affliction I sometimes wonder if our whole society has become afflicted with—” I interrupted, having heard this story a hundred times, and knowing it by heart. “—I just barely made it to Hut Point in a fit of total exhaustion and collapsed in the snow while we waited for the rescue party. And I say that to say, soldier on lassie! It aint over as long as you still have breath in your lungs and a smile on your face.” And this was just one of Tom’s many close calls that have left him a hunched and haggard man at forty whose beard is dark and patchy and whose grizzled and ice-stained mien resembles an ornery old white wolf, well-scarred and well-marked from his travels. “I wonder if it is harder to walk a hundred miles through the polar terrain or to be cast aside for exposing corruption that the powers that be wish to keep buried,” I tell him, emphasizing, “when you know you are right.” It is ironic, I think, that society can be more isolating than the farthest reaches of nature. “You, Nellie, are a girl in need of adventure. Rob and Annie and I are taking a small boat to Jougla Point and camping out for the night under the ahem—stars, and we’ve got everything we need for a proper cookout—you have to come,” Tom said, being ironic, because obviously you can’t see any stars when its daylight twenty-four hours a day. “When does this party get started?” I asked. “Six.” “I’ll be there.” * * * As I pack my camping gear, I think it is ironic how time seems to stop on these summer nights just before the winter solstice with the Midnight Sun hanging like a kite from a string directly above us. Yet our posted letters still travel outward incessantly to the far reaches. Expedition ships transport the mail to the Stanley Post Office in the Falklands, from which it is carried by the Royal Air Force to the UK where it enters into regular postal channels and reaches the far corners of the globe, just as that same sun hanging motionless above us lights the whole globe each day. I’d come here feeling abandoned by my editors and my profession. All I had wanted was an explanation why my fiancé Michael had suddenly fallen dead from a heart attack after taking a simple vaccine. All I had wanted was to get answers for anyone else who’d experienced the same thing. The editors of the paper came to heel under the influence of those same corporate and political forces that wanted to control the news and suppress the truth—the truth that we had been careless—the truth that we hadn’t been honest about the risks. The paper followed orders and marked me as a pariah, as they were meant to do, leaving me alone to face the weight and venom of the very corruption I sought to root out. Leaving me alone in my grief. Though I had come here to escape to the wilderness and strengthen my resolve among the icy cliffs and frozen plains—I had kept my daily journals without fail. I had continued my research. I had delved deeper into the corruption. Not just of the pharmaceutical stories I had started with, but into financial stories, and a myriad of other instances of power run amok. And now it seemed that the world would pull me back against my will—summoned to Parliament—summoned to Court in Washington, DC—summoned back where I did not wish to go. But what I had failed to do was to experience nature, as I had at first planned, at least until now. Tom knocked on the door, and we ventured out to the little skiff waiting in the harbor. Rob was there with his scruffy blond hair and bright Hoka racing shoes. Ann was there with her dark long brown hair and bright cheeks, huddled up in a parka jacket. Tom led us across to Hope Bay through the throngs of penguins and sheathbills and the still quiet waters. As we disembarked in the still of the evening, we trudged through the snow of a steep uphill that left us in the shadow of the towering unnamed mountain of Wiencke Island. The mountain stood in the distance like a sentry watching over the edge of the world. Everyone began setting up camp on a dry grassy knoll in the shadow of the unnamed mountain, and Tom fired up a Camp Chef propane powered grill with its cast aluminum burners glowing in the shadows. Tom then pulled out steaks and set them on the grill to cook. Rob began passing around a bottle of Vodka and we all drank out of coffee mugs while Tom cooked, huddling around an impromptu fire pit that Ann had made with kindling she had brought along and lighter fluid from her sack. “It’ll be time for us to shove off in just eight weeks,” Rob said. “I can’t wait to get back to the mountains and spring training,” Ann said, taking a healthy swig of Vodka and leaning into the fire. “The Rocky Mountain Rumble,” I said, referring to the race the two of them talked about last year, and which they brought back belt buckles from when they returned back to the island to stay for summer. “That’s the one,” she said. “One hundred miles over the Rocky Mountains on foot—what an adventure!” “Are you recovered from your medical situation,” I asked Rob. “Pulmonary embolism. Can you believe it. I guess running up the Rocky Mountains and taking on the Ultra Trail du Mont-Blanc in the Swiss Alps a week later wasn’t the smartest thing to do for a former flatlander like me—and four months later—I’m right as rain,” Rob said. “There’s nothing like being out all day and all night and coming into a new day without sleep,” Tom said. “Life in a day,” Annie affirmed. “Life in a day,” Tom said. “Only, for me it wasn’t running, but getting from Point A to Point B in the wilderness. Moving forward when you can’t even see where you are going. A hell of a thing.” At that moment we heard the crush of snowshoes and some hearty voices down the valley, calling out, “We’re coming.” It was Marge and Jim. Another moment and they were at the camp. “What are you two doing here,” Tom asked. “You know you’ve been mixing up our mail with Rob and Annie’s, don’t you, ay” Marge barked. “Oh, come off it, we’ve got that all sorted,” Tom said. “Hi Robbie, Anne,” Marge said, and noticing the buckles in their bags, she continued, “back at it again this year with the Rocky Mountain Rumble, ay” “You know it,” Robbie said. “You know Marge won that race back in 1985—ran it in with a time of—what was it dear, twenty-six hours, plus or minus?” Jim added. “26:57,” Marge said. “I didn’t know that,” Robbie said. “A lot you don’t know, sonny,” Marge said back, and continued, “a lot of controversy around that race—hell—I guess there’s a lot of controversy around any race.” “I heard that the race directors were playing favorites or there was some accusation about who they let into the race,” Annie said. “It’s not important now,” Marge said, “I’m retired.” But I wasn’t so sure Marge wouldn’t be lacing up and toeing another start line. While they talked about the race, I thought it was ironic that this group who had come here from the far reaches all shared this common experience of a race or an exploration and being awake more than a full day. It was ironic that the same controversies that dogged them back home were alive and well on this frozen tundra. “Are you going to start writing again,” Tom asked. “I don’t know if I can—but—I have to go home this winter to deal with some legal matters, so who knows. I mean, if I am going to be attacked and smeared and made to have my face rubbed in it all anyway, when I am basically living on the moon, what sense is there not standing up and facing it?” “Bravo! Well said,” Tom clapped. The Midnight Sun appeared like a moon behind a cloud as its rays were cut by the unnamed mountain, leaving us in a valley of shadows. The still waters and the serene whistle of the uniformly north breeze caused goosepimples to rise on my arms. Everything was perfectly still. Above the horizon line a bar of thin gray clouds stretched out, and the stripes of long numinous rays of the polar aurora formed arcs and bands of neon green. Tom pointed out at the light show above, saying, “There it is.” The ovular whips of neon green phosphorescent light brought to mind the very real fact that the entire world was just an island in a vast sea teaming with energy. And these energetic particles were posts from a distant sun, coronal kisses blown in the winds of space, arriving before us like letters that said that everything is connected. “Tom,” I whispered. “I need your help with something.” “What is it,” he said. “Look inside,” I said, pointing at my camping bag and finishing a half cup of vodka in one swallow. “Are those—” “—Michael’s ashes.” “Will you help me take them out to Hope Bay and scatter them.” “Of course,” Tom said. As the two of us walked to the skiff, I thought that I was not just setting Michael free, but I was free too to pursue the truth, even if my message had to travel across the cosmos before it found an island to illuminate.

lcdzxt

Mother Fox

Amidst the tapestry of the forest, the fox's amber-flecked eyes caught the girl mesmerizingly. Tufted, alert ears seemed to hold secrets of ancient bonds, unspoken companionship woven in the very threads of nature itself. At least, that was how she felt in dreams where the fox visited. Within daylight hours, her hand sought her pendant concealed beneath layers of shawl, shift, and kirtle. Could it be? No, just wishful thinking. In wakefulness, traversing these woodlands, she sensed that unblinking eyes were there, inside the fog cloaking the tree trunks. A pestering sense of dread settled in her navel, breaths in uncertain crests and falls. She was raised in servitude, but as children do, heard the stories of ghosts and demons who claimed the forest, creeping amongst shadows of dense trees. Some were known to drain virginal blood or drag wanderers into wild streams. Bound by gnarly rope, she endured the pain of overstretched arms secured about the horse’s neck. One of her captors, Tors, a red-bearded man who smelt heartily of mead and copper, cupped her rear with thighs as they rode. The other man, Caeldan, rode a gray mare, and was just as gray himself. Rounding out their company was an obsidian-haired woman with an upturned nose and haughty demeanor. A gemmed circlet adorned her and sapphires showered from delicate chains on her ears. Resigned to riding in this horrid position, the girl sighed and glared at Tors. His lip twitched, bemused. As she whipped back to face forth, she heard his chortle. They traveled some hoofpaces after she first noted the eyes, leaking forth a moon-like luminescence. Now, they appeared to follow, still watching her. No, not like the moon. They glowed like the sentinel of the night sky but these ever-vigilant eyes held only pale, frigid observance. Reflexively, she caressed the pendant hidden inside her kirtle. As she grew, she heard less of the childhood stories of whimsy and caution, and their lessons faded into fond memories. Maidens of the forest lie at the roots of trees and claw their way to the surface to punish those with evil intent. She sometimes reminisced about morsels of such tales, casting a pensive gaze back at the echoes of her innocence. Amidst her meager compensation as a servant, any aspirations she once held unraveled with the passage of time, replaced by a sober recognition of her true place in the world. Haunting as the pair of ghostly orbs were, their owners had yet to approach. Soon it would be nightfall. She would again forcefully help assemble camp. Tonight would be the fourth away from her cramped familiar floor pallet, alongside other maids on a dusty floor. She was soon stirring wild mushroom pottage and remnants of the captors’ provisions over a campfire. Caeldan, content in solitude, whittled at a chunk of knotty cedar, absorbed by the deft transformation. Evara, the woman, was disarmingly jovial during these hours of respite. It took less than a day's ride to unveil Evara's true nature as a sorceress, her arcane abilities veering from aiding those she deemed beneath her. She was content for the weary girl to prepare a meal for four rather than using her own conjurations. In the encroaching dusk, Evara alluded to the past, mentioning how she took coins from a village and left them with a decoy poppet imbued without enchantment to protect them from the entity claiming its occupants. “Inspires much confidence” muttered gray Caeldan, spitting the titular phrase. Tors spoke, “Ah, we’re no worse off than before, whatever happens.” He eagerly scraped up his pottage, firing occasional quips at the others. As the last morsel vanished from his plate, his voice carried a surprising note of gentleness. "You possess a rare beauty, you know," he spoke softly, his words a mere breath beside the crackling timber. "It's a cruel twist of fate that has brought us together for these purposes." The girl had released all sense of care during her servitude, and now, she was too physically worn to muster inquisitiveness about why she had been taken by the strangers. Inhaling the aromas of camp, she turned her gaze to the nearest copse, at the edge of the cozy glade where they tarried. She tousled back walnut hair and adjusted her shawl snugly about her shoulders to ward off creeping chill. Tors’ eyes blazed beside the firelight. She knew this kind of man, though a coarser sort than those who confronted her in noble houses. Nobles - she scoffed at the word - would corner unsuspecting serving girls, drowning in ale. Now, her hand crept to the safe nook near her breasts, stroking the pendant for comfort. Offering no retort, she reclined to her side, gazing into the fire until exhaustion took her. The world within her dreams was cocooned in a serpentine haze of purple-gray that undulated, filling vast expanses and intimate spaces. Vaguely aware of her own form, she felt as incorporeal as the mist shrouding the landscape. Then, before her, the swirling vapors drifted apart, minutely opening up further to reveal footprints. The earth before her bore the elusive imprints of the fox's passage, stamped into the terrain, whispering an invitation on an odyssey. What could she do but follow? All seemed lost in the waking world. Come , the voice whispered in her mind, carrying on secret winds. Follow my tracks. What else could you lose? The maids of the forest can shift to animals , a memory warned her. The kindly old cook whom she spent early years with warned all children she managed of the dangers of slipping outside the country manor to wander alone. “Where are you? Could you not just come out on your own?” she called, shunning away childhood trepidation and superstition. No response came. Exhaling slowly into this slumbering realm, she then followed the tracks. They led over a trickling rivulet, teeming with vibrant fish. The prints curved through a meadow rich with wildflowers and amidst a glen of frolicking deer. The fog rolled away as she continued, this world of dreams cautiously unveiling itself. Soon, an immense valley opened up, home to a lofty cliff face, towering up into a swirling sky. Nestled snugly and unassuming against the cliff stood a cottage, its chimney exhaling a cozy blaze. Windows radiated a golden glow and fragrant bellflowers swayed along the path that wound towards the oaken door. Her feet carried her through the cottage door without hesitation.  A caress of hearthfire embraced her, dispelling the persistent bone-deep cold that had plagued her waking hours. "You've arrived," a voice weaved through the heart of the flames. Tongues of fire soared outwards as though to greet the tall bedraggled girl, their forms mimicking graceful fingers unfurling like blossoms. Looking about the cottage to search for a speaking figure, she confirmed no such person existed. Again, the flames spoke, tendrils dancing as recognition began to unfurl, tugging at the edges of her memory. “You’ve grown so much,” were its next words. Years of heartache poured forth, tears tracing loss and toil upon her cheeks. In response, the glowing fire within the hearth emitted embers whirling about her, as she fell to her knees a few paces away, overcome. As embers landed upon her skin and hair, they did not burn but warmed her as an enveloping hug. Finally, after the sobs subsided, she lifted her gaze, “Mother?” Embers danced as the melodious tone responded, “I am here,” then, “Now, wish as I might that we visit, there is no time.” “Mother- my captors- they have evil plans for me, I know they do”. “Quiet, now,” came the affectionate timbre, “This is why you found me. I have a gift for you.” The flame in the hearth crackled more audibly than before. A globe of flame shot from the hearthfire, launching to the floor. The orb took form and unfurled itself, first a bushy tail then four paws stretching outward from within the spherical shape. The fox that curled before her yawned, showing gleaming teeth and a delicate rose tongue. Her ears flattened then pricked up, alert and welcoming. Amber-flecked eyes leveled with the girl’s. Drawn to the creature through an overwhelming sense of comfort, the girl rocked forward on her knees. Reaching out, the captivating animal lifted its pointed muzzle to meet her. “Take her with you” spoke her mother’s long-ago voice from within the crackling flames. “She will know what to do. But don’t forget- rules are different here. When you reach the end of the path, open your pendant so she can awaken with you.” “I don’t want to leave you again. My life since those monsters burnt you–” “There is no time. Remember, touch your pendant and whisper ‘Mother Fox’ when danger seems utmost. She will come.” As suddenly as the powerful hearthfire had greeted her, it dwindled inside its stone alcove. Pushing past grief, she slowly scuffed her boots and rose to face the door. The fox awaited her, auburn tail kissed with frost. Those amber eyes calculated her but the tail flicked, an expression of companionship. “Thank you for your guidance. I’m coming.” The exquisite animal tilted her head at these words, attentive. With emboldened strides to the door and another swish of the fox’s tail, they moved back the way she came. Outside, the night was deepened and the moon spilled beams upon the ethereal dreamscape. Following the cliff’s slate cathedral, they curved back toward the path which led to the cottage. Tawny-hided deer dozed in their glen, fawns suckling bountifully from the does, whereas before they had cavorted when the girl meandered through. Now, the rivulet was calm with only sounds of serene trickles. The fox plotted onward, marking the treeline with her bewhiskered face then proceeding through an archway that the girl had not noticed before. Between two magnificent oaks the fox led her. Just as they passed beneath the oaks’ enmeshed crowns, within the branches facing the forest’s heart, the fox’s trot haltered. She turned her delicate snout to face the girl. ‘ Mother Fox,’ remember to touch your pendant, came the mellifluous voice. Before the girl could form an utterance, she found her fingers tapping open the pendant’s secret compartment, and the fox’s form flashed before dissipating into gleaming fractals. Sparkling with the glow of hearthfire, the embers soared toward her chest and vanished upon contact with the silver pendant. With a start, she awakened beside the campfire. She laid on her side, her bound hands a pillow beneath the tangle of hair. A scuffling sound came from the direction of her feet. Blinking hazy sleep from her eyes, she saw the sorceress Evara kneeling before the fire, chanting to it in a lilt, pouring an indecipherable substance into the flames from a metal chalice. She smirked and turned her head slightly to stare at the girl. Returning the chalice to her cloak, the sorceress wiped hands on skirts then stood up. “Tomorrow eve” she said, “That’s when your fate will restore what the world owes us. Thank you.” In response, she felt a rising courage that was not present before she fell asleep. Instead of the silence she gave her captors thus far, she shot back, “Perhaps it is you who does not know what awaits you in these woods.” Evara scoffed, tossing inky hair over one shoulder, as Tors emerged from the shadows of a tree cloaked in night. He kept watch from a hideout where he could not be observed by the others. Placing his hand on the witch’s elbow, he announced, “It’s getting closer. Time to ride.” He added, “I hope you’ll remember your promise, for we are the ones who did the drudgery work. Taking the girl from servants’ quarters of a well-guarded home. We put ourselves at peril guiding you through these woods.” The witch scoffed, “ I’ve nothing to fear in these woods. Even if the forest maids dwell here, as legends say.” She sauntered off to prepare her horse for the day’s ride. This day, their course was through barren lands, far less green than their previous envelopment by the forest. When evening fell again, they found themselves entering another woodland. Shadows of the trees created a dappling effect on the moss-covered carpet of the forest as the sun lowered further. Only one of the four travelers did not cheer upon arrival to an altar of sorts. Although it consisted of slabs of stone resting at the edge of a tranquil pool, lily pads drifting along its surface and a small waterfall set further back into the crystalline precipice, that was when a sense of dread stabbed into the girl’s gut. Kicking at the horse, she thrashed feet and her bound hands about the creature’s neck. “Oh, it’s not so bad, love. At least it will be done with” smirked Tors. Evara quickly swung down from her horse then stormed toward the captive girl, “No more need for platitudes and pretending.” She effortlessly conjured a sleek-edged blade and cut the girl free. Before she could think of scrambling from horseback, Caeldan snatched her about the waist. “Would it do us good to let you get away now?” The men pressed in on either side, settling upon the ground to guard her though she knew it was not for protection. She was to discover how they intended to harm her. Her eyes roved over the pool and its altar-no clues awaited there. Barely imperceptibly came a soft unearthly hum from the woods around them. Craning her neck, the girl thought a pair of orbs emitting white light watched from the tree depths. Evara, on her knees beside the pool, reverently arranged items for ritual. She sang in low tones as she sprinkled various powders in her chalice then tossed them in flourishing patterns on the water’s surface. She brandished an ornate dagger, drawn from the pouch secured to her belt. Voice surging prominently now, the witch called, “Come now, and bring her.” The men obeyed, Caeldan providing a guiding arm across her back, but Tors shoving her shoulders roughly. Exhausted and wrapped in her shawl, she sprawled at the edge of the pool next to Evara, the men hulking over them. The witch met blade’s edge with the alabaster palm of her hand then sharply flung outward to scatter crimson blood into the pool’s still waters. Without halt, the men offered each of their hands, eagerly, as though having rehearsed. Once their palms had dispensed of blood, issuing to the waters beneath, the witch lifted her head to level with the girl’s eyes. Evara’s eyes were a startling shade of cornflower, but hardened, reflecting the cruelty she had treated her prisoner with thus far. “My beauty, your sacrifice will provide us with the power we seek.” Tors hooped and shoved the girl closer to the sorceress. Though her heart thundered painfully in her ears and simultaneously seemed to stop, the girl owned knowledge her would-be executioners did not. As she had tumbled to the ground, she reached down to grasp her long-cherished pendant, the only gift she managed to hide away all these years from cruel highborns and thieves. The pendant was the shape of a fox, beset with amber-inlaid eyes. She recalled the warmth of her mother’s voice in her dreams and the vixen who had shown her the way. Beneath her shawl, face on the forest floor, she uttered, “‘Mother Fox.’” Vibrations akin to the pulse of an ancestral heartbeat resonated from the land itself. Gusts blew forth, stirring a conversation between rustling leaves swirling from the depths of the towering ashes and oaks. Before their moonlight-filled eyes could be seen, the forest maidens heralded their own spectral arrival with hair-raising melodies intended for haunting and hunting . One could not tell how many of the specters approached. They came into view, as if pouring from the roots of the woodland itself. Claws were used to drag their ghostly forms across the forest floor with fury, upon the group beside the calm pool. Spidery tresses made entirely of shadow flowed about them in their wake. It was not the sorceress who had summoned them with her possessive, selfish magic. Leading the charge of the phantoms was a small fox. Her head aloft and proud, she darted from the underbrush and made a direct line for the girl, whose captors had ceased securing her. A fear arose in them unlike any they anticipated. Tors was the first to lose his composure. “I didn’t- this wasn’t my-” were his final words as he was struck by an onslaught of spectral gales pouring forth with the forest maidens. A scream burst forth as their host engulfed him. Evara, her bloodied dagger slipping into the lagoon at the initial moment of terror, lost balance and plunged into the water. Her limbs waved wildly, luxurious cloak and gown shrouding her. Then, the maidens shrouded her too. The girl, receiving a tender touch of the fox’s snout to her cheek, did not wait to see what the maidens had in store for the Caeldan. Instead, she spurred off in the direction from which the fox made her path, toward the trees from which the phantoms spilled forth. In a rush of frosted tail and rumpled skirts, they trampled over mossy chasms of twisted tree roots, which appeared as though powerful claws ascended from the dewy soil. The girl, staying on the fox's heels, had little opportunity to reflect on the truth of the forest maiden's resting places beneath the ancient tree roots. She had found the truest friend, and they were making their way to freedom and a life beyond her imagination.

z5lpiz

Fluffy's Home

On the way to school, Bobby was slowly walking on the side of the dirt road and heard an unusual sound coming from the ditch. He stopped, just for a moment, to be sure he was not imagining the sound. It got quiet and so he kept on walking. He had fun in school that day but his mind was on that noise he heard earlier in the day. The bell rang, he said goodbye to his friends and started the trek back home. Bobby started walking slowly when he got near the spot where he heard the noise before and decided to try and find out what was making it. With a swallow of air, he stepped down the embankment and searched the area. Low and behold, he found the cutest, yet scruffiest little tike of a dog tucked among the tall grasses. With satisfaction from taking courage to see what the noise was and finding the puppy, he grinned from ear to ear and decided to take it home. Bobby washed him and brushed him, and made a bed for him. Then he thought of giving him a name. Scruffy came to mind first, then Mikey, but looking at him and his fur, He agreed, Fluffy was the perfect fit. Everyday they would walk to school and back, and on the weekend, hang out at the pond. Finally Fluffy had a home to call his own and Bobby had a new friend. One day it rained heavily and thundered so loud that it frightened Fluffy. This was his first real bad storm. He ran down the road in search of where he remembered he was first found looking for solice. Bobby was away for the weekend because he was invited to a sleepover. Fluffy hid among the tall grass, not knowing where his master was and whined all night. It was rough for him. Bobby unaware of the situation, was enjoying making Lego block houses because they could not go outside due to the storm. After a while they just chilled and had popcorn and watched movies. Bobby thought of how Fluffy was getting along but soon focused on playing cards after breakfast. Fluffy got hungry and so wandered into the woods in search of something to eat. Needless to say, now he was lost. Bobby came back home and was excited to see Fluffy, but he was no where to be found. He searched all around the house. Under the house, thinking about the storm, hoping he was there, but no. No Fluffy. Bobby called his friends and they came right over and started searching with him. They looked high and low. They went to the school yard, thinking maybe Fluffy went there to look for Bobby. No Fluffy. With saddened hearts and dejected faces, because they all loved Fluffy, they tried to think of where he could be as they sat on the school's stoop. Bobby then said, "Let's try the woods." The boys agreed and went and brought a whistle and some flashlights and a leash. Off they went to look for Fluffy in the woods. Meanwhile, Fluffy was really having a time being out in the woods alone. He missed Bobby, their walks and the kids at school. Still he managed to catch a fish or two, though. Soon the boys were scouring the woods for Fluffy, calling his name and using the whistle. When it was getting later, they turned on the flashlights and kept on searching. Then one of Bobby's friend yelled, " I see him, I see him!" They all rushed over and sure enough, there was that cutest, scruffiest little tike of a a pup, Fluffy, laying next to the stream. Bobby ran and fell down beside him, hugged him tightly and told him how worried he was and how glad he was to see him. Fluffy wiggled with joy, wagging his tail profusely, too. All the boys shouted for joy, knowing Fluffy was okay and happy they found him. They traveled back to Bobby's house and all ate a hearty dinner and sat back on the porch looking at the night sky and agreed that all future sleepovers would be at Bobby's, especially if it was going to rain that weekend so as to keep Fluffy company and from running away and getting lost. Bobby and Fluffy were inseparable after that. Wherever you saw Bobby, you saw Fluffy and vice versa. Fluffy had found a home and was home. Bobby was very happy and Fluffy was content. Once in a while, Bobby would think about the time Fluffy was lost and he could tell it came across Fluffy's mind, too. His whining in his sleep, so he would comfort him and let him know it is okay. Bobby went off to college and yes he took Fluffy. They lived across from the university so Fluffy would be able to watch from the living room window and they can see each other when Bobby changed classes. Also when the weather gets bad, Bobby can go and check on Fluffy to keep him calm and make sure he is okay. Bobby finished his courses and took some time to travel the world, with Fluffy at his side. They explored all of the nooks and crannies of the world. One day, before Bobby went to work, he noticed a storm was brewing and wondered if he should go in. Looking at Fluffy, he saw a different dog, one confident and seemingly okay with the weather change. Bobby could not believe how much Fluffy had grown. He was more secure in himself now and that made him smile. He patted Fluffy on the head and locked the door and headed to work. The storm came, the storm passed. When Bobby got home, there was Fluffy, waiting for him. Both were happy to see each other and had a wonderful evening by the fireplace. Yes, Fluffy had found a friend and a home. Fluffy was home.

e96n8s

Mysteries of the Sahel

Fred’s map showed a village, but now he had arrived, all there was only a handful of abandoned and dilapidated huts. He pushed Wylma to one of them, leaned her up against a post and sat on his haunches in the shadow of a wall. This is bad. Very bad. He said to himself. Very bad indeed. The heat was oppressive and the Sirocco wind was stiff. The trail was mainly sand and Wylma’s wheels preferred to sink into, rather than rolling over it. The laboured meandering path they took was more often Wylma’s choice, than Fred’s. He checked his water sack again, but he already knew it was empty. He only had one and a half litres of water left with over 20 kilometres to the next village. That equation did not work. Fred knew he would not make it. He had foolishly counted on a refill here, but the discovery of the abandoned village had exposed the folly of his dangerous miscalculation. Feeling a little regenerated, Fred stood and walked a lap of the village. As he expected, he found the village well, and with that discovery, also learned why the village was abandoned. The water level was about five metres below ground, but floating in the water was a dead animal. The mysterious carcass was infested with flies and carried a thick and pungent stench. Fred found an old bucket, attached a cord to its handle, fetched his water sack and filter and got to work. After extracting what Fred thought was enough water to get out of this predicament he wet his hat and his shirt and set off again into the desert. *** The afternoon heat was stifling. In the last few days, each afternoon would cloud over with the promise of a cool and wet respite, but instead, would only disappoint with an oppressively hot and heavy afternoon weight. Fred and Wylma had been riding for about two hours but had only covered around half the distance to the next village. Fred felt worn out and he was almost out of the good water. He forced himself to ration what remained, one warm mouthful every ten minutes, but after only two portions, the level of exertion in the fine sand and the heat overtook his needs. All he could do was halve the time between rations…, and half the time till he ran out. The small Acacia tree he stopped at for the last drink five minutes ago was still visible dancing on the horizon when Fred and Wylma went down heavily in a sand drift. Fred was slow to get up. Throat dry and gritty, legs soft and wobbly, and not a shred of shade. He sat there for some minutes catching his breath and working up the motivation for another push. He took a large mouthful of water and checked the bottle. A pathetic sip is all that was left sloshing in the bottom. Hardly a mouthful left , Fred ruefully thought. He consulted the map to find he was not even halfway there. This is getting dangerous . There would be nobody driving past on this trail. Nobody to help, no shade, no clean water. Shit! Fred had studied desert survival, but much of the theory relies on starting ‘well before’ dehydration begins, not when it is already upon you. By the time your energy and will had already been sapped by the elements, is far too late to begin. Sitting still is certain death , he sternly said, stating the obvious to himself and Wylma. Fred remounted Wylma and rejoined his marathon struggle against the sandy trail and the relentless Sirocco. The sand was getting worse. Wylma wrestled Fred for every metre of progress. Now there were patches of sand that were impossible to ride through, leaving Fred no choice but to push. A dangerous drain on his waning energy and resolve. After fifteen minutes of exhausting struggle, Fred came to a stop next to another anaemic tree. The shade it cast barely registered in the baking heat. It was at this point that the abstraction of Fred‘s predicament finally shattered. He had put the tainted water out of his mind, till now. At the time, he still clung to an irrational optimism, convinced the trail would improve, convinced that he could somehow make it to the next village on his good water. This confidence, now shattered, left Fred confronting the reality of the fetid water. The only way he was getting out of this alive. He drained the last dribble of good water, then opened his water sack to fill his empty water bottle. The stench of the warm water made Fred gag. With his parched throat and a full bottle of water, a new doubt as to whether this idea would save him, or seal his doom made him pause. He took another sniff at the open bottle, oh that is bad! Fred held his breath, held up the bottle to toast the gods and took a deep swallow. He got the water down, but paid for it with a fit of coughing. The taste in his mouth was foul beyond belief. He spat in the hopes of clearing the vile aftertaste, without luck. He set off again. The trail mercifully did not deteriorate any further and even tantalised with a few decent sections of harder trail permitting him to build up some dangerous momentum. He even imagined that the blow dryer which had been blasting him all day was losing interest. At his third water stop, Fred caught himself thinking that the water didn't taste all that bad. The rationing now forgotten, he took a few long drafts and felt rejuvenated again. *** The afternoon shadows lengthened, but the heat stubbornly persisted. Fred eventually admitted the next village was out of reach today, and the time to search for a campsite was quickly approaching. Off in the shimmering distance, a stand of acacia trees came into view. Fred knew he had to have his camp set, and dinner done before dusk. At these latitudes, sunset was only a short beautiful ceremony, with the day giving way to night as fast as flicking a light switch! Now under the anaemic trees, He snapped off a branch and used it to clear the dry leaves and thorns from his campsite. He then checked over Wylma’s tires for any of the inch long thorns that littered the ground. There would be no campfire tonight, so he got his stove out to prepare dinner. With the meal now finished, he cleaned up with dry sand (one does not waste water on cleaning dishes in the desert!) Perfect timing! Fred thought to himself. The sun’s vertical trajectory was just about to meet the flat brown horizon. Nature was ready to put on a blazingly beautiful, albeit rapid sunset to mark the end of another adventurous day. He opened his drink bottle and took a final long draw on his water. He amazed himself with the admission that the water was actually quite good. It still did not hold a candle to the sweet cold mountain lake waters of Switzerland, a glass of which he would be prepared to pay a high price right now, but despite this, the water was OK. In fact it was more than OK, his mood had dramatically improved once he had started on the new water. Now standing boldly, the master of his surroundings, Fred felt strong and confident - and something more… Powerful?  As he watched the last thin crescent of fire disappear behind the darkening landscape, a distant howl cut through the dusk air. This was followed by a long sick cackle from an accomplice somewhere nearby. Hyenas. “We’re not alone”, Fred said with an ominous tone. The curtain of night drew over the land with abrupt suddenness throwing everything into complete darkness. With nothing more to do except swat at hungry bugs looking for their own dinner, Fred crawled into his tent, stripped off, lay down, shut his eyes and was deep asleep within minutes. *** A loud crack of a dry twig woke Fred from his deep sleep. He had no idea what time it was, but a second more faint noise brought him completely awake. Something’s moving around the camp . Fred kept still and kept his breathing as regular and quiet as possible. Crunching leaves and the odd grunts could be heard from all around the camp. Then came a sniffing sound. Very close! Again, <sniff, sniff>. It was right outside the door. Fred was up on hands and knees, face almost touching the thin insect screen separating him from the outside world. The air outside had cooled, but this was a dim contrast to the hot, wet and rancid breath of his visitor. Fred could not only smell, but feel each breath exhaled on his face. The tension in the air was electric. Both he and his mysterious nocturnal visitor were on tenderhooks separated by mere centimetres. Fred wracked his mind for a response to the intrusion. Gently he felt around in his handlebar bag for his camera. He gently switched it on, waited for the faint whine of the flash to charge, brought it up to the screen, and fired. The flash was blinding. It was then followed by the buzz of the mechanical film winder to complete the operation. The animal yelped and retreated. His accomplices joined in with their nervous sniggering. They had been startled but not scared away. Fred reflexively acted. He climbed out of the tent as fast as he could, lifted his arms aggressively in the air and struck his most imposing pose. To complete his entrance, he let out his best roar. The moon was out and the landscape was draped in a dim pale glow. More than a dozen skittish Hyenas stood in a rough arc about twenty paces away. For some frozen seconds, a fragile stalemate held. The spell was broken when the alpha male summoned enough courage to take a few careful steps toward Fred. He was followed by a few others. Fred’s heart was pounding in his chest, but it was not fear that gripped him, it was excitement. Introspectively, he was puzzled at his lack of fright. He stood there naked and exhilarated, adrenalin surging through his veins making his skin tingle. He even felt an erection stir. He stepped sideways keeping his eyes on his antagonists and retrieved his discarded branch. The Hyenas were overcoming their trepidation and began approaching again with more confidence. Fred let out a low growl which gave his assailants another nervous pause. What will it take to be rid of these beasts? , he thought quickly to himself. With under ten metres left between them, time to think was over. As if it were prearranged, both Fred and the alpha dog launched their attacks at exactly the same time. Hyenas are not known for bold action, but backed up by his pack, the alpha made a convincingly aggressive lunge for Fred. Fred made his own lunge raking a wide arc with the thorn encrusted branch heavily sweeping it across the animal's face. This confused his adversary. Fred, tapping some unknown primitive well of aggression, lept at the confused Hyena ramming the splintered stub of the branch into one of its eyes. Now Fred was straddling the desperately whining and yelping brute, beating it mercilessly with the thick bloodstained stub of the branch. In an explosion of primal energy, Fred dropped the branch and bare handed locked onto the lower and upper jaws of the Hyena and poured all his strength into pulling them apart. The adrenaline fuelled frenzy imbued Fred with a burst of superhuman strength that overpowered the animal imposing jaws. The Hyena whimpered with pain, and trembled with effort to fight off this formidable opponent. Fred’s thighs were clamped down hard around the neck of the beast, his shoulder and arm muscles strained with maximum power. The panicked Hyena gave a final twitch as it’s lower jaw snapped off. The Hyena went limp under him. Scrambling to his feet, he faced the rest of the pack, puffed out his torso, and gave a threatening growl, but it was clear their will had been broken. None seemed inclined to follow their doomed leader. They milled about casually for a few seconds, then retreated silently into the spinifex. Fred felt unreal. He had tapped some ancient primeval energy. This force now infused him, surging through his veins. He now stood tall, muscles still tense, twitching for action. Every smell was exquisitely obvious. The Hyena’s fur on his torso, its fear, its blood. He could also smell the traces of fear of the rest of the pack. The smell of his own sweat, confident and powerful. Behind all this was the sound of his thumping heart, each beat echoed by the blood racing past his ears, along with the buzz of the first flies to find their new banquet. Fred had no idea how long he stood there. The pure alpha sensation was intoxicating. In that moment he was the king of the desert. He took a water bottle from Wylma and guzzled it down. Just a dozen hours ago, this would have made him vomit, but now he felt an alien surge of power and fortitude. The taste was still there but there was something else in the water. Something energising. He looked at the dead hyena and then at the water with a new awareness. He gradually came down from his high. The body of the dead Hyena will attract the pack again. I have to get rid of it. He thought clinically. He stepped up to the body, in one fluid motion he threw the animal over his shoulder and strode off into the dry grass. He dropped it some distance from the camp, returned, drank again, and retreated to his tent. It was only then that he noticed the Acacia thorns in his feet. Dozens of them, some deeply installed. The pain they should have inflicted only came slowly as he busied himself removing them. He then used some water to wash away the blood. As he completed this, a wave of relief and fatigue washed over him. He lay back and promptly fell asleep. *** He missed the dawn the next morning, waking to the building heat in his tent. His recollection of the events of the night were fuzzy. He could not recall the hard details, instead he could only evoke soft-edged images of the encounter. What was easier to recollect was the intoxicating power he had experienced. He walked to where he had discarded the dead Hyena just to prove the events of last night to himself. Now sober, he wondered at the well of raw power he must have tapped into to have killed an alpha Hyena with his bare hands. That power that had surging through him was something wholly new and novel. And there was something else. The secret was somehow entwined with the water. As he finished breaking camp he took another deep draw from his water bottle and wondered at the well. What was the nature of the beast which gave its life in that well, in exchange for mine.

vg41cz

Rapid response to unforeseen consequences

  “We’re not alone,” the well-armed soldier whispered softly in the ear of his companion. The feeling had been there but confirmed now with heavy footsteps echoing throughout the passageway.    “Stay back,” he commanded, pointing to the small alcove where the pair had taken refuge in their trek to the emergency escape elevators.    The Andromeda commando slowly peered around the edge of the small outcropping to see if he could catch a glimpse of their pursuer. He kept his assault rifle poised to be drawn in a moment’s notice.    “It’s clear. Let’s go,” he motioned to the door on the far end of the corridor, hurrying the panic-stricken scientist along.    On the short, adrenaline filled sprint to the entrance at the end of the passageway the commando recalled the events that had led them to this. It had started as just another ‘day in Paradise’ for the commando assigned to Andromeda Command, a rapid response task force capable of getting spaceborne with enough firepower to take over a small country in a matter of thirty minutes. Their exo-skeleton power suits and associated heavy weaponry made even a simple squad a force to be reckoned with. Also, despite their high-tech armaments and battle suits, the intense training regimen of the organization made even a single bare-handed Andromeda a force to be reckoned with. Up early for physical training, showers, chow hall, then a formation to relay the plan of the day. It was during their morning assembly when the distress beacon had gone off. Something had gone severely wrong, someone needed help, and they needed it now.    The distress beacon had come from a research facility hidden deep within the bowels of the earth in the remote region of New Mexico which had become the new Area 51, officially known as Area 67. This was where new research surrounding the infamous Roswell incident of 1947 had surfaced. Technology that had only recently matured allowed scientists to map the alien DNA from the deceased bodies that were found in the wrecked craft. This new technology allowed scientists to replicate one of the beings, gestated in a plasma medpod, normally used to treat gravely wounded soldiers by bathing them in a gel filled with nutrients and medicine.    The briefing they received en route was that something had gone seriously awry in the facility. The alien being had mutated and was not the docile-looking creature it seemed to be. The blurry lab footage they received showed a creature unlike anything anyone in the platoon had ever seen. Many of them had grown up playing Resident Evil or Doom, and this was a creature reminiscent of those video games.    “Our orders are to attempt to contain the beast, non-lethal munitions, to refrain from harming it. Capture, subdue, turn over to the eggheads, clean up and go home,” the platoon sergeant barked over the aircraft intercom.    “Like that’s gonna happen,” Sergeant Royce whispered loudly to one of his squad members next to him.    The young Private smiled, nodded, and slapped a magazine of armor piercing rounds into his assault rifle. Orders were orders, but he wasn’t about to let this thing take him out. The sergeant was of a like mind, also slapping in an armor piercing magazine of ammunition, a wry smile crossing his face.    “Casper One to flight, the LZ is clear, we’ll make our approach from the west. Two minutes out,” the radio crackled. That was the flight leader’s instructions to the other three tilt-rotors carrying the reinforced squad to the entrance of the underground facility. Three double clicks on the radio signified the other planes understood their orders.    The four tilt-rotors landed near the entrance of the facility, the heavily armed warriors racing to surround the massive doors once the ramps of the aircraft touched the ground. A secure perimeter was set outside the portal into the underground lab in seconds. The tilt-rotors then took off, remaining nearby should an emergency extract become necessary.    “Alpha Team, open those doors, Beta, cover them, Charlie team, you’re kicking it in,” the captain barked.    Moving with the precision that came with hours of rehearsed assaults, the exo-skeleton clad soldiers from Beta team positioned themselves in a perimeter arc around the entrance, a rather insignificant mound of dirt with a heavy steel door embedded in its shadow. Alpha and Charlie teams, weapons drawn, closed in on the door. Alpha moving to the right where the door controls were, Charlie team moving to the left preparing to storm the opening once cleared.    One Alpha member went to work on hacking the door controls, his team leader behind him holding up a fist indicating Charlie team to hold in place. Charlie team, the platoon sergeant in front, ready to lead the charge, mirrored the command. When the door unlocked, the Alpha team leader held up five fingers, counting down to the door opening. On the other side of the entrance, the platoon sergeant braced himself for the rush.    The count reached zero and the doors started opening. When there was enough room for him to slip through, the platoon sergeant led the assaulting soldiers into the large foyer. Flashing red alarm lights and klaxons greeted them, but the room was void of any personnel or threats. Ten seconds later, Charlie team was inside, the room cleared, a defensive posture covering every doorway established.    “Somebody shut that damn thing off,” was the first order of business commanded. Alpha came scurrying in under the watchful eye of Charlie. The same tech who’d opened the doors was now working to silence the alarm. He was successful in thirty seconds, but because of the alarm, the main power source was inoperative, emergency lighting the only thing available, casting an eerie glow throughout the space.    “Alpha, you stay here, secure the entrance. Do not allow anything, I repeat, anything that isn’t human leave this facility, understand,” the ranking NCO commanded.    “Roger that.” The team leader knew what that meant, and his team started placing small tactical nuclear mines in key positions throughout the large room. Drastic times, drastic measures, life in Andromeda, he thought. Nothing would be escaping this place if it came down to it.    “Charlie, follow me, we’re gonna start clearing this place, top down. Grabbing people and getting them clear as we go, eliminating whatever caused this mess in the first place.”    A nod from each of the half dozen lightly armored soldiers indicated they understood. Exo-skeletons were too bulky to wear in the confined space of the facility, so Beta remained outside in an overwatch position. Speed was more essential than armor for the inside mission. A blueprint of the facility had been sent to the Heads-Up Display, HUD, in their helmets, so they all had a schematic of the facility, knowing where both living quarters and research labs were.    “Royce, take Evans and Jimenez to the labs. Your mission, find and neutralize the threat, alive, if possible, neutralized, no matter what,” The platoon sergeant ordered. Jimenez was part of the reinforcement detachment that had accompanied the core squad to the bunker. He was armed with a larger caliber automatic weapon than Royce and Evans were.    “Roger that,” Sergeant Royce replied. Private Evans had been the one sitting next to him on the aircraft, both men smiling as they tore off, Corporal Jimenez in trail, for the nearest staircase heading down to the lab level.    The descent was easy in the regard it was uneventful. The staircase was empty, the lighting barely enough to keep them from tripping as they made their way slowly, deliberately, down the seven flights to the bottom level. The hard part was the edginess, the unknown. Shining their weapon lights around, trying to illuminate every dark corner, fingers in the trigger wells, ready to unleash a barrage of armor-piercing automatic fire should something prove a threat. Reaching the bottom uneventfully provided a small bit of relief to the trio.    Royce signaled his teammates he was going to open the door and move left, Evans was to enter and move right, while Jiminez was to delay, then enter covering the center as they reached the doorway to the lab level. Nods of acknowledgement and a countdown from three preceded their cascade into the hallway.    It wasn’t a threat that assaulted them as they breached the door jamb, it was the smell. The coppery smell of blood and the stench of bowel opened to the environment and overpowered their senses when they entered. The hallway resembled a slaughterhouse. Pieces of human carnage were strewn everywhere. Sadly, none of this phased the commandos. In their relatively short time in the unit, they had already seen more than their fair share of battlefield repercussions.    The hallway they were in led directly to the main lab. Three doors lined the sides of the passage along their route. Easing up to these doors, one at a time, they checked to see if they were open, potentially allowing a threat to pop out behind them. All were locked, a remotely detonated mine placed outside each in the event something unexpectedly popped out after they passed.    The main lab was normally easy to see through, reinforced glass walls allowing maximum visibility for the experiments carried out there. Visibility was now significantly reduced by smears of blood and visceral matter decorating the interior coupled with the dim emergency lighting.    The threesome of soldiers approached with extreme caution. The threat was unknown, but obviously a viable one. Noticing some of the injuries on the bodies, they saw some were caused by a sharp edge and some were caused by traumatic dismemberment. Basically, limbs had been ripped off of torsos.    Double tapping his HUD, Sergeant Royce brought up the roster of scientists listed as working in the lab when the alarm had sounded. He had no idea how he was going to even attempt to account for all the personnel listed.    Creeping close to the doors of the main lab, they heard something, Royce signaling freeze to the others. Listening closely, they made out a whimpering, sobbing noise. It was coming from the other side of the entryway. Using his fighting knife as a crowbar, he jimmied open the doors enough to get a hand hold, pulling the sliding doors open enough for the team to squeeze through. A pair of teammates ensuring the other member was covered as they slipped inside the bigger space.    Senses were heightened as they slowly made their way toward the noise, unsure if this was either victim or threat. They used every scanner available to try and gain some intel on the situation. The scanners showed nothing, and it definitely sounded like a human in distress as they neared the source.    The sound seemed to be emanating from behind a desk in the lad. Royce used hand signals that he was going to slide on the ground around the corner of the furniture, they were to cover both ends of it. His rifle at the ready, the sergeant rolled quietly over onto his back, then pushed himself up past the edge of the desk, mindful his muzzle didn’t point at his teammates.    He relaxed slightly when he discovered the cause of the sounds. It was a scientist. His lab coat, smeared with blood and entrails, pulled over his head, shaking like a leaf, pressed against one side of the small opening, sobbing hysterically.    Signaling hold to the others, Royce crawled under the desk with the victim. Grabbing the soiled lab coat, he opened it up so he could look directly at the man, and he could see him.    “What’s your name?” the NCO whispered, not wanting to draw the attention of whatever caused this disaster. “Who are you? What happened here?”    The bespectacled man just kept shivering. Trembling with fear, his eyes unseeing, staring off into space. That thousand-yard stare was brought into sharp focus with a spirited slap from the stressed-out soldier in front of him.    “Who are you?” he asked again, slightly louder, this time.    “D-D-Dr. Carson. Dr. Skip Carson. Assistant head scientist here.”    Sgt. Royce quickly scroll down the personnel roster on his HUD, finding his name. OK, verified, at least we got one, he thought.    “Anyone else left?” the questioning continued.    “No. I-I-I don’t think so,” the petrified man stammered out.    “Shhhh. Quiet, Doc. I don’t want whatever did this to hear us, got it?”    A nod registered understanding.    “I’ve got two compadres back here that are gonna help us get out of this mess, OK? We’re gonna go nice and slow, real quiet like. Copy?”    Another nod.    Royce started backing up, the trembling scientist trailing him as they moved from under the desk, the other two soldiers closing in a bit more. Using hand signals the NCO told them he was sending the doctor out first, he would follow, then Jimenz bringing up the rear as they exited. Putting his finger up to his lips, Royce motioned to be quiet, then pointed to the small opening in the doors they created on the way in. Dr. Carson quietly started crawling to the doors, showing no reluctance to leave the premises.    Royce was through the doors, turning to cover his teammates in their exfiltration, when a noise that could only be described as an other-worldly shrieking started. He had difficulty finding the source amongst all the shadows and utter dishevelment of the room. Jimenez must have seen it though because the sound of the heavy machine gun ripped apart the silence that had recently occupied the space.    As quickly as it had started, that sound stopped abruptly as the body of the soldier was thrown against the glass wall with unnatural force, causing the thick glass wall to crack, the thud of the impact echoing along with the crunch of multiple broken bones, the lifeless body sliding to the floor.    “Go! Go! Go!” screamed the sergeant, squeezing the trigger of his weapon, pointing in the direction where the machine gunner’s body had originated from.    It was to no avail. Private Evans rose up to race out of the room but had only taken one step before he stopped, literally, dead in his tracks, his head sliding away from his body as it fell. Unfortunately, he had been the one carrying the remote for the mines set near the doors. His body fell awkwardly enough for it to land on the triggers, the explosions blowing out the walls, caving in the passageway the three had entered the floor on.    With the dust settling, Sgt. Royce and Dr. Carson shook their heads, trying to get the ringing in their ears to stop and gather their wits. Shining his weapon’s light at the caved in hallway, he tried pulling up the blueprint on his HUD, but that had been knocked offline by the explosion. He turned to his erstwhile companion shouting.    “Is there another way out of here?”    Barely recovering from the shockwave of the blast, the man pointed down another hallway, “Emergency escape elevators. End of the hall.”    “Move!” the NCO screamed at the still in shock scientist.    The doctor started stumbling as best he could.    Looking back Sgt Royce trained his weapon on where the doors once stood. The light caught hold of a sight that would haunt him to his dying day. He could tell it was something not of this Earth. Six appendages looked positively deadly, the head of the creature looking like a menacing helmet of ancient times.    Instinct kicked in and he held his trigger down, emptying the magazine as he quickly beat a retreat behind Dr. Carson, running as fast as his spindly legs could carry him.    This brought him back to where he was now. The creature survived his fusillade of fire but wasn’t closing in on them any time soon. Sgt. Royce hoping he might have at least wounded it.    They reached the doors after a seeming eternity. Throwing a lever opened the escape elevator entrance. Stepping into the small capsule for their ride to the surface, they heard the same ear-splitting shriek they had before. Seeing movement in the darkness down the hall the warrior shined his light in that direction. Oozing a purplish substance, the creature was approaching them faster than either human cared for.    Sgt. Royce again mashed his trigger, pouring a freshly inserted magazine at the abomination. While the NCO was busy fending off their attacker, the scientist hit the emergency release button on the wall. This action slammed the doors shut, sending the elevator up at a force of two G’s initially, then slowing near the top of the shaft. Once stopped, Dr. Carson lifted the lever inside the car, opening the door, depositing them in the foyer where Beta team was waiting.    “What happened down there?” the captain asked as they exited.    “We need to go. Now. The threat is real. It needs to be neutralized. With extreme prejudice,” Sgt. Royce reported to his commanding officer.    The look on his trooper’s face said it all. There wasn’t going to be a capture today.    “Alpha, Charlie, grab who you can and get out right now. We are gonna blow this popsicle stand!”    Double clicks on the radio followed as the rest of Beta started packing up their gear. The small nuclear mines remained in place.    Sgt. Royce was helping Dr. Carson move to the exit, trying to remain clear of Beta as they were scrambling about. Heading back out into daylight he saw the members of the reinforced squad standing around, looking up at the sky, quite unusual for their current situation.    He and Dr. Carson replicated the upward stare, discovering the reason for the inactivity.    Awestruck, the platoon was gazing above them at a half dozen disc shaped objects floating in the sky near the humble entrance.    Dr. Carson was the first to speak, his voice trailing off.    “We are not alone . . . “

xvcd7i

The Red Hat

The wind whipped through the cornstalks creating a melancholy chorus of fall music. Samantha curled her small, seven-year-old frame and buried her face into her jeans. He would find her. He always did. “Samantha.” Tommy’s voice cut through the bitter fall air. Samantha’s body tightened deeper into a ball, hoping her brown jacket would blend with the drying stalks. Nothing could be done about the bright red cap her mother insisted Samantha wear after their last hide-and-seek game ended with a frantic search party. Her family had combed the fields until nightfall after Samantha had wandered deeper into the cornfield than she had ever ventured. After a desperate search, they found her crying in the back corner. The hat would stay, or their game would not happen. “Samantha.” Tommy’s voice grew closer. Relief rushed over her. “There you are.” Tommy glanced at his stopwatch. “Not bad. Ten minutes.” Ten-year-old Tommy plopped down on the ground next to his sister. She rested her head on his shoulder, and he wrapped his arm around her. “You’re freezing.” He rubbed her shoulder. “Do you still want to play?” Samantha nodded. Her teeth chattered louder than the wind. Tommy looked down at his baby sister. “Are you sure?” Samantha gazed up at his face as he breathed heavily from his run. A cloud formed as each warm breath met the frigid air. Crimson scrapes covered his face marking the places the corn leaves had ripped at his skin. Samantha’s cheeks itched, assuring her she had not avoided their clutches either. “I’m sure.” Her voice lacked confidence. “Your turn to search then,” Tommy said, his breaths calming. Samantha’s heartbeat drummed against her chest. She hated when he hid from her much more than when she hid from him. Tommy stood and offered her a hand up. She stood, and as she did, she noticed something shoot across the row twenty feet away. “Did you see that?” Her voice sounded small, even to her. “See what?” Samantha lifted a shaky finger and pointed down the row. “Something just ran across the cornrow.” A cry threatened to escape. “Samantha, you said you wanted to take your turn searching.” “But I’m serious. Something is there.” Tommy laughed. “Samantha, you’re seeing things.” He took two steps. “Start counting and don’t…” Tommy froze. “Tommy,” Samantha whispered. Tommy didn’t respond. “Tommy,” she whispered again, “did you see it too?” “Samantha,” Tommy grabbed her hand, “we’re not alone.” Tommy’s hand squeezed hers. “We should run.” Another figure stepped onto the path as his hand pulled her rigid body forward. The creature moved slowly, unafraid of their human presence. The yellow eyes set on the siblings. Samantha stared up at her brother as if he had the answer. Silence. Seconds ticked by, and then the creature growled and stepped toward them. Samantha cried out. “Tommy. Samantha. Dinner time,” their mother called. They were close to home. So close. “Shh…,” Tommy whispered. “Don’t yell. We need to back up slowly.” “But the house is right there.” “And so is that thing.” Tommy pulled Samantha back, and the humungous wolf took a step toward them. A low growl showed his jagged teeth. Samantha whimpered. “I’ll keep you safe. Don’t cry.” Tommy’s hand tightened on hers. “Follow me. Slowly.” Tommy stepped between the cornstalks into the next row. The animal's gaze followed them, but this time, it stood still. Tommy pulled them through another row. The sticky long leaf grabbed the red hat and ripped it off Samantha’s head. She began to bend for it. “Leave it.” Samantha looked up at her brother. “It’s okay. We’ll find it another time.” Tommy spoke as he pulled her through another row. The view of the creature grew more blurred with each layer of corn between them. “Keep moving. Slowly.” They put between them layer after layer of corn until the creature was not visible. “Run,” Tommy whispered. Samantha immediately felt the tug of his arm as they darted through the rows. The light was beginning to show through the stocks. The edge of the cornfield was drawing close. “We’re heading for the big tree. You know the one.” Samantha didn’t answer. Her breaths were coming fast and hard. They were in a sprint, but behind them came the sound of corn being pushed to the side. They burst through the last row of stalks and found the giant tree looming over them. The low branches reaching out to them like their mother’s arms. “Run as hard as you can.” Tommy stayed beside her despite his ability to outrun her by a mile. “You have it.” Paws pounded on the ground behind the siblings. They didn’t look back, but they knew the pack was following the leader now, hungry for a fight they knew they would win. The first branch was only four feet above them but too high for Samantha to grasp. In one fluid motion, Tommy made a step in his hand and flung Samantha upon it. He jumped up, grabbed the branch, and swung one leg to safety. The other one dangled as Tommy found his balance. The jaws of the leader closed on his paint leg, and he struggled with his hold. “Tommy,” Samantha screamed. Her voice breathed extra strength into his young body, and he tore the jeans from the animal’s mouth. The leader let out a loud howl, and the pack followed suit. Would their mom hear their calls? Would she know they needed help? “Samantha,” Tommy said, “we need to climb higher.” Samantha’s body visibly shook. “I can’t let go. I’ll fall.” “We’re not high enough.” As if to prove his point, the leader leaped again for Tommy’s pant leg missing by inches. “I need to go first, or I’ll be in your way. I’ll give you a hand from the next branch.” Samantha squeaked, “Okay.” “Here I go.” Tommy eased his way to the tree trunk to better reach the next branch. “You have to scoot this way too.” Samantha whimpered. “You’ve got this, Samantha. Focus on the tree and not the wolf. You’ve climbed this tree a million times.” Tommy reached the trunk, put a hand on the higher branch, and pulled himself to a standing position, all under the watchful gaze of the wolf’s yellow eyes. He watched Samantha edging her way toward him, her hands shaking. He couldn’t help her. She had to do this part on her own. He hauled himself up to the next branch only a few feet above them and held his breath as his sister reached the trunk. “Reach up. I’ve got you.” Samantha let go of the branch with one hand. Her heart raced as she repeated to herself what Tommy had told her. Samantha had climbed this tree a million times. Not once had she fallen. Their hands locked. “Now stand.” Samantha held back the cry building in the back of her throat. She placed one hand on the trunk and got her legs beneath her. “I did it,” she said, a slight laugh behind her words. The large male wolf that Tommy could now estimate as almost 180 pounds lunged at his sister. “Samantha!” Samantha lost her balance, and one hand flailed as her body tipped backward. Tommy tightened his legs around the branch and pulled his sister’s hand to him with everything he had. Samantha grabbed the tree again and found her balance. “Tommy.” “You’re okay. Now put your hands on the branch and pull yourself up. Remember, you can do this.” Samantha glanced backward at the creature and the pack. She nodded to her brother, or maybe herself, swallowed hard, and lifted herself onto the branch. “We’re safe now, Samantha. They can’t get us up here.” Samantha glanced out over the horizon. The sun was settling beyond the barn. It would be dark soon. Tommy's gaze followed hers. “Mom and Dad will be looking for us. It’s okay.” The wolves began to howl, and a sad, melancholy sound thickened the air. “It’s almost dark, though.” The leader put his paws on the tree trunk and reached up to them. The pure mass of him terrified both children. They didn’t admit out loud that even their parents were no match for these animals. Only a sliver of sun remained above the barn roof. The two looked at each other as if the answer would be found in each other’s gazes. “I think we’re in trouble, Tommy.” In answer, the wolves howled again. A sound cut through the air. The sound of a gunshot. So close. An image appeared on the cornfield edge, and their father emerged, gun ready. Another shot, a warning. The leader stared back at their father momentarily, and then they saw the weapon take aim. They heard the click of the rifle preparing to shoot. “I wouldn’t try me,” their dad told the animal. In defeat, the animal turned and sauntered into the fields, his pack following. The children remained frozen on the branch until their father reached the base. He swung the rifle onto his back and pulled a red hat from his pocket. “I think you lost something.” Samantha and Tommy scrambled from the tree and into the waiting arms of their father. They didn’t fully let go of him until they entered the door of their warm kitchen and smelled the aromas of their dinner waiting for them on the table.

gozgl5

Night Eyes

The call of the nighthawk mingled with the crackling of the campfire when the peaceful and calming sounds were disrupted by a slight rustle in the tall grass beyond the flames. “Ssh,” Tanner whispered. Tammy jolted up in the camping chair too quickly toppling it over backwards, her with it, hitting the back of her head on the firewood pile. “Tammy!” Groaning she raises her head from the wood as her boyfriend lifts her into his arms. The back of her head burning with pain, she inhales air to calm herself. “Are you okay?” he asks, cradling her closely, completely forgetting the rustle in the grass mere seconds before. She rubbed the back of her head, Tammy blinked rapidly, tears glittering on her lashes in the flickering light. “It hurts,” she whispered leaning her head on his warm chest. Rocking her in his arms, he asks if she would like to climb into the tent to lay down as silence rained down around them. The night blackened the landscape around their remote campsite, far from the beaten path. The blankness creeping in, blanking out half of their gear set back from the fire. Rising to his feet, Tanner nearly tripped on the toppled chair, he paused. “What was that sound? Do you think it was a bear?” Tammy had always had a great fear of all bears, although she loved tenting in the great outdoors. “What?”he asked after absently as he gazed at the dying fire, the coals had formed lumps of ash in the pit, only a few glowing coals remained. “Do you think the sound was from a bear?” “Oh. No, probably the breeze,” he answered, clearly unconcerned now, settling her back on her feet. “There isn't any breeze, hasn't been for a couple of hours. It’s kind of extra still tonight.” “It is calm,” he smiles at her as he places a few pieces of wood on the coals, stirring up sparks. The crackling echoing in the silence. “Fine, it's a normal quiet night,” she smiles when the nighthawk called. “I think I will sit by the fire longer. My head is OK.”  As they reclaimed their seats, the muffled sound of the grass being tousled as if someone or something had brushed the grass stems, interrupted their thoughts. “Did you hear something?” they checked in unison. “I may have. A small sound, maybe a mouse,” he chuckled. “Right, a tiny, harmless mouse.” Shaking her head Tammy changed the subject to their weekend hiking trip they planned as their next adventure. This camping trip had involved a trek up a mountain on foot and the next one would involve a boat. The wild and remote locations were desired for every adventure the utmost appeal had always been the quietness of the land around them. This night was no different, the peacefulness of the mountainside was the deciding factor for the placement of their camp. The great expense of the old growth fir trees set along a deep valley, undisturbed from logging, its’ beauty surpassed many locations they had ventured before. Tammy glanced away from staring into the flames to Tanner when she heard him sniff, the sound so low, a whisper, much like someone trying to silently cry. Asking if he was alright, she ignored all else. He looked up at Tammy, with a question in his clear gaze, “I’m good. Just shook me up a little when you went over and hit your head. You are good?” “I'm fine. Just tender. But I thought I heard you sniff, like a crying sniff.” “That wasn’t me. I thought you were breathing out the stress.” “Well, I guess that could have been either of us then.” “True,” Turner says, rising to hand her a drink spiked with rum, “this will certainly calm our nerves.” “Mmm,” Tammy moans in pleasure as she grasped the cup. A slight sound carries from behind their little tent, both sitting up in their chairs, fully alert, listening for a few moments. Tammy whispers, “there is something out there. It doesn't sound like a bear.” “You're right. Come sit with me,” Tanner whispered back. Rising slowly, looking out about their camp and into the timber, Tammy freezes completely still. She finds herself staring into a glowing yellow eye in the blackness of the night forest. The eye appeared completely blank but also filled with a predator force and her its prey. There was something out there, but what had an eye like that bottomless glowing pit.  The foreign bottomless eye alien to anything she had ever seen on their adventures. Realizing the sound had come from the opposite direction that she was staring she scrambled to Tanner. He grabbed her arm and shoved her behind him before she had a chance to tell him about the floating, bodiless eye. Shifting her gaze to him, to find he was intently staring over the fire, his jaw set tightly, the muscle bouncing in tension. He was staring in another direction than where she had seen something. Looking back to see the eye only to find it gone, she noted the direction of his stare and regarded the trees. Nothing seemed to be there. “We are not alone, Tammy! I just saw a yellowish green eye behind the big fir tree.” “I know,” she rasped back. A step hinted behind them so softly she was not sure she had actually heard one. Ever so slowly she turned to peer into the night. “There it is again,” Tanner bumped into her back as she stepped back to his view. Her body gently move forward and straight into the gaze of another eye, then suddenly turned into a pair of luminous eyes that stared into her soul. The form invisible in the blackened shadows of the night. Utter fear raced through her body. “What are they?” she squeaked, terror raging through her veins, squeezing her throat tight. “I don't know. I can only see one eye. It seems to glow neon in the flames. And aliens aren't real.” Movement in the shadows behind the tent caught her attention. There was more, surrounding them, enclosing them in a circle of ambush. To corral their prey, the unknown force encompassed them in with no escape. Warm fingers grasped hers then tugged her toward the fire while he tossed more wood into the flames. Sparks flew up high, more light flared around the tiny clear area where they stood, she looped around meeting the bodiless eyes, several gazed back their eery stares watching, single and in pairs. Not one direction lacking eyes, they were surrounded. It was time to decide on a course of action to defend themselves. A bear banger lay on their sleeping bag within the tent. The noise it would make might chase those alien eyes away. She motioned to her partner her plan to retrieve the bear banger.  Tanner kept watch as she retrieved the bear banger, they had only one to set off, so it had to work. Climbing out of the tent doorway, she met the gaze of the yellow eyes and saw the animal for what it really was. The black form emerged into the firelight in full view, its reddish pink tongue whipped out across its’ nose, as if telling her she would be a good morsel to eat. More came into sight, their eyes no longer glowing but glittering with intent. Some black, some grey, there had to be more than a dozen of them looming in their true great size in the light. “Wolves,” they claimed in unison. Suddenly Tammy yelled at the top of her lungs, in an angry, harsh tone for them to ‘go away.’ The pack jumped back into the trees nearly invisible to see, stirring and rustling in the grass. Tanner joined in, his voice echoing through the valley below. Setting off the loud bear banger, she felt she had just saved their lives. Carrying on for a few more minutes, their throats throbbed raw. The wolf-pack left, nearly melting into the woods. Tammy and Tanner watched the tree line, searching for any yellow eye, peeking from behind a tree. Nothing came into sight or could be heard. The silence was welcomed, when suddenly the quiet was broken by the far-off call of a wolf, then another called joined in. Breathing a sigh of relief, they hugged one another without peering around in fear then turned and entered the tent for the night. In the wee hours of morning the call of nature woke Tammy and forced her outside, rising from the tent she gazed around at the shrinking shadows, the morning dew sparkling bright in the dim light and the warm rays of sunshine caressed her cool cheeks. There was not a wolf in sight. A squirrel scurried across the ground with a fir cone in its mouth on her left and a red-breasted robin gobbled up a worm to her right. Peace was restored to this little piece of nature's heaven.

e1r949

Crows

It’s been over five years, since old Willie Odemann’s farm underwent development, but the crows keep coming—hoping the corn will come back, I think. When I was trying to take a shortcut a few weeks back, I saw some strawberries growing wild alongside that sixty-some apartment complex where mostly corn used to grow.  But you can’t really take shortcuts no more. Everyone’s has to fence their little piece of land these days. Stingy folks really. Unless you can jump and climb like a kid, you can’t take shortcuts no more. At my age, you got to go around the fences. Truth be told, I know darn well that I could make better time going the way they want me to go. It’s the principle. Don’t like being told where I can go any more than I did when I was younger. Eight or eighty, it don’t matter. Once you are a rebel, you will always be a rebel. You just might look ridiculous sometimes, when you are my age and standing up for your principles.   Like strawberries. Strawberries grow like weeds. They don’t care if apartment complexes try to get in their way. So, I’m thinking, that is why Willie Odemann’s strawberries keep on growing long after he is dead and buried. I learned about these rebel strawberries, taking my soda pop cans to the can-crusher. Yup; there isn’t a lot of money in pop cans anymore, and mechanic can-crushers are going extinct—but it’s the principle. I do my best to keep Mother Earth tidy and make an honest penny whenever possible.   Some of these crows were larger, uglier, and more aggressive than in previous years. I noted that they seemed at home in the flock but could turn on their smaller brethren in the blink of an eye, resorting to cannibalism.   I had been studying the birds, since tulip time. At the end of June, I found a little brownish kid, his homely little dog and a gaggle of crows, including four giant red-faced ones, eating strawberries that were pushing cowlick-straight between the sidewalk cracks. Then, I saw berries growing everywhere. Next day, I set out to pick a pail for myself. Had my heart set on some strawberry-rhubarb pie. What a great deal, I thought, having rhubarb and now some strawberries too. But--dab burn it! —if there wasn’t a single scrap left. I never suspected the crows. Not right away.   Crows just ain’t happy without corn. I wish I had a big backyard. I’d grow some corn. I wouldn’t take pot shots with Daddy’s old BB-gun neither, when the crow came calling. I’d say, “I know what it is like to get the short end of the stick; I know what it is like to have the rug pulled out from under you. Eat up, Crows!”   I love all God’s creatures, but Odemann’s crows are cantankerous creatures—smart and mean too. Bigger than most. Mutants, I suspect. A striking difference from those outside the Valley.   Like any self-educated person, I get teased by people who think that I spend too much time on my subjects. That is where being a rebel helps. You get used to people thinking that you’re up to nonsense. Best thing is you don’t care very much. A self-taught mad scientist that is what I am!   When I was a girl, I dabbled in everything from making ant poison soup to shaking a jar of bees to see how mad they could get. Like a lot of people back then, I didn’t think animals knew pain or had emotions—like revenge.  I tried to catch a crow specimen to send down to Madison. That is what people do, when they find some freak of nature. I don’t care if it is an ugly caterpillar or a two-headed toad, people will advise you to send it down to the state lab for identification. Then I found out it costs money. Maybe this time I will charge them!   I do have some background with crows. I remember Willie Odemann’s grandson Manny took a baby crow under his people-wing one year. Taught it all kinds of tricks, but I knew they were more mannerisms. Natural tendencies. Blackbeard the Crow would steal things out of men’s pockets and ladies’ purses. It could bark like and a dog and say “hello” in Manny’s voice. Too bad Blackbeard’s dog bark didn’t scare the barn cat that struck ’im down in his prime.  I know crows are omnivores, but I never saw them hunting rabbits and squirrels until now.  When I saw the migrant boy again, he was alone kicking a soccer ball around that place where the strawberries had grown.  Speaking slowly and implementing rudimentary sign language, I asked him if the apartment people ate up all the fruit.  “Crows—they ate the berries! And,” he started to sob, “Charley, too! The big ones. The Kings took my dog,” young Luis wailed, strangling the air with clenched fists. “Oh, Charley! Nobody believes me.”   “I believe you,” I tried to console him, but I could tell that if only one person in the world believed him, he wondered why did it have to be the strange old pop-can lady?  “Like a flock of bullies, those crows,” I told him. “Mad about their cornfield disappearing. Corn was kinda their God. The center of their world. When they saw that the land isn’t being planted, they got mighty ornery.   “Put yourself in a crow’s place. People can go to the store to get corn any ole time. Get it on the cob, in a can, in a freezer package. We take it for granted that we can eat corn 365-days a year. Three times a day, if we wanted to. Not crows. These mutant crows ain’t afraid to get even.”   The boy, Luis, had stopped crying. I was throwing a lot of words at him, and it seemed like he understood. I imagined the puzzled look on his little dog, as the hunter became the hunted. I think Charley may have been just as surprised as Blackbeard the Crow was when his bark didn’t scare the barn cat many years ago.  It isn’t right for crows to be eating little boys’ dogs. I promised Luis that I would do what I could to put an end to their carnage.   I tried to warn folks. The five o’clock news had recently reported that a kid on garbage detail at the Burger Boy was badgered by a flock of crows.  Around July 4 th , the fireworks and commotion sent them into a lull of inactivity for nearly seven days. A welcomed reprieve for those of us who knew about them.   I never finished high school. I married and started a family, when Earl got back from the War. But I have always read a lot and did my best to know about world affairs.  I, particularly, enjoy nature, and I have been keeping notes on these mutant crows—Odemann’s Urbana Corvus. That’s what I named ’em. Luis and I plotted to trap a live specimen, but we had to be selective. We needed to zero in on what we dubbed the King Crows. The ones that we knew had taken Charley.   Soon after our plans were drawn, a respectable man of science conveniently came to town. Ornithologist Dr. Jefferson Early from the state university was here to advise city government about a mysterious die-off of Canada geese on our part of Lake Winnebago.   My nephew Russell drives me once a week to get groceries or sometimes more—if there is a funeral or a special research fieldtrip. Good thing for me that Russell still isn’t married, because I don’t know what his wife would say to this. Russell is a dentist. He just hasn’t found the right teeth-cleaning girl to settle down with. I told him there is no rush. I had two husbands. They’re both dead already.  So, because he is so nice and because he has his own business, Russell agreed to make an extra trip to take me down to city hall to see the bird man. I had not told him about the bird man, but Russell snickered a little when he saw my knapsack overflowing with my field notebooks, camera and binoculars. I promised to take a taxicab home this time. He seemed to believe it, but I would never waste my money on a highway-robber. I would worry about getting home later.   Betty, the city government desk clerk, told me that the mayor was at the Senior Citizen Center for breakfast. “Helen,” she added, “have you tried the Center?” She knew the darn answer. “You should give it a try? They do lots of fun things there.”   I bit my tongue. I always thought that Russell and Betty might make a good couple. But line dancing, chatty luncheons and rummage sales weren’t my thing.   “I’m here to see Dr. Jefferson Early,” I told her.   “I believe he’s at Grant Park,” she said, checking her desk calendar.   “Dab burn it! Russell’s gone. He just dropped me off. Did you see, he has a convertible now?”   “Really?” Betty sighed.  “Yeah, a topless car. Messed my hair. Don’t you just hate riding in topless cars?”   “I would love it,” said the thirty-something divorcee. “It would be fun.”   “If you really think so,” I winked, “I could ask Russell to take you for a ride.”  “Oh, I don’t think he’d take a stranger.”   “You’re no stranger,” I said. “If I’m not talking to you about Russell, I am talking to Russell about you. “Betty blushed. “You know I think that you two would make a nice couple. You probably admire a man who takes care of his kin. But right now, I need to get to Grant Park because I don’t have a ride.”  “One of the park-and-rec guys can take you,” she offered, flagging one down.   Pete was never happy about acting as my personal chauffeur. Truth be told, he isn’t my first choice, but beggars can’t be choosers. He asked me if I was still chasing crows. I didn’t appreciate his sarcasm. At the park, Pete barely came to a stop. He mumbled that he had more important things to do.   “That’s Early over there,” he said, stabbing the air with his finger. “The tall, skinny man with the health department guys.”   Pete cleared his throat, waiting for me to gather myself and my things but didn’t bother to help expedite the process. I thanked him and thought about making him some special laxative-laced brownies for his trouble.   “Doctor Early,” I called to him.   He was a skinny man with a boyish face.   “With whom do I have the pleasure?”    “Helen Leavens Hochholzer.” I could see that it was a lot for him to digest, so I added, “You may call me Helen.”   “Helen,” he nodded. “How can I help you?”   “Hi. Rick!  Hi, James! ”  I waved to the health department men. “Doctor Early, I know that you are here to study the Canadian geese—“   “Canada,” he corrected me. “Canada geese. Most people call them Canadian, but that is not correct,” he softened the blow.    “Canada geese,” I submitted, oddly in wonder that I was in the majority for once. “This kill happens every now and again,” I offered. “It’s the dandelion poison. Every now and again the summer help doesn’t read the directions right, and our city, accidentally, thins the flocks. I told the city hall folks about it. I wrote the editor. I even wrote you people in Madison. “  “Really?” Jefferson Early raised his brow.    “What’s even more interesting,” I advised, “is the crows here.”   “Crows?” exclaimed Early, the furrows in his brow suddenly aging his face.  “We grow ‘em big here, sir. Big as turkeys—they could feed a family of four! Mutants. Maybe they’ve been eating fish by the nuclear plant. I don’t know for sure yet,” I said, retrieving my red stenography pad. ” I’ve been keeping a journal. I have some feathers comparisons. These are the ones belonging to the largest of the Odemann Urbana Corvus—this new sub-species.”    I thrust forward the drawing that I had made in the field.   “These birds have lips and a beak?” Somehow, I had missed this embarrassing drawing mistake. “Purplish crown, yellow eyes—lacking pupils? According to this measurement scale, they are nearly two feet tall?”   “That part is right. Forget the smile and the eyes with no pupils. Look I’m no artist, but the yellow eyes and the size is true to life.”  I fumbled through the pad.   My gnarly left hand was in a hinderance, and the Walgreens photographs fluttered to the ground. The scholar quickly retrieved them, scanning them with his eyes as he stood. “These are ravens,” he uttered. “No, sir. I thought that at first too. Look at the beak, the neck, the tail! All of these are characteristics of the Common Corvus. Not a large Corvid or a giant Turdus Merula?” He seemed impressed, looking closely at the photographs.   He examined the plums inside a clear plastic freezer bag. “Some of these feathers interest me,” he acknowledged. “Perhaps if you give me your name and number...”  “Please, Doctor!”   I directed to him to a picture of one of the King Crows. His jaw dropped. “Put the Canada Geese and the dandelion poison to bed, and I will share my find with you. We will march to Madison. We need to squelch their numbers while we can.” I could feel my hot-headed German ancestry coming to the forefront. “These crows are wicked, dog-eaters!   “Dr. Early,” I insisted, “these birds are killing family pets as we speak. Please, I can take you to them. You can see for yourself.”  “Helen—you have found something extraordinary. These definitely are not ravens,” he nodded his head, and directed the health department people to drive us to what remained of the Odemann homestead just north of the city limits.   This was extremely convenient, because my home was in one of the four units that comprised Willie Odemann’s farmhouse. Near remnants of an old apple orchard, we happened upon the scene of Luis with his new friends, from the apartment complex, throwing sticks and stones at the birds. Luis was sitting on a squawking cardboard box. “These aren’t ravens,” Dr. Early said in a soft, far-off voice. “Exactly!” I agreed. “They’re not common crows.” “Precisely!” “These are black Caracaras!” he shouted with glee. “Remarkable!”   It was a case of gross misidentification, and I was a little embarrassed. I had not considered comparing the King Crows to the Black Caracaras of northern South America. Turns out, Luis and I had found four of six glossy black falcon birds that had unceremoniously escaped from the Milwaukee Zoo. It was pandemonium and publicity, securing our birds. The other two were never reported found, and surely would not survive a Wisconsin winter.    While I did not find a new mutant sub-species of crow, Luis and I made the front pages of many national newspapers. We even were flown to the Big Apple to guest star on early morning and late-night TV shows.   When the story had run its course, the thrill of the experience lived on in both Luis and me. The next spring, fewer crows came back to roost in what was left of an outbuilding that stood in ruins on the remaining  Odemann acreage marked for development. Like us, the Corvus diehards likely remembered the excitement of the King Crows.                                               

lm8otf

Field Trip Love Story

My class is going on our very first real life, big boy field trip. Mama tucked me in real tight for sleep, but when I closed my eyes all I could see were dinosaurs around me. So I opened them. I slowly untucked my real tight blankies. I climbed out of bed, feeling suddenly cold in the dark. Mama turned on my night light and I use its green glow to find my way to my book case. Mama and Daddy used to read one story to me together before bed. I’m the librarian ‘cause I always pick the book. But now….now it’s just Mama or Daddy at night. ‘Cause now there’s Lily. I make a face just thinkin’ about her. Daddy says she’s, “Goin’ through her screamin’ phase.” That always makes Mama scold him. That makes me laugh. At least I’m still the librarian. I sit in front of my book case, look over all the pictures. Mama has me practice readin’ sometimes, but I like the pictures best. There’s the one with the raccoon who gets a kiss on her paw; I toss it aside. Then, I see the one where we say good night to the moon. But that’s not what I’m looking for so I toss it to the side. And I also see a llama in red pajamas, but I don’t want that one. I hear footsteps and freeze! They’re Daddy’s big footsteps. My heart is pounding. My pulse races. How quick can I run to the bed and tuck back in? My eyes look over my shoulder at the bed. And then back to my books. I need my Dino book for the field trip. Daddy’s footsteps fade and I continue my adventure. After seven more books fall to the floor, I find it! My Dino book has a hard cover. And it has all the dinosaurs you could ever want to see. I look through the pages, memorizing them in the dim, green glow of my night light.  Mama comes in and finds me on the floor with my Dino book. She whispers, “It’s time for your field trip, Sweetheart.” I stretch and yawn and show her my Dino book. She promises to put it in my backpack. Mama makes french toast sticks for breakfast. I want to pour my own syrup, but Mama says no. That makes me scream! But Mama won’t budge so I get time out and I have to go sit on the steps until Lily is done with her breakfast. Daddy comes downstairs. He ruffles my hair. He shoots me a smile and I smile back to make Daddy happy. Daddy gives Mama a big kiss on the lips, the kind Grandma always shoves at me before we’re allowed to open presents on Christmas Eve. My face responds, but Mama laughs, wipes off Lily’s cheeks, and tells me to come back to eat breakfast. I ask to pour the syrup. Mama looks at Daddy. Daddy looks at Mama and he grabs the syrup. He pours a BIG pour. I love when Daddy pours the syrup. Mama gives him a finger waggle. She never means it with Daddy, but she always does with me. Like when I played pretend spa and got mud all over my hands, face, hair. I got more than a finger waggle that day. Daddy smiles and he gives Mama another big kiss so I make a face. Mama laughs. I dip my sticks in the syrup, being sure to let each stick soak in the syrup just like Daddy taught me. I eat all my sticks! And Mama and Daddy are so proud. She scoops up my plate and leans across the counter so I can look into her black eyes, “Mandy’s gonna pick you up after school because Lily has to go to the doctor. Can you remind me what color her car is?” “Blue!” I say. “That’s right!” she says and wraps her cold hand around my cheeks smushing my face together. “Mama! I’m a big boy! Stop!” I struggle to evade her kisses. “My baby boy is going on his first field trip!” she beams at me, but I think maybe she’s gonna cry ‘cause she’s makin’ that face she always makes before she cries the big tears and waves us off saying that she’s happy. But how can you be happy and crying? “Mama! I am five!” I remind her. She nods and waves her hands at me which means I gotta go get dressed. I race Daddy up the stairs and he helps me put on my cargo shorts and red t-shirt with the blue T-Rex on it. It’s my favorite. And we’re gonna go see the dinosaurs today! Daddy helps me brush my teeth and Mama buckles me into my booster seat. She parks and I race to unbuckle my seatbelt before she comes around and opens the big door of the van ‘cause I’m a big boy and I can prove it! She smiles at me when she sees me standing already. Lily squirms and begins to cry in her arms. She does that a lot. Mama walks me to the classroom and gives me a big hug, but Lily feels so hot and wet and sweaty and so I don’t really like the hug. Mama’s hugs don’t feel like they used to. Seth waves me over to show me his dinosaurs so I rush off to meet him at his table before Mrs. B tells the class to get started. He has huge dinosaur toys! I can barely wrap my hand around their squishy tummies. He has a T-Rex and a Velociraptor and a Brontosaurus and a Pterodactyl and all their mouths move and you can move the T-Rex’s arms up and down and they all have super sharp teeth. I think I’ll ask Mama and Daddy for some toys like Seth’s for my birthday. Seth says we can play dinosaurs after lunch and I ask him if I can have the T-Rex, but he says no. I’m about to tell him why I deserve T-Rex, but Mrs. B claps her hands and that means we have to be quiet so I go back to Table 3. Table 3 is my table and Table 6 is Seth’s which means he is far away. He sits with Annie and Peter and Cassie. I sit with Alex and Macy and Meadow. Meadow is very annoying. Mama says that she isn’t trying to be annoying when she moves her paper onto my side of the table or when she forgets to put the cap back on the purple marker so it’s all dried out when I try to use it. But I don’t believe her. Meadow waves to me and leans in real close to my ear, “My mom is coming on the field trip with us!” She points one finger at a woman who is very tall with long hair and a green dress on. “See?” asks Meadow, “See my mom!?” I try to scoot my chair over a bit-away from her yucky breath. “Your breath stinks, Meadow. You should brush your teeth more,” I say in my best whisper voice. “Jack? Do you have something to share with the class?” asks Mrs. B. I feel my cheeks turn hot like when Mama put me in timeout this morning. I ball my hands up and feel that they’re a little wet like Lily’s. I shake my head. Mrs. B goes back to discussing the rules of the museum. She says we’re going to have buddies at the museum. I turn as fast as I can to look at Seth. But then Mrs. B says, “You must be a buddy with someone at your table.” So I turn and look at Alex, but Alex is busy chewing on his pencil. He takes it out of his mouth and a long, clear, stringy bit of spit comes with it. So I decide I do not to be partners with Alex. I look over at Macy, but she’s busy reading a book and Mrs. B tells her to, “Put it away right now.” So I decide Macy isn’t a good choice. “Wanna be my buddy?” whispers Meadow. I heave a big sigh. Meadow is smiling at me real big. So I just nod my head. We are lined up with our buddies at the door. Mrs. B reminds us to take our backpacks with our lunch boxes. We stand outside in front of the big yellow bus! I love the big yellow bus, but I never get to ride it ‘cause Mama always takes me to school. We have to take big steps onto the bus and an old man wearing a blue cap waves hello to us. Meadow makes us sit at seat number 16. She says, “It’s the seat on the wheel and my big sister, Maggie says that it’s the best seat ‘cause we get to jump whenever there’s a bump! And that makes it a good seat. ‘Cause it's like a rollercoaster.” She makes a loud noise. It’s the same one Lily makes when Daddy gives her tickles. It’s very squeaky. I pull out my Dino book. This is gonna be a long ride. It is a long ride. Meadow talks a lot. She tells me about Barbies. I don’t like Barbies. I look over at Seth across from us. He is busy showing his dinosaurs to Peter. He’s letting Peter be the T-Rex! I make a fist because I really want to be with T-Rex and Seth said we would play dinosaurs together. I rest my head against the window. But that makes it hurt so I sit up and try to close my eyes ‘cause Mama says car naps are the best kind of naps. Except just as I start to feel sleepy, Mrs. B claps her hands. We finally arrive at the museum. There are big lion statues outside the front doors and everyone gasps. I can hear someone roar like a lion! I put my book back in my bag with a frown. I didn’t even get to look at the pictures once. The parents and Mrs. B help us leave the bus. I like that there were no seatbelts the whole trip because Mama takes so long getting Lily’s on and she makes me be quiet because she says, “I have to concentrate!” Meadow makes us stand on the sidewalk by her Mom. A nice lady in a blue shirt gives us all stickers with a T-Rex on them. They are very cool. We follow her up the big steps. It’s cold when we get inside. I feel goosebumps immediately, and it smells a bit funny. It’s also very quiet, but as we enter I notice the big T-Rex skeleton! Mrs. B tells us we need to whisper like we’re in the library which makes most of the kids use their indoor voices. Except Peter. But Peter is always loud. He is holding up Seth’s T-Rex toy in the air to see if the toy looks like the skeleton. He is asking all of us to look. Mrs. B reminds him to use his library voice and Seth takes back his toy. I am busy looking at the skeleton when I feel Meadow’s hand on mine. She’s pulling me away. I realize it’s ‘cause the group is moving forward so I start to walk with her. The skeleton looks just like my book. Meadow lets go of my hand. It’s not big like Mama’s. It’s not rough like Daddy’s. I kinda miss it. A little bit. “This next area is free for exploration, kids,” says the lady in the blue shirt. She holds open a big, wooden door. When we enter we see huge dinosaurs everywhere. Some are even roaring or eating leaves of trees! I know they’re just pretend robots, though, because Daddy told me about the robots yesterday after story time. I immediately run over to Seth, who is standing in front of the T-Rex. His eyes are big like plates and his mouth is hanging open slightly. It’s a bit silly. “Wait for me, Buddy!” calls Meadow, but I pretend not to hear. We get to wander around for like, two minutes before Mrs. B claps her hands and tells us we have to go onto an activity. I whine and stomp my feet. She says we might get to come back after lunch. I ball up my fists and follow the class to the special activity room. Meadow is already sitting at a table. Her sparkly pink shoes are floating in the air. Her Mom is right beside her. “Sit with your buddies, class!” says Mrs. B so I wave goodbye to Seth and sit at Meadow’s little table. There are coloring sheets and crayons. “Alright, everyone gets a Triceratops color by number sheet,” Mrs. B says as she holds up her example, “And crayons. Now, each number on the page belongs to a special color.” Mrs. B points to the leaf on the sheet labeled with the number 1 as she says, “One is green. So pick any green you want and color it in.” “And number two is brown,” she holds up another crayon. “Black is three, blue is four, and five is yellow. There’s a reminder of what colors to use at the bottom of the sheet. When you are done with your drawing please turn it into me and I will give you a free coloring sheet,” Mrs. B promises as she grabs a stack of coloring sheets and I notice a T-Rex which looks really cool. The class has started talking and Mrs. B claps her hands, “One, two, three eyes on me!” “One, two, eyes on you!” we shout back. “Thank you. Now, we are practicing our numbers so if you get confused ask your adult for help, OK?” “Ok,” we promise. “Now, you may start,” she says with a big smile. I look down at my picture and start to color in the leaves of the plant. I use my crayon to outline the black edges just like Mama does because her art is always so pretty. Then, I color in the blue sky and start to work on the triceratops’ body and tail which are both brown. I notice that Meadow has a yellow crayon in her hand and she’s about to put it on the Triceratops’ body! “Hey, Meadow,” I say, while not letting go of my black crayon which I am using to color in the spikes on its head. “The body isn’t yellow; the sun is,” I say while leaning over and pointing so she can see. “Oh, thanks,” she says before setting the crayon down and changing to the brown one. I finish my drawing and give it to Mrs. B. She gives me a big smile and says I can pick a sheet to color all on my own. I pick the T-Rex. When I get back to the table, I notice that Meadow is almost done with her coloring. She leaves and I pick up the purple marker to color in my T-Rex. It’s a bit warm, but that’s ok. Meadow comes back and asks me what my favorite dinosaur is. I explain all the reasons why I love the T-Rex. It makes her smile. “Wanna eat lunch together?” she offers. I nod my head and hand her the purple crayon. Meadow’s mom gave her chocolate chip cookies for dessert. Mama cut my PB and J into a T-Rex shape. I also get some fish crackers and a pack of fruit snacks. “Can I have some?” asks Meadow as she points to my fruit snack pack. “Sure,” I say, “After I eat my sandwich.” I take a couple bites before adding, “And only if I get one of your cookies.” Meadow nods. We share our desserts just like we promised and she tells me blue fruit snacks are her favorite. I don’t tell her they’re mine, too. I just let her have all three. It makes me a little sad ‘cause this pack had three blue snacks and they always only have one, but it’s OK ‘cause Daddy says it’s important to let girls have their favorite flavor. That’s why he always gives Mama the red M and Ms, ‘cause they’re her favorite flavor. After lunch we have to get back on the bus. The old man smiles as he opens the door. I race to seat 16 for Meadow. When she sits down I ask her what her favorite dinosaur is. Meadow still likes to talk a lot, but this time I listen the whole ride back. We have to cross railroad tracks this time and Meadow’s sister, Maggie, was right! It was so bumpy. Meadow screams so I hold her hand. It’s nice. School is over when we get back. I’m a little sad when Meadow says she and her mom are going home. I watch her walk out the door, holding her mom’s hand. I have to wait at the door with Mrs. B. Mandy approaches and I say, “That’s my babysitter.” Mrs. B opens the door and I rush into Mandy’s arms. She gives me a big hug and we walk back to her blue car. She buckles me in. “How was the field trip?” she asks once she’s back in the car, so I tell her all about the dinosaurs and Seth’s toys. “And how’s Meadow?” Mandy’s voice always gets a bit funny and squeaky when she asks about Meadow and she’s always smiling when she says Meadow’s name. I heave a big sigh. And I tell her the whole story. Mandy just smiles more when I’m done so I close my eyes ‘cause Mama says car naps are the best kind of naps and I’m really tired after listening to Meadow all day. 

s0s2z5

Flowers Bloom In Desolate Places

Then there is the legend of the Heaven Flower, the flower that blooms only in the desolation of the largest desert in the world. This rarest of all flowers blooms in the dead of night and for one hour of intense daylight it lives, and in living provides more beauty than a human mind can comprehend. The Heaven Flower is an intoxicating distillation of all that is good. No one is built to behold it in all its glory. No one is pure enough to withstand its truth. Legend has it that once every hundred years, the flower emerges from the desert sands and shines more brightly than the sun. Quite how this story came about, no one knows, for it is an unlikely tale and were it to be true, surely none who witnessed the flower in all of its heavenly glory would survive to recount its brief but wondrous visitation in the harshest of lands. A legend, a flight of fancy, or an impossible dream? Ser Philip believed that he saw beyond the unlikely veneer of such fancies. He knew that the Heaven Flower was his destiny, or at least a part of it. He had heard the story in a far-flung tavern and it had enraptured him. This tale of a mythical flower was a beginning. The much delayed start of his own story. He would find the Heaven Flower and in finding it he would discover the meaning of his life, perhaps even the meaning of life itself. Once his eyes were opened to the existence of such a wonder, his life’s purpose would be clear. When young Philip was a squire, there had been another flower. That delicately delightful flower had been a slip of a girl called Miranda. The two of them had been inseparable and although neither of them had ever voiced the words that approached the promise that lay between them, it had been there all the same. These two were meant for each other. Two peas in a pod. The fair lady and her devoted knight. Then one day, a terrible blight had visited the land and Miranda had been plucked from the earth and discarded as though she were but a single blade of inconsequential grass. Ser Philip had heard the dread news of his love’s demise, but refusing to believe it, he had returned immediately from the tourney in a neighbouring kingdom. His desertion of his master-knight had earnt him a sound thrashing, but he felt not a blow as he succumbed to a state of terrible numbness following his audience with the cold and waxy thing that Miranda had become. Having lost the spark of life that she had harboured so perfectly and beautifully, she was a sickening reminder of what had once been and now could never be. Amongst the rumours of that night were whispers of a dark and foreboding visitation. A man who was not a man stalking the ramparts of the castle before darting inside to take Miranda away forever. These stories could be nothing more than tall-tales. The wasted words of scoundrels and gossip mongers. The truth was not in those words, for no man could enter the castle, commit such an abominable deed and then slip away undetected. Not unless he had wings and had flown onto ramparts. After Miranda’s death, Ser Philip was never the same. Some say that a part of him died on that fateful day. A pitiful, sad and heartbroken sacrifice to his one true love. Nevertheless, he committed himself to the life of squire and then of knight. Never was there a more proficient warrior, but he lacked for something and that lack was apparent. No fire burned within him and his heart was but a dull and grey organ, reluctantly pumping his barely warm blood around his still grieving body. It would seem that the quest for the fabled Heaven Flower was perhaps an attempt to rekindle this flame of his, not that he could or would admit this to himself, let alone anyone else. Ser Philip was a taciturn and insular man. He had withdrawn from those around him when he was still a boy and was never for changing. When he broke the news of the quest to his faithful squire, Daniel, the man was crestfallen. Never having cut the mustard or made the grade, Daniel was never going to hold his own standard, only the flag of his master-knight. Squires are boys, and Daniel had never grown up. What he lacked was not only maturity, but also the gumption to work beyond the bare minimum. He had gravitated towards Ser Philip, because this knight was so obviously lost and his lack of lustre almost matched Daniel’s. They deserved each other, at least as far as Daniel was concerned. This consideration of the quiet and undemanding knight helped perpetuate the denial of his own sloth and laziness. Daniel kept a firm grasp of his lackadaisical ways even upon receipt of his new instructions. He was in no rush to go adventuring. This was not what he had expected from this knight, but now all was a-change. What Daniel could not understand was Ser Philip’s delivery of the news of their mission. The man himself remained cold and monotone. There was no excitement here. This was not the spirit of adventure. It was more like a visit to a grim and dour maiden aunt out of a sense of duty, and with no more than a thimbleful of devotion. There was no roar and there was no vim and vigour, and so Daniel felt all at sea. Confused and worried at what the future held. He didn’t want to go into the night and to do so quietly troubled him to a point of delirium. Nonetheless, Ser Philip set out the very next day and seeing that he had little alternative, Daniel followed. Even as he trailed behind his master-knight, Daniel considered his options. Those options depressed him being the ignominy of dishonour having failed his master-knight and the subsequent derision and exile from polite company and all other company for that matter. He would starve as he began to freeze to death. He stopped short of thinking about how his life choices were not helping him right now. His adoption of the maxim do the bare minimum, left him with few skills and abilities and the truth of his existence was that no other knight would put up with such a scruff of a slob. Daniel sighed. Ser Philip did not acknowledge the sigh even though his training as a warrior had heightened his senses and made him aware of far more than most would attend to. The man was all focus, more so in his embracing the quest that he had been made for. This was what he had been waiting for all his life. Everything before now had been mere practice. All of it. He had built himself into a knight worthy of this task and he was ready. Ready to be tested. He found that he was relishing his being tempered in the fires of this quest. Daniel missed the hint of a smile on his master-knight’s face as they rode onwards. Following a long and arduous journey, the two stopped in the small town of Santa Cruz. The town was so small and lacking in the luxuries that Daniel had been looking forward to that he could not bring himself to consider it to be a village, let alone a town. This was to be the last civilisation that they would encounter before they entered the desert itself. A sun-bleached outpost that hinted at what was to come. Having secured provisions and a room for the night, Ser Philip afforded Daniel the freedom of the town for the remainder of the evening, preferring himself to sip at his carafe of water and contemplate the trials to come. “Yeah, thanks for nothing,” Daniel grizzled as he ambled off in search of whatever it was the locals drank to forget this hell hole, music to drown out the sound of the complaining and moaning voices in his head and the company of a woman to help him remember that he was a man and not a spare pack horse. Eventually, he found a place that sold drink. A woman who had seen better days and better teeth grinned at him as she poured him the cloudy drink that they brewed in these parts. The liquid looked like milk that had been contaminated in unspeakable ways. It tasted worse than it looked, but there was the familiar scorching of alcohol, so it would have to do. “Leave the bottle,” he told the woman, sliding a coin across the table towards her in favour of handing her the coin. He did not relish the prospect of physical contact with her. Later, two thirds of the way down the bottle, he would change his mind and he would more than relish it, having asked her about the possibility of younger versions of herself, weighing up the pros and cons of those bad teeth compared to the gnashers of his mule. He never stopped to consider just how much of the vile fermented milk drink the woman had had to consume before she considered laying with him to be a good idea. UP! Daniel dreamt the word, but he felt the slap outside of his dreams, struggling to unglue his gummy eyes and attach meaning to his senses, he squirmed on the straw lined crib. “I said up!” cried Ser Philip, “the day has long dawned you useless bag of skin!” Daniel opened his eyes in time to see the face of his master-knight moving into clear and intimate view. Ser Philip had a hold of his shirt and had hauled him to a sitting position, “you are here to serve me, you drunken son of a weak minded goat! If you fail me, I will use your arse to sharpen my lance!” Daniel’s eyes were now as wide as plates and he was nodding feverishly, the possibility of a hangover now rescheduled to another life, “yes, Ser! Right you are, Ser! Right away, Ser!” Ser Philip growled. Daniel bolted across the room and was a one-man hive of activity. He had never seen Ser Philip like this. The man had been transformed overnight. A furnace had been lit and now, Daniel was the squire of a master-knight in the mould of the knights of old. This was a force to be reckoned with. The proverbial one man army. It was said that a master-knight in his prime was worth a thousand foot soldiers or more, Daniel no longer doubted this. Not one bit. The sun beat down upon them as they left Santa Cruz. Daniel did not look back, he did not dare. He would not risk being found lacking. All the same, he felt eyes upon him and knew that one pair of those eyes were those of the old woman. He envisioned her and as her face came to mind he felt a pang. He would not exactly miss her, but she was the symbol of the life he was leaving and he was already missing that. He doubted he would return, and that gave him a moment of morose contemplation. The desert swallowed them up and the heat built and built. The horse and mule gave forth with sad utterances. Those sounds chilled Daniel as he watched Ser Philip’s back. The master-knight was a statue. Their progress in the deep and unrelenting sands was slow, but Ser Philip was relentless. He had set himself against this place and the fierce sun, and he was not for faltering. That night, Daniel shivered in the inexplicable, creeping cold. His body had been cooked all day, but when the sun slipped away so did all of the heat. There was a short period of relief from the trials and tribulations of the day, but then the cold seeped into him and he battled the terror of his limbs becoming numb and never returning to him. All the same, sleep eventually took his exhausted form. The morning came via rude motion. Ser Philip shook the man like a terrier shakes a rat in his jaws. They were up and away in a matter of moments, Daniel chewing on dried meat that took the moisture from his mouth and left his mouth dry for the rest of the day. His eyes hurt, but the hurt went well beyond his eyes. There was a trick being played here. The featureless desert was a never ending expanse of nothingness, and yet it was doing something to his eyes. It was latching onto them and now the contours of sand were bending this way and that, twisting his mind out of shape. He felt his breath becoming laboured and he would have cried if he had any tears left in his head. The sun had taken them long ago. He felt his lips cracking and bleeding as his mouth formed the shape of a silent scream. Then his mule stumbled and he fell unceremoniously to the sands. A merciful shadow fell over him. He felt it and opened his eyes, “we’ll have to walk from here,” Ser Philip told him. “I can’t,” Daniel told him, and he thought he might even mean it. The sun and burning sands had leeched his life from him and now, as he lay there, he didn’t think he had it in him to get up. He was dead barring a few minor technicalities. “Then you are dead,” Ser Philip told him, as though he had read the man’s broiled mind. Daniel nodded, it would be blissful to close his eyes and drift into sleep. He was a man who had always been fond of sleep and he was reconciled with a demise that was as simple and easy as easing himself into slumber. Ser Philip curtly returned the nod and walked away. There was nothing to be done. He could not help his squire, unless his squire helped himself. Leaving his dying horse and carrying what provisions he could, the knight walked deeper into the desert. Later, were a hawk to fly over the corpse of the squire, it would see several interlaced circles of foot prints. The delirious man had tried to leave the desert, but had not managed to get more than a few yards from his deceased mule. Soon enough, the both of them would be nothing more than a few bleached bones that would in time be swallowed up by the sands of the desert. Now, time lost all meaning for Ser Philip. He travelled in the bosom of the infinite and with every step, he shed an unnecessary piece of himself. As he did so, he found an inner peace that spoke to him of the simplicity of an existence uncluttered by the noise and nonsense that people accumulate and draw to themselves in a foolhardy attempt at defending them from the truth of who they really are. At the point at which his provisions were exhausted, Ser Philip saw things for what they were and he let go of the last of the things he had valued and in that moment, he understood. This was the quest. He was the quest. He had needed the desert to strip it all away. To take from him all that was not needed. Now he was pure. Was he the bloom? He thought that might be the case, and yet he walked some more, for walking was good. The simple act of putting one foot in front of the other and creating the momentum of life. That was when he saw it. In the dying embers of the sun, the single stem and the closed bud of a flower. He knew it for what it was. He ran towards it, shedding what little clothes he still wore. Barely aware that he was doing so, but understanding that he must be naked in the presence of such beauty. He bore himself towards the miracle on feet that barely touched the sand, his heart filled with an elation that threatened to burst it. Then his way was blocked. A bewinged armour clad knight barred the way. The impossible was being denied by the improbable. Ser Philip did not falter and he did not slow, he launched himself at the dread warrior and grappled with he would deny him everything. He fought with an inhuman strength that was matched by the anonymous warrior, and as they wrestled with each other, Ser Philip experienced a growing desire to know who it was that he was locked in battle with. As this curious desire grew, so did his unease. This built and built until he knew that he must unmask his foe. He must discover the identity of the enemy who would deny him everything, but try as he might, he could not get his hand to the visor of that helmet. The two of them fought and fought until the sun returned, and not once did Ser Philip see the face of his adversary, nor did he catch a glimpse of the fabled Heaven Flower. The sun rose and he knew that he had precious little time left to him, and so he gave everything he had left, he tore at the man before him using every ounce of strength he had left to him. He committed himself and his last breath to the defeat of this man and in one glorious moment he grasped the visor of the helmet and tore if open. In that moment he saw everything, and he understood it all. He froze in the rising desert sun, gazing down upon the bloom and the glory of the rare and precious Heaven Flower consumed him.

pyg815

Compromises

    Fiery red wings flutter agitated, the tips transition from a bright red to burning orange and ending in an effervescent yellow, patterned and striated like the hissing motions of fire. A feathery body of deep crimson red coming into the size of an eagle. An s-shaped neck like a flamingo or goose, and a series of long flowing tail feathers colored reminiscent of the wing patterns. They were longer than the body, and despite this, he flew gracefully. He was a majestic creature, a Phoenix, and last of his kind. And in his talons was a silver platter, and in it, what gave the Sun to the realms. “Duke! Avel!” A woman shouted as the bird flew in closer to her. The Goddess of Fire, lost in a Necrotic Forest without her spouse. “Found the Sun? Well, we gotta get it back to the Altar in the Tree of Life.” She said cheerfully, leaning back as she extended her black wings before adjusting a sturdy chest plate made of a nearly chrome-like metal.     “Just need to get out of the Kingdom of the Diseased.” She muttered to herself solemnly as the bird hovered above her, with the Goddess taking the platter of liquid Sun and then set it on the ground, kneeling on one knee as she removed a leather satchel and took out a container. Almost a metal flask or vial she could seal off, she poured the liquid Sun as it radiated a pure, almost holy and immaculate light, watching the ethereal fluid glisten in the chromed vial. Once full she screwed a cap on, and slid it into a pocket on her leather pants. “Stuffs hot Duke.” She said as her companion stretched his neck out and put it against her shoulder as she chuckled. “Still won’t answer me who stole it this time. If it is Yalun’s father again then we’ll have to have a talk. Still, what’s that, the Kingdom of the Diseased? Eh, alright, alright Duke, we’ll talk to them.”     Goddess of Fire and the Hunt, Tailka Ogonyon, the last Phoenixborne. Tasked with guarding the only source of light, the only way for crops to grow, and the single most powerful source of magic for the Twelve Kingdoms. It seems everyone wants to steal the Sun and use its power. Yet, Tailka is used to this, she has seen it before, five times in fact. And every time she learns a bit more about the realm she lives in. “Avel, avel!” She said as Duke’s nearly five foot wingspan was on full display, beating his wings and squawking as he took off into the air. Tailka chuckled as she followed the bird through a forest lit up by the moon. Trees with a rotting black bark, the ground corrupted by fungal growth, and the air unwelcoming.     The Kingdom of the Diseased, those who lived here, well, were sick. A disease of the Soul. Like a city of lepers they lived in fear, they lived in agony. Neglected by the other Kingdoms, their lives were lonely. The forest got thicker, and large mushrooms could be seen kissing the canopy sky. And as Tailka watched the fiery bird above soar, she saw him come down to a clearing where she thought she could see smoke. Her black wings unfurled as they began to flutter quickly, and she took off, knowing where she was at.     Grodon, their one true city. Walls made out of logs of living mushroom trunks, with a larger foundation made out of cobblestones mortared together with dirt. She could smell the smoke, breathing it in as she did from her volcanic home in the Kingdom of the Sun. She began to flutter her wings, beating them harder and harder. Slowly those black wings lifted her up into the air as she soared over the walls and met up with her companion.  “Quite the sight isn’t it? Gotta meet up with Valya, maybe she can be honest and straight-forward. One witch to another ya know.” She chuckled as their eyes landed upon the crown jewel of the Kingdom of Disease, Valana's Keep.     Where every other building is mossy, moldy, covered in fungal growth, Valana's Keep was ornate, made of porcelain marble with delicate painting work and artisanal decorations. Sure there were the overgrown mushrooms protruding from the lower floors and even one spiraling up the center spire, but it felt like it belonged. The majestic blue star mushroom, every once-in-a-while one stumbling through the Necrotic Forest will find one of these cork-screw bodied behemoths, towering above the canopy, with small bioluminescent bulbs hanging by long strands of mycelium. They cultivated them, using them as lanterns, lighting up the city beneath Tailka and Duke. “Od Hayla, it is beautiful, isn’t it?” “Yeah it is, Tal, what are you doing here? And is that Duke? Oooh, I haven't seen him in so long!” A young woman said as Tailka smiled, watching from the castle a woman on a sorghum broomstick, the bristles facing forwards, and the handle going behind her, floated on over. Wearing dark green robes with a brown hood and cape, her blonde hair mostly covered though strands of it stick out from across her forehead with a dark green witch’s hat to boot.     Tailka smiled in excitement, though declined a hug when Valana offered one. “Vala, I need to speak with King Syphus, Duke found the Sun here.” “Tal, he actually wants to talk to you too!” Valana said and Tailka nodded. “I’d give you a hug but given the fire goddess thing, I’m afraid I’m going to burn you if I touch you. But Duke seems so happy to see you!” Tailka chuckled boisterously as Duke landed on the shoulder of Valana, his long neck wrapping around hers as he gave a hiss. “Such a strange creature Phoenixes are! It…it…it is a shame what happened to them. An immortal species somehow extinguished.” She held back tears and tried to find something to be happy about, smiling, chuckling even, as Duke untangled his neck and leaned it against hers. “But you’re lucky to have him!” She said, as Duke almost squawked in agreement.     The two flew to the balcony of Valana's castle. Landing and being met by the dull natural lighting of mushroom lanterns. “Our apologies for borrowing the Sun. We needed it momentarily.” A jagged and sharp voice pierced the air as Tailka turned around. “Syphus, you need to talk to me first, why did you take it anyways?” Syphus sighed and shook his head in negation. “You do realize how powerful the Sun is right? You can’t just take it.” She added on seeing Syphus lower his head. “Our people rarely see the light as-is. The Sun never rises here, and it feels so good on us. Our skin is welted and covered in bumps and warts. Hayla blessed you and Valana with smooth, whole skin. We, we’re just hideous abominations. And yet, I wouldn’t want it any other way.”     Tailka was taken back, curling her wings as she landed on the beautiful wooden floor and slowly approached. “If it is comfort you want, the ash of a Phoenix can help. I can provide ten feathers, simply burn them in a high enough heat and they’ll catch on fire and turn to ash. It is easy to dilute into water or soap.” “Yes but the light helps the luminescent mushrooms too! The Sun being here makes the shroomlights glow so brightly!” Tailka nodded as she thought. “How long does it take and how long until they need to be ‘charged’ eh, so-to-speak?” She asked as Syphus thought. “It has been three days and the city is ablaze! I’ve never seen it so lit up! And as for how long before we need the Sun again? I’m quite unsure.” “Well we can experiment. Mychor Whale oil from the Kingdom of the Frosts, or the Kingdom of the Seas, burns brighter and for longer. I’ve almost convinced them to enjoy wormroot vines that grow beneath the Kingdoms in the Kingdom of the Caves. So many flavors you know. Anyways, Whale Oil for a large supply of shrooms is a good trade if you ask me, seeing that you grow so many mushrooms you practically make your homes out of them!”     Syphus smiled eagerly. “Oh Wormroot is what we prefer, and Liverlung fungus! Tastes like liver and lung! The Black Pot fungus is quite good for tea, oooh and the green oak fungus that grows on the moldy oaks has a fruity almost melon like flavor!” Tailka smirked eagerly as she looked at Syphus. “Okay, so how about we make a deal? The Kingdom of the Mines, which their entrance isn’t far from here, can be a liaison between the Kingdom of the Frosts and you guys. You trade mushrooms, they provide Mychor Whale oil for lanterns!”     Syphus pondered this, his mind running through the requirements. “It’d be a massive change in lifestyle. For the Two of us! But….but I…I think as King it is my choice and yet the choice of my people, but our people will probably accept.” Tailka smiled, and began to cool herself off, nervously reaching her hand out. “If my hand is burning hot just let go. My apologies, it's hard to control my temperature.” Tailka sighed reluctantly, nervously holding her hand. She was about to reel her hand back but Syphus reached out and shook it quite firmly, smiling. “All we ask of you is the feathers, and speak with the Ice King about our deal!” “Yeah, I’m on my way to return the Sun, and then speak with the Ice Queen.”     Tailka turned to Valana as she leaned against the wooden panel wall near the balcony. “Well, ‘Auria, Goddess of Fire’ you better be good on your promise.” “Yeah, I am. Since me and Yalun became God’s we’ve been trying to fix these twelve messy Kingdoms. “You cannot fix the Kingdom of War, or the Kingdom of Sands. Hell, the Kingdom of the Dead and those damn racist elves who run the Kingdom of Merchants ain’t going to break.” “But I’m willing to try. Words speak more than violence you know.” Tailka gave in, leaning in and hugging Valana before opening her wings and taking off with Duke. “Well, time to meet my wife. How do you think ‘Friea, Goddess of Ice’ is doing huh Duke?” She chuckled, hearing the bird make a squeal almost like it was chuckling.     When she departed the Necrotic Forest she was met to a golden prairie, endless fields of what as they flew towards a large tree at the center. The trunk was massive, bigger than any man, bigger than any troll, bigger than any God. The tree was like a nation, a country, with breadth and width, depth and height. The world surrounds this tree, and within it the Sun is supposed to rest peacefully. Traveling into the trunk following winding corridors, she made it to the center, the center of her realm, the center of her world. She removed the silver platter, set it on a gold inlaid marble altar and then the vial of the liquid Sun, pouring it in as light began to radiate out and from the tree, the Sun was restored to the Kingdom.     Echoing behind Tailka were footsteps, and she quickly turned, drawing her aiodium maces, the metal being the same one her chest plate is made out of. “Look, I just restored the Sun, I don’t want to deal with another theft.” “Seriously Tal, you’re real uptight.” A woman said as Tailka lowered her maces and breathed a sigh of relief. “Alright Yalun, we need to talk.” “Right? About?” She said as Duke took off from Tailka’s shoulders and flew toward Yalun, hovering above her before landing on her right shoulder and snaking his head across to her left shoulder, cooing like a dove. “He-he. He likes you mea.” Tailka said as she crossed her arms. “Look I need you to talk to your father, Salun, eh, so Kingdom of the Diseased stole the Sun, I got it back thanks to Duke, talked with Syphus and he can provide a trade deal. Mychor Whale oil in exchange for their edible mushrooms. Trust me, they are good. That way you don’t have to rely on the sun for only one part of the year and not the entire year.” “Tal, that is a good idea. I don’t know though. But I’ll talk with my father.” Yalun sighed as Tailka smiled.     The two held hands but steam began to radiate off of them. They let go, and chuckled. “You’re doing everything you can for the Kingdoms. Maybe Hayla is right, maybe peace will come to the Twelve Kingdoms at last.” “Peace? You really think that? How do you find peace with a Kingdom that believes in war, worships it like his life depends on it. Worst of all, he’s my father.” “You do things peacefully, and yet you’re not afraid to fight.” “My father killed me a few years ago when I tried to talk to him.” “Just put them to the side. Unite the reset of the Kingdoms. Eleven against one, and possibly the rest of the Gods. That is all it takes.” “I have to convince so many Kingdoms, and yet, I feel, I feel I can do it.” The two Gods turned to leave, with Duke in pursuit. “So, who is next?” Yalun asked with a smile as Tailka began to cackle. “Your father, then the Kingdom of the Dead.”

qq0nzh

The Old Masters

The ancient Pyramids of Giza are said to have been built over four thousand years ago. They tower over the Egyptian sands, the Great Pyramid taller than a thirty-floor building and nearly twice as wide. The pyramids are a massive necropolis where the old pharaohs were laid to eternal rest alongside their devotees with the expectation of becoming gods. They were constructed with great effort and care, each stone block weighing between two and thirty tons. Our best and brightest still haven’t been able to figure out how the ancient Egyptians were able to move these blocks, much less to stack them perfectly to form a grand pyramid. Dr. Cleo Helena wrote each note down carefully in her field journal as the wagon full of researchers approached the excavation site. Writing things down allowed her to make room for all the new bits of information she was about to cram into her mind. The carriage finally stopped at the base of the pyramid. Cleo realized she had been holding her breath as she took in the sight. It was truly even more spectacular in person. She was fortunate enough to be one of the first people to go through this newly-discovered entrance to the pyramid in thousands of years. She had to pinch herself to remember that she wasn’t dreaming. This was Cleo’s first exhibition since she had visited Teotihuacan last year. A member of her team had uncovered a compartment lining one of the pyramids with liquid mercury. While everyone was busy theorizing about its purpose, Cleo had dug into the volcanic rock and found a collection of strange, golden orbs. She picked one up with wide, hungry eyes. It opened to reveal that its core was empty, perhaps meant to hold something in place long ago. She put one in her pocket before alerting the group to the rest of the orbs in the ground. Today, she carried that golden orb in her pocket. She slipped her hand in her pocket and squeezed it tightly for good luck before stepping into the chamber. A slight breeze swirled the golden sands around her ankles as she walked in. She took a deep breath as she took in the view. This was her favorite part: the moment when her eyes finally fell on the art and inscriptions on the interior walls. She imagined ancient Egyptians walking through these corridors and chiseling entire life stories into the walls. If she squinted, the reflection of her flashlight on the walls made the pictographs look like they were dancing. The careful lines of paint and mosaics of precious gems almost appeared to sparkle. Cleo could have sworn that she really did see some of them sparkle out of the corner of her eye. She could barely take her eyes off the artworks spanning from floor to ceiling. The sparkle in the corner of her eye got brighter. She turned to find a faint glowing light blinking under a thin sheet of sand. The rest of the group had advanced deeper into the corridors while Cleo had been admiring the beauty of the walls in front of her. She could hear the light tapping of hammers on chisels and sneezes from the ancient clouds of dust in the next chamber. She spun her head around to confirm that she was alone before bending down to inspect it. Her hands brushed away the layer of sand to find what appeared to be a glowing crystal. Its purple light pulsed and brightened as she approached it. She grabbed it with wide eyes and a growing list of questions about how this crystal was possibly being powered. Humans would not harness the power of electricity for thousands of years after this tomb was sealed. She shook her head. It was a common human fault to only consider a single line of technological evolution, the one that led to the technology we have today. It’s hard for most people to think of other paths to the future than the ones paved right in front of them, but Cleo hadn’t really felt like most people since Teotihuacan. She carefully held the crystal in her left hand as she probed it with her right hand. This was unlike anything she had ever seen. She must have been staring at it for a few minutes when she heard a chorus of shouts in the next chamber. She could hear the sound of sandals slapping on the ground toward her, but she wasn’t ready to share her discovery with the group. She tried hiding the crystal in her pocket, but the glow was impossible to cover even through her thick khaki pants. She had a crazy, desperate thought. She took the golden orb out of her pocket and pried it open. Its empty core seemed to be about the size of the crystal. She shoved the crystal into the orb and silently cheered when it managed to close. She managed to slip the orb with its new, glowing, crystal into her pocket right as her colleague came barging in. He took a minute to catch his breath despite the short jog over. “Cleo—phew, give me a second. Okay. We found some kind of door, at least, that’s what we think it is. It looks like it has been sealed since this tomb was completed. But—well, just come with me. It’s easier if you just see it for yourself.” She followed the young man through the winding corridors and into the chamber where the rest of the team was waiting. They were all crowded around the door. It had to be at least twice as large as the biggest blocks at the base of the pyramid. A linguist broke from the crowd and approached her. “I just needed another set of trained eyes to confirm for us all that the inscription on this door is in modern Egyptian Arabic.” Cleo furrowed her brow. She must have heard that incorrectly. This tomb was thousands of years old, so old that Queen Cleopatra herself would have considered it ancient. Surely this was graffiti from some young locals who had discovered the tomb on their own — but this tomb was sealed. There were ancient traps found undisturbed and a complete lack of flora or fauna inside it. They were the first living beings to walk these halls since they were built. The crowd of researchers parted like the Red Sea to reveal the inscription carved into the enormous block of limestone. Cleo was a bit rusty with her Arabic, but the message was clear. The characters carved into the door read: “Arrive, build, repeat.” She stepped forward to inspect it more closely. She could see the ancient chisel marks that created these characters over two thousand years before humans first put them to use. How could this be? She looked incredulously at the linguist. He could only nod back at her in bewildered agreement. The orb felt like it was getting hotter in her pocket, but she figured she was just imagining things. It was probably a weird manifestation of guilt for not sharing the crystal with the team. It started burning hotter, enough that she could no longer ignore it. She yelped as the orb burnt a hole through her pocket and landed on the ground in the middle of the circle of researchers. Their jaws hung open at the sight of the now glowing, golden relic. When Cleo bent down to grab the orb, it flew up and zipped toward the door. It slowed to a stop and gently landed on the last word. The glow appeared to pour out from the crystal to fill the carvings on the door like purple rivers. The ceiling above the group started to tremble and rain dust on their heads as the stone door shifted itself back and away into the darkness. They stepped in as the ceiling began to glow purple, illuminating what they could now see was an impossibly large chamber. It simply didn’t make sense according to the scans done and measurements taken of the pyramid. The purple glow above reflected off of hundreds, if not thousands, of sarcophagi carefully laid out on various surfaces around the room. An old woman wearing small, circular eyeglasses was less concerned with the technological mystery overhead than with the countless relics in front of them. She stepped away from the others, still frozen in place, to inspect the coffins and asked the linguist to help her read the hieroglyphs, which were interlaced with those same Arabic characters: “Arrive, build, repeat.” He got quite excited once he had a chance to squint over the pictographs. “These are telling elaborate stories about how the pyramids were built, in greater detail than we’ve ever been able to find,” he gasped. The old woman asserted that this was a tomb for the pyramid workers, just like others they had found in the past, and the group quickly agreed. It was easier than admitting they had stumbled upon something truly unexplainable. She slid the cover off of a sarcophagus with a grunt and shone her flashlight inside. She stared inside with widening eyes. She was mesmerized by whatever was inside and impervious to the questions being yelled at her from twenty feet away. Cleo ran over and looked in. She screamed. Inside lay a skeleton. Not a human skeleton, but a, well, they didn’t really know. It had limbs twice as long as they should be and its bones — if you can call them that — looked to be held together with a webbed connective tissue made of the same material. Cleo hoped they would find a well-preserved, mummified form of whatever this was so she could do some anatomical studies, but even these dusty remains threatened everything they knew and believed in. This warped skeletal formation could only be described as truly grotesque. The oddest part about it was the skull, though. It was shaped just like their own human skulls, though significantly larger, but was made of pure crystal. Cleo could hear it hum when the group’s chatter finally stopped. The humming turned into a low voice that whispered hello and the researchers jumped. The old woman frowned. Her back hurt and she had been expecting to be back in her cot by now. She called out impatiently, “Who’s there?” “What really matters is that you are here,” a disembodied voice responded calmly. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once. Everyone jumped. Half the researchers screamed. “You are here,” the voice continued, “but I am not. I am sure you have no idea how this is possible given your primitive civilization. First, thank you for reactivating one of our Central Devices.” The crowd looked at Cleo. She could only look at them blankly and shrug. She just wanted a chance to figure out the artifacts alone before weighing herself down with the curiosity of others. She wasn’t trying to open some sort of extraterrestrial connection. It continued, “Congratulations, you were the first of your species here on this planet to make contact with us despite several millennia of coordinating your societal development.” The researchers all looked at each other with confused faces. The old woman piped up first. She asked again, more impatiently now, who was speaking. The voice replied, “I am Osiris, one of the Masters. Our kind keeps your kind on track to hit all of your societal milestones. We are caretakers for humanity to make sure it develops and progresses in the way it needs to in order to support life.” The voice jumped to the sarcophagus they had opened. “I have ascended after giving my life to construct this monument for your kind. We have always stepped in where your undeveloped species could not, though even now you lack the ability to comprehend the idea of a universal network outside your own planet. Your culture relies on the success and longevity of previous cultures to learn from. Art and culture are what keep your kind progressing forward for so long. You would rip each other to pieces without it.” A new voice now boomed throughout the room. “As the discovery was made today in celestial year 4.6B, our calculations have been proven to be correct. We have finally enabled you to build your own forms of our language and have equipped you with our tools — at least the ones we felt you were able to handle. Humanity must sustain itself from now on. It is time to shift focus onto the next planet where your kind is just starting to blossom.” The first voice returned by Cleo’s head next to the open sarcophagus. “We have arrived and built for the last time on your world. You shall not expect a return.”  “Goodbye,” the voices whispered in unison. The silence pierced the air until all anyone could hear was the low hum of the otherworldly crystals. Cleo remembered how she felt standing in Teotihuacan with the orb in her pocket. It’s how she felt now: deeply uncertain of whatever the universe had in store for her next. The orb made her question what else was out there. The crystal taught her to question who else was out there. Now, she was the harbinger of the potential downfall of humanity. Certainly, no one in this room would ever bet on humanity in the race to eternity. There must be an error in the Masters’ calculations. Surely, they would return. They need to return. We have too many unanswered questions in this half-baked civilization we call Earth for them to simply leave. Who else was out there? Are we really not only not alone, but actually mere parsecs away from our own kin in parallel worlds? Cleo’s head hurt from all the questions. She slumped down against the open sarcophagus and felt the humming get louder between her ears. It soothed her like a familiar lullaby. Maybe they would be okay after all. Or maybe this was the beginning of the end. Who knew? She sure didn’t. She couldn’t even tell what tomorrow had in store for her, much less for the fate of humanity. She opened her notebook and started writing down everything she could remember from the past few hours. She furiously scribbled words onto the page like they were about to disappear forever. The humming in her head got louder as she filled the pages. With her thoughts dumped into her journal, she finally felt ready to walk out of the chamber. Walking outside meant facing tomorrow. It meant a new world order for humanity to sculpt on its own.

rq9kgq

The Pale Goddess of Our Dreams

NEW YORK, NY: From the beginning we thought we knew the script by heart. The cryptic clandestine warning given only to those in our highest government ranks. Ominous alien ships casting shadows on city streets from above and attracting throngs of mesmerized pedestrian onlookers, exiting cafes and office buildings. The ships showing instant aggression, releasing smaller pods, which waste no time vaporizing an innocent onlooker. Shrill screams ring out: “Aaaahhhhh!!” Someone points to the ship and yells, “Run!” Cars stranded in sudden gridlock are abandoned. People scramble chaotically in every direction. The camera pans to news reports on a television in a deli, conspicuously tuned to various news stations, the world over, letting us know this is a worldwide attack. A mother abandons her car, drops her Louis Vuitton purse, has one of her high-heeled Dior shoes jammed in a stormwater grate, and leaves both behind, as she frantically grabs her child’s hand and drags the kid down the stairs of a nearby subway station, trying to get her family to safety. But it never happened. Something appeared in the sky alright. But that is where the similarities end. There was no warning by NASA that alien ships had been detected to make for a dramatic build-up, no ominous landing to heighten tensions, no disruption of our communication satellites to demonstrate how impossibly outmatched we were, and no vaporizing lasers to outrun. They were just there. A million ships—who could count them all. They blipped into the skies in the twinkling of an eye. The ships were silver balls that looked almost like jingly Christmas bells. They had a small seam or foil around the middle that was saucer-like, and along the bottom were crossed stripes with bulb-like openings toward the middle—just like jingle bells have. They were roughly the size of Spaceship Earth at Epcot—not small, but not so huge as to throw all earthly proportions out the window. These cross-hatched areas on the hull of the ships contained pulsing lights that blinked in greens, blues, yellows, and reds. The ships hovered for a moment, and then unceremoniously descended to their landing stations, in a gradual and disarming manner. Three tripod-like-legs reached to the ground from each ship and perched them all in place. * * * EDWARDS, CALIFORNIA: I was at Edwards Air Force Base with Connie, where we had been going over a test plan for the newest model of the NGAD fighter jet. By the way, NGAD stands for Next Generation Air Dominance. Wasn’t that a joke. Connie said, “Doug ‘Dogsbody’ Bader, recent graduate of baby pilot’s school, and destined to forever fly the safest flight plans and have all throttles, controls, and flight settings perfectly adjusted by his crack co-pilot—the best in the business.” “Ok, Connie. I get it. You are the real hero of this story.” Connie was my flight test engineer, and I was a naval flight officer of Lieutenant rank, whose entire family was ex-navy or air force. All I wanted was to be the youngest to make Captain on my detail and finally get some combat experience under my belt. Connie thought bigger picture and used to quote the Art of War where it says, “To win one hundred victories in one hundred battles is not the acme of skill. To subdue the enemy without fighting is the acme of skill.” Connie had other Yoda-like quotes that she sprinkled into conversation to pour cold water on my ambitions. I had begun to suspect she was a closet pacifist. But she would probably make Admiral while I soldiered away in obscurity and failed to meet my goals, just like I failed to heed orders. Or maybe she was a traitorous Lago in a sweet disguise, after all, manipulating me like a marionette and thwarting my ambitions at every turn. You can imagine our surprise when Rear Admiral Colonel Mickey Davidson appeared in the hanger an hour before pre-flight inspections were set to begin. “Uhh, sorry if I woke you two. But we have a situation,” Admiral Davidson said as we saluted, and the Admiral saluted back halfheartedly. “What seems to be the matter, Admiral,” I asked. “I don’t know how to say this. But we’ve been invaded by aliens.” “That’s good sir, very funny--now what is it?” “Aliens, son. Hand to God.” “When did this happen, Admiral,” Connie asked. “About ten minutes ago. The report will be going out on the PA shortly, but I have a mission for you two. I hope you don’t mind Connie, but you’ll have to throw on a G-suit and go up with this ground pounder. Make sure he doesn’t accidentally initiate a war-of-the-worlds.” “I can babysit the zoomie, but what’s the mission, Admiral?” “Reconnaissance.” *** GENEVA, SWITZERLAND: Dr. Fabiana Giancarlo had been sitting at her desk at her corner office suite in the upper offices above the Large Hadron Collider (LHC) when Luk had called her down to inspect a magnet quench in sections 3 and 4. The dark corridors of the tunnel were lit by overhead fluorescent lights. It reminded her of the two narrow shoots of the Holland Tunnel in New York City. Fabiana donned a white hardhat and rode a one-speed Schwinn bicycle with a front-side basket through the tunnels toward where she was to meet Luk, calling to her mind the scene in the Wizard of Oz where the Wicked Witch rode a bicycle in the cyclone. What a day she was having! The long line of segmented particle accelerators appeared to her as a giant Ouroboros. She thought of the strange dreams of the Chemist, August Kekulé, who saw that mysterious symbol and awoke to solve the chemical structure of benzene. Atomicity and valency sprung from a single dream, which in turn unlocked the vision of dynamic atoms and molecules, which drew into focus the weirdness of the microcosm and murky quantum mechanics, which for all its quirks looked oddly like the celestial plane in miniature—like a tiny constellation of stars. It haunted Fabiana to think that if the macrocosm was filled with life, as now appeared to be the case, then was the microcosm also teaming with life, which could be destroyed just as pitilessly by their mundane experiments? Was she the real destroyer of worlds—ignorant of the massacres she was committing? Or was it possible that she would magnify these demons and bring them forth in our world? She wondered where the boundary of science’s stable conceits finally ended and gave way to unbridled magic. Kekulé had written poetically, “I turned my chair towards the fire and dozed. Again the atoms were gambolling before my eyes… all twining and twisting in snakelike motion. But look! What was that? One of the snakes had seized hold of its own tail, and the form whirled mockingly before my eyes.” And so, in the wake of visions of snakes, sausages and molecular charts, a few scientists had dreamed a further dream of cataloguing the irreducible subatomic world—which with every discovery became smaller and vaster still. If only Kekulé could have known that protons could be smashed as if by a hammer and their shattered pieces seen by human eyes! Fabiana was haunted by the vision she’d seen two days ago, after which she changed the settings and ran the collider successfully, achieving a result she’d never hoped for. But at what cost? Luk said, “It’s like what happened in 2008, but worse.” Breaking hard and putting her arms akimbo as she balanced on one leg, Fabiana said, “What?” “We’ve got radiation and magnetic leaking.” “No, no we don’t!” “Afraid we do Doctor.” * * * CASTEL GANDOLFO, ROME, ITALY: The nametags on the dais read: Ross Coulthart, Investigative Reporter, David Grusch, Intelligence Officer, Pasquale Borgomeo, Vatican Radio, and Brother Guy Consolmagno, Pope’s Astronomer. The learned guests were seated in a circular assembly room, with some reporters with cameras and microphones kneeling or sitting in the central area. A large statue of Shiva like the one at CERN was at the front of the room at the head of the table, where Brother Guy sat. “Nonhuman biologics,” David Grusch said. “Officer, do you believe these are the same aliens that have shown up at our door,” Ross Coulthart asked. “Who can say,” David said. “But let us remember, God proves science, not the other way around,” said Guy Consolmagno. “Indeed, they are our brothers every bit as much as the saints,” said Pasquale Borgomeo. And like a scene from King Arthur’s Court, where the Green Knight appears to present the challenge of a Christmas Game, two aliens in long black robes and clean bald heads, that otherwise looked like Hollywood actors strode into the televised roundtable event and stood directly in the middle of the assembly. One of them spoke: “We have much to discuss, but first we must ask for a favor.” “First, what are your names,” Coulthart asked. “Ohh. You’d never be able to pronounce them,” the male said. And then with a sly smile he said, “You can call me Carey Grant.” And the female shot up to say, “And I’ll go by Audrey Hepburn.” The group of scientists, journalists, and priests looked at one another in shock. One doesn’t expect their gods to covet personas from Hollywood’s Golden Age. And everyone assembled for the event immediately doubted the wisdom of these far-off travelers. * * * The sound of the B-52H Stratofortress Bomber was like the low rumbling of thunder before the lightning reached your location with sharp crackling rattles. “Dogsbody, your target is Castel Gandolfo in Rome. Deploy the nukes.” “You can’t be serious,” I said into the comm. “Afraid so Dogsbody. Orders from the commander-in-chief.” “But sir—” “You wanted battle duty, son. Well, this is what it looks like,” Rear Admiral Davidson said in a stern tone, but I could hear his voice crack as he tried to maintain composure. It occurred to me that the commander-in-chief was senile and probably couldn’t remember what he had for breakfast if the fate of the world hung in the balance—which it did. I turned to Connie and flipped off the comms. “We aren’t really going to do this, right?” “Orders are orders,” she said. But we were supersonic, and her face was squeezed to the seat like a lemon which made it hard to take her seriously, and I waited for her to return to form. * * * The assembly walked out onto the long dock of Lago Albano Lake, which for all its majesty had the distinct look of a meteor’s crater. Brother Guy Consolmagno, the Pope’s Astronomer, with his professorial mien and stately gray beard, dressed in a friar’s frock and Catholic collar, was waste deep in the cool blue waters of the lake. Carey and Audrey jumped into the lake holding their noses, and arose like two pink babies, with dew still on their brows. Brother Guy, dunked Carey first, then Audrey, saying the rites in Latin and then English, “I baptize you in the name of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” As each of them emerged with glee, the attendants clothed them in large terry cloth towels from the gift shop at the observatory. In a moment of high fervor, Brother Guy said in a whisper to them, “go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit...” The two aliens looked at him in wonder, and said, “now where on Earth can we find this Christ of yours?” * * * Dr. Fabiana Giancarlo said, “can we reverse the protocol?” Luk said, “it could make the entire collider unstable—it wasn’t built for those forces.” “Worst case, we blow ourselves up, no?” “But doctor, that is unacceptable.” “I’m saying, no civilians would be hurt, right? We’ve taken precautions in the case of a system failure, that’s why we are so deep underground.” “Ok. But why are you entertaining this. What is going through your mind?” “What makes you so sure those are alien ships,” Fabiana said. “What do you mean, Doctor?” “Luk! Think! I adjusted the experiment the night before those ships appeared. What if, for instance, we opened up a portal to another world, another dimension. Do you follow? These may not be ‘aliens’ from outer space, but ‘aliens’ from inner space, or God forbid, somewhere much worse.” “This isn’t science, Doctor—but pure speculation.” “Oh, Luk. I’m afraid that’s all science is, after all—just rank speculation, with some corroborating proof and a good press kit. No one can search the depths of the cosmos, but God, and none knows the truth of existence but he who set it in motion. We grasp, but our reach exceeds our grasp—and I think this time we reached too far.” “Tell me what to do.” “We must reverse the magnification—we must run the entire experiment directly in reverse. God willing, we will send those hounds of hell back where they came from.” * * * Connie had regained her composure. And now she was in a sentimental mood. “It was nice knowing you Dogsbody.” “Do you really have to call me that?” “Would you prefer grunt?” “No!” “Then Dogsbody it is.” “We can’t do this Connie. We are going to be directly responsible for a war-of-the-worlds. Wasn’t that the exact thing that the Admiral told you to keep me away from?” “He also sent us up in a BUFF armed with nuclear missiles—you think that was accidental?” “Big-Ugly-Fat-Fella.” “Exactly.” “You are usually the voice of reason in these matters.” “Not this time.” “Connie! We are talking about nuking an area twenty-three kilometers from Rome, as the crow flies. That is well within the twenty-mile radiation cone for the nuclear fallout. The Colosseum will be radioactive for a century.” “Better than mankind being dead forever.” “Be reasonable, Connie. The Admiral’s report was that there are two aliens there. How is killing two aliens out of a million going to do anything but usher in Armageddon?” * * * “So, you are looking for Christ,” Brother Guy said from a leather chair behind his glass Alaska writing desk in the study of the observatory. “That is why we came,” Carey Grant said. “Really. And did you read our Bible and realize that he is a spirit, non-corporeal, not of this Earth.” “Oh no,” Audrey said. “That is not what He said at all. Isn’t it true that if two of us believers are gathered together, he is here also?” “My God!” the priest exclaimed, “you are evangelists!” Carey and Audrey looked at one another and let out a maniacal laugh. “Hell no. Skeptics… I believe is your word. It’s just that in all the universe there is no other species that claims eternal life as a birthright. Granted, you are cordoned off here in this backwater, a Nazareth of the cosmos, which is why no one ventures out here.” Carey grant looked down at his sandals a moment before continuing. “But Earth was on our way, and we had to pay a visit.” “So, what is your interest in our religion then,” the priest asked. “It’s just that, if your people believed that Christ’s return is imminent, if they were to see miraculous deeds being performed by veritable angels… I mean, your world is filled with believers… in that case, wouldn’t they bow down and obediently follow any command?” The priest felt an ominous presence as if the room had filled with shadows, and then apprehended that, perhaps, this was the end of days that had been foretold. * * * “Ok, Luk. Run the protocol.” “Are you sure?” “I am sure,” Fabiana said. The whirring mechanism of the Ouroboros hummed with the energy of a thousand stars. The lightning of smashing protons filled the chamber with an orchestra of colliding worlds. And Fabiana prayed a silent prayer. “What do you imagine this will do,” Luk asked. “If I am right,” she said, “maybe we will pull the demons of hell back into the pit.” A few moments passed in eerie silence. Luk and Fabiana walked out to the front of the CERN laboratory where the statue of Shiva stood like a dark omen. They could see the lines of orbs stretching to the horizon in an unholy grid, like an army of monsters. And then, as if it were all a bad dream, they vanished as quickly as they had appeared. “We’ve done it,” Luk exclaimed. “Thank the Lord,” Fabiana said, not believing there was a Lord, but for the first time apprehending that maybe hell was real after all. * * * “T-minus forty-seconds,” Connie said. “Jesus!” I exclaimed. “Son, I’ve just received a report from the Vatican that the orbs are gone. But the commander-in-chief hasn’t recalled the order. I’m sorry son,” the Admiral said. I flipped off the comms. “What do we do Connie,” I asked, clasping the cross around my neck. “You’re the pilot hotshot. It’s your call.” “Hey, Connie, have you ever been to the Colosseum?” “Can’t say that I have.” “You know, being that it’s the end of the world and all—and on the off chance I’m right and this whole nightmare is over—would you want to get dinner?” “You’re kidding.” “Dead serious.” “Ok. Dogsbody. But you’ll be court marshaled.” “So, the Gaeta U.S. Air Force Base is a few clicks from our position. I’m gonna set down there and we’ll rent a two-seater Vespa and its two-hours to Rome. We’ll dine by the Spanish Steps.” “So, we’re going AWOL?” “It wouldn’t be the first time.” “You know this could be the end of the world.” “That’s a chance I’m willing to take, if you are.” “Ok flyboy. I’m in. But it’s your funeral.”

lbvfyq

Elian

"I feel like we won't go on vacation again this year," the woman said, standing by the stove and promptly flipping the smoky piece of toast. Her son, a little boy who appeared to be about nine years old, was poking his porridge with a spoon, nudging a piece of melting butter that glided across the sticky surface like a small edible ship. "Let's not talk about that in the morning. Okay?" the man in a white t-shirt with a telescope print said, grabbing his son's hand abruptly. "Come on, stop that. Eat faster, or you'll be late for your first lesson today." "And when are we going to talk about it then?" the woman persisted. "When am I supposed to talk about it, if we only see you in the morning? And then you're busy. Busy around the clock, Eli." "Well, stop it," he said, uttering it as if it were both a threat and a plea. "I don't want to stop," she said. "Every time you find some way to justify everything, every time I have to stop. Meanwhile, Eli, our son's doctor prescribed sea air for him. We live in a desert, Eli..." "Please, Uno, just stop," he said, slowly losing his composure, "let me have breakfast in peace. I need to get to work soon." The boy was eating his porridge, diligently plunging the spoon into the bowl, tucking his head into his shoulders, and flinching from his father's loud voice. "I promise you," Eli finally said, "I promise that I'll take a 10-day vacation on my own dime as soon as this month is over. But this month I'm busy because it's the best time to listen to the cosmos." "You'd better have listened to your father, Eli, when he offered you to continue his business," Uno accidentally blurted out, freezing as she sensed that she had crossed acceptable boundaries. Eli pushed his plate aside; he had enough patience not to throw it at her. He often had a bad temper in the mornings, and he thought she knew that better than anyone. He counted to ten and the sudden burst of anger that had flared up seemed less significant now. He counted to ten again before turning to his wife. "My little star, I know that not everything goes as we dreamed before our wedding." "Nothing goes as planned," she interrupted, but immediately fell silent, seeing the way he looked at her. "So, I'm saying that not everything goes smoothly, and it pains me. To know that I can't give my family what it deserves. At least the ability to take off and go to that damn ocean." She gazed at her husband attentively and felt a sense of guilt for what she had said. Uno was a wise and patient woman, but when it came to their son, she didn't always have the patience to stay silent. She knew Eli was a good husband and an excellent scientist, and that his project to study the distant cosmos for signs of intelligent life was the reason he turned away from his father's business, moved to the other end of the country, sacrificed his pride and principles, pounding the doors of the national scientific fund in an attempt to attract private investors. But when conversations like these arose, all that understanding magically disappeared, and she was ready to pounce on him. "My project, Uno," the man continued, "the work of my entire life, will soon bear fruit. You'll see. And when your little Eli proves to that stubborn scientific community that we're not alone in the universe, then everything will change. Oh, we'll truly live then, Uno! We'll live!" The man abruptly stood up from the table, scooped up his son, who had just finished eating, under his arms, and started to race around the kitchen with him as if the boy were a pilot with a jetpack. The boy laughed, stretched his arms out to the sides, mimicking airplane wings, and made buzzing sounds through the big gap between his front teeth. Eventually, their improvised flight on another round ended near Uno; they nearly bumped into her when they came to a stop. Eli stood just a few centimeters away from his wife, breathing heavily, a smile still on his face, and he didn't take his tender and pleading gaze off Uno. Their little son alternated between looking at his father and his mother, expecting that, as it had happened before in similar situations, his parents would kiss each other and soon forget about the unpleasant conversation. But this time, Uno took a step back, watching as the smile faded from her husband's face, and she said dryly: "We're alone, Eli. Your family is alone without you." The night sky in the bare and scorching desert always seemed to Eli as if it were tethered to the planet's surface by enormous invisible hooks, with stars so close and bright upon it. In these late hours, when deep silence filled the surroundings, one could hear the heart muscle pumping blood through the vessels, like a second hand ticking away the course of life. "And she's right," thought the scientist, sitting at the table cluttered with massive equipment. "She's more adapted to life in this world than I am. After all, I do nothing but search for it - this life, while she lives it. Not somewhere on other planets, in other star systems, but here. Here and now." Giant radio telescopes, with their heads tilted skyward, gleamed against the backdrop of dark rocks and yellow sand. They were ready to obey any command he gave. The sand, once lifted by the gusty and scorching wind, akin to the Saharan sirocco, now sparkled in the moonlight on the metallic plates of their bodies. "If they don't approve a new research grant by the end of the year, I'll have to turn to my father, and he's just waiting for the moment when I stumble." Eli loved his father and never understood at what point between them this foolish competition - who's better - had emerged. It never even crossed his mind to be the first, and even if hypothetically it did happen, he'd never boast about it to him. "I've been staring at this section of the celestial atlas for too long," the man thought. "I remember last time I wanted to change the azimuthal angle and use a different algorithm for calculations." Time after midnight always flowed slowly. The scientist managed to prepare and drink about five cups of coffee before a phone call forced him to divert his attention from diagrams and thoughts about an uninviting future. The voice on the other end of the line was dry and irritable. From the first sounds, the man immediately guessed who was calling and regretted answering a few times. "Elian," sounded through the speaker, "Elian, don't pretend you can't hear me." There was a brief pause, which Eli interrupted with the words, "Yes, Dad. I'm listening." "We spoke with your wife a couple of hours ago," his father began, "we, meaning me and your mother, if you still remember her existence." "Please, don't start," the son replied with a tinge of sadness in his voice, feeling himself sink into the back of his chair. "I'm not starting; I'm continuing," came the persistent response from the other side. "Uno told me things haven't been going well between you lately." "Damn her, this woman," Eli cursed, "found someone to call." "I'm still here, and I'm not deaf," his father commented disapprovingly. "And I was the one who called her, not the other way around. I called because you..." The man hesitated but soon continued, "Because you haven't been able to dial your mother's number for six months and simply say 'hello,' ask her how she's doing, if she's well? Tell her how her grandson is doing. How he's already playing the musical instrument wonderfully. Have you ever put yourself in her shoes? Do you know what it's like for her?" He seemed to intentionally avoid any mention of himself. "I won't be surprised, Elian," his father said, as if concluding his monologue, "if Uno takes your son and leaves you." Elian was on the verge of exploding, as he often did, which seemed to always be the cause of such swift and infrequent conversations. But at that moment, the second line rang. Without explaining what was happening and leaving his father without the long-awaited justifications, the man accepted the new call and ended the current conversation. "Redlam!" exclaimed the scientist, "you have no idea how glad I am to hear you, my friend!" "What's with the sudden enthusiasm?" the other end wondered, taken aback by this unexpected confession. "Oh, yes," he began and was about to retell the entire conversation with his father, but then fell silent and only a few seconds later dismissively said, "Never mind." "But everything is very important to me, Eli," Redlam said impatiently, adding, "And if you're standing now, you better sit down." "Don't tease me, you son of a bitch," Eli chuckled, "you always start with this long prelude instead of just getting to the point." "I want to," the voice continued, "if it's really what I think. I'd like you to..." "Yeah, are you kidding me?" the interlocutor asked angrily. "Just wait a moment!" the man snapped back, "I'm talking about the fact that I received a signal, Eli. And I'd like you to double-check it, and then we could announce this discovery together." But Eli seemed to have heard nothing more. The phrase "received a signal" worked on him like a hypnotic spell, paralyzing all muscle groups and exerting an oppressive influence on his nervous system. "Redlam," the scientist tried to maintain his composure, "what signal did you receive and from where?" And then his friend, another quirky astrophysicist just like himself, told him everything, withholding not a single detail. He told him about the unusual sequence of prime numbers. How he demodulated it and obtained it from a short radio burst from a distant galaxy X. How his limbs trembled for the first few minutes, making it difficult for him to dial the correct number from the phone book. And how the sequences repeated, and the man cried over a sheet of paper, diligently jotting down the seemingly unnecessary repetition: 123455, 123455, 123455, 123455. Then came 54532. He lovingly traced each received digit, feeling his cheeks and chin grow wet. Then came a pause, and the radio telescopes, like the eyes of a newborn blinded by darkness, fruitlessly groped the sky. Finally, the continuation followed: 545315, which transformed back into the familiar 123455. And this combination repeated, just like the first time - four times, followed by the codenotion of the number 54532. And Elian listened to the scientist, whose voice trembled in the telephone receiver, and he understood that this tremor was transmitted to him from a distance. Now he couldn't contain it within his own body, so he pressed the piece of black plastic harder against his ear and bit his lips. Eli double-checked all the data at least three times. There was no doubt that the signal was of artificial origin and had come from deep space. Its source lay beyond the nebula, in a foreign galactic realm so distant that it nearly touched the edge of the visible universe. There, where dark matter could potentially exist, and where other laws of physics might apply. To avoid the heavy hangover of a mistaken discovery, Eli immediately ruled out all sources of signals originating from his home planet. These could include amateur radio enthusiasts occasionally interfering with space listening, signals from satellites, microwave ovens, robotic vacuum cleaners, and so on. He now had to decode the data provided by Redlam using mathematical methods and understand what was encoded in the message. He returned home after three days, by which time a sour odor emanated from him, demanding a change of clothes and a bath. "Are you okay?" his wife asked, seeing how her husband forced himself to eat a small portion of porridge, just to have something other than coffee in his stomach. "I'm fine," Eli replied, but his eyes made it clear that he wasn't in the same room with her at the moment, nor even on the same planet. Elian journeyed along the edge of the universe, mentally repeating the distant flight of the radio signal. "Our son will have his first music exam soon," his wife said, and he seemed to emerge from the water, hearing only fragments of her sentences. "The teacher says he has an innate talent and a very keen sense that allows him to..." Again, Elian's head submerged beneath the surface of icy water, and his wife's voice turned into the buzz of insects, among which nothing could be distinguished. "I think he takes after his grandfather," Uno said as they resurfaced, and Elian unconsciously nodded in agreement. In the neighboring room, their son was playing a musical instrument. He played a simple melody very diligently, carefully coaxing sounds from the strings, which gently spread throughout the half-empty house. "I don't know what we've found," the scientist suddenly spoke. "What?" Uno asked in surprise, even though she had heard perfectly well. His unexpected confession caught her off guard as she had been talking to him about their son's achievements. "You didn't hear me?" Elian looked sternly at his wife and raised his voice, asking, "I said I don't know what we've found. We have prime numbers, their sequence, like a cipher, and a riddle concealed within them. But damn it, history provides so many examples where millennia were required for a simple answer." "Perhaps it's some kind of nursery rhyme," the woman suggested, which amused him. But it wasn't a kind laugh; it was the kind born from witnessing foolishness. "We know that there's a message hidden in the numbers," Eli condescended, "something like an image, a shape, or maybe the structure of DNA, a star system. Maybe it's coordinates or plain text, like, 'Hey, we're here! Hello, world!' That's our assumption. 'We,' meaning me and Redlam, try to match each number to some kind of symbol. But none of it has worked so far." The woman listened silently, understanding that in the moment of revelation, it wasn't the best time to offer any predictions or interject with her own guesses. "We haven't received anything for the past 48 hours. The signal that might have been broadcasting to us idiots for decades could have been detected by us only at its very end. We managed to catch it right at the curtain, Uno." She could see his lips trembling, like those of a child who had been punished and had their favorite toy taken away. She wanted to hug him, but she hesitated to do so. "We're late, Uno, and we don't even understand what we're late for." The door to the room opened, and a slender boy appeared on the threshold, just as thin as his peers. His dark, curly hair mischievously fell into his eyes, and his miniature nose twitched, pulling in transparent droplets of runny nose. "I can't play the notes in the right sequence," the child admitted, and teardrops sparkled in his eyes. And then, like a lightning bolt, an idea struck Elian, who rushed toward his son and lifted him high above his head. The boy, startled by the sudden movement, flinched and let out a squeal, echoed by Uno. "You're my first discoverer!" the man shouted, looking up at his son's smiling face. "My little genius! Of course, why didn't I realize it sooner?" Elian twirled the little wunderkind around the room, and Uno laughed through her tears, covering her face with her hand. "Notes!" Elian continued, his excitement uncontained, "they encoded notes into each digit! And they gave us the signal frequency to understand the pitch and duration of these notes!" Then the scientist seated the boy at the table, rushed to fetch an instrument, and ceremoniously presented it to the future maestro. He disappeared again, but this time the noise of his search emanated from the parents' bedroom. When he returned, he held a pen and a sheet of paper in his hands. His wife watched him with a mixture of triumph and reverence. In those moments, he was everything to her: a genius, a deity, a prophet. "Alright, let's assume," the scientist began, his speech quick, "we have the digit 1, and it corresponds to...," he tapped his forehead with the pen cap, as if contemplating, and then continued, "it must correspond to the sound of the note 'C'. If it's 'C', then the digit 2..." He took a deep breath, the veins on his temples bulging with the effort he was putting into this. "The digit 2 corresponds to the sound of the note 'D', and the digit 3 corresponds to the sound of the note 'E'." For half an hour, Elian hastily composed the melody of the first and then the second part of the message. With the finished piece in hand, he turned to his son. "Play this for me. Please, my dear, play this song for Daddy," he requested. The boy looked at his father's scribbles, wrinkled his nose, pressed the instrument against his shoulder, and nuzzled his cheek against the cool wooden body of the instrument. The vibrations of the strings produced a delicate melody that flowed through the room, sad and pure, like crystalline snowflakes. Elian listened to it, tears streaming down his cheeks. When they went to bed, he clung to his wife's body with the intensity of a newborn, burying his cold nose in the curve of her armpit. "This is their final requiem," the man said with difficulty, "a funeral song in the name of the demise of their entire civilization. It's like a cry for help, meant only to reveal themselves, not to save."

yjokit

The two men

The metal bulkhead shrieked as it slowly opened. Light beamed into the room from a rifle mounted flashlight, illuminating the cold storeroom. The light beam quickly scanned the walls with purpose, flicking between top to bottom. Once cleared, two men entered the room, both armed to the teeth like they were about to start a coup. Each man took to their side of the room and stood, patiently listening, periodically tracking any unusual noise. The howl of the freezing Antarctic wind blew a gale outside the walls of the frozen base. Creaks and moans came from the walls themselves, straining to stay put from the blizzard that was currently ravaging the base. A faint but obvious glass clink was heard, both men zeroing in on the noise with their flashlights, rifles at the ready. The source of the noise came from a shelf near the back of the room, holding medical beakers and various other lab equipment. One of the men reached into a tactical vest pocket and pulled out a small flat box and pressed the rocker switch on the side, surging the box to life. A screen on the front glowed with life, illuminating the mans bearded face. The man pressed the touch screen a few times than pointed the box towards the source of the noise. The other man’s eyes flitted between the shelf and the bearded man, waiting for a response from either. “We’re not alone.” The bearded man whispered, with a slight hint of fear in his voice. The other man gave a nod and a slight grunt, then lowered his rifle and swapped it for a different firearm, only this one was thicker and had a larger barrel. The other man checked the firearm then raised it towards the shelf. “Ready.” Explained the other man, taking a deep breath. The bearded man, keeping his rifle trained on the shelf, switched off the box and pocketed it. He then slowly and deliberately made his way to the other man, keeping his eyes constantly peeled to the shelf, kneeling beside him. “On your mark.” The bearded man stated. The other man pulled a lever on his firearm and a low hiss leaked from the front of the firearm. The other man then pressed and held a button on the side of the firearm causing a faint clicking sound to repeat. Then with a quiet whoosh, a small pilot light on the front of the firearm burned a low flickering orange, barely making a difference in the dark cold storeroom. With the new light source, the glass beakers on the shelf clinked again, then again on a higher shelf, as something moved around, energized by the small heat source. The other man took a deep breath, then smiled an uneasy smile. He pulled the trigger and a stream of yellow hot flame spurted out of the front of the handheld flamethrower, lighting up the storeroom as if the sun had suddenly exploded. The huge fireball hurtled forwards, engulfing the shelf and all its contents. The two men flinched from the heat several feet away but maintained their focus as everything in front of them burned. Pops and cracks could be heard amongst the sound of the fireball being ejected from the flamethrower and then when the other man let go of the trigger, the fireball almost instantly disappeared, leaving behind a layer of fire covering most of the room. The two men stood and watched as the room burned, waiting, and watching for any movement. One side of the shelf, burnt beyond repair, gave way, and crashed to the ground, along with all it held. The bearded man flinched and opened fire, releasing a burst of gun fire into the debris. The bullets ricocheted off the floor and lodged themselves in the back wall, kicking up smoke and embers into an already smoky room. “Sorry.” Explained the bearded man, not taking his eyes off the fire. The other man was about to respond but the rubble started to heave as something pushed up from under the debris. The two men watched with curiosity and fear as the shape grew bigger and an arm like appendage reached out from the rubble, slamming into the ground to steady itself. The bearded man once again opened fire, as the other man dropped the flamethrower and bought up his rifle in one swift, well trained movement, opening fire on the growing shape. The bullets pierced the shape with a wet thud, seemingly having no effect. The bearded man stood up and tapped the other man on the shoulder, signaling for him to follow as they retreated towards the bulkhead doorway. As the two men neared the doorway, the shape, having grown another arm, started to shake, causing the room to start vibrating, then it let out a loud but muffled screech. The two men used the moment to stop firing and make a mad dash through the doorway, closing the bulkhead behind them, spinning the locking wheel, and trapping the shape. The two men stepped away from the door and leant against the opposing wall, catching their breath. The bearded man proceeded to eject the almost empty magazine from his rifle and reached into his vest for a fresh one. As he was about to insert the new magazine, something huge slammed again the bulkhead door, scaring the bearded man and causing his to drop the magazine. The two men froze with fear as they both looked at the bulkhead door. Through the porthole window, an expressionless alien face stared back at them with black pupil less eyes, the room still ablaze behind it. The monster let out a pained moan as it banged against the door shaking the walls and floor. The bearded man frantically searched for his dropped magazine, while the other man raised his rifle and targeted the alien creature through the porthole window. The alien went quiet and motionless as it stared at the two men through the window, quietly contemplating its situation. The bearded man found his dropped magazine and reloaded his rifle, bringing his firearm up to target the creature who was still doing nothing. Then in an instant, the locking wheel spun wildly as the alien had figured out how to open the door. The bulkhead door violently swung open, slamming into the wall, paralyzing the two men with fear at the sight of the fully grown 7ft humanoid alien. With the alien no longer contained, the two men opened fire, emptying their magazine into the creature who seemed unaffected. The alien, ducking under the doorway, rushed forward swiping at the two men. The bearded man rolled out of the way, barely avoiding the alien’s monstrous arm. The other man, not as quick as the bearded man, took a heavy blow to the chest, sending the other man hurtling down the hallway. The bearded man recovered from his roll and focused on the alien, opening fire once again. This drew the alien’s attention away from the other man who was struggling to breathe after being heavily winded. The bearded man backed up down the hallway leading the alien away from the other man, giving him time to recover, continuously firing until his magazine ran dry with a click, just as he reached the end of the hallway where oxygen bottles were stored. The alien, no longer being pelted by bullets lowered its arms and started marching towards the bearded man, growling in anger. With the alien bearing down on him, the bearded man, in one swift move, ejected the spent magazine and inserted a fresh one and cocked his rifle, then he grabbed one of the grenades attached to his tactical vest and pulled the pin but held onto the lever. As the alien reached the bearded man and was about to swing at the bearded man, he fired a quick burst of bullets at the alien. The alien flinched from the surprise attack, giving the bearded man enough time to drop the grenade and roll behind the alien and start running towards the other man who had fully recovered and was reloading his rifle. As the alien recovered, it looked at where the bearded man was and realized he was gone. The alien looked behind it to see the two men running down the hallway towards an open door. As the two men were about to reach the open door, the alien spun around on the spot to start chasing after the two men, but its scaly foot kicked something. The alien looked down, in time to see the dropped grenade explode at its feet, as the two men dived through the doorway. The explosion from the grenade was enough to critically damage the oxygen tanks releasing the pressure oxygen, which caught fire and resulted in an even bigger fireball, engulfing the alien. The fireball travelled down the hallway towards the two men who had recovered and slammed the bulkhead door shut just in time to protect themselves from the inferno. Due to the massive explosion, alarms all throughout the base were sounded, as the fire spread throughout the base. The two men simultaneously decided to make a hasty retreat out of the base and find a vehicle to escape in. Once outside, they found a working Nodwell 110. They climbed the tracks of the carrier and entered the cabin, finding the keys still in the ignition. The bearded man sat in the driver’s seat and turned the ignition key. The 6-cylinder diesel engine roared to life, as the two men made themselves comfortable for a long ride to the nearest base. As the other man was looking at a compass on the Noddy dashboard, a large explosion went off inside the base, blowing the roof off a section of the base. The two men looked up at the explosion as another part of the base exploded out into the freezing Antarctic wilderness and were shocked at what they saw. Amongst the rubble was the alien, kneeling in the snow. The alien looked around at the frozen landscape, scanning for something that only the alien knew. Its eyes focused on something way off in the distance, then stood upright, its 7-foot-tall figure fully visible. The two men just started in awe, not knowing what to do. The alien, hearing the 240hp idling engine, turned to see the two men sitting inside the tracked carrier. Instead of attacking the two men, the alien ran off into the snow, bounding over snow drifts with ease. The two men realized the direction the alien was running was the same direction they were about to go as that was the nearest base. The two men looked at each other, not saying a word. They both knew the Nodwell was built for pulling power, not speed. There was nothing they could do. There was no radio in the Noddy and they wouldn’t get to other base before the alien. Which no other choice, the bearded man put the carrier in gear and slowly started after the alien, while the other man reloaded both rifles ready for another fight.

ytwp1u

The Scientists

BBC Breaking News, May 28, 1986, 17:00. Two Scientists have been spotted on the Kingsferry Bridge, fleeing London. They are now travelling by foot and are speculated to be attempting to flee the continent. More updates are expected shortly as law enforcement arrives on the scene. Police cars droned like air sirens as Eliza sprinted with Marty off a dirt road into farmland, not daring to look back, breaths coming quickly, too loud. Calm down, Eliza's mind raced. Shut up. They shrank behind a low garden wall, damp stone cool through Eliza’s thin T-shirt, clammy skeleton hands. “We’re going to be caught,” she panted, a stitch in her side from running. “Fuck, we’re done for.” Fuckfuckfuck. Marty clamped her hand over Eliza’s mouth, eyes wide, her fingernails carving marks on Eliza’s cheeks like smiles. Eliza closed her eyes, tears leaking from the corners she didn’t dare wipe away. Hands reached into her ribs, constricting her heart like a rabbit ensnared in a trap. The flashing lights skimmed by, blurring them into the lush countryside like spilled watercolours. As Marty released her, Eliza let out a whimper. Marty leveraged herself to her feet, brushing dirt off her skirt and examining her mud-stained socks. Eliza burrowed her face into her knees, catching her breath, working to untangle the knot in her throat. She sprinkled her tears into the ridges of her corduroy trousers like showers on ploughed land. “Shite.” Marty leaned against the wall, massaging her temples, and clearing her throat as she extended a hand to Eliza. “Eliza." Eliza unfurled herself, the fraying end of a rope. “We have to keep moving.” “Yeah,” she swallowed. “Let’s go.” They trudged silently through the rolling hills, itchy grass and mud fumbling for a grasp on their ankles. Eliza swatted at a mosquito buzzing past, dodging crickets as they hopped over her feet. Shaky from adrenaline, her head pounding at her temples, she searched for any markings or posts giving out directions. They’d eventually make it to the coast, but it was hard not to suspect they were aimless, dust floating in sour light. She had accidentally left their map in the car when they ditched it about eight kilometres back on the Kingsferry Bridge, another reason for Marty’s hostility towards her, so she only knew the general direction of their destination. East. She watched Marty, hoping she’d announce a plan. Her skirt hiked up her knees, exposing calves covered in gooseflesh-- the skin of a strawberry. Her mouth was taught, avoiding Eliza’s gaze, but somehow she sensed her staring. “What?” she snapped. Eliza gulped. “Should we find someone to ask directions from?” Marty raised her eyebrows and scrunched her nose as if Eliza were quite mad. “Who would we ask?” She laughed mockingly, her steel eyes irritated. “We’re in the middle of nowhere and fugitives.” Eliza fidgeted, twiddling her thumbs. “Yeah, okay.” “We’re not lost,” she insisted, jaw clenched. “As long as we keep the sun behind us, we’ll get there.” Dusk twinkled imminently, dappled pinks and oranges rippling over the grass like the tide. Eliza nodded silently, eyes downcast, biting the dry skin off her lips, suddenly hyper-aware of her tongue clinging to the roof of her mouth, cloyingly parched. She thought to suggest that they find some water, when Marty tripped, landing on all fours like a cowering dog. “Shite!” Marty exclaimed. Eliza touched her shoulder, offering a hand to help her up, but she shouted, “Get off me!” Eliza fluttered back, seeds from a torn packet scattered into a flower bed. Marty righted herself, dusting off her scraped-up palms, studying the skin puckered with mud. Eliza crossed her arms, waiting for Marty to say something, but she stayed quiet, her chin held high. Marty continued, her pace slightly faster than before, assuming Eliza would follow. Perhaps hoping she wouldn’t. Eliza scurried to catch up with her, quickly glancing over where she tripped as she passed by to avoid the same fate. She discovered a littered bag of Walkers salt and vinegar crisps, slick with residual rainwater. Sam. What she always ate. Eliza smoothed the bag out, folding it into precise fourths, and burrowed it into her trouser pocket. Marty didn’t notice she stopped. They continued in silence. BBC Breaking News, May 28, 1986, 23:00. The Scientists are believed to be lying low on the Isle of Sheppey. Do not engage or offer help; if approached, call 999 or 112. By dark, they abandoned attempting navigation and set up a shelter in a copse of trees, nymphs blending in with the bark and sprouting leaves. Eliza drank from a river weaving around the roots, cupped in her hands and acrid from dirt. Her stomach ached for nourishment, but there wasn’t any, so she drank more. Marty’s anger muted, snagging like barbed wire. Conversation would only be reciprocated with metal trenched against bone, yet Eliza still found herself wishing to drag her fingers across the spikes. They spent the night sleepless, shivering as the humidity stroked their skin, eyes pinned open by the stars leaking through the cloud cover and dripping from the tree limbs, iridescence thick like syrup and milky from the moon. It surprised Eliza that she didn’t miss the city, now rendered artificial and crudely industrial. She hadn’t ever seen the stars like this. Not with the sky so open and cluttered all at the same time. They rose the next morning, eyes heavy with insomnia. The sun guided them this time, knotted to the dawn in the East. Eliza estimated that they had an hour’s hike before arriving at Leysdown-on-Sea. She took to collecting things she came across in addition to the crisps bag. They all tangled with Sam, electrical wires sparking, fraying. A fire hazard. A deflated red balloon speared by a tree branch caught the light like Sam's eyes on her birthday, verdantly gobbling the candle on her chocolate cupcake. Eliza, Marty, and Sam hid in the bathroom closet of their flat, conversing in hushed tones. Breathing "Happy Birthday", soundless lips blazing in exaggerated shadow and light. "I wished for a chicken," Sam confessed, snickering yet half serious, before Eliza could warn her that spoken wishes plummet, fragile wings resting on thorny branches, torn the instant they take flight. "Suppose I found my Natural and asked her to move to Cornwall or back to Leysdown-on-Sea?" Marty chuckled, rolling her eyes. "Don't be daft. They'd never let you." But Eliza thought perhaps it didn't matter. Birthday celebrations were forbidden, yet there they were. A golden candy wrapper blending in with the tall grass whispered in the same crinkled tones as the crystal bowl filled with caramels at the Scientist Testing and Affairs Building reception desk. Eliza saved their spot in line while Sam took handfuls, a welcome distraction to people bustling about like ivy on an edifice, speckling brick-like verdant freckles. Marty joined them on the rare occasion she wasn't assigned night shifts. The sharp edges of the candy chaffed their cheeks, toasting their tongues with sweetness, as sunkissed as the wrappers that housed them. An orange leaf from last fall glowed the same colour as their assignment note cards. They always burned the same shade-- tangy blood oranges stinging cracked lips-- but they were the most saturated that day. Two weeks ago. Sam munched on a bag of Walkers salt and vinegar chips, flavouring coating her fingertips like frost, while the receptionist droned, handing them both note cards with neatly typed instructions. Elizabeth Taylor, radiation testing. Room 327, Uranium. Eliza's mind was infested with apprehension, hordes of locusts ravaging her brain. Most retired after a week of Uranium. "Good," they had breathed, obligatorily, when their neighbour Sarah had retired after only a day. “That’s good for her.” Good, good, good. That was their purpose: to hollow, like trees carved by beetles from the inside out. They began to climb the staircase, but Eliza’s legs shook, refusing to carry her. She clung to the handrail like her sanity, not daring to speak. "Eliza?” Sam inquired, gently. “Yeah?” “Let’s switch.” She held out her card. Eliza shook her head. “No way. I’m not letting you do that.” “Come on, please? I just want to get it over with." Eliza sighed, contemplating the note card. If Sam really wanted, then… “Don’t retire, okay? I know it’s what we’re supposed to do eventually and all, but… I like working with you.” She gave Sam a half grin. "Promise." Sam placed her card in Eliza's hands, stained with oily fingerprints. She could pretend that Sam would be fine. They had, after all, defied the rules once, with the birthday cupcake, and there were anomalies who went through Uranium testing unscathed. That day. Two weeks ago. When they discovered that, like wishes, promises spoken aloud forget their merit. Eliza found her third green thing, a sliver of plastic sticking up like a gravestone, when they made it to the town, a sign in cheerful lettering marking their arrival. Leysdown-on-Sea. Marty spoke for the first time since yesterday without looking at Eliza. “She lives on number four Shellness Road.” She had better still have a boat, Eliza thought. “Okay.” They rounded a corner, coming to a long stretch of beach. It seeped into Eliza like a siren's song. The ocean breathed differently than the Thames, the spray drenching the breeze with salt, sweet and clean. She paused to listen, eyes closed, to the crash of the tide, soothing her and promising a simple existence. Marty startled her out of her meditation, reality a pulsing headache. “Eliza.” She followed as Marty led them down a winding path lined with weeds, sand crunching under their shoes like cereal. Somewhere, across the ocean, was Belgium. And there, they would be free. BBC Breaking News, May 29, 1986, 08:00. The Scientists were sighted entering the town of Leysdown-on-Sea at around 07:30, and since then their trail has been lost. Any information on their whereabouts should be reported to local law enforcement immediately. Dr Donna’s thin face, crowned with silver curls, greeted their knocks, cataract-ridden eyes squinting. She was elderly, even for a Warden, well past her sixties. Eliza had planned to become a Warden once she was thirty-five, pursuing the promise of a decrease in testing. Sam countered that it was only a temporary salve. “We’re all replaceable, Eliza,” Sam proclaimed. “It’s another trap.” “Who are you?” Dr Donna croaked, waving a bony finger at Eliza and Marty, her skin stretched thin and waxy. “Dr Donna? It’s Martha Shenton.” Marty stepped to the front, hiding Eliza with her height, and spoke slowly and deliberately. “You were my Warden ten years ago? My younger sister is Samantha Shenton.” Is. An interesting tense to choose. Dr Donna squinted through her glasses on a silver chain, recognition dawning on her face. They looked in a state, covered in dirt and wild hair. “Ah, Marty. Yes, I remember you and your sister-- quite the troublemaker she was. Is this her?” She pointed to Eliza. Eliza’s jaw dropped open, an awkward pause extending as she looked to Marty, who finally cut in, “Yeah, that’s— that’s her.” Disgust soured her words, her lips refusing to form Sam’s name. A smile cracked on Dr Donna’s lined face like a broken eggshell. “It’s wonderful to see you two again. Have your Normals moved back to the country?” “Yes,” Eliza confirmed, stomach writhing and alive with the lie. Everything Sam Wanted. “Well, thank you for visiting. I have some things to attend to, but if you’d like, I can put on some tea and we can chat in a bit.” Entering, children's shrieks echoed into cobwebbed corners, dusting off the stone cottage walls. Following Dr Donna to a round oak table in the kitchen, Eliza brushed the hand of a girl she could have mistaken for her younger self, freckle-faced, bobbed mousy hair bouncing behind her as she chased after a friend. The girl's supple skin exuded childhood, spending summers sunbathing by the poolside, eight years old and free from testing for two more years. The memories crackled, thin like a sun-faded photograph drenched in swimming pool water, but the scent stung heavily— chlorine and tanning lotion and vanilla ice cream dripping down her arm. Marty and Eliza sat in silence, blistered feet relieved. Something bubbled in the kitchen-- savoury aromas Eliza tried to ignore-- her stomach gurgling. She traced the grain of the wooden table, rhythmic like the waves, while staring out the window. A flock of seagulls flitted in the sunlight, their laughing calls piercing. They all looked the same, melting into one mass, the brilliance of the flurry of feathers dizzying. She closed her eyes, letting the children's voices from the other room bleed into the shrieks of the gulls. She couldn’t see the living room, but she heard Dr Donna chiding the children. “You can watch the television once you’ve done your chores,” she quavered, met with groans. “May I listen to the radio while I clean the bedroom?” Eliza's lookalike begged. “I don’t see why not… and James, you’re in the yard today, so make sure to feed the chickens…” Chickens. No wonder Sam loved it there. Eliza couldn’t listen anymore. Guilt smothered her skin like a heavy ointment, oily and thick and impossible to remove once absorbed. “You didn’t have to say that,” she blurted abruptly. Marty glared at her. “What?” “Say that I was Sam. You could have said—” “Whatever.” Marty crossed her arms. “I guess I wanted to say thank you.” Marty shook her head, cooly. “You should have retired instead of her. Then we wouldn’t have to pretend.” Eliza trapped her tongue behind her teeth, the tension in her clenched jaw preferable to the bitter letters tingling. "Yeah, just ignore me," Marty muttered, voice acidic. Eliza sighed, quavering. “Sam made her decisions. I didn’t make her choose anything.” “You switched with her!” Eliza began to answer when her lookalike walked in, a broom in one hand and a radio in the other, passing to the door right across from them. She caught a glimpse of rows of identical beds through the gap left in the door. She exhaled, replying, “Sam switched with me, there’s a difference.” “Why didn’t you stop her?” Marty shook her head incredulously, untainted grief ringing her eyes red like coaster-less mugs staining coffee tables. “Why didn’t they stop her? It’s against the rules to switch.” Desperation trenched ravines into her. “People do it all the time,” Eliza explained quietly. Marty’s voice cracked. Her head collapsed on the table, words muffled. “Does it matter?” “No,” Eliza admitted, breathlessly. “I should have—” “Just shut up!” Marty furiously rubbed her tears away, the ocean on her cheeks, pouring into the hair at her temples. In her heavy exhales Eliza could almost decipher words. I want my sister back. I want, I want, I want. Eliza reached out across the table and clasped Marty’s rough hand. Her fingers flopped, thin silver fish marooned onto the sand, sunset scales dripping with warmth as their bodies cooled. Beauty in death, hot and cool. Limp, but stationary. “It’ll be okay.” But then she heard her name from the open bedroom door. “Yes, Dr Taylor and Dr Shenton. They’re shouting at each other… yes, number 4 Shellness Road… okay, I will,” Eliza's lookalike muttered . Eliza sprinted at her, Marty cornering the girl against the wall, fist clenched around her wrist, startling her into dropping the phone, bouncing from the cord like a yo-yo. “Who did you call?” Marty demanded. The little girl twitched in fear, a moulting bird. She covered her head with her unrestrained arm. “Please don’t hurt m—” “WHO DID YOU CALL?” “999,” she squeaked, slipping to the ground as Marty released her. “Fuck.” Sirens in the distance lacerated the calm of the sea, cracking each stone in the cottage until only dust remained. “We're not alone," Marty gasped, peering out the curtained window, a cascade of police lights showering in. “Shite, what are we going to do?” “Run.” BBC Breaking News, May 29, 1986, 10:45. The Scientists have been spotted on Shellness Road. Police cars droned like air sirens as Eliza sprinted with Marty. Again. They were scientists, after all, always bolting in both ways of the word’s meaning, cleaving themselves into fragments as they fled, then scraping the scraps back together. So vast and insignificant they had no choice but to encompass their shadows. We’re all replaceable, Eliza. Had Sam already been replicated, another child born from her Normal’s DNA? Bolted like lightning, shedding off itself. Bolting like screws, rickety construction. She couldn’t think of that now. They left the sand road, trudging into the cliffs, not daring to look back. They panted, clutching stitches in their sides, the wind running its fingers through their hair, combing it into their faces with salty breath. They passed more cottages, more stretches of beach, all blurring into monotony. Run, run, run. A police car skidded to a halt in front of them. Eliza and Marty backed up, scurrying, only to find themselves surrounded by four more cars from behind. The officers exited their vehicles, cocking their guns. Eliza dug through her pockets, searching for anything, procuring fistfuls of rubbish. Her unruly reflection glared back at her in a cellophane wrapper she dropped. “Eliza.” Terrified tears poured down Marty’s face as she pressed in close. “What do we do?” she whispered. “Run.” She bolted, clasping Marty’s hand. Retirement hung imminently, a fall through the cracks, memory dissipating. A sensationalised story with no name. Soon, third or fourth versions of them would roam London with the same impossible dreams, no memory of predecessors . They pushed through the crowd, ploughing officers into the sand. In decades, all that would remain was rubbish stuffed in pockets, rotting the earth and killing seeds. They ran, they ran, they ran. To the cliff’s edge. Two shots rang, two bodies swallowed by the ocean. BBC Breaking News, May 29, 1986, 11:00. The Scientists have been retired.

r21oo3

Stich and the Man In Black

Stitch: If you are reading this, I have gone Home. I appreciate your assistance and patience, as my early entries show my naivete and unpreparedness for your world. I leave this journal and hope it will inspire your writing. Thank you, my friend. "Mibs" PREP: A med-tech applied patches to my skin to keep my body motionless and remove memories of the experience, which they learned was most unpleasant. The team used new coordinates and logistics to ensure I didn't end up inside a wall or at the bottom of a sea. I hate to think of what my predecessors endured, and since I have no companions or dependents, I volunteered. I may not return. My destination sounded much like Home without our scientific and sociological advancements. My suit contained devices required to assist me in completing my contract. ARRIVAL: As I regained awareness and opened my eyes, I feared I'd gone blind, then realized it was after sunset on earth. I removed my protective film, and the stench of rotting bio-matter, urine, and an acrid chemical odor burned my nose and throat. I did not realize Earth had gotten so poluted! I sat up and looked around, then tapped the wall of a large metal container filled with soft bundles. When I checked with my translator, I understood this was the correct area assigned to me. I decreased my sensory sensitivity level and continued. The Watchers always forget to do this, and it gives them a laugh. Tires splashing through water, a distant siren, and a car horn sound were familiar from my training. I eliminated the annoying electronic hum and had no idea how strong the smells were here. After opening my pack, I stretched my muscles, and my restrictive, uncomfortable clothing ripped, so I moved with increased caution. I wanted to dispose of it; however, a naked, six-foot-tall, ashen man wandering the city brings quick incarceration, and I would also lose my supplies. Some of them are dangerous to people or animals, and causing harm to any creature, sentient or not, would cause my swift termination. Watchers observe me and my actions, much like the god concept here. My memory held all English words and a dozen languages. However, the many slang words, movements, and hand signals eluded me. My trainers didn't think they were necessary. I needed help understanding the myriad of subtle facial expressions and local customs, and I hope the Watchers note this. I spoke only when necessary until I was more informed. Silent observation was my best teacher. This ridiculous suit is uncomfortable and outdated. Information via the internet and other sources makes my appearance recognizable, which puts me at risk. Two films, or movies, were created about what they think we are. Black suits, white shirts, black ties, black fedora, and an outdated briefcase are not a good disguise anymore! Humans here have minimal night vision and perform most activities during daylight. Surveillance cameras are plentiful but easy to see and disable, and the slightest suspicious behavior alerts the police. On my first day, two officers requested my identification, which I have. I experienced anxiety for the first time. Adapting to extreme emotions was challenging, yet it helped determine the risks in these unfamiliar surroundings. An officer inquired about my business and plans, as I said earlier, this clothing causes instant concern for humans. Anxiety spiked, and I used my ability to make them experience what I wanted them to. I needed clarification on whether this worked.  Perhaps the Watchers saved me, or it was serendipity because a dark-skinned young man in a red shirt and blue pants approached and pointed at me, saying, "There you are! The Con opens soon, and I told you not to wear your cosplay costume outside the hotel! Get a move on!" He looked at the police, adding, "He's such a newbie!" The officers shrugged and left. I followed him into a green space, or park, with open-sided tents and tables. Each tent contained fabrics, pottery, food, and flowers. Loud music hurt my ears, and I diminished my sense of sound again. He continued walking, but as I passed near one tent, a large woman spoke in a thunderous voice, "Come here, handsome, you need more comfortable clothes! Go ahead, try on whatever you want. Call me Sadie!" She swept her hand over her wares. She gasped and narrowed her eyes as I pulled on a pink shirt that read BETTY BOOP! over my suit coat. "What the hell are you doing?" She looked amused. "I need different clothing," I said. Sadie nodded and said, "Well, I wouldn't wear that then, Honey." I removed the shirt and felt another small rip in my suit. She put two black shirts into a paper sack and handed them to me. She eyed my clothing with interest and said, "Say, where did you get that outfit? It looks vintage." She reached up and touched my hat, then my suit coat and I backed away. "Oh, honey, I'm sorry. Are you one of those autistics?" I said nothing. "Your duds are interesting, vintage? They look to be from the fifties or early sixties. We could trade your jacket for the shirts?" "No," I replied. "It's okay. I'll go easy on you, give me forty dollars, and throw these loafers in. You look like a size ten, so these will fit." The young man who'd saved me from the police returned and said, "Hey, Bro! She's ripping you off! All of her stuff is used or used up. Give her a ten!" "Get out of here, you little shit! Go back to your own table!" Sadie's voice hurt my ears, despite my lowered volume. He laughed, held up a finger, and walked away, motioning for me to follow. "Come on, I'll get you fixed up right." I gave Sadie a ten and followed. He was short, so I slowed my pace. He looked up and said, "Sadie's okay but takes advantage. I'm Stitch. High five!"He raised his palm, so I did too, and he laughed and tapped his to mine. He stopped, leaned closer to me, and whispered, "Are you one of those Men in Black dudes?" I remained silent. I wanted to leave this place with too many loud voices and music, brightly colored clothing, and shiny metal and glass objects strobing in the sunlight. Some odors were pleasant, but others made me gag. The scent of some foods was so sweet the back of my throat itched. A stench of rotting flesh came from a truck that said: HOT DOGS! in flashing red letters. I wondered if they meant actual canines. Many sounds also confused me. I didn't know what tones and accents were: happy, sad, or angry. Too many hurt me, so I turned them off. The first time I experienced hunger came when I encountered a table filled with fruit and vegetables. My favorites now are avocado, watermelon, cucumbers, bananas, and yams (you must cook yams to make them edible.) Corn made me uneasy, and it seemed unnatural, and I detected toxins. I enjoyed the lemonade after adding a large amount of water to it. The water here varies in color, flavor, toxins, and nutrients, so I bought it in bottles. Stitch stopped at a tent covered with books and maps. He called out to a woman in a green and yellow dress with long, dark hair. "Hey, Ma! Come meet my new friend!" Ma turned, and her eyes opened wide. She touched the fingers of her right hand to her forehead and chest, then from one shoulder to the other. I repeated this, and she looked less startled. "Son? Who is this man?" Stitch looked at me. "Oh, he's ah, um, a priest! He doesn't speak much English, and he's from another place. You know, where everyone is very white?" "Utah?" "No, Ma, another country." His name is um . . .Mibs." Stitch looked at me and closed one eye. and Mibs mimicked me. "He's lost and needs some street clothes. Right, Mibs?" I nodded. I found the words and said, "Buenos Dias!" I made eye contact to make her more at ease. And she smiled and nodded."Nice to meet you, Father. Take him home and give him some of your brother's clothes." "Great idea Ma. I know he won't mind." Stitch looked at me and said, "My brother's in the army, In the Middle East." We walked two blocks, climbed four sets of stairs, and stopped at the door marked 42. Stitch used three keys, each for a similar lock, and I followed. He said, "No matter how crumbled, there's no place like home!" It did not look crumbled. A sitting area and kitchen were all in one space, separated by a counter. The walls in the front room were yellow, and the kitchen was bright orange, which caused me unease until I adapted. At Home, everything is muted grays, blues, and greens. The lower classes prefer reds and yellows, which are thought to over-stimulate us. Stitch pointed to a sofa covered with woven blankets. A green chair faced the window over the street. "Thirsty? Want a snack?" I nodded. My stomach made unfamiliar sounds, which meant it was empty. Stitch brought me a glass of water that smelled and tasted toxic, but I drank it. He handed me a long yellow vegetable from a bowl, and I bit into it and did not like the tough, bitter food. Stitch took it, removed the covering handed me the soft, sweet insides. "That is a banana. Good for you." I examined it and its thick covering. "Fuck, Dude! You really are from space! I knew it! I learn all about you guys on podcasts. Linda Moulton Howe and that guy with crazy hair are my favorites. They tell it is." This information made me uneasy.  "It's okay, Mibs. I love this shit, and I'll help you if you come in peace." He laughed, but his voice quivered. "I do." "Okay then, let's find you some blendin'- in clothes. My brother is shorter than you, not as thin. Come in here." We entered a room with two beds on the opposing walls. Large pictures of nude women covered one wall where Stitch pulled clothes from a tiny area called a closet. He tossed items onto the bed. "Try these. I have to go help Ma tear down and take all the stuff to the storage unit. Stay here and pick out new clothes. Oh, what do you want for dinner?" I pointed to the banana. We drink a prepared nutritional mixture at Home and some fruits and vegetables. "Another vegan! I'll get some more fruit and veg." Stitch pointed to his side of the room, where a poster above his bed had a photo of a hovering disc, and I read: I Want To Believe, which I found curious. Piles of books covered every surface, and papers surrounded his computer. It was so different from his brother's side. "Help yourself to my clothes, too, if you need them." I read some of the papers or printouts and found them fascinating. Stitch was a prolific writer, and I picked up other documents telling him that although his stories were well-written and thoughtful, they were not suited for their publication. I chose a pair of pants with many pockets that Stitch told me were 'cargo pants.' They needed to be larger to hold cargo. I used one of the black shirts from Sadie but had to keep my black shoes. #### I'd planned to go to the location, take care of my task, and leave. It was a simple job, but it would save thousands of human lives and prevent the destruction of a large area of the United States. When Stitch and Ma were asleep I put my tools into the cargo pants and walked softly to the living room, but Stitch was behind me as I prepared to open the door and leave the apartment. "Yo! Where ya' going in the middle of the night? Is it time for your task?" I turned but did not respond. "You're going to do your thing here? Right?" He said this while pulling on his pants. "I'm coming with you; you might need help." "No, you aren't supposed to know as much as you do. You might cause problems." I said. He ignored me. "How far from here? Are you going to take a taxi? A bus?" He pulled on his shirt and shoes. "This could be great stuff for my stories! He grabbed a black notebook and pen from the kitchen counter." "I'll walk." "Come on, I have the van. Why walk and risk being stopped by the cops this late at night?" I opened the door and walked down the three flights of stairs, and Stitch was right behind me. I began walking north, and he walked south, so I figured he decided against helping. Then a few minutes later, I heard a horn honk, and there he was, in his white van, rusted all around the edges, and one blue door. "Come on, Mibs, get in!" Then he honked the horn again, and lights came on in a nearby apartment window. I got in the van and wondered what the watchers thought. I never told you, Stitch, what I did that night or why because I feared the consequences. But I will tell you now that I am going Home. After you dropped me off and I convinced you to wait for me, I cut through five blocks to the target's Home. I was prepared for their large, loud dog and gave him a treat that put him to sleep for at least an hour. I climbed over the fence and entered the back door of the garage. The vehicle I checked was the correct one, a very old and worn Chevy. I disconnected the fuel pump and disabled it, and replaced it to ensure it appeared as a typical part failure. The wire I found was nearly worn through and severed it. The owner replaced and repaired essential parts at the local power plant. He had to be delayed in a way that raised no questions but caused no harm. I had to make sure of this but subtly. If he had gone to his job that day, he would have made an error and caused a massive power outage lasting for days. This would cause massive power failures, larger than the one in 1965. It would have destroyed much of your communications and many people would have died. We rarely intervene in Earth's situations, but we had to help this time. MIBS

cfu5ow

THE STREET SIDE

Dale Street was the name. Taking down lowlifes was his game. Today was no different. Dale was always aware of the back alley ways and who came and went. What was moved, what stayed. Faces were the symbols of the neighborhood. It was part of the bigger picture and the real reason he was a trash man. He had kept a low profile when this assignment had him move into a small neighborhood near to the questionable area on the radar. No one knew any more about him other than what he presented when he would, say, step outside and venture over to get his mail, put out the trash or maybe have a random chat with a neighbor. His manner was casual and friendly, no more, no less. He did not have a significant other with him and no one pried into his personal business. His story, when asked, was that he worked as a computer geek from home for a made-up company. He would venture out to locations across the country on occasion to meet up with clients. This was not true but he needed to maintain a middle of the road image. So far, so good, until today. He never shared the Dumpster Digs side as this was no one's business to know. Street was just your average Joe when he headed out this morning to his other day job, albeit with a different face for the crowd. Thankfully, today was to be the day Dale would be getting the call as to his next assignment. It has been four long years where he has been shoveling shit, literally, for a business where he took out the waste that people left in the dumpsters behind the fancy restaurants on the Golden Coral boardwalk in Soho. The business owners wanted nothing to do with who, what, or why landed in their behind the scenes or back stage areas. Their glitzy glamour show was only visible out front for the hoity-toity to linger and grace the center stage of each establishment. The stuff found out back was beyond garbage and Dale encouraged the scavengers picking through to just take their time. This usually happened a good hour before his daily duty for Dumpster Digs began. His purpose was to focus on the vibe he felt with people, things, vehicles, etc. going on in the area. Scrounging was sad but a part of life for many people. One guy who he saw more often than not, always showed up at the crack of dawn. The reason seemed obvious. First dibs and best pickings was the way it was for each and everyone. Whatever your version of those top prizes were, was, what it was. Maybe there were gourmet leftover scraps of food, a bottle tossed with remains of dregs of fine scotch, and a family of rats to bargain for it all. Beyond all that, the two of them had a friendly vibe going and when each spied one another somewhere along the way, each doing their own thing, they just rubbed fingers together. It was 'I got this', you first, then, 'me'. It was friendly and Dale opted to be the better person to help out. Back in his neighborhood disguise, Street was putting together the latest intel of a notorious drug cartel that was using a local shop to get their products into delivery crates. These were then packed up, sealed, and put aboard a freight truck, destination unknown. It seems that they had a system where the long hauler only had an address to get to where another driver would be waiting with a clue to the next point of contact. This rouse was thought out with extreme perfection with those who had their 'A' GAME. Street needed to coordinate the target spot with his TRACE app. He figured every angle of this 'game' hacking into their intel using his government codes. A ship was due to arrive in the nearby port with an estimated time frame close to midnight. Extreme chaos happening like a new action video game, was taking over Dale's mind. This is when he decided to pause for a moment and looked out the window. There were a few neighbors he noticed laughing and having a good time just talking away. One held a beer and cheered to the others. For some odd reason, they looked to Dale's house, motioned with subtilty and seemed to talk amongst themselves. An occasional chin nod seemed to keep the conversation quiet with fingers pointing in his direction. This guy was not who he appeared to be as he played the good neighbor. The moment passed and the guy waved them to his place and they did not hesitate to follow. The evening was winding down and Street sat back with a hand to his forehead. Then he swore out loud, got up, strode to the fridge, and grabbed a tall pale ale. With a creak, he shoved the screen door open and sat on his front step. Who cares? I need a moment. This agenda was becoming more consuming of his life and Street started to question all of it. Not the game itself, as he called it, but how it was sapping his every day life. Was this all that he lived for or was it more of something expected of him? He took a heavy swig and Stellar was soon in his thoughts as she often was lately. He could never forget her smile, passion and zest for life. She had been gone or purposely disappeared now for over a year from their last gig. It proved to be a major take down within the drug market that the two worked together deeply undercover to fight the good fight in many ways. They were part of the same intel team. On occasion the two would be paired up as a couple when necessary in whatever game was do to unfold. They would be sent on an 'errand' and end up on the chosen location. There they would engage in the local scene by blending in, but working to feel the heat. One day Stellar met Dale at a prearranged dinner party. It was a fund-raiser for the local Boys & Girls Club. The two could relate with this need as they grew up with being the kids in this type of group. The invited guest list were ones on the top shelf in the community. How Stellar and Dale made it to the list, was only through someone who knew someone. This would be their last time together. There was more happening at this particular event behind the scenes. It was bigger than the fancy unique appetizer assortment, gourmet farm-fresh dinner, and specialty dessert ensemble combined. They were on it. It was the best time ever in a long time to relax for a split second or two for Stellar and Dale. While enjoying an after-dinner cocktail in the gazebo, the two noticed that the kitchen was changing their staff. When and why this was happening was what they expected as it signaled more of the behind the curtain event changing up. This was deliberate and there seemed to be a stern added demeanor from management. It was timely noted as the clock was ticking. Dale briefly interrupted the moment and offered a hand to his lovely co-worker. "Hey, Stellar. You needed to find the powder room, right? The bidding event starts in five minutes." Dale looked at his date, winked, and gave her the 'I know you can do this' look. She leaned over and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek with an added message, "We're not alone." Her subtle look said it all. She was working her own angle. What she knew was beyond his level as that was her strong suit. He knew when to give her space to find the game winning puzzle piece. As soon as Stellar disappeared from view, Dale was approached by two men in suits. They were the security staff of the event and the organizers had a few questions. "We need you to follow us." They were vague in the request as it seemed that the organizers of The Boys & Girls Club fundraiser wanted his personal information; why he was there, who he came with, where his tickets were acquired. Basically, name, rank and serial number. This was not good. They left the keynote main event area and proceeded upstairs to another suite. Dale put on his game face as they headed down the hallway. In the distance there was a janitor cleaning the area. He recognized him immediately as it was his buddy from the back alley Dumpster Digs moments. A cautious glance by this guy, added to Street's determination to play this out to the max. But it registered intensely when the janitor, with purpose, subtly rubbed his fingers together. It was, 'I got this'. Immediately, Dale knew there was a security layer to this person and gestured discretely back. The suits had no clue. Where was Stellar? He knew to look for the message she would casually send in a random location. But now, there was a change in the matrix that he needed to adjust and play the victim. He threw top names at them to push the right cards. It worked for a minute until someone appeared out of the shadows. "Well, well. Look who it is." It was one of his neighbors, the one who raised a beer one late afternoon and everyone followed him to his place. What was going on? This guy grinned like the creepy Jack Nicholson in one of his many cleverly made up movie characters. A new game was on. Bring it.

im7kva

Frazz

The Dwarf turned and looked behind him. Nothing. Just a bare hillside. “Ugh! Dammit! I thought that they were following me. Apparently not. Apparently I have to do it all by myself,” he grumbled. He turned and strode down the hill. A bird took off from almost under his feet, chirping its alarm call. “Now where is that damn Dragon?” He hefted his axe in his hand. There wasn’t much cover for a Dragon, he thought, as he looked around. A few boulders poked through the tussocky grasslands, but there were no caves or canyons that a large and scaly monster could hide in. “That’s funny. The Oracle definitely indicated a Dragon in the area. I hope the Wurm is not invisible! That would be, um, difficult.” Suddenly he caught sight of something in the corner of his eye, and spun, axe at the ready. A tail disappeared around a rock. The Dwarf carefully peered around the rock, and started laughing. “What? What’s funny?” grumped the Dragon. “You’re the Dragon, are you? But you must be, what, a metre long? I’m going to look pretty silly carrying your head into the Conclave, aren’t I?” “My h-h-head?” “To prove that I’ve killed you.” “No! Please don’t kill me, Sir Dwarf. Please!” The tiny Dragon scuttled behind the rock, then stuck its head out. It huffed and a few sparks and a cloud of smoke shot out of its nostrils. “Dammit,” the Dragon grumped again. Tears filled its eyes. The Dwarf laughed. He made a decision. “I’m not going to kill you, kid. Come on out.” “You aren’t?” The Dragon bounced out from behind the rock. “Thanks, Sir Dwarf! Got any food?” “Whoa! Slow down! I didn’t agree to feed you!” The Dragon wilted. “But I do have my lunch with me. Let me see.” The Dwarf searched in his backpack for his lunch. The little Dragon didn’t help. It tried to stick its head into the Dwarf’s pack, looking for food. “Get out, you little bugger. Ah, here it is. Have a carrot.” “What? I’m a fierce fire breathing Dragon, not a bunny rabbit! Got any cheese?” The Dragon was outraged. “Choosy beggar.” The Dwarf crunched the carrot and tossed a small piece of cheese to the Dragon who grabbed it out of the air. “Thanks, I love cheese! It does make me... Achooo! ...sneeze though.” The Dwarf ducked as a small ball of fire headed towards him. He had plenty of time. The ball of fire rolled slowly through the air, until it disappeared with a pop. “Sorry. Say is that a sausage ?” “You can’t have my sausage, kid! Oh, go on then. Here’s a bit off the end.” “Mmmmm! Thank you. Sir Dwarf. What are you going to do now?” “Ah, I might as well go home, kid. I’ll take you with me.” “Why, Sir Dwarf?” “Well, pal, if I left you here, you might grow up to be a big nuisance. The people round here...” He paused and looked at the bare landscape. Rocks and heather as far as the eye could see. Even the landscape said ‘There are no people here!’. “Hmm. The people round here, if there are any, might not like having a big Dragon around, stealing sheep and stuff like that. Secondly, I’ve never heard of a baby Dragon before. I don’t think that anyone else has ever found one. Do you want to come along, kid?” “Yes please, Sir Dwarf. Will there be sausages, do you think?” The Dwarf laughed. “There will definitely be sausages,” he said as he opened a door in the nearest rock, and he and the Dragon stepped through. *** “Is that a bleeping Dragon?” “Well, if it isn’t D-Harold the renowned Dragon spotter.” “Shuddup, Thark. What’s it doing here? It’s tiny!” “It’s Thark’s,” said Grizzy, D-Grizzella was a female Dwarf, and currently head of the local Conclave of Dwarfs. “Well, I just found it,” said Thark, who didn’t want to end up being held responsible for the Dragon. “You know the Oracle told us there was a Dragon about? Well, Grizzy sent me out to deal with it and I found this little guy. That reminds me! You guys were supposed to back me up!” The other Dwarfs ignored his complaint. Harold filled his tankard from the communal ale barrel. “Looks like you really needed our help, pal,” he said. The Dragon was lying in front of the fire, snoozing. He looked like a snake that had just been fed, as he stretched out, his limbs hidden beneath his body. He woke up and decided to try his luck. He rested his head on the table. “Any sausages?” he asked, trying look as if he hadn’t been fed in weeks. “Ha, he’s cute,” Harold said. “I’ve haven’t got any sausages, but here’s a hunk of cheese.” The cheese was in air, as several of the company yelled “No!” or “Don’t”, and then dived out of the literal line of fire. “Gulp! Thanks, Sir Harold. I love cheese but it makes me… Achoo! ...sneeze.” The Dragon’s fireball hit the table and bounced up onto Harold’s chest and then onto his beard. Harold was quick, but not quite quick enough. He batted the fireball away and it popped out of existence, but his beard was partly burned away. A Dwarf’s beard is really tough, but Harold’s would be lopsided until it grew out. He might even have to trim it! “Oh, bleep,” said Harold. “Sorry, Sir Harold,” said the Dragon. “I didn’t mean it!” “Grrr! I’ll ring your little neck!” The Dragon hid under the table, going “Sorry, sorry, sorry, Sir Dwarf. Sorry.” Everyone was laughing. “Come out, you little ratbag,” said Harold, who was laughing as much as anyone. “I’ll not harm you.” “Thank you, Sir Harold. Doesn’t anyone have any sausages?” “No!” said everyone in unison. “You’ve had plenty,” Thark told him. “Do you want me to put you back out in that moorland?” The Dragon shivered. “No, please, no. I like it here. There’s a fire! And there are sausages! Sometimes.” “Right, guys and gals. Let’s re-convene the Conclave. We have to decide what to do with Frazz here,” called Grizzy. “’Frazz’? You called the little bugger ‘Frazz’?” asked Harold. “D-Frazzle, actually,” the Dragon said. “You can’t be ‘D-anything’. You’re not a Dwarf. Hmm, you can’t be ‘G-anything’ either. That’s Gnomes or Goblins.” “How about ‘W’ for ‘Wurm’?” suggested Jenn. “’W-Frazzle’ works for me.” “ANYWAY,” Grizzy raised her voice to cut through the chatter. “The Conclave.” The others fell silent. “We’ve been discussing the Dragon. At least everyone who arrived on time has been discussing the Dragon.” “Well, I was held up by…” started Harold. Grizzy just talked over him. “Everyone is agreed. We don’t kill Frazz, Well not yet, anyway. We study him. I have to confirm that with the Full Conclave of course.” “Er, Grizzy. He’s listening.” “No, I’m not. La, la, la. I can’t hear you!” Grizzy ignored the Dragon. “I know, Jenn. It doesn’t matter. We really need to study him. If he suddenly becomes dangerous, well, any one of us could take him out. You know that! We need to know why grown Dragons are so dangerous. It’s a heaven-sent opportunity.” She looked around at the dozen or so Dwarfs around the table. “All we need to decide is who looks after the little creature.” She looked at Thark. “Does anyone want to volunteer?” Everyone looked anywhere but at Grizzy. In the end Thark gave in and sighed. “OK, guys. I’ll look after the little bugger. You never know, it might be fun.’ He stood up to refill his tankard. “We could celebrate with a plate of sausages,” suggested a voice. “Seriously, kid? Are you always hungry?” Frazz gave the question some serious thought. “I think so, Thark. I think so.” *** “Get your head down, you dozy Dragon. They might see you!” “Oh, what?” said Frazz. “Oh, right.” He lowered his head, then slid just his head over the rock. He narrowed his eyes like a cartoon spy. Thark sighed. They shouldn’t have watched cartoons last night. “They are messy buggers,” opined the little Dragon. “What? Yes, I suppose so.” Thark looked at the group of Dragons again. “Yeah, you’re right, Frazz. There are bits of whatever it is they are eating all over the place. Hey, that one dropped a chunk of meat on the other one! Now they are fighting. Oh, the little gods! They rolled on it and then another one stole it! And swallowed it!” “My Mum would never have let our nest get into that state!” “Your Mum? You remember your Mum? How come you were all by yourself, pal? Did she chuck you out?” The little Dragon sniggered. “No, not exactly. I left of my own accord. With one of my brothers and a sister, but we split up later. All of my brothers and sisters were leaving the nest, coz we had all grown up enough. Mum had had enough of us and was encouraging us. ‘It’s about time you guys started leaving,’ Mum said. ‘I want to have another brood’.” Something happening in the Dragon nest distracted him. “Say, what are those two Dragons over there doing?” Thark took a look. “Um, never mind. Tell me about your nest.” The two Dragons in question stopped doing it, and Frazz gave them a puzzled look. “Erm. Well, it had a fire-pit of course. To cook the meat and stuff. And we all dug sleeping holes. Mum would toss uneaten scraps of meat on the fire to keep the place tidy. Yeah! She’d get us to tidy up too. Bones and stuff. And we’d poop outside the nest, behind a rock, and Mum would blast it every day, to keep it… What’s the word, Thark?” “Clean? Sanitary?” “Yeah, san-it-ary. That’s it. But that lot are a bunch of unrelated Dragons, I’d say. No mother Dragon in sight.” “Hmm.” Thark watched the Dragons in the nest for a while. There were five of them, two females and three males. They were all about two to three times the size of Frazz. “How long before you get to that size, Frazz?” Frazz laughed. “Err, never, pal. Those are swamp Dragons. I’m a highland Dragon.” “You’re what, Frazz? There are different types of Dragons?” Frazz was surprised. “You didn’t know that? Look at their feet!” He waved one of his in front of Thark, extending his sharp claws. “Theirs are more paddle like, pal. For walking in swamps and swimming. I’m more used to moors and rocky places.” “Nobody noticed that?” said Thark to himself. He took another look at the Dragon nest. “They do look a little different to you, Frazz. More stocky. That’s astounding!” “I didn’t realise at first that there are different types of Dwarfs.” “Different types of Dwarfs? There’s only one sort of Dwarf!” “What about Kev, the barman? He’s a different sort of Dwarf from you, isn’t he?” “He’s a Human!” “Is that not a type of Dwarf? How about Steevve?” “Steevve is an Ogre! I told you that!” “Krizztal, the cleaner?” “Now you’re pulling my leg! She’s a Ghoul!” “Ah! You all look very similar to me!” The Dragon and the Dwarf looked at each other in confusion for a minute, and then they realised that nest of Dragons had fallen quiet. They both turned to look at the swamp Dragons who had all paused in the middle of their activities and were looking straight at them. “Run!” yelled the little Dragon, heading away from the nest. “Over here, idiot!” shouted the Dwarf, scrabbling on a rock. “Now where’s that lock and handle?” “Quick! Quick!” squeaked the Dragon, as he batted away a fire ball or two. “Got it!” said the Dwarf. He dragged the Dragon through the hidden door. “I think we need to talk to Grizzy,” said Thark. Frazz nodded. “Yeah.” Then he frowned. “What about?” “You daft bugger!” *** Grizzy watched them come in. “Sit down, sit down, Thark. Get out of there, Frazz!” “What? Oh, OK.” Frazz removed his head from Grizzy’s rubbish bin. He scanned her desk. “There’s no food here either,” she told the small Dragon. “Well, what did you want, guys? What did you find out?” Frazz humphed and lay down, like a scaly Labrador dog. “As you requested, Grizzy, we went and investigated that nest of Dragons that the Oracle found the other day.” “Oh yeah. Down by the marsh. What did you find out?” “They were swamp Dragons, Grizzy,” said Frazz. “Messy buggers.” “Yeah, apparently Frazz is a mountain Dragon. Doesn’t much like the swamp Dragons. He told me that he wouldn’t grow as big as the swamp Dragons, and that his mother kept their nest much cleaner and tidier.” “They stank,” interjected Frazz. Grizzy regarded the little Dragon over the top of her desk. “There are types of Dragon? Swamp Dragons? Mountain Dragons? How many other sorts? Do you know, Frazz?” “Well, er, no, Grizzy. When I left the nest, I went down to the lowlands and the Dwarfs, sorry, I mean Humans there had sausages! It was awesome! But the lowland Dragons warned me about the swamp Dragons! The humans didn’t like them either, so I avoided them. Say, the local Humans didn’t think I was a swamp Dragon! They got on well with the highland Dragons and the lowland Dragons. They knew the difference!” “Hmm, where was your nest, Frazz?” “Dunno! Oh, the Dw—, Humans called the range Krack,,, Kanag... something?” “The Kragsbergs?” “Yeah! That’s it.” “I know some Dwarfs over that way. I’ll send them a message. Pick their brains.” “Get them to send some sausages! Yours are great, but theirs are amazing.” The Dragon drooled at the thought. “I’ve heard that, pal,” smiled Grizzy. “I might just do that.” She stared at the little Dragon, and Frazz just grinned back. His grins showed a lot of teeth. “Hmm,” said Grizzy, after a long pause. “Suddenly Dragons become a problem, or so the High Council of All Humanoids decrees. Suddenly the Oracle is reporting sighting of Dragons across the Seven Realms. Suddenly the Council requests that we ‘deal’ with Dragons that are reported to be a problem. And they are, and we do.” Frazz giggled. “Sorry!” “Suddenly we come across a cute, amenable little Dragon. Sorry, Frazz. I think that you are what you seem to be, but I can’t help but be suspicious. Why is this all happening?” Frazz looked from side to side. “Sausages?” he tried. Thark and Grizzy laughed. Grizzy turned to Thark. "We'll have to find out," she said.

grkpe1

Beasts and Betrayal

“What did you just say?” I asked uneasily. “We’re not alone, I can feel it,” he whispered back eerily as if trying to get me to look around. I frowned in response, “What makes you say that? We’re all the way out here at my grandpa’s cabin. No way someone followed us all the way out here! Unless my little brother jumped in the back of the truck…” He frowned, angry I disagreed or didn’t believe him, “Dude, I’m telling you. I can feel their presence.” “Fine! Fine! I’ll go grab a flashlight then we can look around the outside. And lock all the gates, okay? We’re fine,” I tried to reassure but came off more irritated than anything, I’m sure. I frowned as I went to go look for the flashlight, digging through the old junk drawer where I was sure it was left last time I was here, “It’s here somewhere, I promise!” He didn’t reply for a moment before sighing, “They're getting closer.” “If I knew you’d be a creep, I wouldn’t have invited you,” I grumbled, getting the flashlight and cringing at the lack of power left, “Okay, come on let’s make this quick!” He nods, following behind me and mumbling about their presence. I tried to resist the urge to roll my eyes at the frankly superstitious moment. “Okay, so where did this even come from?” I asked quietly, careful not to alert any animals we were out and about. He looked at me, surprised I even asked, “I just have a gut feeling. And my gut is always, always right.” I put my hands up in defense at the slightly defensive response, and then snorted, “Sure, dude. I haven’t seen you like this since our college days. Are you watching too many ghost story documentaries again?” He frowns, “I thought you believed me.” “I do!” I exclaim, a tad annoyed, “Just wondering if it could be the work of an overactive imagination…? Hopefully?” He hums, “Maybe.” The rest of the walk is peaceful, but now I couldn’t shake the feeling we were being followed. He continued to hum on our walk, looking back and forth nervously as if we were being followed. Maybe we were, I could feel it too now. But, I couldn’t tell him that. What if we were? I couldn’t make my friend’s clear paranoia and anxiety skyrocket anymore now could I? I felt sick. “Do you hear it now?” Thud. Thud. Thud. My heart dropped. There it was. What he sensed, what I heard, and now it was upon us. “If we avoid eye contact, it might let us live,” he whispered carefully, “Let me speak to it.” “It?” I whispered back, “How do you know it’s an ‘it’?” “I may have… altered the truth a tad. I knew where we were going. I’ve been here before. And this is not the first time I’ve met this creature. We’ve been meeting for years now, and I needed someone to meet it, so I can be free ,” he admitted, and just like that, decades of friendship were flushed down the drain with a single admission. It was not that he’d lured me here, to my grandfather’s home as a trick, but that he’d brought me here as bait and lied to me. Lied to his childhood best friend? How could he? Perhaps the situation is much deeper than it seems, but I think this might be something much more dark and horrorsome than it seems. I take a gulp. “Why.” It’s not a question, it’s a demand. I need to know why. “I discovered him a couple of years ago, conveniently after they announced the discovery of aliens-” “Are you saying he’s, or- it’s, an alien?!” “That’s exactly what I’m implying,” he whispers, eyes looking down, “And I-” “So then you were lying. About it not being an alien, just some weird stalker thing that’s become your problem, which you are now dumping on me , for some reason!” I exclaimed angrily, no longer thinking straight, and no longer thinking about the looming creature standing behind my friend. It was large, its shoulders reaching at least a foot or a foot and a half in width, honestly, I’d describe him as a linebacker. It had glowing eyes, red glowing eyes, with a blank face. Something I wasn’t quite used to with humans. For the most part, we’re an expressive bunch. Although, perhaps aliens being unexpressive explains why some “humans” aren’t quite as expressive. Perhaps they’re aliens who came before the “discovered” ones. Aliens, hypothetically, must be eons more advanced than humans. With how quickly we’ve advanced, those with, again hypothetically, larger brains, more natural, innate abilities that we don’t have any knowledge of. Perhaps that’s telepathy or even empathy. Maybe it’s the ability to be kind. Maybe. I fear for my life, however, as I stare back into those red eyes. Before my friend vanishes, like this is my problem now. I flinch in a panic, looking for my friend. There can’t be a reasonable explanation for this, not now, not with this kind of information. I take a deep breath, glancing behind the beast, and am disappointed to see his figure getting smaller and smaller in the background, like a faraway echo. It stings. But, if I’m to survive this alien, apparently, encounter I must remain calm and collect. I must… I must tame the beast. I’m frightened. “Hello?” I ask tentatively, and on high alert, I hold myself tall, ready for whatever comes next. Yet, unlike the movies, unlike the books, the horror films, it simply tilts its head and responds, “You’re new.” There is a thick accent from which I’ve never heard of, which obviously this is an alien we’re talking about, but it’s alluring and makes my stomach drop- not like the anxiety stone, but like a swarm of butterflies infecting my stomach, filling it to the brim with a sort of soft, kinder feeling. And that’s definitely not a feeling I should feel around an alien, something- someone(?) in which I know nothing. Not their culture, their customs, their… anything really. But isn’t this just the perfect chance to learn? I found myself thinking excitedly if my friend won’t learn, I will! “Yes, my friend left me here with minimal knowledge to uh… who or what you are?” It hummed, “Yes, that’s why I chose it as my host in the beginning,” it nodded sagely like they knew this was coming. Curiously, it also referred to us as “it”. It must be a conscious being’s impulse to label what it doesn’t understand, curious. “Ah, secrecy, quite a unique trait here on Earth,” I joked nervously, and wondered again how on Earth I ended up in such a predicament? This was truly something interesting. I swallowed my urge to sprint far, far away. “You are fearful,” it comments, “I can sense fear, just like in the movies.” I stifle a laugh, “You’re familiar with human art?” “He introduced me,” they hummed once, “But truly, do not fear. I have no intention of harm, simply to learn.” “Oh! That I can help with, I’ve actually recently finished getting my doctorate in creative writing, something thankfully my parents supported me in, and-” Boom! The crash of thunder was overwhelming in the previous serenity of the night. I took a deep breath before looking upward, “Rain.” “Perhaps we return to the cabin for the night?” it asked gently, and a peculiar notice was that its accent remained, but it continued to match my grammar more and more as if it were trying to appease my anxiety by mirroring my mannerisms. I nod in return and then start to run back to the cabin, which was embarrassingly enough not that far away. We returned back to the cabin and decided to rest up for the night, laying down and I wondered how safe it was to be resting in the house with an alien. But, the alien apparently had not lied thus far, so what would a little curiosity hurt? Definitely just the cat. Hopefully.

vf5ccv

The King of Time

There once lived a boy who loved playing with pebbles. He'd collect them in the morning, line them up proudly in the street, and play games with them until sunset. One day, the King of the land noticed him playing with his pebbles, and being a wise leader, asked his advisor to walk by the boy and drop a gold coin. The advisor did as he was asked, and the King watched intently from a distance as the boy played with his pebbles, and then noticed the glinting gold in the dust nearby. He picked it up and looked around expectantly, his shining green eyes scanning for people nearby. He spotted the advisor walking away and ran towards him, jumping up to tap him on the shoulder, and gave him the coin back. The King was impressed and asked his servants to inquire about the boy. They discovered he was an orphan, living in terrible squalor, so the King asked if he'd like to live in the Palace. The boy eagerly accepted, thinking of all the room he'd have there to play with his pebbles. He hurried back and grabbed his lucky pebble, which was oval-shaped with a crooked line dancing down the middle of it. The King noticed this and smiled, asking the boy what was special about the pebble, and the boy excitedly told the King all about the games he would play in the streets, and how he always won when playing with his lucky pebble. The King listened patiently and nodded, saying he too played pebble games as a boy, but his hands were far too old and frail now to be useful. With a beaming smile, the boy held up his lucky pebble and said they could share it because it would never let its owner down. The King smiled warmly and tousled his hair, quietly promising himself to always protect the boy and his fearless innocence. And so the years passed, and the boy became a man. He became like a son to the King, who entrusted him with his Kingdom's most delicate affairs. One day, the King fell sick, and the boy traveled far and wide frantically searching for a cure. Alas, he was unsuccessful, and one cold winter's night, the King died in his sleep. The boy was beside himself with grief, so much so that he ran away from the Palace, unable to look at anything that reminded him of the King. Months passed and the boy started to have dark thoughts about ending his pain. He was walking in a daze towards a cliff edge when he noticed an egg on the ground. He carefully picked it up and placed it in a tree nearby. As he turned to leave, he heard a thunderous explosion, and a brilliant flash came from the tree. A huge bird made of pure light unfurled its wings, and the boy fell to his knees, holding his arm to his face. The light from the bird poured endlessly into the sky, and speaking in a rumbly voice, it introduced itself as the Tempus and thanked the boy for his selfless act. It then offered him one wish in return. The boy, still in anguish over the death of his father-figure, said he just wanted things to stop, that life was too painful to bear. The Tempus screeched and wriggled a silver ring off its smallest talon, which fell to the ground and shrank as it did so. The boy picked it up gingerly, turning it around in his hands. The Tempus told him this ring, when worn and twisted twice clockwise, would trigger a curse that stopped time. Twisting it again would lift the curse. Without hesitation, the boy pushed the ring over his index finger and twisted. Just before he did though, the Tempus screeched once more, and said that while time was stopped, only the animals, sea, sun, moon, and stars would function normally. He would also never need to eat or drink while time was stopped. The boy nodded eagerly, and thanked the Tempus. The majestic bird urged him to be careful, and then vanished. With a shuddering breath, the boy twisted twice, and there was an almighty bang. He ran back to a nearby village and, to his amazement, realised everyone was frozen. Men stood frozen mid-step, children were suspended in mid-air while jumping off trees, and a woman stood motionless at a nearby stream collecting water, although the water itself was overflowing out of her bucket. The boy twisted the ring twice again, and everything returned to normal. The child landed on the floor with a giggle, and the woman shook her head and tutted to herself as she scolded herself for daydreaming. For the next few weeks, the boy turned time on and off several times, just to ensure everything worked as the Tempus claimed. Then one day, he twisted the ring twice and walked off into the sunset, exhausted by his grief, tears streaming down his face. He walked for several years across every land imaginable, not worrying about anyone else or any dangers. He slept under the stars and spent time by the sea, watching the birds. After a few years had passed, he realised he quite liked having time under his thumb, and toyed with the idea of not ever turning it back again. He wasn't aging, and no one who was frozen would have lost any time of their own, so it seemed like a fair deal. He became enamoured with the idea of total immortality, sometimes screaming from the mountaintops how he was the true King of Time. The boy woke up one day on a beach, time still frozen in a beautiful mosaic. His trousers were wet from the tide, but he knew the ocean's ebbing and flow well enough by now to know it wasn't dangerous at this time of the month. He yawned and then suddenly gasped. His ring was missing. He scrambled around for it everywhere but could not find it. He retraced his steps, dug in the sand for hours, but was unsuccessful. He then sat down, and the truth dawned on him. Before falling asleep the previous night, he had been playing with the ring, turning it around in his hands. He had then placed it in his palm before drifting off to sleep. His hands shot down to his trousers, which were soaking wet. His eyes widened, and he screamed as he turned towards the endless ocean. The tide had come in and snatched the ring from his hand. Even with all the time in the world, he would never find the ring again, not if it was at the bottom of the ocean or carried to new shores somewhere in the world. And so the boy travelled for a hundred years, searching desperately for his ring, calling out to the Tempus now and again to see if it would help, but to no avail. One day, as the boy sat on a cliff edge looking at a particularly beautiful sunset, a crow came and perched near him. It eyed him for a moment before speaking, startling the boy. The crow introduced himself as the Crendle and said that he had watched the boy for a long time but had grown tired of his endless searching for the ring. The boy's heart skipped a beat. The Crendle paused and said he knew where the ring was, but first, he wanted something from the boy. The Crendle told the boy to travel to the biggest kingdom in all the land, and break into the King's inner sanctum, the place reserved only for the most valuable treasures, and steal his most prized ruby, which was rumoured to be the size of a first-born son's ego. The Crendle said it was rumoured that this room was bursting with treasure, so to help himself as well if anything took his fancy. The boy laughed in both relief and exasperation, for he had grown up in this very kingdom, and he was the only man apart from the King who knew where the inner sanctum was. He had never visited it while in the King's care, but had been told about it by the King himself before he died. The boy travelled back to the Palace where he had grown up, walking silently through the halls until he arrived at the secret door which led to the inner sanctum. He ignored everyone frozen in time, as he knew he'd stop to reminisce, and the Crendle seemed like an impatient creature. Walking past the frozen guards and straight into the inner sanctum, the boy frowned. The room was as big as a citadel, but completely empty. There was no treasure, gold coins, rubies or mountains of diamonds to speak of. The only thing in the middle of the room was a small wooden box. He opened it and stood frozen for another year. There was no ruby, sapphires, or pearls in the box. It was an oval-shaped pebble, with a crooked line dancing down the middle. The boy sobbed and realised he had been running away from his own grief, smothering his own pain for so long, that the young boy who loved playing pebbles in the streets so long ago was barely recognisable anymore. As the boy returned to the Crendle, he explained that there was no ruby, and showed him the pebble. The Crendle squawked in annoyance and said he could keep his strange pebble, and that he'd help him anyway. The boy listened intently as the Crendle told him that on that fateful night, it was he who had stolen the ring, not the ocean. The Crendle had wriggled it out of his hand with his little beak, vowing to put it somewhere so safe, no one would find it. At this news, the boy nearly flew into a fit of rage, but he held his composure and kindly asked the Crendle where he had placed the magic ring. The Crendle squinted at him and said it would be the only place the man looking for it wouldn't search. He flapped his wings and flew off, circling around the boy three times and telling him that he snored when he slept, so he placed the ring into his face nest for safekeeping. The Crendle had dropped the ring into the boy's mouth - it had been in his stomach all along. He cast his mind back to the Tempus, hundreds of years ago, and recalled that it said he would never eat or drink, meaning he could not force himself to vomit or relieve himself. The ring was well and truly stuck, and time was frozen until something was done about it. It was then that the boy knew what he had to do, and felt a strange sense of relief. He walked to the edge of the cliff and fell to his knees, unsheathing a dagger from his boot that he hadn't touched in the longest time. He kept his gaze fixed on the sunset and plunged the dagger into his stomach, gasping at the wave of pain engulfing him. As he bled onto the cliff, he saw his pebble in front of him, drops of blood landing on it. The boy realised that time was only beautiful because it passes and runs its course. The very moment he was living, with blood pouring from his open wound with the seconds dwindling away, was more precious than the last 300 years he had spent endlessly roaming the world. The boy slowly reached into his wound and fumbled around until he found the ring. He placed it on his finger and with a shuddering breath twisted it once. He looked down at his pebble and wept openly for the first time in an age. He wept for his dear King, he wept for his childhood spent in squalor, and he wept for the mountain of tender memories he had so easily forgotten in search of selfish solace. He remembered the King tousling his hair, playing pebbles with him in the courtyard, running home to the Palace after lazy afternoons studying under apple trees, and how his life had only been beautiful because of the people in it. Without them, it had been like trying to paint a sunset with a palette full of soot. With one final shuddering breath, the boy twisted the ring for the last time and collapsed as he heard an almighty bang, realising the end of all things carried with it a quiet beauty that even infinity would never match.

5b69xy

Road To Virginia City

Henry DeQuille made his way into the lobby of the Lake House. He untied his kerchief and wiped the grime from his neck, sweaty from spending hours in the hot sun, surveying lots along the Truckee the railroad was offering for sale. Boom times were expected for Reno and people began to clamor for land. “Telegram for you, Mr. DeQuille.” The hotel clerk held out the yellow sheet as Henry made his way to the desk. “It's from Carson City.” “Thanks, Joe.” He took the telegram from the clerk's ink stained hand, fished a nickel out of his vest for a tip, and wandered over to a red tufted settee wrapped around a column. He flopped down on it, a cloud of dust billowed from the settee, a fine layer settling on an older gentleman seated next to him, reading a newspaper. The man started coughing. “Hmph.” He snapped the paper, stood up, and stalked to another seat. “Sorry,” Henry mumbled. He sank down into the seat to avoid any interaction with other patrons and scanned the telegram. He sighed as he read the sender's name. It was from Orland, his boss. Henry, proceed post haste to Virginia City, STOP Boundary dispute between two mines, STOP Verify correct boundaries, STOP Big money for company, STOP Don't mess this one up, STOP. That big error almost cost Henry his job last year. He crumpled up the telegram and launched it into the nearest spittoon. “Hey, Joe,” he called as he rose from the settee and headed to the desk. “When does the next stage for Virginia City leave?” Joe glanced at the wall clock behind him. “It left about five minutes ago, Mr. DeQuille. Last one of the day too. You in a hurry?” Henry frowned. “Sorta, boss wants a survey up there quick.” “Livery down the street might have a horse for you.” “Thanks, Joe. I'll check into it.” Henry turned and climbed the stairs to his room. He grabbed some clothes for a couple of days along with his shaving kit, then returned to the lobby. “Back soon, Joe. Keep the room for me.” He flipped a five dollar piece to the clerk. “Will do, Mr. DeQuille. Have a safe trip.” Henry walked the three blocks to the livery stable and found a lone buckboard outside blocking the entrance. Two long wooden boxes were sticking over the open rear of the wagon, peeking out from a canvas tarp thrown over them. One box was made of fresh pine boards, the second was weathered, with a name and a picture of a beer mug carved into it. “Must be equipment for the saloons.” He circled around the front of it and entered the stable. He found the proprietor haggling with a shriveled old man wearing dirty, worn clothing. “I'll take that mare, Mr. Haas, but I ain't a gonna pay more than twenty dollars.” The man pulled a roll of bills out of his pocket and began to count out the money. “Huh, ain't taking twenty fer her, Fritz. I done tol' ya, she's twenny five.” Haas spit on the ground and placed his hands on his hips. “You don't fool me with them dirty rags, you make plenty of money supplying those fellers at Ophir. She's twenny five, not a penny less.” He glanced over at Henry. “Be with you in a minute, mister. Soon as we finish our palaverin'.” Henry nodded and watched as Fritz grimaced and took five dollars more from his roll and tossed the bills in the stable owner's face. “Here's yer five dollars for that old swayback. Now gimme a bill of sale.” Haas stood at his desk and scribbled on a piece of paper. Fritz snatched it out of his hands, squinted, held it close to his face and silently mouthed the words on the paper. “Now, what kin I do fer you, mister?” “I need to get to Virginia City quick, Mr. Haas. Do you have a carriage I can rent?” Haas shook his head. “Nope, sorry mister, all my rentals are out, and Fritz here just bought my last horse. Can you wait til tomorrow?” “Afraid not, I need to get to Virginia City right away.” Fritz finished reading the bill of sale and slipped it into his pocket. He eyed Henry. “I might could use help with the load to Virginny, if you don't mind puttin's some work in.” His eyes crinkled as he looked at Haas. “You never know, this old swayback might not be able to pull the load over Geiger.” Haas glared at Fritz. Henry shifted back and forth on his feet, weighing his options. He sighed, “I guess I have no choice. I'll ride with you, Mr. Fritz. When can we leave?” “Soon as you hitch up this old mare, young feller.” Fritz grinned. Once in harness, the mare quickly pulled the wagon out into the desert, making for the Geiger road. The eastern slope of the Sierras rose up in front of them as they approached the entrance to the toll road. They were greeted by an attendant as they stopped. He looked at Henry. “The toll is two...oh, it's you, Fritz.” “Yep, takin' another load to Virginny.” He tossed two silver eagles to the attendant, then snapped the reins. “I'll give you yer cut on the way back.” The attendant waved as the wagon began to climb the grade and shook his head. “Poor young fella.” Geiger road twisted between the boulders and scrub. Their pace slowed as the mare struggled to pull the load up the steep grade. “Might have to get out here, young feller, and do some pushing. Knew this old swayback wouldn't make it. She's ain't even worth twenty.” Fritz and Henry climbed out of the buckboard and began to push from behind. Fritz moved to the front and snapped the reins to keep the mare moving. The boxes began to slide towards the back of the wagon as the grade increased. They teetered on the edge as Fritz urged the mare on. Sweat began to stain Henry's shirt as he pushed the wagon uphill. “Hey, Fritz, can we stop a minute? It looks like we need to tie these boxes to the wagon, they're about to slide out.” “I reckon so, young feller.” Fritz pulled on the reins and the mare halted. He rummaged around under the seat of the wagon and withdrew a length of rope. “This should do it.” Henry wiped his face with a kerchief then pushed the first box back up to the front, while Fritz secured it to the seat. The second box was rather heavy and Henry grunted as he wrestled it into position. “What's in here, Fritz, gold bars?” Henry fanned himself with his hat as he leaned against the wagon, while Fritz secured the second box. He began to lift the lid to peek inside. Fritz slammed it shut and smiled. Henry pulled back his hands, just avoiding smashed fingertips. “Hee hee. That's the personal property of Dr. F Rankin of Virginny City. Don't be lookin' in there.” He grinned as the covered the box with the tarp and secured it to the seat as well. Fritz shielded his eyes as he looked towards the horizon. “Oughta get going if we're gonna make Virginny before dark.” Henry had barely regained his seat when Fritz snapped the reins. The wagon lurched forward and he lurched backwards, landing on the board with a thud. Fritz snickered as the mare strained at the load once more. The pair rode in silence for two miles, then Fritz brought the wagon to a halt just before a hairpin turn. He stood up, scanned the road and whistled. Henry turned left and right, searching for whatever it was Fritz was looking for. “You know this area, Fritz? Have you hauled on this road much?” Fritz sat back down and took a chaw of tobacco from his pocket and bit off a chunk. He offered some to Henry, who waved it off. “I worked for a couple of lines before running the Virginny City route. Got a little hot around here, so I started doing private work for Dr. Rankin.” “Hot?” Henry wiped his neck. “Well, it's a desert --” Laughter echoed from the rocks as Fritz grinned at Henry. “I mean t' other kind of hot. You know why we're sittin' here?” Henry shook his head. “We're coming up on Robbers Roost. I sit here so they can see it's me. Got held up once hauling for the Doc, but they didn't like what I was carrying.” Fritz laughed to himself at the memory. “They don't bother me anymore. Doc's stuff ain't of value to them, so they let me pass unmolested.” A long whistle floated down from the rocks. “We can go now.” He snapped the reins. The road winded up the grade for a while more. They reached the summit as the sun began to set. About a mile from their destination, Fritz pulled off the road. “Why are we stopping here, Fritz?” Henry fanned himself. “I can see Virginia City's lights from here.” He looked around as the shadows lengthened. “Don't know as I'd like to stumble around out here in the dark. One wrong step and who knows what could happen.” He shivered as he peered over the side of the road into a chasm several hundred feet deep. “Resting the old swayback. She's done tuckered out” He spat tobacco at a bug sitting on a rock. “Missed,” he snorted. “Need to re-adjust the load.” Fritz climbed in the back of the wagon and untied the first box. He set the lid aside as Henry watched. It was empty. “Gonna need your help with the items in Doc's box, young feller. Climb back here and give me a hand.” Henry entered the back of the wagon, intent on satisfying his curiosity concerning the contents of the box, as Fritz reached under the seat. Henry bent down and lifted the lid off the box, looked inside and shot up straight. “What the--” A crowbar came down on Henry's head, and he fell over in a heap on top of Dr. Rankin's box. Fritz rolled Henry into the open box and secured the lid. He replaced the lid on Dr. Rankin's box, and covered both with the tarp. He climbed into the seat and snapped the reins. “Looks like curiosity got the cat again.” He snickered as the mare began the final descent to town. Darkness enveloped the desert as the wagon rolled up to a lonely house nestled in the rocks just outside of town. Fritz jumped from the wagon and tapped on the door. A light appeared in the window a few seconds later, then the door creaked open. “Ah, Fritzie, you haf somezing for me, ja?” “Sure do, Doc. There's a fresh one in the left box and a not so fresh one in the right. Thought you'd might like both.” The two men carried the boxes from the wagon and placed them inside the house in a back room. The doctor reached into his pocket and pulled out some coins, dropping them into Fritz's hand. “This is so much easier than in the old country. I can engage in experiments here without interference. Are you having any trouble supplying my needs?” “Nah, Doc. I can always dig up something somewhere.”

szz39y

Mighty In Battle

The first bang goes off around 3 in the morning. Everyone’s quiet conversations come to a halt as we all sit tight, waiting. The second goes off at around 3:10. The silence hangs heavy over us like a weight on our already hunched shoulders. Wide eyes catch the light from the dim lamp that somebody brought, showing me the terror in their mind as easily as I can see the inside of a store by looking through the window. The bangs come every so often moving further into the distance as time goes on. As they do hesitant conversations start up again, stopping every so often whenever a bang is heard. I look around the room, the heavy guns in the corner sending shivers down my spine. To my right is a mother clutching her young baby in bruised arms. My mouth dries, realizing that that child will never have a childhood like mine. It will never feel the soft grass below its feet as it's running into the park to get to the swings first, it will never be able to play games with its friends in the streets or hear the approaching music of the ice cream van as it pleads with its mother to buy some. I look down at my hands, not able to think about it any longer. Just 2 days ago, before everything changed, I was going to the mall with Taylor and Beck, complaining that Jacob hadn’t replied to my text. “You’re too good for him,” Taylor had said. I scoffed as Beck put an arm around my shoulder, lightly nudging me into Sephora. I was just being a normal teenage girl, worrying about normal teenage girl things: like guys, my popularity and what I was going to wear to school the next day. Jacob not replying seemed like the end of the world to me back then. Little did I know that I would have bigger things to worry about, bigger than I could ever imagine in my worst nightmares. A bang comes again, snapping me back into the present where I’m huddled with people that I have never met, in a dimly lit, stuffy, make-shift room, carrying my whole life in the backpack beside me. My feet throb from running and walking and then running again. My face collides into my hands as tears start to spill from my eyes. I know Beck didn’t make it but as for Taylor and Jacab, I have no idea. More tears fall. I don’t even know where my parents are, or if they are even still here. I try to stop my mind from going there but it’s too late, I could be an orphan for all I know. Another bang shakes me out of my spiraling thoughts. Later that day when I came back from the mall, happily carrying my little black and white striped bag, I would never be able to comprehend what would happen later. I was shaken awake in the middle of the night with my parents' panicked voices ringing in my ears “Matilda we have to go, NOW.” Half-awake and still disoriented from my sleep, I scrambled to put some clothes on and hurriedly packed my belongings into the first backpack I saw. We all rushed out of the house to find a layer of thick smoke concealing the quiet and empty streets. “What’s happening?” I shouted, but I was met with silence, my lungs burning with each the inhalation of the thick smoke. My mother grasped my arm and I jolted forward, blindly following her through the smoke. As we were running, I could feel my mothers grasp loosening, only catching glimpses of her bright auburn hair through the smoke in front of me. Suddenly, a bang went off, causing me to lose my balance and fall. My contact with the ground was hard, my right arm sending shooting pains through my body as it met with the concrete below. That was the first bang I ever heard in my life. In the chaos my mother’s grip loosened and I could no longer feel her touch. “MUM, DAD?” I screamed, but my voice was drowned out by another bang, a little further away from me than the last one. I looked around frantically searching for her bright auburn hair, my eyes burning from the smoke around. “MATILDA,” I heard a distant voice shout. Scrambling to my feet, ignoring the pain in my arm the best I could, I stumbled towards the distant voice. However, the smoke that had crept throughout the city made the streets that were once so familiar to me seem like a foreign land. After continuously winding around the maze of streets I could no longer hear the distant calling of my name. Not before long, my breath started to become uneven and my heartbeat quickened. Collapsing onto the floor in the unknown land, I started to panic, my thoughts spinning out of control. I don’t know how long I sat there, thinking the end of the world had come. I still think that but at least it’s easier now. Soon enough, someone found me and brought me to this make-shift room, full of people inside. They explained everything to me; that extraterrestrial beings had come into our atmosphere and everyone and everything had gone crazy. That countries had formed different alliances, each group disagreeing on what we should do. I remember my mouth drying as he spoke to me, unable to grasp what he was telling me. I mean I had read about these things in sci-fi novels and seen them in movies but never would I have thought that it could actually become true. “Are they good?” I remember muttering to the man. “Who, the countries? Yes, ma’am I’m asure you that there will be no conflict between th-” he started saying. “The aliens,” I interrupted. His eyes slightly widened before answering that they were extremely harmful and hazardous to our society, and that we should demolish them as soon as we got the chance. His response to my question almost sounded rehearsed, as if someone had told him to say that. Despite being skeptical I stayed in the make-shift room, watching people pile in as time went on, the weapons in the corner increasing with each new person’s arrival. Being sandwiched between sweaty people, with babies crying on and off, I was not happy. With each day spent apart from my family, I became even more miserable, yearning for my mother’s bright auburn hair that looked like mighty phoenix’s flames. “You know why we gave you your name, Matilda?” she once asked. I shook my head, giggling, my little feet swinging from the chair, not long enough to reach the ground yet. “Because you love the movie Matilda and you wanted her to be smart,” my dad called from behind the barbeque, pointing the chicken skewer in his hand at her accusingly. She threw her head back laughing, her hair flowing majestically like a river of silk behind her as the gusts of wind gently picked it up and put it back down. “Matilda means mighty in battle. Something that I want you to be,” She touched the tip of my nose softly with her finger “When you grow up to be a big intelligent girl I want you to always look to your name and remember that you are mighty and strong and that you can overcome any problems that come your way,” I wipe the tear from my cheek, I really cannot stand this place. If only I could go somewhere and find some peace and quiet for a few hours before I come back again. People have told me what lies near here and I’m sure that by now the smoke has died down. The man told me I should stay here but the chaos outside can’t be any worse than it is in here. And so, I swing my backpack over my shoulder as I quietly creep towards the door. People are too invested in their own problems and worries to care about what is happening around them, so I reach the exit easily. Lifting the flap of the make-shift room, I catch the baby’s wide eyes following my movements carefully. Before stepping outside, I smile at it, receiving a radiant beam of innocence in return. Immediately after I step out, I am met with a breeze of fresh air, my lungs relaxing as I let go of the flap behind me. The fog has not died down as much as I hoped but I do recognize the streets a lot more. Stepping over any debris I encounter, I fall into the rhythm of the familiar path to the park, the one that I have visited so many times, only now with no one by my side. Soon, I’m pushing the recognizable red gate, the metal cold in my hand. I observe the park. It sits unchanged from when I was last here, only now silent with abandonment. The sounds I hear are the rustling leaves on the tree and the slight creaks of the swings from the wind's movements instead of the usual laughter and chatter of excited children. I walk around and sit on one of the swings, falling into the well known motion of swinging back and forth, missing the strong hands that would once push me here as a child here. As I look around, everything is still before me. “What has happened to the world?” I mutter. I don’t know what I will do from here. Perhaps I will return to the safety of the make-shift room or I’ll venture out beyond and attempt to find my family and friends. Maybe I’ll come across one of these extraterrestrial beings or aliens along the way and I can see for myself what they are all about. “Mighty in battle,” my mother’s sure voice echoes in my mind. I may not know what I will do from here or what will happen but what I do have is my name, Matilda, sheltering me with protection like a shield in front of me, making me mighty in battle. Just as my mother wanted. 

0rhx8o