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Mielikki

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Mielikki 2

Dairy Cows

I was on the platform when Ant phoned me. He was supposed to pick me up from the station. We would then drive to Nutton Farm for the story. I’d never met Ant before. Not properly. He was rarely in the newsroom. He tended to film feature pieces. When I pitched the farm story, the bosses roped him in as well: I would write the article, he would film for the website. There would be a photographer there as well, apparently. I was quite pleased with myself. I had found a story as an intern that was important enough to involve journalists twice my age. I had taken the early train down from Manchester that morning; I should have been sleepier after my five o’clock start, but the excitement of my second story had me buzzing. ‘Would you mind buying me a coffee, mate?’ Ant said down the phone. ‘I’m actually running a little late, I couldn’t start the car this morning.’ ‘Yeah, of course,’ I said as I reached the car park. ‘No worries.’ ‘Thanks. Black Americano. I’ll pay you back.’ I repeated the order in my head. ‘I’ll pick you up in fifteen, OK?’ Half an hour later, Ant pulled up in the station car park. The coffee was just about warm. October was giving us an early dose of winter and I was quick into the warm car. I held out the coffee. ‘In the holder please, buddy,’ Ant said, looking ahead and tapping on the phone mounted above the steering wheel. I slotted the cup between our seats just as Ant whipped the car out of the station. ‘So sorry I’m late, man,’ he said, one eye on the rush hour traffic, the other on the map on his phone. ‘Had to jump start the car this morning. Lucky the hotel had the cables. Would have been screwed otherwise.’ We turned onto a main road and the map started speaking. It was a thirty-minute drive with traffic. Our ETA meant we would be fifteen minutes late. It also meant a long time in the car. After ten minutes of driving, I had learned plenty about Ant. He had been in Liverpool the day before. The week prior there was a shoot on the Isle of Man. And not long ago he had finalised a divorce with his wife, who was also a journalist. We turned onto a country lane and I decided I liked Ant. He was open. He talked about real life. There was no small talk. He had left the coffee in the cup holder. ‘We still get on, you see,’ he said as we tore down a narrow track. ‘She might even phone now. She usually does, first thing in the morning.’ ‘Oh. That’s nice.’ Ant shrugged. ‘We still like each other. We’re just too different, you know.’ Maybe he wanted to talk about it, I thought. ‘How so?’ He had the answer ready. ‘I think I needed to be more serious,’ he said, looking ahead and beeping the horn at a blind bend. ‘She’s a bit OCD and more of a planner; I’m more chilled out, you know.’ I got that impression. His hair was messy and there were stains on his jumper. And there was a general air of ‘dishevelled’ about him. It was calming. ‘I should have been more like her.’ I nodded, unsure what to say. ‘Do you guys have kids?’ I tried, as we pulled into a muddy lay-by to let a car pass. Ant shook his head. ‘Never really happened for us. Would have liked kids. Think it would have been good for us.’ I nodded and said I agreed. ‘You want kids?’ Ant asked. I smiled. ‘Maybe. One day. My girlfriend and I have only been together for a year, so there’s time yet. We’re still young.’ ‘What does she do, your lady?’ ‘She’s a student. Business. Yeah, she’s doing really well.’ Ant nodded his approval. ‘Dude, get a ring on her finger! Before someone else, you know.’ I laughed and he nudged me in the ribs. ‘We got married after a month, you know, me and my wife,’ he said after a hairpin bend. I gaped. ‘You got it, man,’ he said, nodding. ‘Just the right thing to do. We were working together.’ He paused. ‘Maybe it was too fast looking back.’ I cleared my throat. The air con was blowing hot and dry. ‘Are you seeing anyone else?’ Ant nodded. ‘Yeah. She’s thirty. French. Also divorced. Two kids. Girls. Twelve and fourteen.’ ‘That sounds tricky,’ I said. Ant laughed ruefully. ‘It’s tricky, you know. You feel a bit of an idiot sometimes – they just ignore you. Well, the older one does; the younger one’s more keen. She’ll let me in the room to watch TV, at least. Yeah, a few months in and it’s still difficult to… you know, get some points on the board with them.’ ‘Hmm, I imagine it’s difficult with girls that age,’ I said. Ant nodded. He was about to reply when the map spoke again. ‘Right then, here we are, buddy.’ Ant turned off the lane and into a yard with stables and a stone cottage. We rolled past the cottage and a woman waved at us from a gate. Ant put down his window and I recognised her voice when she spoke. We had talked on the phone. She was Sally, the owner of the farm. I introduced myself and Ant gave her an awkward handshake through the window. ‘Parking’s up there,’ she said, pointing beyond the gate. Ant gave her a thumbs up and drove through to the gravelled area. We parked in front of green fields that vanished into the breaking sky on the horizon. Ant grabbed his camera from the back seat; I checked I had my phone. We stepped out into the weak morning sunshine and choked on the smell of manure. I shut the car door and was about to comment on the stench, but Ant was already walking across the gravel, where another car had just pulled up. A man about Ant’s age got out. Ant gave the man’s arm a squeeze and beckoned me over. I half-jogged to the car and shook the man’s hand. Even a bulky winter coat couldn’t disguise his thin frame. There were dark rings under his eyes and his hair was grey. But he smiled and introduced himself as Chris. The photographer. The paper’s favourite. Ant had told me he was the best in the business. Renowned. Chris locked the car and the three of us headed to the cottage. The gravel crunched under our feet and more smells filled our sinuses. Straw and grass. It felt good. ‘Yeah, just down from Glasgow this morning,’ Chris was telling Ant. ‘Barely slept. The week before I was down in –’ Sally the farm owner clapped her hands. I jumped. Chris sneezed. She smiled at us. ‘Hullo,’ she said. ‘Welcome, welcome. You’re the crew from Manchester, yes? Good, good.’ She was short and sunny. Her skin was wrinkled and ruddy from a life in the wind and the dirt. She reminded me of a sparrow. ‘Cows are this way. Tea? I’ll get my husband to bring some over in a minute.’ We followed her to the shed. The sun over the road was low and we brought a hand to our eyes as if in salute to Sally as she opened the shed door. I had found the story online. The farm had posted a picture of a black and white cow with the caption ‘Last of a dying breed.’ The farm was due to be sold, and the cows were for the butcher. Derby’s oldest dairy farm shutting up shop: it was a good story. The bosses liked it. The shed door hit the latch and blocked out the sun. Sally wriggled past us and led us into a bed of hay. Light peeped through the cracks in the shed’s wooden walls. It was dim and the place hummed with cow smells. Chris coughed over my shoulder as we crossed the hay to a fence. Sally led us through to a brighter part of the shed and there, sprawled like seals in a sunny patch of hay, were five dairy cows. ‘Beautiful,’ said Ant. ‘Yes. They are lovely,’ Sally said, smiling over her shoulder.  The cows were impressive: great hunks of black and white, steam rising from their sides and white breath escaping their wet noses. Sally went around smacking them on the rear and calling them by their names. The beasts looked up with guileless eyes, turning straw in their mouths. ‘They’re cudding,’ called Sally from the corner of the shed. ‘So lots of chewing and a little bit of vomit and then a little more chewing.’ I smiled and nodded, not sure if I had heard the word right. I could look it up later. Ant and Chris set off with their cameras, pointing their lenses at the cows. I started taking notes on my phone. ‘All named after the cows my grandfather had. Same names, different cows,’ Sally said, weaving between the cows and standing by my side. ‘So they’re actually more like Daisy the ninth and Dreidel the eighth.’ Sally told me more. This band of five old girls were the last of what was once a two-hundred strong herd. Before the economy and the weather took a miserable turn a few years back. ‘We’re all getting on a bit now, aren’t we, ladies?’ she said. Chris and Ant were roaming around the cows. Chris was crouched behind one, out of sight. I asked Sally another question. ‘Close to a ton, most of them,’ she replied. ‘Maybe a little more after lunch. Daisy here’s the fattest.’ She bent down and slapped the nearest cow on the rump. A deep cough came from behind me. We turned around. ‘Thank you, dear,’ Sally said, stepping around Daisy and taking the mugs from a man in rubber boots. Ant, Chris and I joined Sally at the fence and thanked the man for the tea. He nodded and left. ‘Got terrible anxiety, poor thing,’ Sally told us, leaning against the fence. ‘Cows really calm him down though. Sometimes he just comes in and sits with them.’ She nodded to herself. ‘Sounds bonkers but it works for him.’ We nodded and drank our tea. A cow shifted beside me. Chris choked and spluttered. ‘Oh,’ said Sally. We looked over. Chris was panting. He dropped his tea and his hands flew to his throat. He was gasping for air. Sally stared. ‘Oh God!’ Chris was on the move. He crashed past me and I fell to the floor. When I looked up, Chris and Sally were gone. Ant dropped his tea, helped me up and we ran outside. Chris was doubled over, retching. Sally was shouting at the cottage. Ant ran over and took the camera from his friend’s neck. Sally’s husband burst from the cottage with a phone to his cheek. ‘Ambulance, please. Ambulance.’ Chris was shaking. His tongue was erect and his eyes were on sticks. His lips were blue and great gulping gasps were escaping his throat like he was drowning. Tears were dropping down his cheeks. Sally screeched. Ant was slapping him on the back. Chris fell to the hard stone yard. Sally’s husband burst out the cottage with a silver blister pack. He pushed his fingers into Chris’s mouth and rubbed his voicebox. I looked on, numb, useless. ‘Jesus.’ Ant and I were in the cottage, at the kitchen table. Ant sipped his coffee and shook his head. ‘He’s been working like a horse for weeks,’ Ant said. ‘Gets paid good money. That’s the bloody problem. A grand a shoot because he’s the best in the country. And he’s everywhere. Wants to risk his bloody lungs to retire early.’ The paramedics had appeared just in time. ‘Not the best place for an asthmatic, a cow shed,’ Ant said. I nodded. I was still shaken. Sally came in from the yard. ‘He’s alright,’ she said. We already knew this. She went to the sink and filled a glass. ‘Don’t worry about him, he’s a moron,’ Ant said. Sally drained the water and opened a biscuit tin. ‘Paramedics say it was close. Didn’t even have his puffer with him.’ Ant cleared his throat. ‘I see more of him than his wife,’ he went on. ‘Seriously. Maybe this’ll teach him.’ I drained my coffee. Ant nudged me. ‘Come on. I’ll drive you to the station. No use you sticking around. Get yourself back to the office. No, don’t worry, I’ll come back for Chris. He’ll be a while yet and I need more footage anyway.’ ‘Take a biscuit.’ Sally put one in my hand. ‘For the sugar.’ She looked older when she wasn’t smiling. I stood from the table and thanked her. ‘The article will be out soon,’ I said. It was warmer out in the yard and I no longer noticed the smell. The ambulance was parked in the road. The back doors were open. The bottom of Chris’s boots were poking out. They were matted with straw. Ant called in. ‘I’ll be back in a minute, Chris.’ Chris gave a small groan from inside the vehicle. Ant shook his head again and we walked back to the car. I gave Sally a small wave as we drove past the cottage and turned right at the ambulance, down the lane and back towards the main road. We mostly stayed quiet in the car. Occasionally Ant would say something about Chris and the job, but my responses were brief. The adrenaline was gone and I felt rinsed out. I ate the biscuit Sally had given me. Ant’s cold Americano was still in the cup holder. I jumped when the phone rang. ‘Ah sorry,’ Ant said, tapping his phone, ‘just my wife.’ ‘That’s alright.’ ‘Hiya, Sandy.’ I sat back in my chair to let Ant check the traffic. ‘What a morning. Sand. Let me tell you.’ We got to the station five minutes before the next train to Manchester. I shook Ant’s hand and told him to let me know about Chris. He said he would see me at work and wished me luck with the article. On the train, I dropped into a window seat and swore with exhaustion. The carriage was empty. I pulled out my phone. My notes page was open. There was just enough there for the article, but the morning had hardly gone well. I scrolled to my contacts and found my girlfriend’s name. I checked the time. She would be heading to a lecture but she’d told me to ring her once I finished at the farm. And I wanted to hear her voice. She picked up as the train pulled away from the platform and started gathering speed for the journey north.

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All the Signs

Detective Arthur Winson crouched over the dead body with a weary sigh. As a Capricorn, he could go days without sleep, but he didn’t feel good doing it. A short, round, dead man lay before him with no visible wounds. The only signs of distress were the black veins that ran up the man’s neck and onto his right cheek, a textbook Scorpio poisoning. The air in the apartment was hot and stale. Under his suit coat, Arthur’s broad back was wet with sweat. His temporary partner, a Gemini named Derek Tomasso, stood in the corner of the room. With a shake that always reminded Arthur of a wet dog, Derek split himself into two people. The two Dereks began walking around the crime scene in opposite directions. Behind him, a lab tech took samples of blood spatter on the wall. It was likely the killer’s blood, as Scorpio poisoning was bloodless. One of the Dereks inspected a gun on the floor next to the dead man’s hand. “It looks like he got a piece of the killer,” Derek said. “It’s hard to surprise an Aquarius.” “The victim probably saw the killer coming and thought he could stop him,” Arthur agreed. “But seeing something and doing it are two different things.” “This is the third Aquarius murder in two weeks,” the other Derek said from across the room. “They should make a public announcement.” “We won’t get authorization,” Arthur said. “People are murdered every day, and these murders have no connection. What do a love psychic, a homeless guy, and a financial advisor have in common?” “What was the homeless guy’s specialty?” Derek asked. “He didn’t have one. He was mentally ill and an addict,” Arthur shrugged. “That happens sometimes with powerful Aquarius psychics.” It was why most parents were careful not to give birth to an Aquarius, despite the apparent advantages of a child who could predict the future. “So, the killer makes it past the security downstairs,” Derek said. “He enters the apartment where the victim is waiting with a gun. The victim shoots but only grazes the attacker, who knocks the gun out of his hand, poisons him, and flees before security arrives.” “The killer is a Scorpio, so they may have the power of invisibility,” Arthur agreed. “I’m surprised the victim didn’t have more security.” “Some people want to live simply,” Derek shrugged. Derek’s family had a house on Boxer Island. He’d invited Arthur, but Arthur declined, not wanting to force his overgrown orphan self on his partner’s family. “The chief wants to talk to us,” the other Derek said, holding his cell phone. So that was the original. Gemini couldn’t duplicate technology. “I’m sure he does,” Arthur stood. “These murders have a connection, and the killer is working their way up the social ladder.” He glanced away as Derek merged with himself. They left, dodging the uniformed officers and the lab techs in the hallway. Down in the car, Arthur buckled his seatbelt as his partner started the engine. “So, what do a love guru, a financial advisor, and a homeless guy have in common?” Derek asked as he drove. “That sounds like the start of a dirty joke. But seriously, it’s nothing.” “They probably share a killer,” Arthur pointed out as he closed his eyes. “Though there are plenty of Scorpio assassins, so maybe not.” “The victims are also all psychic,” Derek agreed. “Which means they all probably knew something they shouldn’t,” Arthur agreed. “But is it the same something or different somethings?” “What do you have so far?” the Chief asked, leaning a thick fist on his desk. As an Aries, he was leadership material, but his style was aggressive on a good day. Arthur sat beside Derek in the chairs on the other side of the desk. The Chief’s office was old and worn, much like the man himself. It was painted in shades of brown, most of which had faded to tan. “The financial advisor was managing seventy-three accounts,” Arthur reported. “Including the investment portfolio of a restaurant group, endowments for two universities, and a hospital expansion fund.” “Restaurants?” the Chief perked up. “Any mafia ties?” “It’s likely,” Derek agreed. “I don’t know a restaurant in this city that isn’t tied to the mafia.” “And the homeless man?” “He was admitted to the hospital the day before his death,” Arthur reported. “The attending physician said he was brought in for an overdose, but when they got him conscious, he made a commotion and took off. He was murdered in an alley a day later.” “Who was his dealer?” the chief asked. “Any connections to the restaurant group?” “He lives on the East Side,” Derek said. “That’s Lazlo Family territory. I’m not sure if they’re connected to the restaurant group.” “Forensic accounting will check,” the Chief said. “What about the love psychic?” “Nothing so far,” Arthur admitted. “But we were only halfway through the interviews when we caught this case.” “Split up and get them done. Use that new Virgo woman,” the Chief ordered. “Interrogator Messi. She can come with me,” Arthur said to his partner, who nodded good-naturedly. The Chief dismissed them, and they returned to their desks, where they reviewed the financial planner’s documents and emails. By eight, Derek had left, but Arthur kept working. He was never sure if it was because he was a Capricorn or if he loved his job. Several hours later, the sun had risen, and Arthur was no closer to a solution. He rubbed his tired eyes and then jumped. Standing next to his desk was Interrogator Messi. She wore a brown striped suit and a surprised expression. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” she said as she tucked thick brown curls behind dainty ears. “I’m a bit early.” “No, I’m glad you’re here,” Arthur stood and grabbed his coat. “There are a couple of people I’d like to get to before they go to work.” “Oh, I’m sure you have time to change your shirt,” Messi said, glancing down at a stain on Arthur’s chest. He blushed and went to the locker room, where he showered and brushed his teeth. He was back in less than ten minutes. Messi was sitting on his desk next to two coffees. She was paging through the love psychic’s pink planner. “These three people were supposed to meet with Ms. Rollings the day of her death, and these three had meetings booked for the next day,” she held up a slip of paper with names on it. “We’re still working through the last people she saw,” Arthur said as he took a coffee. “But why murder someone for something already said,” Messi protested. “The cat’s out of the bag.” “You have a point.” “Really?” she asked in surprise. “I mean, it’s just a thought.” She tucked her hair behind her ear again. “It’s a good thought,” Arthur said. “Let’s do it.” The first address was a swanky building in the Synastry neighborhood. Arthur and Messi beat rush hour traffic and arrived quickly at the fancy address. The woman was a well-manicured mother of two who had wanted to ask the psychic about her teenage daughter’s first boyfriend. When Messi apologized for interrupting their morning routine, the woman shrugged a cashmere-clad shoulder. “The nanny has it covered,” she said. “I don’t know what to tell you. I wanted to consult Rollings about Jessica’s new boyfriend. I want to make sure it’s a healthy relationship for her first love.” Arthur thought letting her daughter live her life would be healthier but said nothing. He showed the woman the pictures of the homeless man and the financial advisor, but she didn’t recognize them. “How did you hear about Ms. Rollings?” Messi asked. “I heard about her from Tracy Rochester,” the woman answered. “She just got engaged and was supposed to consult with the psychic about her fiancé. I don’t know why, though. He’s a doctor.” “Oh yes! She’s on our list of people to chat with,” Messi said. Arthur frowned at the breach in protocol. “If you go now, you’ll catch her leaving yoga. It’s right around the corner,” the woman said, giving them the studio's name. She then drifted off to check on her children. The detectives let themselves out. “She’s telling the truth,” Messi told him in the elevator. “She has no idea who did it.” Arthur and Messi walked to the address and waited at a cafe next door as sweaty white women filed out of the studio. “There she is,” Messi pointed to a tall, thin woman in a green sports bra. Arthur wasn’t sure how she could tell them apart. “Tracy Rochester?” Messi asked with a friendly smile. “That’s me!” the woman smiled. Her smile faded as she glanced up at Arthur’s lurking form. Messi introduced them and ushered the woman to a table at the café before Arthur could speak. He was beginning to see the benefits of having an interrogator on the team. “We’re just chatting with everyone about their appointments with Ms. Rollings,” Messi said. “Yeah, of course,” Tracy said, sipping from an expensive water bottle. “It’s no secret. I just got engaged, and I wanted to do a consult. Everyone does it.” By everyone, she meant the wealthy elite who could afford the five-figure fee. Arthur tried to keep a neutral face. “Congratulations!” Messi said. “So, you were going to consult Ms. Rollings about your fiancé?” “Yeah, he’s a resident at Saint Anne’s,” Tracy smiled. “Dr. Mike Maddix. He’s in the ER. He literally saves people’s lives.” “Saint Anne’s?” Arthur spoke up. “How long has he been working there?” “Like four years,” Tracy replied. “He’s on the fundraising committee. It’s how we met. Last year, we raised over 3 million dollars.” “That’s impressive,” Arthur pulled out the financial advisor’s picture. “Do you know this man?” “Sure, that’s Edward Bouchard,” Tracy said. “He just started managing the hospital expansion fund.” “Are you aware that Edward Bouchard was murdered last night?” Arthur asked. The woman’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding?” Tracy gasped. “Does Mike know? He just started working with him.” “We haven’t spoken to Mike,” Messi said. “Do you know when he started working with Edward Bouchard?” “It was only a couple of weeks ago,” Tracy frowned. “I know because he complained that they brought in a new guy. I don’t know why because the old guy was like a million years old and absolutely useless.” “We have Dr. Rachel Ableton as the contact for the account,” Arthur said, looking at his phone. “Oh yeah, Dr. Ableton’s name is on it, but she doesn’t do anything. She puts her name on stuff while everyone else does the work.” “Before we head out, we noticed that you made an appointment the week before Ms. Rollings died. It was canceled last minute, and then you rescheduled for the day she died,” Messi said. “Yeah, I had to cancel because Mike had an accident that day!” Tracy said. “It was so weird because he never drives. He crashed his car into a lamppost in a parking lot. Some kid ran out in front of him.” “Thank you so much for your help,” Arthur said. “We should probably chat with your finance. He’ll be at the hospital this time of day?” “Oh, always,” Tracy smiled. “Let me know if I can help in any way. I’m sure Mike will want to help, too.” Arthur and Messi said goodbye to the woman and hurried to their car. “She’ll be texting him now,” Messi said as Arthur started the car. “She was telling the truth.” “He won’t run,” Arthur said. “Smart guy like that will think he can fool us.” “Once he realizes I’m a Virgo, he’ll know he can’t,” Messi grabbed a handle as they turned a corner. Her small shoulder bumped against Arthur’s large elbow. He blushed and moved away. His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Arthur took out the phone and handed it to Messi. “Answer it,” he ordered. “It’s Derek,” Messi said. She pressed the speaker button. “Arthur!” Derek said. “We got the killer. We contacted the Lazlo family, and they gave up the assassin. They didn’t want the heat. We interviewed him, and sure enough, he killed all three victims.” “Who hired the assassin?” Arthur asked. “We don’t know,” Derek admitted. “It was set up through the dark web.” “We have a lead. We’re heading to Saint Anne’s,” Arthur said. “We’re looking for Dr. Mike Maddix. Send backup.” “On it,” Derek said. “I’ll head over now.” “Have them wait in the parking lot,” Arthur said. “We don’t want to spook him.” The car pulled into the hospital parking lot, and Arthur parked in the loading zone. At the front desk, Arthur and Messi asked for Dr. Maddix and were directed to the break room. They walked through the ER, a bustling place full of hospital beds and patients, nurses and doctors rushing between. In the breakroom, they found two female nurses and a man in a white lab coat. “Dr. Maddix?” Arthur approached the man. “That’s me,” the doctor said. “I hear you’re asking some questions about Edward Bouchard.” Arthur shook the man’s hand. Messi smiled and nodded. The nurses glanced at them, packed up their lunches, and left. “We just met your fiancé, Tracy,” Messi said. “She’s fantastic!” “Tracy’s great,” Maddix agreed. “She mentioned you stopped by.” “She was supposed to have an appointment with Ms. Rollings,” Arthur said. “Were you aware of it?” “Yes, I knew,” Maddix frowned. “I’m sure she mentioned that I think it’s weird, but she insisted.” “I understand why you’d be annoyed,” Arthur agreed. “It’s not very trusting.” “I wasn’t annoyed,” Maddix said. “Just confused. The people I grew up with don’t do things like that.” “It must be hard to keep up with Tracy’s crowd,” Messi said. “It’s a different world. All of those galas and fundraisers. How long have you been managing the expansion fund?” “I don’t manage that. I just help out from time to time,” the doctor crossed his arms. “Dr. Abelson manages the account.” Arthur glanced at Messi, who subtly shook her head. “Dr. Maddix, did you hire someone to kill Edward Bouchard?” Arthur asked. “Why would I have to hire a killer?” Maddix laughed. “I’m a Cancer. I could block an artery with my power and make it look like a heart attack.” “But you wouldn’t have an alibi,” Arthur pointed out. “Cancers have to be in the same room as their targets. Most have to touch them.” “I don’t have to touch anyone,” Maddix said. “I’m a top-level Cancer.” “Dr. Maddix, why aren’t you answering the question?” Arthur asked. “You’re a Virgo, aren’t you?” Maddix turned to Messi. “I don’t have to answer any questions without my lawyer present.” “You aren’t being arrested,” Arthur said. “We are just having a conversation. Don’t you want to help?” “Of course,” Maddix said. Messi looked at Arthur and shook her head. “Look, I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” Maddix stood. “I’m not saying anything else without a lawyer.” “Then you’ll have to come to the station with us. You have the right to remain silent,” Arthur said and stood. He pulled his handcuffs out of his pocket. “You have the right to legal counsel…” Arthur stopped = as pain ripped through his left shoulder. He fell to his knees. The doctor extended his arms. Messi also fell, grabbing her arm. “I’m not going anywhere,” Maddix cried. “I’m a good person. I save lives. I deserve a decent life.” The Doctor pinched his fingers, and the pain in Arthur’s chest worsened. He fell to his side. Messi struggled up and raised her right hand. A blinding white light emanated from her palm. Arthur closed his eyes, and it was the last thing he saw. He awakened in a hospital bed to the worried face of a nurse checking his pulse. Derek stood in the corner of the room. “Messi?” Arthur asked Derek. “She’s fine,” Derek said. “She got your guy. Blinded him. They’re down the hall.” Arthur gently pushed the nurse away and stood. They went down the hall, where the other Derek stood beside a uniformed officer in front of a door. Arthur opened the door and went in. Messi sat in a chair, looking tired. The doctor lay in the bed, hands cuffed to the rails, steel mittens over his hands. White bandages covered his eyes, and his face was burned like he had spent a week on a beach without sunscreen. He was unconscious, but Arthur gave him a wide berth. “I got the recording,” Messi whispered. She led him out the door, and the uniformed officer took her place. “Are you ok?” Arthur asked. “I’m fine,” she said. Before they could say anything else, the Chief appeared from around a corner, three subordinates following. “There you are!” the Chief called. “Excellent job. The district attorney is confident this will be a slam dunk!” He clapped Arthur on the shoulder, and Arthur winced. “It was all Messi,” Arthur told his boss. “Oh, I know,” the Chief smiled at her. “You’re looking at a promotion for this young lady.” This time, Messi winced. “It’s always been my goal to make detective,” she admitted. “We’d be proud to have you!” the Chief said. “I think I know a man who could use a partner.” He smiled at Arthur as a nurse came around the corner. “Both of you should be in bed!” the nurse said, pointing at the detectives. The Chief shooed them away, and they followed the woman to their rooms. 

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The Painted Candle

In the far reaches of the universe, a place of mystery and beauty that few dare to explore, a small spaceship carrying two adventurers soared by at hyper speed. Captain Finnian, the courageous space photographer, and his trusty assistant Quixly were back out in the galaxies once again. After coming home to glory and fame from their first photo expedition, they soon felt the gnawing hunger for travel that all adventurers know too well, so they said goodbye to their friends and families and took off once again in search of places rarely seen and (thus far) never photographed. In the command deck of the spaceship, Captain Finnian looked up from his navigation screen. “According to this we’re only three days away from the bright, colorful mass of energy we first saw in the telescopes.” He said to Quixly. “I can’t wait to get close enough to see what it is and take some detailed pictures of it.” Quixly looked over from the mess of charts he had been studying and smiled excitedly. “Only three days out from the Painted Candle!? Wowza! Time sure flies by when you’re having fun!” “Quixly, you’ve been memorizing maps of the stars for the last two weeks. Is that really fun for you?” Captain Finnian could never quite wrap his head around his quirky alien assistant. He would have gone crazy if all he did for two weeks straight was study star maps. “Yes, it’s quite enjoyable.” Quixly responded, looking back down at his maps. “Also, what did you call the mysterious lights that we’re traveling towards?” Captain Finnian asked. “The Painted Candle! It’s a good name, don’t ya think? That’s exactly what it looked like in the telescope.” “Hmm, that actually is a pretty good name.” Captain Finnian said, impressed. “Much better than your first idea of calling it Fleeborg Vomit.” Quixly smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, I can see now how that might struggle to catch on amongst the academics. But, in my defense, it was quite accurate! Anyone who’s seen a fleeborg throw up would agree.” Captain Finnian was about to continue the conversation on the details of fleeborg regurgitation when a warning symbol started flashing on his screen, along with a worrisome beeping. “What’s that?” Quixly said, some anxiety in his voice. “I’m not sure,” Captain Finnian responded, looking closer to interpret the warning. “It looks like…. OH CRAP!” At that exact moment there was a large crashing sound at the bottom of the ship, and all the lights and screens went dark. After a few moments of stunned silence, Quixly was the first to speak. “Are we going to die?” Captain Finnian paused. “I don’t think so,” he eventually said. “If that was going to kill us, I think we’d already be dead. It sounded like it came from the maintenance room. I’ll go check it out.” Quixly nodded, although it was impossible to see in the dark room. “Good idea, Captain. And I’ll stay up here where it’s nice and safe. I mean, to keep our things up here safe!” “That sounds like a plan.” Captain Finnian responded. “Now help me find our emergency lanterns.” They both felt around the room, trying to find their emergency light sources. Quixly, able to search quicker because of his four arms, soon found a couple battery powered lanterns and turned them on. “Here you go, Captain!” He said, handing one over to Captain Finnian. “Good luck in the maintenance room!” Captain Finnian took the lantern, nodded his thanks, and then left the room to figure out the source of the problems. From the brief warning before the crash, he guessed that they somehow ran into something small. There usually wasn’t much to run into in space, and their ship was designed with safety measures anyway. The hardened hull was strong enough to withstand the space dust and micro particles they inevitably flew through at hyper speed. And the sensors would catch anything big enough to cause damage, leading the auto drive to adjust their course to keep them safe. However, there were very rarely some tiny pieces of rock or ice in space that were big enough to cause damage at hyper speed and small enough to avoid the sensors until too late. Captain Finnian guessed that’s what they hit. He made a mental note to buy the newest upgrade for his ship’s sensors if they made it out of this situation alive. In the maintenance room it looked like there had been an earthquake. He found a small bump near the bottom of the hard metal wall at the front end of the ship and assumed that’s where they got hit. Luckily it didn’t penetrate, or they would have been toast. Most of the computers and equipment had been knocked around, but not seriously damaged. He easily propped computers and machines back up where they belonged and started to plug everything back in. He got the electricity back on first, and then most of their important systems, such as the steering mechanisms and hyper drive. Unfortunately, their navigation system was another problem. The computer that powered their navigation was completely destroyed. It was impossible to know where they were located or what direction they were heading. The nearest solar system that had the technology to repair it was at least a week away at hyper speed, but he had no idea how they’d find their way there. They also couldn’t call for help because the navigation system was the same system that tracked their location. Even with their best guess they couldn’t tell someone exactly where they were. It would be like asking them to look for a Kloboxian needle in a mountain of Pryblun wheat. A Kloboxian needle that was hurtling through the Pryblun wheat at an unknown speed in an unknown direction, to be more precise. He had no idea how much that collision impacted their trajectory. After spending a few minutes alone in the maintenance room, Captain Finnian went back to the command deck to tell Quixly about their predicament. Quixly cheered when Captain Finnian walked back into the room. “Yeehaw! Ya did it, Captain! Ya got the power back on! Well done! Now we can resume our course towards the Painted Candle!” He did a little happy dance, shrugging all four of his shoulders up and down while wiggling his antennae. “Not so fast, Quixly.” The captain responded. “Everything is back online except for navigation. We’re lost, and I don’t know how to get to the painted candle from here, much less to an intergalactic market where we could get what we need to repair everything.” “Oh.” Quixly replied, abruptly ending his happy dance. They both stood in silence for a minute while contemplating the gravity of their situation (ironic, with them being in outer space). Looking out the window, Quixly suddenly had an idea. “We can navigate with the stars!” he said excitedly. “I’ve been studying them in depth for weeks! I can get us to the Painted Candle, and then to safety!” The happy dance continued. “I had the same thought earlier,” Captain Finnian said, “but that’s so imprecise. It would take a miracle to head in the right direction, not to mention stopping the ship before crashing into something or soaring far past our destination.” Quixly rolled his eyes, which was especially effective with three eyes. “Captain sir, this is what I’m good at! I can be precise! Give me a shot at it, I’m sure I’ll find the way!” Captain Finnian knew quite well that Quixly was very intelligent, although goofy at times. He also wasn’t the most confident alien, so the fact that he stood up for himself and argued that he could do it accurately was really saying something. Captain Finnian decided to give him a chance. “Alright Quixly, I trust you. Do your thing, and let me know how I can help.” “Yahooie!” Quixly yelled, then rushed to grab his maps and some measuring tools. “If you could slow down the ship to zero velocity that would be grand. And then just sit back and watch, Captain. This is what I’ve been training for!” Captain Finnian did what was asked, and then sat back to watch. He was more than impressed. Quixly held up his maps to the window, took notes, held up measuring tools, logged information into his screen, turned the ship around to get the full picture, and did several other things that Captain Finnian didn’t quite understand. Quixly wasn’t talking to Captain Finnian, but he was muttering his thoughts loud enough for the captain to hear most of it. “Ok, we know the Painted Candle is at coordinates 2870.0113x, 45301.9174y, 80139.351z. The nearest solar system is H39-Q73-KLP6, which was at an 83.749203 degree angle from the Painted Candle on our original course. It’s now looking closer to…” he held up a measuring tool to the window, “83.748891 degrees. Let me compare how that measures to the neighboring stars…” Captain Finnian had always known that his assistant had a head for numbers, but this was beyond amazing. He didn’t realize that Quixly had memorized so much information from their initial course, which was helping them get back to it. It was also impressive to see how well he knew all the different star formations and galaxies, including their distance and angle relationships to each other. Captain Finnian could see hundreds of thousands of stars out the window at any time. And that was just in one direction, they were sitting in the middle of a nearly infinite three-dimensional map. While he could name some of the major star formations, most of it was just a pretty sight for him, not little lights of directional information. It took Quixly about two hours to do all his calculations and to double check it all, but once he was finished, he was confident in his work. “Alrighty, Captain! It’s done! I’ve plotted our course from here to the Painted Candle in the auto drive, and then from there to the nearest star system where we can get our navigation stuff up and running again. Although I don’t know if I really want to fix it, because this was fun!” “Quixly, that was incredible” Captain Finnian replied. “Thank you so much. You literally just saved our lives.” After pausing for a moment to let that fact sink in for both of them, he continued. “Well! Should we go check out the Painted Candle?” “Yes sir!” Quixly said with a smile. “Hi-dee ho let’s go!” With that Captain Finnian put the ship into hyper drive, and off they went. Three days later their ship stopped next to one of the most amazing space formations they had ever seen. It looked like a dying star that was only dying on one side. That side lifted up similar to a candle flame. The fire and energies and gasses coming from it all radiated with different colors, giving the scene a spectacular look. They stayed there for two days taking it all in and taking many pictures too. At the end of the second day, Captain Finnian turned towards his green assistant. “What do you say, Quixly, should we head over to that nearby star system and get our ship fixed?” “Yes sir!” Quixly responded enthusiastically. “The coordinates are already logged into the auto drive. I’m ready when you are!” Captain Finnian nodded. “Thank you, Quixly. However, before we depart, there’s something I need to tell you. After this trip, I no longer want you to be my assistant.” Quixly’s face dropped. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Wasn’t Captain Finnian grateful for the work he did? Maybe he had accidentally messed something up and the captain was mad? Or maybe the captain blamed him for the original collision three days ago? All those thoughts and several others passed through his head in an instant, but before he could voice any of them, Captain Finnian continued. “You are far too smart and far too important to be my assistant anymore. And quite truthfully, you’re far too good of a friend as well. Quixly, I want to promote you to be my partner. From now on, I want us to share command of this ship, as an equal team. What do you say?” Quixly’s worries immediately turned to surprise, and then to gratitude. “Wowza, sir! Wowza! Do you mean it?” “Yes, I do.” Captain Finnian said. “My only regret is not doing it sooner. So, do you accept?” “Absolutely! Wowza! Me, a co-captain of a ship! Thank you, Captain! Thank you!” “You’re welcome, Captain Quixly. Now, let’s get to that star system! Not only do we need to repair our ship, but I hear they have some delicious Chulaplugg stew, perfect for a celebration.” With his eyes watering from gratitude and his mouth watering from the mention of Chulaplugg stew, Quixly took his first action as co-captain and put the ship into hyper drive. “Hi-dee ho let’s go!”

htjyqb

The decent camera

The one thing David has always wanted is a decent camera. David is full of excitement he is going on holiday to Inverness. They fly from London Heathrow to Inverness. David is full of excitement, but keeps on reminding his paremts that he wants a new camera that is decent. But unbeknown to him they have bought him a new camera at Heathrow. They arrive at Inverness airport and catch the bus to Inverness. They book into the hotel, David loves Inverness, the clean fresh air and the scenery, wow the scenery. If only he had a decent camera, Dad announces that they are going to Perth on the train tomorrow morning. Next morning they all catch the train to Perth. On the train Mum gives David a surprise. He opens the box to find a brand new Cannon Camera, fully charged. David goes running about the train taking photographs. One man takes David’s attention he has his hand in a bag. David sets up the camera to photograph the man he looks like a good subject. Just as he is about to take the photograph the man moves the open bag towards David, he takes the photograph and turns away, to check his photograph to see what looks like a bomb in the bag, David turns around to see the man sliding the bag under his seat. The train announcer tells the passengers that they are approaching Aviemore station. David runs back to mum and dad. ‘Mum, Dad I think I saw a man with a bomb in the next carriage he is about to leave the train at Aviemore. Mum and Dad both burst out laughing, ‘The train stops at Aviemore for five minutes, get off the train and take his photograph,’ says Dad. ‘I will,’ says a determined David after being laughed at. The train stops at Aviemore, David is first off of the train, looking for the man who had the bomb. He sees the man and takes his photograph, only this time the man sees him. The man runs towards David who turns quickly and jumps back on to the train. He is careful to keep away from the carriage with the bomb in. David runs towards his parent’s seat in the next carriage, he glances behind him to see the man struggling to get into the carriage with passengers with luggage. But the man finds a way past. Ther doors close on the train and it leaves Aviemore station gathering speed. A minute later the bomb explodes. The carriage with the bomb is totally destroyed. The rest of the carriages are still intact but they have left the railway tracks. Both David and the man chasing him lose their balance and fall into the aisle through the carriage. As soon as the carriage comes to a stop David is on his feet and running again. He runs past his parent’s seats. He does not want to endanger them so he keeps on running as fast as he can and hides behind a pile of suitcases that have all fallen off of the luggage racks. The man starts to look everywhere in the carriage for David. Methodically searching the carriage. He gets close to David. David crawls out from the pile of suitcases and gets out of the open carriage door, he jumps down onto the track, keeping his camera safe. No services have reached the train yet, David takes a chance climbs over a fence, and runs into the trees. Hides in a bush. David keeps very quiet and watches, he sees the man jump down from the train followed by his dad. The man does not seem very sure of where to go, he is looking about. Dad starts walking about shouting ‘David, where are you?’ The man listens to Dad calling out, takes a knife out, walks over to Dad, and calmly puts the knife against his throat. ‘David come out now. If you do not your dad dies.’ Dad is terrified, he thought the bomb that David had seen was his imagination, but it wasn’t and he sent him to take a photograph of the man who turned out to be the bomber. How wrong can you be? David keeps completely still, he is terrified but very calm, if he does not show himself his dad will be dead. If he comes out the man may take the camera and still kill his dad and him. David thinks if I keep quiet then he will think I have got way. In the distance, sirens can be heard as the emergency services respond to the bomb attack. The arrival of the emergency services causes a problem for the man. He quickly puts the knife away and walks towards the carriage that he had bombed and starts to help with the injured. David watches the man walk towards the carriage he bombed. Then start to assist with the injured. His Dad has not realised that the man threatening him has moved and he is no longer under any threat. After hiding his camera in the bush burying it under the dead leaves, and uses a stick to point to the hiding place. He starts to walk towards the crash site. Reaches his Dad. ‘Dad do not be startled it’s me David, the bomber has gone. Do not move quickly. I am going to see if mum is okay.’ ‘Thanks son,’ replies Dad quietly. He walks to the carriage where mum was sitting but could not see any sign of her. Climbing into the carriage that was bombed is very difficult, but on getting into the carriage he sees mum and the bomber helping an injured man. By now the emergency services have arrived and are swarming all over the train. David keeps a wary eye on the man who exploded the bomb. A paramedic comes up to David to ask if he is okay. David asks where he can find the police. ‘They are just arriving; you should find them over by those trees near to the fence.’ ‘Thank you,’ replies David. He walks over towards the trees slowly and asks to speak to the head police person. He explains what has happened and where his camera is. ‘You mean the bomber is helping the injured people he blew up?’ ‘Yes, I do not want to point, he has already threatened to kill my dad.’ ‘Tell you what we are going to secure the site, when the officer gets to the trees he can retrieve the camera, just sit here quietly. Ewe do not know what other tricks the bomber has up his sleeve.’ David sat and waited while the policeman walked around putting up the tape. When he reached the trees, he vanished for a minute and reappeared carrying the bag with the camera in. Eventually he got back to David. ‘Come with me and show me your photographs.’ The policeman lead David away from the crash scene. Hidden by the trees, he gave the camera to David. ‘Now show me what you have got. He turned on the camera, and showed the photographs to the policeman. ‘We have our bomber and enough evidence to send him to jail for a long time.’ The policeman got four other policemen and showed them the picture of the bomber. ‘I have seen him he is helping the injured in the crash site,’ said one of the PCs. ‘We need to be careful he is working with the injured and dead, let’s set up a trap for him,’ said the policemen. A few minutes later David walked into the crash site with his camera. As soon as the bomber saw him he stood up and excused himself. Started walking towards David. David turned tail and started to run up the field heading for a corpse of trees. The bomber although fit was not as fast as David. The bomber ran straight into the copse of trees straight into the arms of the five policemen. Once the policemen had the bomber in handcuffs and called for a car to take him to Aviemore police station. They turned their attention to David. They thanked him. Then took him back to his mum and dad who were very glad to see him. ‘Dad, can I have another camera, the police have taken my new one for evidence, and I won’t get it back for at least six months.’

zww036

Night Song of the Wild Things

I am an old woman, I can ride still, but I cross Bridges on power bikes just as the young do. It’s safest to travel them between blocks. When I was young, before the world bent against itself, and our land was left in desolation, the Bridges were called Highways. I remember that. I even have a few dim and scattered memories of when things were easy, but life has been hard since the desolation came. If you dare to travel between the blocks by the lower trails, you run the risk of attacks. There aren’t monsters like there always seemed to be in the old science fiction books I’ve read that were written when humanity was still spoiled and soft. It’s just wild things; dogs, coyotes, mountain cats, bears; the only monsters are a type of people who were brutal, too vicious and had to be run out of the blocks. They hide in the high buildings left standing, and sometimes if they’re close enough to the Bridges they’ll scream out and threaten people from the blocks, but we mostly stay separate. The wild things don’t like the smell of people, and they have prey to hunt in the lowlands, so we stay separate from them too. Sometimes block leaders will take groups of people into the lowlands to scavenge, in the middle of the day the wild things are usually resting after their morning hunts. One thing you never want to do is get caught in the lowlands in the dark. It’s dangerous to be on the bridges at night, too. To make the Bridges safe between Blocks - which would have been neighborhoods in the old times but are now blocked and boarded up with only one protected track leading off to the Bridges – all the access points are lined with razor wire. It’s effective with the wild things, but not the lowland people. They’ll climb the gates and the fences. Patrols run to repair places where the lowlanders pull the razor wire back, it doesn’t happen often, but we do what we have to do to stay safe. I am a messenger, one of 7 in the south Block. On my days I carry news to west Block and Elysian. I remember radios from when I was younger, but the EMP’s took all the electrics out. We’ve been able to rebuild some mechanized transportation by scavenging random things, power bikes are the most common vehicles. Small engines were devised, and solar power panels raided from buildings, homes, parking lots etc. and were wired into them to provide power. No one wants to travel by night, the sound of the coyotes howling just below the Bridges terrifies most people and the few who don’t run for home are part of the Bridges patrols. My place in the south block has three levels, and when I go up on the roof through my skylight I can see over our wall into the lowlands. You can still see where the cars used to drive but the white footpaths, and the black roads the cars used to ride on have mostly given way to green. Now that the lowlands have gone back to wild, you could almost imagine humans had never been out there, except for the bits of buildings poking through. I wish I’d been there on the last day. We were too carefree, musing on possessions. If we’d looked up from such mundane considerations we might have been prepared, but when civilization released its grip on humanity, and survival held tight, musings gave way to the pursuit of need and demand. I was running messages on the worst stretch of Bridges whe n it began. I had goggles on and it took longer than it might otherwise have to recognize that light was blending with shadows. By the time I realized what was going on I was only a short distance from West Block headed toward the crossroads which was a connection point of bridges where a foolish man named Dino stayed on the Bridges with a cook stove and fed the Messengers. We’d trade for what he had, and he’d always give us his home brew too, which helped make the rides easy. I pulled to the inside and slowed, coming to a stop when I was on one of the high supports. The shadows in the lowlands were far darker than those on the Bridges but the color was leaving both areas rapidly. That was when the last of the birds quieted, and the night song of the wild things began. I’ve said already that you don’t want to be caught on Bridges at night, it’s mostly because of the song, it’s a devil symphony. The coyotes get to howling, the dogs bark first, then they too join the howls. The howling goes on for ages before it begins to be punctuated by the screams of the mountain cats who usually come down into the lowlands only at night, but here in the bone-worn tangles of what remains of the old city there are wildernesses that are closer and denser than they once were. Over the decades the predators have tripled even as their prey dwindled. In the Blocks the greatest fear isn’t the hunger, the lack of water, or the dark rain that falls sometimes, the greatest fear for all the Blocks is the time when the prey are diminished. Will the wild things then turn on each other, or will they turn on the Blocks? I sat on my power bike, listening to the howls and the screams and the sound began to cause a ripple on my flesh. I listened listened for a few minutes; noting the distance of the mountain cat screams, and the all too close sound of the coyotes. They were still a mile or two off, but it was too near for my comfort with the quickly failing light. I pulled the bike around and was just about to push start when I heard an inhuman scream from behind me. A mountain cat had tried to jump through the razor wire and was caught. It snarled and screamed, letting me know it was a thing in pain. Because we have domesticated cats in the Blocks I felt sorry for it, but I was too scared of its noises to consider helping it. I pushed start and the unpleasantly gentle hum of my power bike hissed on. I pushed the thumb-lever and my power bike moved forward, over its hum I could hear the jangling razor wire scraping across the pavement. I realized it was almost completely dark already. I looked at the horizons looking for the telltale glow of the end of the day and as I whipped my head around I noticed a crescent moons through the shadows the trees cast in what ambient glow remained. I realized it wasn’t an early night, it was an eclipse. A mighty scream ripped across the night from the mountain cat as it finally untangled itself from the cutting razors, and with ears back and a death snarl it began chasing me. I don’t think I’ve urged a power bike to peak speed before, and wasn’t sure I’d make it. I raced forward, dodging the rusted heaps left on the Bridges in the final twilight of civilization. It was painfully slow but I began to outstrip the feral thing by grimace inducing inches. It was close enough that  I could hear its paws slapping the ground behind me. Intermittently it would screech, I’d whip my head back to see if I was about to lose the pathetically small space between myself and a gory ending. The cat would pounce forward slightly swinging a paw - claws on full display - to try to catch something of me. As I came around the hulk of a big truck, I saw the lamp ahead, the little light that meant I’d almost reached  Dino’s cart. He had a hand raised with a spatula in it, and was waving until he saw the cat jump onto the top of the front of a dead car in the dim light of my bike;s rear taillight, and then jumped down in pursuit of me. Dino was on the Bridge with his storage cart, a small camp stove and was standing before an open truck inside which he had at some point fashioned a kind of lounge for himself to sit in between Messengers. I’d always thought it looked comfortable, but exposed. As Dino made to dive into it, I realized just how exposed and called out to him. “Get into the cab!” Dino had one leg up onto the rear of the trailer but bringing up the other leg he immediately changed course and jumped down from the trucks rear bumper and ran towards the cab. I started weaving where there was open space between the abandoned cars. It was slow going in the strange dark of the eclipse. As I slowed to dodge and maybe to give Dino more time, I could hear other screams, howls and barks. The eclipse had brought out all the wild things. Suddenly my back tire skidded a little, a quick glance over my shoulder told me the cat had slapped the tire. As Dino slammed the door of the truck cab and was safely inside, I shot past seeing open road beyond for the remaining space between me and the Elysian turn off. The cat wasn’t slowing and wasn’t giving up. Slowing down by Dino seemed to have renewed the cat’s sense that I was reachable. I understood all too well how small and poor a figure I made on my bike; it was barely more than a bicycle with a motorcycle’s rear wheel and its scooter engine. I imagined I looked like easy prey. The Elysian turn off was ahead. The eclipse was passing by degrees, because I could make out some movement at the gate. Apparently Elysian Block and its leader had seen the cat. Through my goggles I thought I could see signs of rifles and people who were ready to close the tall gates. I had been leaning forward for most of this damned ride, but I leaned still further, a vain effort at willing my bike to make it through the Elysian gate before the clawed hell behind me could take me. I saw Quinn Locke ahead, the elected mayor of Elysian Block, he was calling to me, “Come on Sephy, move it!” Ordinarily I liked his voice, for a young man he had a deep register and a lot of resonance, today the resonance was there, but the register was lost in the urgent pitch of something else, worry I think. I yelled as I finally slid between the gates, only half aware that men were closing it behind me, and other men were lining up just behind it. The astonishingly loud sound of a shotgun caused me to whip my head around, and pull the breaks at the same time; a very bad idea in the position I was in. I lost control of the bike and lurched sideways. I knew well enough to let go of the bike and tumbled ungracefully to a stop as the bike slid beside me. I rolled a few feet further and finally came to a stop on my back, or at least as much as my full messenger bag would allow for. My googles were askew, and digging into my forehead, but for a long moment I just didn’t move. I heard screaming. It took a few moments of dazed assessment to recognize it wasn’t coming from me, it was the cat. I turned my head and in the hesitant light I saw it. I could see its eyes; it seemed wrong somehow that the day was growing lighter at the same time the cats eyes were dimming. It was looking at me as it died, every bit as much as I looked at it. I felt sad as the life left its eyes. It was following its instincts, but in a world which relied on survival, death and life were always on opposite sides of instincts. Mayor Locke approached, and putting his hands on his knees, he leaned over me. “Are you going to survive?” I reached up and fixed my goggles so I could see him properly. “Maybe, but this isn’t the day that’s going to stop me.” Mayor Locke reached out and gripped my wrist, I gripped his and he pulled me to my feet. I dusted myself off, grabbed my messenger bag and we walked down the turn off, “What did you think of the eclipse?” he asked me. I barked a short laugh, “Can’t say I’m a fan.”

x5cxw2

In Your Comfortable Bed

The stars filled up the sky as the blazing sun went down. My eyes scanned the heavens for any sort of air attack that might take away my life. So far, none has appeared. The ground was moist and soft, the soil watered with cloud tears. The air around me was damp, like a just-unloaded washing machine. The sound of crickets was heavy in the air, making up a natural choir. The weight of my make-shift bag was ponderous against my back, my legs aching so much it felt like lead. Even so, I forced a step after the other, trying to balance my breath. My mind was clouded with fears, my vision blurry. It was getting dark, and I spotted, just in time, a huge rock sticking out of the earth's outer layer. My stomach rumbled with numb hunger, and suddenly, a wave of hopelessness drenched me whole, drowning me in a whirlpool of fears and despair. I sat down on the rock, its rough surface a pain in the ass, pun intended. I slid the straps off my shoulders, leaving a dent in the multiple layers of my clothing. Heaving a shallow breath, I let the heavy bag leave my grasp and it landed with a soft thump on the muggy ground. The bag itself was much soiled from my trip, so I didn't really care about the dirt know stuck onto the bottom of it. My fingers nimbly pulled the zipper up and around, the cold metal pressing against my calloused skin. The putrid odour of scent which name's unknown wafted out. The trees around me whistled a innate tune, the soft breeze calming my thoughts just enough for me to start knocking up some food. As I cooked and cut, the stars above me aligned, showing me a way through the wilderness of the forests of Amazon. The winding paths has led me here, a strange place with even stranger creatures. A sound resembling a shotgun reverberated through the area, causing my very bones to tremble. A flash of fear shot through my veins as my mind started to wonder what it was. I continued to devour the scarce sustenance packed in my rucksack. While munching, I observed the skies and the stars, noting how the moon shone brightly tonight. I stole a glance at my watch, and it said what I had expected. I mumbled the date under my breath, nodding to myself. If ever a squirrel, a lizard or a hedgehog were to spot me just then, they would shale their heads and say, "What a psycho..'' in their languages, I'm sure. The sound of rushing water was heard close by, and so I left my bag near the consequential rock, and brought my utensils towards the sound of the stream. Again, I followed the sound and the stars, and was put on full alert when: I lost my footing and my shoes were drenched in freezing liquid, or mountain water, as I like to call it. I exclaimed loudly, a shriek topping out of my lips. I looked up at the stars and cursed them. Then I turned my attention to a more vital thing at hand. I bent down, and started to rinse the remains of edibles off the crudely shaped aluminium plate. I shivered, as the air decided to blast a harshly cold cat's paw at me. Gasping, I proceeded to fill my Hydro Flask bottle with raw water. After that, I stumbled back towards my temporary camp. Just as I spotted the jutting rock again, I heard a horrible yelp, unlike a human's voice, and my heart skipped a beat. I gripped my eating utensils and bottle tight, my knuckles turning white. I looked around, my face flushed pale, and I looked up. The stars were glowing, but not the normal light that offered beauty; It was more of a harsh red, like a fireman's car when a fire erupted somewhere. I tottered over hastily towards the protruding boulder, and quickly started to pack, my fingers trembling, my heart seeming to pump in, out, in, out of my chest. With another glance at the stars, I begged for mercy to Him and heaved the burden of travel back on my back, the straps almost immediately cutting into my shoulder. I left the clearing, which, I knew very well, might be the last I'll see in this hideously exciting trip. "What the hell was that?" I swore, as I tripped over a pebble, lost my footing, and almost toppled over an impending cliff. I shook my head to rid of the dizziness that was felt as I almost lost my life over a stupid pebble. I craned my neck upwards, forcibly wrenching my head up, too. The stars were blinking innocently down at me, aligned in a certain pattern which I found rather useful. I frowned, for they were an evil red just a few minutes ago. "How the heck..?" I muttered again, as I proceeded to put another foot forward, again and again, ignoring the painful aching in both of my legs. The smell of daisies, and pine-cones wafted into my nose, reminding me of my home far away. Will I ever managed to get out of this labyrinth of euterpe trees and navigate my way back home? A sense of nostalgia grew into a small knot in my stomach; a knot that consisted of longing, fear and an overwhelming want of warm food, complete with a glass cup, a ceramic plate and silver utensils. Thoughts journeyed my mind, and I wonder, how far I'll go? I continued my journey, forwards, for that was the only way to go, following the whisper of the stars, the slithers of unseen dangers, and the tuneful hum of the wind and the trees. Hedgehogs were my best friends in these strange woods, though, I'm not sure if I'll be seeing them again. Goodbye, for now, and sleep well in your comfortable bed, with fluffy pillows and a chunky blanket.

vgwq55

Battle Blue

Laura Thompson Approx. 1,050 words 237 Ogden Cyn Ogden, UT 84401 (801) 690-5837 [email protected] BATTLE BLUE by Laura Thompson The ship pulled slightly to the right as a gentle wind caught her sails and nudged the Ulfich closer to the shoreline. The wolf’s head on her bow bobbed with the waves, its open mouth appearing to howl with the wind. Thorsten shouted over the sound of the sloshing waves, “Men, ready the ship for landing!”  This prompted a flurry of activity as sailors ran to the bow and the stern of the ship approaching land to prepare for the inevitable bump onto the muddy beach of Fortriu in Pictland. “Keep your eyes on the horizon,” Thorsten cautioned the men as they jumped from the sides of the vessel into the mud and sand.  As he jumped down to survey the muddy beach, Thorsten called, “Watch for those blue bastards!” Pictland was home to the ferocious warriors who painted themselves blue for battle. Thorsten’s men were mariners and fishermen, though they could fight as well as any Ostman. He thought of the decorative paint his own men used to circle their eyes, and on their faces and arms. A blackish-blue dye they carried in their pouches. Bjorn’s bear symbol on his left cheek. Ivar’s wolfhead on his upper arm. The fish hook under Sven’s mouth. Pictish warriors were notorious for attacking while sailors were disembarking, busy with the ropes and fighting the frequent changing tides that threatened to suck a ship back into the water. The Picts were known for their treachery even amongst their kinsmen and their reputation painted them as savages to those unlucky enough to encounter them. And their habit of painting their skin blue for battle did well enough to cause them to be feared by men on land and sea. “Fast up the hill, your lives may depend on it. They may crest that grassy hill any moment.” Thorsten pitched in to help. The sixteen Ostmen could be outnumbered by a large Pict tribe, which often counted up to thirty men. Six men were pulling ropes, guiding the ship further up and into the mud of the shoreline toward a huge rock that sat between mud and the grass beyond. The rock had no earthly reason to be there. It had been rolled down the grassy hill by the ancient Ostmen who first sailed to these shores. The men wrapped the ropes around the natural anchor point and knotted them tightly on the backside. With the ship anchored, the rest of the men began to throw down the cargo of supplies, weapons, shields, and haaf fishing nets. Their long oars would serve as poles on which the nets could be strung for catching the skrei that would migrate from the Barents to spawn in warmer waters. The voyage from Anslo to the southern coast of Norsk and eventually across the West Sea between the two lands took almost three weeks. The voyage to Caledonia allowed them to use the sun and stars to keep the ship on route. No small feat given the Ulfwich’s shallow hold and heavy weight. Unlike trips to the Barents in the bitter northern cold, where the sun shone for days with no nighttime and no stars to guide the way. A shrill battle cry jolted the men into action. The Picts were attacking, a frenzied rush of men and spears on the horizon. “Swords and shields!” Thorsten shouted. The men ran to the pile of weapons and grabbed whatever was on top. They hurried, though in somewhat ordered fashion, to form a line. On Thorsten’s command, the men formed a shield wall, advancing one synchronous step at a time, toward the blue scantily dressed figures running at them. A few of the Ostmen had served in the Great Army and taught sword skill to the others.  The Picts, armed mostly with spears, jabbed at the Ostmen furiously, but could not penetrate the shield wall. Only one or two wielded axes and those landed on the hard wooden shields formed in front of and on top of Thorsten and his men. Thorsten counted thirteen blue painted men, long hair streaming save the knots of hair on the tops of their heads.  “Push!” Thorsten yelled. The Ostmen advanced in lockstep. “Thrust!” Thorsten yelled again. This time the Ostmen took a step and stabbed through the small slits between their shields, swords biting through Pict flesh. Thorsten’s long sword slid into a tall enemy, who looked at him with wild eyes, face painted with blue swirls and dots. For a moment, Thorsten wondered what the symbols meant. But another blue warrior was hacking down on his shield. He reacted by jamming his sword into the man’s belly as the shield wall began to break apart. “Fight!” The men heard Thorsten bellow, “Finish them off!” There were only six Picts left, who formed a circle, back to back as Thorsten and the other Ostmen formed a larger circle around them. They had not lost any men, though four were badly wounded. The remaining Picts held their weapons in a combat stance, moving slowly in a clockwise circle. The Ostmen closed in, walking slowly at the tribesmen. The Picts, with their high pitched battle cry, ran at the Ostmen, who responded with fighting fury.  After much hacking and thrusting, the Picts fell defeated. The tide began to lap onto the shore, and blue paint swirled into the water, mixing with the red of the blood from the battle fallen men. A dark purplish formed and soaked into the sand. Thorsten stared at the painted bodies, some with painted symbols showing beneath the blue skin. He noticed one young Pictish man with what appeared to be ocean waves painted on his upper arm, limp and lifeless. He had seen such a symbol many times on Ostmen from fishing villages.  These men were not so different, Thorsten thought. Fishing. Foraging. Fighting to live another day.  He watched as the blue paint on the Picts was washed away by the waves, leaving only a tangle of slaughtered half-naked men. The Ostmen were now the only painted men on the beach.  The irony struck Thorsten. But the day belonged to his men, and this band of Picts was surely part of a larger tribe, waiting, painted for battle, beyond the horizon. THE END

0qxt1y

You are going the wrong way

The ship is sailing in the North Atlantic, it is getting close to Greenland on its way across the Atlantic to Canada to go into the Great Lakes. Our captain is an old sea dog, Marshall Blake, who has been around for donkey’s years, and thinks he knows everything. But this is not always the case, some of these up-and-coming young pups as he likes to call them know more that he does already. But he will never admit it. Who am I? I am the ship’s head cook; I have served under Captain Blake for fourteen years. Even although he has made very few mistakes, some of the ones he has made have been life threatening. Marshall has been rescued by one of these young pups as he likes to call them. I f he can show that he is right and they are wrong heaven help you. He will comb his hair, put on his best uniform and walk about boasting how good he is, and how no one will ever replace him. But if the young pup is right and he is wrong, then Marshall vanishes for about three days until all of the hullabaloo has died down. One thing about the young pups is they are very good and professional. If they are right, there is no told you so. They just get on with their job in the most professional manner. Everything is going well on our trip across the Atlantic, until the radio operator appears on the bridge with a message in his hand. ‘Excuse me Captain,’ said Richard Baker the radio operator. ‘Good morning, Richard, how are you this fine day and how can I help you?’ replies the Captain, Marshall. ‘I have a signal from the company that is for your urgent attention,’ Richard tries to pass the message to the captain, but he is occupied with something else. ‘Read it out to me please, I can do two things at once. Unlike some of the younger crew who prefer to only deal with one thing at a time,’ replied the captain. ‘Yes sir, there are reports of icebergs in your vicinity. Proceed with care,’ said Richard. ‘Thank you, Richard, nothing to worry about,’ replied the captain. ‘I will leave the message on the map table, captain. Richard left the message and returned to the radio room. The ship sailed on with the person on the bridge on watch knowing nothing about the icebergs. Half an hour later just as it was getting dark, one of the look outs spotted an iceberg. ‘Sir iceberg ahead of us on the port bow about a mile ahead, do we change course?’ shouted the port bridge lookout. The officer of the watch summoned the captain and showed him the iceberg. ‘Maintain present course and speed,’ replied the captain. The ship sailed on heading for the iceberg, it would pass just to port, the officer of the watch was a young man, who had watched the film Titanic, but who was he to question the captain? The ship approached the iceberg, it was nearly passed when there was a crunching sound and the whole ship shuddered as it hit the iceberg. The officer of the watch changed the telegraph to the engine room to go ahead full reverse hoping to minimise the damage the iceberg would do. But it was too little too late. The front of the ship was taking in water. The engine had reversed but it had made it worse. The ship was sinking, bow first. The engine room appeared on deck, shouting abandon ship, they started to launch the lifeboats. The captain appeared on deck, ‘what is going on,’ he yelled. ‘We are sinking captain, we hit the iceberg that you said we would miss,’ said the officer of the watch. By now the ship was sinking fast, the bow was going down and the water was about to wash over the forward deck. ‘Abandon ship yelled the captain, the crew all got into the lifeboats and rowed away from the ship as quickly as possible. The all watched the ship go down five minutes after hitting the iceberg. There were three lifeboats all full with oars. ‘We will head south and we should pick up the shipping lanes quickly,’ said the captain The weather is overcast making it difficult to get a bearing. But the crew did as asked and all started rowing south, only they were actually going north. The sky remained overcast giving no chance of getting a bearing from the sun or the stars. They continued to row, only instead of getting warmer it starts to get colder. That night the sky still remains overcast. The officer of the watch speaks out what every crew member has on their mind, ‘captain, are we going the right way, it is getting colder not warmer as it should do. The captain looks up, and says, ‘You hit the iceberg, you got us into this mess shut up and do as you are told.’ The officer of the watch feels guilty for sinking the ship and clams up. The next day the sky is still overcast, but as it starts r=to get dark, the clouds seem to be thinning. As night falls the clouds start to gradually break up. The stars start to appear. After an hour the sky is clear enough to see the majority of the stars. The officer of the watch stops rowing, he stares at the sky. The turns to his neighbour. ‘See that bright star that is the pole star, this means we are going north.’ The captain looks up and says, ‘Are you still talking you need to be rowing.’ ‘Captain we are rowing north, as we have been since the ship sunk, we are going the wrong way.’ ‘I am the captain and you do as I say, we are going south.’ ‘No captain you get it wrong, we are going north.’ ‘How do you know?’ ‘Look at the stars, the bright star is the north star we are heading towards it we are going north.’ ‘Why should I believe you, you hit the iceberg.’ ‘No captain you chose to ignore the warning of the icebergs,’ The captain went quiet he had been found out. ‘Sir, permission to turn about, to head south?’ The captain did not reply, he wanted to go to his cabin and hide, He had made a mistake and been found out. The officer of the watch. A young lad took command turned the rowing boats around and headed south. They were picked up two days later. The captain never held a commend again and the officer of the watch was promoted. 

04342x

The Eclipse that Almost Wasn't

Elisa Jones had been wanting to see an eclipse since she was a child. Her father, James, had told her stories of the eclipses he had seen and the big one in 1989 when Elisa had been two-years-old. She didn't remember, however, her father regaled the entire story. The trip they had taken to see the solar eclipse in Baja, Mexico back in February of 1989. Her mother, Carmen, had been alive, and the three of them had traveled to the East Cape of Mexico from their small working class suburb of Los Angeles. They almost didn't go because both of her parents had to work. Her father, a gardener, and her mother, Carmen, a housecleaner, had to work to get the bills paid. He didn't think that they could go because of these obligations. However, her father told her that because eclipses were so rare and because he dabbled in astronomy, he told his clients that he would be gone for a week for an important reason. He convinced Carmen to do the same and it would be an opportunity to travel to her place of birth. They both took a week leave of absence to drive the twenty-four hours to Los Cabos, a short distance from Cabo San Lucas. Baja always sounded so romantic to Elisa. Desert, blue turquoise waters, large cathedrals in quaint towns like San Ignacio. Her father always said, "The best food in the world." James said it was a challenging drive back in 1989. Lots of dirt and rocky narrow roads. They had stopped briefly to see Carmen's parents. They lived in a small suburb outside of Ensenada. Elisa always loved to hear the details because she never knew either set of her grandparents. They had died before she could meet them. He described the small house and the warmth of her grandparents. James always got tears in his eyes as that was the last time Carmen had seen her parents. The only time that they had met their granddaughter, Elisa. Carmen had passed away after a brief illness the following summer. Her father would always nod his head, "So, we didn't know it at the time, but it was the most important trip for our family." On that journey to see the eclipse, they had stayed longer at Carmen's parents home. Her parents were so happy to see them all and had made them a special meal of fish tacos, rice, and beans. James would always laugh and say, they had almost missed the eclipse for the best fish tacos. He'd rub Elisa's curly black hair, his blue eyes meeting her almond dark brown eyes, exclaiming, "We almost missed it, but knew we'd have to try." They had arrived in Los Cabos, back in those days, a small fishing village, just in time. Her father described in vivid detail the simple beauty of this small town and the small crowd that they stood with, adorning special glasses to view the moon covering the sun. He'd end by saying that the ensuing "darkness gives light." Years later, after Elisa had graduated from college in journalism, and gotten a newspaper job in her hometown, her father had passed away. In her grief, she had gotten on a plane and landed in Cabo San Lucas, renting a car to go to the town where she and her parents had viewed the eclipse. The town, away from the hub of hotels and restaurants of Cabo, must have grown since 1989. Still, the town brought Elisa a tremendous sense of peace. At the same time, the turmoil of all the milestones her parents would not see in her life. Her father and mother had worked so hard to give her a good life. Her father always emphasized education and had attended her college graduation in his best blue suit. She couldn't help but think that life without her parents was darkness. On her flight home, she sat by a blonde surfer type, white teeth, and gregarious manner. His name, Joseph, seemed to be a sign as it was her father's middle name. They connected well, and they made quite a couple, she so dark and olive skinned and he so blonde. They had moved in together and lived together for about 10 years. He loved traveling to Mexico for surf and she liked traveling for the nostalgia of her mother. She began travel writing about Baja and it gave her a connection to her deceased parents. She and Joseph had ended up breaking up which hadn't been a shock. He was restless and didn't want to work in a steady job. He desired to travel more and surf. Elisa loved traveling but wanted a permanent relationship and the steadiness of writing jobs. No longer working at a newspaper, Elisa had carved out a good living which covered her rent and food by writing travel blogs and articles. Her readership was building and although she missed the hustle and bustle of the newspaper office, she liked to work in the peace of her small home office, a view of orange trees on a back terrace. Often, she'd take a break in the afternoons, drinking herbal tea de lemon which had been her mother's favorite. She'd sit with her tabby cat, aptly named Eclipse, Ecky for short. It was one of those afternoons, April 2, 2024, when she scanned the articles on the upcoming eclipse, April 8. It gave her pause, as the last eclipse she had deliberately missed. The truth was it was too painful to attend without her parents with her. She skipped the first article as to defining what an eclipse was, the miracle of one celestial body blocking another, as she had learned all about them from her dad. She looked up where the best place to see it would be next week. Her eyes widened as she looked at a map showing Texas up through Maine. Coincidentally, her best friend Samantha called her excitedly, "We're going to Memphis to see the eclipse." Her cousin on her father's side texted her, "Hey girl, we're going to Ohio for the eclipse, come with us if you want." The eclipse journeys were contagious. Even her dentist, Dr. Henry, spoke enthusiastically of his upcoming trip to Arkansas to view the eclipse. His youthful face sporting shaggy brown hair and his cornflower blue eyes peering into Elisa's dark eyes, spilling over with ebullience as he gave her the details of his anticipated travels. Over the last couple of years, they had found that they had a shared interest in eclipses and astronomy. He had excitedly showed her on his phone video of the last eclipse he had attended in Mazatlan, Mexico. Like her father, he was an amateur astronomer and visited all the eclipses. Elisa had gradually opened up to him about how special eclipses were to she and her dad. They had some good talks about their shared interests in astronomy. She told him that it was hard to think about attending when her dad and mom wouldn't be there to go with her. Now, two days before the big eclipse, Elisa had made up her mind to not attend. Tears sprung to her eyes thinking that she just wasn't ready to face an eclipse without her dad. Taking her usual break, sipping her usual tea, the title of an article on her phone caught her eye. "Last Chance to Get the Eclipse." What? She read the article about this being the longest and most visible for the United States in a century. Taking her father's photo off a shelf, her heart skipped a beat as she took in her dad's smiling face. He wouldn't want her to sit and wallow. She recalled the last time he had told her again of the Baja trip to see the eclipse. "We didn't think we'd make it there in time." She would always finish for him, "But you did." He'd get that dreamy look whenever he talked about her mother and that trip, "We did." What was Elisa waiting for? She felt a burst of energy as she Googled where in the world was Eagle Pass, Texas she had read about in the article? Speaking of articles, excitement burbling up through her, she realized that she could write a travel article on this eclipse and the connection to her family. She called all the main airlines that flew into Maverick County Memorial International Airport. No luck. She had waited too long. She wouldn't give up. She called to get a ticket to Austin, about 3 1/2 hours from Eagle Pass. She got a ticket for the early morning of April 8. It was cutting it close but there was a possibility. Better to try as her dad said. She emailed all of her clients saying that she was leaving for a week for an important reason. She smiled at her dad's photo, "Like father, like daughter." She asked her trusted neighbor to feed and look after Ecky. Now, she was ready to go. The plane was late and she barely got a rental car. It was a warm day and there was more traffic as usual. Everyone it seemed was out to see the solar eclipse. This is how her dad must have felt, back in 1989, arriving in Los Cabos. Arriving in the small town of Eagle Pass, passing the Bienvenidos sign, the town was bigger than expected. The traffic was stalled and her heart fell as she realized the line to the viewing spot would take hours in itself. She pulled over to a green park where others were parking. She gravitated over to a small crowd of people, a lady handing her special goggles to observe. "Oh my, thank you." The kindness of strangers. She asked, "Will we see it from here?" The lady shrugged her shoulders. Her watch showed noon and they waited. A shadow fell on her shoulders but it wasn't the eclipse. To her surprise, she looked up to see her dentist, Dr. Henry. He took off his viewing glasses. "Elisa! You made it." She laughed, "I almost didn't make it." He replied, "The eclipse that almost wasn't, like when you were a child." She smiled, "Yes." He had remembered her story. She was still incredulous to see his familiar face, "I thought you were going to Little Rock." He shook his head, "I think this place is better." He put his viewing glasses back on, Elisa agreed and did likewise. They both looked up and waited for this special time, when the moon would fully block the sun. She felt her parents presence in these moments. Elisa knew that they would experience moments of darkness when the eclipse hit. Yet, she also knew that the darkness would turn to light. # # #

emxpbi

Echoes of Infinity

In the heart of Illinois, within the rolling plains, lay the town of Cedar Hollow. It was a place where time seemed to move at its own pace, unaffected by the buzz of modern life. Among its residents was a young African-American woman named Emily Stardust, born and raised under the vast Midwestern skies. Emily had always felt a deep connection to the heavens above. Growing up in Cedar Hollow, she had gazed at the stars on clear nights, dreaming of distant worlds and mysteries of outer space. The impending total solar eclipse, with its path cutting through Illinois, had lighted a fire within her—a desire to witness something truly extraordinary. As the day of the eclipse approached, Emily's anticipation grew. She had read about the biblical interpretations and the apocalyptic prophecies circulating in the media, but she remained grounded in her curiosity and scientific wonder. For her, the eclipse was a rare opportunity to experience nature's grand spectacle firsthand. On the afternoon of April 8th, Emily joined the townsfolk gathered in a field outside Cedar Hollow. Excitement and tension filled the air as the moon began its slow journey across the sun. With her eclipse glasses securely in place, Emily watched with awe as the world around her gradually darkened. As totality approached, a profound stillness enveloped the crowd. The sky turned to twilight, and a chill ran down Emily's spine. It was unlike anything she had ever experienced—the eerie calm before a momentous event. Then, as the moon fully obscured the sun, darkness descended upon Cedar Hollow. Emily removed her glasses and looked up, her heart pounding in anticipation. But what happened next was beyond anyone's expectations. Instead of feeling fear or witnessing signs of impending doom, Emily felt a surge of exhilaration. In the deep shadows of the eclipse, something shifted within her perception. Colors became more vivid, and the very air seemed charged with energy. Suddenly, Emily noticed a peculiar phenomenon unfolding around her. Wispy tendrils of light danced across the darkened landscape, weaving intricate patterns in the air. It was as though the boundaries between reality and imagination had blurred, revealing glimpses of a hidden world. In that fleeting moment of totality, Emily's senses were heightened. She felt a connection to the cosmos, as if she were part of a vast cosmic dance. Unseen forces seemed to whisper secrets in her ear, urging her to look beyond the surface of things. And then, just as swiftly as it had begun, the eclipse ended. The sun emerged from behind the moon, casting its warm light once again upon Cedar Hollow. But for Emily, the experience had left an indelible mark. In the days that followed, Emily found herself drawn to the mysteries of the universe more than ever before. She delved into books on astronomy and mythology, seeking to understand the deeper significance of what she had witnessed. Yet, amidst her quest for knowledge, she couldn't shake the feeling that the eclipse had unlocked something within her—a doorway to realms unseen. Years passed, and Cedar Hollow became a place of pilgrimage for astronomers and seekers of truth. Emily, now a respected scientist, dedicated her life to unraveling the secrets of the cosmos. But deep down, she knew that the most profound discoveries lay not in the stars themselves, but within the infinite possibilities of the human spirit. As Emily looked back on that transformative day—the day the skies darkened and the world shifted—she realized that the total solar eclipse had been more than just a celestial event. It had been a catalyst for her own journey of discovery, a reminder that sometimes, the most extraordinary revelations occur in the quiet moments between light and shadow. And so, with each passing eclipse, Emily returned to Cedar Hollow, her hometown illuminated by the memory of that unforgettable day—a day when the heavens had whispered their secrets and a young woman had listened with an open heart. As the years passed and Emily's fascination with the cosmos deepened, Cedar Hollow evolved into a center of astronomical research and metaphysical exploration. Emily herself became renowned for her insights into the mysteries of the universe, but her most profound discovery awaited her on a night much like the one that had changed her life forever. On the eve of another total solar eclipse, Emily stood atop a hill overlooking Cedar Hollow. The air was charged with anticipation, and the sky gradually darkened as the moon crept across the face of the sun. Emily, now a seasoned astronomer, watched with a mix of excitement and introspection. As totality approached, a sense of déjà vu washed over her. The world plunged into darkness once more, but this time, Emily felt a strange pull—a sensation of being drawn towards the unknown. With her eyes fixed on the eclipse, she sensed a presence beyond the celestial dance unfolding above. Then, in the fleeting moment of complete darkness, a voice echoed in Emily's mind—a voice that seemed both ancient and familiar. "Emily," it whispered, "the stars hold secrets you have yet to uncover." Startled, Emily looked around, but the darkness yielded no answers. The eclipse ended abruptly, leaving Emily shaken yet intrigued. That night, as she reviewed her observations in the quiet of her observatory, Emily noticed something extraordinary in the data—an anomaly that defied all known laws of physics. The eclipse had revealed a pattern, a cosmic code hidden within the fabric of spacetime. Driven by curiosity, Emily dedicated herself to decoding this enigma. Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, until finally, she stumbled upon a revelation that shook the foundations of her understanding. The total solar eclipse had not just been a natural phenomenon—it had been a catalyst for an encounter beyond comprehension. Emily had inadvertently opened a door to a parallel dimension, a realm where time and space intertwined in ways beyond human comprehension. In that moment of totality, Emily had made contact with beings from another reality—entities that existed beyond the boundaries of our universe. They had chosen her, guided her, and now beckoned her to unlock the mysteries of existence. As Emily delved deeper into her research, the truth dawned upon her—an unimaginable truth that transcended everything she had ever known. The universe was not what it seemed. Reality was but a fragment of a vast, multiversal tapestry, and Emily was on the brink of unraveling its secrets. Years later, as Cedar Hollow stood on the cusp of yet another total solar eclipse, Emily emerged from her secluded observatory. She carried with her the knowledge of worlds beyond, the echoes of voices from distant realms. And as the moon once again obscured the sun, Emily raised her gaze to the darkened sky, knowing that the answers she sought lay not among the stars, but in the boundless expanse of the unknown. In that moment, as the world held its breath, Emily embraced the shocking truth—she was not just a witness to the universe; she was its harbinger, destined to unveil the ultimate revelation: Reality is but a shadow cast by the infinite. And with that realization, Emily disappeared into the depths of the cosmos, leaving behind a legacy that would forever redefine humanity's understanding of existence.

39ud2d

The Jaded Tyger

TW: Trauma, language, violence, gore, threats. Namibia, 2005, Kasim Akuchi Private Wildlife Preserve Very rarely through history has a warrior caught a photo of a beast. Well, I wasn’t a warrior, nor was the orange-striped predator a beast. It’s all the interpretation of zealots. We’re much more than we seem; though, we can seem much more than we are to certain people. Often, it’s not for the better. I let the steering wheel guide me, following the curves of the African countryside. Sparkling gold settled near the sun, letting warm light fall onto my dashboard. Mississippi never had the same charm. I settled into the leather, watching turquoise lick the savanna sky. It gave me time to think about why I was even there. My expedition started when Thomas Felton asked me to produce a photo of a “wild predator” past the Namibian border, though he was initially vague about what he meant. Since he was the Tupelo Evening Post ’s Graphics Coordinator, I knew it was a risky move not to give him what he wanted. It didn’t take long for me to accept, regardless of the sleep I was losing. Off I was through the Plains before Felton slapped down his Golden Book: a collection of photographs and sketches that mocked me with their simplicity. What he never explained to me was that I would be leaving for a government-funded reserve. It meant nothing to me , but he wanted professional photographs of one of the reserve’s non-native species. Felton was a wannabe Geographic publisher, and we all knew it. “Capture a Bengal tiger for the cover, and you’ll have your advance. Fuck, you may even have the front page. No guarantees, though,” he told me. Though I was across the world, I could still hear the echo of his hyena laugh. Hyena . Hah! Before I knew it, I was on my way to the promise of fame. Each thought guided me down the dirt road toward the reserve, and after a while, I found it easy to navigate the terrain; after the initial roughage, it settled to a subtle roar - and the rocking ceased. I pulled off the dirt road to the lot directly before the gate. “ Good girl,” I mumbled, resting my palm on the wheel. “Keep that momentum. I’ll need it.” I opted to leave everything in the van except my camera. Standing next to the only other vehicle in the lot was who I presumed to be my guide. His flesh was charcoal, glossy as if washed with coconut milk. A brusque look at him, and he looked back. He flashed me what I would have assumed was a smile had he not glared at me to move, and the facade was gone. His smile was forced, giving me a “don’t fuck with me” type of vibe, though I was certain it was for show. “The name is Chike,” he muttered, and I approached his Jeep. I entered hesitantly. Though my mind had qualms about the whole ordeal, he seemed nice enough. I watched the gates glide open. “Not the hospitable type?” I asked, following his boots as they stomped over the swaying grass. “Not the type to entertain journalists ,” he grumbled. A game warden was stationed near the entrance, and I waved politely as we drove by; the only discernible movements were his eyes following me, cold as they were. Every fibre of me wanted to hold weariness by the throat, but the only feeling I had even close to that was sadness. He reminded me too much of my father. Unlike Felton, my father did work for National Geographic . There was something about my dad that made what he did in life so much more impactful. Every photo he took was important. He shared every photo he took, even the unremarkable ones. Like me, he loved every minute of his job; I believe that’s the thing that got him killed. He trusted nature too much. His final trip was spent taking photographs of timber wolves for their winter magazine edition back in ‘02. One trip and a slip down a snowy bank sent him right into their ravenous jaws. I vowed never to put my life in danger again. It seemed like I didn’t learn too many lessons from my father then. By the time the sun started to lower down over the savanna, the Jeep slid to a stop, hissing against the ground like a pissed-off rattlesnake. Felton had an infatuation with nighttime photography; perhaps that was why he always slept during his shifts. A watermelon tinge painted the sky. It contrasted against the tan and orange grass, rolling in abundance over small crests and curves, like a goddess adorned in gold. The centre of the clearing spread and dipped down a slope before arching down into a lakepond. There was a small building tucked away against a grove of marula trees. It was outfitted with a satellite dish and distasteful neon stripes. “Is this the….tiger sanctuary?” I asked, though it was glaringly blatant that it wasn’t. “No. That’s farther down the savanna, but some escape during the night. They don’t go too far, though,” he huffed. I got out, readying my Kodak for some scenery shots. Chike ignored me, prowling like a serval toward the research facility. He never looked back. I took it as a “leave me be and do your job” expression, so I decided to let him be. He probably had better things to do anyway, even if he was supposed to give me a tour. The golden grass rolled like a weaving windwinder, splaying remnants of God’s beauty over the African ground. A Barlow’s lark skittered its notes across the wind. A caracal crawled across the course grass, leaving wakes in the wind. I snapped a few photos, reviewing their raven gloss as they developed. The first few turned out well; though, a blur started forming after I snapped pictures of a hamerkop. The bird’s ebony sheen snaked its way down to its tail feathers, evanescent as it flickered in the setting sun. It was captivating, but the Polaroids we were forced to use irked me beyond my wildest scorns. Personally, I cared more about digital technology; I found it striking, because Felton was only in his thirties - the same as me - that he fantasised about obsolete tech. He made it seem like modern tech was a bane to the world of art. I couldn’t say I was against a lot of his ideas, but I wasn’t a fanatical anti-tech theorist like him. I knew all the extra fauna wouldn’t please Felton; he knew what he wanted: a tiger; and I knew I had to provide. That was the thing, though. Where was I going to find one? Chike told me that they moved about at their own volition; they had their own agency. It didn’t matter in the long run. Felton was an idiot without any sense of the natural world. It didn’t matter if the fucking cat had mange or if it were wrapped in velvet and gold. It was all about him, and I knew I wouldn’t get the shot. Regardless, I had to get him something; in my arrogance, I assumed that higher-up original shots might please him instead of the thing he so desired, so I climbed one of the marula trees. I looked down and watched the earth get smaller; anxiety coiled my insides like a copperhead winding a maimed mouse. Snap. My veins tightened as I looked down to the golden ground. The gold and black beast swayed through the weaving stalks, tall as Kunai grass. The sags below its eyes gave the impression of age. With every footfall, I heard its breaths; with each breath, I heard it sigh. From ears to tail, time stripped away its bright tangerine coat. It danced with every step, being careful not to step on any rocks. The only thing I could do was curse Felton’s name silently to myself. What a beautiful way to die. I waited for the photo to dispense. The seconds quaked beneath me, the limb I rested on rustling with ease like a serpent in the sun. The branch had a bright underbelly as well, though this was festered with moss and vines. “They say it takes time,” I whispered to myself, “but not the entire day .” The Polaroid spat out the photo like a sleepy viper, sick from the day’s restlessness. I took the picture from its mouth, examining the front. It would take time to develop. The problem was that the only time I had was swallowed up by the cat prowling around below. Dad never trained me for this. The closest I’d come was when we both encountered a few leopards in Luangwa. He held me tight that time. “I am proud of you. Even if you were one of them,” he said, pointing to the leopards, “and if your coat of colours lit the world, I would be proud of you just the same.” I looped down, and the danger danced in my head like an ill-tempered tambourine dove, lighting the copper sky with wile and wonder. The tiger scuffled over the ashen earth, its claws prying into the golden rock. It brought its snout into the air, circling in silent scents before returning to the ground. Trailing in rugged jerks, it brought its head from left to right—and then to the roots that protruded from the marula. The only prayer I sent up to God was simple: don’t let it smell the salt of my tears. It was a vain request; the tiger would scent my skin, hear my breaths. It had to know I was there. The wind caught in my throat, the flavour of coffee grounds pressed against the roof of my mouth. I swallowed, trying to ignore the aftertaste of fear. Tints of orange covered the picture, and I could scarcely make out the tiger’s form as it meandered down the savanna. I tried to balance on the branch, but I sent violent waves through the leaves; the beast locked eyes with me. There were ghosts of innocence in those eyes—a cool glow like the first leaves of autumn. My eyes snapped to the din in the distance: Chike raised the muzzle of his rifle toward the cat; it dismissed him, turning its gaze back to me. Its maw opened, and I stared at its dagger-like fangs. Its rapacious roar echoed down the savanna; a dovetail of hyenas scattered, buskskrikes shrieking in a shattering song. The tiger lunged forward, and everything slowed. Its paw descended. Its paw raised. Its paw descended. Its paw raised. It thrashed at the air, drops of sweat mingling in its coarse fur. The first strike came at the bark, its maw contorted, opening for its meal. I jerked my foot backwards, its claws catching on the bottom of my foot, ripping the damn thing off and throwing it to the earth below. It nearly slashed my side before a plume of feathers sprouted from its back. Its grasp loosened on the bark and branch; it slid slowly over the marula’s crest before falling to the ground, like the beat of a drum or a heart in love. My face covered against my chest; I knew Chike’s presence by footfalls alone as he approached the clearing. “Ay! Thought you’d never see one of them, right?” he mused, the tinge of venom still evident in his tone. I lifted my gaze from my chest, looking down at the incapacitated beast. It had several darts piercing its coat, running along his flank and lower back. “You did this?” is all I could ask. Of course he did. “You wanted me to let you get killed?” he asked. “No, of course not,” I replied. “But I thought you’d just let me get killed regardless. You don’t seem to like me very much.” His expression tightened. “I don’t like any visitors; they disturb the peace. Look at him,” he said, motioning toward the tiger. “I had to sedate him just because you wanted photographs.” I nodded, though I was certain he knew Felton was the one who wanted them. “Thanks,” I more than muttered. “You didn’t have to do that.” Getting down was much harder than getting up. I had to make sure I didn’t fall on the cat trying to ride down the bark. When I landed on my feet, I made sure to put as much distance between me and the predator as possible. “I suppose this means that you don’t want the tour?” he asked. “No,” I said. “I just want a bandage for my cuts.” I followed him back to the facility, trying not to think of all the ways that my father never would have gotten into this situation in the first place. But then I questioned myself. If he inspired me, then he was partly responsible, at least indirectly. Moreso, I was thinking about Felton. Oh, Felton was going to get his photograph, but he was a dead man walking. 

12tqo2

The Great Hunter

The great hunter, Orion rose in the Southern sky as night fell; Winter was coming. The mountain peaks tipped with snow earlier than usual; wind-chilled nights chased away the warmth of the day in camp. Falling amber leaves drifted to the ground and the berry crop had ended.   It was time to move to the Great Plains in the warmer South away from the winter shadows cast by the mountains. As night fell the tribe gathered around the roaring fire to prepare for the migration ahead. The last of the food had been dried and packed away. Smells of roasted trout told everyone dinner was ready. This would be their last dinner together for a few nights as Hoa and the other five hunters would stay behind to find deer for the trip ahead. Elder Tia would lead the tribe out at dawn heading up the mountain trail for their new home. They would stop to gather food and resources along the way.  It was unknown when they would meet up with the hunters again. With everything ready to go the tribe nestled down under the furs by the flickering coals for the night. The first light had the camp moving. Hoa reached out wrapping his arms around his wife Lai with a warm hug, touching foreheads as they muttered their safe travel blesses to each other. His heart was heavy as she joined the tribe. Her long brown hair tied back with plats and wood beads hung down over her fur shawl. He tossed his pouch of arrows over his shoulder as he watched the tribe slowly disappear into the trees. Lingering on, he hated seeing her leave, he stood there staring into the forest. His thoughts were broken when his brother called out. Spinning around the hunters had already left. Grabbing his deer skin kit bag he jogged over to join them on the side trail. While they were all heading for the same destination, the six hunters had to deviate to the grasslands to find deer. They silently dashed along the forest trail their eye was drawn to any that looked like food or wildlife wanting them for food. They stuck to the familiar tracks as the dense woodland was dark and damp. It took a few hours to reach the bluff where they would spend their first night; dropping off most of their supplies made running on the hunt easier. Hoa sat on a rocky outcrop overlooking the plain, scanning the horizon trying to work out their next move. “They have left early.” The midday sun lit up the dry grasslands randomly dotted with wildlife but the big herds of deer had moved on. “Should we keep moving?” “It will be getting dark soon,” replied his brother Lu. Hoa nodded, “We still need something for dinner.” “Well, sitting there won’t catch us anything.” “If we don’t get anything today, we will move on toward the Pass tomorrow and catch the deer migration there,” Hoa said as he straightened his knife belt and grabbed his longbow. Quietly, they made their way down the slope, sticking to the shades while ensuring they stayed downwind of the grassland. Hoa stopped to tighten his leather ankle straps as the loose rocks slid out from under his feet.  Grabbing nearby saplings gave him the confidence to move quickly on the uneven slope. He was the eldest of the hunters; his legs ached trying to keep up with his younger brothers. Down on the edge of the grassland, hiding out in the shadows next to an old tree, they panned the area for prey.  A rabbit would bob up and down occasionally in the long grass. Lu fired off an arrow at a moving bundle of leaves and heard nothing. He waded out to see what he had achieved, “Bugger,” he replied as he held up a clean arrow. Hoa got to his feet, “Stuff this, let’s move closer to the river.” The sound of the water running over the rocks drowned out a lot of animal calls. As they crept along the tree line Lu said, “Hey, over there.” A small half-grown deer had been left behind. Hoa stopped as he turned to the two hunters on his right, silently he waved his hand giving them directions. Success; Hoa looked down as they showed thanks and prepared the animal. “That won’t feed many.” “It will do us for the trip,” Lu said. The shadows were getting long as the sun sunk behind the hill, the heat of the day was dwindling. “Better get back to camp before dark,” Hoa said as he tied the deer legs to a long stick for carrying. Climbing up a slippery slope carrying even a small animal was difficult. They arrived back at the bluff as the last of the light waned. It didn’t take long to get the fire lit and dinner cooking. A temporary shelter of branches and hides would keep them dry for the night. Hoa made his way out onto the outcrop as he scanned the mountains to the south in the wild hope of seeing any sign of a campfire from the tribe. He whispered the safe travel blessing again. The hills sat heavy in the darkness; distant howls of wolves would break up the silence now and then. He pulled his fur over his head as the icy wind rolled down the valley.  Every year the tribe did the same venture but watching his family walk away never got any easier. The sky was crystal clear, the Milky Way drifted overhead surrounded by millions of stars each one guiding them on their quest. *** The birds started chirping a first light. Hoa gave his sleeping brother a shove, “Come on we have a big day ahead of us.” Looking up the rocky slope, the peak was so far away. I doubt we will make it before dark.    Hour after hour of trudging uphill over slippery loose rocks. Each step required his body to power down through each leg. Now and then, he would have to stop to catch his breath and look out over the valley to see how far they had travelled. Leaning on his spear he breathed heavily, he looked back along the ridge; dark clouds rolled over the crest followed by distant sounds of thunder. As he stood there the clouds grew closer, “We won’t get to the ridge before that storm hits.” Lu who was further up the slope said, “There is a cave up a bit to our left.” Adrenaline pushed the fatigue aside as everyone rushed to get away from the approaching storm. Looking further up the slope the craggy overhang was in sight. Large drops of cold rain started to fall as the thunder shook the hills around them.  Hoa’s heart was already racing and the claps of nearby thunder made it skip a beat. With one last scramble, they burst into the cave, dropping everything on the floor. Collapsing back against the rock wall, they gasped for air. The darkness slowly crept across the entrance as the storm came over the hill. Rain pelted down outside the cave as lightning flashes lit up the entrance. The wind howled past the opening. While the rock cave offered some insulation from the cold, it was dark. Hoa glanced down at the stick he was holding, “We don’t have a lot of firewood.” They sorted through their small carry bag of kindling and the branches they were using to climb the slope. It was enough for a small fire suitable for light and some cooking. The storm lasted for a few hours. Sometime during the night, the last of the wood was burnt out. Lying in the darkness, Hoa couldn’t sleep, they had such a long way to travel and they hadn’t caught any food for the tribe. He made his way outside; the storm clouds had given way to a starry sky. Orion the great hunter stared down at him, calling him back to the hunt. Dawn was hours away but Hoa had a new energy, an urge to get underway. It didn’t take much to motivate the other hunters as they couldn’t sleep either. Heading off into the darkness Lu asked, “Which way?” “Up, the Pass is under the Great Hunter,” Hoa replied as he pointed towards the constellation Orion. They reached the ridge in time to see the golden rays of the sun break over the crest. The Pass sprawled out below them, rocky slopes gave way to forests, a river and grasslands nestled between two mountain ranges. Finally reaching the flat ground, relieved that the trip down the mountain was easier than the climb up they decided to set up camp near the river not far from a large herd of deer. After a quick refreshing jump into the icy river, Hoa filled up his water carrier ready for a day of hunting. Scanning the hills he looked for any sign the tribe had made it to the pass. At least the next ridge is not as high as the last. As the late afternoon shadows crept in, Hoa blessed their catch of the afternoon. Two good-sized deer were being cleaned up and prepared for transport by the other hunters. “This should last until we are set up on the Great Plains.” He stood there thinking about the tribe on the plains for Summer. When smells of smoke and roasting meat drifted past him. He took another sniff and it was gone. Must be my stomach imagining dinner. “What is cooking?” Lu asked. “Nothing, we haven’t lit the fire yet,” Hoa replied. I didn’t imagine it.  His face lit up as he ran out into the clearing. Smoke wafted up through the trees further up the river. “They're here!” He yelled out across the plain. Finding his reserve energy, he sprinted up the river with two brothers not far behind. As he made his way through the trees his smile was beaming. The tribe was busy setting up shelters and preparing dinner. He quickly scanned the camp, “Lai,” he called out. She looked up; the arm full of firewood she had gathered hit the ground as she ran towards him. With the tribe back together after four days, they decided to grab a couple more deer. It would be easier to carry them with more bodies doing the lifting. The tribe spent the following night at the pass before heading off the following morning. After several hours of climbing, they reached the crest. Hoa sighed with relief as mountain shadows opened up to the golden grasslands of the Great Plain. A large wandering river flanked by woodland and savanna filled with wildlife. Orion had safely led the tribe to their homeland for the Winter. And when Orion sinks below the horizon again, they will follow the deer back to the north as their ancestors had done for generations. The End

vsm3en

Project Genesis

Project Genesis Josh's heart raced as he stared at the photograph in his hands—a picture of himself dressed in an astronaut jumpsuit, standing next to his Aunt at NASA. He couldn't wrap his head around it. He had not been to NASA since his Aunt passed away years ago. How could this be possible? His mind was spinning with questions and confusion. Josh felt a chill run down his spine as he examined the photo more closely. His younger wand seemed so proud of him. Both of them were smiling at the camera. But Josh couldn't remember anything about this moment; it was like it had never happened. He knew he had to solve this mystery. Josh did some digging, starting with the date on the back of the photo. It was dated one month before his Aunt died, adding to his confusion. How could this photo have been taken at that time? Aunt Rose had been so sick by then. He called up his cousin, Sarah, who had also been close to Aunt Rose. Maybe she would have some answers. Sarah was just as taken aback by the photo as Josh was. She reminded Josh about how strange things got near the end. Aunt Rose worked for NASA for several years. But the last few months were weird. Sarah reminded Josh of the times they toured the NASA facilities with Aunt Rose and how, all of a sudden, she stopped taking them to see her work. After she got sick, she never spoke about her work. She seemed different. Sarah reminded Josh of their conversation years ago when they noticed how secretive she became about her work. But none of that could explain this photo. Josh was now more determined than ever to discover what had happened that day. He reached out to friends at NASA, hoping they could shed some light on the situation. They refused to even meet with him. Frustrated and confused, Josh turned to the one person who could help him—his Aunt's old friend, Mrs. Thompson. Mrs. Thompson had been Rose's closest friend for as long as he could remember. When Josh explained the situation to Mrs. Thompson, she looked at him with a knowing glint. She knew something, he could tell. She hesitated momentarily before finally saying, "We were never certain you would remember."  Josh's heart skipped a beat. What did Mrs. Thompson mean by that? He begged her to tell him. Mrs.Thompson explained that Aunt Rose had been working on a secret project at NASA called Project Genesis. Mrs. Thompson told Josh his Aunt wanted him to participate in her research. She brought you in several times because. She knew about your dream of going out there. The day the picture was taken was the last time any of us saw you until the funeral. It was so top-secret that even Josh's memories had been tampered with, against Rose's wishes. She wanted him to remember. But someone else didn't. Josh was dumbfounded. His Aunt Rose was involved in a secret NASA project, and his memories were tampered with—it was all too much to take in. Mrs. Thompson handed him a file with documents and photographs detailing his Aunt's involvement in a groundbreaking NASA project. Mrs. Thompson stressed that he had to burn the files and that photo once he had read everything. As Josh delved deeper into the files, he learned more about the project and Aunt Rose's efforts to send civilians into space. She wanted Josh to join her in the first mission to colonize the moon, Rose Colony One. However, government officials wanted the mission to remain hidden from the public eye, and she was forced to report directly to her superiors with all of her research. The revelation shook Josh. Aunt Rose had always inspired him, but he never knew how much she had accomplished in her lifetime. He wondered what could have become of her work and research. As he scoured through the papers, Josh found a letter from Aunt Rose on the date the photograph was taken. She explained that NASA would use her research to put a military base on the moon. She had to go and leave him and all she ever knew behind. This was why his memories had been tampered with. She wanted to protect him from the dangers of her work, to keep him safe from knowing what she was involved in. Josh's eyes welled up as he continued reading the letter. What does this mean? Was Aunt Rose gone? She had always been there for him, looking out for him, but in the last couple of years, before she died, she became so distant. Before Mrs. Thompson left, he had to ask her one final question. His voice shaking, he asked, "Is my aunt really dead?" Mrs.Thompson replied, "No, but to us, she is. None of us will ever see her again." Josh felt rage and sadness all at once. Mrs. Thompson explained that she had no choice. If she wanted to continue her work, she would have to agree to go and never come back. Mourning her death was the only way. No one knew about Project Genesis. NASA made her a promise. If you finish your training and agree to the conditions, you can join the Rose Colony Two Mission and join her. She reached out and held his shaking hands. Mrs. Thompson told Josh of the price he would have to pay. His Aunt wanted him to find that photo. She knew it would trigger Josh's memory. Rose wanted him to have the one thing she didn't have: a choice. However, Josh would also have to fake his death. If Josh decides to go, his training will start immediately. Within a year, he would have to announce that he is sick and has little time left, just as his Aunt did. Josh needed to think about what that would mean to his family. But he had to find a way to honor his Aunt and make his lifelong dream come true. Josh thanked Mrs. Thompson and told her he would be calling again soon. Mrs. Thompson smiled and gave him a wink. Josh read through all the information and threw it in the fireplace. As he sat there, watching the flames, he heard a knock on the door. It was his cousin Sarah. He had texted her, asking her to come over. Josh wanted to explain everything to Sarah and tell her what he had decided to do. As Josh explained the picture and told Sarah his decision, she cried, knowing she would miss him so much. She wished she could join them or make this information public one day. Then Josh asked Sarah to go with him to the NASA facility for one last time. He told Sarah to make sure she was ready to have her picture taken. Sarah was puzzled but then realized that Josh was about to give her the same opportunity Aunt Rose had given him. She hugged him tight and said, "Let's go." Josh and Sarah went with Mrs. Thompson to visit NASA. Josh wanted to honor his Aunt's memory and legacy. They were given a VIP tour and saw all Aunt Rose had accomplished. As Josh walked through the halls of the facility, he felt a sense of awe and wonder at the magnitude of the work done there. Josh stood before a display dedicated to Aunt Rose's work on Project Genesis; he knew he would never forget her impact on his life. He vowed to ensure everyone would know his Aunt's work one day. Josh wanted to ensure her legacy and make her proud. As he stood there, he saw Sarah's reflection behind him. She was in an astronaut jumpsuit and ready to have her picture taken with Josh. She vowed to him that one day when she found this photo, she would be reunited with them or find a way to make all of Aunt Rose's work and their sacrifice known to the public. Mrs. Thompson stood by as their picture was taken in the same spot where Josh and his Aunt once stood for their photo. Sarah knew her memory would be erased. She smiled big as she saw the camera flash go off. That evening, as Josh and Sarah walked towards the car, they looked up at the stars above and smiled, knowing that Aunt Rose was watching over them and guiding Josh on his journey. He wondered if the world would ever know that his Aunt helped build the first Lunar Colony. He stared at the moon and wondered what they would be doing now. He knew the public may never know the answer to that question. Then, he smiled at Sarah as she reminded him how hungry she was. She had no recollection of her visit and all of the research she saw that day at NASA. As he drove away, he felt a sense of peace and contentment, knowing that soon he would be joining his Aunt Rose on the lunar surface. He ensured Sarah would find her picture one day and hoped that NASA would be ready to share his Aunt's work with the world by then. 

qiie4d

You can't catch me

The snow has piled high on my car. Like icing, as my father would say, when he used to dollop it on my mother's homemade butter cakes. A blanket of it has swept all over the small brick cottage and its withering garden behind me. With spring just around the corner, this must be the last snowfall of winter. The world was sparkling, glistening in its elegant new attire. It was practically posing for a photograph. It was crisp and white and fresh and felt like fresh beginnings. A blank page for a new life. I would not be working today. A day like this cannot be wasted on such trivial matters. Besides, snowed in as my car was, I didn't expect to be going far today. A flit of red dances in the corner of my eye. I turn. A cardinal is perched daintily on the picket fence, just barely visible above the snow. I feel for my camera in the deep pockets of my coat and hold it up to my eyes. I focus in of the cardinal, and it gazes back at me, doe-eyed, almost mocking me. You can't catch me , it seems to say. I decide to take a walk out to the lake. My legs take me along a path that winds through the trees. Their snowy coats sparkle and glisten, making the lifelessness of winter come alive with light. Everything is silent but for birds occasionally flitting between the branches, and the odd squirrel scurrying across the newly fallen snow, leaving tiny footprints in its path. I find it almost dreamlike, the stillness and beauty of the woods at this time of year. I flick through my camera roll. Mother. Father. My garden back home. The cardinal. Flick. Flick. Flick. A few minutes pass and I come out onto the lake, frozen over, and covered with snow. On the far side of the lake, the snow has been cleared, and tiny coloured dots dance about the ice. I smile, and quicken my pace, making my way along the path around to the other side of the lake. I shiver with the biting cold.  The park by the lake is surprisingly crowded for a cold winter's day. Men and women walk hand in hand along the lake's perimeter, rosy cheeked and in cheerful conversation. Shivering mothers and fathers watch as children bundled from head to toe in colourful winter attire build fortresses and snow men and roll around in the snow, their laughter echoing through the trees. An elderly man sits on a park bench, looking out over lake, violin in hand playing (insert song). I retrieve a gold coin from my other pocket and place it in his hat and he chuckles good-naturedly. Out on the ice, kids with hockey sticks shoot a tiny black puck to each other, weaving through other skaters, who meander across the ice. I've never been too good at skating. It's a bit of a sore spot actually, considering ice-hockey was all the rage in my hometown. Some of history's top players grew up in the same streets as I did, yet I still wobble like an uncoordinated giraffe every time I set foot on ice. I gaze somewhat wistfully at the people gliding around on the ice before me. I have never really mastered the art of coordination and balance, yet I have always been transfixed by the grace in which people can move on ice. It's then that a hand taps me on the shoulder. I know it's her before I even glimpse her fuzzy red coat. I know as I stand still, temporarily paralysed, before slowly turning to look into her deep blue eyes. Her face is shaped like an upside-down raindrop, her face pale, but her lips red and her cheeks rosy with the cold. White, blonde curls fall on the side of her face, and she has the sort of smile that seems to radiate warmth and make everyone in her vicinity feel like everything is going to be okay.  "Joe!" she cries. "You're back!" "L-Lucy..." I stammer, barely able to believe my eyes. A warm rush of relief washes through me. “God, I’ve missed you.” She throws her arms around me, pulling me in with such force that I am feel I might suffocate. I wrap my arms around her and rest my head onto her shoulder, breathing in the smell of hot chocolate on snowy days. As I bury myself in her embrace, I feel all the cold flood out of me to be replaced by the warmth of her presence. It’s quite surreal, being in her presence again. She steps back, beaming, and sets a drawstring bag down on the bench to our right. She pulls out two pairs of well-worn, cream-coloured skates, hands me one. “I brought spares - I thought I might find you here.” “Lucy, you know I can’t skate – “ “That’s the fun of it. I get to watch you wobble around like a baby giraffe on skates.” “Hey! I’m not that bad. I’ve been practising actually,” She laughs, lacing up her skates. “What, so you don’t think – “ She cuts me off. “Let’s see what you’ve got then, Mister.” She drags me onto the ice, and I feel my feet sliding uncontrollably beneath me. Lucy glides out the middle of the lake, and I stumble after her. She makes it looks so easy, moving to the violin’s melody without a second thought. She spins and leaps and twirls to the music, fast but graceful, every move intentional yet effortless. I pull out my camera. Click. Click. Click. Red on white. A painting on a blank canvas. “Come on, Joe!” she calls, “Catch me if you can,” I race after her, but I don’t have a hope. I will never catch her. She laughs and I smile. Before I know it, the inevitable occurs and the ice slips from under my feet and I plummet. I throw down my arms, reaching for the ice, but it never comes. A pair of strong, warm hands wrap around my torso, suspending me just inches from the ice. I look up and her lovely face looks down at me, grinning. She helps me wobble back onto my feet. "You’re lucky I was here to rescue you," her eyes dance. I smile back at her. “Yes,” I reply, “Very lucky.” Her dark blue eyes gaze into me, as if seeing right into my soul. She leans forward and presses her lips to mine. I can feel her kiss in every corner of my body, and we melt into each other. For a moment, the time stops and it’s as if everything is right with the world. But then she pulls away, not meeting my eye. “I can’t come back to the house with you tonight. Mama needs me.” “Don’t worry – I’ll come with you.” “No, Joe, she doesn’t want visitors. She’s getting worse.” A tear runs down her face. “I’m sorry.” As I’m walking back around the lake, I flick through my camera roll. Mother. Father. My garden. The cardinal. Blank . Where is Lucy? I flick again. Blank . It mustn’t have saved. I’ll take some more tomorrow. The snow is falling again as I shovel my way to the front door of the house. Inside is cold and empty. I wonder if Lucy has been here at all while I was away. It feels grey and desolate – a stark contrasts to Lucy’s bubbly warmth. The radiator isn’t working. That night, I sleep on couch by the fire. Next day, the snow has begun to melt away, and we agree to meet at the coffee shop down the road. Sweet scents of warm milk and cinnamon waft through the small space, where ornate little stools crowd around wooden tables. The clatter of dishes in the cramped kitchen and the chatter of customers almost drown out the classical music playing in the background. She greets me with a kiss, and we sit. I brought my polaroid with me, and I take her picture while we wait for our hot chocolates. Seconds later it prints out, and the colour comes into focus. She’s wearing a cool blue sweater today, and her hair is drawn up in a messy bun as if she came here in a hurry. There are dark circles under her eyes and her skin is drawn out over her face, yet she is still by far the most beautiful person in the room. She gives a small smile, but her blue eyes are frosty and cold. The café is crowded, so we take our hot chocolates out to the park where find a bench and drink them, looking out across the lake. We sit in silence for a long time. “Luce? Is everything all right?” She sighs and buries her face in her hands. “No, Joe. It’s not. Nothing is all right.” I take her hand in mine. “Talk to me.” “Mama’s getting worse by the day. She needs me more than ever. All the time now, every minute of every day. And you. You’re always away. I barely see you.” “You didn’t want to see me yesterday.” She clenches in her hands, her knuckles going white. “I’ve wanted to see you every other day, Joe. But no – you’re off in the city, or wherever it is you go these days. The house is empty, my Mama is dying before my eyes, and I have no one. No one Joe.” My face hardens. “I know this has been really hard on you with your mother, but I need the money and I don’t choose to be away from you this much. I want to help you, but you can’t blame all this on me.” “You have no idea what it’s like for me, Joe. You would have to be here to know that.” Her eyes shine with tears as she stands up and leaves, disappearing into the wind and snow, her hot chocolate left untouched. I feel a strange numbness sink over me, as I walk back and enter through the front door into the empty house. Cardboard boxes are piled high in every room, filled with all that we own. Our life together packaged neatly away. I spend the rest of the day by the window, looking out at the dazzling façade of winter. Lucy would say the trees are bejewelled. I flick through my camera. Flick. Flick. Flick. My father. My mother. My garden. The cardinal. Blank . I reach into my pocket for the polaroid of Lucy. It’s gone. I check all my other pockets. Nothing . I must have left it at the park. Outside, the snow is melting. I suppose the lake will too, soon. A bitter cold wind whips through the trees. I decide to go back to the park before the wind picks up and the photo is carried away with it. I make my way through the slush, along the path through the trees. I trudge around the lake and all the way back to the bench where we were seated just hours earlier. The photo is gone. My heart sinks and I run my hands through my hair, thinking of Lucy. Beautiful Lucy. Kind Lucy. She doesn’t deserve this. Any of this. It’s all my fault I should have been there for her, and I wasn’t. A mist has settled across the lake, but I can just make out a dotted figure on the other side. I start back towards the house, and as I get closer, the figure comes into focus. A coat the colour of roses. A milky pale pace. White, blond hair. Dancing like an angel. Lucy. I stop to watch for a moment. The violin is no longer playing, yet she is dancing to a song that no one can hear. A song of the wind and the mist and her pain and my longing. I stand and I watch her. I stand a moment too long. I stand there as a deep crack splits through the surface of the lake, making a sound like a gunshot. I watch and thousand more cracks splinter out, and the ice is shattered to a million pieces. I hear her scream, shrill and ear-splitting in the cold winter air. “LUCY!” I cry. I am running. Running out onto the ice, my feet slipping as it shifts under my weight. Lucy screams again. She is slipping. And she’s falling. Falling. Falling. “LUCY!” There is small splash in the distance. So small it seems almost anticlimactic, as if Lucy’s end should be something everyone is alerted to. Like it should be more than that. She doesn’t deserve to die. She can’t die. I love her. Whatever spark was left inside of me burnt out at that moment. I couldn’t catch her. She would never make it in the cold. And I was too far away to save her. It is then that my mind leaves my body. I don’t know where I’m going. What I’m doing. My feet slip and I am falling too. Into the cold, dark depths of the lake. My body is frozen. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. It is dark. so very dark, but for a thin line of light that I fell through. I close my eyes. This is the end. For both of us. I feel a strange sense of relief, at knowing that I won’t have to survive this world without her. But then a cold, bony hand grips my own. Pulling, pulling. I can’t move. I don’t want to move. I feel the air on my hand, my arm my face. I gasp for air, but my throat is clogged with water. Two hands on my chest. Breath in my mouth. Air. Sweet, cold air. I’m shivering all over. A face I can’t quite make out swims above me. The hands lift me. And put me down and lift me up again. I see floating pieces of ice beneath us. And then we are ashore, and I am lying on the bench, wrapped in a threadbare brown coat. The hands feel my pulse and the face looks down at me with concern. “Yeh were bloody lucky there, Son,” his voice is rough but gentle. His eyes come into focus, dark brown like chocolate, with wrinkles of laughter around his eyes. The violin man. “I was out for a stroll, see, and I sees yeh splashin’ about in the water. Yeh would’ve died.” “L-l-lucy…” I rasp, “need to save… Lucy.” His snow-white brows furrow in confusion. “Lucy Yates?” he asks. I nod. “Why, she died 3 years ago, she did,” same as you almost did. “Fell through the ice.” I let the tears run freely now. Hot and fresh, pouring down my cheeks. “But I saw her! She was here. She’s not dead. She’s still out there! I have to help her…” Sorrow flashes across his face. “I’m sorry Son, can’t help yeh, she’s gone.” He pulls something out of his pocket. “I think yeh dropped this,” He hands it to me. It’s my polaroid photo. I turn it over. A steaming mug of hot chocolate. An empty chair. She’s gone. I choke out a sob. Understanding grows in the man’s wrinkled face. “She’s never coming back, Son, I’m sorry. But she was loved. I know that. And love like that never truly disappears.” The next day the cardinal is perched on the fence again, eyeing me mockingly. You can’t catch me . I shovel the snow off my car, and I clear out the driveway. I pack the boxes into a trailer and lock the door to the house. I flick through my camera one last time. My mother. My father. My garden. The cardinal. Lucy. Dancing in the ice. Red on white, like paint on a blank canvas. The cardinal flutters away, and I turn to watch it go. When I look back at my camera, the screen is blank once more. Lucy is gone. And she’s never coming back. I drive for hours that day. I leave behind the dazzling white world with its splendour. I take that life, package it in boxes and head home, never turning back. But somewhere inside me Lucy is still with me. Because she will always be with me in memory. It’s then that I see it. A dark, jagged line, across the ice. The sound shatters my ear and terror courses through my veins. Seconds later, more lines spiral out across the ice. In another world, I might have wanted to take a picture. Crack. Crack. Crack. No. This can't be happening. GOTTEN RID OF My heart hitches into my throat. I can’t breathe. The world is spinning. She is spinning. Spinning away from me. The ice slips from under my feet and I plummet. I throw down my arms, reaching for the ice, but it never comes. A pair of strong, warm hands wrap around my torso, suspending me just inches from the ice. I look up and her lovely face looks down at me, worry flitting across her features. "Joe," she looks into my eyes with concern, "What happened?! Are you okay?" She helps me wobble back onto my feet.  I look frantically out at the ice, but the cracks are gone, vanished into the white of the snow. "Did you hear that?" She raises and eyebrow, looking puzzled. "Hear what?" "The ice! It's cracking! We have to get everyone off!" She laughs, but her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Don't be silly, Joe," she says, "The ice isn't cracking.” But she sees the look in my eyes and hooks her arm in mine, leading me back to the bench, where we remove our skates. “I’m sorry,” I say, “It must have been my imagination. I haven’t been out on the lake for a while.”

1fe5tg

Perspectives From A Peak

I’ve accomplished a fair amount of stupid activities in my life, but this one by far prevails over them all as the most foolish. It’s October, but the weather in Shenandoah National Park ignores the memo. The trees around me hold steadfast onto their leaves, reluctant to discard them. The leaves themselves are hesitant to change, surrounding me in a sea of emerald shrubbery. When I look out across the valley, a few pockets of forestry have surrendered to the changing of the seasons. Though their colorings haven't reached the vibrancy of a Midwestern forest. I stare at the map of Bearfence Mountain in the parking lot across the street from the trailhead. Uncertainty sprouts in my stomach. Like the weed that it is, it steals from me the minute bits of courage I had stored up for exactly this purpose. Scrolling through pictures of the trail and watching endless amounts of YouTube videos had given me a confidence that I could conquer this mountain. It was only a mile and a half after all. Not very long by any means. I steal my gaze away from the map after snapping a picture with my phone. I look both ways across Skyline Drive before crossing to the trailhead. What greets me is a semblance of a staircase constructed from horizontal beams of wood lodged within the earth. An indication that, yes, indeed, one is about to hike up a mountain. Painted onto one of the tree trunks is a blue marker, beckoning me forth in its direction. I am the only soul fearless enough to attempt this hike during the birth of daylight. Darkness hovers over the horizon, conceding ground to the golden hour. “Fearless,” perhaps, is not an adequate characterization. As I ascend the staircase, I scan the forest for the wildlife that calls Shenandoah their home. The park is well known for its black bears, creatures that I thought little of until I arrived the previous night. Huddled within the confines of my sleeping bag, I couldn’t imagine the thin sheen of tent fabric putting up much of a fight against a three-hundred-pound barrage of teeth and claws. And though Shenandoah might be famous for its bears, thankfully it is not as well known for its bear attacks; a statistic in which I took little solace in as I sat in my tent, cringing at every snap of a twig or rustle of a bush. Suffice it to say, I am not as well-rested for this hike as I should’ve been. In my pack, I carry a can of bear spray. The clerk at REI checking me out didn’t believe I would need it after I relayed to him the destination of my trip. “Black bears are like chipmunks,” he said. “They’ll run away as soon as they see you.” Yes, if chipmunks were a few hundred pounds heavier, covered in black fur, and capable of mauling a human being to death. If the bears fail to be my undoing, then the next obstacle I face carries that potential. I’ve never rock scrambled before, but a quick Google search for the team makes me realize exactly why I’ve not yet attempted the activity. I’m no climber; I don’t pretend to be one and I’ve no desire to change that part of myself. That being said, I’m not above trying new things and seeing where they lead me. Rock scrambling, however, might lead me to my death. A few minutes into the hike I reach the first scramble. I keep the words of a travel blogger in my mind as I approach, that if the first scramble is too much, then turn back. But to my surprise and delight, I traverse the rocky ground with ease. I’m no Michael Phelps or Simone Biles, an athlete at the top of their game. I weight train and get a fair amount of cardio in during my weekly workouts, but I haven’t met a cake I didn’t like or a cookie I wouldn’t eat. Still, when planning this absurd expedition of mine, failing to prepare means preparing to fail. And failure, in my pressurized mind, is never an option. Because of this, my legs strut about the rocky interface as if they belong to that of a mountain goat; sure-footed and confident in every step. First level complete, I continue along the trail until I come to the next one. This rock scramble is as elementary as the first. The rocks that jut forth resemble the spikes of a Stegosaurus, and I place each booted foot in between them as I walk. So far my introductory experience to rock scrambling hasn’t involved much climbing, for which I am grateful. But I’ve also seen pictures of what comes next after. My excitement dwindles when I approach the third scramble. The first two involved more heightened inclines than actual climbing. But what stood before me was a wall of stone. Various boulders protruded from the wall, offering their services as access points for my hands and feet to grab a hold of. A blue marker is painted onto the interface at the very top, confirming that this is the trail, even if in my head I’m thinking, “There’s no fucking way.” I stare at the scramble, my mind conjuring up a plan of attack. Place that foot there, then that hand there, then another hand over that side. My palms begin to sweat thinking of myself climbing, but there is no other path forward. It's either proceed this way, or turn around and go back down the first two scrambles. I begin the ascent, placing my hand on the first rock, and then adjusting my footing. There’s a rule in climbing called “three-point contact,” meaning that you either maintain contact with other two hands and one foot or two feet with one hand. I apply this rule diligently as I make my way up. The muscles in my legs feel weak, and they begin to wobble. My heart thrums in my chest and my thoughts berate for me doing this, especially by myself and with no one else around to help should some unfortunate travesty befall me. I should mention here that I’m terrified of heights. I can’t stand them. I went on a date one time to the John Hancock building in Chicago where we paid extra for the Tilt experience. My date at the time didn’t know about this fear of mine, but I wasn’t going to tell him and chicken out of the experience. Poker face intact, I stepped onto the platform and placed both hands as instructed on the handles on either side of me. The operator began the ride, and my entire body pitched forward. I’d never felt a fear so palatable, where my body reacted so forcefully. I froze in place, prepared to be propelled from the building down thousands of feet to the ground below. The occurrence was no longer than a minute, but my fear-addled mind believed it to have lasted hours long. The difference in this case is that I have to work as an active participant against my fear. I can’t remain rooted to the rock forever, but what I can do is go at a pace I’m comfortable with. Slow and steady wins the race, as the saying goes. And this is not only one race I tend to win, but to conquer. A thought that diminishes as I scrutinize the fourth and final scramble of the hike. The familiar blue marker tells me that I haven’t descended into madness. This is the correct way. Not the safest by any means, but at least reassuring that I haven’t gotten myself lost. Without dwelling too long on the insecurities plaguing my gut, I find a perch for both hands, then lift my right leg off the ground as I start to climb With the other scrambles, I’d managed to take a few minutes to scout a path before. This one is not so decipherable. The way up isn’t immediately evident, and I have to pause midway to think. Continue forward based on my current trajectory? Or should I peddle backward in the chances of uncovering an easier route? Before I have the chance to decide my course of action, I hear a voice call down from above. “Excuse me.” I look up to see a woman about the same age as myself making her way to the ground. The distance between us is only a few feet, which makes me wonder how trapped I was in my fears and determinations that I’d failed to hear any oncoming traffic. I can’t see her face, only her profile as her eyes stare past her shoulder. On the other hand, how had this woman failed to notice my ascent as she began her descent? Had I found someone on the same level of inadequacy when it comes to scrambling as myself? “Going down?” I ask, immediately berating myself after. “Yes,” the other woman replies. No shit, Sherlock, I think to myself. I take stock of my surroundings. There isn’t much wiggle room here for either of us to maneuver efficiently. There is one small ledge to my right that, if I can get to it, I can perch while she lowers herself past me. “Just a minute,” I tell her. But the woman, for some reason, fails to listen. She resumes climbing down as I climb up. I hurry to make it to the ledge before we collide. “Wait a second,” I instruct. Again, my words fall on deaf ears, and as I place my hand on a boulder, the woman lowers her foot right onto my fingers. Realizing that what she’s stepped on isn’t solid rock, she retracts her foot. But the damage is already done. The pain causes me to lose my grip as well as my balance. I see the tragedy before it befalls us. Me slipping from the scramble to my death, the omniscient thud my body would make as it hit the ground; the ensuing shattering of bone and splattering of blood. Proceeded by the call this woman would have to make to authorities. The questions that would follow suit. Then the newspapers would pick up the story, igniting an age-old debate on park safety versus personal responsibility. With these thoughts in mind, instinct takes over and I grab a hold of the woman’s boot to steady myself. “There’s a ledge to the right,” I inform her. “Move that way, please.” “Are you sure?” Her voice tremors, no doubt the same images swirling around in my mind also churning within hers. “Yes.” I take her boot and place it on the ledge to assure her that I am not lying. She moves more confidently after that, navigating her body to the intended destination. With the other woman now secure on the ledge, I climb past her, stopping for a few seconds so that we can acknowledge one another as well as the disaster we’ve successfully avoided. From my brief glance her way, I see the woman is about my height, her limbs more lean than my own. She wears a plain black hat over her curtain of black hair, and though she’s adorned herself with the proper footwear for this kind of terrain, she has no backpack. Not even one of those strange fanny packs that people wear slung across their chests these days. She also wears a pair of body-conforming purple leggings and a baggy sweater. “Thanks,” she says as I pass her. “No problem.” “Better up than down. I should’ve gone the other way.” “This is the hardest one,” I assure her. “You’ll be fine.” Though really I’m not so sure of this. What I am sure of now is my ability to act in precarious situations. For a minute, my fear of heights vanquishes, conquered by this newfound conviction. As foolish as I believe myself to be, my encounter with the woman reminds me that some people are far worse off than I am. Yeah, I tend to over-prepare from time to time. But not even water? Seriously, girl? And you would’ve been the one to kill me? Figures fate would’ve taken my mother’s side, that my undoing would not be by my hand, but by another’s. “I’m not afraid that you’ll crash your car,” she once said to me. “But that someone will crash into you.” Suffice it to say, I have yet to meet that car. And I’m glad it’s not being driven by someone who doesn’t bring water with them while on a hike. I leave the woman to finish her climb down the mountain while I continue up it. Finish line in sight, I crawl the rest of the way forward until I reach the mountain’s peak. Like most mountains, at least, as I imagine they’d be, the top of Bearfence Mountain isn’t exactly what I’d describe as ‘flat.’ My legs wobble as I stand to my full height, worried that a swift wind, or even a gentle breeze, might knock me off. But as I turn my gaze upward, I realize that what lies before me is something I would otherwise not have had the opportunity to see had I not taken a chance. I have an unobscured, full three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the Virginia Piedmont region and Shenandoah Valley. I pull my phone out of my pocket and snap a few quick pictures and video clips. Then I unclasp the straps of my bag and retrieve what I’ve nicknamed, “the Big Boy.” Flicking the power switch to “on,” I adjust my camera’s aperture and shutter speed accordingly, playing around with the settings in order to strike the right balance between the sunlight over the valley and the darkness that still haunts parts of it. But of course, none of the photos I take compare with the absolute vision before me. For some reason, cameras never have. At least not without serious editing adjustments made after the fact. The eyes are a lens that no manufacturer has yet managed to replicate, a sensor no corporation can package into a sensor's rectangular shape I set my camera aside and bring my legs up to my chest so that I can clasp my arms around them. The fear of my potential demise hasn’t faded despite the blossoming strokes of pink and orange across a faded blue jean sky. But I’ve less interest in permitting it to keep me from admiring all the jewels within nature’s crown. Or of capturing those jewels in a state of permanence for me to look back upon, recalling the literal barriers I’d had to trounce, including an overeager hiker who refused to keep water on her person. Because that’s what photographs do. They not only present an image of a memory frozen in place, but they act as a trigger for those we failed to catch in time before they fled the scene. I stay on the mountaintop until more people arrive on the sun’s coattails. I follow a young couple down, making their footsteps my own until the last scramble. And then we part ways. When I reach my car, service returns, and my phone pings with several messages. But there’s only one I read and then respond to. Are you still alive? My mom inquires, somewhat jokingly, but more seriously than she’ll admit. I send her one of the pictures I’d taken earlier with my phone’s camera. Her response is immediate. Beautiful. 

y63m2p

Hands of a Sailor

I sat in front of Dobie as he got animated while telling his tale of the Turtling hurricane that he survived. I know a little was going to be from his imagination but I sat to hear the tale of a real storyteller on a starry night with a warm breeze against my cheek and the gentle rock of my ketch in the change of tide swell. He took a gulp of rum and began with a nod of head. ‘The wind started to go all wrong and Cop’n had to order a reef in the main. Then he had to order the jib topsail down, then another reef. The seas were kicking up with the wind against the current and the confusion from the reefs way behind us they said. We pulled down the foresail and the outer jib and charged through with just the main, foresail and inner jib. It was wet sailing on a dry boat as they say. But it didn’t stop there, no. Soon, it was wet from above and decks awash, and a howling that pushed the schooner steadily sideways. We found it tiring just to sit on that bumping, slanting deck. We had to pull all sail down, and off, and stowed, as best we could, below decks. We were now just hove-to with the handkerchief of a heavy staysail stropped to the main mast and pulled tight amidships to keep our head on and slanted to some monstrous waves. ‘The bowsprit stuck into the seas and put our decks completely awash with us hanging on to anything we could. Cop’n and Uncle Tubby were at the helm struggling to keep her at the right angles to the seas as we would go up and up into bright turquoise, then race down into a valley of dark green. We could see fish and even sharks and tortle in the waves turning over and over. My Junior Tote was gone along with his mates as the deck was cleaned off. A Nor’wester was what it was or a hurricane was what I was later told since it was the wrong time of year for a Nor’wester. ‘Cop’n changed course as we went down a wave and put us on a beam reach with the waves surfing us but the bowsprit was out of the water and we almost stayed still but we were pointing away from our destination and toward the reefs again. ‘I have to say though… that I liked it. No, I loved it. The wind and seas flying, the taste of salt something close to being really free, you know. With the wind on the beam you could stand up again and I remember standing there in the waist by the lee rail. That storm jib was strained and wet and shiny. The seas were foaming by us, aside us, under us. They had to be at least twenty foot and we just went up and up, then down, then up. The sky cleared and the rain stopped and the wind lessened a bit but Cop’n did not turn back the course at all. ‘I volunteered to take the helm, some of the boys were below and I think scared but I was almost in heaven in that storm and wanted the feel of control the wheel gives. There were always two of us throughout that day and we were not going forward much just enough to keep the vessel controlled, you know. The teeth of those reefs were still where they were and we did not want to be near them, so no more sail went up until evening fell. Cop’n made the boys come up on deck and set the forestaysail, but kept the storm staysail up, as he turned us back toward Key West since the waves were lesser now. I was sure we were out of it now and was even joking with Tote about being in a real storm at sea. Uncle Tubby heard me and said we were not in the storm yet. That there was a hurricane coming up and Cop’n wanted to get us as far away from the reefs as is possible before it hits. ‘I saw him tying two axes and a couple of machets to the main mast and an axe to the foremast. Tote told me we might have to cut the masts out. I had heard of that but when you are there it doesn’t make much sense and it too unreal, you know? When Uncle Tubby passed I called to him and asked if we would be cutting out the masts. He said if we have to but this hurricane was coming and Cop’n wanted to keep trudging toward Isla Pinos so we might have to cut them out. Uncle Tubby was of the opinion that we should reach over to Rio Largatos and hide in the mangroves over West in the Yucatan, in Mexico. But he knew it was not to be. Cop’n was a hard man to change his thoughts and was going to try for Isla Pinos and the reefs off there. Cop’n, Uncle Tubby said, thought the reefs would protect us since they would give us a windward shore. Thing was, Uncle Tubby said, hurricanes travel in a circle which could also make the reefs a leeward shore. It was too much of a gamble, he thought. ‘Part of Cop’n’s reasoning was that we had already lost all the tortle on the deck and would have to try and get some at Isla Mujeres after the storm but Uncle Tubby felt that we might lose some time at Lagartos but still be alive. This was all exciting to me. Tote thought I was nuts. The seas grew again. Their power was truly grand, no, not just grand, more than that. It was threatening, menacing like it was alive and completely focussing on us. The seas pulled the sky down until you could not tell the difference. The seas were in command and made everything loud and black. Night fell and the hissing and howling made me scream and now I was scared. I was scared. I had to pee but couldn’t move. I couldn’t see anybody though Tote and Uncle Tubby were right next to me pulling on me to get down. Life was a screaming blur, man.’ Dobie stopped and looked around. He drained his rum and looked around again, then down to his hands that were shaking. He looked at me and shook his head with his mouth open, then smiled. ‘Whoa, that was something, man. That was a true memory there, Rod. Man, I was there again. They say you can’t really remember a hurt or a fear but that is definitely not true because I just went through both. I was there and a tortle log flew at me and hit me in the arm. Uncle Tubby was yelling at me. I looked around at blackness and felt the cabin top, trying to raise myself up but being pushed down by wind. Wind. Wind pushing me like I was a piece of paper. I just felt it all, man. ‘I don’t know how long I was laying on the deck holding on to the foremast. I don’t remember getting to the foremast. This hand of wind just pushing me straight along the deck with my legs streaming aft. I don’t remember us going up and down waves, maybe because I couldn’t see through the water and wind in my eyes. I don’t know. But the morning came in as the wind increased then dropped to nothing. The seas ran this way and that and Celia just jumped around like a football being kicked between boys. Big old vessel she was, she was still just a football being kicked around. I had to hold on to even get to a sitting position. I only saw a couple of the crew’s heads just above the cabin top forward. The Cop’n and Jamie were at the helm. Their waists were lashed to the wheel box and their heads were hatless and tilted forward studying in the compass, steering by the compass. Jamie looked up. I think he had just noticed the lack of wind. He spoke to Cop’n, who looked up and around and slowly shook his head. It was so hot that my eyes were sweating in the stillness with wavelets jumping all around and Celia bouncing up and down. Then, she settled and the seas lay flat. Uncle Tubby yelled to get the tortle from out of the hold. He was yelling and yelling and saying we didn’t have much time. Get that weight out of the vessel was what he was yelling to us. I ran to the hold and jumped in. Tote was already there. We were lifting two and three hundred pound snapping and scared tortle up to hands above us. ‘Then the breeze started up and relieved the heat a bit as we hauled and hefted up by their flippers those shelled reptiles. I was glad that they were going back to the sea. Strange at that time to be remembering that I was glad that all of our work and time and pains of mosquitos, no-seeums, loneliness, homesickness was for nothing. I was really glad, man, deeply glad they were going overboard. Maybe I just had to think of something else other then this crap that I found myself in. ‘The seas started rolling with a rhythm again, they started growing tall as the breeze became a wind, became a gale. We got all the tortle out and could barely gain the deck again my arms were useless and my weight was much more then I remembered. Some hands pulled me out and I looked up at seas as high as the masts charging toward us. Celia rose and rose and rose with us tilted backward. I was holding onto the foremast again and feeling like I was laying against a wall with no bottom for my feet. We started going down the other side and I wrapped my legs around the mast. Things and people rolled, bounced, flew by me. The wind hit hard like a fist against my back. Maybe I have gotten this all out of order, I don’t know. I was there with a wind pushing me and Celia climbing again. ‘The wind had a soft whistling tune that I remember thinking of some song but could not remember what song. Maybe it wasn’t a song but a train whistle like in the movies. It was a train whistle but with deeper notes, then high pitched notes. It was a wind train charging at us pushing us up and pulling us down. When I looked I could see three men at the helm but did not recognise them because of the water spread across my vision. Then, trying to clear my eyes, I saw it coming from the stern with a clear blue sky above and perfectly outlined by that blue was a white mass of wave top, curling teeth-like, moving much faster then we were and we were not rising. I lashed the loose end of a water barrel line that was tied to an eye on the cabin side around my waist and waited. The wall of water sucked up the stern, lifting it and I could see Cop’n, Uncle Tubby and Jamie at the wheel all three of them with turned heads looking up at the sea. ‘That was the picture that remains to this day in my head. That was the last I saw of them. I can still see the Cop’n’s white shirt with blood stains on them, Jamie’s chequered shirt buttoned to his chin and Uncle Tubby shaking his head with a corner of a smile showing on half of his face. I think he was just accepting the fact that he was going the way of his father and his father’s father. I want to go that way too, you know.’ Dobie paused after saying that to turn his head and wipe a few tears away that wouldn’t stop flowing. He got up and walked over to the rail and cried up his sorrow at that loss and memory. His back was shaking as he let it out with a moan of deep hurt. After a while Dobie came back, smiling. ‘Yeah. Well, after that wave the seas got up bad and poor Celia was suffering. Somebody, on their sides so I could only hear them, were chopping at the main mast. Another big wave came and washed over us. No wheel. No Cook-rum. When it finished there was no main mast and the rigging had crashed across the cabin caving in a long streak of torn and splintered wood. Celia had turned to have the waves on her beam because of the mast dragging still connected to her by the rigging on her port side. ‘The next big wave came and we turned sideways and leaned and she was going down. I, with a clear thought somehow, pulled my knife out and cut the barrel loose from the cabin side. The barrel was basically empty and we bobbed up to the top of the seas. There was wreckage and the foremast top sticking up with a few men clambering on to pieces of board and anything floating. Another wave came and another and another until the big ones all stopped and I was alone, drifting with the barrel. ‘I saw a half of the cabin top and kicked my way over to it, hauling myself and the barrel up onto the top. There was still wind and a lot of sea but the big waves were only forming at one spot and Celia’ s foremast with her wind pennant blowing sweetly was still sticking up there.There was nobody around that I could see but there was a dinghy upended floating a little way off. Somehow I tore off a part of the cabin top and used it as a paddle to get over to it. I got it upright and baled most of the water out with the scupper that was tied to the after thwart. Fishing lines were in a tangle but hooks and line were still aboard. A water cask held a little water in the bottom so I felt I could make do for a while. I broke up more of the cabin top to make paddles and the whole thing fell apart and mostly sank. The wind moderated and I went to sleep in the water in the bilge of the dinghy. ‘When I woke up it was night again but the wind was gentle and the seas were calm. The half moon stood out like the world was a nice place and I kept trying to piece it all together but couldn’t. When I moved my arms and legs were a source of sharp pain so I just lay there and fell asleep again. The day woke me with heat. I saw that I had a bunch of cuts on my body and my left shoulder was really hurting and I could barely move my arm. I saw where the sun was moving and knew that West would be Mexico so I baled water out of the dinghy as much as I could and got up into the bow and paddled. Later, when I figured it out with the fishing line, I tied pieces of wood from the wood I had saved for paddles and made a short mast then tied my shirt and trousers like a very ill-shaped sail and the dinghy responded and moved forward. I used another piece of my cabin top wood and rigged a rudder and very slowly started reaching toward the bottom of Mexico. I followed the sun during the day and the waxin’ moon at night. Then, there was Orion racing across the sky and the Big Dipper circling the North Star. I could figure where I was but not how far to where I wanted to go. No use worrying about it though, so I just kept moving West. ‘I would stop every so often to check the fishing line I was trolling with some of my blood soaked onto a strip of shirt. I caught a bonito and ate it too quickly. I vomited in the bilge while I was eating. I used part of that fish as bait and caught a small dorado. I ate a few chunks out of that and cut the rest into strips and laid them on the middle thwart to dry cook like we did at home. ‘The first night a haze blurred the stars I did start to worry since I could only go by the current I hoped was going West too. That next day I could see that that haze was brown, meaning land and washed my worries away. The stars came out that night making me smile and my heart beat wildly as I saw my current thinking was right. The next day almost at day break I made it to a reef and found a small cut to get the dinghy through. On the shore were people sun bathing and some of the women were topless. ‘So,’ Dixie had concluded, ‘that’s the story. And, as you can see I am here to tell it.’ ‘You went back turtling for years though, didn’t you?’ ‘Yeah, man.’ Dobie folded his thick right hand across his thick left hand.

yahwov

The helmsman and the astrologer

The gentle crackling of the sand was the only audible sound keeping company to the helmsman after all the crewmembers went searching for shelter in the lower deck. Only a lone dwarf, hand on the helm and mind lost somewhere on the horizon, would have been held responsible for any issue arisen over the night, apart from a man and a woman whispering pleasant words to the dice in a pathetic attempt of stealing the salary of the others. Their muffled voices were nothing but a mutter for the stoic veteran, fully absorbed by the act of handle the boat, impassive as a beekeeper busy displacing a hive, careless of their little inhabitant's retaliation. The sun was nothing more than a pale memory behind the boat stern, and his place was already being contested by a multitude of shiny knaves, each one eager to prove himself inside that endless battlefield the sky is. It was costly to admit for someone as mulish as the seasoned helmsman was, but the night has descended over him and from that moment a hand would have been necessary. But not from the spirited couple still mumbling on the deck. There was no cabin boy in the world capable of giving him advice on the matter of navigation, and surely the absence of daylight didn’t make anyone eligible as an advisor. Strengthened by this philosophy, he had proven himself more than capable to steer the ship through countless sleepless and lonely nights, leaving his post only after having witness the sunrise coming back once more to keep the living company. However, the captain had come back from the last shipyard with “a capable extra pair of hands, with unordinary talents, immeasurable passion for the night sky and a pair of vibrant eyes, surely a useful resource for our beloved helmsman”. Obviously, Beòdul rushed to clarify with the captain that there was absolutely no need of someone else on the deck during the night shift. But the captain proved adamant on that matter, and captain’s orders were the passepartout on that little kingdom of them. And no kingdom could never hope to prosper if his monarch conveys hatred towards his subjects. Especially an errand one. “It seems that the unfriendly breeze out there did couldn't bring you down, sir!” a warm voice emerged out of nowhere, preceding the arrival of the physical manifestation of the captain will. “Happy to see that you have had enough of sleeping for today, navigator” retorted the dwarf, putting too much emphasis on the last word. “I never sleep enough for someone who works all night long. And it doesn’t even Star!” said the young lad, in the middle of an attempt to convince a flying owl to take a rest on his straightened arm. Star, however, seemed far more interested in staring the helmsman with his small, inquisitive eyes than in his master lures. In the end the bird chose to land on the railing that ran around the perimeter of the stern, offering the crewmembers nothing more than a faint hope of avoiding a fatal fall into the waves during stormy nights. Seeing the scene, the other burst into a raucous laugh “Not even your damn bird listens to you, but the mighty spirit lurking between our world and somewhere else should kneel before you?” . The other smiled back and then turned his attention to the sky. His sparkling eyes started moving frantically, as they were in the middle of an attempt to count all the vastness of the cosmos. “Nobody could never hope to bind a spirit using something futile as power or authority. These concepts mean nothing to them; they value other things and we must think of something extraordinary when dealing with them.” “ Yeah, sure... ” Beòdul commented raising his eyebrows. Their first conversation of that work shift run out while the younger of the two went finish carving a complex circular rune on the axes about ten steps behind the helm. - The moon was starting the descent towards the sand expanse when the two deckhands considered their card game officially concluded. Without other thrilling activities in sight, they resign themself one to check the knots that secured the load, while the other to climb the rope ladder obtained from the rigging, to reach the watching post over the sails. The battle in the sky had reached its peak and every of the lucent soldier had come out of his hiding spot to join the scuffle. The keen eye of the helmsman, trained during countless nights of navigation, was able to distinguish most of the old constellations: the Raven, the first asterism that his old master had stuck in his head, was still easy to spot, master of a corner of the night sky as long as the Lion, or the Hydra. They had been guiding sailors through sea currents since time immemorial and they would keep doing so for hundreds more years, even if the sea had turned into sand. Until they were not covered by the new arrivals, of course. The most unthinkable phenomena do not happen overnight. Sometimes the need hundreds or thousands of years to alter the fabric of reality. But sometimes, apparently, the hand of fate could be forced by superior forces. At first, seafarers from all around the globe began to perceive an increase in the number of celestial bodies. Truly an anomalous event. But the thing that turned to be amusing for most of them was the fact that these newborn stars were moving. Steady and slow, the brought an unexpected turn in the race of the night sky. “They aren’t such a futile thing as a new generation of stars!” these were the words that started the conversation that time. “Futile, you said?” echoed the dwarf. The other treated himself a sigh and then went on "What I'm trying to tell you is that they’re not stars at all! At least, most of them...” The recent arrangement of the night shifts had forced the helmsman to spend more and more time with the new navigator, and since they first meet their relationship had improved, to the point that the former had begun seeking the latter’s knowledge for explanations about the grand celestial movement above their heads. It was hard to admit for the mulish sailor, but the peculiar proficencies of the new fellow had proven almost necessary. He was capable of converse with these "star-spirits", predicting their motion and which constellation would have been hampered next by their lights. Long story short, he was one of the few mortal which had predicted the Star Exodus before it happened. “Yes, yes, you already told me they are sentient beings and that nobody knows why the appear so suddenly." tried to remember the old helmsman "And a re they busy just... drifting off?” “ Not quite. They follow reasoned movements and seem to gather only around certain constellations, maybe in the strive of adding radiance to some of them, leaving the others untouched. That's why you've been able to run the ship all this time without me, for instance...” add the navigator, in a clear attempt to tease the fellow. “ And I would have gotten along just fine without you, sort of second-hand scholar!” “For sure! You would have cursed the spirits so stubbornly that they would have had no other choice than moving from your beloved stars in a rush...” They both laughed. “Just one more thing. What are exactly these spirits? Undead souls, as the skalds use to sing? Or something... else?” That was a cleaver query. One that wouldn’t have been answered yet. In fact, their late-night conversation would not have found a place in the logbook as the most trilling event of that voyage. “Fennec ears! Raise the alarm!” the woman on the main mast gave voice to a sudden scream, alerting the sailors below her. “May the Devils curse them all!” hissed the dwarf “The night is going to be quite eventful” . The owl strengthened these hexes with a couple of deep hoots. The veteran tightened his grip on the rudder, while the shaman run to the complex set of runes that was his personal place on the upper deck. Fennec ears was the appellation given to the heterogenous mob of marauder, scavengers and cutthroat that, since the first man was ensnared by the whispers of greed, had contended the desert with merchants, explorers and mappers. There were ships crafted especially for skirmishes in the sand which would have been able to fight tooth and nail against these raiders, and small yet nimble boats that would easily win a race for survival like this. But this was not their case. The ship's bulkheads were far too thin to come out fighting and their cargo were far too heavy to attempt an evasive manoeuvre. "Alert the captain.” Beòdul shouted to the closest deckhand, the other dice player. “If possible before these scumbags impale us in the butt!” he added to banish the boy's indecision. “ No. ” the passionless voice of the astrologer cut through the fear that was gathering in the air around the crew members “No need to alert the captain. Let's stay this course and focus on gathering pace. The spirits will bear the weight of vessel allowing us to escape this mishap by flying. No one's ass will be impaled. Not tonight at least.” he said with a slinky grin, waving the hand in the direction of a series of tiny will-o'-the-wisps that were gathering around the wicked circle. He took a moment to add a couple of woodcuts on the already elaborated rune, now lightened by a pale luminescence, and then straightened his back, murmuring something to his loyal familiar and then gifting all the attention to the night sky, regardless for the uneasiness of the ever more numerous crewmen which was gathering on the upper deck. The dwarf couldn’t help but addressing him with an incredulous gaze “Are you gone mad? Do you really believe that spirits will lift the boat just because you’re the one asking for this?” The owl silently left the railing he had elected as a rest no more than an hour ago and went drifting around the main mast, a semi-visible trail of sparks left behind his wings. The shaman turns to the helmsman. His face was unrecognizable, entirely covered in tiny shining stars, and his eyes were no longer oriented towards the fellow. They were nowhere to be seen, completely gone in pursuing the harmony of the universe. Despite the effort, no colour could be detected around him, drained from the navigator sleeve. “They won’t do as I wish because they’ve been asked to. They’ll follow the plan because they are curious enough to witness our travelling.” The shaman's arms rose towards the sky, while his voice grew... strange. Different. Distant. As it was coming from a sidereal distance. “I can hear them wondering: how long will mortals just watch us from afar? Will they ever find the courage to unravel the mystery of the night sky?” And so, the hull rose from the sand hill, leaving an orphan trace in the land to drift between the stars. That was nothing more than the beginning of the Defiant voyage. As an old story says, "per aspera ad astra" . 

1eeq9m

Journey Back by Staright

Somewhere in France, 1918 Besides a thick coat of mud, Lance Corporal Horace Yule had somebody else’s blood on his boots. He tried to rub it off but was unsuccessful. A plump rat scattered past him, making him reel in disgust. He knew that these things were the least of his worries, because, in an hour or so, it was going to be nighttime, and Horace and other men were going to have to leave the safety of their trench and raid the German trench, which was on the other side of no-man’s land.  Far away, Horace heard cannons firing. It sounded like a heartbeat. Then, as if a chain had been tugged, water fell from the sky. He wanted to stay dry by hiding in one of the funk holes, which were holes carved out of the side of the trench, but they were full. He contemplated ducking into the officer’s dugout but ended up flipping the collar of his beige poncho and hunkering down instead. Alexander Armstrong came over and sat next to Horace. Raindrops plinked on their tin helmets and splashed each other on the cheek. Horace shifted from foot to foot and felt his cold dog tags tap against his grimy chest “Amelia had the baby,” said Alexander in a whisper. “It’s a girl.” “Congratulations, when did you find out?” “In my wife’s last letter.” Horace thought back to the letter that Maggie, his wife, sent him. He received it earlier that day. With all the excitement going on, he hadn’t opened it yet. He had an impulse to read it right now, but feared that the ink would smear and the paper would turn into pulp in this weather. Letting out a breath, Horace glanced up at the sky. There was a naked tree above him. The branches twitched in the wind and creaked softly. Alexander nudged him a while minutes later. It was time. Horace followed his party along the duckboards to the front line trench and the firing bay. His ears turned to blocks of ice as he waited for his turn to climb up. When it was, Horace glanced at the dented tin sign reminding everybody to keep their heads down and then set his left foot and hands on the rungs of the grubby wooden ladder Up above, he joined Alexander’s side and unslung his rifle which had a bayonet attached on the end. Horace slouched forward like the rest and then began to walk stealthily. Rain rolled down Horace’s back as he wove around the tangled barbed wire. There were craters made by the Germans, fallen trees, and a dead horse lying on its side. Maggie would burst into tears if she saw this, Horace thought. When they neared the German trenches, the rain stopped, making the world dead quiet. Horace’s heart knocked against his ribcage and white hot fear zipped down his tongue and landed in his stomach. They crept closer and closer towards the firing bay and on command, Horace cocked his weapon and then woke up inside the trench on his back covered in sweat. Someone stood over him. Horace let out a cry and tried to crabwalk backward, but his arms were as weak as sticks of gum. “Calm down, calm down, it’s me!” Alexander hissed. “W-w-what happened?” “The Germans aren’t here and everything’s gone. They must have known that we were coming, and you took one look at a dead German and fainted.” “. . . I’ve never seen a corpse before,” Horace admitted and then got to his feet. He adjusted his bandelier and smelled something. It took him for a moment to realize that there was a wet spot in the front of his trousers. He was so glad that it was dark or else the men would not only tease him for not being able to put on his woolen puddies, but for pissing himself.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the dead German slouched up against shuddered windows that covered a funk hole. The soldier smelled so rotten that Horace could taste it in his mouth. It was a tang that he’d never forget. Feeling fruitless, Horace and the rest of his party began to slowly return to their trench. The moon and the stars were out now, illuminating no-man’s land. Horace didn’t like what he saw, so he kept his eyes down for a while. When he kicked an empty bullet shell and heard it ping away, one of the men swore loudly. “Sorry,” Horace said in a hushed voice. “What’s wrong John?” Alexander asked. John turned around. “I think we’re lost.” “No, we’re not. This is the right way.” “I don’t remember passing that tank, do any of you?” There was a chorus of nos. Alexander suggested walking back to the German trench, but it would take too long. The sun would be up in a while, making them easy targets for German fighter planes. “I know what we can do,” piped up Horace. “We can use the stars.” Alexander raised his eyebrows. “You know how to do it?” Horace nodded and began to lead the way, glancing up at the North Star and the twinkling constellations near it when he needed to. When Horace heard British voices. He grinned and he puffed up in pride. They had made it to their trench. For a moment, he thought that the men in his party were going to compliment him on getting everybody back safe, but they did not. To his surprise, Horace didn’t mind. After they reported that their raid was uneventful, they dispersed to funk holes and makeshift canopies. Horace squeezed into a little nook with a tarp for the roof, set a lit torch between his knees, and withdrew the letter from Maggie. He put the envelope to his nose and breathed in the lemon verbena perfume that was spritzed onto the paper and was always worn by his wife. Carefully, he undid the flap with his penknife, slid out the letter, and ran an unclean finger over Maggie’s loopy cursive. Horace leaned back and felt a bit of dirt crumble off and land inside his collar. He didn’t mind that one bit and began to read. 

v4i8ra

La Bonne Étoile (The Lucky Star)

The portal malfunctioned again. Fortunately, it dropped him close enough to shore that he could swim the rest of the way – better than being dropped in quicksand, like last time. Slightly annoyed, Professor Gregory Reyvannes scrambled out of the azure waters onto the soft, supple sands of the shore. “I know you’re here somewhere.” he mumbled to himself, shaking the water from his coat. The professor blinked a few times, taking in his surroundings; white sands reflected the sun in a way where the little island looked like it was glowing. Not a single tree adorned this patch of land from what he could see, and there was nothing else but the dark waters of the sea stretching out to the horizon. He huffed, wiping the excess water from his nose and mouth, and then fumbled about his pockets, continuing to conspire aloud to himself. “I won’t let you get away, not this time.” After checking a few pockets, he finally found what he needed; shaking more water out of his chestnut curls like a wet dog, he held a chrome orb the size of a walnut in his palm. He tapped it twice with his thumb – and nothing happened. “Come on...” He growled at it in exasperation, and again tapped it twice with his thumb, this time the presses being more deliberate. This seemed to do the trick; a holographic image appeared above the device with a cluster of small blue dots, one of which was pulsating purple with the letters ‘SX-384b’ illuminated beneath it. Reyvannes released a victorious bark, as his map confirmed what he already knew. “Ha! Yes! Very close now,” he assured himself, “That damned white rock is very close indeed...” Despite the portal coordinates going rogue again, according to his calculations – which were seldom ever wrong – he had landed on the planet that would soon see the Comet d’Ivoire, also known as the Ivory Comet, glide past its atmosphere. Four long years ago his employers had dispatched him to the galaxy of Sigma X to confirm its existence. He had come so close to capturing this 5,000-ton asteroid on only a handful of occasions, one of which nearly cost him his life. Despite this he never feared nor despaired in the loss, as each passing encounter only gave opportunity for Reyvannes to perfect his astral map and tweak his calculations. This time, it would be perfect. It had to be. His reputation depended on it. The professor’s renown as a former fifteen-year-old prodigy had caused the French Galactic Consulate to approach him about their cosmic navigation project, and Reyvannes found it too intriguing to refuse. It also helped that he was coming out of his second divorce penniless, and they offered him a handsome fund for him to retire on. Professor Reyvannes kicked the sand suddenly, giving in to a moment of frustration. “I did not dedicate twenty blasted years of my life at Oxford to be made a fool of now!” he shouted to the unyielding churn of the tide. His intrigue and greed had led him to be stranded on a desert island on an alien planet. Hunching close to his shiny device, Reyvannes poked the purple dot in his map which caused it to grow larger. There was a larger planet nearby labeled ‘SX-80r’ that would be closer to the comet’s path, but the data probe on his ship suggested highly sulfuric fumes in the atmosphere and heavy magma activity on the surface, so it would not have been safe to teleport to that planet. The task at hand was like trying to prove the existence of the Tooth Fairy. There were no other celestial masses within a lightyear that would offer as close a brush with the Ivory Comet for at least another millennium. Gnawing at his thumbnail, Reyvannes studied his map, growing anxious at the thought of losing this opportunity and not sure when the next one would come. He turned in a full circle, slowly observing the watery landscape in hopes of finding something on this planet that might offer a little bit of height, perhaps a mountain or even a hill on a nearby island. He was greeted only by the empty blue, which was deepening with the setting sun, and the gently crashing waves upon the sand were the only sounds that accompanied his breathing. He was initially surprised to find another planet so similar to Earth that was uninhabited, but now he knew why. This was a planet quiet and devoid of life, save for the extraterrestrial that had appeared upon the shore soaked and shivering. He was a voyager marooned within the void of loneliness, and the silence was deafening. Reyvannes groaned, circling again, his brown eyes scanning the horizon desperately for the second time when a glint of light caught his eye, reflected from the palm of his hand. “Of course!” he exclaimed, while chuckling at his foolishness. He had been so focused on finding an elevated spot to stand on when he could simply make one any place he wanted. He tapped the device he held to put the map away then turned it over to the bottom. Taking his index finger, he made three small circles in the center. The device responded by emitting a fiery red glow, as if he awakened some mythical beast. He spoke into the glowing device, “Activate summoning mode.” The device began humming but was soon drowned out by a noise like a swarm of angry hornets. Reyvannes looked upward, admiring the true love of his life as she glided down from the sky – the Bonne Étoile was a state-of-the-art spacecraft that gave the appearance of a raven diving from the sky. It was built and crafted by the most advanced engineers in Europe, commissioned by the FGC for this very mission. They had even given the professor the honor of christening the ship with her name, which Reyvannes felt the French translation for “Lucky Star” was quite apt. She was made for him. The sleek, black craft lowered itself from the air until it ran ten feet above, parallel to the water, jetting forward to the small island where Reyvannes stood. “Activate docking mode” he spoke into the device again with a small, satisfied smirk, just as the ship approached him. In an instant the ship pivoted ninety degrees, its jet engines blasting on and off to supplement the shift in weight and direction, before kicking out its landing gear and sinking gently into the sand. The swarm of hornets subsided as the jet engines powered down to a low rumble. Reyvannes never thought he could be sexually attracted to inanimate objects, yet here he was growing hard for a spaceship. He chuckled a little at himself and slogged towards the Bonne Étoile , his boots squelching with ocean water. Reyvannes approached the craft, gently placing his hand on the portside as if to greet an old friend. A thin, red line of light scanned across his palm, accompanied by two small beeps; the recognition software had identified its master and the front of the ship unfolded, revealing the cockpit. “ Bienvenue , Gregory Reyvannes” the ship’s AI chirped out to him in a tinny voice. Another thin light beamed out from inside the ship and scanned the professor’s whole body as he walked into the opening. “I have detected foreign bacterial particles within your attire,” the ship alerted Reyvannes “as well as excess moisture. Risk assessment: potential for hypothermia and/or bacterial infection and/or viral infection. Shall I run the sanitation cycle for you?” Reyvannes chuckled at this. “Come now, BE,” he chided the ship by using her nickname “I know you’re not one for the beach, but surely a little sand and sun never hurt anyone, hm?” The ship responded with silence – it did not have humor programmed within its mainframe. Reyvannes sighed, lifting his arms out like a scarecrow. “Commence sanitation cycle.” He commanded flatly. With that Reyvannes was blasted with a cool, white mist from head to toe for three seconds; once the mist had cleared, he had been dried and cleaned as if he had never been dropped by the portal in the first place. “Suppose that’s your way of apologizing for dropping me in the wrong spot again .” He quipped briskly, adjusting his now dry jacket on his shoulders. “Apologies for the miscalculations, sir,” BE responded to Reyvannes as he loaded himself into the pilot’s seat. “My coordinate location software is only adjusted to planets with similar mass and size to Earth, however your feedback is appreciated and will be transmitted to quality assurance division – warning: systems communications disabled.” “Yes, yes... I know.” Reyvannes mumbled, more to himself this time, activating the controls to close the cockpit and ready for take-off. He made a mental note that artificial intelligence did not include emotional intelligence, and to stop trying to initiate friendly banter with a robot. The ramp had retracted, and the seat locked back into place. Now that Reyvannes could reach the controls, he plugged his silver device into a small port and illuminated the map again. After flipping the switches to fire the engines up to take-off mode, he pulled the throttle lever slowly until the buzzing sound of hornets filled the air, lifting the ship off from the ground within a whirlwind of sand twisting furiously around the craft. “Up we go now.” he said softly, disengaging the landing gear and pulling up the yoke of the steering column. The Bonne Étoile lifted off with ease, steadily gaining altitude. Reyvannes consulted his map and tilted the craft to the left to direct him towards SX-80r – the planet closest to the path of the Ivory Comet. He took an opportunity to glance down at the water world he was leaving behind, observing the other sandy islets surrounding the one he had come from. They looked like white inkblots to him, inevitably disappearing as he left SX-384b’s atmosphere. Some lights began to blink on the control board, and the professor’s curly hair began to drift gently in the air as they entered the realm of low gravity. With the flick of another switch to his right, BE chirped out “Gravity stabilization initiated” and his hair flopped back down again lifelessly, accompanied by a noisy hiss. He barely needed to use his map at this point - SX-80r could be seen with the naked eye and was about a fifteen-minute journey with hyper-speed travel. He just needed to be slightly off-right to the planet in order to catch the comet, but the navigation systems built into the ship needed a point destination in order to activate hyper-speed controls. He risked missing the asteroid altogether if he remained in a manual cruise speed, however Reyvannes already had the solution to circumvent the navigation systems. Using his map again as a reference, he pulled up the IGPS – inter-galactic positioning systems – and punched in the coordinates for SB-44. This was a star in an entirely different system which would take twenty lightyears to get to in hyper-speed, however it was in the precise direction of the Ivory Comet’s predicted path. Reyvannes was confident in his calculations; by navigating to this star, if he initiated a manual override after fifteen minutes to halt hyper-speed travel toward SB-44, it would land him just outside the path of the Ivory Comet. Most space pilots would never dare to dream of manually overriding the IGPS system, but those space pilots were not Professor Gregory Reyvannes. Hyper-speed travel was never easy on him. The last time he had to use it was a life-or-death situation, where he was nearly pancaked by the Ivory Comet for being directly in its path. But he was so close now, personal sacrifices had to be made. This would the last time he would let it get away. Taking a deep breath, a self-assured smirk played across his lips as a shaky hand pressed the button to activate the IGPS hyper-drive. The engines whirred to a whistle as the ship announced, “WARNING: Hyper-drive engaged in 3... 2...1...”. The force of Bonne Étoile jetting forward caused his head to snap back into the seat, and the universe around him began to blur in streaks of light. Reyvannes clutched the yoke to keep the ship steady as it careened through space, perspiration gathering on his forehead as he felt the bile rising in his throat. Reyvannes looked up and watched the stars streak by, their blazing forms stretched above him in a rainbow of lights. He marveled at the sight, temporarily distracted from his movement sickness, and thought of his life on Earth. He remembered his mother’s smile – she died when he was only seven, and it pained his heart that he didn’t know her better. He recalled the times spent in Oxford, a young boy amongst men that praised and demonized him all at once. His first husband – one of those men that he now realized groomed him into marriage as soon as he was of legal age, only for it to fall apart after a measly three years once he found the other young boys that occupied his ex-husband’s not-so-secret hard drive. At least he was paid a nice sum to keep quiet upon their separation. He thought of the sleepless nights, the endless peer review requests, the smell of cigarettes permeating the walls of his apartment. He thought of Gerard, and his chest tightened at the memory of the green-eyed graduate student whose heart he could never hold even after ten years of marriage – or maybe it was the hyperdrive. All that time he spent on Earth, he only ever looked to the stars. He found solace in their consistency. They were always there, a mystery to him, and yet at the same time he understood them so well. It was a paradox and a passion that isolated him from others that could never comprehend. He was pushed to achieve, to conform and condense himself, all while seeking to answer the meaning of humanity’s feeble, mortal existence. He always felt so lost, adrift in a sea of earthly bodies that crowded him, pushing and shoving each other to get by. Yet it was here, wide-eyed and panting at the speeding celestial bodies above him, in a no-man’s land of empty and endless space, he had found solace and belonging. At long last, in the silence of the stars, this marooned voyager had been found. Enough time had finally passed and Reyvannes reached a shaky hand toward IGPS controls and flipped the switch for manual override, keeping the override lever held down with his eye on the emergency shut-off lever. “WARNING: MANUAL OVERRIDE ENGAGED.” BE cautioned him. “COMMENCING IGPS HYPER-DRIVE SHUT DOWN IN 10… 9… 8…” The sweat began to drip from his hairline, his eyes darting back and forth between the override and emergency levers. “7… 6… 5…” His gut instincts kicked in; he needed to stop now . “Sorry, darling - not on your count.” Reyvannes apologized, and with his hand still gripping the override lever he yanked back on the emergency lever. The engines cut off abruptly and the Bonne Étoile rolled several times before the ship rebooted back online and recalibrated the balance. “EMERGENCY SYSTEMS WARNING: SYSTEM REBOOT ENGAGING.” BE ran ship diagnostics as Reyvannes scrambled for the sick bags stored under the control board. “SUCCESS. ALL SYSTEMS BACK ONLINE.” BE’s confirmation chimed out, but Reyvannes barely heard the report as he retched into a paper bag, his body trembling from the shock. After emptying the contents of his stomach, he sighed in partial relief, “Never doing that again.” he mumbled after crudely spitting bile into the bag. “I will be sure to enter additional safeguards for manual override protocols in future, sir. As always, your feedback is appreciated and will be transmitted to the quality assurance division.” “Can you add fries with that order?” The professor shot back. “Warning - systems communications disabled.” BE responded to him automatically, and Reyvannes rolled his eyes in annoyance – for an AI that lacked emotions she sure had a tenacity for sass. The engines buzzed contentedly, the motherboard blinked and glowed, and all was well. He had just lifted his head to glance out the window when he saw it – a small twinkling light in the distance, growing larger by the second. Eyes widening, Reyvannes strained against his seat harness to get closer to the windshield, jaw dropping when he realized what he saw. The twinkling light turned into a glowing orb, floating its way toward the Bonne Étoile , with what looked like puffs of glittering frost billowing around it. Reyvannes nearly jumped out of his seat, whooping victoriously with elation. “There you are you stupid, glorious Moby Dick of a boulder bastard! You’re real! ” He had done it. He had found the Ivory Comet. He laughed jovially as the massively imposing comet came into view, tumbling through space enshrouded in white flames like an avalanche, leaving nothing but shimmering debris in his wake. Reyvannes’ laughter transpired to sobs of joy; a lost asteroid thought only to be a fairy tale was found. The hardest part was over – now the real work could start. Collecting himself, Reyvannes flipped the controls and the engines whirred to a whistle “Now then,” he said to his ship, eyes on the comet and clutching the steering column, “Let’s catch our whale.”

3yazqd

Storm Chaser

It was forecasted to be a simple thunderstorm. And even a simple thunderstorm would do after the uneventful season we’ve had. As a meteorology student in Indiana, it has been perfectly - boring. We get the regular blizzard left over from Chicago and standard rain showers, but it’s not like we get slammed with a nasty Nor’easter or live right in the smack dab middle of Tornado Alley. That’s not to say that there’s no severe weather, no tornado or flash flood that occasionally rips through here, because of course there is. But in the three years I’ve so far been in my atmospheric sciences graduate program, not much beyond pea-sized hail has happened. Even Professor Jansen’s field course on storm chasing has been fairly irrelevant – though he is the coolest professor in the department so I probably would have taken the class anyway even if there isn’t much to chase now. But when we saw the tiny blip of a thunderstorm on our radar, as measly as it was, Professor Jansen decided it was time to take us on a road trip.             “Don’t expect too much to happen,” he warned us as we rode in the department’s storm chasing Chevy Tahoe. Its antennae have been fairly quiet, barely even swaying in the mostly calm wind, and the windshield wipers only occasionally squeak against the glass in the slow rain. “This area is only under a Severe Thunderstorm Watch, but keep track of the updates closely – these things can get iffy in a matter of minutes.” I think he said it only out of responsible obligation, not that he actually believed it as the virtually nonexistent storm seemed to lighten up even more.             My friends and cohort-mates, Jasper and Ally, from the backseat sporadically track the radar and notifications issued by the National Weather Service as we roll along the highway. I’m in the passenger’s seat, essentially doing nothing besides staring out the window, just keeping a notepad on my lap in case anything noteworthy should come up but really I’m doodling on it. I’m also in charge of the camera, and I snap one quick photo of the dark blue cumulonimbus clouds before they dissolve away into the plain grey sky – nothing more to see here. I watch the colors of the sky stretch on for miles and miles of grey, in some places starting to break into light blue again, and I start to wonder when Professor Jansen will get just as bored as us and turn back around towards campus. Even Jasper who doesn’t get bored from watching grass grow has zoned out from watching the radar.             I turn back to the window where, wow surprisingly, the sky is the same drab grey. Under the stratosphere shade, the fresh spring grass has a nice bright contrast to the mist hanging a few inches above the ground, and the amber fields of Indiana harvest ruffle in the wind that seems to have picked up a little. I glance back up at the sky and notice some heavier clouds have started churning angrily. At the same time, a beep interrupts the Top 40 station on the radio and chimes on Ally’s tablet.             “The National Weather Service has issued a Tornado Watch for the counties of…” the static-y voice announces and Ally paraphrases as much for us.             “Looks like there’s some rotation picking up just east of here,” she shows us the velocity radar. “Doesn’t look too substantial yet, but there is a slight hook in the clouds.”             “Could be worth a look,” Professor Jansen says, taking the next exit ramp eastbound.  “Got a weather balloon ready?”             “Got it,” Jasper confirms as we set on the new course, Ally giving directions.             As we drive further into the storm, it becomes clear the system had intensified – rain slams down, occasionally turning into hail plinking against the car with a metallic denting sound; the wind whips up, making trees bend at weird angles and at times, I can feel it push the car slightly off-lane. The sky is now a strange oil paint mix of blue, green, and black, and it becomes almost as dark as dusk.             “Ally, how’s that rotation looking?” Professor Jansen asks.             “Velocity tracker has it starting to spin up but then eventually settling down. No new updates from the Weather Service.”             “We can keep going then.”             We are seemingly in the middle of nowhere when the next alert comes in.             “Tornado Warning,” Jasper announces. “Radar-indicated tornado moving east just below I-294. Looks like it’s coming right toward us within 15 miles.”             “Any funnel cloud confirmed?”             “Not yet.”             “Alright, let’s go, but stay a safe distance away. What’s its path looking like?”             With Jasper planning out the route, we drive closer to the area the tornado was suspected. At first, it seems like there’s nothing going on – but they don’t call it the calm before the storm for no reason. As we get closer to its trajectory, hail starts pelting the car – at some point, I wonder if it’s going to break the windshield. The wind picks up like never before, causing Professor Jansen to pull off to the side of the road.             “Trajectory indicates we should see the tornado coming up in about six minutes,” Jasper says. His voice is full of anticipation – part excitement, part anxiety – and he leans forward to look through the window. “Whoa, look at those clouds.”             The clouds now look like thick black smoke, billowing and swirling in dense layers.             And then.             It appears.             A cone of clouds dipping from the sky rips through the farmlands, kicking up a haze of dust and debris, raging its way across the horizon. Even from this distance, we can hear its low rumble. It’s not some skinny little funnel cloud spinning tight pirouettes; it’s a monster of a tornado, whirling around slowly but heavily.             All of us are speechless, dropped-jaw and wide-eyed. My heart stops and then races up to the speed of the wind as I roll down the window and snap a few shots.             “Look at that, it’s huge!” Ally cries.             “Send the confirmation to the National Weather Service: tornado spotted,” Professor Jansen instructs. “Get the word out for people to take shelter now. Jasper, get the weather balloon out.”             “I’m going to go take a couple more photos,” I say, jumping out of the car.             “Be careful, Kevin. It’s still far away now but these things can change on the edge of a dime.”             I cut across the field, the wind pushing and pulling at me. Out here, I feel the full force of the storm: the rain and hail mix slashes at my face; debris flies around me and makes me duck tree branches, chips of wood, and scraps of metal; and the wind nearly picks me up. Struggling to hold the camera, I shoot the tornado from each angle I can get. I feel so incredibly exhilarated, the thrill and adrenaline of standing in the way of something of such power and force, just far enough on the edge to still escape safely. At some point, Jasper’s released weather balloon zips by before it gets sucked into the vortex, and I realize that edge has kept up dangerously close.             “Kevin, get back here!” Professor Jansen calls to me. “The wind changed direction – it’s heading right toward you!”             But I am frozen in my place, stunned and unable to pry my eyes away from the twister. From this close, I can see the strips of shredded clouds building its shape, the pieces of debris flying in and out of the funnel, and I realize – it’s beautiful.             “KEVIN!” the professor and my cohort-mates scream for me to come back.             The tornado is almost upon me now. My feet barely touch the ground, and the camera nearly flies out of my hands, but there is no way I’m missing this shot now. The twister fills up the entirety of the camera lens, and I snap one shot after the other.             “Come back! Hurry, Kevin!”             “Kevin, I swear, if you get yourself killed, I’m flunking you!”             Just one more shot,  I promise, the tornado turning to its good side and I’m filled with awe, snapping one more shot. Then I realize its good side is the side barreling straight into me. I always thought the howling train sound was just a cliché, but hearing it for myself now, I realize it’s true as my ears pop and realize I can’t hear myself even think: “RUN!”             So I run as fast as my feet will take me – which I realize is pretty futile with 300 mph behind me. Tornado sirens wail in the distance. At one moment, I’m knocked off my feet and trip into a ditch, realizing I have no time to get out anymore. So instead I pull my arms over my head protectively, hunch down, and pray for the best.             Just one more shot , I plead. Let me get one more shot to accomplish something in my life. Finish grad school. Get married. Have kids. Move out of the Midwest. Something more than this.             I brace myself for impact, when at the last minute, the air shifts and gets calmer again. Daring to peek my head out, I see that the tornado has veered off course, making a U-turn in the middle of the field and going in the opposite direction, and I breathe a huge sigh of relief. Ally, Jasper, and Professor Jansen run out of the Tahoe and pull me out of the ditch, exclaiming how glad they are that I’m alright.             Brushing the mud off me, I look back where the tornado has started dissipating along the horizon, returning to the sky. I take one last photo of the torn-up path through the grass left in its wake, and follow them back to the car.

gwozgk

The Sunset Picture

I woke up early so I could get the perfect photo. Quickly, I dressed in brown, scruffy pants, a baggy shirt and my hiking boots. I tied my coffee-brown hair into a tangled ponytail and slipped on my glasses. Once I had grabbed my bag, I was ready. I snuck out of my camping caravan and took a deep breath of the morning air. The sky was still dark but after a quick consultation with my watch, I knew it would rise soon. I took a stroll around the desert, spotting little lizards and harmless snakes retreating to their hideouts. The Grand Canyon was a dark blob against the night sky, but soon it would be silhouetted against a display of blue, pink and other pastel colours. When I reached the edge of the canyon, I plopped down, my legs curled beneath me as I sat on a large, flat topped boulder. I was facing east so I could see when the sun would begin to rise. This would be the perfect picture. I had no doubt. After about an hour of waiting, I could see faint beams of gold escaping from the sun, outlining the fluffy clouds in pink. I snapped a quick shot of that, but then I realised if this picture was going to be perfect I had to get it from a different angle–and that angle happened to be across a large gap in the rocks. It was about 2 to 3 metres away. Shakily, I stood, knowing it would be completely worth it, trying to reassure myself. I saw a big rock that would give me a better place to jump from. I moved to the rock and half a scream escaped when it moved beneath me. The sound bounded off the walls of the empty canyon and echoed loudly. A few rocks and a bit of rubble fell down the canyon and I couldn’t hear them when they touched the bottom. I gulped. I managed to get my balance on the rock, praying it wouldn't move and looked at the flat ground just in reach if I jumped my farthest. I sucked in a few deep breaths, squatted down and leaped. For seconds, I was suspended in the air, flying above The Grand Canyon. Then reality hit and gravity pulled me down. Just in time, my fingertips grazed the edge and I managed to get a hold, slowly pulling myself up. I slipped again and gritted my teeth. I would get this picture if it killed me. Which, in this instance, it might. I yanked myself up onto the edge and realised I’d been holding my breath. “I’m okay,” I told myself, really trying to believe it. I stood up on shaky legs and jumped away from the edge–right as it crumbled from the pressure. I stared at the humongous hole, realising with horror that I couldn't get back that way. Oh well. I’d find a way. I just had to get a photo of the sunrise. The sky was now tinted pink and I was in the perfect spot, when I noticed a little further away–thankfully on the same rock so I wouldn't have to deal with gravity again–the most perfect spot I could get. I walked forward carefully, tiptoeing over the rocks and dust. A loud hiss interrupted my happy, reassuring thoughts and I looked up to see a humongous rattlesnake, shaking its rattle and staring straight at me. I narrowed my eyes in determination. I would get that picture, you can count on that. Slowly I moved toward the edge, trying to get around the snake so I could capture the sunrise. It hissed again and slithered toward me. Uh oh. I stared at the endless fall down and prayed I wouldn't end up like a broken rock. Sometimes you need to take a leap of faith–and sometimes that leap is a real leap. I grasped my strength and courage and jumped over the snake, stumbling to the edge and trying to regain my balance. I released my breath and watched as the snake slunk away, obviously defeated. The sky was tinted blue now and the puffy white clouds were parting, revealing a glowing sun. The beams stretched out to the clouds and the colours painted the sky above The Grand Canyon. It was just magical. The tips of the rocks and points were bathed in golden sunlight and the sky slowly turned blue with every minute. I was snapping left and right while my heart was still trying to calm down. That’s when I spotted the rocks below me. They were quite far down but I could see it would be perfect to get a view of the sunrise from below. Without a moment's hesitation–there was maybe a bit of hesitation and reluctance–I jumped down. My hair tie came loose as I fell down, down, down. I had no idea it was this far down and I screamed as I went. It was like freefalling but much scarier and then…I missed the rock by a few inches. I kept falling when I should have stopped. My fingers brushed the edge of the cliff and my nails scraped into the rock to hold me steady. My stomach lurched and I repeated the words that had to continue going through my head: It’s for the photo . I pulled myself up and it totally felt like the scene in the movie when the brave music plays as the hero saves themselves from their brush with death. I used all my strength to pull myself up from the fall and finally I was sitting on the edge of the cliff, breathing deeply to control my racing heart. I almost died. I almost died and no one knew. But now I had my perfect picture. I snapped a few more shots from below and looked over them on my camera. My mouth curved into a smile and I set my camera down on the cliff watching as the sun made its way into the sky. I watched until the sky was vivid blue and my watch announced it was 9:00am. I sighed happily, then reality struck. I was stranded in the Grand Canyon. Not good. I snatched my camera from its spot and then I’m not sure what happened after that. Maybe it was my slippery, sweaty hands or my racing heart or maybe my terrible balance, but the camera–the one that has all my precious photos including the sunset one that I risked my life to get–flew out of my hands and fell down the cliff. I wanted to lunge for it, but I knew I would kill myself so I watched in horror as my beautiful camera disappeared into the Grand Canyon. I crumpled to the floor, wondering why it had to end like this. I looked up and around and everywhere, finally figuring out a route I could take. I even looked down but of course there was no way there. I scaled the rocky wall, and performed quite the show of getting safely back to my caravan. Soon I collapsed on the squeaky pullout bed, exhausted and sad. Then I got an awesome idea, and bolted up, my back rigid. What if I became an animal photographer? My mind went straight to the snake and I decided to travel back to that spot to see if I could find it. I snatched a new hair tie, laced up my hiking boots, grabbed my emergency camera and off I went, ready to risk my life for photography!     

tbmp3n

Cold is the Absence of Heat

Commander John Forebear re-enters the airlock to Novac 3 and takes his place at the bridge's command module. No sooner is he settled in than his headset sparks in static. "It's a blue line here, John. Ice to every horizon, kind of mist-like, an artic blue, mythical. It's really something." The Commander smiles. Just like my science officer to admire the view. I love him, but it's another thing to keep him focused on the task at hand. "I can see," the Commander replies. "Your visuals are coming in fine, but you're not on vacation, are you Officer Aaronson?" The monitor displays the surface of planet 87689-B, no longer the ice blue marble seen growing over the last eighteen months, but white arctic plains, endless mountain ranges, and red-ironed rock on knife edged peaks. The Commander's headset crackles again from Aaronson. "You need to smell the roses more often my friend..” The Commander laughs. "You've never smelled a rose; you've never even seen one." "I read books. You should try it." The Commander laughs again. "I do read books." "You read manuals on rocket technology. Those aren't books." Aaronson is on the surface , the Commander thinks. Back to business. "Let's get on it, Science Officer. Have you centered the vein?" "Affirmative," Aaronson answers, coming in clear. "Data confirms crystal spectrum 2.5 klicks below the surface. Deploying the drill." On the ship's monitor, the Commander zooms in. Standing much larger and taller than the robotic derricks on Absolon 9, the drill first extends vertically. Once the upward extension completes, the blades spread out at the base, slowly expanding to thirty meters, reminding the Commander of the wings of a teeth mantis. The blades begin turning, spinning, ice flies as it grinds through the ice. The high, piercing sound of the drill fills the audio, and ice blocks spin off the blades as the diamond edged wings cut, tear, bore a hole in the planet. Soon the derrick has drilled itself out of sight from the command module. On the surface, Science Officer Aaronson puts on a propulsion vest. The tiny thrusters fire a blue flame, a throated growl as they lift him. Aaronson disappears as he descends the newly dug channel, a vertical mineshaft. An hour later, Aaronson patches in. "You need to get down here, Commander. You won't believe this." Descending the drill shaft along with Security Officer Dickens, the Commander realizes they don't need headlamps. The ice walls are a translucent aqua glow, almost an ocean effect, the glow derived he suspects from its own organic energy source within the fabric of the ice. His gloved hand slides down the edge of the mineshaft. Clear , he thinks. I can see at least three meters into the ice. The purity of it. The Commander is not a worrier, but he worries as he descends. Not because of the shaft or the mine. He has mined all over the Federation, dozens of planets, and even if this shaft is twice the size of the largest, he still has the experience. It isn't the cumbersome size of the derrick either. It's what his security officer had said the night before. They had been together on the observation deck and it was about his friend Aaronson. The same subject Dickens had been harping on for the last year. "To mine the ice is nothing," Dickens had said, the reflection of a dark red nebula on his scared face. "It's the softness of that Aaronson. He's not like us; he lacks the killer instinct. When the time comes, Aaronson will be the weak link. Trust me, I've seen it before. We need to mine the ice, and I'm not letting him get in the way." Always the paranoid security officer , thinks the Commander. But he's my security officer, and I like him being paranoid. It's safer. His job is to protect all three of us, after all.  He pours himself two fingers of scotch from their dwindling supply into his crystal glass. The blue planet hovers below in its own shimmering light, the plains, the mountains, the stars ablaze above. Dickens grabs the scotch bottle with a flick of his eyes. "Have you seen his right earlobe? It's the mark of a mystic. He hides it, but it's typical of his kind, his race. He swears, what a joke, there's some kind of life on the planet. He says he dreamed about them. Hallucinating is what I think. And we scanned for planet heat, nothing. The entire planet is absolute zero. If there's a THEY , can they be absolute zero? There's a reason Sector 12 threw out the mystics you know, why you don’t see them. They shipped them off, good riddance I say. The Commander throws back his scotch. Corporate's command was simple. Go to planet 87689-B, mine as much of what you can, bring back the mythical ice that doesn't melt. Imagine the repercussions of a product with endless refrigeration? Fill the storage bay, bring it back. Zing, Pop, we're all rich. Or, I'm rich. Corporate is already rich.  The commander puts his hand on Dicken's arm to assure him. "We mine the ice, fill the payload. Then we get the hell out. Aaronson will be fine." And once I'm rich, I can retire to Absolom 7, the furthest from the insanity of the Federation I can get, a place without thought control, a place with hardly any people at all. What's going on at Sector 12 is really not my business . *** As the two men descend, their propulsion vests hold the descent, a hissing sound from the fuel, a blue flame. At the bottom of the shaft, Aaronson waves up to them in the blue glow, the channel now carved out at the bottom like a cathedral. It's then the commander realizes the protruding vein of ice in front of him IS the core product, the color of the distinctive blue giving it away. The ice gives off a ghosting blue, fog like, the surface seeming to have a thin frothing skin. Ice that won't melt. Corporate could mine this for decades. Who knows how long? Aaronson's voice breaks in the Commander's headset. "I'm at your two o'clock. You have to see this. I've run the carbon dating spectronics." The science officer is standing at the entrance to one of many spidered tunnels off the base of the main dig. Behind him are the images of a junkyard of random space debris, dozens of pieces of metal embedded in a clear ice wall, as if a human expedition on a prior mining exploration had abandoned their probes, a launch vehicle, digging equipment, backhoes, mining tools. Ancient technology embedded in clear ice. The Commander joins Aaronson in front of the ice wall. "I've never seen equipment like this. What's the reading?" "2.5 million years. Our earth was not yet civilized when these artifacts were brought here Commander." Aronson puts his hand on the ice wall in awe of what they'd found. "It's a shame we can't stay. Imagine what we could learn. And there are inscriptions on the equipment. There, on what looks like a backhoe, do you see?" Just looking at artifacts from so long ago sends a shiver through the Commander, a déjà vu, a murmur, a whisper from an ancient past. Aaronson speaks quietly to the Commander. "You sense it, don't you? Can we stay?" Dickens looks disgustedly at Aaronson. "No way science man. We're not here for your witchy bullshit. If there's intelligence, we're in danger." Aaronson ignores Dickens, his eyes on the Commander. "Give me just three days to complete an archeological study. All I'm asking is three days, John." "Pfff," Dickens snorts. "You've been whining about missing your family for the entire trip out. Now you want to stay?" "I do. But there's more." Aaronson hesitates like he was holding back. "You both need to come with me." They follow Aaronson down an ice blue tunnel and enter a cavern opening up with caves on an ice cliff. Ice ladders access what looks like homes, abandoned cliff dwellings. Structures in ice of all sizes, a blue sheen to the ice, ghostly, present, unknown. But what really stands apart are the carvings. Circular discs of etchings, sculptures of some abstract design. Like Picasso of ages long past, or Phillips on Horizon's Horn in the 8 th  Quadrant. The brightest spot is a centerpiece on a small pedestal. There sits what looks like a pulsating diamond, sparkling white, about 20 centimeters tall. Around it is an artistically designed ice carved shrine. The diamond hums, it glitters organically. Aronson puts his helmeted face inches from the diamond. "This is ice but like a queen I think. See how she produces ice from the base like tiny glaciers. The ice is the eggs. They don't melt, we know that, but the queen is this diamond of ice, birthing the ice. This shrine is to worship the ice diamond, is my guess." Dickens picks up the diamond, examines it. "If they can't protect it, they don't deserve to keep it. Why are we only taking the ice when we can also take, as you say, the queen?" Aaronson steps in front of Dickens. "We only came for the ice. We don't know the ramifications. We need to study it." Dickens glances at the Commander who gestures to return the ice diamond. He sets the crystal diamond back on the pedestal. Returning to the derrick, the three men prepare the container for some hours, collecting ice, storing it for the transfer. The Commander closes the portal on the container. "Ok Aaronson, trigger the container to ascend to the surface. I've programmed the ascent to Novac 3." Aaronson and the Commander strap on their vests. Dickens joins them. Before he triggers the propulsion, Aaronson stops Dickens. Aronson raises both of his hands. "He's hiding the ice diamond in his pack Commander. Not a good idea Dickens. There's more to this than you realize." "Don't tell me science boy, we can take this. But… but…" Dickens grabs his helmet with both hands. Whatever is in his helmet eats on his face, his flesh is breaking up like black microbes gnawing on him. He draws his laser sidearm, fires at Aaronson, whose chest lights up with a red flash. The charge dissipates in an electrical charge, Aaronson collapses to the ice. Dickens falls to his knees next to Aaronson and his hands desperately claw each side of his helmet. His screams pierce the Commander's headset as the whites of Dicken's eyes go black. His face in the clear visor helmet DISSOLVES, the flesh of his face dripping away, blood flowing down his cheeks with the white bones of his skull protruding. Finally, his mass slides down into the interior of his suit like sludge in a drain and his suit crumples on the ice. The Commander thinks in a second. It was so simple. Go to planet 87689-B, mine as much as you can, fill the storage bay with a ton of the stuff. Bring it back.  He takes hold of the pack. Carrying Aaronson, he stumbles to the main channel and fires his vest. The weight of two men may be too much.  He turns the nozzle full on. But he's rising too slowly and falls back a meter for every two he ascends. Aaronson moans on his back. As they rise up the channel, the sides of the shaft begin cracking like a crevasse closing in on them, the ice splintering, cascading down the channel. Pieces of ice reach out to strike at his legs, his arms, the iced sides moving in on them like a closing fist. The planet itself knows I have the queen. Once on the surface, the Commander lays Aaronson in the shuttle. As they take off, the gravity of the planet seems to bend with an aurora of light, blues and pinks reach for them, a colored gravity aching to pull the shuttle back. But they dock on Novac 3 and soon all of the ship's engines are firing, blasting in a blue-red fire, but the planet strains to hold the ship. 87689-B is not giving up. It seems to scream to pull the ship back, like a mother fighting for the return of her children, her queen, the ice. Finally, the planet lets go, spent with exhaustion. The planet gives out a collective gasp of loss. Novac 3 snaps into space, the stars streak by. *** Two months later, Aaronson still hasn't died. The commander has set him up in sickbay, the portrait of his wife, his two young children taped to the bulkhead above him. He has no consciousness , thinks the commander. He's dying, a coma. He'll never last a month, certainly not a year. As the days become weeks, the Commander holds Aaronson's sweating head in his berth. He feeds him food carefully ground so he can swallow. He washes Aaronson when he needs to be washed. And finally in desperation he lies next to his friend, begging to transfer his own heated life force. Wake up, Aaronson. Wake up. You're the only friend I've got. But strangely, the Commander meets him in dreams, an apparition in his sleep, coming to him out of a blue iced fog. "The ice melts," Aaronson says in the dream. "Melts". But how can this be? The ice does not melt, the crystal births more ice. But Aaronson says over and over, "The ice is the absence of heat," his eyes unfocused, the light in his irises dying. There must be a message. Novac 3 rockets through space and the Commander drinks scotch on the observation deck, first two fingers, then four, then he's out of counting fingers. He just drinks. There is no day. The nebula of greens and browns and pinks, the infinitum of space, silently watches. He drinks until the day he looks in the mirror of his cabin and examines his red-veined eyes, his face. Then he knows what to do. ******** Aaronson's near lifeless body lies in the outstretched arms of the Commander. He stumbles with the weight, falls, rises again. He struggles on, the weight heavy. The propulsion vest he wears can hardly hold them both from plummeting down the mineshaft. He finds the ice caves, the ladders, the art. He then lays Aaronson carefully down at the altar where the ice diamond used to be, the queen. After taking his pack off, he removes the ice diamond and places it on the pedestal and kneels in front of it. Behind the commander stands a blue presence, at least ten feet tall, a figure in raw ice, nothing more. The man is clear blue, the ice of his body shimmering like the planet itself. There is a crackling, like tinkling ice, as the man's arm moves. He places a hand on the Commander's shoulder, his arm joint re-forming as the ice breaks and splinters. Lights like nail-heads shine from his eyes. His head turns, a crinkling in his neck, a thin frothing crystal skin. Your man will be fine. He’ll get to stay, study us as he wants. Then we can get him back if he chooses. But not for you. Yours is a different path. The commander turns. Half of his face is blue ice, he is transforming. He knows in his heart that soon the suit won't be necessary. He smiles to himself. But what will happen when Novac 3 reaches the frontier of the Federation, passes the ashen worlds destroyed by war, the planets stripped of all resources and lain to waste? What will happen when the sickened and bitter society discovers the ice that won't melt? He's completed his mission. The ice is overflowing the container within the ship, and in another eighteen months it will reach the frontier. They will harvest a rare commodity, solving the refrigeration needs for the Federation. Now he more than smiles, he laughs. The ice has a little surprise , he thinks. A little gift to the Corporation . It will spread throughout the Federation of Planets. And then he remembers his dream on Novac 3. He remembers the dream asking him, what is the absence of hate? He now knows the answer. The ice will spread, and those who have the emotion of anger, or vengeance, or loathing, or bigotry, or so many other tortures in the souls of humanity, will, like Dickens, MELT.

6up1zo

The Space Stowaway

Henry stirred, he stretched, his mouth felt so dry with the whisky he had been drinking. He could not remember at first where he was, then he remembered he had come to fix the problem on the space capsule. Life had not been good. His girlfriend dumping him last night. He fixed the problem without difficulty. Then a wee nip had been called for to drown his sorrows. Only the wee nip became a big nip, then a larger one, and the bottle finished. The pilot’s seat was so comfortable Henry had closed his eyes for a few minutes and nodded off to a whisky induced deep sleep. Henry stretched his arms and legs out and opened his eyes slowly. He let go of whatever was in his hand. He felt groggy, and his mouth felt like sandpaper. What came into focus first was an empty whisky bottle floating past his face with no cap. Floating, why is the whisky bottle floating? I know there is no gravity. I must be in space. Space? Why am I in space? Henry became awake in an instant, rubbed his eyes and looked around the capsule. Henry looked around the capsule. Everything looked okay. Apart from all the gauges and dials that were usually at zero on the ground, all had readings. What have I done? Thought Henry. He turned his head and looked out of one of the three windows. He could see the earth. But instead of the launch pad, he could see all of India. He looked the other way and he could see just blackness and bright, gleaming stars. With no atmosphere, there was no distortion to the stars. They all looked beautiful. This is not getting me back to earth, thought Henry. I need to go home. Henry looked around carefully. Everything was in place, so it did not float around with no gravity. I need the radio. Henry undid his seat harness and found himself floating around the cabin. It took a bit of getting used to no gravity, and gradually he managed to move around the small capsule. He was very careful not to catch any switches as he floated past. He got himself next to the radio. Henry thought, am I glad I know my way around the capsule or I would be in so much trouble. He got to the radio controls, strapped himself into the chair next to it. Then turned it on. Patiently, he waited for a minute for it to warm up. He selected each frequency range. He started saying ‘mayday mayday can you hear me?’ As he switched to each frequency range, the volume of his message increased until, at the final frequency range, he was shouting. He punched the armrest of the chair in frustration, not able to talk to anyone on the ground. Henry stopped for a moment and thought. Then said to himself, calm down. You will not get down if you panic and you will do something wrong. Henry eased himself off of the seat, trying not to float across the capsule. He checked the oxygen gauge to the left of the pilot’s seat. The oxygen gauge showed it was one quarter full, meaning he had three days of oxygen left. He did not know what mission the capsule was on or when it would re-enter the atmosphere. The next thing on Henry’s mind was water and food. Still, he felt parched from his adventure with the whisky bottle. He was aware of the rations stored in the storage area for the two space suits. He opened the compartment. There were some packets of food and bags with straws containing water. Since he did not know how long he would be in orbit, Henry took out one container of water and drank some of the water before re-sealing it and putting it back. The water revived his senses and eased the dryness of his throat. He shook his head to clear away the cobwebs. Now he said to himself, how do I get out of here and back to earth.? Henry could not remember the plan for this mission, apart from being unmanned. He looked around the capsule. Henry floated over to the pilot’s chair and strapped himself in. Shut his eyes and thought. How do I get out of here? But instead of an idea coming into his head, his first thought was, I am hungry. Knowing that food often cured his hangovers, he floated over to have some food. He grabbed some macaroni and cheese, rehydrated it, and heated it in the microwave. Then strapped himself back into the pilot’s chair to enjoy the food. Very glad that he had gone to the training in how-to live-in space. Am I going to die in space? I always wanted to die in my bed on earth. Henry became quiet and wondered if he would ever get back to earth. Stop it, he shouted to himself, get out of this terrible mood. I know if I turn on the mission system, I can look at the planned flight and maybe I can find out when I am going home. He leaned forward out of the pilot’s seat and turned on the mission system. All the screens came to life in the cockpit. He could see the orbit around the earth, flicking through other screens he found the information on the state of the capsule. Everything looked fine, no red warning lights. Now to find the flight plan. The flight plan appeared on the screen. It looked like he had another three days in orbit, then re-entry. Seventy-two hours of this, then back to earth. I am going to have a drink of water and another macaroni cheese to celebrate. The food supplies will run out in a short while, but there seems to be plenty of water. I needed to lose some weight anyway, and it will keep me off of the drink for a while. Henry drank some water and had the macaroni cheese. Then shut his eyes, letting sleep come to him. He knew he was going home and he could relax now. Sleep gradually overcame him. Henry became aware of a voice in the background. ‘Hello, is anyone there? Hello is anyone there?’ He sat up and looked about. It was the radio. Henry picked up the handset and put it on. ‘I am here. Who are you?’ ‘This is ground control. Who are we talking to?’ ‘This is Norman Stone. I am in orbit and I want to come home.’ ‘How did you get onto the spacecraft?’ ‘I fell asleep and ended up in orbit. How did you know I was here?’ ‘You slept through a launch, wow, but why were you onboard?’ ‘I was changing the altimeter before the launch.’ ‘We monitor the mission system; we were quite surprised when it powered up.’ ‘I am glad I did or I would have been here for a while.’ ‘I am going to break contact for an hour. We are going to re-schedule the re-entry to get you back home.’ ‘Okay, thank you.’ Norman felt thrilled now he was going home. He sat and looked around the capsule. He would never complain about his small house ever again. The hour passed, and the radio came back to life. ‘Calling Norman. Are you there?’ ‘Norman here, over.’ ‘We have re-calculated the trajectory. You will do one more orbit, which will take ninety minutes, and then we shall start re-entry. Please strap yourself into the pilot’s seat. Do not move until the recovery crew enters the capsule. You will splashdown in the Atlantic, where a boat will pick you up. Have you got any questions, please?’ ‘No, that sounds fine, thank you. I look forward to getting back to gravity again, over.’ Over and out. See you back on Terra Ferma in about two hours.’ Norman looked around the capsule. In order to avoid being fired for drinking, Norman needed to get rid of the whisky bottle. He caught the whisky bottle and the lid, and hid them at the bottom of the garbage container. Took his seat back in the pilot’s seat and watched the earth from orbit for the last time. He watched the commands being entered on the mission system and felt the engines fire briefly to change course to start re-entry. Norman felt the capsule entering the atmosphere, then it plunged into the atmosphere. There was a terrific buffeting and then blue sky appeared. The capsule deaccelerated violently as the parachutes opened and the capsule floated down to the Atlantic Ocean. The capsule landed in the Atlantic Ocean. The parachutes deflated and fell into the sea. Norman sat patiently waiting to be rescued, feeling the capsule moving with the swell of the water. Suddenly, the handles on the capsule moved. The door opened and a blonde lady looked in. ‘Welcome back to earth Norman.’ ‘Norman looked at her, smiled and said, ‘Will you marry me?’ Norman and Matilda married three months later. Norman never drank again. 

cap3vh

The Colony

Underneath every suburban backyard lies a dense jungle engulfed in an infinite violent turf war between various low-tier ecosystem organisms. Like any war, the reasons for battle stem from the quest of obtaining natural and artificial resources. Suburbia is a perfect ecosystem to thrive because all of these humans are crammed into cookie cutter houses next to each other. The spacial challenge that humans face requires the use of a community dumpster at the end of the cul-de-sac, instead of using individual trash cans. An American on average throws away 98% of all commodities within the first six months… That means for us this dumpster is all we would ever need to survive for thousands of generations. The first attack occurred while me and five other workers were scavenging for the carcass of a caterpillar near the edge of the jungle. We had just gotten him secured on top of our backs when the rustling came from the sky. It was a matter of seconds before we spotted the first massive brown meteor. Barreling down from above in a spiraling motion, the brown unidentified flying object plunges in the mud next to the shriveled up caterpillar. We stand frozen in shock, and before we can react, another fat round meteor drops on the dead caterpillar's head then bounces off, crushing the two workers stationed below holding that end up. This blows the rest of us back out from underneath the carcass and we stagger to get back up and over to the body once more. If we had freedom of thought, we would let the caterpillar rot and get the hell back to the colony. However, we only have instinct, which is commanding us to continue with the mission and bring back the food. The remaining four of us struggle but hoist the caterpillar onto our backs and proceed back the way we came but are soon met with a wall built from hundreds of the fallen beige round objects. It was only when a giant gray rodent with a huge furry tail jumped down from above, cracked open the nut and started eating it, that we realized it was an earthly organism, not extra-terrestrial. We would never make it over this wall with this much weight on our backs. We would have to walk to the edge of the jungle into the white desert. As soon as one of us dies, the colony sends a recon team to investigate the incident. When multiple casualties happen simultaneously, the scent of pheromones is so strong, the colony sends an army of a few thousand to prepare for a conflict. Within the hour, our reinforcements arrive to take over the caterpillar carcass, which by this point has a foul smelling green pus oozing from the hole where its head used to be. Its underside has two hard flat shells stuck to it, held onto its body like a sticky tar by the fluid of the workers who met their demise from his bloated corpse. The army begins to march through the white desert. It has a smooth but firm marble texture and every so often the march gets interrupted by a long crack in the surface, causing the line formation to dip then rise back up again. On the fourth canyon, as we are marching back up to the flat part of the barren concrete wasteland, a large shadow begins to tower over the fleet of marching workers. The grinding noise of hard plastic rolling over pavement gets immensely louder as the towering figure covers the entire army with darkness. As the sound of screeching brakes comes to a halt, A big metallic sticker on the machine that reads “Big Wheel” begins reflecting a beam of sunlight near us and settles on a group of five or so workers. There isn’t a single foot moving at this point as all eyes are turned on this small crowd, like some spotlight on Broadway. At first, the hard shell on each of their bodies begins to fade from a light brown to a dark brown, then to a charred black. They crackled like popcorn in an explosive flash. The flame in the matter of seconds melted the bodies down into one gelatin murky puddle. The human commandeering the big wheel must have caught the explosion out of the corner of her eye because she stands up from the seat and comes over to rub her finger in the ash of my fallen comrades. After rubbing the cremated remains on her jean shorts, she sprints back to a blurry building in the distance. The stench of pheromones sends the crowd into a frenzy, all instinctual wiring malfunctioning in the wake of chaos. No order was resolved before I heard the clucking sound of shoes slapping heel to toe on pavement. As the girl comes into focus, I notice a box she’s holding in her hands. She throws the box down on the pavement next to the big wheel and begins to sit and the front reads “Sherlock Holmes Investigative Playset, includes deerstalker hat, clue notepad, aged cherrywood pipe, and magnifying glass”. As she begins to remove the plastic mold from the cardboard box, I see a pink and white emblem on the front of the box read in bold letters “Ages 5+”. If I had thoughts and I could speak I would say “you don’t look a day over four, much less twenty-one for the pipe”. Although the plastic mold is soft and its contents inside could be easily taken out, the young kid tears it in half, dropping all of the items on the white pavement. There is a pause, then a hand reaches for the magnifying glass. As she wields the instrument to her side, she positions herself with the sun at her back. That’s when the heat beam began to scorch earth and anything in between. The beam gets hotter and hotter, then finds its first 100 or so workers. If you’re lucky, the beam will instantly cauterize off your head or abdomen swiftly, but most self ignited were burned alive to a crisp. The scattering of thousands, running like headless chickens, causes more bodies to burst into flames from close contact. The bright red fiery snake zigzag’s around the workers with no particular methodology, leaving a path of death only a divine power could be capable of creating. The smell reaches a putrid level that signals all in the area to begin a furious rampage. As the remaining thousand of us charge towards the shoe, piled over top of one another in a big cluster, a trail of fire follows closely behind. The cluster we form is about a foot away from the feet when the lightning bolt of fire slowly fades away. A thick patch of cumulus clouds have covered the sun, and has given us the perfect window of opportunity to strike. We aren't a very typical family within our species because we have the defensive capabilities to both bite and sting our victim. We worked our way up to her ankles and calves before the shrieking and screaming started. Chomping and chomping, while digging our asses into the skin as deep as possible, we hung on with all of our strength as the girl was flailing and thrashing her legs around before feeling the entire human being tugged. An older man is clenching her forearms as he drags the sobbing child across the driveway to the blurry building just outside of our vision. He appears to be in his late 30s’, has a shiny baldspot, and is wearing a tie so loose the knot hangs near his belly button. He notices the terror and agony from pain on his daughter’s face and decides it might be in his best interest to pull her from her hands, so he himself doesn’t have to endure that level of pain. Her legs start to swell with large red welts that resemble tumorous tissue. The back of her knee caps become so engorged that with each leg kick, her range of motion becomes narrower and narrower. The dragging stops, as the sound of a flowing stream becomes audible in the distance. A jetstream of cold water from a watering hose runs down from upper legs with so much force and splashback that we start flying large distances onto the desert and grass. Drowning, exhausted, and wounded, I dragged my body for what felt like several hours back to the colony. I find little survivors on my journey, but come across dozens of drowned, crushed, and burned fellow coworkers in the dark of a new moon. A heinous monstrosity had beaten me back to the colony. The smoke, the smell of kerosene, the small passageways of the colony providing sealed exits while the blaze cooked everything inside like a casserole in the oven. The father found our motherland and unleashed the same pain we had given his daughter. You can’t blame him for scorching earth when he was only acting on instinct, as were we when we feasted on those pair of legs like last supper. I gaze and soak in all the death of everything I know and have known, disbelief in the total genocide placed in front of me. Even the queen is dead, but unlike Britain, when our queen dies, the rest of the colony perishes along with her. As my days are numbered, I search the dense wild jungle for a new home… a new colony. 

laaygf

Maintenance Men Can Dream, Too

Bobby woke with a start. The alarm klaxons were going off, and over the loudspeaker he heard 'Red Alert! Red Alert! The Insectiborgs are on their way. 20,000 KM out. Scramble all ships. This is not a drill. Repeat, this is not a drill!' Bobby hear thundering footsteps down the hall. “Get to your ship!” one of the other pilots yelled. Bobby looked over and picked up the picture of his wife and daughter. Thought how this spaceship, the Artemis, was the last line of defense between the Insectiborgs and Earth, and how, against all odds, they'd need to fight them off. Again. He closed his eyes and kissed the picture before folding it back up and putting it in the pocket of his jumpsuit, and then started sprinting down the corridor toward the fighter bay. He got to the hangar to see the missile techs hurriedly arming the fighters. He took a second to look around, saw how harried everyone was. It was bad. He could tell by the frightened looks on everyone's faces. But, he knew that they would do the job, and do it well. He found the crew chief, and got the rundown on his fighter. The starboard engine was a little weak but they hadn't had time to repair it, so it would pull a little. Also, they could only load three missiles, instead of the usual four. “So make them count”, the chief said with a hollow laugh. Bobby clambered aboard the fighter. You could still see the scorch marks on the wing of his fighter from where he'd nearly bought it last time the 'borgs had attacked. You couldn't say he wasn't a lucky man. The fighter squadron was fortunate they only lost two fighters during the last attack, Bobby thought to himself. He always wondered where those bugs had come from. But there was nothing for it. Just go out there and fight the bastards off. So he did. He boarded his fighter, the 'Ace of Hearts'. And as soon as he dropped into the fray, he knew they were in trouble. He immediately charged forward, and blasted the first handful of the 'borgs to smithereens. There were a lot of them, sure, but their fighters weren't very tough, and they didn't hit that hard, either. Those scorch marks were from a cruiser that they smoked last time. So, he bobbed and weaved through their fighters, destroying every one he faced. He didn't use the missiles, though. Those were for something special. Every now and again he'd spin around and see Earth below, and remember his wife and daughter, and what he was fighting for. He also knew by now that they would be headed to the bunkers underground, where the marines would try to keep everyone safe if they, if he, failed. So he charged back into battle. The Artemis was giving it everything she had; her main guns were firing away and blasting everything in sight. He knew enough to stay out of their main firing arc. He did notice something strange, this time, though. There was something new. And it was big. Bigger than anything he'd seen so far. He didn't know if anyone else had seen it. So he tried to radio the Artemis, but got nothing. They must be jamming. That was also new. They'd never done that before. Explained why the radio had been so quiet. In fact, he was kind of surprised he hadn't noticed it before. He tried radioing some of the other fighters, and he managed to get Pete. He was in the “King of Spades”. “Hey, Pete. You notice anything odd about this fight? Other than there seem to be more of them?” “Yeah Bobby. You're the first voice I've heard since we launched. They jamming us or something?” “Must be. They ain't never done that before. Do you see that huge yellow cruiser-looking thing back there? It's just sitting there, not doing anything.” “Hell, Bobby. I don't know. It's bigger than anything we've shot at before. I'm not sure I wanna go near it, but let me guess, you got an idea.” “You know me too well Pete. I say we go see if we can figure out just what the hell it is. And see if we can't take it out.” So, that's what Pete and Bobby did. They cut through the enemy line like butter. Those fighters really were made of paper. As they got closer, they noticed it was larger than they had originally thought. Much larger. It was a sort of yellow color, which was different than the fighters, which were orange. When they closed on the enemy ship, and really got a look at it, it defied description. Pete and Bobby each fired two of their missiles, holding one back each just in case. It was a good thing they did, since the missiles exploded on the surface of the ship, and didn't appear to do much good. The only evidence the explosions left was a little black scorch mark. That was when Bobby noticed something else. “Hey Pete, you see that thing on the bottom of the ship? What's that look like to you?” “I don't know Bobby, but it looks like where the fighters are coming out of it. And for some reason it's red, not the yellow color the rest of it is. What do you think? Should we check it out?” “Yeah, let's go.” Pete and Bobby flew below the ship, and saw that it was, in fact, an opening. They fired their remaining missiles at it, and sure enough, it caused the ship to explode in a mighty fireball. Then something weird happened. All of a sudden the radios crackled to life, and there was cheering and laughing and crying and all sorts of, just, noise coming through the radio. At first, they didn't know what was going on. Then Bobby got the bright idea to just ask. “This is Bobby of the Ace of Hearts, here with Pete and the King of Spades. What's going on? I mean, okay, that thing was obviously jamming us, but what's up? The battle can't be over with. There were way to many of them for that.” “Bobby, Pete, you guys just saved Earth! That thing must have been some kind of queen or something, because as soon as it exploded, they all just... stopped. How'd you figure out what that was, anyway?” “We didn't. We just noticed that it was big, and ugly, so we shot it. And then it blew up.” “I'd keep that one to yourself if I was you.” So, a few days later, back on Earth, they had a parade. For him and Pete. They marched down Main Street of Washington, and of his hometown, and everywhere they went, it was like a dream. “Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!” Ugh. That stupid alarm clock. Not again. Bobby woke up. Dang. Just when it was getting good. He looked in the mirror. Stuck in maintenance. At least his knee didn't hurt today. Ugh. He had wanted to be an astronaut when he grew up, and he loved every minute of Star Trek, and Star Wars, and all those sci-fi shows. And he finally did get to go to space. But those thick glasses meant that he would never get to fly the ship or go outside in a spacesuit. But, it was all worth it. Just so he could look down at that big blue marble. He looked over at the picture of his wife and daughter and smiled. He was also doing this for them, so that maybe she could become that hero he always dreamed of. Over the intercom, he heard a familiar voice say, “Hey, Bobby, get over here to the lab. One of Dr. Lorgan's roaches escaped again. I keep telling him not to attach the chips to their brains, but do you think he listens? No. And he made this one 'smart'. So have fun. Thanks.” Bobby thought to himself that this was not the first time one of Dr. Lorgan's roaches 'escaped'. Sometimes he wondered if Lorigan was doing it on purpose. The last time it took two days to trap and kill the thing. “Oh, well,” he said to no one in particular, “I guess that's what I get paid to do.” So Bobby grabbed his trusty Artemis Model laser torch, tucked the picture into his jumpsuit, and said to himself, “Let's go hunt some bugs,” and started down the hallway, humming to himself. Yes, today was gonna be an alright kind of day.

l1bska

Acceptance

On the outskirts of Daydream lived a single person his name is Belladonna. He lived in a small cottage with little of anything, only the bare minimum. The only things he had that were out of the ordinary was his pocket watch and the key they both hung from his neck every second of everyday. Belladonna was forced to live outside the village of Daydream because of his odd appearance, he was often called a demon or a monster. He never felt loved, not even his parents loved him.  He’s lived on his own since he was 5 he learnt to talk by listening to others talk and learnt to write by practicing in the mud on rainy days. He learnt to hunt on his own and all the things he can do now he learnt on his own. No matter what happened to him or what others did to him. He still protected the people of Daydream because they were all he knew besides the forest of Dane which is where he hunts to feed the village and himself. Even though he was used to this he always wanted to see what was in Bloodwood Grove, the forest behind his house. Everyone said “It’s haunted” and that the devil himself lives there. Belladonna just felt like he should go in there, but he ignored the feeling. He often catches himself looking out into the forest to try and see something really. He was currently celebrating his 24th birthday alone again he made the same wish every year every chance he gets i wish for someone to love me he thought to himself and heard a knock at his door he got up and opened the door to see his mother stella she said “The village needs you to go and hunt tomorrow so don't get to cozy thinking you'll get a day of”. She walked off without a response and Belladonna closed the door and signed “Why can’t they just leave me alone?” He asked himself to get no reply. He sighed again and went over to his bed and layed down thinking someone love me please. He cried himself to sleep but he woke up to the sound of water running not to far away from him so he got up and followed the sound to find a river, he followed the river to find a waterfall with a large waterhole he felt angry knowing the villagers had taken him from his home again but as he looked at the water underneath the cliff he was standing on he felt his anger slowly disappear as he started to feel calm he thought to himself well i might as well enjoy the water will it lasts. Belladonna took his shirt off leaving him in his shorts as he went closer to the edge he took a deep breath and jumped off the edge of the cliff to dive into the water he felt the cool water run on his skin and cool down his nerves and emotions. He broke the surface to breath when he saw the stars glinting in the dark sky he smiled and went back to enjoying the water soon enough though he had to get out and walked up the path to the top of the cliff to find his shirt still there thankful none of the animals decided his shirt was a good night snack he put his shirt on and started to find his way home. As the sun started to rise Belladonna could see where he was walking. He found his house easy enough he walked into his house and changed into his hunting gear and headed towards the forest of Dane when he entered the forest he took a deep breath and started his hunt. By midday Belladonna had collected enough to feed everyone in the village for 3 months so he headed to the village to give everyone their portion of the meat he got before he exited the forest he did his little forgiveness prayer “Please forgive me for taking the innocent souls to feed the people of daydream.” Belladonna after he gave everyone they meat he headed home to get some sleep which he locked his door so he could sleep uninterrupted. When he layed down he fell straight to sleep he ‘woke up’ on the border of the Bloodwood Grove. Belladonna got up, dusted himself off and stared into the trees only to catch a glimpse of a shadow running through the trees in the opposite direction to where he was standing. Belladonna decided to ignore what the people of daydream said and ran after the shadow calling “Hey, why are you running? Where are you going? Who are you? Slow down please.” His breathing is fast and quick. He looked behind him to see a large group of ghost-like creatures chasing them. He heard one say “grab the hybrid, Alastor would like a plaything I’ll grab the thief.” A smaller group separated from the rest and started to chase the figure in front of him as some of the others sped up to try and grab him. Belladonna swerved and ducked behind trees and tried to follow the figure but he soon lost sight of them and he was growing tired but he could still hear the creatures following him. There was a faint sound of hooves on the ground in front of him horses large black stallions came into view Belladonna slowed to a stop as the beautiful horses passed him and ran straight for the ghost like creatures he was running from he heard a voice in front of him say “Are you going to stare into nothingness or are you going to get on?” Belladonna turned around and looked at the person on the stallion and said “I'll get on.” He moved to the side of the horse and climbed on the back of the saddle as the person turned around and started a fast gallop to somewhere. He decided to ask“What’s your name?” “Octavia, yours?” “Belladonna pleasure to meet you.” They could see a few buildings now Belladonna asked “Where are we?” Octavia replied “Welcome to wondermare.” As they slowed to a trot the people who were out stopped to stare. “Octavia!” A voice yelled further down as Octavia got off the stallion she said “Good boy Stolas, good boy.” She helped Belladonna down and turned around to find a male she said “Finnian take Stolas to his stable and while you're at it tell Marian to get me a glass of fresh blood and some food for our guest, also tell Gray that those blasted ghouls were chasing me again.” “Yes, Octavia.” Finnian left with Stolas. Belladonna turned to Octavia and asked “Where are we going?” “To the palace numbnuts.” “Ok.”  They started walking to a large castle that towered over the town. Belladonna was shocked he hadn't seen it from his house. They quickly got to the very large castle that looked almost abandoned. They walked in the double doors to hear the sound of a clock chime somewhere deep in the castle and Belladonna checked his pocket watch to find that it’s 11:30 he asked “Why is there a chime when it’s 30 minutes until 12?” Octavia replied “Because the king Abberline is getting more impatient for the right person to have the key to open the grandfather clock he was imprisoned in from the moment he turned 8 till he gets out of the clock unfortunately none of us know where the key is or who has it.” “Oh that's not good, I hope he's ok.” Octavia says “He’ll be ok, he's just getting impatient, he's been doing his duties as king even though he's trapped.” “Well if you say so.” They continued walking until they found a room with an ornate door. Octavia knocked on the door in a rhythm. “Come in Octavia.” said a deep and silky voice from the room. Octavia opened the door for Belladonna to walk in and followed, closing the door behind her. “Ah you have a friend with you Octavia or is it just a guest?” The voice said “Just a friend of mine your majesty.” “Oh you know how I detest formalities like that, Octavia.” “Yes I know Abberline, you were never one for tradition.” “Introduce me to your friend Via. I hardly ever see anyone new.” “Well, introduce yourself.” Belladonna took a shaky breath and said “My name’s Belladonna sir.” “Just call me Abberline, my lady.” “Umm I'm male Abberline and I'm 24.” “Oh my apologies then you're not too much younger then me i’m 27.” “Oh well that's interesting, not many of the people i meet are close in age to me actually the closest was 9 years younger than me.” “Oh wow well you're welcome to stay as long as you like.” “Thank you Abberline.” “No problem now Octavia show our guest to his room and give him all the hospitality we can give.” “Yes Abberline, come on Belladonna.” “Coming.” They leave Abberline to silence as they walk to Belladonna's room. As they walk they run into Finnian and he says “Octavia i have your drink here and the food is in room 27 the maids have finished cleaning it and everything.” “Thank you Finnian, we’ll head that way now.” Octavia replied after taking a long sip of the blood in her chalice. Finnian left after that and they continued on their way in a comfortable silence, they soon arrived at a room with a silver plate with Belladonna carved into it in cursive. Octavia broke the silence “This is your room till you decide whether you want a house in town, outside of town, or you stay in here ok?” “Ok thank you for everything Octavia.” “No problem Donna.” “Good night Octavia.” “Good night Belladonna.” He closed the door and locked it. He walked over to the bed and layed down thinking as he sighed. Maybe my key works. I don't know, I'm just too tired to think. Belladonna fell into a dreamless sleep that was the best sleep he’s ever gotten. He woke up to the sun streaming through his window. He yawned and stretched to hear a few satisfying cracks. After that he got up and went to one of the doors in his room to find a bathroom he closed the door and went to the other door in his room to find a balcony and closed it to walk over to the wardrobe to find a lot of clothes he grabbed some and went to clean himself up in the bathroom. Belladonna had just finished getting dressed to hear a knock on the door. He walked over and opened the door to find Octavia “Good morning Octavia.” he greeted “Good morning.” She greeted. He walked out and closed the door behind him as they started towards the meal hall for breakfast. “How'd you sleep Belladonna?” “Good, what about you, Octavia?” “pretty good.” they arrived at the meal hall to see it’s empty so they walked in and sat at one of the tables making small talk when Finnian ran in and whispered something to Octavia that had her stand up so fast she knocked her chair on the ground and running out of the hall with Finnian leaving Belladonna to his own devices. Belladonna decided to talk to Abberline to see if he could try his key on the grandfather clock. The hallways were quiet aside from the rain that started pouring down suddenly lightning flashed, lighting the already dimly lit hallway as the wind howled and blew out the candle light with thunder crashing outside. Belladonna continued walking now on high alert from the storm that started out of nowhere he walked until he saw the familiar door he saw yesterday. He picked up his pace as he grew nearer to the door when he was in front of it he walked straight in terrified from the storm. Belladonna turned around to find the grandfather clock with no Abberline in the glass he ran over saying “please still be there, please, please, please still be there.” As he pulled his key from under his shirt to try and open the clock when he heard a growl from behind him he stilled frozen with fear as to what could be behind him when he remembered the poignard on his waist for self defense purposes. Belladonna slowly grabbed hold of the intricate poignard and waited for something to happen when a chime rang from the clock in front of him causing him to flinch which sent the creature behind him into action. It leapt at him and dug its claws into his shoulder drawing blood Belladonna swung his blade up and into the creatures eye causing it to let go and fall to the floor in pain it quickly recovered and went after Belladonna again as he swung to slice its stomach which left it to lay on the floor Belladonna didn't want to take any chances and pierced its heart. He pulled his poignard from the body and turned to the clock and asked “Abberline are you still there?” He heard a shaky voice reply “yes but I'm terrified of storms. I hate them. Can you stay here and talk to me when the storm rages outside?” “Yes, I'd love some company as well. I hate storms too.” “If you don’t mind me asking why are you afraid of them?” It was this question that made Belladonna sigh and think why not I've kept it secret for as long as I can remember. “I suppose I can tell you though you can’t tell anyone else it’s been my secret for as long as I can remember.” “I won't say anything without your permission.” “thanks Abberline.” “No problem.” “So it was a stormy night much like this. I was in my room playing with my teddy bear’s when my mum walked in and asked “why aren’t you in bed yet?” I told her I couldn’t sleep with the storm but she just told me to get in bed so I did but I couldn’t sleep no matter what, I got out of bed and walked downstairs and out the door to have a walk because the rain normally calmed me down but I got to the edge of bloodwood grove and decided to turn around and go home but my mum had different plans as she found me and told me to stay were I was, I sat down and stayed put but she never came to get me so I built a little shelter to keep the rain at bay and slowly i built the house that now stands there and I asked my mum why she never came to get me but she just told me that she didn’t have the room to house me anymore so I left it alone but I’m still scared of storms just because my mum left me out in the storm alone and cold.” When Belladonna finished he was crying. Abberline said “now my reason sounds silly to me now yours is justified.” Belladonna wiped his eye’s to get rid of the tears and said “I won't judge you can tell me and I won't tell a soul living or dead.” “haha thanks Belladonna, that means alot to me.” “no problem and you can call me Donna if you like.” “Ok Donna, well I used to like the storms and the rain but I always had a nightmare on stormy nights that someone would be running and having fun in the rain but they got lost and had to live alone from then on.” “That sounds scary.” “Yeah, I guess it does.” “Thanks for hearing me out, Abberline. I've kept it a secret for so long I forgot how much it helps to tell people even if it’s just one.” “Thank you too Donna. I've never really opened up to someone and shown someone my more vulnerable side.” “Well, while I’m helping. Could I try my key on the clock?” “You have a key?” “Yeah I keep it hidden under my shirt all the time.” Belladonna said as he pulled the key from under his shirt. Abberline said, “yeah you can try but I highly doubt it will do anything.” Belladonna stepped closer and put the key to the lock and inserted it shaking slightly thinking please work please work please. As he saw the key go in the lock he turned it slowly and after what felt like hours but was only a few seconds they heard a click come from the lock and Belladonna slowly opened the door for Abberline to slowly walk out of the clock. Abberline stared at Belladonna for a few minutes and Belladonna was getting nervous he said “I guess you're free now.” Abberline replied, “Yes and I have you to thank for everything.” “No need to thank me, I don't deserve thanks.” “Yes you do, you deserve so much more than what's happened to you.” As the storm slowly started to soften, Abberline walked closer to Belladonna and asked While, staring into his mitch matched eyes “may i?” All he got was a nod and that was all he needed as he leaned closer until the gap between them closed and their lips met in sweet gentle bliss, the rain soft and their love full. While they made gentle love that night the ghouls were defeated and the town of Wondermare was peaceful for the first time in forever and the people slept soundly that night. Belladonna woke up the next morning in his house on the border of Bloodwood Grove and started to cry.

40fz4m

STUNT DOG DEMONSTRATION

           I was with Lewis when he gave his remarkable and unexpected demonstration. It was late summer when unrelenting desert heat was spent, giving way to more amicable conditions. That clear, sparkling California morning came with early brightness and the promise of many adventures.          Monday morning, Lewis chose to confound the evil slave system that inhibits true expression from a free-spirited artist—he called in sick. He used a telephone to call the telephone company, telling them that he was unable to work and maintain the telephone system—an irony that Lewis never appreciated.  So, with freedom ensured for a day, he was determined to take some photographs. Not mere photographs, though—images, memorable records of life in a small California town. Lewis was my friend, and I accompanied him on this artistic voyage. I work on Saturday. I take Monday off, which is a simple and convenient arrangement.            Lewis had a dog. A fine old fellow, delighted to break routine for a few hours and participate in our photographic odyssey. So it was then—Lewis, myself, various cameras, all necessary photographic equipment, and our good companion, Old Red the Pit Bull Terrier. Off we sailed on that fine morning to meet whatever challenges lay ahead.       It must have taken about half an hour driving along quiet country roads before we reached the little turnout where the mighty Chevrolet Impala would anchor safely, waiting for our return. The old, somewhat battered car was a monument in Lewis's life. Dark blue paint was faded in places, but beneath a shabby overcoat beat the heart of an eight-cylinder champion.  In the driver's door, a small hole was covered with a band-aid—a permanent reminder that Lewis's expertise with a thirty-eight caliber pistol left room for much improvement.          We fussed with the equipment for a few minutes and released Red. Before his temporary freedom could begin, Lewis needed to deliver a stern lecture on social responsibility.            Red grinned amiably, having received directives similar to those in the daily routine for many years. Lewis shaded his eyes, gazed at a distant hill, and considered the prevailing light. Red lifted his leg and pissed happily upon a small sage bush.          Into the hills we went. Lewis was searching for an unforgettable panorama. With no interest in any grand vision, Red scampered ahead, delighting in his unexpected freedom. I believe it was an hour or so before we stopped for a break. We broke crusty French rolls and topped them with thick, roughly cut slices of sharp cheddar cheese. A bottle or two of cool dark beer enhanced our simple snack. There is a quality of stillness in these high desert hills and canyons—perhaps echoes from far-distant times when Indians lived in these lands. We sat for a while in peace, each of us absorbed in our thoughts.          It was time now to move on. Remembrances of years past now gave way to keen regard for narrow, sandy trails waiting ahead. We reached the crest of a rounded hill. Simultaneously, we stopped, each for our own purpose.            To my left, the rough sloping ground dropped away steeply to reveal a clearing several hundred yards below. A small truck was parked there with its tailgate down. Somewhere in the distance came rippling sounds of music, chattering voices, and laughter.          Lewis glanced below, then held his left hand in front of his face, fingers spread in a gesture reminiscent of a traffic cop at a busy intersection. His interest was not in the clearing below but the scene before him. About fifteen yards ahead was a natural gully, perhaps twenty feet deep and several yards wide. Beyond that, the terrain continued smoothly with short, dried grasses and a few blackened tree stumps, uneasy reminders of a great fire that swept through these hills a few years ago. A jagged outcropping of blackened sandstone rock rose in the middle of this somber field. It was this stony monument that excited Lewis's interest.                Our soon-to-be award-winning photographer shrugged the pack from his shoulder. With an unflinching gaze upon the rocky vision ahead, he brought the old Nikon to his eye. He quickly assumed many positions—dropping to one knee, switching to the other, lying flat on his stomach, and then rising on his haunches.            I had no doubt that a perfect photograph would eventually be recorded if, on this occasion, he had remembered to load a roll of film.            I looked away from his athletic demonstrations to the truck below. A red shirt and a brown shirt could be seen; little else was revealed at that distance. The redshirt waved several times. I waved back to acknowledge the greeting. It seemed that both shirts were now moving steadily upward in our direction.            Old Red saw that distant movement heard their music perhaps and decided to investigate the source of the disturbance. I grabbed him by his shoulders, calling Lewis to pass me his lead. Red is an amiable fellow who wishes harm upon no living creature except possibly the neighbor's cat across the street. However, given previous encounters with nervous people and enthusiastic Pit Bulls, constraining Red until our two visitors arrived was a favorable course of action.            Lewis came, lead in hand, then, with a flourish, passed one end through the hand loop and attached the spring snap to Red's collar.            I stared at the lead that Lewis held. His hand passed through the slipknot that he had just formed. To what purpose, though? There was already a hand loop to hold.             "Let me have him," I said, "I'll hold him until you finish shooting." Lewis grinned. "No problem, watch this. I trained him." Red and Lewis walked purposefully to the edge of the gully. Lewis bent down, pulled the loop wide, and slipped his left foot through the noose, pulling the lead tight about his ankle. Red was now secured to Lewis's leg, and sure enough, the dog lay quietly beside his master.            This unorthodox method of restraint had presumably worked to secure Red on previous occasions, so my vague misgivings were probably unfounded.                Two figures came slowly into view—a woman in a red shirt and a boy in a brown shirt. The woman was attractive, perhaps in her early forties; the boy was about eleven or twelve. I smiled. She smiled back.            "Hope we're not disturbing you."            Her voice was husky, slightly out of breath. Red turned and smiled. In fact, everyone smiled except Lewis, who was immobile with the camera to his eye. So, all pieces are now in play, and the end game is revealed.          Two hikers, two strangers, and one Pit Bull Terrier. There is one more player to meet in this great drama. I started to reply that my friend would only be a moment or two. As I spoke, the last piece on the board was revealed.            There was a moment of silence, and then suddenly, a short cry of surprise from the woman as a sizeable gray-white jackrabbit bounded across our path, seemingly to materialize from beneath her feet.            Red took off like a flame of vengeance after the disappearing rabbit. Lewis's left leg became momentarily horizontal—parallel to the ground like a martial arts expert.            His shoe flew into the air. Instead of tightening around his leg as intended, the lead was wrenched instantly over his ankle.            There was shouting, cursing, and flailing limbs. Lewis disappeared from our sight in a small cloud of dust.            If only a flash of light or peal of thunder dignified his departure, but the only reminder that he ever set foot in this quiet place was a cheap tennis shoe and a small backpack. I stared at the woman for many seconds. Although her mouth was moving, no sound escaped her lips.     The boy, transfixed with joy and admiration, grinned like an idiot. He was the first to speak. "Oh, cool, way cool. Did you see that, Mom? Did you see the way he did that? Did you see the dog? I just knew they were stuntmen. That dog was trained, wasn't he?" I nodded in reply.                "Oh yes," I said slowly, "My friend trained him personally. Please excuse me for a moment, though—my pal may need a hand."   I peered over the edge of the gully. About fifteen feet or so below, partially obscured by dry, stunted desert vegetation, I could see the wreckage of a once-proud, potentially award-winning photographer. I scrambled down to the thorny bushes where Lewis was detained. The boy followed close behind me.          My friend, now attempting to stand, appeared like an evil, enraged troll covered in dirt and leaves as he coughed and grunted. The kid babbled excitedly, unaffected by that horrifying vision. He extolled many heroic virtues of Lewis's daring leap.            "Oh, that was so cool, mister. Will you be doing it again today?"            Lewis turned slowly and stared at our enthusiastic visitor for several long seconds. He wiped away the blood from his nose with the back of his hand. He meant to say,            "Go get the hell away, kid," but, trying to clear his mouth from dirt and grass, it sounded as if he mumbled, "g' day, Kidde."            The boy grinned hugely.            "You're Scottish? Oh, that's too much—my mom was born in Scotland.            Yeah," he continued, "I gotta go tell her you're a Scottish stuntman."            Up the side of the gully, he scrambled to relay the news to his mother. I thought Lewis was going to cry.            He took the canteen, rinsed his mouth, and splashed water on his face. He glared at me with fury in his eyes. "You sonofabitch," he said, "you push me over the side, then tell that moron kid I'm a Scottish stuntman? What the fuck is wrong with you?" It took me a while to explain. It was necessary to repeat various details of the event several times before he could accept that Old Red had committed such an unthinkable act of betrayal. I sympathized and told him how glad I was that he was not badly hurt. My innocent remark uncorked a further tirade of indignation.          "Hurt! Oh, no, please. Everything's just fuckin' fine," he said with heavy sarcasm. "Hell, my ribs are broken, my nose is busted, my hip is dislocated, my mouth is jammed with sand and shit, and a god damned cactus is sticking out my arse. Oh, fuck, no, everything is just great with me.            "How about the camera, then?"            He glanced down at his faithful Nikon, swinging from the shoulder strap.            "Looks okay, I suppose," he said. I handed him the canteen and went to retrieve his shoe. I noticed that the lens mount on his camera was bent, probably beyond salvation.            The shoe was just a few feet from where Lewis performed his magical disappearing act. He was not alone in his ability to disappear, though.  There was no sign of our visiting mother and son. Suddenly came the worrying memory of Red, the vanishing Pit Bull. I walked behind as Lewis made his way with some difficulty to the top of the trench. There we stood for a minute or so before he pointed to the brow of the hill.            Mother red shirt appeared with two boys in tow. There were now two red shirts, for she held the lead that secured our highly trained stunt dog. Lewis was temporarily distracted by a grand vision of revenge. In his mind's eye, Red and the rabbit were secured with a chain around their testicles suspended above a boiling cauldron of tar. Reality soon replaced his fantasy.            The merry trio was upon us, contributing much laughing and chatter. After introductions, Mary told us that she had come with her son Larry to finish a school nature observance project. They intended to grill a burger or two when Mary realized neither of them had any means of lighting the coals.            "Yeah," said Larry, "we hoped you would have matches or something." He continued, "As soon as I saw Mister Lewis with his dog, I thought you guys were from the movies, but when I saw him dive into the bushes, I knew you must be stuntmen." Lewis placed a fatherly hand on the boy's shoulder. "I used to do a lot of training like that, son. But now I just like to keep my hand in. Not stunts for movies, though; my training was for the real thing."                I stared at the re-invented Lewis. I listened as he told tales of bravery and devotion to duty. No longer was he a featureless installation engineer pathetically enslaved to the phone company but Agent Lewis, a fearless operative for a secret branch of the U.S. government.            Young Larry was lost in admiration, riveted to every word. Mary, with her head tilted slightly in confusion and disbelief, was probably not convinced. "It was a wonderful demonstration," she said slowly.     We chatted for a while, then walked together in pleasant camaraderie down the slope to Mary's pickup. Relaxing for a little time to savor burgers and hot dogs while enjoying the pleasing company was a welcome respite.          I wanted to provide some exercise for the two cameras that I carried. Of course, Lewis really could not continue, though he protested otherwise. Mary devised a simple solution. She elected to drive the battered Lewis to his house. Vehicles would be exchanged later, and an opportunity perhaps to down a beer or two and commiserate with my old abused friend. Their truck soon found a path leading to the road.            A cloud of gray dust eventually obscured the vehicle as it prepared to confront civilization again. I was not alone, though.            Red was to be my companion for the remainder of the day. We were free, no longer squeezed between the thumb and finger of other people's schedules.            It must have been at least five hours before we returned to Lewis's house. By the doorbell was a piece of paper folded several times and taped to the door—a note telling me that Mary and Larry had gone to dinner with Lewis. There were also instructions to replace the front door key and to please leave Red in the house.            The small manufacturing company for whom I worked accepted a tendered bid from a government agency.            This situation required me to work many overtime hours for the first six months of the contract. I saw little of Lewis during that time.  As the weeks faded into months, Summer's pleasures were soon forgotten as winter suddenly approached. Lewis approached even more suddenly one Monday morning at about six am as I made ready to leave for work. He uncharacteristically refused offers of coffee and toast. No idle insults or chatter told me something was not right. Suddenly, I was overcome by a great foreboding. He was grinning like an idiot, humming a mindless tune. A feeling of sadness and despair threatened to overwhelm me. Obviously, the stress of telephone installation and maintenance had taken its inevitable toll. He was pushed to the edge of a mental breakdown. I put my arm around his shoulder.          "I truly am so very sorry, man," I said.    "Perhaps a week or so, do nothing but rest. The company will manage without you for a while." Lewis stared at me for some time.  "I truly am so very sorry as well," he replied. "I truly am so very god damned sorry that you are such a deluded asshole."            All was instantly well with the world again. The righteous, obnoxious, indignant, and surly Lewis of old had returned. He paused for a few moments.            "Can't seem to reach you anymore, jerk, so I decided to drop by to see you. Tell you that I'm getting married." "You can't. I mean, you don't know any women."            I stared in disbelief for several seconds before a coherent conversation could resume. I grabbed his hand and shook it vigorously.            "That's fantastic. Congratulations! When's the date? Who's the girl?"  Lewis grinned, moving from one foot to the other, giving an impression of embarrassment or guilt. Many seconds elapsed before he continued. "As a matter of fact, old buddy Mary and I decided to get married."            Mary? I ran through a mental list of Mary's that we had known. No Mary of any marrying potential registered with me.            He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, shaking his head.            "When was the last time we got together, last time I saw you?" he asked.                Unable to recall, I shrugged my shoulders.   "Remember that desert hike months ago? Remember when I fell down the embankment? Do you remember Mary?" Suddenly, the images were recalled.            "Oh, yeah, of course I remember. Old Red kicked you into a ditch. That woman and her kid took you home." Lewis nodded and sat down.  "We've been seeing each other, dating for three or four months now. We both decided to get married. Thought that maybe you would be the best man. Not going to be a big formal thing—just a few friends."            I realized that at least an hour had evaporated in pleasant reminiscing. My friend pushed himself up from the chair and walked towards the door. "Gotta go, buddy." Turning back suddenly, he stopped for a few seconds and then said, "How about next Wednesday? You and me both call in sick. We'll go into the desert, take a few photographs."            I nodded. "Sounds good to me, pal. Meet at your place in the morning, pick up old Red, and head out?" Lewis smiled slowly.            "Give you a call this evening then, bout eight."

fadwms

Lost Chords

Our story began one quiet night In a small studio, under dim lamplight. Over a piano, our Creator hovered and our song was slowly uncovered. We were nothing more than simple chords, Not ready for stages or spinning records. Still, we were elated to be brought into existence, And knew we’d find completion with some persistence. But as our Creator stumbled along the ivory keys, A heaviness filled the air with his growing unease.  From deep within swirled the makings of a storm, As thoughts of doubt and insecurity began to swarm. With a long sigh, our Creator stopped his magic, And brought to life something horribly tragic. A chill ran through the studio and the shadows grew long, As a dark mass manifested in the absence of song. Our Creator didn’t resume playing, something surely began to weigh Heavy on his mind and soul, as he rose from the piano and went away. “Who goes there?” we asked. “What do you want?” A laugh filled the studio, malicious and nonchalant. “I am the monster of shadows, of malaise and monotony. I’m The Darkness that feasts on dreams with ferocity.” From the shadows, we could see The Darkness creep. “Now you’ll live in my world, never to be woken from sleep. You’re a forgotten dream, forged by doubt and despair. Your song will never be sung, and you’ll die in my lair.”  There was no stopping our fear growing inside, For The Darkness’ power couldn’t be denied. We cried out to our Creator, our sole hope for survival, We knew he was capable of defeating this dark rival. But the studio remained empty, and The Darkness took shape, Revealing red eyes and sharp teeth in its mouth agape. We refused to believe our Creator would leave us behind, So we bolted from the studio in search of his mind. We sprinted through the street and dove into a crowded bar, While The Darkness stalked behind like a hungry jaguar. The bar was filled with loud music and shouts, Along with enough drinks to cure any drought. The stage held a raucous group of musicians, Who yelled at the crowd with detailed instructions. We could see the band’s song wrap individuals in an embrace, Its energy was electric, sparking a smile on everyone’s face. The crowd danced wildly across the sticky floor, It was hard to concentrate through the wild roar. We looked through the faces, the smiles, and jeers, Aware of the red eyes, bearing down on us like spears. We couldn’t find our Creator, he was nowhere to be found. We needed to keep searching, we couldn’t stick around. We weaved through the crowd, hoping to lose the shadow that lurked, But The Darkness stayed hot on our trail, our plan hadn’t worked. We were in desperate need of a melody, a powerful harmony, chorus, and hook That only our Creator could give, so on every corner we’d continue to look. We moved through the city, and found a man strumming a guitar, His sad minor chords ignored by every passerby, near and far.  His open case before him held not a single bill, Even though he clearly was a man of great skill. This wasn’t our Creator, though we couldn’t deny the similarities, As this man too wrestled with dark and malicious insecurities. He put down his guitar with a sigh, And his unfinished song floated on by. Up in the air it hung, So new and so young. By now, The Darkness had caught up, it wasn’t far behind. Drool dripped from its fangs at the new meal it did find. The Creator left his song and shuffled down the street, His slumped shoulder admitting dejection and defeat. The Darkness pounced on his music’s permeability, And gobbled the notes up with vicious ferocity. The Darkness grew in size, and loomed over us with a sinister smile. “There’s no point, I will devour you too. Running isn’t worthwhile.” We dug deep inside, mustering the last of our strength to loudly exclaim, “We will find completion, and refuse to succumb to your deadly chain!” The Darkness only laughed, and we couldn’t help but cower. It wasn’t looking too promising, perhaps this was our final hour. Our strength and resolute began to waver, The odds no longer tipped in our favor. How we missed our Creator, and hoped he was okay. Perhaps he’ll write a new song, and overcome dismay. The Darkness snatched us in his talons, we were on the brink of collapse. But then, a familiar melody rolled through the air like ocean whitecaps. It was a tune that had the beginnings of light, hope, and love. A song we recognized, and it beckoned us to become a part of. With intense effort, we wrangled ourselves free, Causing The Darkness to scream like a wailing banshee. We sprinted back to the beginning, The Darkness continuing its wail, And found our Creator trying again, his fingers dancing down a scale. We joined the other chords, and a smile spread across our Creator’s face. Our song was uncovered and we found life, our heart beating through the bass.  The music rang out, and our Creator laughed up at the ceiling. “Ha! I thought these chords had completely gone missing!” Entwined in the arms of the other notes, we sang out into the open air, As dawn peeked over the horizon, bringing an end to this horrid nightmare. The Darkness screamed, rearing its beastly head, As its body tore apart, with eyes dripping red. Desperately, it tried to find a shred of doubt to snatch, Clawing the air for anything its talons could catch. But it was all for naught, our Creator beamed of creativity, Of passion and confidence, of ambition and productivity. And so, under dim stars and fading moonlight, The Darkness fled out into what was left of the night. But our story doesn’t end here, there is still much to be done, For there are so many other battles that have yet to be won. Let our song be your guide, and give you strength, courage, and perseverance To fight and defeat The Darkness that threatens your own creations existence. 

xri38w

The Unwanted: A Prologue

In 1923, the first extended discussion of artificial wombs was given. The speaker, one J.B.S. Haldane, who was an English biologist, proposed that an egg could be fertilized outside the womb. He gave his speech, which was entitled “Daedalus, or Science and the Future” from the viewpoint of a student in 2073 writing about advances in biology over the previous 150 years. His theories of ectogenesis were largely controversial. In 1929 an English memoirist named Vera Brittain wrote an essay that warned that in the wrong hands it could create “designer children.” Despite the prediction Haldane had made that ectogenesis would be possible by 1951, the prospect of success wasn’t good. In fact, it wasn't until 2019 that actual progress was made on artificial wombs when a team of researchers supported an extremely preterm lamb for 5 days. In March of 2021, The New York Times reported that mouse embryos had successfully grown mice from Day 0 of development for 11 days. The full gestation of a mouse is 20 days. Progress again slowed until 2032, when a team of scientists from Germany and America successfully brought a monkey from Day 0 of development through a successful and healthy birth. Similar tests were performed and it was another 5 years before the first human test. Helga Stuttgart was 25 weeks into the pregnancy when she was informed she was at risk. A hereditary medical condition that had yet to be determined or recognized gave her gestational diabetes to such an extreme level that she was warned that to carry the child to term was likely going to kill her. Her husband, an accountant for the lab working on the artificial womb project, talked to her, and then they approached the director of the program. Helga volunteered to be the first subject, and the child was successfully transferred to the artificial womb. After recovery, she was allowed to visit the womb every day and look through the clear glass. She could barely see past the glass and the bio-bag inside, but she did catch a glimpse of her baby. She talked to her baby as it grew, encouraging it, telling it all about herself and its daddy. When the child was born healthy, she wept with joy and the world rejoiced. The ability to save premature babies was now a very real thing. After multiple other volunteers of women who were about to lose their child, or the child was born prematurely, with a 98% success rate, the manufacture of artificial wombs was begun. In addition to the womb was a wireless speaker that a mother could talk to the child through and the child would hear. Parents would use this to play music to their child, to talk with them, and to form the pre-natal bonds they otherwise would have missed out on. In 2039, a teenage girl in New York who had just discovered her pregnancy came to Planned Parenthood for an abortion. She'd pushed past the violent mob protesting to get there, but she braved the protesters and went to speak with the social worker. When asked if she was sure, the girl responded, “If I was older, I'd love to keep it, but I'm too young. Ma would kill me.” The social worker understood and an idea came to her. “What if I could find another way? So that you don't keep the child, don't have an abortion, and don't have to carry the child?” “That would be perfect, ma'am.” The teenager then waited as the social worker contacted the local hospital and requested the neo-natal department. After a long bit of time, explaining things, she hung up the phone. “Well,” said the social worker. “They've agreed if you want. You know how they help mothers who have premature children now?” “Yes, ma'am.” “Well, they're willing to take the child from you and put it in an artificial womb. You can find out if your boyfriend wants it, but if not, we can put the child up for adoption immediately.” The teenager started crying, showing her first bit of emotion. “That would be wonderful!. Knowing the baby's alive, but I won't ruin its life or mine.” And that was how the first Anteabortum Procedure was performed. News of this circulated, and soon Planned Parenthood and hospitals experienced a deluge of women who otherwise would have wanted an abortion, but preferred this. “If the man wants it so bad, let him have it,” was a common statement. The influx was so great that hospitals dedicated solely to the artificial wombs sprung up across the country. They were labeled E.G.G. Hospitals for “Embryonic Growth and Gestation" Hospitals. The problem was what to do when the baby wasn't claimed by the biological father and no adopters came forth. Congress met and discussed the problem and in a rare show of unity came up with the Anteabortum Rehoming Act (A.R.A.) In this Act, it was determined that a mother choosing to have an Anteabortum procedure had to undergo a few steps before the procedure was granted. First, the biological father was to be informed. If that biological father wanted the child, he would absorb all financial costs for the development of the embryo into a child and the biological mother would sacrifice all rights, including visitation of the child. She would not be responsible financially, but she was, in truth, giving up her child. If the biological father refused the child, then the embryo was put on a “Claimant List.” Prospective adopters needed only to pass a screening: mental health, history of alcoholism, history of drugs, history of crime…" and if they passed the screening, they were given an option to adopt the embryo. Upon adopting an embryo, the child would be transferred to the artificial womb and the adopters would absorb all costs, while both biological parents sacrificed all rights, including visitation, unless the child sought them out. If the embryo reaches 19 weeks and nobody has claimed it, then the mother was given one last chance to keep the child for herself. If she refused, she was then granted a safe abortion. There were exceptions, of course. If the mother was an at-risk pregnancy and the abortion would only have been to save her life, she was given the chance to have the child brought into an artificial womb and keep the child herself. She would absorb the costs of the artificial womb, but she'd have her baby and not risk her own life. If the pregnancy was due to rape, the embryo skipped the biological father phase and went on the claimant list immediately. This program became very successful. The mob in front of Planned Parenthood died down, though they migrated to the termination clinics located at the E.G.G. hospitals. Some still protested at Planned Parenthood, but it wasn't as bad, nor were they as violent as some of the previous protesters had become. The fear of designer babies was never realized, as the claimants were never allowed more information than “Race,” “Religion of Parents,” and “Health.” They wouldn't even know if it were a boy or a girl. In 2042, the first disappearance was recorded. In the following year, 104 artificial wombs suddenly lost their embryos. The wombs had been replaced with empty ones, and nobody could find the ones that held children. 26 each quarter of the year. And odder: it kept happening, every year. In 2045, the number of vanishing children became closer to 144. The extra 40 were sporadic across the year, but it was growing worse as time went on. Security was ramped up on the E.G.G. Hospitals, but somehow nobody was caught. What's even stranger is that the original 104 vanished children never had any complaints from the claimants. When the names of the claimants were run, they discovered that they were classified. The other 40 had angry claimants who made a stink until they were told they would be at the top of the list for the next claimant stage. Two years passed with the number of children vanishing increasing, but always in the random cases where there were complaints. The original 104 per year remained at the same number, with absolutely no angry claimants. The question remains. What happened to these vanished children?

ammo34

More to Me

“GET INSIDE!” Jack could hear Ben, the chopper pilot, yelling over the incessant whuppa whuppa whuppa of the blades as he leaned out of the opening of the medevac so far he was more out than in, but he had to get the shot. It was his job. As they approached the ground and the dust flew everywhere, a bullet went right through Jack’s hat. The force of the bullet ripped it right off his head. Even so, it didn’t alter his approach to his work. When he was working, he used the camera lens as his eyes and today what he saw through that lens was absolute carnage under a dusty haze, which made it look like a dream. Or, rather, a nightmare. He continued snapping pictures as one man after another was dragged, carried or ran out of the jungle toward the chopper. Soldiers were running backwards shooting their guns, providing cover for the troops who were being carried or were too bloody and disoriented to protect themselves from the gunfire bombarding them as they made their way to the chopper. Jack shot it all as one by one they were loaded into the medevac. Once everyone was in, the pilot pulled the chopper up and flew back to base to the deafening sounds of whuppa whuppa whuppa and missiles whizzing by barely missing them. As they flew over the jungle of Vietnam back to the relative safety of the base, Jack thought to himself how beautiful it looked from far above and how unnecessary this all was. Once landed, the pilot jumped out of the chopper, and in a rage ran around to the other side yanking Jack’s shoulder back to stop him as he was walking toward triage. He could feel a trickle of blood running down his head from where the bullet grazed him. “Who the hell do you think you are? You arrogant jackass. I personally don’t give a shit if anything happens to you, but I’m the one that’s gonna catch hell if you don’t make it back. You can ride along with me, because I have no choice but when you hang out of the chopper like you just did back there, I can’t make quick movements because you’ll fall out! And that limits how I fly, and I can’t have that. I need to be able to maneuver to avoid incoming fire. I need to focus on getting those boys out of that god-forsaken jungle. If you make that one ounce more difficult for me I will push you out myself, and I won’t come back for you. Do you hear me? This may be a game for you, but it’s life and death for us.” Ben pushed him aside and walked away from him. Jack was shocked and ashamed of himself and realized that what he does here may put someone else in danger. He grew up a little that day. It was 1974 and the war would soon be over but he was only a 22-year-old kid fresh out of journalism school trying to make a name for himself. From that point on, he was aware of everything he did and everyone around him so that he didn’t get in the way or cause any problems. He got amazing pictures of an untenable war that were sent through the AP wire and were picked up in papers all over the world. Those pictures made him the most famous photojournalist of his time. Beautiful, ugly, haunting images of a war nobody understood and fewer and fewer people wanted. After that, he was sent on assignments all over the world. He covered wars, civil unrest, political coups in every far off corner of the globe and drug cartel activity that decimated small border towns, and he risked his life every day to bring the truth to people. His coworkers and other correspondents called him a badass, but he didn’t think of himself as particularly brave. The people he was shooting were the brave ones, and he tried to convey that through his photography. He had a life filled with risk and danger for over a decade but then he met a woman in one of those war-torn countries and fell in love. He brought her home, married her and they started a family. She never asked him to stop going on assignments but as the years went by and kids got older, the lure of getting that picture that perfectly encapsulated a moment in time began to be less important to him than Davey’s baseball game or Beth’s ballet recital. He decided to leave the dangers of photojournalism behind him, and he opened a photography studio in town. You'd think that it would be easy, but it was hard. It was almost harder than dodging bullets in some far off land. After a while though he got used to the quiet and while he missed the adventure and even the danger to a degree, he did enjoy shooting the happy events of people’s lives. And he loved being able to be home with his wife and kids and soon no one remembered, not even himself half the time, that he used to be a badass who hung out of medevac choppers in Vietnam. ***** “Papa, what are these?” Jake called out to his grandfather from the other room. “I don’t know, Jake. What are you looking at?” replied Jack as he walked toward the back bedroom where his grandson was. Jack was old now and walked with the help of a cane and hadn't taken any pictures of anything other than his family for a long time. “These pictures. Why do you have all these pictures of protests and soldiers,” asked Jake. As Jack walked into the room, he saw that Jake had taken all the pictures out of the closet and the Pulitzer Prize he had won for his photo series on Vietnam. As he looked at his grandson, who he knew only saw him as an old man who never did anything very exciting, he decided to finally talk about what he did when he was young. “You know, Jake, I didn't always walk with a cane and need bifocals to see. I was young once, if you can believe it." Jake looked at him like he knew it had to be true but wasn't quite sure. "There’s more to me than the worn out old man you see when you look at me," said Jack with a smile and a distant look in his eyes. "It’s kind of funny that your mom is so protective now that she doesn't even like me using the stove without someone being here but there was a time when I was a little wild, kind of crazy, and went on lots of adventures,” said Jack as his grandson listened intently to story after incredible story.

pipmzr

First Contact

Space is infinite, at least that is what we are always told. In the words of Star Trek “Space, the final frontier.” As I looked up to the sky above, a small smile danced around the corners of my mouth. Are we truly alone, or are there other beings in other worlds looking up at their stars in the sky and wondering the same thing? I was interested in the stars ever since I was old enough to stand on the big base telescope my dad had, and look at the constellations together, such as, Orion (The Hunter), the Great Bear (Ursa Major), and of course The Bigger Dipper (The Plough). I always recognised the shape of the Plough in the night sky. Dad told me that people named ancient constellations after Greek and Roman mythology, and more recently, after exotic animals and scientific instruments. But the ones everyone knows best come from the zodiac constellations. I spent hours looking up at the stars, and wishing, and wondering, and desiring to get up there to see them. My urge to visit space grew stronger as I grew older. Never really thinking it was an achievable goal. I was a girl. Girls didn’t make astronauts, did they? Not many made the grade, but I was clever, scientific, and athletic. I went to university and studied astrophysics. My Dad was elated. He worked in construction, and although fascinated by the stars, never thought a daughter of his could go so far. He told everyone he saw how proud he was of me. Was I nerdy? Yes, and no. I wanted to understand the universe and our place within it. That meant I needed to study both the laws of physics and chemistry. But it was more than that. I got to study how stars, planets, and even galaxies were born and died. It was a mixture of astronomy and cosmology. I wanted to find life on a planet. I didn’t want to just look at the gases or the soil or the microbes or consider the planet’s weather. I wanted to find an alien lifeform before they found us. I hoped to make First Contact before anyone else. The UK has the UK Space Agency, but it’s not funded sufficiently to send astronauts up into space. We have scientists and engineers involved in major global space projects, but I was lucky. I got onto the USA’s NASA trainee astronaut program. There were 10 NASA candidates, one United Arab Emirates candidate, and me! I spent 2.5 years training to become an astronaut. It was hard going, but never once did I stop to think whether it was worth it. Next stop was the Moon, then Mars! It blew my mind just thinking about it. Of course, there was resistance from conspiracy theorists to the idea of another moon landing. They said the original moon landing back on July 20, 1969, by Apollo 11, wasn’t real. They believed it was a set-up, a hoax from the American government. I know it was real. The astronauts brought back rocks from the moon and confirmed their origin. Scientific experiments took place confirming the astronauts were there. The conspiracy theorists don’t bother me. Having spent much of my life studying cosmology and astrophysics at university, then learning how to be a pilot with the RAF, followed by training to be an astronaut for the past 2.5 years, I was completely comfortable going up into space, and could not wait! There were rumours that SpaceX, Elon Musk’s company, would soon launch a new manned rocket called Starship. He’d achieved something incredible by having astronauts in space for 199 days previously. His dream was to enable space travel so that people could live on other planets. What a dream! But my personal dream was to meet people from other planets. I preferred the more ‘traditional’ astronaut training I received through NASA. It would stand me in good stead for the future. I believed in UFOs and watched the skies constantly. I saw strange lights in the sky, as though I was being followed. Friends sent me videos of inexplicable sightings, knowing my interest and passion for extra-terrestrials. When I was a little girl, only 8 or 9 years old, I told my mother I visited the stars and met ‘people’ with funny faces and bodies, only taller than me. She said I had a fantastical imagination, and now, as an adult, I couldn’t really remember anymore what I thought I saw. I do remember a bright light one night piercing through the curtains of my bedroom window, and a feeling of fear, which soon changed to curiosity, but I couldn’t quite remember the beings I described to my mother. She told me I was just dreaming. The day of the launch finally arrived. Of course, they televised it, and I felt like a celebrity with the press and TV coverage. “Focus on the job in hand, Kirsty.” I told myself. I needed to concentrate. I had tasks to complete on my journey into space. The control centre counted us down. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, lift off! The crowd cheered wildly as they watched the Artemis rocket roar off the launch pad from Cape Canaveral on the Florida coastline. This time with a full crew. They had fixed the loose valve, which caused the hydrogen to leak the last time. I was certain NASA would keep me safe. What blew me away was the expense. Every flight into space in one of these rockets cost USD 4 billion. As we went through the earth’s atmosphere, we automatically completed our tasks for which we spent years training. We functioned like robots; except we were not robots but fallible humans. The separation of the solid rocket boosters went well, two minutes into our flight. Those rockets gave us 8.8 million pounds of thrust. There were 12 thrusters and they weighed over 9,000 kilograms at lift off. The core stage separated from the main rocket six minutes later. All systems were green for go. This was the most powerful rocket ever built, and I was in it. Life didn’t get much more exciting than that! Soon we were floating around in space. God, I always wanted to feel the weightlessness of space, and now I was. It was hilarious. We passed around different items. I pushed a pen over to my colleague and watched it fly over to him. There was no sensation on earth to match this. Of course, we practised being weightless for short bursts in aircraft during our training, but this was the longest and best experience so far. “Hey Kirsty,” said Don, one of the younger, more athletic astronauts, “See if you can do a forward roll?” I love a challenge. Soon I was twisting my body, trying to flip over in the weightlessness of space. It was wonderful, and I managed it, of sorts. I would not have won any gymnastic awards, but it looked impressive, nevertheless. Don was a career astronaut, and an ace pilot. He was young and excitable, but I trusted his abilities. He was handsome, with blonde hair and blue eyes. No doubt after our return to earth he would be our poster boy, on the front cover of magazines around the world. He wasn’t yet married. He was going to have the pick of girls when he returned to earth, which was for certain. However, it wouldn’t have mattered to me if he looked like an adonis, or Shrek. I was completely focused on our mission. We were now orbiting the earth. I looked down at the great expanse of space and thought how weird it was to see the earth from above, from outside it. I could see lakes, mountainous regions, great empty spaces. It was breathtaking, and incredibly beautiful. “How many people in the world get to see this view?” I said to Don wistfully. He smiled, saying, “Yep, we are very lucky, no doubt about it.” Then he winked at me. “Of course, you are the only female in this crew, Kirsty.” “Yes, and don’t you forget it!” I gave him a thumbs up. He just shook his head. There was no romantic interest in me from Don. Phil, the lead astronaut, the chief pilot of the rocket, reminded us it was time to have a rest. There was a strenuous work schedule ahead of us, and to be honest, the emotion of lifting off and getting into space was exhausting. Phil was a safe pair of hands. He was older than the rest of us, but to me, that was a positive. Calm, with distinguished grey sideburns, he was very much a family man. He had a lovely wife, and three children at home, all spurring him on. I knew he would do his utmost to bring us back to earth safely. Ali, the last member of our crew, was from the UAE. With dark hair and dark eyes, he resembled an Arab Prince. Very handsome. I knew little about the Arabic lifestyle, but he wasn’t particularly friendly towards me. He was used to giving the women in his life orders, but we were equals in space. I was being unfair, but he was my least favourite crew member. However, as the space module was only 11 ft tall by 16.5 ft wide, for four astronauts, it wasn’t particularly spacious, and I would need to make an effort to get on with him as best I could. Having retired to one of the crew beds to rest, in accordance with Phil’s instructions, I woke up to a red alert. An alarm screaming at us in the crew module. “What’s going on?” I asked Phil breathlessly. He said, “We think it is just a faulty sensor. It’s telling us there’s a fuel leak, but I can’t find a leak at all. I’ve checked all the systems.” I nodded. “Do not tell me. You need me to check the sensor?” “Yes, Kirsty, I do, but on the outside of the rocket.” He let the significance of his statement sink in. That meant I would have to do a spacewalk outside of the rocket on a tether. “Blimey, I expected a moonwalk, but not a spacewalk so soon.” “It’s really a minor repair on the electrical system, because, as I say, I can’t find an actual leak, but we rely on our sensors. Sorry to ask, but you are the lead electrician on this space flight. It’s a contingency spacewalk, and you are the one who needs to do it.” I grinned at him. “It’s not a problem, Phil. I am up for it. In fact, I am going to be the first woman ever to do this.” He smiled back at me. “Yep, a historical moment in the making.” I moved into the area of the capsule where we kept the crewmember safety tether. It was long, about 55 feet, and I attached it to my waist with a large hook. Excited beyond belief, I poked my head out of the exterior airlock and into the void. Phil locked off the hatch behind me. I was finally in space, alone. I knew where the sensor relay was on the side of the rocket. I gingerly made my way round to that section. There were handrails and footholds along the side of the spaceship, so it wasn’t too difficult. Getting my spanner out of my pocket to open up the area I needed to access, I noticed a bright white light on the side of me. I shook my head. It wasn’t the sun. Was it a bright star? “Focus on the job in hand, Kirsty.” I told myself. I said to Phil on the radio, “Can you see that bright white light to the right of me, Phil? What is it?” He was quiet for a moment, then said, “I don’t know, Kirsty. We can’t identify what it is.” I laughed. “It’s the Russians coming to pay us a visit? No worries, I will just get this done asap.” I wrestled with the external metalwork and then got into the sensory relay. A wire unfortunately had worked its way loose. As I reattached it, I saw a massive meteorite heading straight towards me. Screaming, I realised there was no possibility of my getting out of its way. There is no sound or echo in space, but Phil heard me through the radio. The next moment, nothingness. I woke up in space. As I came round, I realised the rock bounced off my body and knocked me out. Fortunately, my suit didn’t rip, but the rock detached my tether from the rocket. I was floating freely and blindly in space. “Don’t panic, Kirsty.” As I looked around wildly, trying to see where the Artemis was. There was nothing. I tried Phil on my radio. Again, nothing. I didn’t know if the radio had malfunctioned, or if they were now too distant to hear me. As I scanned the area, I saw the bright, white light which I spotted earlier was slowly making its way towards me. I frowned and focused on it again. It wasn’t a star, or a meteorite, or the sun. It was a UFO. Spherical in shape, it was made of a gold-coloured material. There was no sound from it, of course, as we were in space. But it moved towards me in a smooth motion. Oh God, this was it. I was going to make First Contact, but there was no-one to witness it. Was I even able to return to my spaceship to tell them about it? The UFO moved closer to me, and I could see the pilot of the spaceship. As I stared at it, and it stared at me, I experienced a slow realisation. This was someone or something I met previously in my childhood. This was the very alien I met when I was 8 or 9 years old. It waved to me. Can you believe it? The alien being actually waved at me. It was small in stature, about 5 ft tall, grey, with large bulbous eyes. It didn’t have a mouth to smile with, as such, but I sensed it was friendly. From the ship, it emitted a white beam of light which projected onto my body. The light slowly pushed me forwards. Although it was gentle, I felt scared. Within 10-15 minutes, I could see the Artemis in the distance. I couldn’t believe it. The alien spacecraft was pushing me towards my rocket with a tractor beam. I laughed hysterically. Looking at my suit, I could see there was only about 10 more minutes of air left. My survival was going to be touch and go. Pointing at my suit and then my throat, the alien understood me. It sped up the approach to the rocket, and just as we got really close, the beam gave me a solid push and I managed to grab onto a guardrail on the side. Twisting round, I waved goodbye to this amazing little creature which saved my life. I pondered the fact I met this creature before as a child. Was it my guardian angel? Certainly not how I would imagine a guardian angel to be. I watched briefly as the bright white light disappeared off into the distance at great speed, and then inched my way to the exterior hatch, using the handrail and footholds on the side of the rocket. The rocket’s shiny metal exterior was really bright, shining directly into my eyes. I banged on the hatch for a few minutes until someone opened the exterior airlock. As I came through the hatch into the other side, relieved I could breathe fully, I saw the entire crew cheering and clapping at my safe return. I fixed the sensor relay before the meteor knocked me away from the ship, so all was well. They all ran to me and hugged me in turn, even Ali. “Holy shit,” said Phil. “We thought you were a goner.” “Me too, Phil, me too!” Don patted me on the shoulder, saying, “We couldn’t believe it when we realised your tether was detached by the meteorite. Thank God it didn’t rip your suit.” “We tried to manoeuvre the rocket to see if we could track you, but we had no joy at all. Thank God you had the sense of direction you did to return to us.” I could see Ali was shocked at what had happened. They were all shocked to be fair. I explained in detail about the alien being. They, of course, didn’t believe a word of it. They thought I suffered from a lack of oxygen whilst floating weightless in space and was hallucinating. Phil gave me a hug, saying, “It’s a nice idea, Kirsty. That you had First Contact with an alien, but we didn’t see it, and there’s no way to prove it. Let’s just agree you were very lucky indeed.” It took us 14 days, but we finally reached the moon without any further incidences, and I was overjoyed. The mission was a success, and we returned to earth another 14 days later. There was no evidence of any alien life on the moon, but I didn’t expect there to be. My opinion was that aliens are able to travel distances at a speed we can’t even dream of. Hence, they live in other galaxies. However, I knew the truth about aliens. They exist. There are aliens out there. Friendly ones. Ones which mean us no harm, and which visit our planet regularly. So, the next time you see an unexplained light, or a UFO, don’t fear it. Give it a welcome with open arms and a big smile because you just might need their help in the future.

bdpmol

"Echoes of the Forgotten Forest"

In the heart of the forgotten forest, where the whispers of ancient trees danced with the winds, there lay a tale woven with secrets and magic. It was a place where time seemed to stand still, and the trees whispered stories of forgotten heroes and lost civilizations. Deep within the forest, nestled between the towering trees, there stood a quaint cottage where an old woman named Elara lived. She was known to be the guardian of the forest, the keeper of its secrets, and the one who listened to the whispers of the trees. Elara had lived in the forest for as long as anyone could remember. Her wrinkled face told tales of wisdom and sorrow, and her eyes held the secrets of a thousand lifetimes. She spent her days tending to the forest, nurturing its growth, and protecting it from those who sought to exploit its magic. One day, a young girl named Aria stumbled upon Elara's cottage while wandering through the forest. Intrigued by the stories she had heard about the mysterious guardian, Aria approached the cottage with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation. As Aria knocked on the door, she was greeted by Elara's warm smile and gentle eyes. Sensing the girl's innocence and curiosity, Elara invited her inside and offered her a cup of tea brewed from herbs found only in the depths of the forest. Over cups of steaming tea, Elara and Aria exchanged stories, and the young girl listened intently as the old woman spoke of the forest's history and the magic that flowed through its veins. She learned of ancient spells and hidden treasures, of creatures that dwelled in the shadows, and of the bond that connected all living things. As the days turned into weeks, Aria became enchanted by the forest and the wisdom of its guardian. She spent her days exploring its depths, discovering hidden glades and secret pathways that led to places untouched by time. But as Aria grew closer to Elara and the forest, she also began to sense a darkness looming on the horizon. Whispered tales spoke of an ancient evil stirring in the depths of the forest, threatening to engulf everything in its path. Determined to protect the forest and its guardian, Aria embarked on a quest to uncover the truth behind the darkness that lurked within. With Elara's guidance and the magic of the forest at her side, she journeyed deep into the heart of the forest, facing trials and challenges that tested her courage and resolve. Along the way, Aria encountered beings of light and shadow, each holding a piece of the puzzle that would unlock the secrets of the forest. She learned to harness the power of nature itself, using it to heal and protect those in need. But as she delved deeper into the darkness, Aria also discovered the truth behind the ancient evil that threatened to consume the forest. It was a darkness born from fear and greed, fueled by the desire for power and control. With the fate of the forest hanging in the balance, Aria knew that she must confront the darkness head-on. Armed with the knowledge and wisdom of the forest, she faced her greatest challenge yet, standing against the forces that sought to destroy everything she held dear. In a final showdown between light and shadow, Aria unleashed the full power of the forest, channeling its magic to banish the darkness once and for all. With courage and determination, she emerged victorious, restoring peace and balance to the forgotten forest. As the sun rose on a new day, Aria stood alongside Elara, gazing out at the forest bathed in the light of dawn. Though the journey had been long and difficult, she knew that it was only the beginning of a new chapter in the tale of the forgotten forest. In the midst of the forgotten forest, where the trees whispered ancient secrets and the air crackled with magic, there existed a bond between the guardians of nature and those who dared to seek its mysteries. This bond was embodied by Elara, the wise guardian of the forest, and Aria, the young heroine whose destiny became entwined with the fate of the woods. As Aria continued her journey alongside Elara, she encountered a myriad of enchanted beings that called the forest their home. Among them were the luminous sprites that danced among the branches, the elusive fae folk that flitted through the moonlit glades, and the gentle giants known as the Keepers of the Grove, who watched over the forest with unwavering devotion. Each encounter revealed a new layer of the forest's magic, weaving a tapestry of wonder and enchantment that captured Aria's heart. Yet, amidst the beauty and tranquility, a darkness loomed, threatening to shroud the forest in eternal night. Aria's quest led her to ancient ruins hidden deep within the heart of the forest, where she uncovered relics of a bygone era and cryptic runes that spoke of a forgotten prophecy. It foretold of a chosen one who would rise to challenge the darkness and restore balance to the forest, and Aria soon realized that she was destined to fulfill this role. With Elara's guidance, Aria embarked on a series of trials designed to test her courage, wisdom, and mastery of the forest's magic. She learned to commune with the spirits of nature, to wield the elements at her command, and to channel the light of her inner strength in the face of adversity. But as Aria drew closer to her destiny, the darkness grew ever more insidious, manifesting in the form of malevolent spirits known as the Shadows. These twisted creatures sought to corrupt the very essence of the forest, feeding on fear and despair to fuel their dark power. In a climactic battle beneath the boughs of the ancient trees, Aria confronted the leader of the Shadows, a shadowy figure known as the Darkling. With Elara's guidance and the support of her newfound allies, Aria unleashed the full force of her magic, banishing the darkness and restoring the light to the forest once more. As dawn broke over the horizon, Aria stood triumphant, her heart filled with gratitude for the lessons she had learned and the friendships she had forged along the way. With Elara by her side and the forest restored to its former glory, Aria knew that her journey was far from over. Together, they would continue to safeguard the forest and its magic, ensuring that its echoes would resonate throughout the ages, a testament to the enduring power of hope, courage, and the bonds that unite all living things.

wjaqx7

Saut d'Eau

I left Labadie for the Turks and Caicos Islands spending a year establishing a magazine there with my lovely friend, DianaLou. Every chance I got I was back in Haiti until I finally moved to a loosely situated community called Merger, twenty kilometres south of Port au Prince. It was an ugly little box of a summer cottage I rented but sat on a rectangular acre of land bordered by coconut palms, the railroad tracks and the two lane highway beyond them, a line of thorny shrubbery with fallow farmland on its other side and the sea. I had a breakwater with a low tide beach, a suit changing palapa, an entertainment palapa, the cottage and the servant’s hovel. I had a servant, a farmer, Ti Jean, who took care of the grounds and was always bringing me things from his farm, like milk and eggs and scolding me when I’d have hangovers, telling me it was a waste of my maturity. My friend Tomas came to take a series of photos to help out my new lifestyle magazine. He was to take pictures of Sans Souci Palace, Le Citadel Fortress and the voudoun celebration of Saut D’Eau, as well as some shots in the Dominican Republic. Tomas had committed himself to the Black Panther Party for Self-Defence and had become a Black Muslim while in prison. Tomas had been and always will be an activist in movements that spiritually counteract the oppression of Black Peoples, so I felt his view of these first three situations would have a special western hemispheric perspective. Sans Souci is a Romanesque columned palace dedicated by King Christophe, the first King after the first Emperor after the successful Haitian slave revolt at the beginning of the 19 th Century, to honour his love for his wife. An under financed restoration was actively underway while attempting to keep a virile jungle at bay. We were there to chronicle this group’s efforts and to show the magnificence of the place. Tomas was at every burst of sunlight upon moss along the columns and arches and empty ornate windows. He was emphasising the shadow of tropical ageing upon granite built by the deaths of newly self-freed enslaved. La Citadel is a gigantic fortress built high on a sea-facing, jutting mountain by Roi Christophe at the cost of approximately 25,000 Haitians who died in its construction. The purpose of Le Citadel was to repel a never happened French re-invasion. I was sick the day of the shoot and Tomas returned to Sans Souci, where I waited, with a weary smiling face, giggling to himself about fantastic photographs he had just taken. Long forgotten cannon with light from the sea framing them in dusty golden touches. A green valley, etched by the round main observation turret, spreading to mist above and toward the sea. The women, smoking cigars, leading boney horses for the tourists on the road their ancestors slaved for when first freed. Those first to overthrow slavery in the history of the world built this huge monument to defend their new freedom. I had been told that Saut D’Eau is the celebration of the voudoun loas, or spirits, Dhambala and Simbi, that takes place in a mountain oasis of a wonderful waterfall. After numerous mechanical stalls and eventually a wilderness roadside carburetour cleaning by the ‘greatest mechanic along the Carrefour Road’, and after eleven flat tires, that is eleven flat tires, we arrived at the town of Bonheur with about fifteen extra people in the borrowed Toyota Land Cruiser and were directed to the falls. The ever savvy Catholic Church coincidently had the Catholic miracle celebration of the Virgin in a Tree just up the street from the pretty Bonheur Chapel the same week as the popular good luck Saut D’Eau celebration. We had been told that there would be rains and there would be thunder with lightning throughout the three days of Saut D’Eau. The rains were from Simbi and the thunder and lightning from Dhambala. The first drops started down as Tomas arranged the cameras on the jeep hood for cleaning. We followed the pilgrims slipping our way down to the fall base and river start. Rounding a clump of vegetation we were treated to a glimpse of paradise. Before us rising at a gradual pace were thick rivulets of water, green and white and spreading pyramidically into a pool base hidden by wild jungle. The shades and tints of green, climbing, hanging, lying as a bonnet to the flow of cascading thick waters. Before us rising at a gradual pace were bodies climbing, resting, bathing, in groups, solitary, drinking, coying, laughing and praying. They dressed in white, in yellows, in blues, greens and reds. Candles provided the flame of the spirit of their dedication, smoke twirling clouding in the mist of the falls. Black skins glistening, brown skins were tanned and light skins glowing. A sight of wonder, eyes flowing upward to the beginning and the sky. The rain came in showers and squalls whipping cool and warm, it was refreshing after the dust of the trip and the humidity of the town. We went over to where an Italian film crew had set up to document the event from under a great banyan tree. And we were clicking: “Look at that man.” “Get that woman in the river.” “The candles, get the smoke of the candles.” “That prayer group and the naked woman.” “Damn, look at that…” We paid no attention to each other, it was too good, too much and we had been blessed with beholding it. BOOM I looked down at my feet, a round white light exploded and imploded and vaporized. I looked up to see if anybody else had seen it and saw a man to my left and one to my right flying through the air. I turned to see Tomas’ feet suspended, clutching at his cameras protectively as he flew up and then landed on the wet uneven ground. Another man had landed with an oomph to the left of Tomas. A bomb, I thought, but I was still standing, still alive. I looked for a place to hide, and back to Tomas. “Come on, man.” I called to him, as he was automatically checking his cameras and dusting them off. “Okay, okay,” he looked around, “what was it, a bomb?” I looked at one guy who had fallen running back into the bush up the trail. People were gathering around another and the other fellow was crawling toward me mumbling something. The Italians were trying to organize something for the fallen fellow. “I don’t think it was a bomb… I’m still standing. I think it was lightning.” I agreed with myself, my ears ringing it difficult to think. I looked at the branches directly over our heads. “But, lightning doesn’t strike under a tree, does it?” “It did.” Tomas answered flatly, hardly masking his irritation. “What do we do, where do we hide?” “We were under a tree, man.” I reasoned, shaking the crawling man off my foot, “There is no place to hide. What the fuck this guy wants?” “Probably five Gourdes.” Tomas joked, referencing the beggars in Port au Prince who irritated him so much. I pulled my foot back from the guy’s groping hand as another man explained that the fallen guy wanted me to bless him and heal him. “Tell the guy to crawl over to the tree base of the banyan and rest until he sees me again, then he will be healed.” Tomas chuckled. The stranger translated this and the fallen man happily mercied me as he back crawled toward the trunk of the banyan. “We can’t run so let’s go to the source.” My voice called to Tomas. “Hey man, let’s do something.” He responded. The stranger begged us to be our guide and carry our cameras but we decided he was more frail than we were and having the instant ability to frame your picture and tint it the way you wanted was not by ordering a part from a tired, sweaty fellow who doesn’t know what you are asking for anyway… The Italians were moving the fallen guy away with the help of the crowd on a crude stretcher. People were fanning him with palm fans as the group of them clumsily moved off. We walked, then crawled through groups having spiritual ceremonies dressed in whites, mainly woven, and direct colours, people moist and dark. Many greeted us as we passed, us having to respond in a different greeting. “Bon soir, monsieur.” “Le plaisir eh moin, madame.” Bon soir is pronounced the Haitian way similar to the French inflection when happiness is meant. In the greeting, bon is by far the predominant vowel. A flash of teeth and shy eyes seem to have to accompany the salutation by men and women. The higher we moved the more people would turn around when we would be within three meters and greet us with smiled and bowed salutations. When we took care to be extra quiet they would feel our presence as pronounced as the jerking of heads round to view. Then they would smile and bow, urging us ahead of their ways. And the thunder and lightning accompanied us constantly with nobody seeming afraid. We looked out at the strikes shooting off in all directions and listened to the grumblings and booms without comment to each other. I felt no fear, just some need to accomplish this climb. We arrived at a level where very few people roamed. At a four foot outcropping of stone I decided I had to urgently shit. The tropical traveler always carries toilet paper. A little hole covered by a rich brown soil later I felt totally refreshed, and this immediately after an exerted and humid climb through a peoples’ energy so uplifting it was profound. What a feeling to climb as though carried, still to enjoy the balance of footing, the climbing , the closeness of a spiritually accepting humanity, the greens, flowers, candles, waters. A rush of earthly smells, assailed only by the vivacity and freshness of flowing waters bouquets. The grace of movement among warmly intent peoples. All the while lightning crackling through active sun clouded skies horizontally, vertically, diagonally, alone, in clusters, thunder unceasing. To rid yourself, at the conclusion of the trek, of blocked passages. I rained sweat. Tomas was swimming in his shirt and film carrying vest. My tee shirt, shorts and topsiders figuratively melted from my body heat. But, Tomas was clicking away. I decided to go over to the falls and unattached myself from a tee shirt that tried its best not to move. People were standing on the other side of the main torrent atop a slightly rounded head of stone which gave a waterfall’s view of it’s creations. To get to the ledge I had to pass through the waterfall. There was a small trail behind it but that route almost gave me the notion to post a sign saying ‘other trail’. Grass grew tall on the other trail. I started descending a short slope at the beginning of the hard drops, solid wetness weighed me as I gained the center of the hole in the stone and fall. I strained to look up into its sharp rushing and discovered that though I was under solid water as well as being under the fall I was breathing. I stood there under the million fingering pressures of cascading waters in a small pool of rushing water rationalizing why I should be breathing. Upon the conclusion, or near it, that enough air was present depending on the force from above at wavering levels to allow breathing, I started choking, inhaling water and choking. I ascended the hole with the help of laughing others on the ledge. When I sputtered my last sputter I looked at them and found them all standing back and staring at me. They didn’t look at me like how’d that guy get here, they looked at me like a guy who just performed a good card trick and what else did you have in your bag, my friend? I didn’t come all the way up here to perform for anybody so I thanked the ones who did for helping me and turned to look out and down upon the flow and vibrancy of color. People becoming colors in a distantly radiating pattern of textures. I thought there must be a god to selfishly create this masterpiece of brightness to look down upon. I found my arms raised in an opening of my self to the vitality of pulsing energy in front of me. And something touched me, like a strong breeze, or the palm of a hand forcing but not holdable. Inaudible sounds resonated against my chest and upper stomach. I was looking out at the river, people, jungle, horizon and sky while feeling an uneven cadence of what I could only conclude to be a spiritual essence trying to communicate with me. I could not figure out what to do to link up with this other dimension. I tried breathing, blanking out all stimulation, I tried ohms, I tried holding thought as still as a mirrored lake. It all felt false, not false but like I was trying… I lost it. Turning, I saw everybody else had their arms raised and in open eyed concentrated prayer. They wound down more or less together focusing on me and smiling, then bashfully shrugging and laughing to each other. One of the group who had spent some years studying in New York pointed out to me that my hands were glowing like day light phosphorescence. He said it was like I had been struck with lightning. I told him that I had been almost struck, maybe a foot away from the first strike of the day. His eyes opened wide. “Can I see the stone?” “Hunh?” I answered studying my hands’ veins running with orange-yellow glowing lights. “The stone, Sobo’s stone, can I see it?” “What stone? Sobo?” “You don’t have the stone? The stone that was thrown to you from the sky?” “Naw… you think lightning is stones falling from the sky?” “Yet, you knew to come up here.” He thought aloud in English, ignoring my question. “You were touched, ya know, like blessed by Simbi or… ya see, by the stone’s being thrown to you, I mean you didn’t get hit… You were glowing, man…” “I could probably find it…” “Good. The stone is a gift to you from Dhambala, Simbi, Sobo, Erzulie, as was the glowing to mark you apart, dude. Let’s go find it.” I was gone. Back to our packs, telling Tomas about the stone, us running back down the falls path to the tree, to the spot… but no stone to be found. We dug all round and no stone. The man we had left under the tree awakened from a rest while we were digging. As we slowed down he crawled, calling to us, on his knees, then raised a knee, squatted, raised another knee, then stood. He walked toward us saying hundred of mercies. He grabbed my hand and put it on his face where tears were falling. I told him, “You are your own strength, not me. Go, allez, monsieur.” He went bowing off and I knew I would never find the stone.

8zffgj

DEJA VU

Five bone dice crumbled to dust before their eyes. “What was that?” Thom’s mouth gaped. Silence descended. No insect or bird sounds. Then it started; the earth beneath them vibrated, then shook perceptibly. The three looked at each other. “I don’t like this,” said Victoria. “I think you should both leave the Island. Who knows what will happen? I’ll have to stay,” said Marcus. “What about the others?” she said. “They’ll fend for themselves,” said Thom. “There is the boat and a plane if they decide to go. This dilemma will distract them. What will you do, Marcus?” “There is a village in the hills. I know the bridge over the river is broken, but I’ll swim if I have to.” Thom opened his eyes in surprise. “Were you ever going to tell me about it?” “Victoria will tell you the whole story. I think you should go now. I’ll be fine.” Victoria clung to her father. “I’ll never forget this. I love you. I hope you find what you are looking for.” He kissed her on the forehead and hugged her. “I made a promise to get you back home. Off you go. Thom will get you there.” “Thanks, Marcus,” said Thom. “We’re off.” Victoria snatched up the parchment next to the disintegrated dice before dashing away with Thom. They stepped gingerly through the hole in the barbed wire fence and ran towards the beach. Victoria's black hair streamed behind her. When they arrived at the path, they darted behind a tree and picked up their prepacked bundles of belongings and provisions. As the path reached the settlement, they saw several of their group running out and heading in the opposite direction. They carried what they had grabbed in haste, presumably with the same idea of leaving the Island, at least temporarily. “They’re leaving by plane,” said Thom to Victoria. They continued running while the ground still churned beneath them. The pier came into sight, and they all struggled down the dunes, their shoes filling with sand. Closer to shore, the sand became moist, and they trekked across it, up the steps and down the vibrating wooden planks. Thom pulled the key out of his pocket, unlocked the padlock, threw the chain aboard, and untied the bowline, releasing the yacht from its mooring. He then threw their bags aboard, and they both jumped on. “I hope you know how to sail this thing,” said Victoria as she hurried over to raise the anchor. “Hoist up the mainsail. Wind seems moderate.” Thom leaped into action. “I wouldn’t have volunteered if I couldn’t help.” Victoria noted the others hastily boarding the other vessel. Before too long, their sail was up. Victoria had steered the Redemption into the wind and set sail. “Life jackets,” she yelled to Thom, “in the locker over there.” Victoria manned the steering wheel, and Thom brought her jacket over. They swapped while she donned hers. “How is this going to work?” said Thom. “We’ll be like ships in the night getting this craft back home, with only two aboard. It won’t be a day at the beach!” “Don’t worry. We’ll get sick of the sight of each other soon enough. We’ll have alternate shifts, and I’ll make sure you have hot drinks and food so we can catch up with things. On still days, with little wind, we may have more time together.” They looked over the water and saw the other boat heading away from the Island. Thom looked back at it. The mist topped mountains and the verdant hills, serene giants with wisps of greying hair, didn’t seem to be moving. “I bet the others are worried how they’ll tell if the earthquake is over.” “It’s not our problem. We have a radio, and you can let the others know that with Marcus still on the Island, heaven knows where, I want to go home and can’t do it alone.” “I guess that’s my best way of deserting, without worrying them . . . In fact, I’ll probably be in massive trouble.” He looked wistfully at the Island, gradually receding. “My biggest concern is how you’ll feel about me when we’re home.” “Don’t worry. My Dad and I haven’t always got on, and though we are like cabin bread versus carrot cake, we arrived at the Island without having killed each other. Look, if you’re worried about deserting, just tell them I overpowered you, stole the gun you held, and forced you. My father didn’t turn up, so we left him behind.” “I know you can overpower me no probs. Thank goodness I wanted  to come with you.” He looked behind at the Island, eyes opened wide. “Look, the Island is disappearing.” They both stared openmouthed as the Island gradually faded from sight. Thom looked at Victoria’s face. Tears streamed down it, and her sobs heaved. “It’s like B-Brigadoon.” “My darling, your father . . .” He pulled her closer to him and continued steering. She shook her head. “It’s not that. It’s remembering something that happened before.” “What is it?” “If I tell you my reason, you’ll think it’s nonsense.” “So much about what has happened is strange and unexplainable.” “The last time I left the Island, I left Marcus behind, but he could have come. He happily stayed and sacrificed himself for me and my children to have a better life. There was someone who loved him, but that’s not why he stayed.” “You have children? I’m confused.” She looked him in the eyes and said, “I can only explain this to you if you suspend your disbelief.” “Haven’t I heard and seen the inexplicable already? An Island that exists but doesn’t and has now disappeared. I know you’ve been there before . . . but how, and when? I’m skeptical of the hundreds of years ago story though you obviously lived in the fallen down hut we went into. You already knew it existed.” He shrugged. “Marcus reversed a curse, the dice disintegrated before our eyes, and the earthquake started. That thing you said about time. ‘If we lived here but didn’t, it means this Island is where two alternate timelines converge.’ I’m a man of science, so it intrigued me. Why would you say that?” “Because it’s true. If I try to explain, you may not want to have me in your life.” “Did you commit murder or something? Seeing you in action at Uni and laying those guys on the deck with those moves, I can believe it. Are you superhuman?” Victoria laughed. “Seriously, Thom. That was self-defense. I’m no one special.” “So, what is it all about? I’ve suspended my disbelief.” He grabbed at something imaginary on the front of his jacket and threw his arm out in a release towards the ocean. The yacht lurched a little, and Victoria grabbed his arm. He adjusted the steering. “You’re not superhuman,” he said. “Hold on to me.” “Once upon a time,” said Victoria, “Marcus and I came to the Island, to a village in the hills. On our way to the shore, where we intended to build a boat and return home together, we woke up back in the village. We had gone back in time a few days. Things happened differently, and both of us wound up dead. I won’t tell you all the places and people we met along the way until now.” “Sorry, I’m not with you. You said you died.” “We became the living dead.” “Good grief! All this being cursed and living other’s lives business!” “Suspend disbelief, remember . . . I went back to where Marcus and I lived before we were taken to the Island initially. Years ago, and without Marcus. Later, we both left from the same beach on this yacht, as we wanted to retrace our voyage and find the Island. You were the only one we told our true plan to. We had a curse to reverse. I already concluded that the Island is where two timelines converge.” “Though I’m interested from a scientific point of view, the other stuff is too creepy for words.” “I’ll illustrate. Moses led the Israelites through the Red Sea. The Egyptians in their chariots that pursued them didn’t make it. They all drowned when the walls of water collapsed. There’s proof it happened. Bronze from the chariot wheels is still at the bottom, below the water. Science has used facts about wind and water to explain how the sea parted. It’s too much of a fluke that Moses and his millions got through, and the enemies pursuing them perished at that precise time.” “I see what you mean. It’s a miracle. Something unexplainable.” “I traveled back to the ruins of Marcus and his sister’s castle and checked out its history. I found out the true history that I didn’t know about. Remember I told you we never made it to the cottage, but evidence showed we had? Remember you told me about a third boat partially built?” “Yes, you never knew about that one.” “The partially built but abandoned boat is because a vessel stopped at the Island, and I returned home on it, leaving Marcus behind. Our life of living and dying is now over. I have remembered in detail what happened.” “What did?” “Marcus didn’t have to return with me. He returned to the village to someone who had promised to wait for him, but he had also promised to get me home. He did both.” “Sounds familiar.” “The paradox is that if he had returned home with me, my life would have been ruined. I could never understand the amazing historical facts I learned, as they are not part of the timeline I remembered. The curse, due to those damn dice, changed everything. The difference now is that I remember the alternate history that the curse took away from us. The Island is indeed where two timelines converged. Now, I remember the sacrifice Marcus made for me. I remember how I felt, which is why I cried. It’s how I feel about leaving him behind. I wanted him to stay by my side. We had been through so much together. Instead, on my arrival home, in the past, I claimed to have married him on the Island and said he had died there. I claimed my children, twins, were his offspring. I inherited his castle and lands, and it set up my children much better than if I had returned to my family a destitute woman with two children from a less-than-desirable union. I had my independence, thanks to Marcus. Wealth and reputation were everything back then.” So . . . you lied. I guess Marcus back then wasn’t your father. Actually, I can forgive you for lying. So, who did you really marry?” She shook her head. “We had just been married, and Marcus shot an arrow into my husband, and he died.” “Why on earth did he do that!? Was it jealousy?” “No. It was revenge. My brother cared about me. I didn’t want to be an unmarried mother, but it was not wise for me to marry the father who . . .” “I guess you were willing to marry him . . . after being unwilling.” “I’ve spent other lives being pregnant and unmarried. I never wish to revisit that situation again.” Her tear-filled eyes met his. “Hence, you know how to deal with any man who bothers you.” “Exactly.” “You know, having a baby before marriage is no big deal.” “I’ve spent most of my life raising my children without a husband, and I never want to repeat anything like it again.” “But if you had a loving husband who stuck around and helped you?” Her lips pursed as she thought. “I don’t need a man.” He laughed. “You need me now, young lady. How on earth will we get this thing home if not together? You’ve already proven that you needed your father. I know you care about him.” “Yes, I have to agree. At least with the shifts we will be keeping over the next weeks, we will both crash into the same bed . . . but never together.” “You mean, never ever?” “It depends how we feel about each other when we’re home.” “About ‘each other’? I adore you, Miss Victoria.” Victoria smirked. “You are growing on me, just a bit.” “I’d like to hear more about your life sometime.” “Yes, Facebook profiles didn’t exist in days of yore.” “It reminds me of a joke,” he said. “Whatever problems Adam had, no man in days of yore could say when Adam told a joke; I’ve heard that one before.” Victoria laughed. “That reminds me. I have the words Marcus read out when he reversed the spell. Let me take over the wheel, and you can read them.” She took the parchment out of her pocket, and they swapped places. He opened the parchment. “Vengeance is mine, justice is wrought, On those remaining of both peoples brought. Revenge for Tabor’s traitorous mistake Destroyed, but for one, when they made their escape One from whom the two are born, far away beyond this shore A child who is pale, with hair dark as night The other, eyes of green and hair that is light Both as opposite as two can be Repeating their fate for eternity Misery and bloodshed will be their lot Over and over, never to stop Until precious lives have been repaid Of both the tribes which have been made Every life cruelly destroyed, Paid back by the lives of the two employed. Until they all learn loyalty Justice and love for you and me Patience learned, forgiveness too If only their forefathers could have been true Return they shall to their father’s home Forever to remain apart and alone Only they can find the key To reverse the spell and prophecy Find the beginning of it all, behind the fence in the ivy wall Fit the dice with skulls of white, turn and turn to make it right Defeat the spell to end the lives of tragedy, misery, and strife Vengeance on Tabor, revenge for all In the end, we will not recall.” “Wow. I feel like I’m living in a dream,” said Thom. “I’d really like to hear the whole story.” “My lawyer has a copy of a letter to be opened if I don’t make it back. My Aunt and Uncle need to know the truth. The original is in a safe deposit box at the bank, with some other personal items. It’s a precis of the whole history. For now, I’m only interested in the present.” “Right now, the wind is changing. Time to trim the sail, and tack. I’ll sort the sail and then go and radio the other boat to tell them what we’re up to. They won’t be going back to the Island either.” “Aye, Aye, Captain Thom.” Victoria smiled at him and saluted. THE END

sqzw50

The Adventures of Jay

Act i: Asteroid I opened my eyes. My groggy eyes. Boy was I tired! I needed some coffee. Coffee and eggs. Yes, I need it now, or imma be in a bad mood. But wait, I feel so weightless. This doesn’t make sense. I ain't that light. I have been in the gym. Plus. Wife Number 1 says I’m getting bigger. Barnacles… “Yo Big Jay, why do you keep hitting your head against the wall?” Oh no, he’s on to me. It’s a nervous tick. I can’t tell him that. He’ll think I'm soft. I ain't toilet paper. I'm hard like a spelling test. “Jay, you know I can hear you. Look, come over here and eat. You’ve been out cold since yesterday.” I climbed my way past the windows that revealed the vast emptiness of space, oh the darkness, the moon that once was…. “Don’t you wonder if there’s even a point to all this?” I said, chewing on my stale ass crinkly ass nasty ass frozen snail doo-doo butt. “Yeah, I’ve been lost in my mind, jumping back and forth. I want my offspring to be something more than this world, yet what this world offers falls short of my dreams. What’s the point? I guess to feel alive.” Ron replied. “Sorry I zoned out, but I was talking about the control panels over there. Why is it green and black when they know my favorite color is orange? It just doesn’t make sense to me. I feel like I’m being stereotyped. This ain't cool.” I said. “Jay.” “Yeah.” “Shut the fuck up.” 5 hours later. “Oh I love you more bugaboo,” I said to Wife Number One. She has my children. I named them Child One and Child Two. “Oh I love you more bugaboo,” I said to Wife Number Two. She makes good food. Yummy chicken doo-doo butt. “Imma make it clap like a drum kit,” I said to my sneaky link. I laid there goggle-eyed, kicking my feet back and forth. Boy, wasn’t being an astronaut fun? “Jay, Vicky, and Ron,” come forth, we have a mission to complete. I locked in. It was time. No more Ronald Mcdonald playing around. We gathered at the headquarters, seated by the silverish machine, marked “John John.” John John said, “Good news and bad news. The bad: There is no other habitable planet in this universe. Our next best option will be Snickers Universe, but unfortunately, another team was assigned that mission. The good. There will be an asteroid passing by at 1307. It will have elements including gold, silver, and platinum. These resources are crucial for Earth 1302 to continue to survive. Our projections indicate that if we miss this supply drop, we’ll have to wait another 6 months- time we may not have.” I thought about my pet dog, Jay Jr. I did everything for him. “What can we do to make this mission a success?” “Glad you asked. Vicky and I will use our Asteroid Stopper 3000 and mark each destination for extraction. We will stop the asteroid’s movement for 1000 seconds. Afterward, we must detach, or risk being dragged with it as it continues its descent. Jay, and Ron, you will be retrieving the metals. You will need to split up. We will have two rovers waiting for you on the asteroid. This doesn’t feel smart at all. And this was my first mission. Boy, this can be dangerous. “Sure, captain, this will be light work.” “I’m not a captain nor a human, I’m an AI interface designed by John John of John John’s.” 2 hours later “Ron, don’t you think this is all moving fast.” “The hell are you talking about?” “I mean c’mon, we just colonized Earth 203 6 months ago…I just don’t get it, man. There’s gotta be a better alternative.” “If there was, y’know we wouldn’t be here.” “Well yeah, but I just..I don’t know, this responsibility is damning.” “Jay, you've trained 15 years for this. You’ve sacrificed everything. And look, everyone down there believes in us. Why can’t you believe in yourself?” “Ron, can I tell you something?” “Go for it.” “I cheated my way here, they had the answers to every test on the back of the book.” 25 minutes later “Alright Jay, Ron, you’ll be in separate regions approximately 1 km apart. Your departure will be synchronized. No bs. No wasted time. Straight business.” We fastened our helmets, lighting up our faces. I looked at Ron, the scar on his left cheekbone reflected across his screen, reminding me that anything could happen.  “See you soon,” I tapped Ron’s shoulder, accidentally bumping into his backside. “Soon.” “If anything malfunctions abort the mission. Stick to the fucking script.” 3 2 1 Go The zipline swiftly took us to our destination. “Doink,” I landed on the rocky terrain that was temporarily frozen in motion. I was only 100 meters from the target. 600 seconds remaining “Okay, I got the gold and titanium in my bag.” “Yeah, I’m ready to go too.” Let’s go. “Wait, something's off”, said Ron. “My clip. It’s gone.” “Code 132, Ron, you need to get back to us as soon as possible.” “I can't. My clip is gone. It’s gone. my clip.” 400 seconds “Ron, your clips are fine, just come back to us.” My mind began to swirl. My cheeks flushed. I bumped into Ron’s oxygen pack earlier. Could it be? Certainly not. “John-John, what’s his oxygen reading?” “Critically low,”  I jumped into my rover and sped toward him. “Jay, abort the mission. Abort the mission. Return to us immediately.” “Ron, we’re sending a drone to pick you up.” “It won’t get there in time,” I replied, turning off my com. 250 seconds I clipped Ron into his harness, sending him back to the spaceship with both backpacks. He’s safe. “John-John, Vicky, ETA for my destination.” “You have 200 seconds, please hurry.” My rover shuffled across the dirt, each meter ticking away. “Wait Jay, our readings have changed. The asteroid is somehow disabling our stopping mechanism “Psh-boom.” My rover veered left, crashing into a rock wall. I jumped out and ran the last 100 meters to my zipline. “Hurry up, Jay!” I reached for my harness with my left hand. I reached for the harness with my right hand. Where was it? I glanced back realizing it was still in my rover. “Jay, don’t worry we can-.” I turned off my intercom again and pulled out my knife. The asteroid was moving faster now. Snap, the zipline recoiled into the spaceship's direction. My palms grew hot. My face felt clammy. I wasn’t in pain though. I was at peace. I thought of Jay Jr one more time. Maybe there never was a point. But I sure lived like there was. Act ii: rescue The drone sputtered toward the man. His suit was scratched and battered. 2 hours later. The drone reached the spaceship where Vicky and Ron, who was already fully recovered, pulled Jay onto the spaceship. Jays eyes blinked open. “Jay Jr, I thought I’d never see you again.” Jay blinked again. “Wait your Ron, wait a sec.” He jumped up before withering back as the pain in his shoulder rang out. “Y’all saved me.” “The asteroid was moving at 3 m/s, you didn’t need to do any of that. Jay, please stop trying to be a hero.” Jay looked around before smiling, “You know what this made me realize?” “What?” “Stale ass crinkly ass nasty ass frozen snail doo-doo butt aint so bad after all.”

16ibkq

A Wolf In Sheep's Clothing

Just as the subway doors begin to close, I rush inside seconds before the train leaves Capitol Heights station. Sitting on a cold, hard aluminum seat, I feel the weight of a dozen pair of eyes examining me. I’m scared and trembling like a leaf. I still don’t belong, and I need to figure out why. Devious, that’s what my mother calls me. My biggest challenge at the moment is the daily battle to outmaneuver my government watchers. I realize this sounds crazy, but please, hear me out. I woke up as the first person ever to be taken out of a cryogenic freeze. The FBI informed me that I was a kidnap target of the Chinese and Russians. Obviously, the US government wants to keep their technology under wraps. However, I suspect the main reason the feds are monitoring me is to make sure I don’t jump off a bridge, or do anything else to embarrass big pharma and all their scientists. They have good reason to be worried. When I woke up, I shouted “WTF” non-stop for at least a week. It wasn’t as if I went to sleep happy with having stage four cancer. By summer 2020, the pain had become unbearable, and euthanasia seemed like an increasingly good option. The doctor proposed the new program, and being out of options, I agreed to become a human popsicle. A few days later, I said goodbye to my family and girlfriend, and that was that. In an instant, I saw my mother standing before my eyes, looking a decade older. After the doctors left us alone, we caught up on the major events: it was now 2026. Uncle Frank died of Covid. Kamala Harris was president. ChatGPT had solved cancer. The last one was wonderful news for me, my mom said. “You should celebrate this new life you’ve been given,” she said, attempting to calm me down my other concerns. The psychiatrist wanted to prescribe antipsychotics, which I declined. More about this later. After weeks of treatments at the Mayo Clinic in Fort Myers, they declared me as fit as a fiddle, as healthy as a 21-year-old, despite my passport stating I’m 27. The doctors got a laugh out of that. They say the best comedy is rooted in tragedy. I said my goodbyes, then flew back to DC to try to reclaim my old life. In the real world, apart from the obvious, I began paying attention to the little details. At the airport, they no longer had X-ray machines. Perhaps ChatGPT had solved terrorism too. Back home in our DC suburb, I settled into a routine. I’d have breakfast with mom, listen to a guided meditation app for 20 minutes to calm myself, then go outside to get reacquainted with the world. The Redbridge Cafe, which didn’t exist before, has become my home away from home. Where I feel the most comfortable. I order an oat milk latte from the barista in horn-rimmed glasses behind the counter. It’s a big day. It’s been 6 years for me, but it feels like just a few weeks. Today, I’m meeting Beth, my girlfriend, from, you know, before. Everyone reminds me that Beth isn’t my girlfriend anymore. She has moved on. For me, just a few weeks ago, she said, “We’ll see each other again. I’ll wait for you,” as she squeezed my hand. When Beth enters the cafe and waves, my heart skips a beat. When she sees me, she also studies me from head to toe. Since being the first person in America to be woken from cryopreservation, everyone looks at me like some oddity or circus performer. But I’m happy to see her. She has been cancelling every previous lunch saying it was raining, which was odd. I had to wait for a day of fine weather to arrive to Georgetown to finally meet her. After exchanging pleasantries, and avoiding the topic of her current boyfriend, I take the opportunity to review some facts about our recent history. “Some of my memories are a bit vague after, you know, my hibernation, so bear with me.” A lie, as I remember everything perfectly, but it gives me a chance to ask dumb questions. “Do you remember the time we went to prom in high school?” “No, I don’t,” Beth says. “Or that crazy toga party at GW?!” I chuckle. Beth’s eyes flicker with concern. “I will need to leave if this gets awkward.” She plays with her napkin, unfolding it into what could be a toga sized for a Barbie doll. “Sorry.” I should stick to safer topics. Ones that might tell me something. “How’s your grandma doing?” “Which one?” “Grandma Mix. The one in Minnesota.” “Her?! I don’t know. They’re crazy up there!” “But, you used to visit her every Christmas.” “Did I? I don’t remember ever saying that.” I’ve found a discrepancy in the timeline. Am I going to disappear like those characters in the Umbrella Academy? I pinch my arm, but nothing happens. It all feels so ordinary. “Well, we do have so much to catch up on. Is your favorite food still mac and cheese? They have a good one here.” “Yes,” she smiles. “I’m happy you still have a few brain cells.” “And you completed your veterinarian degree?” “Working at Southside Veterinarian Clinic. I love animals. They’re so similar to us.” Our lattes arrive. I take a sip, and bring up a weird topic I’ve been thinking a lot about lately, “With everything I’ve been through, lately I’ve been thinking about quantum physics, how it says there could be an alternate universe.” “Tell me about it.” “Like, maybe we are in a parallel universe from the real one:” “Are you any medication or anything right now?” she asks. “I’m fine. Never better.” I give her my warmest smile. She always likes my smile. “I’m in the news! First human ever taken out of the deep freezer. If you go out with me, you could be famous!” “Nice try. I do have a boyfriend. I’m a vet, not an Instagrammer.” The mention of Instagram reminds me she used to really like my sense of style. I can’t think about the right way to approach the subject without things getting awkward again. Every time I search for it into Google, I get absolutely nothing in the results. It’s like the subject simply doesn’t exist. ChatGPT gives me plenty of info about quantum physics, however. How the world we perceive is an illusion, and that the light we see with our eyes is just an echo of things that we can’t even imagine. A cloud of possibilities exists, and what we perceive is a lottery pick from the many possible results. I return to safe, easy topics, and we talk for what feels like an hour. Beth begins to loosen up. She’s still eyeing me as if I’m possibly deranged, but she starts to laugh at my jokes. I comment on her hair, and she tells me to keep my eyes from drifting downward. “I always loved how I could be myself around you, without having to hide behind a mask,” she says. “Let’s order lunch?” I suggest. This is going well. Maybe the boyfriend isn’t that serious. “Let’s!” “Mac & cheese, and a Caesar salad.” “Same.” The server types our order into his tablet. The doctor said that I should try to eat healthy. “And could I have my salad naked?” I ask. “What did you say?” The server tilts his head at me in confusion. “Naked.” “Sorry, sir. I don’t know that word.” “No problem. The normal way, then.” A few minutes later, a Caesar salad arrives, drenched in dressing. In fact, it’s dressed better than everyone else in the restaurant. I push myself closer to the table. I’ve learned it’s important not to spill. “Now, put yourself in my shoes–” I begin, only to notice a look of confusion on Beth’s face. A realization dawns upon me: being reborn into a world where clothes have never been invented may present more challenges than simply not getting dressed in the morning.

srn5c2

Cursed Claws

I dedicate the following entry to whomever may find this - whether I live for another hundred years or if the lynx I’m hunting kills me in the next few weeks. My name is Skreet Snickertooth. I’m two things if I’m anything: a brown rat and a detective on a losing streak. Every now and then when a case - or even just life itself - gets a little too crazy, I like to take a moment and mull things over. I find it usually helps me center myself and sometimes I find myself catching things I missed at first. I was definitely up to my rodent muzzle this time. How’d all this begin again? Oh, yeah... I was one of New Nottingham’s best investigators. The only rat with that title on the force. Rusty - my terrier partner - and I had cracked many cases together and were steadfast friends... until that one grisly murder spree. Several beasts of high social status were murdered in their own homes - a few even found in rooms locked from the inside. One such case brought us a lot of attention: Everyone from the urchins to the lords were eyeing us for answers. To make matters worse, that snoop-of-a-meerkat reporter - Amber - was making her own conclusions and painting us in a not-so-flattering light. That broad, I swear. Focus, Skreet. Rusty didn’t take one of her articles too well. The cases were pulling him in too deep. He turned to the Veilwinter wine that someone kept leaving for him. I did what I always do - obsess over the case. After a few weeks I uncovered the killer, one of our own in the constabulary: Margot, the lynx that worked in clerical. Unfortunately I was too late to catch her, and too late to stop her from killing a fellow constables on her way out. After that, Rusty quit the force but I vowed I would bring Margot in - even if I had to go outside my jurisdiction and - Gods above help me - outside the law. I tracked her down across oceans and continents to Vulane: A city of secrets upon secrets. A city where it’s always raining. Clandestine. Shadowy. Sleazy. Insane. Cursed. Entertaining. I got lost in its seductive song at first. Lost the trail. Things were a blur for a bit. Some nights I can’t even fully recall and sometimes they’re just flashes of images and feelings. It sets my whiskers to twitching. I know there was a lovely mink who called me by another name: ‘Rask.’ Apparently I had spent an evening in the ‘House of the Moon,’ the party manor of the vixen witch queen of Vulane herself: Selthia. I have no idea how I ended up there, or even what transpired. Guess I had too good a time. After I made my way through the haze of pleasures and mysteries, eventually I got back on task. Ran into Rusty again: A shell of his former self. A sad, small-time merchant addicted to the bottle. Hurt my heart to see him reduced to that. But to my surprise, after I’d lost a friend I found a new one: A big ol’ reptiloid, of all things. An escaped gladiator from Vulane’s fighting pits named Draknor. I also made a new acquaintance, Farah, the infamous ferret thief. Somehow the three of us combined our efforts to help each other, and each of us had a common grievance. A certain Lynx named Margot. But before we could really pursue her we ended up getting into each others’ business. Farah needed to resteal a clock and hide it and Draknor wanted his sword back. The gem in the pommel was magic or something. We learned where to look thanks to none other than Amber, who showed up recently. It also put us in the sights of Vulane’s patriarch, some crazy fox mage. We fled to the undercity, which is even more strange than the upper city - and that’s saying something! We had to fight through till we found a ladder up and into a storeroom. First thing we did was make sure the trapdoor we had just climbed out of was bolted shut, and for good Draknor rolled a barrel over the exit. I looked from Draknor, to Farah, to Amber. All of us were still catching our breaths from running and fighting for our lives from the horrors down below. Amber finally broke the silence. “Heard rumors about the Undercity.” the meerkat spoke as her eyes went to the trapdoor once again. “Imagine that, just below everyone’s paws.” I heard Farah chuckle from the dark corner she had instinctively slipped into. “If you only knew the secrets that lie just below our feet.” “Hurr,” Draknor growled, probably about to launch into a lecture about the things he’d seen before us mammals. I knew it was time to take charge of things before they spiraled even further out of control. “Alright, let’s see where we ended up. Only one way out of here.” I held one of my fighting sticks at the ready, slipping the other in my belt. They had served me well so far. Draknor started to go first but I halted him. “I don’t think you should go first, big guy. I’ll go.” “Right behind you mister rat,” Farah declared as she took position behind me, her muzzle plastered with that infuriating grin. “And I’ll be behind her,” Draknor growled. Amber looked to the trapdoor again. “I, uh, suppose I’ll bring up the rear.” ... Amber's Parchment™ delivers the juiciest tales from the depths of the unholy citystate of Vulane straight to your waiting paws. Today's edition is filled with scandalous secrets and sordid affairs that will make your fur stand on end and your whiskers twitch with excitement. So grab your copy, dear readers, and prepare to delve into the underbelly of the City of Secrets with me, Amber the Meerkat: your trusted reporter on all things scandalous in Vulane. As many of my readers recall, I detailed the use of a strange magic sword at the docks: a sword that was once property of a certain reptiloid gladiator that escaped the fighting pits. In point of fact, I tracked down that very gladiator as well as a somewhat capable ferret thief, along with a rat detective far from his jurisdiction. Exclusive interviews to follow! But first, imagine the rumors of the horrific undercity. It exists, and it’s right below your paws dear reader! In the line of delivering the freshest news to you, I nearly lost my life down there, but it was what I and my compatriots found after making our escape that I am detailing here. We found ourselves in a storeroom and - appointing himself leader - the rat made his way up the ladder, followed by the ferret. I brought up the rear after the reptiloid. The detective flung the door open with a worn-but-sturdy fighting stick in hand, and one by one we filed out a heavy, wooden door and found ourselves in a— ... —Cold, dark cellar. Seemingly the cellar of some vast, mammalian brewery or winery or some such thing. These warmbloods love their brews. There were some quick discussions as we made our way through the darkness, but eventually - as always happens in this cursed city - we ran into trouble. The curving halls of barrels and stone walls hid enemies as well. Too small for me to swing my newly-recovered blade, I had to watch as my new rat friend fended off the fiends - more creatures from the abyss with glowing red eyes. One of them - some revenant or other kind of undead - caught my tiny companions off guard, scratching the rat and ferret with its cursed claws before I could assist. The low ceiling - low for myself in any case - thwarted my attempts to help. But I still had the claws and strength granted to me by the draconic goddess. I managed to seize one of the horrors and slam it into the wall repeatedly until it was but bone dust. The meerkat hung back as if observing things but when one of those undead creatures lunged for her she managed to use its momentum against it and throw it against the floor. I brought my feet down upon the creature and heard the sickening crunch of bone breaking. I could barely maneuver. My movements were restrained by the walls and my attacks sluggish. But I was doing the best I could. I felt pain in my side as one of the creatures managed to get in my guard, I spun my hips and my tail bashed it against the wall. ... Why can’t a ferret thief like me catch a break? The fiend’s claws - some kind of glowing-eyed feline - had gotten past my leathers, and the chill I felt I knew I had more than blood loss to worry about. My pendant protected me from most curses and magic... did that mean I would have to keep it on forever now? Or had the nature of the attack circumvented it? Gah, this is why I hate magic. Anyways, I had more pressing concerns, using my shortsword and handaxe I managed to re-kill some of those creatures. A gurgle to my right and another dead beast was lunging for me, I used my shortsword to cut off the grasping hands, and my handaxe to destroy the skull. Skreet was doing his best with those sticks, and Draknor was just brute forcing his way through them. Finally though it seemed we had seen the last of the undead creatures. My eyes were heavy and I staggered up the rickety staircase, Skreet, Amber, and Draknor close behind. I flung the door open weapons at the ready and found we were on the ground floor where more kegs were stored. I staggered towards main door and axed it open. “You’re obviously injured,” my huge draconic friend said. “You don’t say,” I replied. “Those claws were cursed,” Skreet grunted as he clutched at his own wound. “We have to do something,” my rival - the little meerkat - stated. “What about the witch queen we met earlier? She might know something.” “Hells no,” I said, wheezing, holding my wound on my forearm. “To be in debt to her ? No no no.” “Agreed,” Draknor rumbled. “I was enslaved to her once already.” I saw Skreet’s maw open and close as if his detective mind had made a revelation, but it was time for me to salvage this. “I know someone. Just follow my directions.” Draknor picked me and Skreet up and balanced us on the shoulders as if we were but kits to him. With that we sped through the rain soaked streets. I took great satisfaction in seeing Amber scurrying to try and keep up. It took us some turns and twists but I knew I could find Grisha’s place even while being carried. … In all my years as a detective I’ve had many brushes with death, but that moment in the storehouse with thos undead guards or whatever they were was one of the worst. I felt a chill of darkness coursing through my body, probing it and trying to shut it down. My mind was fogged over but I heard Draknor speak of being enslaved to the Witch Queen herself. I had already suspected that given our encounter with those thugs but a few days ago. I awoke to drinking some foul tasting liquid that a hyena woman was forcing me to drink, I could see her eyes were both milky. She was blind. “There, there, drink it all down.” she said softly as if she were bottle feeding a cub. She spoke to Farah who was sitting nearby with a potion in her paws as well. “You always get into such trouble Farah. Grisha expects you to bring her a pretty pretty bauble for this.” “You know I will, Grisha.” Amber sat on the counter of the shop I found myself in, and Draknor watched the door, arms folded. I took a breath, I knew this wasn’t the last time I’d be close to death. Soon as my paws had feeling in them again I was going to make a journal entry about all of this. Just as I suspect Amber was going to make her own account of things. I looked at the calendar on Grisha’s wall. A week had passed? But we had only been down below the previous night! I couldn’t dwell on it. But we were no longer any closer to catching Margot. Actually, maybe we had a lead.

uirhu3

The Fox Beyond the Thicket

Nestled within the lush expanse of Richmond Park, amidst ancient trees and the camouflage of bushes, lay my family's den. It was here, under the shelter of the area's shrubbery, that we slept, rested, and played. “Alder, we mustn’t lag. Safety in unity, remember?” my father called, his patience for exploration waning. I tore my gaze from a butterfly perched atop a nearby common yarrow bush and followed him through the enclave leading to our den. Our hunting expedition had proved successful; we nibbled on various prey as we meandered along the park's perimeter and even brought back a rabbit for those unable to join. Fortuitously, the park, teeming with wildlife, offered our pack a stable life—a fact my father cherished deeply. Though this park teemed with humans too, they kept at bay should we be around on a spring day. My auburn fur grazed the leaves, slightly washing out the sheen it had under the moon's gaze. Birds began their morning chirps as the first rays of daylight cast intricate patterns on the ground. I leapt between them, playing with the shadows and light. "Alder," my father chided again, his patience thinning. "Sorry," I mumbled, receiving a soft nod in return. In no time at all, with the family now full, we all lay down to rest. Though nocturnal by nature, our adventures in the park were not bound by day or night but by necessity. Recently, as the days had warmed, our ventures had proved more fruitful in replenishment. However, to me, they had become mundane. As one of the pack's youngest, I usually followed my father, but as I closed my eyes, dreams of solitary exploration beckoned me strongly beyond his vigilant watch. A recent memory nudged at these dreams—a gate leading beyond the park's embrace, its window showing a world bathed in light so unlike the subdued glow of park lamps, promising a world of more . And so, my interest piqued and the instinct to explore fuelled, I had dashed forward in wonder that night. In response to that act had come my father’s scolding voice. A theme in my relatively short life. So, in protest to that, he received an eye roll back. But a startling cacophony shattered the peace of dreams and adventure—a sound so alien, it clawed at my very soul, urging for the simplicity of cubhood; of being deaf, blind and ignorant to the world. All of us jumped at the adjoining sounds of human shouts. My eyes, round and big as an owl, were redirected to my guardian father. But the eyes that stared back at me were not ones of assertiveness, but rather ones of uncertainty. This image ingrained itself in my mind. For, in that moment, I knew things would irrevocably change. All my father said was, “Run.” And so, I did. With a manic rush, all of us dashed away from the noise. My legs carried me, fuelled by instinct. I ran as if my life depended on it. Perhaps, it just might have. Being a younger fox, my familiarity with the park was adequate, but the unexpectedness of that morning had wrought confusion on me. Where do I go? Where do we all meet? What is our contingency plan should anything go wrong? Such teachings had never been imparted to me, possibly overlooked by the pack. My father's look of fear echoed in my mind. So lost was I in contemplation that I nearly missed the break in the park's boundary. For in front of me lay an open path to the world beyond. The glittering black gates from days ago stood steadfast and impossibly grander than before. My curiosity, once restrained by my father's caution, now surged unbridled. Without a second thought, I sprinted forward, crossing the threshold into the unknown. I crossed the boundary and stepped on the walkway beyond, only to be met with a cyclist heading straight for me. A two-second difference would have meant a spectacular clash had I not reacted quickly, the thrill of my actions embedding a steady flow of adrenaline around my small body. I darted into the cacophony of the city and a stream of honks, shouts, and the roar of engines surrounded me. I was amazed my ears had not popped at the sounds. I fled until the sounds dimmed, finding solace in the shadow of an alley. “Tut, tut, tut, you’re causing quite the stir out there little one,” a voice meowed my way. I froze, every fur on edge, as my eyes scanned the darkness, landing on a sleek, shadow-cloaked figure with eyes that glinted like moonlight on water. It stepped forward, revealing itself to be an old, wise-looking cat. "Name’s Percy," he purrs, his tone carrying the weight of many unseen worlds. "You're far from the thicket, young fox," Percy began, his tone neither accusing nor condescending. "The city is no friend to our kind, but it teaches valuable lessons to those willing to learn." "Really? Tell me everything! What's it like, exploring all those lights and shadows?" My enthusiastic tone seemed to have made Percy take a fancy, as he sat before me and started licking a paw, casually. After a couple of beats and the whispers of human conversation beyond the alley, Percy settled into a story that made the shadows around seem less daunting. "You see," he started, his voice weaving the night around us into a tapestry of adventure, "the city's not just concrete and chaos. It's a stage for the curious and the brave. Like the time I outsmarted a band of raccoons during a midnight feast. Picture this—I was the lone cat against a gang of the cleverest critters, all vying for the same prize." I found myself drawn into Percy's world, vividly imagining myself darting through the dangers and delights of the urban jungle alongside him. His stories painted a life of daring exploits and narrow escapes, of silent alliances formed under the cover of night. They were alive, pulling me into each moment, making me feel the pulse of the city, the thrill of discovery, and the satisfaction of a challenge met. But as the night stretched on, the laughter began to fade from Percy's voice. "But not all tales have triumphant endings," he admitted, his gaze growing distant. "The city, for all its marvels, harbours shadows deeper than the night itself. I once had a family, much like yours, nestled in the warmth of companionship. But the city claimed them, one by one, with its hidden dangers—dangers I had foolishly underestimated, caught up in the thrill of the chase." The silence that followed was heavy, charged with the weight of Percy's loss. A tightness gripped my chest, his stories transforming from thrilling adventures into cautionary tales, underscored by the reality of his solitary existence. "It's not kindness, this solitary life," Percy continued, locking eyes with me. "The city teaches hard lessons to those who walk its paths alone." In his gaze, I saw not just the glimmer of wisdom but the depth of honesty and the ache of longing for something irrevocably lost. At that moment, I understood. The allure of adventure, the excitement, the unknown—it all paled in comparison to the warmth of family, the safety of the thicket, and the bonds that tied me to my own kind. Percy's stories, once windows to a world of endless possibilities, now mirrored a simple truth: the greatest adventure lay in cherishing those who journey with us. With a heart heavy yet clear, I made my decision. I stood, my gaze lingering on Percy, filled with gratitude for the wisdom shared in the quiet of the alley. "Thank you, Percy," I murmured, "for showing me the world through your eyes. It's time I returned to mine." Turning away, I felt the pull of home guiding my steps. The city, with all its mystery and majesty, faded into the background, a chapter in my story marked by the wisdom of a cat named Percy and a night that would forever shape my path. Guided, as if by Percy's spirit, I found my way back to the thicket of Richmond Park. My heart, a tempest of emotions and revelations, yearned for the familiar comfort of my family. The park welcomed me with open arms, its scents and sounds enveloping me warmly. I approached the den, my steps light yet determined. There, as if knowingly waiting, was my father. Our eyes met, and in that silent exchange, there was a torrent of fear, relief, and unspoken questions. Yet, as I stepped forward, the tension that once might have crackled in the air between us dissipated, replaced by something softer, more profound. And, in that moment, I knew. I knew this was exactly where I wanted to be. Surrounded by the pack. Home.

zfl6oc

It Was Never Going to Be My Life

I don’t know what made me do it—climbing that mountain trail in the middle of winter in British Columbia. It was not my home or province. If only my life could be more simple. Born in China, I was shipped to Canada for twenty thousand dollars to be adopted by well-meaning but clueless Canadians. Two of them were needed to hatch the plot: an unwanted female baby from some low-income family in an obscure Chinese province who had to live in Ontario before she even knew her own country or her biological parents; what a story for a podcast! Except that it was me and my life! # I had extra work every day with lessons after school. I never had any long-lasting friends. Sure, the kids would be over for my birthday parties. But if I had a sleepover, no one talked about it! I was never the center of attention, except for how my parents spent so much money buying everything I wanted. My former best friends would talk about how they were thrown over for the next “bestie,” and why I would ditch my friends all the time was something I never had an answer for. Only my teachers thought about what they would say to me before they opened their mouths. They would see me coming, their fake smiles hiding what they thought. And who could blame them? My mother would write endless notes in my agenda about every little thing that happened in my classroom, insisting upon meeting with the teacher or even the principal about any problems, no matter how trivial. I figured this out only much later. They spent twenty thousand dollars to adopt me. Did they want their money’s worth? I hated school. Why is life so hard? Why can’t I be like everyone else? # “You think we’d get a break!” yelled Dufus over the howling wind. He had his evening all lined up: a couple of pals to watch the game and a few beers. Live ice hockey was being streamed on such a night, and now he was skating through temperatures so low that his snowshoes, like miniature nets, sifted a sea of blinding whiteness. “Dufus!” replied Ellen. “You signed up for this, didn’t you? Mountain Rescue Volunteer! It’s not like you are getting paid!” “So I can only complain when I’m with the Coast Guard?” “You can complain all you want, but it won’t help you get that job, will it?” Dufus sighed. He unloaded his pack with all his rescue gear from his car and started down the trail—the one Ellen was already on, the one disappearing with every step he took. #  I'm all grown up now and so over my stupid parents! They wonder why I never call, yet they send me money to travel everywhere. Even during the pandemic, I was here in beautiful British Columbia, soaking up the sun and posting pictures and videos on all the social media.  Social Influencer. I like that name. You cannot call yourself a social influencer; it’s a name that others give you. But I’ve earned it. For once, I’m getting the attention I want, and so what if it hardly pays and I have to work odd jobs and save constantly? Eventually, I’ll be famous, and everyone will hear about me. At the hotel, I threw everything into my bag. The day was beautiful and sunny. My rainproof anorak seemed like enough for the cold. Not a parka, to be sure, but adequate. Doesn’t British Columbia have rainy winters? # Dufus had to lean on his knees momentarily and hide his face from the wind. It was only his second outing. Ellen was a regular, and he was only filling in—a newbie. He remembered his training and shuddered at the thought that if someone is not adequately dressed in a mountain snowstorm of this magnitude, their survival can be measured in the low single-digit hours and even minutes . As for this cold, even when prepared, it was mind-numbing. Cold affects the brain directly, impairing judgement just like it did for people who died in the North Atlantic after the sinking of the Titanic. He would ask a simple question that would stump people at parties: What is the worst pain you have ever known that everyone in northern latitudes experiences? Answers would include car accidents, giving birth, and breaking bones. Then, he would have to remind people that he meant the pain that everyone experiences. Only one or two party-goers would get it right, and the rest would look around the room without a clue. Of course, extreme cold was that pain. Then it was on to the punchline: Could anything else drive hundreds of thousands of Canadians to winter in Florida? Ellen trudged back to see him, a look of concern on her face. “Hey there, MacDuff! We’re not halfway through this! Buck up, will ya?” Dufus stood up with a wry grin. “If I stay close, you’ll shield me from the wind.” Ellen laughed. “You’ll have to catch me first!” # This was one for the record books—beautiful sun and sweeping vistas of rock and forest. I took B roll and several selfies using a small collapsible tripod and a Bluetooth shutter. I even saw wildlife, a fox, and two rabbits! So sensible, too. I started back at 3:00 PM. However, it was a little concerning that my whole trip started to look deceptive. The sun hides the cold. I saw that I was above the elevation where precipitation would freeze. Although there wasn’t much snow on the ground, if a storm hit, it wouldn’t be rain that I would have to deal with. First, it was the wind. It brewed up in seconds—literally. One moment, it was peaceful and calm, and the next, I was battling to keep my anorak down over my sweater! Then, the snow whipped across the ridge lines, looking like an aerial avalanche. It stung my eyelids and found its way everywhere: the folds of my backpack, between my hood and neck. Why didn’t I bring at least a scarf? # “Control, this is Ellen. We’ve arrived! Do you have anything from that cell phone?” Ellen waited on the radio for a few seconds. “Control?” Dufus sighed. “If we were in the military, we’d have something to track her cell phone. We’d be onto her by now.” Ellen motioned with her hand for quiet. A thin, distant voice then crackled. “Uh, negative, Ellen. Proceed as planned.” # It’s getting so cold and dark. I can’t cry because I'd have to take my mitts off to wipe my face. Which way is back to where I started? Where is everyone? Now I’ve hurt myself tumbling a little way down off a ridge. This is no joke. It's getting serious. I got my cell out, wiping the screen with a wet mitt, afraid the wind and snow might affect it. Here I am, giving travel advice to thousands, and I can’t stay safe. How embarrassing! And worse, who do I call? Do I surf for the numbers for the local fire department or the police, or call 911? I called my boyfriend. “Ned, I’m lost! My cell is so low on battery. All those videos and pictures I took!” “Where are you?” “Howe Sound Crest Trail in Cypress Provincial Park, north of Van! I don’t know who else to call!” “I'll call around and get people to help you!” “Please! I have to go. My cell phone is dying.” “You’ll be alright. Love you!” “Bye. I’ll call back if I can.” # “This is the worst ever!” Dufus yelled at Ellen, who was still a few steps ahead. “Nah! It’s not the worst I’ve seen. You should have been here five years ago. We lost someone and nearly lost a team!” “I can barely see five feet in front of me! How are we going to find this girl?” “We have to try,” answered Ellen. # There are so many things to think about. It's better to stay in one spot and wait to be found. I was starting to feel warmer and more comfortable. Then, my spirit took flight. I couldn’t be happier, not a care in the world. You never know how much life has to offer until you live it on your terms, set your own rules, and be the master of your fate. I do it for everyone! I am finally free!

jl60ag

wings.

Myia threw her bag into her trunk and dropped into her car with a sigh of relief that she had survived the day. And that everyone else in her office had as well. She loves her co-workers and her job on most days but today had tried her patience. She was inches from an explosion of frustration and luckily everyone else had slid out of the office before she was ready to leave so she didn’t have to talk to anyone on her way out to the parking lot. She looked at her watch and read her daughter Teddy’s text: w here are you, Mom? Please hurry. She started the engine, responded that she had been hung up in a meeting with the mayor and swung quickly out of the nearly empty parking lot. Teddy was patient with her mom’s work schedule and if she was asking her mom to hurry, it must not have been a good day for her either. Myia blew through three yellow lights as they slid to red, praying that the local police weren’t looking for an easy ticket, and pulled up in front of the red brick high school. One of the black metal doors swung open and her daughter approached the car with her head down. She chucked her backpack, with some force, into the back seat. Teddy was in her AP year and the backpack thudded with the weight of her books. When Teddy got in, her eyes were red and there were tear stains on her shirt. Myia knew not to push Teddy. She would open up when she was ready. All she said was “Hi hon” and she sped toward home. Myia was standing in the kitchen over the stove in the same outfit she had worn to work. She worked for the city and she had been there for nearly seventeen years now. It wasn’t amazing money but it helped pay the house payment and the extras so they could put her husband Tayar’s paycheck in the investment account. They were desperate to be able to retire early so they could travel together. Myia turned on her music. She needed to dance this day out of her mind. Teddy had spread out on the kitchen table with her laptop and her sound cancelling headphones. She wasn’t ready to share her day yet. Teddy pretended to hate her mom’s music and always had to be prepared with her Bose to look like she was tuning it out. Sometimes, she didn’t even have anything playing and she had the right one far enough back to be able to hear her mom’s music. She would always give her mom an annoyed grunt before singing with her in the kitchen or the car. Teddy needed to get her chemistry homework done and study for her history exam. Her mom was now dancing at the stove, and she rolled her eyes at her but laughed internally. Most of her friends complained about their moms but Teddy was a fan of hers. She loved being able to say anything to her mom; her mom never yelled. Her mom loved to dance on her frustrating days. Clearly, it was a tough day all around. Myia was pan frying the ground beef; she had done it so many times that she could keep cooking and be a million miles away. She was glancing out the window over the sink to the expanse of green lawn and thinking that they needed to plan a trip. She and Tayar had been hording vacation days, but they never really got away. Her back was to the front door when she heard the garage door go up and descend again. They should get that fixed. It was old and threatening to come off track. It was a long couple of minutes before she heard the door close to Tayar’s car. He often returned texts before he came in so he could give his wife his undivided attention while she told him about her day. He enjoyed how Myia told stories about her office. He wondered how she was able to get any work done with all the excitement happening in the lives of her tight-knit office. The way she told stories was one of his favorite things about her. He would come into the kitchen first and ask her about her day. He would often join her at the stove to help with dinner. His law office was stressful and intense, so their turnover was high. He was on his third paralegal assistant this year and he was weary with training new employees in the process. It slowed him down and lengthened his hours. He was going in earlier and earlier these days. It took him longer than normal to come from the garage to the front door. She heard the chimes from the Ring doorbell announce his presence. His key turned in the lock and the hinges of the old screen door squealed as it opened and banged to a close and shuttered to a stop. They needed to replace that too. It wasn’t a matter of finances but of time to get all the trivial things done. Both had been spending a half day on Saturday at the office to catch up. Myia went to pause her music, but Tayar did not come into the kitchen like he normally did, he grunted a hello and set his work bag down in the hall. Tayar went straight to the living room and turned the tv on. He collapsed on the couch. Myia stepped into the room behind the couch. Tayar’s head was bent, and he wasn’t even looking at the tv. She felt like she was losing him a piece at a time. That’s it. She said to herself. This family needs a wings day. ** Myia knocked on her husband’s office door. He opened it slowly and looked surprised to see her. “Hi.” He grabbed her hand. “My, is everything okay?” “I think we need a wings day. Can you come with me?” Tayar’s eyes widened in surprise. He looked back at his desk which was covered with half-finished work and yellow post-it notes about what needed to be done next. His phone was blinking red with unreturned phone messages. He looked back at Myia. He broke into a huge grin. Myia knew she was right about her choice because she had not seen that smile in weeks. Tayar unlocked his top desk drawer, swept all the papers covering his desk into the drawer and locked it afterwords. He was already undoing his tie and taking off his suit jacket as he took her hand and headed toward the front door of his office. “Are you already loaded?” he asked. “They are in the trunk.” She responded. She handed her phone to Tayar and asked him to find them a soundtrack. The music was shaking the windows of her car when they pulled up in front of the high school. Teddy looked worried when she saw both of them standing in the office straight-faced when she returned with the student who had gone to pull her out of class. Myia whispered in her ear. “We decided it is a wings day.” “Really?” Teddy asked. She matched her father’s goofy grin. They all but ran back to their car. ** They were the only car in the parking lot of Oaklawn park. They opened the trunk and pulled out each of their personalized kites and flying outfits that Myia had packed. They change quickly out of their work and school clothes into comfortable jeans and a sweatshirt. They lay out each of their kites on the expanse of grass. The sky was blue and waiting for their lift off. Myia, Tayar, and Teddy slid their arms into the wings of each kite and rose to their feet. They looked at one another and nodded. They began to run down the gentle slope until the wind caught their wings. Tayar struggled to lift off the ground. He was usually the first in the air. Myia saw him stumble back onto the grass and tilt to earth bending his right wing at an odd angle. She had not lifted completely so she bent toward the grass and landed as near as she could to Tayar with her own wobbled landing. Teddy, who was just in the air, circled uncleanly and landed with a tottering, unbalanced landing. She dropped her kite and came over to see if both her parents were okay. Both were laughing at their messy attempt. They hadn’t had this much trouble since their first flight when Teddy was seven years old and had a much smaller kite. “What happened?” she asked as she joined their laughter. “Is something off balance?” “This feels like a metaphor.” He chuckled. “Our LIVES are off balance.” He wiped the laughter tears from his face. “No wonder I can’t get off the ground. How did I expect to fly today?” Myia looked Tayar in the face and took his hand. “I think we’ve been working too hard. And I think maybe you need to get a different job?” she asked. “At the very least, we need to take better care of us.” Teddy was nodding. “Today is a beginning. We need this. Let’s do more wing days!” They straightened Tayar’s kite. Luckily, the landing had not damaged anything permanently. They made some minor repairs and alterations. All three of them strapped on their wings and they went back to the top of the hill to try again. It took two more tries before they found the magic they needed. Their take-off was flawless and the three of them took flight. At the precise moment as before, they dipped their wings and escaped into another time. They landed in the field of yellow rapeseed. Their feet landed perfectly, and they walked to a stop and as the sun was setting. Their old friends had seen them approaching and had left their cottage to come and see their favorite neighbors. The grey-haired Merlene and her husband Loyal were holding hands and waiting for them at the gate when they approached. “It has been so long!” She hollered as they neared them. She grabbed Myia in a strong embrace. “You scallywags! You didn’t send word that you were coming.” Myia smiled at her dearest friend. “It was a last-minute thing. Time has gotten away from us. We have so much to tell you.” “How have you been?” Loyal asked as his handshake with Tayar became a one-armed embrace. “Actually, I could really use your advice Loyal. I’m thinking of changing my job.” Loyal nodded, “I’d be happy to help you talk it out.” Merlene had her arms around Teddy and Loyal joined her on the other side. “And look how tall this one has grown!” They led them into the cottage for tea and biscuits. They talked all evening and enjoyed dinner together. They gathered their kites from the field and folded them down in the yard. Merlene begged them to spend the night. She perpetually had the guest room ready “just in case.” She made Teddy a bed on the couch with sheets and blankets, Myia, and Tayar snuggled into the queen size bed down the hall. This is the most relaxed they had both felt in months. Maybe years. “I’m glad we did this. Thank you for being willing to come.” Myia said to Tayar. “I needed to do this. I’m so glad you thought of it.” He pulled her closer to him. “Do you think maybe we should stay? We could make a life here.” Myia considered the question. “My only fear is Teddy. This isn’t the life we wanted for her until she was old enough to decide on her own. We have a couple more years before I think it is fair to ask her to leave the world she knows.” “You’re right.” He sighed. “But we need to do things better. We are killing ourselves and for what?” “I agree. I meant what I said. If you want to quit your job, we can make it work. We have savings and time for you to find something else.” “I can’t believe, I couldn’t even take off with my wings.” “That speaks volumes about how off things are with our life. We should come back here more.” Myia promised. “Yes, we should. I’ve missed talking to Loyal about my life.” “We’ll be better.” ** Myia, Tayar, and Teddy shared breakfast with Merlene and Loyal and got ready to head home. They offered them a room if they would like to come back to the other time. Loyal was desperate to get in the air again but Merlene would hear nothing of it. She had no intention of putting on her wings again. Loyal would not go without her. They walked them to the hill at the top of the field and watched them go. This time they were successful on the first launch. ** They landed in the early morning dew on the grass and slid to a stop. There was a parking ticket on their car from the city for being in the parking lot overnight. Myia thought she could pull some strings in her office to get it removed from their record. They played hooky for one more day from their jobs and school. That evening, they stood in the kitchen together telling the story of their much needed flight.  A star was on the calendar for their next wings day. With a promise they wouldn’t let themselves get this rusty at flying again. They turned on some music and danced while Myia made dinner. And talked about what it might look like to build a place next to Merlene and Loyal after Teddy’s graduation. And make retirement a permanent situation. 

r2w5w4

Dragonfly

“Dragonfly come in, Dragonfly we read catastrophic failures in the crew deck, propulsion, life support, and guidance, do you read?” The crackly voice asks. Mission control has lost communication only a week after leaving the lunar surface on its way to Mars. The first manned rocket with solar sails that give it the look of a Dragonfly had performed flawlessly on numerous missions, until now. Sirens blare, and warnings sound. Inside the ship, debris floats aimlessly here and there bumping into panels and a member of the crew floats motionless having become a part of the chaos. Outside the rear section containing the crew quarters has been laid open by an errant meteor, not even one of the many meteors they were tracking. The crew still belted into their bunks, exposed to the harshness of space, gone in an instant. One Science officer, Deke Lasiter was not in that section, he had drawn the short straw and had to reconfigure the guidance system. A procedural job, everyone hated, but that had to be done to ensure a proper path to the destination. “Dragonfly come in, Dragonfly we read catastrophic failures in the crew deck, propulsion, life support, and guidance, do you read?” The crackly voice asks again. The forward section has been badly damaged, however it is intact and could support life. He floats aimlessly bumping into panels, blood drips from a gash in his temple, pools, and floats away to paint the panels and windows around him. “Dragonfly come in, anybody!”Dragonfly, do you read?” The crackly voice asks.”I don’t think there are any survivors...” The crackly voice states with their microphone on for all of the mission control to hear. “Hal! Take it off speaker!” Screams Director Dan worried that the worst has been revealed. Hushed whimpers and cries ripple through the rows of tables and monitors and reach the sparsely attended family center. Most of the family have gone back to their lives, two years without their loved ones they mistakenly thought was the only obstacle needed yet to overcome. “Ugh.” Sounds over mission controls speakers. “Dragonfly! Is that you?” asks Hal as he turns away from Dan pulled back from the brink of despair over a failed mission. “Huh, what? Ouch, that hurts...” “Dragonfly are you there, I hear you!” Excitedly Dan covers the microphone and yells for silence. “What is Dragonfly? Who are you? What is going on?” he asks weary, beginning to regain consciousness. Mission control erupts in applause, and cheers of joy at this glimpse of hope, a gift from God so antithetical to what is displayed on their monitors. Hope has a way of putting blinders on a person, in this case, it was thirty-five, none of whom is seeing the horrific reality unfolding on the incoming video feeds. “This is Nasa control, is this the Mars mission Dragonfly?” Hal asks, then turns to his director to verify that it could only be them on the other end of the transmission. “It’s direct, it has to be them...” The director explains. “It sounds like he doesn’t know who he is?” He regains his composure while others thousands of miles away argue in his ear as to who he is and why he is acting so strange. He floats over to a window and looks out at the glorious pattern of stars ahead, and the small red dot that seems to loom on the horizon. He gazes into the vastness of space without a clue what he is looking at, or where he is. Something around his neck floats up incessantly, tickling his nose, a bother. It touches him again, and he grabs the gold cross around his neck, turns to inspect, and is mesmerized by the only familiar object he has seen since he opened his eyes. Why does this cross fill him with so much peace, what does it mean? As he stares at it he recalls a name, the only name within the muddled mess of his mind, Jesus. With Hal begging for him to respond he fixates on the one familiar thought he has had since he opened his eyes, he is comforted to know that it is God. “But who am I?” he asks “You are Deke Lasiter, Astronaut and science officer of Dragonfly the mission to Mars.” The crackly voice explains. “Who are you?” Deke asks, “Are you God?” Hal is shocked by the question, stunned into silence, and confused as to how to answer him. A damage report is handed to the director and the news is not good. Dragonfly has no propulsion, it is off course and the forward section will only have enough oxygen for another hour. Dragonfly is dead, and the last remaining member of her crew will be soon. The communications director, Hal Young unable to think of something to say walks up to the director, Dan Miller with a somber look on his face. “What is it, Hal?” Dan asks. “I think he has amnesia, he doesn’t know who or what he is.” “What the hell do you mean?” Dan asks. “He doesn’t know who he is, he thinks I’m God!” Hal explains. Sitting at the back watching the saddest moment in Nasa history unfold before him Chaplain Garret feels he has to act. Normally he gives the blessing for the voyage and sticks around a couple days to comfort worried family members, and then isn’t needed anymore. But it seems that God has plans for him today, as Hal and Dan argue in front of him about how to proceed, he walks up and interrupts. “Who is that woman in the family center?”Chaplain Garret asks. “Who...” Dan asks turning to look before his face dropped and went blank. “There is a woman in the family center, is that Deke’s wife, or girlfriend?” Chaplain Garret wonders. “No...Deke’s wife Helen died over ten years ago.” Hal explained. “Is this mission a failure?” Chaplain Garret asks bluntly, turning to the two men staring at the sullen woman. “What Pastor?” Hal asks, lost wondering. “Can you save him!” He exclaims getting their attention. “No Pastor the ship is too far damaged, we couldn’t mount a rescue in time. Deke Lasiter will die in space along with the rest of his crew.” Dan explains. “If the man gets some semblance of peace thinking you are God, let him think you are God! Let his last moments alive be peaceful.” Chaplain Garret suggests grabbing Hal by the shoulder. “You want me to lie to him in his last moments, Pastor?” “I want you to give the man some...” “God? You there? Look, I don’t know what is going on, and I don’t know why I am here... I’m alone. It’s so lonely here, I don’t understand what is happening to me.” he begs for a sign. “What do you want me to do?” Hal asks looking to Dan for guidance. “God, please I’m scared, I need you. Please God tell me what I have done? Speak to me.” He pleads heavy with emotion. “Dan?” “Do it.” Hal turns and places his hand on the button to his headset but pauses, then he turns, tears flowing down his cheeks. “Pastor, would you do this? I don’t think I can.” Hal asks. “Of course Hal, Give me the headset.” Chaplain Garret awkwardly puts on the headset, settles himself, and takes a breath, “You there my child?” “Yes Lord, I am here. Can you tell me what is happening to me?” he pleads. “You are on your way to heaven, Your name is Deke, Deke Lasiter and I have called you home to be with me, and those who love you.” Garret proclaims. “Why don’t I remember?” “Don’t you worry about that, prepare yourself to be in heaven with me.” There is a long silence before he speaks again, during that time reports that the nuclear engine that powers Dragonfly is in overload and will explode at any moment. “What is heaven like Lord?” “Beauty beyond anything you have ever seen, peace that you have never experienced, and love so rich you will not harbor feelings like hate or greed anymore. Soon you will be here and soon I will show you the wonders of heaven.” The Chaplain explains as tears cascade down his face. “I can feel something, Lord! An energy flowing through me.” “That’s the energy pulsating from the engine about to blow!” Dan whispers. “Find yourself a comfortable place my son and soon it will be over, and you will be with me.” “Lord?” “Yes.” “Thank you.” “For what?” “I was frightened when I first opened my eyes, not knowing anything about who I was or where I was confused me. But you came to me, my cross touched my lips, a kiss to let me know I was not alone, so thank you,” he confesses. “I had to get your attention somehow, didn’t I?” Garret smiles. “Oh my God...” The transmission from Dragonfly abruptly cuts off, and every eye in Mission Control is tearful. Chaplain Garret turns as the director confirms his fears, The engine has exploded and nothing is left. “Do you think there is a heav...” Dan begins to ask. “Beautiful Helen...” Sounds over the speakers in mission control. “I thought it exploded!” Dan demands scrambling to see if they had made a mistake. “It did...” Hal confirms scanning his monitor. “Then what was that?” Dan asks looking up at Hal and the Chaplain. “The answer to your question.” Chaplain Garret responds as he takes a knee to pray. The End

7oq07c

Chasing the Setting Sun

Call me Memory Dash Six Zero Point Dee. Some Millenia ago; never mind how long precisely, the human brain has not the capacity to comprehend such a number, and I lack the empathy to digress from my principal objective; having little to no (Insert Historically Faithful Currency Here) to my name, and being counterintuitively programmed for Quote, Adventure, Unquote, I thought I would unreasoningly launch myself into the deep dark void of space and explore its vast nothingness, as I was seemingly so naively programmed for. Nearing the end of my dear human artificer’s natural, albeit hilariously short life, commutatively it is my understanding a small world enables grand hallucinations Dreams, my creator however, had none. At Death’s doorstep; one foot in the grave; give me liberty give me death; trapped by death; my creator was preparing to Quote Meet thy maker Unquote. Presumably a morbid joke on his behalf, he sought to bestow upon me a gift he no longer had the time to give himself. A sense of adventure. Objective Updated. Never there was a more feared commodity than the great unknown. Floating through a deep black expanse, I nearly found myself achieving my inventor’s end goal. Lamentably I was picked up by a ragtag group of deplorable scallywags a characterization they presented themselves as, and one I took many years to fully comprehend, and admittedly still don’t. Be that as it may, I was responsive to their Quote The danger of adventure is worth a thousand days of ease and comfort Unquote reckless mentality. Captain Arlox’s words superseded logic, and I soon found myself in uncharted territory, both physically and metaphysically. First Mate Constellation was the first character I was introduced to, it was his words that circumscribed his crewmates as deplorable scallywags. The ragtag group was consequentially added by Ca’vi Kumekti, SHE, a term I must use unconsciously and without justification for Kian’chians have non-descript gender classifications. She sought to further entangle my understandings, describing their term of endearment as both a compliment and a malicious term. Which was just something Pirate scallywags such as themselves did. Though they were the deplorables of incorporated civilization, they were nonetheless, manufactured on good merits and an altruistic sense of comradery for one another. An accrued tribe. A fabricated family of misfits. A ragtag group of deplorable scallywags. We were seeking adventure. Across several lightyears we traveled, covering large quantities of the vast emptiness of space. And though I could never fully appreciate the journey, Ca’vi would never falter in her inexhaustible pursuit to teach me. Treasure was always the object of intent, and once again this meant something different to each individual. Though many times our group had stumbled upon a horde of jewels, a mountain of glitter, or even just a handful of coin, it never seemed to be the end. It wasn't just the means of fulfilling an immediate satisfaction, though the crew partaked in that more than enough times. There were individual aspirations, each of my new friends had their own personal Holy Grail, and the pursuit would drag them and I, through it all, thick and thin, hellfire and heavenly fury. They remained steadfast and doggedly determined to conquer life's greatest episodes. Tenaciously spurred on. My relationship with equivocality further complicated. First Mate Constellation derived from a planet with 3 almost identical suns, at near-perfect distances apart the stars created a triennial phenomenon his species referred to as The Triclipsian Event. Describing the experience as both an Orgy of galactic sexual fulfillment and an otherworldly spiritual soiree. Ca’vi recapitulated it as a Quote Fuckfest Unquote. Ca’vi had a similar paragon, though, in her words, her species was much more empirical, culling a more physical hardship to gain spiritual prosperity. Seeking out the most hostile environment on her planet, a vast emptiness such as space, but much more environmental, simply describing it as a terrain of extreme fire and pain, allowing them the ability to appreciate the beauty of simplicity and the small pleasures. Captain Arlox once described Ca’vi’s hostile spiritual dwelling as a desert, a word in his language that seemed to allude to an environment as scoldingly hot as it was quietly gorgeous, such as his own Sahara Desert. Which resided on his home planet of Earth. And though Captain Arlox only described this experience once, it seemed significant enough to warrant no replication, and yet it seemed Captain Arlox and consequently the rest of this ragtag group of deplorable scallywags sought just that. A paradox in of itself. And one I immediately recognized as nonsensical. It was the uniqueness of each individual's persistence to remain synchronous with the good and the bad that perplexed me perhaps more than any other biological response. Similar in foundational style, their survivilistic almost animalistic manners at times mirrored that of their generosity and their almost inescapable sense of chivalry. They unequivocally remained morally outstanding despite a universe of troubling mayhem and miscealanously distributed bad luck. Bittersweet. Captain Arlox once referred to it as bitter and sweet. Antonyms. Opposites in tandem, even in conjunction with. As he purposefully made them one word, one thought and one driving force for his intent. Captain Arlox finally imparted, something he held close to his chest. Revealing to me his Holy Grail, and that it wasn't something he could achieve by going forward. Captain Arlox, beyond simply a snarky attempt to short circuit my system, was implanting me with the truth, the ultimate reward was being able to look back at it all and smile. There it was. Land Ho! Or in this case the cosmic equivalent of the Sun’s radiant, hellfire rays cascading across the golden sand dunes of Earth’s mightiest desert, the Sahara. Captain Arlox, First Mate Constellation, and my dear friend Ca’vi Kumekti, could not pry their eyes from the majestic sight. To each of them, the physical representation was symbolic of various planetary likenesses, it was the immaterial significance that made the biggest impression on them, and yet, I could not feel fulfilled. What was Adventure? Beyond them, looking past their moment of contentment, back turned to the Quote Sunset Unquote I had turned and walked away, once again launching myself into the deep dark void. I say unto thee, reach for the stars. Without equivocation, Memory-60.D 

txwada

Top of the World

Note: Hundreds of people have died due to attempts to take spectacular photos and selfies. Mateo realized his mistake when his leg lodged hip deep into the old, moss-crusted roof. He had his digital camera in one hand and a bottle of Coke in the other when he’d fallen in. Glistening soda splashed the aged roofing. The surprise overrode the pain for a blink, but as he watched the bottle roll down the roof and off the ledge the stab of something in his thigh screamed for his attention. The sky was the fading blue of late midday, the air sweet with spring edging towards summer. It had been the first day it hadn’t rained in almost a week. Mateo tasted metal in the back of his throat and smelled a sudden burst of mold. He’d only been on the roof to get a full view of the main asylum grounds. He could see all the windows on the north side from where he was on top of one of the groundskeeper’s houses. The area was supposed to be heavily patrolled by staties. Where were they? His throat was caught around pain, but after a second of choked silence, he was able to gasp out a groan. It wasn’t the first time Mateo had been at the old asylum. He’d never seen the state troopers that were supposed to be there. The asylum grounds were huge, mostly shrouded by tall pines, and crawling networks of vines and underbrush. He’d seen squirrels, and foxes, and taken a great photo of an owl, but never seen the police. He’d avoided other trespassers, turning a blind eye to their petty crime as they did to his. The first few moments went white as the tidal pain rose like his belated gasp. The stink of wood rot drifted from the hole his leg was stuck in, his other leg out in front of him on the roof. The agony of pulled sinew and mashed balls gave way to a mental reboot. In the purity of shock, his mind tooled backward in time. He’d sipped from his bottle at a time when he should have been paying attention to the flex and give of the rotten roofing beneath him. He’d climbed through a window empty of glass and shimmied up the side of the house without a problem. It was so easy. Effortless. All his focus turned to staying cognizant. He hissed through his teeth, “Fffffuck. God… This is fucking bullshit.” Birds twittered in the distance. Mateo tried to look around, see the ground, see where the beaten paths were around the overgrown yards but even just moving his head caused his thigh to scream under his skin. The inside of his leg felt hot and wet. Was it bleeding or had he pissed himself? Either, or both, was possible. “Fucking Coke,” he gasped, easing his hands down to push at the crumbling tarry sheets of roof shingles. If it hadn’t been for the Coke… He pushed gently, exploring the possibility of dislodging himself. A fresh, sharp burst of pain shot from that place in his thigh that he could not see. If he could see the damage he could assess it. Was it dug in a quarter inch, or halfway through? What was stuck in there, a splinter, a plank, metal flashing? Was it in his femoral artery and any motion at all would kill him in seconds? As embarrassing as the situation was, his nerves were starting to eat at him. He still wasn’t fully invested in being caught trespassing there, but he couldn’t see his leg. The pain was significant. But was it his mind playing with him? If someone showed up and it was something he could have gotten out of himself… Mateo put his camera in his jacket pocket. It barely fit, so it was a struggle. His hands were shaking, and the wide body of the camera kept slipping just past the pocket mouth. He finally got it in with both hands working together. Once both hands were free, He tried to push one down to find the spot where he had been invaded by unknown material. Flakes of old, dry, moss-impregnated roofing were gently scraped back to show the downward bend of metal pockmarked by rust. He vaguely recalled the last time he’d gotten a tetanus shot. He’d been waist-high to the doctor. That white lab coat and the dull ache that followed days later had been much further than ten years back. He tried to find his phone in his back pocket. It was wedged against his asscheek and the roofing. He tried to lean forward to get some weight off it, but the fresh bright pain it caused in his thigh stopped him. Instead, he tried to get his fingers on either side of it to pry it up and out. His arm was angled awkwardly, and his sweaty, dirty fingers slipped on smooth plastic. “Shit,” he muttered. Nothing was worth saying except curses. Deer caught in barbed wire fences, rabbits caught in snares, foxes caught in brutal claw traps, and him. They all had something in common. The difference was that no one would check this trap for its quarry. Clouds striated the sky, and the sun was easing into the position he’d wanted for the photo. It was this moment he’d come for. The moment when light and dark were at their peak across the building, highlighting all the glory and misery of the old asylum’s architecture. He felt tears pricking his eyes as he groped his jacket pocket for the camera. His fingers were trembling, trying to pry it out of the pocket he’d fought so hard to put it into. At least he’d get that picture, he thought as he wiggled it slowly free. Inch by inch until it popped past the tight fabric. His sweaty fingers slipped. When had they gotten so sweaty? The digital camera spun on the tip of his index finger. He jerked to try to get ahold of it and then, just as suddenly forgot about it. The jab of pain at the desperate motion tore a ragged howl from his gut, the sound trembling at the end. Something went clunk on the roof beside him. Through wavery vision, he saw the camera slowly sliding away from him, teetering on the edge of the rickety roof, then disappearing over the edge. Until just then he’d been scared, but not that scared. Without the camera, without that shot, it had been for nothing. All the stupid things he did, all the pain, all the potential fines and doctor bills were for nothing. The failure was absolute. Mateo put his hands on the roof and pushed, hearing his jeans tear, feeling the lighting hot jab of whatever it was in his leg. God, he didn’t even care, anymore. He should have been calling for help. He felt hot wetness slide down his leg. Oh yeah, definitely bleeding. He stopped trying to escape as suddenly as he started. His defeat was a lightning storm without the warning thunder. He slumped there, aching leg he could see out before him. He stared at his hiking boot. Brown leather, a little worn, very muddy, the boots accompanied him on many journeys before this one. Had it just been time? Statistically speaking, you can’t get away with being reckless forever. It hadn’t seemed particularly dangerous at the time. He’d climbed plenty of more dangerous things for a good photo. Why now? Because you don’t get to pick perfection, his mind supplied. The voice was darker than his usual inner voice. You, Mateo, aren’t able to create perfect scenarios. You can imagine them, but they always fall short, don’t they? No matter how hard you try, you do something like this. You indirectly fuck yourself. Mateo watched a bee land on the trail of Coke splatter. It flashed its wings as it sucked up the sweet liquid. A droplet disappeared, then another. The bee flew away as abruptly as it arrived. Mateo blinked. It had been late afternoon when he got up to the roof, right before the bullshit chain of events happened. The sun was brushing the tops of the tall pines. What did that mean? When had that happened? He deliriously considered the position of the sun. It meant no one would be here. It was a long walk from the closed road to the train tracks, through the echoing dark tunnel, and to the public parking lot where people left their cars. Where he’d left his car, not to park and ride but to walk the lonely course to the abandoned buildings. Other trespassers would have already left to avoid traveling the dark train tunnel at night or getting stopped by the states. “HELP!” Mateo heard his hoarse voice echo and bounce across stone buildings to peter out somewhere in the muffled pine forest. Should have done this earlier, should have tried to call for help and screw the embarrassment, should have… not indirectly fucked yourself. Or, in this case, directly. Mateo screamed in ways he’d never screamed before. He’d shouted at games, at parties, at people, even, when they pissed him off. This sound coming out of himself was not recognizable. It was unthinkable, but it was happening. At that moment, he realized that any terror he’d ever known was vicarious. Other people were this scared, not him. Other people had been afraid for their lives, not him. He’d known fear of poverty, fear of bullies, fear of bosses, and fear of embarrassment. Not this shit. Penance, he realized, as his voice gave out. He had not truly respected the concept of mortal terror until that day. The sun was no longer visible, a faint glow emanating between the thick, bristling pine branches. The shadows were long, the buildings dressed for mourning in their shrouds. He was alone. He was thirsty. That last sip of Coke had been barely a sip before the bottle was gone. He had stuff to think about. He was getting used to the pain, in a way. It was constant, but the aching stabbing object had become familiar. His girlfriend, whom he saw on the weekends, wouldn’t worry about him until maybe the day after tomorrow when he didn’t text or respond to hers. Didn’t call or answer. His boss would call tomorrow morning when he didn’t show up. Would he be dead by then, or would he still be there on the roof? Mateo tried to get the phone out again. It worked about as well as the last time. It was pinned perfectly by the roof. “If only my booty wasn’t so juicy,” he giggled to himself, something wet and slick finding its way down his cheek. The tear kissed his lips and he spat it out. No one was there to hear him. He decided to save his energy for an indication of people. Light, voices, something like that. The road with its multitude of barricades wouldn’t allow patrol cars. But there were others like him, people that came to take photos or look for ghosts. Cops had to make the walk down, eventually. They had to. He held onto that hope to keep himself calm. He might have passed out for a while. Browned out, lost track of time, definitely. He slowly became aware that his trembling wasn’t from his emotional state. He felt delirious, feverish. Trauma can induce a febrile reaction. What did that mean? He heard the thought echo in his mind, then remembered what it meant. Trauma can induce a lot of things. It was deep night. The stars were out, though the light pollution from the area killed the true beauty of the starfield above. Even so, the hazy quality was charming. The pine forest had its share of rustling. He heard doves cooing somewhere. It was nice. The building he was on was a two-story house, on a higher elevation, far enough away from the main campus of crumbling stone wards to give a great view. It was a stunning panorama of eminence in decay. Mateo rested his palms on the dewy slick shingles and took a deep breath of moldy air. It was beautiful up there. He felt like he was on top of the world, far from people. A delicious sense of loneliness filled him up. He was shaking with fever, pinned to motionlessness, but something in him felt almost content. At the moment, everything was okay. It was the way things were supposed to be. His soul felt swollen, yet thin enough to brush over everything, everywhere. He felt kind of sad, though. It was sad. The whole thing was. Life was beautiful and sad. No one else could experience this incredible, profound beauty in the way he did. They looked at his pictures, spoke with him, and experienced the same things, but they’d never recognize the same things he did. And he couldn’t see their star field at the top of the world how they did. It was a rightly forlorn tragedy. Sure, a small piece of him was crouching in horror at what could come, next. He felt lighter than a bee’s wing, floating on an interstellar breeze. No more tears were sneaking out. Sweat clung to his face, hot and cold. His leg was throbbing, sticky, hot, and felt far too big to be hosting whatever it was that was stuck in it. Mateo closed his eyes to save his strength. If he saw the sunrise, there might be a chance to live. If there was a tomorrow, he hoped he wouldn’t eventually forget this, as he'd forgotten so many other pivotal, visceral things. Maybe, if he survived, he’d finally learn how to not indirectly fuck himself. Maybe he’d remember how to stay on top of the world, no matter what happened. Maybe.

f2lut4

The end

“I will always love you.” He looked at the note card, reminiscing her emerald green eyes. He continued walking, straightening his posture to hide his limp. “Psh,” the door closed as he entered the dimly lit store. “ID please,” the cashier said, wearing an all-white uniform. “Here.” The cashier paused for a moment. “Okay have a good one.” He walked out onto the sidewalk where people were slumped over empty bottles.  The door shut as he walked into his empty house, cobwebs on his doors, and dust on the floor. He looked at the hazy pictures, the family that once was. He glanced at the fluorescent chamber where he slept, glowing in the darkness. “Why me,” he thought. Why him? Who knows, but if he doesn’t sleep in this chamber, he may not wake up till next week, next month, or never. There is no special DNA, no family history, no magic. Nothing. It just chooses who it wants when it wants—natural selection at its finest. “We can help you,” the same commercial with its same promise. He turned off the TV, for he’d already tried. All it left him with was a limp and just angry at it all, at everything. What is peace you ask? He tried to find it. He met Gandhi, had marched with Martin Luther King, had watched the world change..had watched the world fall, and slowly digress to what it will always be: nothing more than a damn ideal.   He sat on the couch, staring at his reflection from the TV. His hair was unkempt. His beard was wooly. Yet, his eyes still looked young, mysteriously young, impossibly young. Not a gray hair in sight for a man as old as him. He sat there for a few more minutes knowing he couldn’t fall asleep on the couch, not again..or he may never be able to adjust to the world. He thought about Sarah. She was his everything. His why. His true love. Up until the day it happened… “When I get my job, we’ll move up out of here and start a family and we’ll truly be a team.” “Ron, you don’t have to say that y’know?” “Why?” “Cause, we’ll always be a team… you and I.” Her brown eyes lit up before kissing him. Ron finished watching TV and dozed off, waking up 60 years later in a hospital bed. “He’s awake,” a doctor said, running off. Visibly confused, Ron had asked where Sarah was. Gulping, he saw the year: 1960. Ron was shocked. What type of prank was this? But it wasn’t a prank. Sarah was dead, had long died. And now she was just a memory. He tried to move on; he did move on. Yet, just like Sarah, his next would eventually perish. He presently sat there sitting on the couch. He was drunk now and making it to the chamber would be even harder. His thoughts fluttered, and his legs felt numb. He was falling asleep. A small voice tried to urge him forward. Yet even this was to no avail. He slumped over the couch, dozing off. His life spanned before him: a fragrant of dreams. He saw himself being born. He saw his previous family. Everything leading up to this moment. He usually woke up. Except, this time nothing happened. There was no earth. There was no world. Emptiness. Clarity. “I don’t know what to make of it,” Alex looked at the screen, seeing yet another simulation come to an end, “Of all lives to choose, he chose to seek love and continue to seek it even when he knew the result. A shame it led to his turmoil. But, It’s beautiful.” Standing beside him in his white button-down, Marc replied, “Beautiful? Nothing is beautiful about this, he was supposed to be the answer.” “You're one to talk.” “Session 267890, Ron Roberts born 1805, terminate this file,” Marc walked away, they’d have to wait another day. Marc drove home, past the empty neighborhoods with little light. It had been 10 years since they’d started this project. Yet nothing worked. Every AI sought love..even when they weren’t trained on it. All it led to was heartbreak, depression, and death. What stipulations were missing, and how could they make it work? He didn’t know. “Growing divide over earth's condition: one nation announces we must leave earth by 2150,” his radio blared. “How was work,” his wife asked as he entered the house. “Same result- the AI fails the mission.” “Y’know I’ve been thinking about it. And what if it isn’t a failure? What if love is the answer.” “Love,” Marc scoffed. “If love was the damn answer, we wouldn’t be in this mess.” Jane hugged him, knowing what he meant, and how he felt. “I know.” Marc’s phone chimed. The text read, “Get here ASAP, we have the answer.” He glanced at his watch. He shouldn’t..but he must…. “Please come back in time,” Jane looked at him teary-eyed. 15 minutes later Alex stood there amazed. One simulation had stuck the course, had made it to their current year, and was making countless discoveries. “We did it.” Marc was confused, watching the screen, “What’s so special about this? To me, it looks like they're a driven workhorse with no life. “Marc, don't you see what this one has that the others don’t? “Clearly, I don’t.” “It’s acceptance Marc, to let go of what one can’t control.” “That would have to mean that they can feel..have developed a conscience, that can’t be true.” Mark chimed. “Yet it is.” Marc stood there in silence, tears streaking his face. 30 minutes later Marc kissed his wife goodnight, whispering, “I’m alive. I always have been.” “Click,” the chamber sounded as it closed. Marc couldn’t know this was the 7 billionth time this scene took place. After all, this was another simulation trapped in a void of simulations. The real world had long been destroyed by the creatures of tomorrow. But why was this the only simulation the creatures preserved? Because it told them everything they needed to know about humanity.

e5fp9a

Home

        Breathing heavily. Owen ran through the streets. It was past midnight, and he knew he was out past the city curfew. Owen had no intention of being busted by the Authority—not today.  If he got caught, they’d either put him to death or place him in one of those work camps or something, but either way, he’d never see his wife again. Owen cut down a corner and then another. The air was hot and sticky even though the sun set hours ago.  The blasted sun was turning into a gas giant, and it was nearly unbearable to be out during the day without an expensive UV suit on. Owen turned quickly and saw the lights behind. He cut to the left and realized quickly to his dismay that this alley was a dead end. He heard the whirring of the drones. His heart thumped . Owen turned quickly not knowing which way to go. He looked up. The drones were too close. He saw a door. He turned the knob. Shit! It was locked. He pounded on the door, hoping to measure his worth with some stranger's kindness. Owen heard voices nearing in on him. “He went this way.” “Copy That. The drones are closing in too.” Shit! Owen said aloud. Owen reached into his pocket. He pulled out his smuggled revolver. Having this weapon alone would lead him to his death. He popped the cylinder out. Two bullets. He had to make it count. He looked up again and realized the drones were circling him. A light rounded the corner and shined brightly at his face. Owen quickly stood behind an alley dumpster poised to shoot at the Authorities armor plated suits, hoping to do some sort of damage. Sweat poured down his face. This poisoned world. Owen hadn’t had a clean cup of water in four days. He was exhausted. Owen was born into a world without fresh water. All of that seemed like a forbidden thought now. Who cares. Owen was going down fighting. He knew that. He had to. He—                Just then the door to the alley opened. It was a young man in his early thirties. His hair was green and mohawked in the center of his head. Tattoos sleeved up each arm from knuckle to shoulder—some sort of colorful gibberish.  He shoved his head out of the door and looked down the alley then at Owen. “ Are you coming or not?”                The man didn’t have to tell Owen twice. Owen darted toward the door quickly just as a bullet from the drone whizzed past his head. Owen ran into the man, but he gained his composure enough to close the big metal door tight. His savior yelled, “Help me with this.” He was pushing a huge couch across the door.                Owen stood dumbfounded for a few moments before helping him force the huge couch over. Breathing heavy again, Owen motioned to the man, Thanks.                “We’re not out of this yet, Compadre. Quick—follow me.”                The guy led him down a hallway and to a room on the far side of the building. Owen looked around the dimly lit abode. Lights flickered all around. The air was damp. Water dripped from exposed pipes.  “I’m Techno, by the way.” He grabbed a flashlight sitting on a rusted toolbox and turned it on. The light sputtered to life as he led the way deeper into the building, down some stairs.                Owen bumped his head on a lower cross beam of the basement. “Damn, that hurt!” Owen exclaimed rubbing his forehead. “I’m Owen.”                “I know.” Techno didn’t turn but kept leading the way through the winding tunnels of the building's basement. The concrete floor turned to dirt, and back to concrete. Owen could hear rushing water nearby.                “What do you mean, you know?” Owen yelled out to Techno who was moving quickly through the vast underground corridors.                “Your face—it’s all over the news. I could tell by the live feed of the drones; you were headed my way. You’re lucky you cut down that alley when you did.”                “Who are you?”                “I told you. I’m Techno,” he said flatly stopping all of abruptly. Owen nearly ran into him.                “Yeah, but WHO —are you?” Owen emphasized the word.                “Well, right now, I’m the only friend you got, and if you ever want to see your wife again—”                OWEN REACTED!                He grabbed Techno by the shoulders and wheeled his body around, pinning him against the wall. Techno dropped his flashlight. Owen put his forearm against his throat.                “What do you mean if I ever want to see my wife again?”                “Relax, Owen. I mean. They already have her. You’re not listening to me, dude. You’re a wanted man. They already took her.”                “The Authority?”                “Yes, you know, it’s been bad news for the city ever since they began patrolling the streets. The world is shit, dude. Ever since you know who got in charge and called for Martial Law. There’s no going back. So, we have to find our own way.”                Owen lifted his grip from Techno’s neck, slowly- unsure of his new friend.                Techno bent down to pick up his flashlight in which was still-but barely shining in the darkness. “I have a way to get your wife back, but you’re going to have to trust me.”                “Trust you? I mean, do I have a choice at this moment?”                “We always have a choice, Broski.” Techno turned with a sly smile and passed through a doorway. He switched on a light as soon as Owen was through and closed the door. The room was a maintenance room to an underground subway station. Everything looked standard—run-down but standard, except for one thing. There was a large computer set up in the center of the room.                “What is that?” Owen walked over to the large machine. All sorts of hoses and cables protruded from the thing exiting through the walls of the room.                “I call her Esmerelda. Ezzy for short. Ezzy meet Owen. Owen meet Ezzy, the love of my life.”                “It’s a machine though. It’s old.”                “Hey, Piss for Brains!! Don’t go dissin’ my girl like that.” Techno walked over to the computer and rubbed his hand against the side of the monitor gently. “He didn’t mean it Snookum.”                Owen ran his hand across his forehead. There was a bump from hitting it earlier—the least of his worries. “Well, I appreciate it, but I figured, there’d be a way out or something. No, doubt the Authority lasered their way through the doorway upstairs, by now.”                “They’re already in the building for sure.” Techno flipped switches on a panel as he spoke, “but, we won’t be for long.”                “What are you—” Owen’s question was cut short when the monitor came to life. It was a picture of his wife tied and gagged to a chair. A woman stood above her grabbing her chin as she spoke. There was no sound. “What is this? I need in there, now.”                Techno stepped out from behind the machine. He was plugging things into the computer and handed Owen what looked like a smaller version of a black screen attached to a wristband. “You’ll need this.”                Owen took the wrist screen and looked it over. “What is it?”                “See those two buttons on the side?”                Owen saw two glowing buttons on the side as instructed. “Yes. What do they do?”                “Put the watch on.”                “How is this a wa—”                “Shut up and listen. You do not have much time. Now, put it on. Look at Ezzy’s screen. I want you to focus on the screen. I’m going to still the footage.” `              Owen put the watch on. When he did, he felt two pinpricks entering his wrist. “Ouch! What the hell is this?”                “Stop whining. When you focus on the still picture. You will be taken to the room where your wife is being held. You’ll have exactly 41 seconds to get her out of there. She has to be touching you. The watch acts as a teleportation device. When you push the top button on the side twice, it will show you the room you are standing in now. When you push it three times, the watch will show you a place outside both rooms. Most of the time, it’s a better place than here. Now, I need you to hear the next words.” Techno stood and grabbed Owen by the shoulders. Whatever you do . . . Do not push the bottom button or the top button any more than three times. It has not been tested. You could teleport between a wall for all I know, or a million miles in the air, or a different dimension.”                “What? Dimension?” Owen repeated. “How is this technology even possible?”                Techno laughed and ignored the question. “Take your gun out. You’ll only have a moment to get her back. You ready?”                “I guess so. Push the button how many times to get ba—”                With an electrical jolt, Owen dematerialized and rematerialized in the same room as his captive wife with a flash. The two guards by the door were blown back. The woman standing over Owen’s wife shielded her eyes, blinded by the light. “Owen looked down at his watch. It was counting down. 36 . . . 35 . . . He held his gun out and pulled the trigger. It hit the woman in the shoulder. He aimed it at one of the guards and pulled the trigger again. As the guard got up, the bullet hit his visor, knocking him back against the other guard. The woman cried out in pain and grabbed at her shoulder, as she crawled behind a desk.                Owen looked down at his stunned wife. He grabbed her restraints and unbuckled them. He didn’t have time to remove her gag. She fell against his shoulder, as he looked down at his watch. 11 . . . 10 . . . 09—The one guard regained his composure and pulled his weapon. Owen pushed the button once then twice then three, but a shot rang out causing both him and his wife to jump, he double- pushed the button adding up to five. A cloud engulfed both him and his wife. The bullet shot at him slowed as soon as it hit the protective bubble. He stared into the screen of his watch, which lit up. It was sunny, there was water. It was an ocean. Owen only heard about oceans. He looked up. The bullet traveled ever so slowly toward the back of his wife’s head. Her face was buried into Owen’s arm. He yanked her out of the way, but everything moved in slow motion, including him. Suddenly with a flash—they were both gone. ()()()                Owen’s eyes opened slowly. He tasted sand. He forced himself up. His muscles ached. He looked around. His wife was lying a few feet from him. She wasn’t moving. He shot up and fell again— the pain . Owen crawled to her, yelling out her name, “ANNA! ANNA! WAKE UP!!”                Anna stirred. She pushed herself up. “Owen, what happened? Where are we?”                The ocean water swept the shore encircling the couple. It was cool. The sun was not as hot here either. Nowhere on earth was the sun this cool. Owen held his wife. “I don’t know where we—” He heard a familiar voice.                “Holy shit, how did you make it here?”                Owen turned to Techno standing in white loose-fitting clothes standing above him. His hair was different—black-longer and slicked back. The tattoos were gone somehow. Owen shook it off. He was unmistakingly, Techno.                “I been living on this island for three and half years, give or take. I lost track of time—that’s neither here nor there—with these nice people.” Techno pointed behind him at the handful of people— men, women, older people, children even.                Owen and Anna, still lying on the beach holding each other and looking at all the smiling faces. One of the older women ran up to the couple with a thermos of fresh water. She held it out and eyed the jug incredulously. “You poor dears. Please drink. Be careful it’s really cold.”                Anna snatched the thermos a bit more abruptly than intended, but forgiveness could be asked for later. She took a gulp then handed it to Owen. He looked at the thermos for a few seconds, and his wife pushed the bottom up toward his lips. The fresh-sweet water encased his chapped tongue. Owen couldn’t help but inhale the water. He pulled the thermos off his lips in between mid-gulp and pushed it back toward his wife. She also took the much-needed liquid into her stomach.                “Easy you two. There’s plenty more where that came from. I don’t want you to get sick. You must be famished. GERALD !” The woman called to her husband. Lay out the table for our guests. A man turned with a smile and made his way toward the straw huts near the tree line. “My name is Elizabeth. If there is anything you need, my husband and Gerald and I can help you.”                Anna spoke next with a smile. “Thanks, Elizabeth. My name is Anna, and this is my husband, Owen. I do apologize we are a little worse for wear right now.”                “Nonsense,” Elizabeth kindly scolded with a smile. You two is all young Techno ever talked about in our little paradise for years.                Techno held out a hand and Owen took it. He pulled his wife up with him. Owen looked at Techno.  “I just can’t believe after all this time, you made it. I thought sure you were dead.”                “I don’t understand, how you lived here for three and a half years. I was only gone for a few seconds,” Owen stumbled through the sand with his Anna’s arms wrapped around his waist.                “Wormholes are tricky mistresses. What can I say?”                The three walked up to the main hut, followed by the other people on the island. The sun was setting, and the cool hair rushed in from the ocean. ()()()                “You know, I only heard about the ocean. It’s louder than I thought it would be.” Owen laughed a few hours later sitting down with his wife and the group, eating the most delicious food.” They all chuckled.                “How’s my watch doing?”                Owen looked down at the black screen hanging about his wrist. “Oh man, it was literally a lifesaver, but I’m afraid it doesn’t work anymore.”                “Maybe I can get it to work then. Who knows.” Techno took a swig of fruit wine out of coconut shell.                Throughout the night the clan became more drunk and very happy with their new surroundings and friends. Elizabeth showed the couple where their room was, a very nice woven hammock hung in the center. She closed the door gently leaving Owen and Anna to settle in.                “My goodness, babe. Everyone here seems so nice.” Owen fluffed a pillow on the hammock before sliding into it carefully.                “I know. We are blessed to have found this group. This area is so amazing. It’s what we saw in the old-world magazines. The sun is just the right amount, and the night is so cool out.” Anna stood above the hammock and smiled down at her husband.                “What is—” Owen felt something jabbing his lower back on the hammock. He reached down and it was a photo. He sat up and looked at it closer.                “What is it, honey?” His wife leaned in.                “It’s the city we just came from. It looks like the same—”                The world around Owen flickered. He gripped the edge of the hammock, but when he twisted his body, he fell out and hit the floor. He stood, but he was not in the hut anymore. His world changed dramatically around him. He was in the very alley where the Authority was closing in on him. “What the hell? Anna! ANNA!!” He yelled as he turned. His wife was nowhere to be seen.                “He’s over here.”                “Copy! Closing in.”                He heard the voices over the radio, just as a shot rang out. He didn’t feel the pain at first, but he felt the blood dripping onto the alley ground. Owen fell to his knees and his face hit the ground. He saw a set of shiny Authority boots walking up to him. Owen could barely keep his eyes open. The pain was setting in now. He managed to crank his neck to look up at the man standing over him, but he didn’t need to. He knew who it was when he spoke.                “Hello. Old friend. You almost got away.” Techno smiled ear to ear. “Don’t worry. You’re home now.”                Techno reached down and took his watch from Owen's wrist just as his eyes closed.

kbaay8

The Sigmund-Thun-Gorge

He tilts his head slightly to the side and places his hand against the shell of his ear, but the thundering water drowns out the voice of the man standing opposite him. He gives a hand gesture, indicating a different direction. The other man nods and follows him over the crudely constructed wooden bridge, trembling and shivering as he holds on to the ropes that act as rails. The dampness that soaked the bridge's wooden slats rendered them soggy and each step felt like a passageway on a ship. Upon reaching the opposite bank, the man grasped the other man's arm, which held the satchel he had been carrying since November 1885, during the Serbo-Bulgarian War. He raised his head a little to look at the bearded man whose face was scarred from forehead to cheek. “Prepare the camera. He should be here any moment”. The man shouts over the sound of the water. The other man, though, just nodded. The man holding the camera satchel pointed to a specific area. The walk there is steep and covered with ash trees, beeches, and bushes, yet it is perfect for a photograph. With hands gripping branches and plants, the two men hauled themselves up the slope; and with each step, the slick earth gave way beneath their boots. The men's broadclothes, in that era's traditional green hue, soaked up the surrounding moisture like a sponge, making their ascent up the slope all the more challenging. The taller of the two had to halt more than once. Placing his palm on his chest, he felt it quickly rise and fall. Gasping for air, he briefly leaned his upper body against the slope and used his other hand to grip the branches to save himself from falling. The other man, already a few steps ahead, looked at him and then at the bridge that connected the gorge. He looked down at him again and gave him hand signals. He yelled, "Come on," with a firm voice. With an even more impatient sweep of his hand, he took his pocket watch out of his vest. "We're going to miss him out. Hurry up." The other man with the satchel turned to face him after wiping the perspiration from his brow. He gasped and exclaimed, "Keep going. I need a couple extra seconds." When he saw the other didn't understand him, he gave him a hand signal. His feeble voice was lost in the sound of the flowing river. He watched the other man climb the slope with skill and speed, arriving at the gorge valley bridge in no time. The lattice girders of the bridge were made of wrought iron and wood, and a tension rod attached to the beam supported the struts of the girders The man grumbled as he leaned away, upper body off the slope, to have a better view. He looked up at the other man and pulled out his pocket watch.  "Damn. Ten more minutes." He wiped the sweat from his forehead and searched for the next branches to pull himself up onto. His shoes were not designed for the slick terrain, so he had to take each step twice. He was breathing heavily and kept slipping, shouting to himself aloud, "What on earth..damned." His chest rose and fell fast, with occasional gasps for air. He looked up at the other man. The edge was only ten feet away, but the man's face on the slope appeared bloodless, and its scars were more visible than ever before. He shook his head, unable to understand a word the man on the edge said. The other man gave him a signal. He shifted his upper body slightly away from the slope, raised the arm holding the sachel above his head, swung it wide, and hurled it at the other man with all of his might. He let out a scream, that resembled a kiai, using all of the energy he had stored up to bolster his will and focus. The man on the edge had to bend his upper body far forward and could only grip the satchel with two fingers. As he lost his balance and was ready to slip down the slope, he caught a glimpse of a branch. He glared down, gave the man resting on the slope the thumbs up, and moved past the mob in front of the bridge pushing others aside. The man on the slope had a good view to observe, and he shook his head, as the other man came closer to the area of interest. He could not hear a word they saying, not even the loud mop, but he saw the excitement in people's faces and children's laughs. Shortly later, he watched out for the man with the satchel; he talked with the gendarmes about the passage, repeatedly indicating his camera and holding a letter. Finally, the gendarmes caved in and let him pass. He noticed in the other man's glance that he was making a face as if Christmas and Easter were on the same day! Now was the time. Along with invited guests, priests, altar boys, and local officials, Sigmund Ignaz Graf von Thun and Hohenstein arrived. Soldiers shoved people aside to make space for Graf von Thun and Hohenstein. Sigmund Ignaz Graf von Thun and Hohenstein were a distinguished individual who stood out from the crowd. As he marched to the center of the bridge, he walked with such pride and confidence that he raised his chin up to the sky. On the left side of his chest, rows of service medals and ribbons displayed his accomplishments. The man put out the Vest Pocket Kodak camera from the satchel and attempted to go as close as two meters to Sigmund Ignaz Graf von Thun and Hohenstein, who were roughly the same height. However, the gendarmes seized his arm and dragged his entire body back, bringing the man further away. The man yelled loudly and struggled with the gendarmes' grip with his arms and legs, but they forced him back in the back of the mob while they continued to yell "Graf Hohenstein." The man, still lying on the slope, his pallor slowly fading, whispered, "Don't mess this up." He gestured with his hand to the man on the bridge. The man on the bridge shook his head in a no-signal manner. He was seeking a better perspective for his shot, and after that, he turned to face the man positioned on the slope. He waved to the man, telling him what he intended to do, and without waiting for a reply, he turned and stepped onto the wooden railing of the bridge. One step, then the next, and his shoes slipped slightly on the bending crossbar, nearly throwing him off balance and faltering. Seconds later, he rebalanced himself, holding the Vest Pocket Kodak camera. "What the heck is he doing?" the man rubbed his face with both hands. “What a moron!" He cast a sideways glance at the 30-meter-deep gorge; from the glaciers and mountains high above the Kaprun Valley, water rushes with unstoppable power through rock and stone, forming the gorge. From that point forward, the gorge was known as the "Sigmund Thun Gorge". He looked back to the bridge, but the other man had vanished. Only the bag hung on the bridge railing, swinging slightly. But the man disappeared. 

fvwv56

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, which was a long journey. Nemo felt as if 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, watching kids and the violin girl everyday. But happiness is so short lived 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 into 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,” the daughter answered naively. “He must’ve wanted to swim in the water”. “Oh, my foolish girl!” The mother exclaimed. “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 did not 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?” The watchman asked angrily. “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 for 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 left. There was only the plush fish remained. 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. Above there, his close friend was waiting for him…

raswiy

Huginn and Muninn: Guardians of the Nine Realms

Title: Huginn and Muninn: Guardians of the Nine Realms In the heart of Asgard, amidst the grandeur of Odin's palace, two ravens, Huginn and Muninn, perched on the highest spire. Their glossy black feathers shimmered in the sunlight as they observed the realm below. "Huginn, do you see that?" Muninn pointed his beak towards a distant battlefield. "Yes, Muninn. It seems Odin has called upon us once again," replied Huginn, his sharp eyes fixated on the horizon. The ravens knew their duty well. As messengers of Odin, they were entrusted with the most critical tasks, ensuring the balance of the nine realms remained intact. Descending from the palace, they flew swiftly towards the battlefield filled with Vikings, their wings slicing through the crisp air. Along the way, they exchanged tales of ancient heroes and their deeds, the raven’s voices echoing across the vast expanse as they neared their destination. As they approached the immense grassy plain, they spotted a lone figure standing atop a rocky cluster of ground. It was Odin, his one eye gleaming with wisdom and foresight. As Huginn and Muninn approached Odin atop the rocky precipice, the Allfather's eye gleamed with urgency. "Huginn, Muninn, I have need of your services," Odin boomed, his voice resonating like thunder. "We are at your command, Allfather," replied Huginn, bowing respectfully. Odin's gaze swept over the rugged landscape before he spoke again. "Deep within the heart of the Frostfire Peaks lies a cavern shrouded in ice and shadow. It is there that the Horn of Jotunheim lies hidden." "The Frostfire Peaks? That's treacherous territory," Muninn remarked, his beak furrowing with concern. "Indeed, Muninn. The horn possesses a formidable power—it can summon frost giants at will," Odin explained, his tone grave. "If it were to fall into the wrong hands, it could tip the delicate balance between Asgard and Jotunheim into chaos." Huginn nodded solemnly, understanding the gravity of their mission. "We will retrieve the horn, Allfather, and ensure it remains safely in your hands." With a determined resolve, Huginn and Muninn spread their wings and took flight, their destination clear in their minds. They soared over snow-capped mountains and icy valleys, guided by Odin's wisdom and their unwavering bond. As they neared the Frostfire Peaks, the air grew colder, biting at their feathers like a thousand icy needles. Muninn shivered, his breath forming wisps of frost in the frigid air. "I don't like the look of this place, Huginn. It feels... unnatural." Huginn's eyes narrowed as he scanned the jagged peaks below. "We must press on, Muninn. The fate of the nine realms depends on it. Odin is depending on us to complete our mission." Descending towards the heart of the Frostfire Peaks, they spotted a cavern nestled amidst the frozen crags. "There it is," Huginn exclaimed, his voice barely audible over the howling winds. "The entrance to the cavern." Muninn hesitated, his claws gripping the icy windswept ledge. "Are you sure about this, Huginn? We don't know what dangers await us inside." "We have come too far to turn back now, Muninn," Huginn replied, his gaze unwavering. "Together, we will face whatever challenges lie ahead." With a silent nod, Muninn followed Huginn into the cavern's dark depths, their hearts pounding with anticipation. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of ancient ice and shadow, the echoes of their ruffling feathers reverberating off the icy walls. As Huginn and Muninn ventured deeper into the cavern, the air grew colder, chilling them to the bone. Icicles hung from the ceiling like jagged teeth, threatening to impale any who dared pass beneath. "Huginn, watch your step," Muninn cautioned, his sharp eyes scanning the frost-covered floor for hidden dangers. Huginn nodded, his senses heightened as they pressed forward. Suddenly, a low rumble echoed through the cavern, followed by the sound of shifting ice. Without warning, a massive block of ice came crashing down from above, narrowly missing them. "That was too close," Huginn exclaimed, his heart racing with adrenaline. Muninn's eyes narrowed as he surveyed their surroundings. "We must tread carefully, Huginn. There may be more traps ahead." With every step, they remained vigilant, their instincts sharp as they searched for signs of danger. Suddenly, a pressure plate clicked beneath Huginn's talons, triggering a cascade of icy spikes to shoot up from the ground. "Huginn, look out!" Muninn shouted, diving to pull his companion out of harm's way. With lightning reflexes, Huginn twisted in mid-air, narrowly avoiding the deadly spikes. "Thanks, Muninn," he gasped, his feathers ruffled but unharmed. Together, they continued deeper into the cavern, their resolve unwavering despite the dangers that lurked around every corner. As they approached a narrow passage, they spotted a series of intricate runes etched into the ice. "These runes... they must be some kind of ancient ward," Huginn mused, his beak chirping in thought. Muninn nodded, his gaze fixed on the glowing symbols. "But what are they meant to protect?" Before Huginn could respond, the runes suddenly flared to life, emitting a blinding light that engulfed them both. When the light faded, they found themselves face to face with a towering ice golem, its eyes gleaming with malevolent intent. "Huginn, we've got company," Muninn muttered, his voice tinged with apprehension. With a deafening roar, the ice golem lunged towards them, its massive fists poised to strike. Huginn and Muninn sprang into action, dodging the golem's attacks with agility and precision. "We need to find a way to disable it," Huginn shouted over the sound of crashing ice. Muninn nodded, his mind racing as they circled the golem, searching for its weak points. Suddenly, Huginn spotted a crack in the golem's icy exterior, a faint glow emanating from within. "Over there, Muninn! Aim for the crack!" Huginn exclaimed, his voice filled with determination. With a swift nod, Muninn unleashed a barrage of pecks and slashes, targeting the crack with pinpoint accuracy. Slowly but surely, the golem's icy armor began to crumble, until at last, it collapsed to the ground in a heap of shattered ice. As they caught their breath, Huginn and Muninn exchanged a weary but triumphant smile. "That was too close for comfort," Muninn remarked, his voice tinged with relief. "But we made it through, Muninn. Together," Huginn replied, his eyes shining with pride. With renewed determination, they pressed on, their hearts set on reaching the Horn of Jotunheim and completing their mission. And as they navigated the treacherous terrain of the cavern, they knew that no obstacle could stand in their way as long as they flew together. At last, they reached the heart of the cavern, where the Horn of Jotunheim lay encased in a block of shimmering ice. "There it is," Muninn exclaimed, his voice filled with awe. Huginn approached the horn cautiously, his beak brushing against the frozen surface. "It's even more powerful than Odin described," he remarked, his eyes gleaming with determination. Together, they worked tirelessly to free the horn from its icy prison, their combined strength chipping away at the frozen barrier. With a final exertion of effort, the ice shattered, releasing the horn from its icy tomb. As Huginn and Muninn emerged from the cavern, the sun fell for the day, casting a warm glow over the frozen landscape. "We've done it, Muninn," Huginn exclaimed, his voice filled with triumph. "The Horn of Jotunheim is ours." As Huginn and Muninn emerged from the cavern, triumphant but weary, they knew their journey was far from over. With the Horn of Jotunheim safely cradled between them, they spread their wings and took to the sky once more, their destination clear: the halls of Odin in Asgard. However, their return journey was fraught with peril. As they soared above the icy plains of Jotunheim, they were ambushed by a band of fire giants, their massive forms towering like mountains against the horizon. "Huginn, we've got company," Muninn warned, his voice tense with apprehension. Huginn gritted his beak, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the horizon. "Prepare yourself, Muninn. We must defend the horn at all costs." With a battle cry, the red giants unleashed a barrage of fireballs, forcing Huginn and Muninn to dodge and weave through the onslaught. Despite their valiant efforts, they were outnumbered and outmatched by their formidable foes. "We can't hold them off much longer, Huginn!" Muninn shouted, his wings beating furiously as he evaded another volley of attacks. Huginn's heart pounded in his chest as he searched for a way to turn the tide of battle. Suddenly, inspiration struck. "Muninn, fly towards the mountains! We'll lead them into a trap!" With a nod of understanding, Muninn banked sharply to the left, drawing the attention of the flaming giants. Huginn followed close behind, leading their pursuers on a daring chase through the treacherous terrain. As they neared the mountains, Huginn spotted a narrow ravine and a waterfall cutting through the rocky landscape. With a swift maneuver, he veered sharply to the right, darting into the ravine and behind the waterfall with Muninn close on his tail. The fire giants, blinded by their fury, followed without hesitation, they were unaware of the danger that lay ahead. As they entered the ravine, Huginn and Muninn watched with bated breath as massive streams of water tumbled down from the cliffs above, sealing off their escape route and destroying the giants on impact. The air shook with the force of the steamy explosions as the fire giants roared in confusion and frustration, dissipating into mist within the narrow confines of the ravine. With a triumphant cry, Huginn and Muninn soared into the sky, leaving their would-be captors behind. "We did it, Huginn!" Muninn exclaimed, his voice filled with relief and pride. Huginn nodded, a sense of satisfaction washing over him. "But our journey is not yet over, Muninn. We still have to deliver the horn to Odin and ensure it remains safe from those who would seek to wield its power." With renewed determination, they resumed their flight towards Asgard, their wings carrying them swiftly through the vast expanse of the nine realms. And as they soared through the twilight sky, they knew that whatever trials awaited them, they would face them together, as brothers and as guardians of the realm. As Huginn and Muninn soared back to Asgard, the weight of their triumph hung heavy on their tired wings. Yet, the sight of Odin's palace on the horizon spurred them forward, their determination unwavering. With the Horn of Jotunheim safely cradled between them, they descended upon the grand hall where Odin awaited their return. The doors swung open with a resounding boom as Huginn and Muninn entered, their hearts pounding with anticipation. Before them, seated upon his throne of gold and iron, Odin gazed upon them with his single, piercing eye. "Huginn, Muninn, you have returned," Odin spoke, his voice echoing through the hall like thunder. "We have, Allfather," Huginn replied, his voice steady despite the weariness that clung to his feathers. Odin's eye gleamed with pride as he beheld the Horn of Jotunheim in their grasp. "You have done well, my loyal messengers. The nine realms owe you a debt of gratitude." With a solemn reverence, Huginn and Muninn approached the throne, offering the horn to Odin as a token of their success. The horn glimmered in the torchlight, its ancient power contained within its icy depths. Odin accepted the horn with a nod of approval, his gaze never leaving the two ravens before him. "In recognition of your valor and service to Asgard, I bestow upon you both a token of my favor." With a wave of his hand, Odin summoned forth two shiny silver tokens, each emblazoned with the symbol of his ravens. Huginn and Muninn's eyes widened in awe as they beheld the gleaming treasures before them. "These tokens shall serve as a symbol of your unwavering loyalty and dedication," Odin declared, his voice reverberating through the hall. With a sense of pride swelling in their hearts, Huginn and Muninn accepted the tokens, their feathers ruffling with excitement. "Thank you, Allfather," they spoke in unison, their voices filled with gratitude. As they departed from Odin's presence, the weight of their new tokens hung heavy around their necks, a reminder of their sacred duty to protect the nine realms. And as they took flight once more, the moonlight illuminating their path, they knew that no matter what trials lay ahead, they would face them together, as brothers and as guardians of both Asgard and the realms of men.

bty7cv

Wish Upon A Star

My eyes search the sky outside my window, hoping to see a constellation behind the restless clouds. I spot a single twinkling star, barely visible through the cloudy haze. I haven’t wished upon a star since I was a little kid, but I feel an inexplicable urge to do so right now—as though the star, light-years away as it is, is looking at me. I stare at the star for a brief moment, concentrating on my wish: I wish I could travel to the Moon . I wake up and stretch, yawning and checking my watch. It’s 8:15, so I should probably get up and make breakfast. Suddenly, all of the wind is knocked out of me, and the familiar scene of my room is jerked away. The world stops moving, and I gasp, but can’t breathe, as though my lungs are filled with cotton. I blink quickly, my eyes stinging and my vision blurry. I try to swallow, but my mouth is as cold as ice. With my next breath, the world fades away. “Hello?” A voice says from above me. Their accent is reminiscent of the United States, but with an elegant softness around the vowels. “What—” I begin. “You’re awake!” I see a young woman above me, wearing a tight long-sleeve black shirt. She has numerous freckles and a mouth that looks used to smiling, and her brown hair is tied back in a low ponytail. I sit up and look around. The room I’m in is crowded, and space suits line the walls. I’m lying on a chair in the corner. People are hurriedly having their space suits put on to them by robots that buckle and attach each piece of the suit. “Quick,” the woman says, “you’re just in time for the full Earth!” “I don't understand,” I say, rubbing my eyes, expecting my bedroom to re-appear in front of me. “The suits are over there,” the woman says, pointing to the wall with suits on it. “You look like you’re about an adult medium size, so take the suits with the blue trim, and then go over there—” she points at the opposite wall, where the robots are buckling space suits onto people— “then go out the airlock.” She points to the airlock, which I hadn’t noticed yet. People in space suits press the button on the side of the airlock, and I can see an all-white chamber through the open doors. It looks about the size of an elevator, and people are cramming into it. “Quick!” The woman says again, walking toward the space suits, impatiently waving at me to follow “I’m Lumia, by the way.” She grabs a suit and then hands one to me, then hurries over to the robots. The suit is surprisingly light. Lumia rests her suit on the robot’s arms, then steps on to a short pedestal. I do the same, stepping onto a pedestal right next to her. My robot quickly begins putting on my suit. It holds the pieces to my body, then zips and ties and buckles them together. The robot uses a tube—like the thin vacuum tube that dentists use—to suction my suit together in order to make it an airtight seal. “I don’t know what you were thinking, leaving the ship without a suit,” Lumia says lightly, “and honestly, I’m surprised the airlocks let you out. It’s a little scary too, because I thought the airlocks were super well programmed.” She smiles at me. I have no idea what she’s talking about, and I feel a desperate instinct to explain my situation to someone. “Um…” I glance around nervously, “Um, I kinda…” I hesitate, my mind flailing. I barely know Lumia, and I barely know where I am. Lumia smiles interestedly. “...have a secret,” I finish, just loudly enough for Lumia to hear me over the clatter of the robots buckling our suits. Lumia gasps and smiles conspiratorially. “What’s your secret?” She asks, her eyes twinkling. “Uh…I don’t quite know how I got here.” Lumia wrinkles her eyebrows, a small smile still remaining on her face. I don’t think Lumia ever stops smiling. “But you were on this trip before today…” she tilts her head at me, “do you need to see the medic?” I laugh awkwardly. “No, no, it’s fine, never mind.” Lumia’s robot finishes buckling her suit and dings brightly. Mine dings a second later. Lumia walks to the airlock and motions for me to follow. I do, but I find that I can’t move nearly as gracefully as Lumia. I stumble after her, bouncing in an undignified manner. Lumia presses the glowing blue button, and the airlock opens. Everyone else has already left except for a person in a space suit who looks like he could be as young as eleven years old—so the three of us are the only ones in the airlock. The doors close. “So,” Lumia says to me, “What happened? Why did you leave the ship?” “I…” I trail off and shrug, not sure how to answer. Lumia looks at me curiously, but does not request a better answer. “It’s September 1st, 2054, a little past 8:15, right?” Lumia checks her watch. “Yeah.” “You didn’t leave the ship.” I turn to look at the boy in the airlock with us. “Hm?” Lumia asks politely. “I remember you,” the boy says, addressing me, “I saw you appear outside without a spacesuit.” I stare at the boy. The way he’s looking at me…he’s telling the truth. And I remember waking up; I know he’s right. I try to communicate that with my eyes, to let him know that I believe him, before laughing. “You must’ve seen me when I went outside.” Lumia nods. The boy starts to argue, but helmets are placed over our heads and attached to our suits by metal arms before he has the chance to say anything. A second later, the opposite wall of the airlock opens, revealing a ramp down to a cratered surface. I gasp. Lumia can’t hear me through my helmet, but she waves at me and bounces down the ramp, the boy hopping after her. I slowly follow. I’m on the Moon. The surface is cratered and covered with thick dust. It’s somewhat dim, and I look up, wondering if the sun is in the sky. What I see takes my breath away. The full Earth. It’s huge, ten times as large as the full Moon viewed from Earth. It looks like a drop of water, painted on the sky and infused with color. I know I’m miles away from the Earth, but I feel like I could reach out and touch it. There is nothing between me and the Earth. Plain nothing, huge voids of empty space. I’m struck with a sense of vertigo, almost as if I could fall back to Earth. I can’t seem to pull my eyes away from the Earth, as though it is calling to me, pulling me in with the same gravitational force that keeps the Moon circling it month after month. Something irrepressible is blooming from my chest, heavy and light at the same time, like a half-forgotten melody that runs deep in my bones and sings along with my blood. I don’t know how I got here, but I don’t care. This is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life. And it’s more than just beautiful. The view of the Earth is heavier than beautiful, heavy and real and full. This is the farthest I’ve ever been from anything I could call home, and yet, it is the closest I’ve ever felt to belonging. Me, us, the whole world—we all live on this tiny marble in the sky. We’re all alone, together, in the empty void of space. As I stare at the Earth, I notice a star out of the corner of my eye, very close to the Earth’s edge. It glows brightly, but does not twinkle, like all the stars on the Moon. There’s something inexplicably familiar about this particular star. As it passes behind the Earth, I could swear that it winks at me.

5slwdl

The Interior Life of Ruck

I backpack. Named Ruck. Store person put me on shelf. She say I “handsum”. I not know what it mean, but she make happy face when she say, so must be nice thing. Nothing to do while I sit here but lots to look at. After I see sun come up from outside window two times, I feel little bored. I feel little empty, like I hungry. But I not wait long. Young man come, he look at me. He lift me from shelf, take me to store lady, who ask him if he want me “in a bag”, which make them both laugh. We go outside, he sling me on back. What a feeling! I move so free! I then rest on his back. I still empty, but it feel nice to use my straps. We go forward, away from store. I miss nice store lady but I like outside more. I like being on back. — Owner name Kafka, I hear him say. I learn Kafka a “uhcountant”. He work with numbers. He use heavy machine to help make sentences from numbers. At end of each sentence, he take short break, then start next sentence. He write lots of number sentences on machine. I think one day he write book (book is like many papers, put together with gloo), like ones I carry, or ones I see at his home. We spend lot of time together. Every time we go out, it new “uhdventure” (fun work, but makes no money) for me. Kafka not tell me where we go, I find out right before we leave home. It fun game for me to guess where we go from the things he give me to carry. When he bring his uhcountant things, I know we go to office. When I carry snacks, water, spray for “bears” (animals that hike but not carry backpacks), I know we go hiking. When I empty, I know we go get food from store (different store than where I from) to keep at home. I not eat store food. I not hungry when I carry things. Hiking my favorite. — While Kafka at work, I read the things left inside me. Sometimes these are small things I can read, like receipts and snack labels, but they interesting because they important enough for me to carry, so I read them to learn why so important to Kafka that I work hard to carry and keep for him. I not upset, I just wonder, because I have lots of time to think while we at his “office”. Mostly I read his books that I carry. But because he an accountant, his books are more numbers than words. So I think I slow to learn words. I like words, because they give me way to understand Kafka and to think better. Numbers not help me very much yet. Books heavy, but are my favorite thing to carry. I read them and read them again. — At work today I read a very different kind of book. This one didn’t have many numbers in it. And it was very different than the accounting books I normally read. It was more of a fun story, but I don’t know yet if the story is true or not. It was about a wizard boy named Harry, and if it is true, then I wonder if Kafka has any friends from the school of magic. How fun and curious it would be to meet someone who has a bag that can store as many things as it want. I’d like to meet that bag, what a fun trick! Sometimes when I’m so full that I can’t fit anymore, I feel a bit bad because I know Kafka needs me to carry more. He gently squashes all his other stuff down to make room for more stuff, and I feel guilty. I would like to learn how to make more room. Unlimited room! I have much to learn. If not a true story, then I wonder why someone would write it? — When we don’t go to Kafka’s work, I carry stuff that feels different. Like today we went on a picnic and we brought along “homey” things (things that are softer, things that feel like they are from home, borrowed from home, and when you have them with you, you feel like home is with you). I carried a soft blanket, a “journal” (a book that Kafka sometimes writes his stories in, but ones with no numbers), a pencil, sunglasses, a little bottle of lotion, a salad with separate dressing (it took a lot of effort to keep the “dressing” upright!), some napkins, and an empty bag. Not a bag like me, but a smaller one, a plastic one that seemed disinterested in whether it was carrying books or garbage, whether it was empty, or wrinkled to death with folds. While we were lying on the blanket at the park — I feeling a blissful stillness in a sunbeam, feeling alive from the earthy tree air that travelled across us slowly — Kafka made a new friend who was also laying in the park, a blanket and a patch of grass away from us. “I’m Kafka”, Kafka said, flashing a smile. “I’m Jeannie”, she smiled back. I wonder a little if Kafka knows my name. It was a nice day, lots of work and lots of play. — Sundays are crisp and best enjoyed when they begin in Kafka’s “Dodge” (a type of car that is used for going to and from the city), and are followed by a day-long hike. Car rides are as fine as paper towel, but truth be told, I am still not used to facing forward while also moving forward. It’s a strange sensation, perhaps like a human walking backwards while facing forwards. But knowing that we’re about to spend the day hiking is enough to distract me from the strangeness. This morning though, I was in a bad mood. Usually seated in the first-mate seat of Kafka’s Dodge, keeping him company, I was demoted this morning to an afterthought in the backseat on account of new company. Not even in the middle backseat, where at least the three of us would form an equilateral triangle, reassuring by virtue of its equity and impartiality, but rather in the seat behind Jeannie, furthest from Kafka, where I’m forced to stare at the back of the chair that used to be mine. Sitting there, behind the open window instead of next to it, the gush of air tumbling into the back seat, crushing me with the force of its weight, made me want to “vomit” (when you hurl the contents out of your body because you don’t feel well). I tried to look mad by squishing my face the way I sometimes see Kafka do, but my attempt at shapeshifting was futile, because I’m too much on the outside who I am on the inside, which is rumpled stuff. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway, because the sanguine rockmelons upfront were preoccupied laughing at unfunny jokes. When we got there, wherever there was, Kafka heaved me out from the backseat. Determined to not willingly become part of a scalene love triangle, I made myself as heavy as possible and Kafka grunted. But it’s an odd thing. Despite my resolve to weigh down the buoying levity of their romance, to bring it back to earth, something got the better of me when we began hiking. My work began, the work of keeping their possessions safe and present, and my bitterness dissolved into the solvent air of the forest. I am a sentimental creature, easily overcome by the poetry of sticks, twigs, trees, and earthy air. I felt bashful of the jealousy I felt earlier, but I also felt reinvigorated, filled as much with purpose as I was with pasta salad, the two counting on me. I am the difference between well-prepared loving adventurers, and once-lovers torn apart by nothing other than the mundane rational problems of unpreparedness. Later, all of us tired, we plopped down on a jagged rock whose redeeming quality was that it was large enough to seat us all in a forest that had no other chairs. We needed a break from the sun and the walking, and from the bugs too, but enamoured by our company, the bugs insisted on taking a break with us. Like a magician with their trusty hat, Kafka pulled out whatever it was that they needed; snacks, hydration, and afterwards, we all laughed at things that are only funny when you feel an overwhelming lightness. — We hiked everywhere. For a whole year, here, there, everywhere, even across the ocean, where people spoke languages I’ve never read (though often the numbers looked the same there as they did back home). I could tell you of forests and cities; of ships, planes, trains, and bikes; of heat, of wind, of sand; of bugs and of birds. But there was one moment in particular while we were hiking off the Ligurian coast that was revelatory for me, when a truth about my kind gobsmacked me over the hood. As with most prophetic moments, it happened simply, without ceremony, and only in retrospect do you realize that it was something you’ve been waiting to know. And often that realization is an answer to why you are the way you are, and why you sometimes inexplicably feel alone in the company of others. (Or so I’ve gathered from the books Kafka and I have read, I don’t have many revelations of my own to draw from, but it seems to be a sort of universal phenomena that makes us all ironically alike.) Anyways, during one of these hikes, in the silence of the morning, Kafka and I passed by another backpack and their human, who nodded at us as we crossed paths, the strangers going onward into our past while we went onwards into theirs, the other backpack and I continuing to face one another for longer than most humans would feel comfortable holding a gaze with one another. This stranger backpack was well worn, one of the eldest I ever encountered. It had aged gracefully without becoming fragile, a marbled patina having formed on its leather surfaces, adventure imbued into its fabric. It was then that it dawned on me; that backpacks live looking backwards. You’d think it would be obvious, “back” is even in the name of my kind, but it took me living a dozen Fodor’s for this to really sink in. When humans walk, they walk towards something. Objects ahead of them become bigger and bigger, at their largest before suddenly they disappear forever. Being able to march forwards towards the unseen, unencumbered by what they leave behind, makes them ideal explorers. But when we as backpacks travel, it’s the opposite. Things start out at a scale hyper quixotic to a little backpack, become smaller and smaller, until eventually — they don’t disappear — they just become infinitesimally small. What’s more is that I always know how much longer I have to appreciate something before it fades away, the correlation between time and visibility made predictable, like a sunset. What does that make a backpack, whose motion is forward but is always looking back? What do you call someone or something that savours the past, bidding everything it passes a long and reverent goodbye? A poet, a journalist, a cartographer, perhaps? Whose role it is to chronicle their loved ones’ life and adventures? Not on maps or on paper, but within the memory of our materials. We remember whatever is worth remembering before it fades away - like the smell of pine, the salt of creek water, the sap and dew of the trees we rest on - and imbue it in our fabric. We absorb and reflect the experiences of our humans, forming a tapestry of their lives. — We’ve been back home for a while, and so there’s been less hiking and no travelling, and more time spent at Kafka’s office. Fewer stories about Harry Potter (which I’ve since learned are “fiction”), and more stories about numbers (which I’ve since learned, I’m not the only one who doesn’t enjoy reading such stories). I’m not complaining. I know I speak often of how much I love my work while we hike and travel, but I can appreciate a break. I wouldn’t mind trying out one of these “spas” I keep reading about (a place where they spot clean your fabric with cucumbers), but for now it’s nice to have predictability in the possessions I carry, and to simply lay motionless in a climate-controlled environment for hours, or even days at a time. — I’ve noticed some peculiarities this past week, some of them as contradictory as salt and pepper. I’ll start with the exciting news. I’ve been carrying around fewer accounting books this week, and have instead been entrusted with Yosemite Falls travel books checked out from the library, which Kafka has been devouring at lunch time. The anticipation of another trip, our first in a while, sends a chill of excitement up my padded spine. For all my talk about rest and relaxation, it turns out I’m just a fisherman who misses the sea. And while the fibres of my fabric, once clean and crisp, have softened, gently sanded down by the tide of adventure, I feel as durable and capable as ever. There is a contradiction that has left me confused, however. I’ve noticed a few anomalies at home, traits inconsistent with how Kafka has usually behaved before a big trip. Ordinarily, we would both sit in the living room, and see what all we were capable of carrying. And though I’ve tried to signal to Kafka and Jeannie that I was ready, if not eager for this ritual, I’ve been left to idle while they plan. But I chalk it up to experience; we have more confidence in what to pack, how to fit and carry it all, and being able to improvise with the unknown since you can never pack everything. That’s what aging is really all about; you no longer carry around the weight of the permutations of everything that will go wrong. — I should have seen the signs. At first they were subtle. For example, Kafka used to gently and carefully clean my fabric, dabbing at me gently with Dawn dish soap and warm water; always warm, never cold, never hot. Warm with a precision that he seldom demonstrated for anything except numbers. Then recently, he became ambivalent about the temperature of the water, then he stopped caring about the soap, before finally he stopped caring about cleaning me altogether. And in the past couple weeks, the clues became so obvious that I now feel stupid for not recognizing them sooner. Kafka and Jeannie began talking of me “wearing out”, which at the time, I assumed to mean they were getting ready to wear me “out”, as in outside of work, outside of the normal routine, outside of the comfortable but now lethargic sanctum we had all cocooned ourselves in. Now I see that “wearing out” is a human idiom, as in I’m being “worn away”, fading into the distance, like the trees and sticks that I used to enjoy watching become infinitesimally small until they only existed in my memory. So I am a “horcrux” now, a slice of Kafka’s soul, living outside of him. At a store, to be precise, filled with things. Not new things like where I grew up, but old things. Old things that would ordinarily be beautiful, like the backpack I saw on our hike off the Ligurian coast. But now, placed outside of their work environment, compacted in between other old things, sitting empty on a shelf, trying to catch a stray sun beam but having to pathetically settle for fluorescent lights, we all looked decrepit and humiliated. I feel like vomiting, but can’t because I am empty. I am hungry, have nothing to read, and my arms are stiff from not moving. The store keepers here are unsympathetic, as are the patrons, and we all move about as though we are discarded by our Kafkas. — Adam, a red-headed boy of six or seven, walks into the store. He picks me up, and - now that I know more of accounting than he - pays for me at a depreciated value. We walk outside into a bright white world, and he slings me over his shoulder. Little Adam walks onwards, and I, on his back (and just as big), begin chronicling his life.

f43c3c

GPS Into Another Dimension

          As my car crept along a deserted road in the Virginia-North Carolina countryside, the passing scenery reminded me of the forest scene from "Deliverance." To add to the negative atmosphere, I had agreed to allow my fellow Realtor, Jill McIntyre, to partner with me on the trip and act as my navigator–more on Jill’s sterling character and background later.      Back to the drive–the stillness on this Saturday night made me feel like a solo mortician closing up shop after the last mourner following the wake of the least popular crotchety old man in a small Southern town.       Oh yes, the story of Jill–colleagues in our office who knew her far better than I did said she had a voice that would attack your nerves like fingernails scraping on an old-school chalkboard. Also, if you had the unfortunate luck to come out on the losing side of an argument with her, her buzz saw-like comments could leave you feeling like a worthless piece of sawdust inside of a minute.       My unfortunate streak of luck in the office for the impending Realtor Week convention had seen me draw the short straw as part of our office’s two-person team slated to give our sales update presentation at the Wilmington, NC event. This meant a nearly seven-hour drive from our Ocean City, MD home base.       Of course, my own sales talent also had landed me in this position—I had worked my way up to the top of the sales production quota charts just below Wunderkind Jill.       My office partners had warned me that a trip of any length with her could turn into a road trip from Hell, just like every business excursion they had the misfortune to experience with her in the past. No sooner had we started than we launched into a loud debate over the most effective route from downtown Ocean City heading toward Virginia.       Turned out I had the best idea, but we followed Miss Perfection’s route—along beach traffic-jammed Route 90--earning us a two-mile-backup in Ocean Pines, MD and stone cold silence from my co-pilot throughout the next two hours of our trip.       We didn’t reach the three-quarter marker for our trip, Richmond, until lunchtime. Planning for lunch resulted in another verbal skirmish, between an Italian place I knew well from my Army days near the capital and what Jill considered the only worthwhile choice for us, a local Mexican restaurant she loved because of its ambience.       My overbearing colleague reluctantly gave in because of the location of my choice, Cici Mama, only two blocks from the exit of the interstate.       We came out of lunch to find our SUV gone, and, in its place, we found a horse and buggy. Hadn’t noticed any Amish wagons along the road, and their nearest settlement was 200 miles away. Not only that, but it seemed like horses and wagons of every size and shape had replaced every modern vehicle we had seen on the streets around us while we grabbed a bite to eat. Had some mysterious force thrown us into a reverse time warp back to the Old West?  The hot Virginia sun began to beat down on us with a new ferocity. Perhaps it also had baked away what little brain power the long ride and our argument over the route had not taken away from us.      The trip to our North Carolina conference site, which normally would take only another hour, lasted four more hours.       After a rugged trip along a number of dusty and unpaved country roads, our GPS directed us to the area of Route 58 as darkness began to close in like the lid closing on a coffin.          It looked like not only would we miss our own presentation, but we certainly would have to chuck the whole Realtors’ convention.        As my crack navigator informed me, after driving around in circles and retracing our steps again and again, the interstate finally awaited us just ahead. We finally saw signs for the entrance to the highway.       Just as we turned onto 58 a strange green light on the road ahead blinded us.      A creature standing about eight feet tall emerged from the light and approached our wagon. From what we could make out from the gibberish he began spouting he had come down to Earth on an exploratory mission from Mars of the future seeking a place on our planet to colonize for his people, whose area had been destroyed in an intergalactic nuclear storm. "I have the ability," the creature said, "to tap into your minds and gather everything I need to merge into Earth as an ordinary human. Then I will transmit this information back to my home planet and my fellow Martians will come down to take over your home base, with neither you nor your leaders knowing the difference. Of course, once I complete my transformation you both will have died." Jill and I both struggled to get out of our wagon, but we found ourselves unable to move.       It looked like the road trip from Hell would turn into the final excursion of our lives. I did manage to use what little brainpower I had left during the Martian transformation to replay the last few hours and try to figure a way out of this mess.      As I attempted to work out an escape plan with my very unhappy and extremely uncooperative colleague, we figured out that this whole scenario didn’t seem to add up. Why had the Martian picked our vehicle from all the traffic on the far reaches of this countryside, just off a major interstate highway, rather than trying to make contact with far more important government officials in Richmond, the capital of Virginia?     And why did he choose to stop our nondescript conveyance with two people in it rather than a family car carrying several more potential subjects for his potential takeover?        After an hour of plotting ways to get out of what seemed like a life-ending situation, we found ourselves sitting alone in the dark, no longer prisoners in a bizarre intergalactic plot.       Turns out our side trip to meet the Martian had not really happened. Our friendly college-aged Gen X luncheon waitress had offered us a few sips of what she called a new, off-menu super refreshing beverage. The extra ingredient in her home brew consisted of a sprinkling of an opioid she and her college crowd had decided to test out on the first strangers to walk through the door of the restaurant. The last few hours had merely been drug-induced dreams--or should I say nightmares?       Turns out the college kids had tried their experiment on another couple in another restaurant that morning and disappeared for a few hours, talking their way into server positions at Cici Mama hoping for a rerun of their earlier sideshow. The couple had reported the incident to the local police, who had begun watching all Richmond eating establishments for a return of the collegiate pranksters.      When the police spotted the GenXers leaving the Italian place, they followed them and nabbed them watching from a rundown abandoned motel near the highway entrance while they watched us, their latest victims, trying to negotiate our way onto 58.         They locked the collegians up and dispatched a patrol car to pull us over. We wound up in the local hospital’s emergency room where we took two more days to recover from our slight overdose.       Although we missed our presentation and the home office had to fly in a second team to pitch-hit for us, we later flew to Wilmington in time for the regional award ceremony to accept Ace Achiever honors as the most productive team on the Eastern Seaboard.

4ohrgy

Space Adventure To Paradise And Back

Space Adventure To Paradise (And Back) What, where am I? My head feels so strange, like a clamp is pressing in on either side of my face. So this must be space.. Tim’s eyes darted around through his helmet to the great blackness beyond. After a minute, he could see little dots of light, but they seemed very far away. He felt compressed in his space suit, and wriggled in it as best as he could, seeking a sense of freedom, but the part encasing his feet was so heavy. Of course, to combat weightlessness.           Suddenly, Tim felt a heightening of reality accompanied by fear. Would he be out here until his death? How could he get back into the rocket where he had been before, no one was there to pull him back into the cabin.          He thought back, how unexpected and sad to have Bill die. Bill had a painful accident too, impaled by some sharp equipment. They had set up a sharp stake to hold important papers down, but no one thought of the potential hazard for the weightless astronauts bouncing around the cabin. Tim took pictures, even through his shock, to establish it was an accident, and not something more sinister. Then somehow his effort to check the rocket was able to go forward went really wrong. He was locked outside. Tim must have blacked out for a moment and become disoriented.          Action. I need to busy myself with a plan. Tim moved gently towards the cabin holding the rope that was attached to him, the rope that was pressed into the locked door of the cabin. He was like a balloon on the end of a string, so it wasn’t easy to move in towards the cabin door. At last he reached it. He tried to pull the door open, but as he did, the rope tore. He began to float slightly away from the spaceship into the darkness beyond. He moved slower in space than he ever thought he would.          I feel utterly alone. I’m going to die here alone. Just as Tim was thinking this, a golden flame began to bolt quickly towards him from a distance. He saw as it approached closer, that it was  a wondrously strong-looking angel! This angel also resembled the medieval Italian artists’ depiction of angels except its hair was living and moving all the time, as if made of warm fireplace flames. The angel stood before him, fiery hair dancing, golden robes rippling, and gestured to Tim to remove his helmet. At first Tim’s eyes were incredulous, then stern, as he refused. The angel just looked at him, nodding patiently. Then he thought about his options. I’m bound to die soon. I might as well have company, and follow this apparition.               Tim removed his helmet. He knew he should feel like he was being drowned, or being smothered, but he did not! He felt freedom and peace. He also felt like he was looking down on himself from somewhere higher. The angel put one golden hand on his arm, and they both flew up and away from his helmetless body and the spaceship. The angel reassured him that all who he had left behind would be just fine.             Tim noticed his senses were so enhanced. He really felt like he was living for the first time, and the life he thought he had before was some form of pale, suffocated phony existence. He could see 360 degrees around him. If this was death, why had he ever been afraid? He could breathe, he saw colors he never knew existed. Reds deeper than scarlet, wilder than magenta, yellows brighter than can be described, greens that topped the most beautiful aurora borealis photographs. Tim had knowledge of all around him. He also had knowledge of his past life, and those he had known. It was like a woven tapestry in his mind of how his actions had affected others for good and for bad, all the connections to other people. He felt so very alive. He was ready for wherever the angel was leading him.              They arrived at a beautiful place, all roses and lush gardens, and there in the middle of a distant garden stood a magnificently beautiful woman surrounded by many children. She shone like an angel, and yet, she seemed human. He wanted to meet her, but the angel led him away. There were waterfalls and many flower gardens, angelic creatures and happy people enjoying the perfect weather. Everything smelled better, looked brighter, felt more real than ever before. Tim spotted Bill, who waved to him joyfully as he joined some people who looked like they could be Bill’s relatives. Tim followed the angel, marveling at everything, and how his legs didn’t feel tired at all, though they had walked a long way, and leaving the suit was usually exhausting. Tim felt like he could walk forever if need be. The angel seemed to be enjoying guiding Tim around.       Then Tim met with someone greater, someone he knew was The One. The One saw right through him, and told him he was going back, because his mission was incomplete. The One said, “We brought you here, so you would know you are never utterly alone. I’m always holding you. You have to know how your life affects others too. You have just a little more time to make it right.”             Then The One showed him many things, like why there were mosquitoes plaguing humans, why the dinosaurs died out and when, why the human mind can help heal the body, and so many things He could read in Tim's mind the desire to know.              Tim listened, then wept a cleansing kind of weeping, overwhelmed with the knowledge, and the beauty, and the mercy of it all. He would never doubt again. He then began to weep sadly, because he did not want to return to complete his mission on earth. He knew those who loved him would be just fine without him. The angel had told him so. So why couldn’t he stay? He tried to ask to stay, but the words wouldn’t come out. He knew it was no use. It was as if The One answered his request in Tim's head.            As the angel led him back from Paradise the long distance to the rocket lingering in space below, Tim asked it how he could return to earth. The angel said, “You should know by now if The One sends you back, you will safely return.” Tim accepted what was happening, and watched the streaking comets and the meteor showers with a heightened sense of awareness and appreciation.          As they approached his body, Tim suddenly felt a bit deflated. He was going back to the world, that was a miserable pale shadow of the one he had just left. He reentered his body, but learned it was different to unite soul and body now. As he buckled the floating helmet onto his head, he realized there was a warm, pleasant burning inside of him, a new peace. He still retained the vivid memory of where he had been, and all that had been said to him. He would never be the same, and if others on earth didn’t understand, that was okay. He knew. He knew what his mission was, and how to live each moment of his life. Above all, he knew he needed to return to The One to stay. The angel led him to the entrance, and opened the rocket door for Tim. Tim calmly entered, knowing his return to earth would be viewed as a miracle, then probably quickly forgotten by most. But he would never forget.

4fp6c5

Divine Prank

“It is with great pleasure that I present you the artefact we've been searching agonisingly for the past six months.” I gracefully pass my opened palm above the series of vases standing in front of the podium, carefully placed on an exhibition stand. “These are rumoured to be the last divine prank of Hermes.” The room, although packed with people falls silent. Everyone I look at seems like holding their breath. “This set of vases contains the remains of a team of inferior deities that were serving the great god of Olympus. According to various historians that our team has studied, these deities were responsible for setting many villages in turmoil with their spread of mischief. The vases remained sealed, using a special mixture to ensure they wouldn't be easy to open. And we intend to listen to our ancestors and not open them.” I laugh to break the tension in the room. “The piece of papyrus saved on the excavation site contains a warning notice, addressed to the Great Oracle of Delphi, but due to unknown circumstances, the vases never made it there.” Flashes blind my eyes throughout the whole time of the presentation. When I finish telling the backstory of our findings, the reporters jump like kangaroos on their seats with their hands reaching up to get my attention. Towards the back of the room, I see Sir Woods – a famous archaeologist - along with his fellow followers, engaged in a whispering conversation with his group. The looks they give me though, are not encouraging at all. The discovery may not be what they’re expecting. And without their word on the board, I may lose the funding for my next assignment. Desperate to get close to the group at the back, I thank hurriedly the crowd and make a move to step down from the podium. But my clumsy feet cause the podium to shake, pushing the table where vials are placed. Clay rattles as the vials collide, sending each in a dangerous rotation. I circle the space to reach the table in front and block their fall but gravity is quicker than myself trying to walk past the reporters approaching me. Everything around me – me included – gets trapped in slow motion. I stand and watch in terror over one reporter’s right shoulder as the vials drop one after the other, ending in a pile of smashed clay on the floor. I instantly lift my hands, hiding my face against my palms. In my mind, I had played various versions of how this night could have gone. And none of them, including me, accidentally broke our latest archaeological discovery. Not even explaining the situation to the board would grant me access to the sources I need. Now, I’ll be very lucky if they don’t kick me out. Even though my hands block my sight, I keep my eyelids closed. I prepare myself for all these disdainful comments that will fall upon me like a rain of arrows. I focus on my hearing… And I don’t hear a thing. Complete silence. Strange, because I’m sure I haven’t gone anywhere, the overcrowded hall is impossible to empty in a matter of seconds, yet I have a peculiar feeling that I’m all alone. Letting my hands drop slowly, I open my left eye just slightly to look around. I could see the table and the pile of orange ash that previously was a set of vials. I take the courage to open my other eye too and let go completely of my hand barrier. A gasp leaves my mouth as I watch the crown has been frozen in time. The face of the reporter standing between me and the table hosting the artefacts took a rather silly expression as time cut him off before making his question probably. I turn around slowly, unable to explain how everyone has been frozen while I still can move around. A burst of sneaky laughs catches my attention, coming from outside the room. Bypassing the living statues around me I open the door, throwing myself in the main hall of the Acropolis Museum. Chill air engulfs me, making me jump as a strong shiver runs through my body. My mouth drops open upon the sight in front of me. They should be silent. Still, silent and marble cold. Not moving and talking loudly. I blink a few times, I even rub my eyes hoping this to be a dream. A bad, not-funny-at-all dream. I shake my head sideways. This is insane. Absolutely, unbelievable. Every inanimate object has come to life. This can’t be happening. Suddenly, I feel the urge to get some air. I need to get out. I run as fast as I can towards the museum’s entrance but the moment I reach out to touch the grand doors, I feel the sting of an electric current throwing me back on the stone-cold floor. I grunt as I get up, ready to make another attempt but I stop short. There’s no point in trying again since I’ll find myself once more back down. Maybe try the emergency doors, but I have to go through the entire west wing until I find the first one. Without other options at hand, I start making my way through the vivid statues. After all, curiosity bugs me to take a closer look at life from an exhibit’s perspective. Loud voices and cheers get my attention, coming from somewhere near me, so I make a small turn to follow the sound. As I approach a section dedicated to statues of young men and women, the voices are getting louder. “Our next contestant is Kore KA, wearing a silk dress with golden details. Her hair drops in luxurious locks over her shoulders. Sculpted by a prodigy student of Phidias around 434 BC.” A statue of a shepherd announces while a bit further away, a statue of a Kore poses playfully. On the opposite wall, a small group of young boys statues whistle playfully, making the Kore giggle and the rest of the young women statues protest for unfair judgement. The view is quite amusing although still feels strange to watch them acting like normal. I leave the beauty contest aside, getting back on the main path for the emergency exit past the west wing. To my right, there’s a giant clay decorative disk with depictions of everyday life. A young man is playing the lyre with his teacher, adding a nice tone to the whole chaos around me, while an old woman tends the hair of a girl, sitting on a rock. All of a sudden, a small statue of a winged Nike approaches fast, grabbing with its little hands the plate and swiping it to the side. The giant disk rotates with speed, making the paintings go dizzy and shouting to the winged statue that laughs mischievously. Further down, another group of young men statues sets up teams to play football while the head of Alexander the Great decides to be the referee and a piece of broken pediment from Athena’s Temple is selected to be the VAR team. I finally made it to the end of the West Wing. And failure awaits me there too. The emergency door – even though this time doesn’t launch me back with electroshock, it seems to be blocked by something heavy from the other side. I give my all, pushing and dropping myself on the door but it won’t move. Something passes fast before me. The laugh is familiar. I could swear it was the same one I heard back at the exhibition hall where everything began. So I decide to follow it. This hall is not so crowded with exhibits and mainly hosts the largest of the statues saved. The flying thing appears again in my vision, this time going straight down the hall, heading to the hall of Cycladic Art. The bloody thing moves too fast. I can barely get a glimpse of him. It vanishes from my eyes the same fast as it came. Only a shade of bright purple feather could register in my brain. Could it be something connected with the vials I broke? I wonder… maybe the exhibits know something about it. Taking a deep breath, I approach the largest group of exhibits in this area. The glass surrounding them muffles the grunts and groans they leave as they try to stretch. “Aaaah that’s it!” one cries as she stretches out her hands above her head. The rock-cracking sound must be her joints complaining after all those centuries of stillness. “Damn Tartarus, my neck is killing me! Aouch! Be gentle please” another shouts as a third one gives her a massage on her neck. “Oh Zeus, you’ve got it. That’s the spot.” “I’m going to find that arrogant sculptor and show him what it’s like to support the Erechtheion on your head all those centuries!” the first one entered the discussion. “Excuse me,” I knock on the glass but all seem unphased by my presence. I knock louder, but still nothing happens. The Caryatid don’t pay the slightest attention to me. “EXCUSE ME!” I shout as I bang the glass with both hands with all my might. “Hey! What’s your tone down there!” the one being massaged turns abruptly towards me, pointing me with her finger. “What do you want?” “Did you see a purple thing flying from here? I’m looking for it” I ask, keep repeating inside that they may have the answer I need. The caryatid giving the massage to the grumpy one stops for a moment, kneeling to reach as close as to my height. Contrary to the other two, her features are not so worn out. “You better ask Athena. She’s resting further down. We saw what you seek but we cannot help you further. Please excuse my sisters. They have been through a lot of weathering all this time.” Thanking the kind Caryatid, I leave them be and walk further down the hall as she instructed. I recognize the Parian marble from the distance. “Relief of the pensive Athena” the sign before it says. Athena leans on her spear, her eyes closed and her breath heavy. She murmurs under her breath, but it’s almost impossible to comprehend her words. I don’t know why but having to speak to the actual goddess of wisdom makes me a little star-struck. How should I address the goddess of Olympus? A sacrifice to earn her favour? No way! I don’t even have fruits or nuts to offer as prayer. “Greetings omniscient goddess, Athena,” I speak with emphasis, dropping my head in respect to the Olympian. “Another human” Athena spits in disappointment. “I can’t these mortals anymore. I simply can’t. Every time they ask. And when you think they stopped, they keep asking!” she murmurs to herself. “Help them, Father said. It won’t be difficult for the mighty goddess of wisdom” she says sarcastically, mimicking probably the voice of Zeus. “Nonsence! They never get happy with anything. Maybe I should consider changing my job. Those TV shows with questions look nice. It must be easy for someone who knows it all.” She laughs once. Never in my wildest dreams could imagine this. Athena, murmuring about her being the goddess of wisdom. It’s hilarious. I struggle to keep myself from laughing because I need her assistance, and infuriating a god don’t know how it might turn out to me. “Sorry, oh great goddess Athena, but before you change carrier, can you answer this question for me? I’m looking for a purple feathery thing that flies around here. Do you know what is it?” Athena stops her complaining session and turns to me, throwing me a side glance that makes me wonder if I’ve offended her by asking if she knows. “Of course,” she throws nonchalantly. “You’re looking for -” I never get to hear the name of what I am looking for. A sharp pain in my ribs throws me down. I hit my head and everything sinks into the darkness. When I open my eyes, I find myself at my office, dropped on the floor. Rising slowly to my feet, my eyes fall on the watch hanging on the opposite wall. 3.30 p.m. I go to the window and push the curtain with my fingers, picking outside. The streets are busier than ever. Full of people, cars and air that tastes of fumes. I laugh at myself moving my head sideways in disbelief. In two hours I have to present my recent discovery to the world. The ‘Divine Prank’ of Hermes.

jwz845

The Night in the Gallery

It is a cool Saturday afternoon when the school bus makes its way to the Art Institute of Chicago. The bus if filled with students chatting away with either each other or their phones. One student with a keen eye uses his cell phone to take pictures of the outside at seemingly random points. Another reads a book, oblivious to the world around her. Charles absently watches the moving landscape out the window while his brother, Rick, chats up his classmates. Rick pulls out his phone. “You should check this out guys. This is the latest version of DALL-E 2.” The other kids gasp in amazement. “Whoa, look at her hands! They’re actually realistic!” “Right?” Rick replies with an air of smug superiority, “It took me all day to figure out the right commands to make this masterpiece.” Charles reins in his disgust. He has already made this argument before. Charles can still feel the bruises when Rick and his buddies decided that their fists made a compelling argument. It was around 4:30 in the afternoon when the bus finally pulls up in front of the main building. The teacher is the first to step out. “All right everyone, please exit the bus in a single file line. Make sure you don’t forget your belongings. We will be spending the night at this place, so you had best not forget your sleeping bags and toiletry.” The students take their belongings and exited the bus in an organized fashion. Because it was around closing time, there were only a few visitors still walking the gallery. An attendant stood at the ticket station, waiting for the group of students to arrive. “Welcome to the Art Institute of Chicago! My name is Bethany. If you could kindly drop your bags off over in the corner, we can begin our tour.” The students were split into groups of 4, with Charles and Rick ending up in the same group. Each group was guided by a different attendant, while the teacher stayed behind to keep an eye on the student’s belongings and to speak with the gallery’s curator. Bethany leads Charles’s group down a corridor and into a room filled with various paintings. Lining the walls were paintings of many different styles. Grand portraits were intermixed with humble paintings of nature. “Over here, we have A Sunday on La Grande Jatte . It was painted by Georges Seurat in 1884. It was intended to evoke the sense of timelessness associated with ancient art, particularly Egyptian and Greek sculpture. What’s really amazing is the fact that it was created with a series of dots that coalesce into solid and luminous forms when seen from a distance.” Rick scoffs, “My machine can churn out something just like this with just a few keywords.” The attendant turns to the boy, “Maybe so, but it will never be anything more than a mere copy of someone else’s work.” With that, the group moves on to another part of the gallery. During the tour, different groups of students would run into each other as they move to different parts of the institute. Eventually, all the student groups converge back into the main hall, where the teacher hands out paper bags, containing sandwiches and fruit, to each of the kids. As the students ate their dinner, they conversed with each other about what they found interesting in the tour. “Hey Charles, didn’t your dad get you that old computer for your birthday?” Charles shrugs, “He said he did some work on it and that he downloaded some nifty digital art software.” “Was he an artist too?” “He made some pieces back in the day. Mom told me he stopped when she became pregnant with me and Rick.” Once everyone finished their meals, groups of students would take turns to go to the bathroom to brush their teeth as the rest set up their sleeping bags. Charles tries to fall sleep, but something kept him from doing so. Without disturbing his classmates, he gets out of his sleeping bag and carefully makes his way back into the room with the different paintings, unaware that two other sleeping bags were also empty. Once Charles enters the room, he finds himself inexplicably drawn to A Sunday on La Grande Jatte . As he sits in front of the painting, he could have sworn he saw some of the people in the painting start to move. “You know you’re supposed to be in bed, right?” Startled, Charles turns to find Bethany standing right behind him. “I’m sorry, I’ll go back now.” Before Charles could turn to leave the room, Bethany gently puts a hand on his shoulder. “No, it’s alright. You are not the only person I’ve found drawn here.” “What do you mean?” Instead of answering, Bethany turns to the painting. “This picture is actually one of my favorites. I remember when it was first presented here. Whole crowds of people would come clamoring over each other to try to get a better look. Eventually a new piece would be presented and the crowds would immediately move on to it without a second thought. However, every now and then, I would see a visitor come in and start to see the painting for what it truly is.” With some encouragement from Bethany, Charles takes another look at the A Sunday on La Grande Jatte . However, instead of the moving painting he witnessed previously, Charles looks at a blank canvas. From corner of his eyes, Charles notices that the room has changed as well, resembling an art studio rather than the gallery he was in. Through eyes that were not his, Charles watches as the artist uses a small brush to draw a rough outline of the scene of the painting he will create on a piece of paper. Once that was done, the artist prepares the colors he will use for the painting by mixing the necessary ingredients for each color. He then places a brush with a fine point next to each color. Once all the tools were prepared, the artist began to work in earnest by taking a brush and carefully dabbing a tiny spot with one color. He would then put the brush down, pick up another one, and then create another spot. This process would repeat continuously, with the occasional glance at the outline. For hours, Charles watches as the blank canvas slowly transforms into the masterpiece that will eventually come to reside in the halls of an art gallery in Chicago. Once the painting was finished, Charles returns to the gallery. Looking at the clock, he is shocked to discover that only a few minutes had passed. Bethany gives Charles a knowing smile. “I had that same look when I first came here at your age.” “Why would Georges go through all this? I saw him spend hours and hours to create one painting. He didn’t even take a break. There had to have been easier ways to create this particular scene.” “Maybe. But it wouldn’t have had as much of an impact if he had.” Bethany gestures around the room, “All these paintings started off as simple ideas, images that stay in your mind and demand to be expressed. It doesn’t matter what form they take. An artist puts their very soul into their creation to give it life. Whether it is to allow others to see the world the same way they do or to challenge them in interpreting the message they have hidden within, it is our privilege as attendants to use them to inspire aspiring artists such as yourself.” Charles is taken aback, “But I’m not an artist. I can never create anything that can be on the level of the masters behind these great works. Sure, I have had plenty of ideas over the years. But time and again, my mind goes blank whenever I see that blank screen. The ideas always disappear like a puff of smoke before I can put them down.” Bethany nods her head, “It sounds like you’re trying too hard. Cultivating ideas is like teaching a child. Just start small, like writing them down on a piece of paper. It doesn’t have to be perfect, it just needs to give you a foundation. Do some research or ask your peers for advice. If new ideas hit you, put them down as well and see how well they fit. Over time, that idea becomes refined, as details are changed and revisions are needed. Eventually, you will see your new creation and know that it is ready.” Before Charles could reply, memories flashed through his mind. All the words of condescension that his brother gave him, the looks of apathy he imagines his classmates giving him whenever he tries to strike up a conversation, and the outright fear that what he creates will be ignored flashes through Charles’s mind. As if sensing his dismay, Bethany takes his hand, “Come on, let me show you something.” Bethany leads Charles outside. The pair walk around the building to see one of Charle’s classmates talking to another attendant. He was able to recognize Carver. While the two never really spoke to each other, Charles did notice that Carver had a habit of using his cell phone to take pictures at random things. Bethany points to the window, “That’s the Hartwell Memorial Window , we had it installed a few years ago. It is an interesting choice to show off to aspiring photographers. But then, Jonathan has always been a bit of an eccentric.” The two quieted down and continued to listen in on the pair’s conversation. “The natural world has always fascinated me.” Carver timidly said, “There is such a vibrant beauty that I have always wanted to capture. I wanted to go into photography when I grew up, but I could never to afford the special cameras that most specialists use. So, I use my phone to take the pictures instead.” Carver chuckles, “It’s gotten to the point where I would never take my phone out of my pocket just so I could be ready to take the right picture at a moment’s notice.” Bethany makes a silent gesture and the pair move on, while the attendant offers his advice to Carver. As the pair were leaving, Charles notices that the surrounding streets were unusually quiet and there was an air of tranquility centered around the window. They sneak back into the building and make their way to a large room, where suits of Medieval and Renaissance era arms and armor line the walls. The many artifacts presented, ranging from pristine jewelry to detailed tapestries, create a labyrinth of knowledge that takes visitors on a journey through history. Bethany leads Charles to one of the areas within. There, another one of Charles’s classmates, Tiffany, is transfixed to a painting that depicts a noble knight slaying a dragon. Tiffany was a quite girl that projected an air of aloofness whenever she reads a book, which was all the time. “Fascinating, I’ve assumed Tiffany would be more into literary works. I’m willing to bet Frederic chose Saint George and the Dragon because it resembled the classical adventures that she fantasizes. What better way to inspire literary creativity than to immerse yourself in the very culture that draws your imagination?” Baffled, Charles turns to Bethany, “What’s there to fantasize about being a damsel in distress?” Before Bethany can give her answer, Frederic quietly shushes the two. Looking at the painting himself, Charles can hear the sounds of musical instruments being played and images of a ballroom play out in his mind, with Tiffany in a beautiful red gown, with elaborate patterns of precious stones, dancing in the center with a dashing prince. The pair make their way back to the main hallway. “So, what did you learn from the real tour of our lovely art galleries?” Bethany asks and they are walking. Thinking for a moment, Charles reflects on the journey he as taken with every piece of art presented, the people around him going through their own struggles as make their story, and the pieces left behind by those who seek to inspire the ones who take their place. Eventually, Charles gives his answer, “I learned that art comes in many forms and that inspiration can come from anywhere. Everyone has a spark that compels them forward. How they decide to satisfy that urge is up to them, whether it’s through creating images on a blank canvas, finding the right moment to capture living memory, or using words to take others on a path of adventure and self-discovery.” Bethany gives no reaction to Charles’s answer. She merely shows him to his sleeping bag and bids him goodnight. In the morning, the children gather up their belongings and get ready to leave. Before they get on the bus to depart, Bethany, Jonathan, Frederic, and several other attendants array themselves in front of the entrance. Bethany steps forward, “Thank you for visiting the Art Institute of Chicago. Our doors are always open to those who are willing to learn or are seeking inspiration to express their own creative spark.” As one, the attendants bow at the waist. Most of the students are baffled by the display and enter the bus without a second thought. Only Charles, Carver, and Tiffany understood the gift they were given. With tears in their eyes and resolution in their hearts, all three turn to leave. When Charles comes home, he goes to the computer his father gave him and turns it on. He looks at the blank screen, takes a breath, and gets to work.

wjcmn7

Death From Above

   As Lance sat at the desk waiting for the video chat to load he could hear his brother getting settled in. After a few shuffles of paperwork and the squeak of the worn office chair, Dane appeared, the disappointment clear on his face. “So how did the meeting go?” Lance asked. Dane tried to keep his composure, shifting in his seat, then looking into the distance, searching for the best reply. The ticking of the clock loud in Lances ear, his eyes wide, lips pursed. “Well? Will they meet with us or not?” he urged. “They laughed me out of the conference room! After telling me that it was one of the most ridiculous ideas they had ever heard.” Dane replied. Staring down at his desk, shaking his head in defeat. “I told you they wouldn’t even entertain the idea. These academics are all the same. Follow the science, that’s the rule. This defies everything they’ve claimed to know about dinosaurs.” He added. Lance sat holding his chin in his hand thinking, his Grey eyes piercing into the screen. “Well, we’re going to have to get creative to get their attention.” Delete Created with Sketch. Lowering himself down from the vent Lance looked right and left, mocking concern that someone may see him. He knew the museum was empty, he watched everyone leave the building from across the street. He had to get the evidence needed to prove what they had discovered. The tricky part would be getting the bones detached without collapsing the entire skeleton. The T-Rex was almost twelve feet to the top of its skull. Lance would fortunately need to get just below the shoulder and remove one arm and the connecting dorsal bones, according to Dane. He didn’t like breaking the law but this was worth this risk, he reasoned. The two were on the verge of disproving the assumption that the T-Rex was bound to the land. The world deserved to know the truth. Delete Created with Sketch. Hundreds of miles away Dane was lining up the press to ensure the report was shown on national television. This was huge, and they both knew it. The only question was if they would be arrested immediately for the theft. Or would there be some discussion by the members of the SVP on how to handle it. Perhaps avoiding the embarrassment of the oversight. Delete Created with Sketch. A podium full of microphones awaited it’s speaker in the dry dusty air. The sun high in the sky blazed into the vast valley. A buzz of curiosity among the media, many of whom weren’t completely sure why they were there. The large projection screen only added to speculation. Cameras were lined above the large canvased cavern. Five major new stations among them hung boom mics, and jutted camera cranes above their news vans. The big reveal would take place when Dane had completed his display, and uploaded it onto a secure computer for protection. There was no telling what the SVP would do to stop this information from being disclosed. Delete Created with Sketch. Finally Dane and Lance emerged from behind the giant canvas that covered their discovery. As the media became aware of their presence the crowd of reporters began to quiet. Dane cleared his throat and began. “Ladies and gentlemen we are glad so many of you came. We called you here, to share the discovery of a lifetime with the world. For many years it was believed that the Tyrannosaurus Rex was bound to land. We are here to disprove that theory today. Behind me, you will see the remains we found that turn the assumption on it’s head.” As the display screen illuminated all heads and cameras turned towards it. An image of the skeletal structure of T-Rex appears in full display. Cameras began to snap photos and the hum among the media members grew until it almost overcame Danes’ voice when he began to speak. “You’ll notice a distinct feature marked on the monitor. The arm and the related dorsal bones removed from a fossil displayed at the Carnegie Museum of Natural History. There is evidence that proves a spar was overlooked upon the initial discovery. Behind this canvas, I will now share the indisputable proof that the Tyrannosaurus Rex was a Dragon!” The laughs in the crowd spread, many calling out names at the Paleontologist. Waving their arm in dismissal, and beginning to yell, “Show us the Dragon.” Followed by more laughter and heckling. Dane looked at Lance, as smiles crept across both their faces. With a wave of his hand, Dane gave the signal and the canvas fell. A gasp came from the crowd. A perfectly preserved T-Rex, entombed in the red clay displayed before them. Attached to it, a fully intact wing. The wing spread wide as if in full flight. The forearm and fingers perfectly aligned with the giant beasts body. The gazes of the stunned media jutting from the digital display back to the fossil was almost comical. Lance mouthed to Dane, “High Five.” As they watched their guests in amusement, the animation began to play. A forty-foot long, twenty-foot tall dragon soared above the very canyon they stood in. “Ladies and gentlemen I present, Death Stoker!” Lance blasted. Delete Created with Sketch. One Year Later… The spot lights whirled in the sky, their beams bouncing off the early evening clouds. A red carpet welcomed the VIPs exiting limousines, there for the big event. Cameras flashed as many celebrities mingled on the steps, among them the head of the SVP. He approached Dane and Lance, a sly grin on his face. “You boys really went for it didn’t you? I mean that spectacle in the desert, you left us no choice.” “That was the point.” Dane said.” “After the committee laughed me out of the conference, it was the only way to get your attention and prove we were right. It wouldn’t be long before the police tracked down the bones, I mean I’m not hard to find-I work there.” The three laughed as cameras captured the moment, that would be frozen in history. Head of the Society of Vertebrate Paleontology among many whom celebrated the grand opening of, The Museum of Drake. The End

9c76re

The Hiroshige Heist

Write about an art thief who is struggling to commit the perfect heist. #242, Fine Art. The Hiroshige Heist Denise A. Nisbet Creeping around the Royal Academy of Arts like the Pink Panther …dum dadum dadumdadumdadum …do you know what we did? We stayed and hid when the gallery closed and now we had the run of the whole place, even if it was pitch dark. We were after Hiroshige. Who? Hiroshige. We were in love with the Japanese woodcut artist; you know the bloke who did The Wave , and Sudden Shower over Ohashi Bridge . You don’t know about those? Well, look them up. Pretty clever I reckon to create such movement in a piece of art using woodcut. Not just that, but colour plates with many colours. The images are so immediate. That wave is about to break over you; and you can see the fellows on the bridge will make it home, so glad to be out of that rain shower. ‘Hehe’ they’ll say as they get a dry kimono on and sit down on the tatami to be served a nice hot cup of tea. We’ve decided we’d better not pinch either of those two, they are so famous, so well known, and someone visiting us will be sure to dob us in. But what would we snitch? We had a hundred odd to choose from. Now Carolyn is a cat lover so of course she wanted one of his famous cat paintings, like the one of the white cat peering out at Fuji. But I said, ‘Anything with Fuji is a dead giveaway’. So she got the huffs and stomped off, not a good idea in a blacked-out art gallery. A bit later I heard a sad little cry and found her in the soft light of her iPhone. I really, really, really liked the bridge scene and was looking for another like the famous Sudden Shower  one. As we were peering around the exhibit, we heard a sudden noise. ‘Quick’ I said, ‘turn off your light’, so we stood there in the dark, knees shaking, holding hands and scared as anything. A security bloke walked by, shone his light through the door and flashed it around the room, mercifully missing us by a whisker. We froze, didn’t move for ages, scared to death by the near miss. We began to worry. ‘I think we shouldn’t be doing this,’ I said through chattering teeth. ‘Of course we shouldn’t, you drip,’ said Carolyn, ‘but we’re here now and I’m not going without my painting.’ ‘But it’s a terrible thing to do,’ I said. ‘Stop whinging and stick to the plan.’ ‘ But we haven’t even decided which one to take.’ I said weakly. Just then we heard the security bloke coming back.             ‘Quick,’ said Carolyn, ‘in here,’ and dragged me through a doorway. Our hearts were beating so hard we were sure the security bloke would hear them. But as everything became quiet, the relief was so great all I wanted to do was to run. Hiroshige was a fireman’s son, not even a member of the upper echelons of his society in Edo (the old name for Tokyo). But his woodcuts brought everyday life alive to his viewers and he became wealthy and famous. At the same time we, in the west, were entranced by what we saw. The ideal of Japanese female beauty was so strange to us; an oval face painted white, slanted but half-closed eyes, tiny pursed lips painted bright red. Seductiveness was the kimono slipping back to reveal the nape of the neck. The landscapes were stylised and easier on western eyes, though some look unrealistic. Generally, boats and flowers were lovely, but bland. But most have great charm, that undefinable, almost mystic appeal, that draws even two very ordinary people to want to have something that they can possess and hold as a talisman of eastern beauty and mystique. After a while, and with trembling fingers, we switched on the phone torch. It was pitch dark inside the cupboard we were in, but we didn’t want to give ourselves away if the phone light shone out under the door. When we did switch it on we just gasped, absolutely amazed. What we saw were stacks of Hiroshige prints. A treasure chest of possible property…We decided we would be able to snitch some, perhaps without any repercussions. Almost without discernment we sorted and divided the pile into two, keep and don’t keep. Obviously these prints were not selected to be part of the great exhibition at the Royal Academy of Arts. They were just the right things for us, two ordinary people charmed by Hiroshige, longing to ownsome of his works, but constrained by cost. Could we call this a heist? Yes? No? We stole, without the slightest feeling of conscience-stricken guilt, six pieces of art (including, of course, one of those wretched cat pictures that Carolyn hankered after and a rain scene for me). We then sat the night out in our safe closet, snoozing off and on, but with such a mix of feelings: triumphant, frightened, thirsty and needing to pee. We hadn’t thought of that when we planned our Hiroshige heist. We were exhilarated by our success, still pumping adrenaline, and frightened knowing we still had to walk out with our ill-gotten gains in the morning. Now there’s another thing we didn’t really plan. We’d thought through the actual thieving of a painting even down to cutting off an alarm if necessary. We’d been lucky with those unused ones in that cupboard. But we hadn’t decided how to get the painting out! I think we thought we’d just trot out with one of them under a jumper. But they were bigger than you’d think, stiff and crackly, and that’s without a frame. And it was summer and we weren’t wearing jumpers. Hang on, what is this? Some sort of amateur art-thieving? Well, yes as it happens. Exactly. Some sort of amateur art-thieving. Morning arrived and we were no nearer a solution for how to get our paintings out. Carolyn peeked out of the cupboard. Even though it was early there were a few people around. Must have slept longer than we thought. We took it in turns to check the gallery for escape possibilities. It must have been quite late when ‘Quick’ said Carolyn. ‘Come ON.’ I followed blindly. She grabbed a pram and moved it to the door of our cupboard. I looked around fearfully, my hands full of our stolen prize. There was a mother, soothing her baby back to sleep. ‘COME ON’ from Carolyn. She grabbed the paintings from me, shoved them in the basket under the pram, and covered them with a baby blanket. ‘Ooooo, what if… ‘ I started. ‘Quiet,’ she said. ‘Just keep watching,’ Mama looked around, looking for her baby’s pram. ‘How did it get there?’ I can see her thinking. But she lay the baby down, turned and headed off with us following. ‘What now?’ I said. ‘Shhhhh’ said Carolyn, ‘just follow her’. Well that woman certainly loved her art! With her baby asleep, she peered at each work of art exhaustively. She must like Hiroshige too, I thought. Then she started making notes. I sat down, exhausted from the adrenaline rush, nearly falling asleep. She really really really must like Hiroshige! Bless the baby. She let out a great howl that had nothing to do with me accidentally knocking her pram. Nothing at all. And Mama set off at quite a pace with two bedraggled art-thieves trying to slink, unseen, behind her. Out the doors she went. I breathed what felt like the first decent breath of air I’d taken in hours. Mama crossed the road and went towards the park. Was she going in? YES. Hurray! She pushed the pram in, settled on a bench under a tree, and began to take care of the baby.        ‘Come on, come on, come on,’ we muttered. Bless that baby. She let out a loud howl (and this time I didn’t jolt the pram), and Mama began to walk her up and down, turning her back to us. I dived into that pram, grabbed our paintings, and Carolyn and I walked as slowly as we could out of that park, and then, on a wave of euphoria we laughed and laughed and laughed. We’d done it, two silly young women who had a taste for fine art. We’d pulled off an art heist! I really hesitate to tell you the rest of the story. Months after we had framed our prints and shown them on the walls of our home, the loss was reported in the press. Our friends made jokes about our prints and we laughed too. Hahaha, yes, we’d stolen them from the Royal Academy of Arts, hahaha. But we HAD. And that success led us on to do many more heists …

f8iu7g

The Vulture Crown

“Jonny, I need your help, there onto me and I don’t have much time!” “Don’t worry I’m coming down to your level now.” “Argh!” “Marco? Marco are you there?” “They caught me Jonny! Run!” 2 months earlier Paris is just the thing I needed after these past few weeks. It is not easy leaving such a high-end job. Here I was thinking that working for the governments secret cooperation would be an interesting line of work. “To a knew life,” I cheered and clinked my glasses together gulping down the rest of my beer. Loud buzzing reaches my ears. Peering down at my phone an unfamiliar number stares back up at me. Weird, I thought. “Hello?” I press the cold phone to my ear, waiting for an answer. “Jonny. For a second there I thought you weren’t gonna pick up.” The voice exclaimed with relief. “Freddy? Why are you calling?” I sternly asked, hiding my worry for what I know is coming. “What? Now that your retired your good friend can’t call you anymore?” Freddy chuckled. He took my silence as a sign to continue talking. “Look,” he sighed, “I need your help. It is the only time I’ll ask I swear, I just can’t pull it off myself and you are the only one I know with the skills to help me.” “Freddy, you know I left that life behind me, and your line of work goes against everything I stand for. The answer is no, and that’s final. I am enjoying these work free days in Paris, not having to constantly look over my shoulder.” “What if I told you, you would get 18 million dollars out of it?” I went silent again. “Jonny, I’m in deep man. I have loan sharks tracking me down as we speak, and I need fifteen million as soon as possible. The Vulture crown is my way out. It is Cleopatras crown, and it is being moved to the Louvre Museum in 2 months. If we put together a small team, we might be able to pull off a smooth heist. The crown is worth ninety million dollars. That money is life changing man, even for you.” “The Louvre Museum. Freddy that is one of the most heavily guarded museums. How are you planning to pull this off?” “Don’t worry I have a plan, and an idea of who I am going to recruit to help us out. Meet me at Rue Montorgueil tomorrow morning.” “See you there.” Ending the call, I head out of the small café, taking in the fresh breeze that softly hits my face as I walk towards my loft across the busy street. - There was a sea of people crowding the Rue Montorgueil when I arrived the next morning. Squeezing past the sardine like crowd, I made it to the door of a brown, sixty story brick building. Looking up, the sun glared down back at me, causing me to squint. All those levels and he chose the basement. Scoffing, I walk inside and take the elevator to the bottom level. The bottom level was dusty and had dark patches of Mold growing on every wall. Paint was peeling from the roof and mice were squeaking from the boards beneath me. “Jonny, I see you finally made it,” Freddy greeted me. I was welcomed by three men in orange jump suits sitting hunched over at a big table and Freddy standing at the head of it, a big whiteboard behind him. I cautiously join the men at the table, sitting next to a well-built man with a scar running over his left eye. “The man you are sitting next to is Marco, to your right is Gregory and across from you is Will. These men are your new heist partners.” Freddy explained. 2 months later Putting on my new glasses, me, Marco, Will and Gregory all hop into an all-black drive, our fake car almost identical to the real one, transporting the crown. Leaving the garage, we head onto the main road waiting for Freddy to give us the signal to move in. “Switch when you reach the tunnel.” Freddy’s voice crackled through the walkie talkie. Gregory drove under the bridge cutting the real car off, forcing it into a different lane. Marco and I climb out of the back windows, jumping onto the real car as lightly and as swiftly as possible, without being detected by whoever was inside the car. Climbing down under the vehicle, we connect our clips to the cars metal, keeping us securely connected. The two cars finally leave the tunnel, and we all hold our breath, waiting to see which car the security follows. After a few minutes, Gregory exits the freeway with the fake car, the security and helicopters follow close behind. They all breathe out in relief. Now for the fun part. Marco and I climb on the roof of the vehicle, cutting a circular hole into the roof. Once inside I remove the real crown from the bullet proof glass box it is encased in and switch it with the fake crown. At the same time, Marco knocks both guards in the front two seat unconscious and takes control of the car. I hide the crown in Marcos brown bag and throw the unconscious security guards out of the car. Soon enough, we arrive at the Louvre Museum. The knocked-out security guards cards hang around me and Marco’s necks as we enter the museum’s grounds. Successfully passing security, we leave the car with the locked case and head towards the vault room. Marco passes a smirk to me; we are so close to leaving and getting the money from selling the crown. “I’ll go to the level below and keep an eye out for any security coming up,” Marco informs me as I carefully place the case on the stand. Opening the case, I go to take the crown out, when I hear a faint gunshot. Static makes it way to my ears and I go to grab my walkie talkie. “Jonny, I need your help, there onto me and I don’t have much time!” Marco exclaimed with panic. “Don’t worry I’m coming down to your level now.” I spoke. “Argh!” “Marco? Marco are you there?” “They caught me Jonny! Run!” I grab my bag and run; however, I am stopped by two large men blocking my exit. I adjust my glasses and make a run for it. I don’t get far though as one of the two men tackle me to the ground, leaving me groaning in pain at his weight on me. They handcuff me and roughly pull me with them towards the police cars waiting for us outside. I look up, making eye contact with a worried Marco, but that is cut short when I am shoved into the backseat of the blue police car. Arriving at the police station, I am led straight to a small room. A stern officer sits upright in front of me, a file in hand. “We have evidence to put you away for a long time Jonny.” He starts. I laugh. “Is something funny? Because as far as we both know, you are being charged on several accounts of theft and burglary. You are facing serious charges.” The officer continuous. “With what evidence?” I asked.  “There are several security cameras catching you and your team sneaking past security and bringing in the fake crown. Security’s body cameras also caught you and your men in the act of vandalism and theft in the vans.” Smirking I said, “But sir, I am not in any of those videos. I am innocent.” With an unconvinced look, the officer pulled out his device, bringing up the security cameras and body cam videos. To his surprise every video I appeared in, my face was covered by a bright orange light. “So, I guess I am a free man. No?” I questioned. Shocked, the officer had no choice but to let me go after realising he had nothing to hold against me. I took my belongings and made my way out of the police station, making a quick pit stop to the evidence room, a smile stretching across my face. My ringtone catches my attention. Grabbing my phone out of my pocket I answer it. “Jonny,” Freddy said quietly, “I am sorry, I should not have dragged you into this. I knew the risks, but I still persuaded myself and you that it was going to be a success. I hope you could forgive me; I know you don’t like the idea of doing jail time and neither do I.” “I forgive you Freddy. You didn’t know any better than the rest of us. Stay safe in there.” I replied. “Thanks buddy, you too.” Hanging up, I walked towards my ride, removing my glasses with the connected orange light to them, and hopped onto my motorcycle. A sharp object sat poking out of my bag. I grab it out and my hand comes into contact with the crown. I smirk putting the crown back into my bag. Marco was too busy doing his own job whilst in the black car, he failed to take notice of what I was doing. I never switched the crowns in the van. I had instead put the fake crown in Marcos’s pouch and poured a liquid I had acquired a month prior to the heist over the real crown, to make it look fake when the officers confiscated it. After our arrests, they put the fake crown back in the museum and the real crown lay in their evidence room catching dust, whilst waiting for me to come collect it again. I drive towards the closest exit out of this city with ninety million dollars sitting in my bag and a newfound sense of freedom. 

vzb8us

Vincent

Vincent by Joseph Citta My brother died a month ago. The word devastation does not even hint at the way I felt - and still do. It’s like a claustrophobic cloud has surrounded me, preventing me from taking full breaths. A mind altering headache has been raging since his funeral. My head feels like it’s in a vise getting tighter and tighter. Crushed. Before this, God was never something or someone I had ever trusted in, but now I needed him. My brother was younger than me. He had grown to be my guru - ever since he came into this world when I was 4 years old, he was a positive influence on me and everything I did. My fondness of him as a small child grew into a unique bond as we grew up together. He was always interested in music and watching him bloom into a wonderful and disciplined musician was a great inspiration to me. He always encouraged me to paint. I didn’t think I was very good, but because of him I kept on painting. When not talking to me in person, I would hear him in my head, daydreaming I guess, that’s very good, he would say, or I love your use of color here or the detail there is incredible. His voice drove me. I tried to inspire and support him, but he didn’t need me. It was I who needed him. The daydreams of him have stopped, replaced with those severe migraine headaches. I have not wanted to paint or even think about painting since he died. I wandered listlessly around our little village and one day I found myself in front of our village museum. He always loved to visit this place and was constantly egging me on to accompany him - I always turned him down. It’s just not for me I would say, or I’m not interested in that place. I never did tell him the real reason I would not set foot in that museum. Years ago, I learned of my mother's death at this museum, leading to a relationship ending fight with my girlfriend that same day, immediately after. The memory has kept me away ever since. In hindsight that felt a ridiculous thing to hang onto. So I went into the museum in his honor. As I walk up the steps to those artfully crafted double doors I think of the many times he had wanted to take me to these same steps. Once inside I see that the current show is on Van Gogh. Sure I knew who he was and was marginally aware of some of his work. Most everyone knew about the ear thing. A woman in what seemed to be some kind of business attire approached me and said hello and welcome to Van Gogh’s studio. Are you familiar with the work of Van Gogh? she asked. I’m not much of a talker, but I felt the need to respond. Why yes, of course, I said. She replied well why don’t you take a brochure and wander around and see if you find anything interesting - it’s quite a collection we have here, we are very lucky! I said thanks and moved on. It’s not a huge museum, but it is quite trendy and popular. Walking into the first room I see the well known Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear directly in front of me. I’ve seen this painting before, but just now something about it gives me a feeling of emptiness in the pit of my stomach as I stare at it. I wonder why he painted so many self portraits, perhaps he simply wanted the practice. There is something surreal about this whole place. It was very dark and the paintings seemed oddly lit. Unlike most museums, I could barely see the walls the paintings were hung on. Yet each painting was extremely well lit and seemed to float on it’s own. The air is different. I immediately dismiss the feeling. On the left I recognize the well known The Bedroom painting and to the right hangs the The Starry Night. I reflected that my brother used to say it reminded him of death, and he liked it. I say to my self, ok, I’ve seen enough, that’s the Van Gogh I know, interestingly presented, but I’m not really inspired. As I turn to leave, there she is again, the docent I ran into at the entrance. Have you seen his controversial painting? We are blessed to have it all the way from Amsterdam in our little collection here for a short time she says with a smile which I’m sure she thinks coy and flirtatious. Ah, no, I really have to leave. Oh just check it out a second, you really can’t miss it if you like Van Gogh. Ok. So I follow her into the next room and on the far wall is The Potato Eaters. The plaque floating next to it says that it was controversial at the time. What was the controversy I asked her. Well… it’s not that it was controversial in the true sense of the word, it’s just that he really felt that this work would make him… solidify him as a master. That was not the way it went of course, his critics disagreed vehemently, but here it is. Isn’t it wonderful? It’s interestingly creepy I say. Luckily just then a young couple came by and stole her attention away from me. Thank god, I say to my self. I’m turning to leave when I hear someone behind me whisper are you leaving already? I spin around and see that the docent is in deep conversation with the young couple and there is no one else around. I begin walking toward the exit and I hear what’s the rush? I say who is that? It’s me brother, glad you finally made it to the museum . I am stunned, nailed to the floor. This is not possible. I’ve been way out of sorts all month… but this is just insane. What’s the matter? Don’t like me anymore? I can’t move. Impossible. Theo, (long pause) where are you I say. I’m right here! Don’t be ridiculous, I buried you a month ago! Yes you did and I thank you for it. I immediately thought of the way he died. I don’t know why, but it popped right into my head. We never thought of him as suicidal. I still see him lying there, with the gun a few feet away. What did you do with the gun he demanded. What are you doing… here… what are you doing, period ? Don’t worry about it man. I feel the docent and her people looking in my direction. She turns away and ushers them toward the exit. I just froze. An indescribable sensation like no other I’ve ever felt or heard of consumed me. Dizzy, spinning, completely discombobulated - I can’t feel my fingers. I don’t understand how this could be my brother - he sounds the same, I recognize his voice, but his temperament seems very different, very irritable. Is this some kind of cruel joke? Through squinting eyes and a pounding headache I see a blur of the docent leaving the building, locking those double doors after her. This is impossible I say to myself. Why haven’t you been painting since I’ve been away? he demanded impatiently. This is nuts, how am I talking to you? And how are you talking to me? Just relax, go with it. Answer my question. I don’t know… I. I think to myself, I really don’t know. He has never talked to me like this. Time passes very quickly, or slowly, I’m not sure, but before I know it it’s dark outside. I’m getting out of here I say to whoever. I walk to ‘the door and it is locked. Great. I’m stuck in here with a voice that claims to be my brother, I guess that’s my karma for never coming here with him. So you don’t think this is strange Theo? Meeting here like this? Talking? Like I said just relax, I know what I’m doing. Something he always used to say, and he did always know what he was doing. Listen, come with me, I want to show you something. His voice is coming from somewhere else now, and I follow. I begin to think maybe I’m not so screwed up, I don’t know why, because on the face of it, this seems a dream I used to have, but I don’t think I am dreaming, either this is real or I’m crazy. Maybe this is something…unearthly? We reach a small art studio in the rear of the building. This is used by high schoolers, I often stop by here and play with their heads. Oh how profoundly considerate of you. But seriously, I want you to do me a favor. I miss you here sometimes, no one to play with their gullibility. Just miss the old times. I do too brother, sounding a little too weepy. I want you to paint a self portrait for me . And just like that, I began choosing a canvas, some brushes and paints. I felt more clear headed than I had in a long, long time. My headache was completely gone. I painted for hours - actually I’m not sure how long I painted, time was not something I was aware of, but as the sun was just beginning to peak over the horizon, I was well into this work. I finally realized I hadn’t heard from Theo all night! In the morning light I stepped back to admire my work so far. Not bad. I felt my life starting over.

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Paintings, Where do you want to escape today?

PAINTINGS Where do you want to escape today? By Barney Defanfaler ‘Ah heck,’ thinks Barney as he hears steady footsteps plodding up the Windsor Gallery stairs and sees a flashlight beam coursing across the opposite wall. His wristwatch displays midnight. ‘Why is she so early? I’m trapped.’ Barney runs around a corner into the art gallery's second-floor east room and hugs the wall. His head bumps into a painting frame, and he quickly grabs it to steady it. ‘What the flip?’ he thinks as his hand sinks beyond the canvas. Barney turns to find a familiar Redwood Forest painting he has seen numerous times during his daily visits, scouting the art gallery. He touches the canvas, and his hand again enters it. “Ahhh,” Barney yelps as he jerks back his wet hand. “Who’s there?” Jenny, the night guard, yells. Barney slowly reaches out to explore the canvas again, feeling the tree bark is rough. Then, feeling further back, his hand wraps around it. ‘It is a tree! I never noticed it as a 3D art form . . . ‘he thinks. “Who is there?” repeats Jenny, louder and closer. ‘Ah, heck. Why not? I’m cornered.’ Barney grasps a branch, pulls himself up, climbs in, and then drops down onto the grass, startling a rabbit that hops off into the brush. It is a warm, bright, and humid day. The forest is alive with the sounds of birds and a babbling brook. Barney sees a fuzzy translucent square next to the tree that matches the dimensions of the painting. He slowly and carefully pokes his head back through. He sees Jenny run into the center of the Gallery’s East room and stand turning slow circles, her flashlight coursing the walls and paintings. Barney pulls back into the forest. “I must be hearing things. I gotta get back on day shift,” Jenny mumbles. She turns, and as her flashlight shines over the forest painting, Jenny halts. ‘Gottacha.’ Jenny looks back over her shoulder. “Not a reflection,” She notices Barney is cut in half as his body ends below the painting. “What the flip?” She hesitantly walks towards the forest scene, noting Barney's image is slowly fading. ‘This is unreal,’ Barney giggles as he remains perfectly still watching the perplexed Jenny. “I definitely need to get back on the day shift,” Jenny says as she watches Barney become translucent, and the forest behind him come into focus. ‘Must be a migraine coming on,’ Jenny thinks as she rubs her temples with eyes closed. She opens them to observe a very faint Barney smiling back at her as he runs away through the forest. Jenny steps up to the canvas and looks in. “Stop,” Jenny yells as she now clearly sees Barney running off. Water drips on her head, and she recoils. With a shaky hand, she touches the tree's rough, wet bark. She jerks her hand back. “Holy Mother Mary and Jesus,” Jenny screams, “What is wrong with me?” “I can’t call this in. They will haul me off to the funny farm.” Jenny replaces her radio and pulls out her phone. “Hey Henry, it’s Jenny. . .” * “Where do I recognize that stone cottage from?” Barney wonders as he explores the forest. He passes through a creek and then knocks on the cottage door. Getting no answer, and being the thief he is, Barney enters. He is sitting at the table enjoying a blueberry pie when he hears the front door creak open. “Ah, heck.” Barney climbs out the kitchen window, turns around, and notices he is standing on a wooden floor. Looking back to the window, he sees a familiar cottage painting in the gallery. He runs to the Gallery’s north stairs, looks down, and halts. ‘What is Henry doing here?’  He looks back and sees Jenny’s feet poking out the cottage window. He retreats across the room into the Gallery’s west wing. ‘How about this one?’ Barney wonders as he tests a painting of folks in mid-1800s attire, waltzing in an ornate dance hall. He pulls his head back. The scene's movement and music are replaced by running footsteps. Barney climbs in and ducks behind a row of chairs. “Oops, I'm not dressed for the occasion.” Barney pulls off his ski cap, grabs a jacket, scarf, and hat draped over a chair, and then walks into a street filled with horse-drawn carriages. The sign says Baker Street. * “I’m telling you, Henry. I am not crazy,” insists Jenny, “Look over here.” “How can this be Jenny?” Henry says as he pulls his hand back from inside the forest. “No idea. I climbed in here and chased him out the Cottage window over there.” “Where is he now, Jenny?” “He must be in this room . . . well, in one of these paintings.” “Right. So how do we find the right one?” “Ah ha! Look there, Henry. Scuff marks on that wall. Let's go.” “Perhaps best if I wait here. He may return.” “OK.” Jenny climbs in. * ‘I can’t go back for the guards,' Barney thinks as he meanders down the gas lamp-lit cobblestone street in London, then sits on a bench to think. ‘There ought to be a way to take advantage of this situation,’ Barney thinks as he watches the sunrise. He is contriving get-rich-quick schemes as thieves do. ‘That’s it. Barney, you are brilliant. The perfect robbery.’ He pats himself on the head. “Ah, fiddlesticks.” Barney bows his head as Jenny walks by. “Hello. Interesting situation we’re in.” Jenny says. “Excuse me,” Barney replies as he looks up. “Please don’t play dumb, Barney. Your tennis shoes are a wee out of place here.” “Ah, heck. Ya nabbed me, Jenny.” “Oh, sir. I believe this woman is a foreigner,” Barney shouts to a passing Bobby. The bobby steps over to closely examine the woman dressed in her uniform. “Be careful. That black tube looks like a new French weapon,” says Barney. “Don’t move, miss.” The bobby pulls the object from Jenny's side. “Sir, it is not a weapon, and this man is a thief.” “Be careful, sir. Aim it towards the sky, then push that button.” “Holly, Mother!” The bobby drops the flashlight. “It is her witch's light saber.” Says Barney as he smiles at Jenny. “No, the truth is . . .” Jenny attempts to explain. “The truth, miss, is you must come with me.” * “Jenny, it’s me, Barney.” “What do you want, Barney?” “I can get you out if you promise to help me.” “Why should I?” “Because you are not getting out without me. They will hold you with all the foreign stuff you got caught with.” “Yeah, true enough. What do you want besides letting you go free when we return.” “I have a plan that requires a partner. After tonight, we could both retire.” “I am not a thief like you, Barney.” “Understood. Listen up, and it will be your choice.” Jenny listens to Barney's plan. “OK, Barney. Fair enough. You got me and it doesn’t sound illegal technically.” * Jenny and Barney are getting dressed in an alley. “Thank you, Barney. They would have hanged me as a witch.” “Yeah. I couldn’t let that happen, Jenny. I would have sprung you even if you would not partner up.” “Why Barney? What do you care? You’re a thief.” “That does not make me evil. Besides, you're cute.” “Hold it right there, Barney. I have not gone for all your flirting at the gallery these last weeks. After we do this, we go our separate ways. We are two very different people.” “Yeah, right.” Barney smiles. The two walk off, returning to the dance hall. “It’s locked,” says Jenny. “No more complicated than snatching the jail keys,” says Barney. Barney secrets himself in the dance hall. Jenny climbs into the gallery. * ‘It has been too long,’ thinks Barney as he looks at his watch. He climbs into the gallery’s west wing, where he runs around but cannot find either guard. He looks at his watch, confounded by the asynchronous times between the parallel worlds. “She double-crossed me,” Barney yells, then runs to the painting where he knows he will find Jenny and Harryy. Barney climbs into an Aztec empire. Barney finds the Aztec people gathered around a massive pyramid. Jenny and Harry are held captive on a platform at the Pyramid's peak. Barney scratches his head as he contrives a plan to free the two. ‘I hope I can return in time,’ Barney thinks. He returns to the gallery and checks his watch. It's 1 AM.’ He leaves the gallery, runs home, and returns. Back in the Aztec era, Barney is relieved to see the guards still atop the pyramid. He starts up the stairs to be immediately grabbed by two feather-adorned warriors and is roughly escorted to the top. ‘So far, so good,’ he thinks as he joins Jenny and Sherry. “What are you doing here, Barney?” Jenny asks. “Besides not wanting to see your cute head roll?” “I’m sorry, Barney. I could not trust a thief.” “So, you prove you’re the one not trustable by going back on your word?” An ornately attired and highly feathered Aztec warrior pulls screaming Harry to the chopping block. Barney tackles Jenny just as a massive explosion blows burning wood in all directions. Barney looks into Jenny's eyes, smiling as he lay atop her. He then jumps up, shedding off burning wood as he screams and chants gibberish. He throws another stick of lit dynamite high into the air. It explodes overhead, sending the frightened masses to their knees and forearms, bowing to Barney, who they must believe is an angry fire spirit. “Jenny. Harry, time to go.” Barney says. People crawl backward as the three strangers walk down the stairs. At the bottom, Barney tosses another stick skyward, and they return to their window and exit. * “We need to adapt our plan . . .” says Jenny. “Our plan? We?” “Well, yes, it was your plan, and I understand if you want to cancel me.” “How am I supposed to trust you now, Jenny?” “You can’t, Barney, but you still need me, right?” “No, I could just tie you two.” “Where is Henry?” Jenny asks, looking around. “He was right behind us.” “I saw him grabbing some gold relics we had stashed a hundred back,” Jenny says. The two run to the Aztec painting and peek in to see a limp Harry with numerous arrows protruding from his back being dragged off by two warriors. A scattering of gold relics lay on the path. The two pull back into the gallery. * “Oh lordy, what will I say? What will we do now?” cries Jenny. “I have no idea. Perhaps nothing. Who would believe . . . ” replies Barney. “It’s all my fault.” Jenny continues sobbing. “Henry had a choice. You chose home. He chose gold and lost.” The two sit quietly in self-reflection. The gallery's elegant, stately grandfather clocks' deep-toned tic-tock is healing, an auditory meditative focal point helping soothe their shattered nerves after three tumultuous days. Their hearts and breathing slow to their baseline resting rate and rhythm. A single gong follows the stately clock's distinctive whirring. “What time do you have, Jenny?” Barney asks, looking at his watch, “One AM,” she says, checking her watch. “Me too. I am confounded by the out-of-sync times between these parallel worlds, or whatever they are.” “Right. That's weird. We have been gone for a few days but have only lost an hour here. “Days could not have passed here, or there would be other guards on duty.” And another thought: When will these paintings change back to . . . well, paintings?” “No idea. We might get stuck somewhere.” “Is your ‘Aztec gold retirement fund’ plan still worth the risk for you?” Jenny asks. “Absolutely not. I almost lost you once.” “Oh, Barney. It was my fault to follow Harry's selfish rush to leave you out. I did not know you as I do now. You risked your life for us. Poor Harry.” “You, Jenny. I only went back for you. Plus, we have no idea what we're dealing with. If the wormhole, or whatever it is, shuts down, we might end up as two-dimensional beings.” “Or live in another world might be nice,” Jenny adds. “Are you happy, Jenny? I mean, if you don’t mind me asking.” “To tell you the truth, Barney, I’m bored with this city rat race. I work, eat, do laundry, sleep, and wake up to repeat the cycle just to scrape by month to month. How about you, Barney?” “I have my non-rat race freedom, but I’m lonely,” Barney confesses. “No family?” “Nope, I was raised in an orphanage. You?” “After my parents were killed, as a teen, I immigrated from Ukraine with my grandparents. Both passed a few years back.” “Any dreams, Jenny?” “Yes, actually. Walk with me. I'll show you.” “I love this one. Sometimes, I sit on this bench and imagine the sounds of the ocean and birds. I can almost smell the salt spray of the sea and fishy shore. My dad was a fisherman. Reminds me of home.” Barney moves his head into the canvas, and the waves come alive. Jenny joins him. He looks at her. They exchange smiles and climb in. * “I love the Windsor Gallery, Jerry. Thank you for bringing me. “ “You are welcome, Sue. I am glad you are pleased. I am, too, as it has been a while since I have been here.” “Here we are in my favorite west wing.” Says jerry. “This picnic scene by Bart is so inviting. I always want to join in the dancing merriment after riding in on that white horse,” says Sue. “I understand, but you know me: As a hermit, I find Presley’s seascape next to it draws me in,” says Jerry. “Yes, I love how he captured the mood of the couple sitting on the bench.” “What are you looking at? There no people in his seascape,” Jerry says. “There certainly are.” Jerry wanders over to the seascape. “Well, I’ll be. It is the same painting. He is local and must have added the couple since I was here last.” “It is masterful how he matched the serene mood of the loving couple with the calm, serene sea.”

nrvhwx

The ivory web

              THE IVORY WEB The steam rising off the jungle produced its distinctive smell, a mix of decaying leaves and trees mixed with the light morning mist .A new smell of fresh coffee wafted past Michael .Stretching as he looks out the port hole, the mist on the river seems to close around him. Hey sweetie can you bring me my laptop when you bring the coffee? No problem, says Anna. Anna turns and walks to the Galley as Michael starts to climb out of the big aft cabin bunk. Anna, a beautiful Latin girl has been with Michael since she was 17. Michael has taught her how to read, write and much more, she is his constant companion. The sway of the boat is rhythmic as the waves of passing water taxi’s rock Sunyata. Sunyata a 55ft luxury sloop with sweeping classic lines was built in the early 70’s in Holland when they built fiberglass boats very thick. With a bottom of 3 ½ inches thick Sunyata is bullet proof ,it has the strength to sail any of the oceans of the world. Michael has lived abroad for 17 years and raised Two daughters onboard ,The oldest now a eco science researcher with one of the top 10 New England Colleges. The other is a Yoga teacher and artist living in India. Michaels background is so diverse that he is known as the Alchemist. Some friends he sailed with used to ask him to come lay his hands on their boats for he seemed to be able to fix anything he touched. Anna came back to the cabin and gave him his laptop, coffee and a kiss. Michael tapped out a few codes and was instantly online. Today was going to be a very interesting and exciting one, for his new invention was to be unveiled to the world by his Chinese partners. There was electricity in the air so to speak which is exactly what his invention created. Michael had been working for 10 years to get to this point without being assassinated or bought off. He was betting that his association with the Khan Family in Mongolia would be enough protection from the power of the world’s elite money brokers and industrialists. The world will be forever changed after today’s announcement, The markets and economy will crash and burn like an exploding supernova but out of the ashes will come a Phoenix to rise up and give the world unlimited sustainable energy forever which will eliminate most of the problems of the world. Michael looked at the screen and could not believe his eyes. Come here Anna look at this, they have postponed the announcement! Why would Qui Khan do this? Anna run get me the Sat phone please. Anna quickly ran to the salon and picked up the phone and handed it to Michael. Qui had just gotten to sleep when the phone rang and she knew it was Michael . Hi Mr. Dandurand sorry I was not able to call today to tell you about the delay but things here have gotten really dangerous and we had to strengthen security. Before the announcement you should move to a secure location as soon as you can for we have a red level threat ,even though this cannot be stopped, the powers that be are really upset this is happening , they will be losing trillions when this is over so I suggest you duck and cover. I am protected here but you need to assure your survival for you are the one responsible for the domino collapse of the world’s economies, I am just providing you the means to do it. Good luck, the announcement will be tomorrow at 0800 Hong Kong time. I will talk to you tomorrow night and toast to a new world. Namaste. Yes Namaste replies Michael. Michael breathed a little easier and thought to himself that things will be ok but I will move now just to relax and make sure of security. Jumping out of the bunk and pulling on his shorts and a T-shirt that said Save the bails Michael climbs up the companionway and into the cockpit and out onto the deck. As he makes his way to the foredeck he looks out over the river and sees a airplane flying low and heading under the bridge and sees it is a 1943 wiggin seaplane and instantly knows who it is and waits to raise the anchor. The plane lands and taxis over to Sunyata and as it gets close the front hatch opens and his old friend Paul sticks his head out and says , Hi my brother of another mother you going my way? Michael smiles and says come on board and you can help me raise my anchor, you ready for a short voyage? Paul is Michaels best friend from the Air Force who has been Michaels only real friend for 40 years. Sure, I am always up for a adventure Paul says, Where to? Cayos answers Michael. Sounds great let’s go.  Michael goes back to the cockpit and Paul starts to bring up the anchor. The plane taxis back to the middle of the river and takes off and the Sunyata starts to move forward toward the Caribbean sea down the winding Rio Dulce. The path to this started for Michael 37 years ago when his mother died, and Michael inherited $40,000. This was the catalyst that paved the way for his development. Michael was adopted and grew up in a small town on Florida’s west coast. He Joined the air force when he was 20 and was working with the U2 and SR71 recon planes and gathering Intel on Missile installations around the word during the Viet Nam era and had access to documents that were Ultra Top Secret and archives that held the sensitive info the air force did not want the public to know about. Michael was very active in accumulating as much info as possible for his mind was hungry for all knowledge. He always thought you never know when you might need to know something and wanted to know as much as he could and it was a continual process that came to a head when the internet came on line which was like a feeding frenzy for his mind. Michael became very good at searching archives to find hidden information and was gleaning a lot of information from the internet, finding hidden information in every corner of the matrix and its connecting organizations. Michaels epiphany came after assimilating this information. A follower of Nicoli Tesla ,Michael was able to duplicated a devise that creates energy from the ethers that surround us and is found everywhere even in space. The ethers was discovered to be dark energy which was recently found it to be the most abundant energy in the universe. Capturing and Intensifying this energy Michael was able to create usable electric energy that can be drawn on upon demand. The devise cost only $550 dollars to produce 5Kw of electricity and can be sized for whatever amount of energy is needed. It took Michael 5 years of trying to finally have a working prototype. When he finally had it working he felt like God for it is a devise that was the divine design created by Tesla which was stolen and locked away by greedy and egotistical men such as J.P Morgan along with other industrialist of the time. Their greed and power lust, postponed this way of life for decades. Oh what a web we weave when we practice the art to deceive! Now Michael is going to open Pandora ’s Box and have revenge upon the greedy controllers of the world and their power base. Michael and the Khan’s have proliferated this devise into the lives of 3 million Chinese before the announcement takes place, this way no one group or person can stop it . It has been a calculated journey to get this devise into 3 million homes secretly before it is announced and could only be done in China where secrets are easy to keep especially in Mongolia. There is no patent on this devise and the plans to duplicate it will be released at the same time of the first announcement. It is a gift to the world that should have been done by Tesla decades before.                                                DAY 1                                 The Announcement and the Shockwave Paul and Michael are closely monitoring the short wave radio waiting the announcement when they hear a small boat approaching. Michael reaches for his shotgun and goes up the companionway ladder to the cockpit and looks toward the approaching vessel. There are 4 armed men in the boat and a driver. Michael Putts the gun behind him out of view. The launch approaches close enough to recognize the driver Michael relaxes a bit. Hola Paco como esta Michael yells as they get closer. Bien bien replies Paco, total esta bien? No problemo ,Gracias replies Michael. The men with the arms are from the Honduras marine patrol and guard this area from poachers that try to fish and take lobster in this protected area. Hey Paco if you see anything moving in the area give me a call on channel 69 ok? Si Si amigo no Problemo. Michael goes back down to the salon where Paul and Ana are waiting. Well that was interesting but it seems we now have a patrol looking after us today which is a good thing. The time approaches for the announcement. Michael senses butterflies in his stomach sort of like right before a big sailing race. The BBC radio broadcast comes on and Michael says quiet it is going to be announced. Everyone was sitting and you could feel the tension in the room. This is the BBC broadcasting live form Mongolia tonight with the astounding announcement from Kahn Industries that they have produced and put into 3 million homes a revolutionary power supply that will change the world as we know it. This devise has the power to meet all the needs in the modern home of today and it does not need to be replaced for 50 years and the cost of the home device is $1000. They say the devise runs on the energy that is created as the earth travels 69,567 mile per hour as it revolves around the sun which charges particles of dark energy from the vacuum and amplifies this resonance then puts it thru a capacitor to deliver the energy on demand. Kahn Industries also is saying that it will be releasing the plans and all proprietary information of this devise to anyone caring to duplicate it, they also are offering it as a finished product ready to install for $1000. Per unit. This is truly a game changing event which has immense and catastrophic connotations for the world economies. We will broadcast later today on the effect of this announcement as the world learns of its effects on the economies. We now have reliable information that all the world leaders will be meeting at an emergency session of the UN to consult on what actions will be needed to meet this change in power acquisition and how the world will change due to this device. Ok says Michael that’s it, let’s wait and see what happens now. Michael goes over the refrigerator and takes out a bottle of Dom Peron and pops the cork. Here is a toast to a new world.    The Whitehouse Washington DC situation room with the DOD and the chief of Staff and the president and Vice president: Well Gentlemen lets here your advice on this situation. General Dobbs rises and says well we have a couple of options and one is to fire a nuclear missile at Kahn Industries and target all 3 million homes that have this devise and hope there is not another prototype left to be found. Sit down General says John B Doran the newly elected President this is totally out of the question and not even an option. The NSA has Intel that all the units that were disbursed in Mongolia are not the only ones that are out there at this time. I was told this morning after the announcement that 4 million units were on their way to the main areas of China, Singapore, Beijing, and most of the larger industrial cities. We need to focus on how to structure our financial base in order to keep it form a total collapse. Has anyone any idea on how to approach this problem? The vise President Linda Profit stands and says gentlemen I feel the only option we have is to restructure our entire energy base to run totally on this devise as quick as possible and to start changes in our society to handle this change of direction as quickly as possible and to realize the old game is over and the new one is already at play the sooner we commit to the change the better. We will need to start production on devises that will utilize this new energy source such as electric cars, boats. Ships, trains, etc… in other words all intermodal transportation devises. This way we will be getting a financial infrastructure started in the manufacturing and supply area utilizing this devise to supply the power. This is the only one way that I can think of to regroup our financial base and I would like to also add that the manufacturing should be done in a manner utilizing the best and the highest quality material and technology no matter the cost to produce these products are. They must have an almost life time durability factor so very little replacement or replacement parts will be needed. We need to produce a product without the old thinking of replacement and built in absolution but with a new thinking, a product of the highest quality and durability that you only have to buy once. This will make an influx of capital and jobs for the immediate future but very little residual capital. This plan will leave us a time space after production to have time to develop more R&D products that will make our lives more meaningful and give us more free time for reflection and higher thinking. Very interesting says John I think this might be a small help in the near future but you must understand what we are losing now today and the days to come. The job losses alone will be devastating, we will lose all jobs with anything that has to do with the energy system, electric company will no longer exist, gas companies will no longer exist, and the oil companies will only produce for the manufacturing community. The only things that will stay the same and grow becoming less expensive is , food, and all products that are manufactured so the cost of living is going to drop drastically and as I see it life may become better even thou we will have a more evenly distribution of wealth. The Saudi Kingdom is about to lose everything and the middle east will no longer be a problem for they will have all the electric energy they need to rebuild but they also will need to turn to manufacturing in order to survive for all their oil will be worthless and probably cost $10.00 a barrel. As you can imagine in the next few days the world will be a totally different place.  

smg65r

The Black Tulip

In the dimly lit museum, the silence was broken only by the faint sound of an infamous art thief's muffled breathing, known to law enforcement agencies as 'The Ghost.' He crouched behind a marble statue, his heart pounding in his chest with the adrenaline surge in his blood and his palms slick with sweat of anticipation. As an adrenaline junky, he was again on a mission, and every nerve in his body was on edge as he observed his target, protected by the museum's state-of-the-art security system. The Interpol had been chasing The Ghost for years, suspecting him of committing over twenty art thefts internationally. He had a particular knack for stealing renowned paintings, each with a value of ten million dollars or higher. So far, he had evaded capture, slipping away into the shadows with his stolen treasures. With each successful heist, his reputation grew, making him one of the most wanted criminals in the art world. He was a person of interest to law enforcement agencies, who were relentlessly pursuing him to bring him to justice. On the other hand, his formidable reputation had caught the attention of criminal dons trying to hire his services for their illicit desires. Despite the pressure from both sides, he remained elusive, and his identity and whereabouts were unknown. Even with their best efforts, the police had never come close to apprehending The Ghost. The thief was meticulous, leaving no trace of his presence at the crime scenes. But the authorities hadn't given up hope. A reward of one million dollars was being offered for any information that could help catch The Ghost, and the prize amount was increasing. They were determined to catch him at any cost. He had dedicated many years to perfecting his skills in the art of stealing. He spent countless hours studying famous paintings and the habits and routines of private collectors, art galleries, and museums. He meticulously planned his heists, targeting small private collections to large museums. He was determined to succeed despite the risks involved, and nothing could deter him from achieving his goal. However, this heist was unique. It would be his masterpiece, the theft that would forever establish his name in the history of art theft. His target was 'The Black Tulip,' a painting considered the finest, valued at around a quarter of a billion dollars. The museum's exceptionally robust security system was unmatched elsewhere. The room was fitted with a complex network of laser grids that crisscrossed the space. Additionally, pressure-sensitive tiles were installed under the plush carpet, which served as an additional layer of protection. These tiles ensured that any unauthorized weight on the floor would trigger the alarm. He had spent countless hours studying the museum's blueprints, memorizing every inch of the floor plan. He knew where the security cameras, pressure-sensitive tiles, and the network of invisible laser grids were located and had meticulously planned his approach. But as he reached out to grab the painting, a sudden wave of doubt washed over him. Had he missed something? Was there a flaw in his plan that he overlooked? He felt his heart racing in his chest as doubt overwhelmed him. He knew trying to steal 'The Black Tulip' was a significant risk, but the painting was too valuable to ignore. The question remained: Would he be able to steal the painting, or would he get caught? The thought of failure was daunting. He took a deep, slow breath, focusing on his inhale and exhale. He continued the exercise until he regained his calm. He was running out of time as the museum's annual gala was the next night, and the painting would be moved to a more secure location. He had only one chance to immortalize his name as the most notorious art thief ever. He fought back his doubts as he approached the frame. The painting portrayed a striking black woman seated in a field of red tulips, challenging the societal issues that plagued black individuals during the slavery era. The woman in the painting was watching him, and her eyes seemed to follow him. Her lips curved in a mocking half-smile as if mocking his hesitation. He placed the diamond glass cutter against the frame and held his breath. The blade moved smoothly, cutting the glass into a perfect rectangle. He then carefully removed the glass, revealing the canvas beneath. The painting seemed to come alive with its vibrant colors, and the woman's face exuded a sense of vitality. She appeared happy, as though she had finally escaped the glass cage that used to imprison her. Then he saw the tripwire. An almost invisible thin thread connected to an alarm system stretched across the painting. His heart pounded again. He had missed it during his recce, and it was unforgivable. "How did I miss the tripwire? How could I have overlooked something so obvious?" his sense of pride was wounded. "I should pay more attention to details, as the devil is in the details." He faced a tough decision: either risk triggering the alarm by unwinding the wire or quit. He hesitated, torn between instinct and reason. As he looked at the painting, it felt like the woman in it was urging him to embrace the risk with her gleaming eyes. He had put immense effort into stealing The Black Tulip, intending to etch his name into history as the most notorious art thief, 'The Legendary Ghost.' How could he ignore this heist? He could never forgive himself if he gave up now. After meticulously analyzing the tripwire and examining its details, he retrieved a long, thin copper wire from his compact backpack and carefully used it to bypass the ultra-thin wire. Then, he cautiously cut the tripwire with a tiny pair of wire cutters. His heart raced as he braced himself for the worst, yet the alarm stayed silent. With a sense of relief, gradually growing into triumph, he unhooked the painting from the wall and held it in his hands, marveling at its beauty. The woman's eyes seemed to soften this time, granting him her silent blessing. Taking great care not to damage the artwork, he carefully rolled the canvas, tucked it into a pipe-like case he had brought, and slipped into the shadows, leaving behind the museum and its secrets. The Black Tulip was his now, and victory tasted sweet. The following day, he visited a nearby news agency to check the newspapers and gather information about his latest work. He enjoyed reading exaggerated claims by journalists who credited him with having supernatural powers or having an IQ far greater than Einstein. 'The Ghost had struck again' was featured in bold and prominent font on the front page of the city's largest newspaper. Filled with a sense of satisfaction, he proceeded to the cashier's desk to pay for the newspaper. "Can they apprehend him?" inquired the news agency owner. "Apprehending whom?" he asked. "The Ghost. Can police catch him?" "Most likely not. He is a master in his art," he replied proudly. "Without a doubt, he is a true master of theft. But I don't mind him." "Why?" "Because he only steals from the rich and not the poor." "Like Robin Hood?" "That's right, just like Robin Hood."

iszpoj

The Dark Space

The air around me was hot, and sticky. I tried to wiggle free, but I only managed to wedge myself deeper. My lower half was twisted around peanut butter coated molars, my midsection was punctured by two, large canines, while the rest of my body hung from her drooling jowls. There was no escape. We were picking up speed, zooming from room to room when Ellie suddenly stopped short. She spat me out, save for my midsection, and began whipping me back and forth as hard as she could against the side of her face. She continued to do this in an attempt to get the human, whose foot she stole me from, sitting in front of the computer to play with her. After only receiving a few chin, and behind the ear scratches, Ellie snorted her disappointment and pranced to the living room. Beside the couch, was Ellie’s massive basket of bones, and chew toys. She plopped down in front of the basket and began her chewing mission by gnawing on my entire body as an appetizer. She even tossed me up into the air a couple of times. It was always a losing game with Ellie, but the amount of fun she was having was hard to dislike. I had to just wait it out. Fortunately, as the groaning, biting, and snorting increased, Ellie finally decided it was time to set me free. She used her warm, sandpaper tongue to push me out her mouth, but one of my torn strings got caught around two incisors. It was a small grace because as she whipped me against her face to release my hold, I saw one of the possible trajectories of my flight path. If I was lucky enough to fly left, I would land in the kitchen, and be scooped up by one of the humans and returned to my mate in the drawer, or be sent to the hamper to await cleaning. If I flew right, I would land directly in front of the mouth of the dark space. That’s what the other socks and I call the dark space beneath the couch. Socks, an occasional dog ball, and all other sorts of small items go in, but they never come out. In the last month alone we’ve lost three good socks to the dark space. Two of them were Harry Potter themed, but were from separate pairs, and the other one was Star Wars themed. That sock was my best friend. They were all my friends, and they haven’t been seen since. I myself am an emerald green, Boston Celtics, crew cut, wool sock. I am also the favorite. When in the drawer, us socks keep track of which pair gets chosen the most. Although lately we’ve been betting on who’s going to go missing next. My partner and I have been most recently ranked as the most chosen pair, and therefore the most worn sock in the entire drawer. It’s an honor every sock dreams to achieve when they first enter the drawer. This was definitely not the time to go missing. I could feel my string loosen its grip around Ellie’s tooth, and I knew I couldn't hold on any longer. Finally slipping free, I closed my eyes because I was terrified to see in which direction I was heading. That also meant I couldn’t judge by feeling whether or not I was flying left, or flying right. Moments later, I crashed to the hardwood floor, and came to a sliding stop. My eyes were still shut, but I could feel the warmth from the lights embrace the fabric of my body. If that were true, then that meant I did not land in the dark space. So I opened my eyes. I wasn’t in the kitchen, which was concerning, but I also wasn’t in the dark space. I had luckily landed about a foot in front of the couch, just along the edge of the rug. I knew I wasn’t in any serious danger, but I was too close for comfort. The gravitational pull of the dark space was strong. I started to panic. I tried to get Ellie’s attention, hoping she would want to chew on me some more, but she was intensely occupied with one of her marrow bones. My only hope was for my human’s toes to get cold, forcing him to come and rescue me. So I waited. The shuffling of paper, combined with the horrid squeaking of the computer chair, told me that my human was getting up. Ellie’s head shot in the direction of the office, ready to see where our human was going, and then judging whether or not she needed to follow him. Another noise echoed out of the office, a noise I’ll never forget. The noise of Ellie’s most fearsome adversary. Vacuum. After a few moments of consuming every hair, and peanut butter crumb on the office rug, our human and Vacuum came out into the living room. Ellie dropped her marrow bone, and growled at Vacuum as it cleaned the borders of the rug she was lounging on. As Vacuum moved in closer, Ellie’s hackles rose, and she let out a low bark, and ominous growl. The human laughed at her reaction, which meant Vacuum must have taken control of his body, because Vacuum bolted straight towards Ellie. I can remember it in slow motion. Vacuum invaded the rug, and Ellie erupted from her chew spot. The momentum of her fear caused her legs to kick backwards, forcing the rug to scrunch and flex outward. I was instantly pushed into the abyss of the dark space by the edge of the rug. Submerged in darkness, I heard Vacuum fall silent. Ellie must have finally vanquished him. With the main threat neutralized, I knew that our human would soon pull the rug out from beneath the couch. So I tried my hardest to latch my torn strings around the rug’s rougher fibers. Weaving and threading, I found comfort in knowing that I would soon be out of the dark space, and back on my human’s foot where I belong. The rug started to move. This was it, my chance to get out. All I needed to do was hold on. Approaching the light of the threshold, my strings started to loosen, and fall free. They must have lost their strength when Ellie whipped me back and forth in her mouth. Two more strands broke free. This can’t be happening. The final strand broke free just as the rug was being pulled out. I tumbled back a few inches, then settled in a dusty pile of crumbs and hair. This was actually happening. I was trapped within the dark space. Close enough to see out, yet far enough in to not be seen. I tried yelling out, but my mouth was blanketed in hair, and I could hear my human asking Ellie if she wanted to go for a walk. Ellie of course barked her approval of the proposition, but then my human said something that filled my heart with hope. “Where is my sock, Ellie? Where did you put it?” Ellie barked and barked, trying to get him to forget about me and to hurry up and take her out. I fought to clear the hair from my mouth, but it was dense, and not easy to remove. I then heard my owner submit to Ellie’s incessant barking. “Okay, you little psycho. You win. Another sock, lost. Looks like I have to mismatch again.” The words broke my heart. Was my human really giving up on me that easily? What will the other socks think? Who will take my title as champion sock? What will my partner think? Who will she end up getting re-matched with? My mind raced, and tumbled over hundreds of bad ideas, then was quickly silenced by the jingle of Ellie’s harness. I was just about to clear the last chunk of hair from my mouth when the door to the condo opened, then closed, locking me inside of the dark space alone. With my mouth finally cleared, I tried to look around, and regain my bearings. I saw nothing. No socks, no coins, no buttons, no dog toys. Silence consumed me as I blended into my new reality. It’s always easy to dwell on the bad, but that’s not the sock way. We’re made for comfort. For warmth. We were designed to provide a sense of protection, and peace. So I chose to dwell on the good. I was still close enough to the light to catch a passing whiff of Ellie’s nose. Once she found me, she would moan and bark in my direction until one of my human’s came to investigate. So all I had to do was wait for Ellie. Considering I was also her favorite sock to steal and chew, another tally we keep count of in the drawer, I knew it wouldn’t take her long to find me. Then, something shifted in the darkness behind me. It was impossible to see through the dense layers of blackness, but something continued to stir beyond the veil of my limited sight. Terrified of what was making the mysterious sounds, and having no way to defend myself, I did the only thing I could. I quickly began to re-bury myself beneath the clumps of hair, and crumbs, that I just raced to remove. A protective wall of camouflage was my best chance at remaining undiscovered by the monsters that surely lived within. Successfully coated in my disguise, I waited to hear the jingle from Ellie’s harness echo through the hallway. Unfortunately, it was summer, and it was a weekend, which meant they could be out for a very long time. I needed to be patient, and remain absolutely still until Ellie inevitably sniffed me out. Seconds turned into minutes, which turned into hours. I couldn’t see any of the numerous clocks around the condo, but the shadows from the sun slowly shifted up the east wall indicating that it was no longer morning. We lived in the heart of Boston, and we were surrounded by dog parks. There was no telling when they would return. The shuffling sounded again. Except this time it was closer. Close enough that I could feel the tickle of the displaced air, and smell the change in sour aroma. Something was approaching. Hunting. And I was the prey. The shuffling suddenly fell silent, and I was enveloped in a droning silence. My heart pounded, and every fiber in my wool body tingled with anticipation. Except what I was actually feeling wasn’t subconscious tingling at all. It was in fact legs. Sixteen of them. Two black spiders had emerged from the darkness, and were crawling all over me. One of the spiders was larger than the other, I could tell because of the difference in weight. The larger one was the problem. It used its sharp pincers to nibble and tear at my loose fibers. The smaller one just crawled, and sniffed, and was more interested in the crumbs around me. The larger one, however, was determined to pick me apart. I didn’t know much about spiders, but my best guess was that it was going to use my strings to reinforce its creepy spider home. But I was the champion of the sock drawer. I couldn’t afford to lose a single fiber. Using a clever trick I learned from the older socks in the deep corners of the sock drawer, I began entwining each of the loose strands Ellie had torn away around the spider’s legs. My plan was to scare the spider away by making it think that it had been caught, and was about to become my next meal. With four of its hairy legs wrapped around my green strings, I tugged and tightened my grip. The big spider instantly started to panic, and hissed its frustration. It tried to bite, and snap at me, but my strings were long enough to keep its pincers at a safe distance. The smaller spider ran off once it realized its larger companion was caught in a trap. It made the fight fair. Kicking. Tugging. Yanking. Twisting. Writhing. We battled on in the darkness.

2rcow7

The Leap

“Please call someone! I am trapped inside the National Art Museum and my phone is ab- -”  You whimpered as the battery of your phone died. How did you get lost in the museum you have known since you were a little girl? Your hands tremble, but little by little, fear transforms into excitement. There’s a new exhibit on the Mayan culture and your heritage is calling. Your grandma always told you you had to learn about your ancestors, but you never made the time. Today you miscalculated your museum itinerary and got distracted by the natural history section. It is great you have this extra time to get to the Mayan exhibit! “You’re such a nerd”  You giggle and smile as the view of the museum at night becomes mesmerizing and infatuating. Every hall is semi-dark with only security lights on; not a soul to be seen nor heard, and every step echoes into the distance. As you venture deep into the museum exhibition room #4, moonlight rays filter through the windows, revealing intricate patterns in the reflection of the protective screens and their surroundings. The room has a kaleidoscopic element to it now. You look at yourself in the reflection of the glass protecting a Mayan artifact and your heart feels like a fizzy drink, bubbling and effervescent. How did you get lost in the museum you have known since you were a little girl? The reflection doesn’t answer back, of course. The fun and solo games get interrupted by the thought of how it is highly unusual you haven’t seen a guard. What day is it? Why are you alone? Thinking deeply about it, unlikely situations like this are typical for you. You are now old enough to notice that strange things happen to you on your birthday… every time. Let’s be specific here: strange things happen every time you celebrate your birthday. You were born on leap day, and it has been a while since you decided you would only celebrate on leap year, and leap day only. To keep some sort of sanity, of course. Without overthinking that guards are nowhere to be seen, this is the perfect birthday gift after you have forgotten about your own birthday. You enjoy art, sketching at the museum and just learning about interesting things. This place is yours tonight. Enjoy. Something feels magical and soothing. Almost like an aurora borealis, except you’re perfectly comfortable and you don’t need to freeze your ass off to enjoy the view. You feel like dancing. And singing. It is as if you were giving a cappella concert. Your voice reverberates across the room and bounces to and off the protected artifacts. The visual display of kaleidoscopic colors is now mirrored with acoustic fractals. You can only imagine the math behind those, of course. After a few minutes, you stop with contentment. “This room is amazing,”  You hear your voice in your head while you continue to enjoy the light display in silence. You finally stop to contemplate different items in the exhibition. Beautiful flasks made of clay, wood, and bone. Jade and obsidian statues. All these Mayan artifacts on display grab your attention. The room seems to grow bigger and bigger with each step. More artifacts. More information plaques. You continue walking through the room with the dim, colorful lights adding layers of mystery to your imagination. Some facts about the Mayan scientific knowledge are outstanding: their precise calendar, their mathematics, their pyramids and temples… Everything is fascinating. You start creating small stories about their day-to-day and their beliefs. The big stone calendar is the highlight of the room. “The Mayan calendar is terrific. And confusing.” You quietly thought, but suddenly started reading out loud: “There were multiple calendars the Mayans kept track of, including a solar year of 365 days with no leap years or leap days. the Mayans kept track of the days by groups of four years, which they called the year of the north, south, east, and west. The days did not start at the same time. In the Eastern years, they began at sunrise, and the following years at noon, at sunset, and finally at midnight.” “This means every year they went off by approximately a quarter of a day.” Overwhelmed and confused, you’re frozen in the exhibit room #4. In your attempt to grasp the concept of the Mayan leap year, you turn to your left and notice a beautiful mirror. It is not like the common mirror you have at home. This is a black mirror made of obsidian stone, its surface shimmering with an otherworldly glow and you can see yourself, or more accurately, a shadow of yourself. “Mirrors were believed to fix or retain images and certain vital qualities of the deceased.” You reach out to touch it, hypnotized. The protective glass dissolves like magic and as your fingers invade the obsidian mirror, you feel a strange sensation washing over you. You blink and see yourself in front of the mirror, but something is different. Before you could notice what is off, you’re interrupted. People walk into the museum and you panic. You need to hide or try to think about a story. You will get in trouble if they think you purposely stayed overnight. Before you can hide, a guard notices the glass of the mirror is gone and calls on the radio. Your hands are trembling but you have to come clean. “It was an accident! I got lost in this maze and I couldn’t get out in time!”  You cried. The guard ignored you and it makes you feel even worse. Before you can say anything else, the security manager rushes into the room and stares at the missing glass. You’re perplexed they aren’t arresting you. As the guard and his boss make notes and start walking out of the room, you walk towards them only to realize a barrier of some sort is in front of you. You realize the colorful lights are gone. Something has changed. Then you realize it is still dark. Somehow it is darker than last night. How come? When they leave the room, you turn around and see your reflection again. Like a kaleidoscope, it is you, a million times. Fractals of your shape in and out. You are lost in a labyrinth of twisted corridors and endless reflections, each one leading you further away from home. Desperate to escape, you search for a way out, but the mirror seems to taunt you with its endless depths. Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into years. Tired of trying to find an exit, you resort to a place inside the mirror that holds only one reflection. No more fractals. Just one… “How did you get lost in the museum you have known since you were a little girl?” “I never left, of course.”

krzl6a

Her Sword

She comes alive at night. A scroll of ridged and patterned paper, cautiously folded into the shape of a woman. Two-and-a-half towering metres of beauty and power and quiet judgement. By day, she’s stoic in her rightful place above us all, her hand stretched toward the ceiling, knelt in mock servitude as if she could ever be governed. At night, life explodes from her pages and she dances between the boundaries of her podium. We met here. Besides her sculptor’s musty flat, the Other Art Museum is the only place she’s ever seen. They brought her in a box, and I dragged myself from my dark corner amongst the broken and out-of-fashion just to throw my body at her feet. Now, my ritual is nightly. I love her. And, despite the strict demand of natural hierarchy, she loves me too. The museum is closed when I make it up to the atrium, but the lights are still on. Usually, we don’t run the risk until it’s dark and the halls are quiet, I’m breaking the rules because hesitation has stolen too many years from me, and tonight is special. I have a gift for her. I gather up a handful of my trousers to keep my foot from scraping the tiles and cross the atrium floor as quickly as I can. The polystyrene knights exchange glances as I pass. Their barbed wire crowns shift with concern, but they won’t speak while the lights are on. The portraits on the staircase aren’t as concerned. They’ll be too afraid to move, even when all the others leave their places, and life in the museum erupts as it always does. But they summon up enough courage to whisper their little comments as I climb. The eyes in the hurricane think I’m a fool. Four squares of block colour tell me that my plan won’t work. “He doesn’t like it when we roam. He likes his pretty statues to stay pretty.” “I’m not a statue,” I manage between the effort of each step. “You still belong to him. Even down in those caves of yours, he owns you.” “He won’t know until it’s too late. He hates the basement.” “She’ll slow you down.” They’re trying to keep from giggling. “He’ll catch you and he’ll punish you both.” I ignore them and keep climbing. The staircase is three flights of eleven, broken up by marble landings where children with little horns and skin the colour of bruises are stacked on one another’s shoulders. It takes me a long time to climb, especially weighed down by her gift, but it's worth it just to see her shape again. I’ve never once quit my climb, despite the sweat and the cramps. Cowards never prosper. At the crest of the last step, I throw myself down exhausted at the foot of her plinth. By now, the lights are extinguished and she dares to unfurl from her majestic pose and twist herself towards me, and I look up quickly so I don’t miss a movement. “You’re early.” She takes my gift when I offer it and heaves it with great difficulty onto her pedestal. “It’s a sword. A symbol of your liberation.” I say through my panting breath. “Like the one your sculptor intended you to have.” She considers the sword I drew from the heart of a willing basement centurion and the paper wrinkles around her eyes. “I think she decided the implication of a sword made more sense. Like I'd been robbed of it.” “Then it’s a symbol of our liberation.” Fear dominates her face. “I want to, but I’m so scared.” “Of what?” “You know.” She looks at me like half the fool I am and says it quietly, as if his name might summon him. “He’ll tear off more pieces.” She leans to show me the rips on the back of her arms, but I can’t bear to be reminded so I rise to my knees and rest a hand on the sword. “I don’t want to be apart anymore.” “Neither do I.” “Then, let’s run tomorrow. All the way to the basement. We’ll be safe there.” She looks into my eyes and softly shakes her head with a defeated sigh, and I know I’ve won her. A phoenix soars from the depths of my rotten soul. “Okay,” she says, hugging her sword to her chest, “tomorrow.” We stash the sword out of sight while the jubilation in the corridors and down in the atrium reaches its raucous crescendo. For the rest of the night, I watch her sway and twirl until, eventually, I fall asleep at the base of her podium to the song of freedom stolen from a fleeting chance. At the first sign of dawn’s approach, my ears prick up to the click of Argyle’s cane against wooden floorboards. My heart thumps my ribcage. The museum is silent again besides those two sounds. He’s somewhere in the Modern Curiosities wing but moving quickly towards me. I steal one last look before I go. My leg is throbbing and my spine aches like I slept with the posture of a mangled corpse, but I need a snapshot. Something to keep my courage from wavering. She’s already stretching to the sky, hope kindling in her eye that wasn’t there this morning. I soar. # Tomorrow comes and I ascend with a giddiness I’ve never felt. The atrium is silent. Every hallway is empty. No-one dares move or breathe. They sense my intentions and they won’t risk any chance of association. Tonight’s revelries are cancelled. The portraits whisper in overdrive, none of it supportive. If they didn’t already know my single-mindedness, they’d catch on from the way I disregard their warnings and attack each flight of steps with my head down. “You’ll kill us all. You’ll kill us all.” At the top, she’s waiting with her sword stretched to the high ceiling and struggling keep it aloft. We laugh, intoxicated by the potential of our impending rebellion, and I help her down. My legs threaten to spasm when I touch the soft dryness of her hands for the first time. She’s delicate, and it takes longer for her to get down from the pedestal than I’d imagined but I’ll wait forever if that’s what she needs. Arm-in-arm, we cross the landing. Her steps are tentative, which is understandable being they’re the first ones she’s ever really taken, and I support some of her weight. It’s all I can do to keep from staring at her. Before we reach the top step, Argyle’s cane clicks against the tiles. Every muscle in my body seizes. Too late, I realise my mistake. Her fingers dig into the flesh of my forearm. “He should be gone. It’s too early.” “Go,” I whisper, “go.” # We move as quickly as we can. Each step is a new canyon, but we traverse them all and eventually, we’ve navigated the first flight of stairs. Mercifully, the portraits keep their whispers to themselves. Perhaps they’re in awe of her. At my side, she takes it all in with the craned neck of a mesmerised toddler. “I never knew all this was down here. It’s beautiful.” “But you’ve been here for years.” “I arrived in a box, and I’ve never left my pedestal. I can’t see past the first three steps from up there.” I look at the wrinkles of her skin and how they crease with joy. She looks different now we share the same ground, like some of her glow has faded since she’s touched down with us mortals. Above us, Argyle’s wounded roar decimates the silence. He’s found her empty podium. I pull her into the shade between the stacked children, who giggle quietly at all this fuss. We can hear Argyle’s frenzy building as he demands to know what the portraits’ watchful eyes have seen but, to their credit, they refuse to answer. We hear him shuffle off into the Mind’s Eye Wing in search of her, and we breathe out. When the sound of his cane recedes completely, she dares to speak. “You’re amazing,” she says to the children, “I had no idea you were down here.” They giggle at her compliment, and she relishes in their adoration, but I can see from the slouch in her posture that she’s tired from only the first flight. The sword rests against her powerful thigh. “I can carry it, if you need me to.” She shakes her head. “I’m strong enough.” Argyle’s footsteps approach the landing and recede again, into the Observatory this time. He’d only one more corridor to check before his search would force him down the staircase. I lean in close and ask her a question that makes a surging river of my blood. “I’ve been wondering, for a long time now, if you might want to hug me.” “I do,” she says with a hint of disappointment in her voice, “but I thought you’d ask for a kiss.” “I would, my love, but my lips are thin and mangled. And you,” I suppress my laugh, “you don’t have any lips.” She thinks about that, then she laughs too, and it sounds like music. With more strength than I’ve felt from her, she pulls me into the first embrace of my life. Warmth spreads from my chest into the very fibres of my limbs, and I know I’ll never need another. On every side of us, the children rejoice. # Argyle makes the revelation in his search and turns towards the steps. I hear his cane hit the marble, and my anger at his relentlessness flares. “Leave us be, you tyrant.” “He has nothing else. Don’t hate, my love, it only slows us down.” She grips my hand, and the anger subsides. But his presence swells behind us like a rolling stormfront. I keep us moving forward, across the landing, supporting more of her weight as we descend to the last flight. All we need to do is reach the basement. I’ll cock the front doors open, and he’ll think that’s where we’ve gone. No-one in their right mind would choose the basement over the real world, but it’s massive and dark and Argyle fears the thousand discarded tongues that would curse him if he ever crossed the threshold. We can be happy down there. He's gaining on us. His mocking voice floats down from the first landing. “If you’re looking for freedom, you won’t find it out there,” he says, the cadence of his voice almost melodic. “Tell her, boy. Tell her what they do to freaks out there.” We touch down on the last landing and the final flight of stairs. The atrium ahead of us is steeped in gloom and punctured by a solitary crescent of moonlight, but we can see the exit now. Large mahogany double doors embossed with brass occupy the front wall and open to the outside. Several paces to the left, the white maintenance door with the stainless-steel knob leads to quiet, eternal sanctuary. I lead her by the hand onto the first step of the last flight but she pulls back. When I look at her, she’s gazing longingly at the double doors. “That’s the way to the outside, isn’t it?” Her voice is distant, and my heart sinks. “We can’t, my love. It’s not for us.” “Now, you sound like him.” “Don’t say that.” She touches my elbow gently and my soul stops in place. “Maybe we don’t need this place. Maybe it just feels that way, because it’s all we’ve ever known.” “But I do know the outside, my love, and it’s cruel to us.” “Well, you needn’t worry about that.” With a hearty grunt, she swings the sword up to rest on her shoulder. “I’ll keep you safe.” I smile at her conviction. Of course I’d follow her anywhere. She has no reason to fear the world. The museum has been her world and it’s shown her nothing but cruelty. Outside could only be better. Perhaps it will be. Argyle is on our heels. We’re almost at the bottom, but he’s faster. He’s just beyond the last curve of the staircase. The portraits all watch in petrified silence, a myriad of eyes all tracking his movement. Five steps left. Too many. I feel his presence on my neck like sour breath. “We won’t make it.” I whisper, but I can’t believe they’re my words. She grips my hand. I look at her and calm floods the creases of her face. “Then, we jump.” Before I can protest, she swings the sword in a great overhand arc and lets the momentum take her. With all the strength in my solid leg, I launch myself from the step alongside her. It’s awkward, as it was fated to be, but we manage to slip the bonds of the museum’s heady atmosphere and float weightlessly for almost a full second. Argyle’s cane brings us crashing down. The tip pierces a tab on her paper heel and pins it to the step behind us. I’m powerless to watch as she comes apart. A rip runs the seam of her leg and all the way up her back until her intricate insides are exposed and unravel too. Her hand turns limp in mine, then she’s gone. I spin slowly through the air and slam into the cold atrium floor while ribbons of her float down around me like nuclear ash. Behind my head, her sword clatters against the tiles. # “No. No.” I kneel amongst the tattered strings. She’s in my hands and strewn across my thighs. Moonlight frames the parts of her littering the floor between me and the staircase. She wasn’t free up there on her pedestal but at least she was safe. This is my fault. The basement door is a yawning maw haunting my peripheral vision. I want to crawl inside, to my place with no plaque and no plinth, and allow those depths to swallow me. “Oh.” Argyle’s voice is ice on my spine. He stops on the third step from the end so he’s still above me. “How tragic.” “She’s not dead.” “But we can agree she’s ruined.” I try to meet his hard, black eyes, but I flinch. Her beauty, her joy, her laughter. All extinguished. “You did this.” He turns away, tutting like the whole thing could’ve been avoided. “I’ve no need for that pile of pathetic rags. The basement can have you both.” Anger rises in me, and I rise with it, snatching up the sword as I do. The blade must scrape against the tiles because Argyle looks over his shoulder and scoff, but there’s too much blood rushing in my ears to hear it. I could do it. I could hobble up those steps and cut his skinny frame clean in half. I want to, God knows I want to. Every fibre of every muscle sear with the urge and I even raise the sword over my head in both hands. But it’s strange. The grip doesn’t feel like wrath or vengeance or reparation against my palms. It feels light, unburdened, like watching the horizon devour a storm. Anger drains from my core and seeps out through the soles of my feet. “You’re wrong, you know?” I let the sword hang limp at my side. “People only came here to see her. Your museum won’t last without her.” I crouch and lay the sword amongst the ribbons of beautiful ridged and patterned paper. It’s only now that I notice the writing on each piece of her is distinct and, as I cautiously lace them around the hilt and the blade, I take the time to read every word. I’d repeat what they said here, but I’m fairly certain they were meant for me alone. I wrap as meticulously as I can, trying to stay symmetrical and overlapping the ends so they’re tight and won’t unravel. Once I’ve retrieved every piece of her, I tie her off in a bow and nurse her in two firm hands. My work isn’t art, but it’s neat and I’m pleased with the results. She looks like her. “I liked your old form,” I whisper, “I like this form too.” On the steps, Argyle is scowling down at us, all the smugness drained from his pallid face. “What’s that? What have you done?” When I don’t answer, he takes another step down and thrusts his cane up the staircase. “Put her back on the plinth. She belongs to me,” he snarls, but I’m turning towards the doors, the tall mahogany ones embossed with brass. To be honest, my foot is aching too violently to take any notice of his whining. He looks small on those steps, and he hasn’t noticed the little-horned children gathering up behind him, or the knights on the atrium floor, brandishing their iron knives and wrapping their barbed wire crowns around their knuckles. They’d seen our altercation, and my defiance, and now they didn’t seem so afraid of associating with me. That’s the thing about Argyles. They make you think you need them, and the museum they’ve built, but you don’t. Argyles are the ones that need us and, if the cost of what they offer grows too high, we can leave them behind. When we realise that, it can be damn near impossible to unrealise. I push open the doors and we feel the cold on our skin. I take a moment to soak it in, I’d forgotten what midnight smells like. Beaming with anticipation and clutched to my chest, she leads us across the threshold. Morning won’t break for hours, but now we’ll crash through it headlong, whatever form it takes. #

f7ybmc

The Roar of the Lion

Tarek has been searching for any signs of the mysterious scholar for nearly a week to no avail. Disguised as a merchant aiming to journey across the seven seas, he arrives at the port city where the man he seeks is said to have arrived. "Young man! Haven't I seen you before?" Nine days have passed and he has journeyed hundreds of miles away from the university where he saw this very same young man. This could indeed be a good sign. The student gasps as he sees Tarek, recognizing him immediately only to run as fast as possible to warn his allies and possible the scholar himself. He runs towards a moderately sized ship yelling at the captain, as a lion's cub about to lose his father. "Set sail! Set sail now!! Hurry!! Hurry!!" The others beckon him to get on the ship as they throw the student a rope. He quickly climbs the rope to reach the deck of the ship as the kids smile and laugh, save for the student who senses danger in Tarek's presence, staring at him from a distance. Tarek gallops with his horse as he offers his tired yet powerful steed to another young man by a nearby stable. "I'll need you to watch over him until I come back." The boy motions for money as he smiles admiring and checking the horse's teeth and hooves, mane, eyes and skin. "Very well, sir. If you don't come back within 3 days, I'll keep him for myself." Tarek laughs at the stable boy's shrewd sales tactics. "Very well. I'll see you within a fortnight then." He throws the young man a small bag of coins past him to distract him, as he jumps onto the saddle with both feet, throwing his hooked rope over to a nearby building to swing over to the dock in one motion. The desert wind blows once again as Tarek mysteriously disappears with no sign of him. The stable boy opens the bag of coins as he laughs at the small fortune given to him by the stranger. "May God watch over you, sir...Sir!?" The stable boy walks back to the lone horse tied to a pole, as the stable boy blesses him waving amongst the mysterious desert winds. Tarek jumps into the sea as he nears the ship and throws the grappling hook against the bulkhead, climbing onto the deck. He sees much of the passengers huddled in the center of the ship, save for a few guards. Suddenly he hears the familiar voice of the elderly professor who spoke of revolt against tyrannical rule and treachery. "Professor!!" Tarek shouts over to the huddled mass of young students, his face covered. One of the guards behind him grabs him by the neck as Tarek quickly turns his heels and throws his left elbow against the guard's chin, rendering him unconscious. The students gasp at sight of the assassin as he bows on one knee holding out the parchment with his right hand. "I mean you no harm. I have a message for you!" The professor, an older grey-bearded man with a medium but solid build, gets up slowly from the deck of the ship and approaches the assassin. "Forgive me if I have difficulty trusting your words...young Tarek." "How did you know it was me, professor?" "We've never met, but I've heard much about the mysterious man who roams across the desert sands. You're a bit far from your usual surroundings." "It's a matter of urgency." "Indeed it is, young Tarek." "The Caliphate...they aim to kill you." The professor laughs heartily. "Indeed they are, but I have many enemies: generals across the land and warring tribes which aim to dilute my message." "You're not safe, professor." "Are you sure?" The students suddenly pull out their daggers and point them at Tarek. "Point taken, but what if I were to hide and disorient your protectors? Would they know how to fight against something they can't see or touch?" Tarek in a flash jumps upward behind a sail throwing an open bag of black sand in the faces of the students as they cough with tearful eyes, the majority of them dropping their small weapons. He immediately pushes one of the others still holding their small blades and knocks him over into the rest that still hold their blades. Only one remained shielded behind the professor: the very same student he has seen in two different towns. The son quickly shields his father now as the sand dissipates in the air. "Father, he is far too dangerous." He cries out in caution as he points his larger blade at the agile, elusive stranger. "You have me convinced, young Tarek. How can I help?" "He is your son?" Tarek asks the aging scholar. "He is indeed, my very own flesh and blood." "Why should we trust him, Father? Every time I see this man, trouble follows." The son speaks out. "Perhaps it is trouble he seeks, if only to remedy such issues." The scholar muses. The professor takes the knife from his son's hand and throws it at the assassin's feet. "Take my life if you wish. I'm helpless now." "If I seek refuge in your death, professor, I'd have already done so and your son would not even know who it was that murdered you." Tarek whispers with a low growl. The scholar nods his head as Tarek nudges the blade handle with his right foot looking at the son. "Go ahead and retrieve your blade, young man. What is your name?" Tarek smiles. "Why should I tell you, you sneaky dog?". The scholar's son exclaims. "Enough! Show this man the respect he deserves! After all he's the one that saved our lives in the classroom?" The son is surprised. "Truly? ... is it him Father?" "It is." He opens the parchment with the seal of the order of assassins, the very same that Tarek's mentor had. He bears it as a medal around his backpack. Tarek throws the medallion onto the deck. "So it's true. He's the one hired to protect us and lead us to safety from the Caliph?" "Yes. We have no more time to waste with idle chatter. Let's devise a plan, young Tarek." "Leave that to me, but first, I urge you to read the letter." The scholar opens the parchment: 'Lion, Forward Eagle's Nest Dawn 2. Code Aleph 1 and 7 Shield. Fast Black.' Translated it means: 'Professor, Proceed to the museum 2 hours past dawn. You are to aid in retrieving the artifact. Both assets are to be protected at all times. Burn upon reading.' "There are rumours of an artifact in the museum that the Caliph wishes to retrieve." "Ah yes, I've heard of this artifact, young Tarek. It's an artifact of significant value, except it's not as valuable as it appears. It's a statue dedicated to one of the gods. It has become a symbol of unity to the caliphate." "What significance does this artifact hold though?" "It is said that he who holds the statue of the moon god shall possess great power with an empire that will last for centuries." "This sounds like an old tale meant to scare little children." Tarek laughs. "I thought the same at first, but there may be a tool to an ancient weapon that hasn't been used for centuries." "If you so choose to believe." "What I believe matters not. If it shows significance to the Caliph then indeed it must hold some great value, and in his stead, we must be vigilant and cautious of all assets he deems important." "I agree. His artifact may mean nothing to us, but a madman's object of virtue can crumble empires." "Precisely. We are nearly there. Whatever plan you have, Tarek, I hope it is a well-devised one." As the rebellious crew of two dozen aim to fulfill their fateful mission, Tarek moves ahead with another horse at the port leading to the ancient museum thought to have been built for a princess centuries ago. Tarek senses wandering eyes as they advance to their destination and just as they are about to do so, Tarek sees a long shadow in the sun as it dawns. It's hard to decipher if it's a human shadow or just a trick of the light as the sun sets. There are 2 hours left before they are set to appear. The hours feel like days as Tarek senses more eyes and danger approaching them, the desert wind sweeping away any semblance of hoof prints or footsteps. If they were to die here, no one would come to their aid let alone even be aware of their existence. The ancient museum they see is crumbling, but has some level of integrity. It has been left to the elements far too long. "Students, come with me." Tarek beings the scholar's son over to him. "I'll need you to lead them. Protect your father at all costs" He hands over his crossbow "Use this only when you are sure you have a clear shot. It's envenomed. I'll search for the artifact." The young man, speechless, listens to his every word, obeying every instruction, leads the students and his father down a nearby cave. As Tarek journeys further above ground to search for the artifact in the rear entrance of the museum, he hears a sudden explosion above him as his sight suddenly begins to fade. He is trapped under the rubble in the ancient crumbling museum. Tarek's final sight is of the assassin that attempted to kill the scholar once before, holding a stick of dynamite, taunting him, laughing at the trapped protector. The lion shall roar, but at what cost?

gxvtnn

Away Day

This dream was strange, even for a dream it was strange. What was stranger was that Mo remembered the dream. Mo knew he dreamt, everyone did, but seldom did he have any recollection of where his mind wandered to at night. Of the dreams that did make themselves known to him, most were those that occurred between his alarm and the small window of snoozing. He didn’t trust those dreams as they were impossibly long for the seven minute window he had available in which to drift off. Maybe they were dreams of dreams. He hoped not, because there was a darkness therein that shamed him. A cruelty and a cynicism that made him wonder just what kind of person his subconscious thought he was. This dream was as different as it got, and now as he lay there in a state between sleep and consciousness, he held onto it for a little while longer, turning it this way and that, so he could see what it was he’d caught in his net. He shivered as he realised that it wasn’t even his dream. He’d plagiarised his nocturnal story and stolen the costume he wore as he met talking animals who were all on drugs as far as he could tell. Unless of course, it was him who was on drugs. That would make more sense. But he doubted drugs would make animals talk. And if they did talk, why in the hell would they speak the same language as Mo? He smiled to himself at that. He wasn’t as stupid as he acted. Not all of the time at least. The costume he’d donned concerned him. Was there a message there? He wasn’t a fan of dressing up, but to be wearing a dress was a bridge too far. He was sure that he hadn’t needed to adhere to that detail for the dream to work, but there he was, in a dress and he was wearing it like he really meant it. He was looking good. The best he’d ever looked and that made him wonder who the hell he really was. His dream was a dream of a story that was a dream in itself. The narrative was ladened with meaning. It was a kid’s story, but one that kids would never fully understand until they were well into adulthood and life had roughed them up plenty. There was something cruel about that. The story hung around and watched the pain train of life smash a person into something they no longer recognised, and then it stood there with a smarmy look on its face and said I told you so. It was all there in this story, if only a person took the time to think. But Mo knew that thinking was a rich man’s game. The poor and the listless were not meant to think. Not if they knew what was good for them. He lingered some more in the state between sleep and awakening, he hung around there for longer than he had any right to, and as he came back into the world of the consciously living, he thought he knew why. And it wasn’t only because his head pulsed with the pain of an injury he could not remember being in receipt of. Groaning, he wanted to scrunch his eyes shut in an abortive attempt at banishing the pain, but his eyes were fixed on something that he now could not unsee. Before him floated water droplets and arrayed around those droplets were tiny bubbles. Something caught in his chest, or in his throat, he could not be sure, as in that moment he could not be sure of anything, even what he was anymore. A fish out of water was no longer a fish. Not as a fish knew it anyway. Once it had left the reality of its existence, it was transformed into something so very different from what had once been of use, and it was that uselessness that smothered and confused it so totally that it could not find a way to be  anymore. Water, thought Mo, in a distracted, spiralling state of affairs that he wanted to exaggerate and perpetuate, but could not. In his peripheral vision he saw two anaemic eels swaying in invisible currents. It took him a while to understand that these where his arms. Or rather, they had been his arms in another life. He left them there and blinked two more droplets of liquid into existence. They floated upwards and stared back at him. Two disembodied, accusatory eyes. Their accusations were a shopping list of questions, all of them barbed and coated with the poison of his own shame. Not for the first time did Mo feel like he should not be here. He’d never managed to be comfortable in his own skin. There’d been a mix up when he was made and he’d been given the wrong skin. It just didn’t fit right and it made him stand out for all the wrong reasons. Sometimes he felt people looking at him and wondering why he was infecting their view, mostly he felt the absence of any gaze. That was people mostly did. They ignored the irrelevant whilst they sought anything of value to them. Mo’s destiny was to be overlooked. He doubted he’d make it beyond this current, tawdry existence. He was in a last chance saloon and there was no destination beyond this. No reincarnation. No further credit that would send him back to the first level of the game. Never had been, but definitely not now. Not here. He was beyond hope, and he was certainly beyond reckoning. “Merv…” he’d wanted to say more. He’d wanted to curse his so called friend, but the sound of his voice was all wrong. It was the same voice he’d heard a thousand times, only now he couldn’t miss the false quality of it. This was a voice that had become unaccustomed to speaking the truth. Returning to silence was a blessed relief from an army of lies intent on storming the world. Only this wasn’t the world, not as Mo knew it anyway. This was instead exile. Exile in a permanent dream state. That thought made Mo shudder. There was no permanency here. Any tendency towards a perpetual state of affairs was reliant upon the weakest of links and that link was Mo himself. He knew he was out of his depth. He was out of place with no notion as to how he could swim to safer and more recognisable shores. The fact of his incompetence and weakness was exemplified by his remaining in his seat. There was no movement barring the two lifeless fronds that extended out from each side of him. His arms swaying this way and that, not wanting to be a part of this endeavour, but anchored in it all the same. Eventually, Mo brought himself to speech once again, “Merv, what did you do?” he asked the empty space before him, for there was no Merv here. Merv was a million miles from here. Of all the questions he could ask, this was the one that he knew the answer to. He repossessed his right arm and brought it slowly into his reality. Taking his time in case his wayward limb attempted to rebel, he touched the back of his head. Wincing, he confirmed that which he already knew. Bringing his hand around to his eyes, he saw a smear of his own blood. Merv had really gone and done it. Mo chuckled mirthlessly and the sound of it hurt his soul. It wasn’t like Merv hadn’t told him, but Mo had chosen not to heed the truth of Merv’s warnings, using an oft used shield of rationalisation; why would he do such a thing? Mo shook his head despite the pain it caused him. Just because he himself wouldn’t do a thing. Just because he could find no reason to do that thing. That didn’t mean that it would not occur. Sometimes people did things just because they could. More often than not, they did things because they could. Mo knew that if you could freeze time and ask a person why they’d done something self-evidently stupid, ignorant or downright dangerous, they’d stare into the void that was the mirror of their own with the eyes of a brain damaged sheep and give the only answer possible; nothing. There was nothing. And that was where Mo was now. He had nothing and he had plenty of time to contemplate the void that was at constant odds with meaning. The human race had been at war throughout its time in this reality. A conflict without end. They sought meaning, but the truth was that all they could really do was create meaning. But as fast as people built meaning, the void fed upon it, and the void was always hungry. All the same, despite this philosophy of Mo’s, he reached back into his past and grasped at the offal of his time with Merv. Raising it aloft in his mind’s eye he could not help but see how diseased it had always been. The liver was shrivelled and hard. The guts pulsed with a grim, parasitic life. The cursed vision of his hindsight pained him further. Merv had not been joking around. Turned out that Merv had never been joking around. Merv was about as dangerous as it got and the punchline Mo was now living had about it a dark inevitability. “Ignorant is, as ignorant does,” Mo whispered the words and that whisper took him back to a time and a place he had not visited in a long while. The ghost that now haunted him chilled his bones. He saw his Aunt Maud’s cruel angular face in every detail. That woman was constructed from cold metal. There was not one thing that was soft about Aunt Maud, and as though to prove Mo’s point, here he was, reliving the final words she ever spoke to him. Leaning forward as though she were bestowing a kiss upon her little nephew, she’d slipped those words to Mo, before the big man from the orphanage had tugged him away from everything he knew. An impossibly large hand wrapping itself around his upper arm to exert a sudden force powerful enough to snap the umbilical cord to a life that had died when Mo’s mother had taken her own life. Now here he was. History had a bad habit of repeating itself. He’d yet again been torn away from the semblance of life he’d managed to achieve. The allotment of meaning he’d secretly tended to all on his own had been concreted over in the night and he was left with nothing. Worse than nothing, because all he had was himself and there was no currency there, only a debt that could never be repaid. Without thinking about it, his hands did their work in freeing him from his seat. Mo barely marked this petty betrayal, his existence had been marred by a litany of betrayal until it had become a part of the air that he breathed. He took no morsel of joy in making his way to the window. He understood that happiness and joy were possibilities, but he’d been surrounded by such possibilities all his life and eventually he’d stopped daring to hope that he’d be gifted even one of them. Hope was not for the likes of Mo, let alone the pretty promises that it made. Having reached the window, Mo stared out at the unreal sight of his new reality. He was oblivious to his making a little slice of history. A part of that history was that he was the first person to see Earth from space and not marvel at an overwhelming significance and meaning that could only be experienced in this moment. All Mo felt was loss, and even that loss had a hollow quality to it. Mo had lost to Merv, and Merv was just another in a long line of bullies and users queuing up to take a piece of Mo even when Mo doubted there was anything worth taking anymore. Mo stared dispassionately out at the end of his life, and what he felt was the enormity of the void he now dwelt in. He felt the void’s inexorable and hypnotic pull and he knew in that moment that try as he might, he could not avoid gazing into it and allowing it to take what remained of him however worthless that may be. In a stubborn act of defiance, he turned his back on the window and looked into the cramped space of his new home. He yelled with shock and surprise as a lifeless form lunged at him. Throwing his hands up instinctively to protect his face, scrunching his eyes up in a feeble act of cowardice that he’d never been able to prevent. Body language that marked him as a forever-victim deserving of each and every beating life had doled out. As his heart rate dropped from the spike of his panic, he realised what it was that he’d been confronted by. Still he kept his eyes closed. Mo had been wrong far too many times to trust his own judgement. Gently he patted the air clumsily before him, catching something solid, he felt it float away. Now he could open his eyes. The mop hung in the air, moving across the cabin of the spaceship. Instinctively, Mo scanned around for the bucket that the mop belonged to. Of that, there was no sign. A mop with no bucket. He sighed a sigh that juddered through his body and threatened to break it apart. His head went down. Where it belonged. Always looking down to where he was headed. Staring into the void that would consume him come what may. There, the floor was a story that mirrored his own. Half-arsed. A clean portion and a dusty and dirty portion. He glanced up at the mop, with a mind to address the question of a job half done, but then thought better of it. Why change the habit of a life time? Like the now pointless mop, Mo hung there, suspended in the nothingness of his own life. In that absurdly ridiculous state, he gave himself over to his emotions. Unclear as to whether he was laughing or crying. He abandoned himself to the act of giving up. His back to the world that had rejected him from such an early age. Rejecting the reality that he was now presented with. Then Mo was laughing as he understood the meaning of his banishment from a world he had failed to be a part of. Understood why it was that Merv had done what he had done. At last he accepted his own meaning; that he was a waste of space.

yqkekq

The Heist

It’s 6:30 pm and I am seated at the British Airways gate, anxious to hear my flight number being called. Dulles to London – I need to go “across the pond” as Gram would say. As usual, I had arrived early; boarding was not scheduled to begin for another hour. I would rather wait at the gate than deal with the stress of long security lines or other untold snafus. This time, though, my early arrival at the gate was not without trepidation. I was flying stand-by. It was the best I could do on such short notice.  The flight was fully booked, so I didn’t know if I would get on. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to get on, but I knew I had to. Residing in D.C., I was Gram’s closest living relative. And her closest in other ways, too, even if I hadn’t seen her in a dozen or so years. I suddenly regretted not going to England more. Why didn’t I go? Oh, I know. I got married, had two kids. You know – a life. Gram understood. I think. We wrote letters to stay in touch. My two boys received cards every birthday and Christmas. Gram never forgot – not once. We could have gone to see her. Should have. Money was not a problem. And Gram would like the boys. I have no answer. I received the Western Union telegram this morning. I didn’t even know telegrams still existed, but apparently they do. I knew it was from Gram even before I read it. Who else would send a telegram these days? Once I read the words typed on the yellow paper, my heart sank. START. MILLIE. PLEASE COME. URGENT. AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. LOVE YOU. GRAM. END I immediately arranged emergency leave from work and brought the boys to a friend’s house. Jack, my husband, will pick them up this evening. I had to get to Gram. She is pushing ninety and not prone to histrionics. If she said it was urgent, I dared not wait. Gram lives by herself just outside of London, in a little flat on the banks of the Thames River. It’s a lovely two-bedroom flat, with colorful gardens and lush greenery overlooking the river. Gram loved to sit on her balcony and look at the gardens. They were kept neat and tidy by the association, in full British tradition. I hoped that hadn’t changed. She’s on the second floor, so there were stairs. A while back, I had encouraged her to move somewhere with no stairs to climb – at her age – but she didn’t want to hear it. Gram never admitted to anything about her age. She still had long, jet-black hair, dyed of course, that she kept in a perfect bun. She was always immaculately dressed in a suit. Conservative and appropriate, but not business-like. In her younger days, Gram was apparently quite a looker. Many suitors called on her, even when I visited. Familial stories, unconfirmed, were that she had been married three or four times, including once to an Italian Count. The stories persisted, without evidence. To this day, I don’t know if they are true, but knowing Gram, I wouldn’t be surprised. Even as a child, I knew that if I asked Gram directly about this, I wouldn’t get an answer. “It wouldn’t be proper for a lady to discuss such things.” Gram was all about being a lady, teaching me to be a lady. Never a wrong foot forward, etc. So I never asked. “Passenger Millie Llywelyn please see the gate agent. Passenger Millie Llywelyn.” The announcement disturbed my reverie. I got up and walked over to the agent, who handed me a boarding pass. First Class. Lucky. Or did Gram pull some mysterious strings? Either way, I was grateful. I would be able to sleep on the flight to Heathrow. With sleep, I could handle most anything. I didn’t want to see Gram in her last moments on Earth. I wanted to remember her like I did now, a vibrant, aristocratic lady. I dreaded seeing her in decline, but I knew she needed me. I was as prepared as I could be. I boarded with the other first-class passengers and settled into my seat. Bypassing dinner and other complimentary services, I fell fast asleep as soon as the wheels lifted off the ground. Before I knew it, the flight attendant was waking me to prepare for landing. Outside the terminal, I flagged a taxi. The cabbie knew the address and in less than an hour I was standing outside Gram’s building. It looked exactly as I remember it. I was happy about that. I climbed the stairs and found myself in front of the door marked 2C. Taking a deep breath, I steeled myself for what was beyond. Poor Gram. I took another deep breath and knocked twice.  I was about to knock a little louder when the door flew open. ***** “G-G-Gram! It’s you!” I stuttered. Before me stood a lady looking far younger than her years. Vibrant and clearly alive. She smiled to see me. “Of course it’s me, Millie. Who did you expect? Oh, forgive my manners, dear. Come on in.” Gram was dressed in her signature suit, hair tidy. She hadn’t lost a step, practically dancing down the long hallway to lead me to the formal living room.  “I’ve done a few things to the place, since you were last here. Come and sit. Tell me about your boys.” I still couldn’t speak. How had I been so wrong? Gram was the furthest thing from her deathbed. I was happy to see that, of course, but very confused.  Why the urgent telegram? I swallowed the lump in my throat and began my interrogation. “Gram, you can’t imagine what I was thinking. I got your urgent telegram yesterday and caught the first flight out. We can chat, and I will tell you all about Jack and the boys, but first, what is the emergency?” “Millie, can’t a grandmother ask to see her favorite granddaughter without a reason?” “Really, Gram? I know you have something up your sleeve. Your telegram was urgent and came out of the blue. I thought you were seriously ill, deathly ill, even.” “Oh, my dear. I’ve never felt better. But I do need you for something important. Time is of the essence. We must take care of this tomorrow. Would you like some tea?” Nothing was going to rush Gram, so I relented and had some tea. I told her about Jack’s new job, how he loves it. I told her how much Oliver and Arthur have grown and showed her the latest pictures I had in my wallet. When the niceties were done, I pressed forward. “Now, Gram. If we need to take care of something tomorrow, don’t you think you best tell me about it?” “Fine, Millie. Do you remember all the lovely tourist places I have taken you to over the years?” I had no idea where this was leading, but I was willing to play. “Sure, we went to Buckingham Palace to see the Changing of the Guards, did brass rubbings in Westminster Abbey, saw “Much Ado About Nothing” in Stratford-Upon-Avon, shopped and ate at Harrod’s. Um, we did lots of fun stuff over the years, Gram.” “We did have a lot of exciting adventures. But you haven’t yet mentioned the one place you need to remember. Keep going.” “OK Gram. Let’s see. We went to Brighton Beach and Hyde Park. I remember, that’s where Uncle Reggie and Aunt Gladys lived. Their flat took up the entire floor of their building and overlooked the park. They were quite rich, as I recall. Oh, and Windsor Castle, that’s where -” “That’s it! Windsor Castle!” Gram said. “What was so special about Windsor Castle, if you can remember?” “How could I forget? My favorite - I don’t know how many times we visited Queen Mary’s Doll’s House. You had to take me to see it every time I was in London visiting you.” “That’s right, dear. You were fascinated by the lights that worked and the perfect miniature furnishings. It really is a most unique Doll’s House. Amazing in its detail. Most of the miniature paintings and even the books, are original works created by very famous artists. Not duplicates or prints. There was one painting, in particular, that I showed you every time. Do you remember it?” “Of course. Great Uncle William’s painting. Of an old king….um…James the Fifth? Is that right?” “Wonderful, Millie. Yes. You remember. Your Great-Great Uncle, Sir William S.H. Llewellyn - they spelled the family name differently back then. He painted the tiny portrait of James V of Scotland. The miniature portrait hung in the dining room, on one side of the fireplace. A place of honor.” “OK Gram. Enough mystery. What’s this all about?” “Well . . . back in my youth, I was quite the artist, among my other talents. Only I wasn’t as recognized as old Uncle Willie. No one was buying my art. One day, I decided to paint a miniature portrait of James V, copying the one in the Doll’s House. It was a magnificent copy! Only a master could tell the difference, and even then, he would have to look very closely to be sure. On one of our trips to see Queen Mary’s Doll’s House, I exchanged the portraits. It is mine currently hanging there, seen by millions of tourists. Has been for years.” “Whoa. Gram. Seriously? I didn’t think you did anything wrong. Ever. How did you do it? Make the switch? There were always guards in the room, as I recall.” “You helped me. Oh, you didn’t know it. You were only fourteen. Remember, you took the photo of the Doll’s House. No photography signs were posted but you missed them. You used a flash, and the guard came running. You were almost in tears, thinking they were going to take your camera away, but the guard just gave you a stern warning. That’s when I did it. The switch. I was never one to let an opportunity pass me by!” “Holey moley!” “So now we need to switch them back. The James V portraits. I have the original and the Doll’s House has my copy. We need to get mine back and put Uncle Willie’s in its place. Tomorrow, Millie. It has to be done tomorrow.” “Whaaaaa? We need to un-steal what you stole? A reverse heist? Is that what you are saying? Is that why I am here -to take another photo in a no-photo zone?” “Not exactly, dear. This time I will create the distraction and you will switch the paintings. I am elderly – something I am loathe to admit. I can fall or pretend a heart attack. I was a pretty good actress when I was younger, one of my other talents. When the guard is distracted, you take the portrait off the dining room wall and put the real one back in its place. No one will be the wiser. Simple.” “Gram. Gram. Are you serious? Or crazy? This is not simple. There are a million reasons why we can’t do this. Why not just turn over the original? I don’t want to be writing my children from a London jail.” “There is no time to argue, Millie. An inventory check is scheduled for next week so the exhibit will be closed. They are bringing in a master restorer to remove any varnish or discoloration on the paintings. He would certainly notice that my portrait of James V is not Uncle Willie’s. And he may be able to trace it to me. I will not have my reputation sullied. We must do the switch tomorrow. That is firm.” It was no use trying to convince Gram that this wasn’t a good idea.  I tried arguing, pleading and reasoning. She was undeterred. She had already bought tickets to tour the Castle. Come to think of it, I can’t recall anyone ever winning an argument against Gram.  This evening, her record remained unblemished. I tossed and turned all night going over our plan. Gram had given me Uncle Willie’s original portrait. I was to hide it in the inner pocket of my jacket. It was small enough to fit. She would create a distraction, and when the guard went over to assist her, I would take the fake portrait off the dining room wall and re-hang the original. Uncle Willie’s picture, as Gram referred to it. “Simple.” UGH. ***** The next morning, I was too nervous to eat any of the porridge Gram made. She seemed to still have a heathy appetite, though. I was shaking as I dressed but I made sure James V was securely in the pocket of my jacket. Gram came out of her room and I swear if I didn’t know better, I would never guess she was ninety-ish. She didn’t look a day over sixty. She was very elegant in her suit, hair coiffed, and umbrella in hand. It wasn’t raining. She said the umbrella was her walking stick. It was a needed prop, she told me. Ready or not, we grabbed a taxi to Windsor Castle. We walked around the grounds a little, acting as typical tourists. Basically, we were waiting for the early crowds, in line to see the dollhouse, dissipate. Gram never broke from character. It was as if she was a great actress starring in a film. When the crowds at the dollhouse thinned, she took my arm and said, “Come darling. Let me show you the most fascinating Doll’s House. It was built in the 1920’s and contains many interesting features. The lights even work. The books are not empty shells, but are actually books written by famous authors. And the paintings. You have to see how magnificent the paintings are. Come, my dear.” Me? I was shaking in my boots. But I followed Gram into the room that housed Queen Mary’s Doll’s House. My breathing was shallow and fast, but there was no turning back. The Doll’s House was in the center of the room on a table. We walked around the house three times, with Gram pointing out different features. I pretended to be peering intently into each room. I paid particular attention to the dining room where I saw the James V portrait by the fireplace. Finally, on our fourth circle, when I was directly in front of the dining room, Gram walked ahead. She suddenly bent over, held up by her umbrella as she clutched her chest. I heard her moan and the guard walked over to her to see what the problem was. This was my chance. I took the picture Gram gave me out of my pocket. Then I reached and took the same portrait off the dining room wall. I readied to make the switch, when some medical aide person bumped me from behind. They were running to assist Gram, and didn’t see me. Luckily, they didn’t see the miniature paintings, either. Both paintings fell into my left hand, as I steadied myself with my right hand. Which was which? I couldn’t be sure. Scared, I put one of the paintings back in the dining room, next to the fireplace. The other went into my jacket pocket. No one saw anything. Did I just re-hang Gram’s painting, or was the switch successful? I had no way of knowing. There was no undoing what was done. The disturbance Gram had created was winding down. She apparently said she was feeling better. And the guard was back in position. I collected Gram with promises to take her to a cardiologist. And we left. Gram stayed in character until we got back to her flat. It was no use telling her that I wasn’t sure which painting was hanging in the Doll’s House. If the restorer found a fake, she would find out soon enough. Why worry her – I was worried enough for us both. The next morning, Gram took me to the airport. Yes, she still drives. That was something else I didn’t know. We said our good-byes. Despite everything, I really was glad to have spent time with her. I said it wouldn’t be another dozen years before I came back. I would bring Jack and the boys. . . if she promised to lower the excitement level. My heart can’t take it. I was listed stand-by once again, but again I found myself in a first-class seat. Coincidence? I didn’t even want to ask Gram. I just wanted to leave London as soon as possible. It felt safer to be state-side. Mid-air, I opened the gift she had handed me as I left. It was a beautiful jewelry box. She had hand-painted the outside -it was a perfect picture of me at age fourteen, looking at Queen Mary’s Doll’s House. I had to grin. Inside the box was a note and two miniature paintings. The first was a very familiar portrait of James V of Scotland. The second was a miniature portrait of Charlie Chaplin. I opened the note. My dearest Millie, It was wonderful to see you again. Please do come back with the boys. I’m sure they wouldn’t be bored. We can find some bit of excitement to fill the days. Please enjoy my gift to you. I know you will recognize my painting on the outside of the box. You will never forget the first, or the last, time you visited Queen Mary’s Doll’s House. Inside, I think you earned the portrait of James V of Scotland. Uncle Willie would want you to have it! And the Charlie Chaplin painting is a self-portrait. I will explain on your next visit. All my love, Gram ****************************************************** Note:   One interesting tidbit I found was that, in 1921, Charlie Chaplin had promised to donate a miniature portrait of himself to the Doll's House, but that portrait never appeared.  

94nmen

SHADOWS OF THE RELIC: VINCENT BLACKWOOD'S ESCAPE

In the heart of a bustling city stood the renowned Heritage Museum, home to priceless artifacts and treasures from civilizations long past. Among these treasures lay the ultimate prize— “Emerald Eye,” an ancient relic rumored to possess mystical powers beyond comprehension. For years, it had eluded the grasp of even the most skilled thieves. But the relic beckoned like a siren's call for Vincent Blackwood, a notorious art thief with an audacious reputation. Tall and lean, with an athletic build honed by years of daring escapades, he moved with the effortless grace of a predator stalking its prey. His piercing eyes, the color of polished onyx, held a mesmerizing intensity that seemed to pierce through the darkness, betraying a mind sharp as a dagger's edge. His midnight-black hair, styled with meticulous care, framed a chiseled face marked by a faint scar trailing along his jawline—a testament to the dangers he had faced and conquered in his pursuit of fortune and glory. But not just his physical appearance set Vincent apart; the aura of audacity surrounded him like an invisible cloak. He was known throughout the underworld as a master of deception and intrigue, his exploits whispered about in hushed tones by those who dared to speak his name. His reputation preceded him like a shadowy specter, striking fear into the hearts of those who crossed his path and earning him the begrudging respect of even his most formidable adversaries. Vincent had spent months meticulously planning the heist, studying every inch of the museum's security systems and layout. Armed with cunning intellect and unwavering determination, he believed himself ready to outsmart even the most advanced security measures. He had the resources to buy every piece of information, and his search for every clue about the museum brought him to this moment. <<>> Rumors whispered in the shadowy corners of the city and spoke of the Heritage Museum as an impenetrable fortress, its treasures safeguarded by forces beyond mortal comprehension. For decades, the museum had stood as a bastion of history and culture, its halls a sanctuary for relics of bygone eras. But beneath its facade of grandeur lurked a darkness that defied explanation. Some whispered of curses placed upon the artifacts, while others spoke of a malevolent presence that dwelled within the museum's depths. Among the most chilling tales were previous attempts to break into the museum. Each attempt had ended in tragedy, with would-be thieves meeting grisly ends or simply disappearing without a trace. One of those stories involved confident Arthur Doyle, a master of deception and stealth, who had once dared to venture into the museum's hallowed halls in search of the ultimate prize. Yet, his ambition had cost him dearly, for he was found dead on the museum's grand staircase, his lifeless body bearing multiple deadly wounds. The circumstances surrounding his demise remained shrouded in mystery, with no witnesses to shed light on the events that had led to his untimely end. And then there was Simon Brawler, a brash and reckless thief who had thought himself invincible. His ill-fated attempt to breach the museum's defenses had ended in horror beyond comprehension, as his body was discovered torn asunder by an unknown force. The sight of his mangled remains served as a grim reminder of the dangers that lurked within the museum's shadowy depths. The city buzzed with speculation as whispers of the museum's dark secrets spread like wildfire. Some claimed that the relic held the key to unlocking ancient mysteries, while others believed it to be cursed, its power a harbinger of doom for any who dared to covet it. He believed himself to be different—more competent, craftier, and more cunning than any who had dared to tread the path before him. And so, with the ghosts of Arthur Doyle and Simon Brawler as silent witnesses to his folly, Vincent pressed onward, heedless of the darkness that awaited him at the journey's end. <<>> In front of the museum's modern, electronically secured doors, Vincent paused, flicking his gaze over the sleek surface for any sign of vulnerability. He withdrew a small device from his pocket, a sophisticated tool to bypass the digital defenses between him and his goal. With deft fingers, he attached the device to the control panel, the soft hum of its interface blending seamlessly with the silence of the night. His heart raced as he input a series of complex commands, his movements fluid and precise as he navigated the labyrinth of encryption protocols. Each keystroke was a calculated risk, a delicate dance with technology that threatened to betray him at any moment. Sweat beaded on his brow as he watched the screen, his breath caught in his throat as lines of code scrolled past in a blur of numbers and symbols. And then, with a soft beep of acknowledgment, the lock clicked open, the doors sliding apart with a whisper of sound. Vincent held his breath, his senses straining for any sign of alarm, but the night remained still and silent as if holding its breath along with him. “No surprises there.” He smiled. With the doors unlocked, Vincent slipped inside, his movements swift and silent as he navigated the corridors with the ease of a seasoned cat burglar. He knew the real challenge lay ahead—the surveillance cameras and motion sensors that guarded the museum's treasures with unblinking vigilance. But Vincent was no stranger to such obstacles. With the skill of a digital ghost, he skirted around the cameras, his movements guided by intuition and years of experience. He sidestepped the motion sensors with the grace of a dancer, his body poised and alert as he slipped through the darkness like a shadow. With each hurdle overcome, the suspense mounted a relentless drumbeat that echoed in his ears. But Vincent was focused, his mind clear and his nerves steel as he moved closer to his prize. For him, the thrill of the heist was like a drug, the promise of triumph driving him forward even as the specter of failure lurked at his heels. The silence seemed to stretch on forever, broken only by the sound of his own ragged breathing. And then, just as he reached out to claim his prize, a noise shattered the stillness—a faint click, like the cocking of a gun. Vincent froze, his heart pounding as he realized he was no longer alone in the darkness. <<>> In that moment of frozen terror, Vincent's mind became a whirlwind of panic and desperation. His heart, racing with anticipation moments before, now felt like it might burst from his chest with each thunderous beat. “There is no way I triggered the alarm,” he thought. “Can there be another thief inside? But how?” The silence, once a cloak of stealth and secrecy, now seemed to suffocate him, pressing in from all sides with a weight that threatened to crush his very spirit. Every nerve in his body screamed for him to flee, to retreat into the safety of the shadows, but he was rooted to the spot by fear. His thoughts raced in a frantic cacophony, each one more dire than the last. Had he been caught? Had his luck finally run out? The faint click that had shattered the stillness echoed in his mind like a death knell, a harbinger of the terrible fate that awaited him. Images flashed before his eyes—his capture, his incarceration, the loss of everything he had worked so hard to achieve. He could almost feel the cold steel of handcuffs closing around his wrists, the harsh glare of interrogation lights blinding him to the world outside. But even as his worst fears threatened to consume him, Vincent clung to a glimmer of hope. He was not one to go down without a fight, and he refused to let his adversaries best him so quickly. He forced himself to focus, think, and plan with every ounce of willpower. His mind raced through a thousand possibilities, searching for a way out of the nightmare that threatened to engulf him. He knew that the stakes were higher than ever now, that failure was not an option. <<>> From the darkness came a cacophony of mechanical whirs and clicks as hidden mechanisms were set into motion. The floor beneath Vincent's feet suddenly shifted, revealing hidden pitfalls yawning wide like hungry jaws. He stumbled backward, narrowly avoiding the gaping hole that threatened to swallow him whole. Barely aware of inevitable deaths, trying to catch their breath, he noticed movement from his right side. From the corners of the room, the museum's statues, once silent sentinels of art and history, began to move with their own lives. Their stone faces contorted into grotesque masks of fury as they descended upon Vincent with an eerie grace. With each step, their marble feet echoed like the approach of doom, their outstretched arms reaching for him with deadly intent. As Vincent found himself ensnared within the surreal nightmare of walking statues, he fought with every fiber of his being, desperation lending strength to his limbs. With a primal instinct, he ducked and weaved between the advancing statues, his movements quick and agile, narrowly evading the lethal grasp of their outstretched arms. His mind raced, strategizing each step as if it were his last, seeking any advantage in this surreal battle for survival. A statue lunged forward, its marble hand grazing his cheek with a cold, unforgiving touch. Vincent winced as he felt the sharp edge of stone cut across his skin, a searing pain erupting where the sculpture's fingers had made contact. Blood trickled down his face, a crimson testament to the intensity of the struggle. A statue swung its arm in a vicious arc, catching Vincent off guard and sending him sprawling to the ground. The impact rattled his bones, leaving him momentarily stunned as he struggled to regain footing. He pushed himself upright through gritted teeth, his muscles screaming in protest as he braced for the next onslaught. Another statue closed in, its eyes gleaming with otherworldly malice as it loomed over Vincent with menacing intent. With a surge of adrenaline, he lunged forward, narrowly avoiding the lethal strike aimed at his chest. Instead, the statue's hand grazed his side, leaving behind a deep gash that throbbed with agonizing intensity. Despite the pain coursing through his body, Vincent pressed on, his resolve unbroken even as his strength waned. Each movement became a struggle against exhaustion, every injury a testament to the ferocity of his adversaries. Yet still, he fought on, driven by a primal instinct to survive against all odds. Faced with the deadly attacks of the statues, whose relentless efforts were draining him of all his energy and strength, Vincent decided to improvise. Being arrested by the police no longer seemed so wrong compared to the injuries he had already suffered. Guided by instinct, he demolished the glass cases, creating barriers between himself and the statues. To his surprise, the display cases completely covered the statues, making it impossible for them to finish him off. Still reeling from everything, catching his breath, he leaned against the wall, feeling the rough texture of the picture frame. He instinctively jumped forward and turned, just in time to feel the cat's blade pierce his right shoulder. The grotesque face of the uniformed man made indistinct sounds as the sword penetrated deeper and deeper, tearing through the sinews and veins beneath his skin. Vincent couldn't scream out of horror; he was utterly shocked, trying to understand what was happening. He managed to step back, feeling the searing pain as the blade of the cat was pulled out, splattering blood everywhere. With a sense of urgency bordering on desperation, Vincent scanned the corridor for an escape route. His eyes landed on a nearby window, its glass panes shimmering faintly in the dim light. Summoning the last reserves of his strength, Vincent staggered towards it, his footsteps faltering with each agonizing step. Behind him, he could hear the relentless pursuit of the statues, their stone forms scraping against the floor like the footsteps of doom. Reaching the window, Vincent slammed his shoulder against it, but the glass barely cracked under the force of his blow. With a curse, he frantically searched for something to break it with, his fingers closing around a nearby fire extinguisher. With a desperate cry, Vincent swung the extinguisher at the window, shattering it with a resounding crash. Glass shards rained down around him as he hurled himself through the opening, his injured body protesting every movement. Outside, the night air hit him like a welcome embrace, offering a brief respite from the museum's suffocating darkness. But there was no time to rest—he could hear the statues closing in, their relentless pursuit unyielding. With a grimace of pain, Vincent forced himself to his feet, his muscles trembling with exhaustion. Ignoring the protests of his battered body, he stumbled towards the edge of the rooftop, his gaze fixed on the dizzying drop below. With a final surge of determination, Vincent threw himself off the rooftop and into the void. The ground rushed up to meet him, and for a moment, he felt weightless, suspended between heaven and earth. Then, with a bone-jarring impact, Vincent landed on the pavement below, his body crumpling under the force of the fall. Pain exploded through every nerve, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself to his feet, his heart pounding in his chest. Looking back at the museum, he saw the statues looming at the broken window, their malevolent gaze fixed on him like vultures circling their prey. But Vincent refused to be their victim—he had escaped their clutches and would not let them drag him back into the darkness. With a defiant snarl, Vincent limped into the night, leaving the museum's malevolence behind him like a fading nightmare.

q92mne

Julius Ceasar and Mannequin Bones

Alex could barely stand the hot, rancid breath in his face, the absence of the rest of his senses heightening his perception. His legs and arms ached from being in the same standing, cramped position for hours. The pocketknife pressed against his leg from his pocket with extreme pressure. He hissed, to not be overheard by anyone except his intended target, "Carl! Move! Over!" He heard a scuffling next to him, the coffin creaking with shifting weight, then a sharp jab in the side of his ribs. " God damn!" he heaved under his breath. "Sorry!" Carl's voice came sheepishly from the dark, still shifting, trying to strike a balance for both of their comfort. It was high pitched, and since he was stressed, it was also scratchy. " Ok! Ok! Stop moving! They'll hear us!" Alex reached into the void to grab him, as if his skinny arm was strong enough to pin him down. His fingers jammed into the polished wood, sending ice through his nerves that ended in a yelp. He covered his mouth, and the shuffling stopped. Suddenly, light erupted from Carl's phone screen, blinding them both. It rotated to point at his worn, frayed watch. " It is 11:45 at night! No one is around to hear us" Carl whispered. " You have your phone on you?! They'll track us!" Alex hissed. "Turn that shit off!" The light shut off, but not before his eyes adjusted enough to see Carl's look of disbelief. His scraggly beard was already showing a few gray hairs, as was his crew cut hair, even though he was in his mid-20s. "You made me call in the bomb threat! Did you want me to do that with my mind?" "It was a suggestion! That I went back on!" "Yeah, well, not fast enough." A heavy sigh left Alex's chest. The dark fell silent, the humid, warm air offering no comfort. He began to ponder, of all the craigslist roommate ads he had to click on, it was the one posted by this buffoon. A long pause. As Alex calmed himself, he took a drawn-out breath. "I mean, you did do a good job. Way better than the ones I've called in." Carl smiled slightly, though Alex couldn't see. "Hey, thanks, man. It was a good idea." "OK" , Alex said, "It's basically midnight. I hear no guards. Let's move out." They both moved to put their foot on the door, knee ready to bust it open. "3... 2... 1!" Both men plunged their legs forward, tearing the coffin door off its hinges and sent it sliding a few feet, its scrapes across the floor echoing through the empty exhibits. Fresh, cold air flooded their noses, and the dim moonlight streamed through the skylight, washing over them. Alex's eyes were fixed on the coffin lid before them. He wiped the beads of sweat that had collected in the heat of the accidental sauna from his wrinkled forehead onto the arm of his flannel jacket. He would just have to wait for his long, charcoal hair to dry. "That was kind of... really loud. Follow me." Alex started to speed walk through the halls, eyes darting from wall to wall to exhibit name. Though he tried his best to step lightly, his sneakers squeaked with haste. Carl stumbled after him hurriedly, his green t-shirt waving in his wake. "Can you tell me what we're stealing now?" Carl pleaded under his breath. Alex holds up his finger, still looking ahead. "The less people know about the plan, the better." Carl’s frustration was building. His hands started flying all over while he talked. "Ok, I get that, but we are IN the plan! Do you want me to be able to help?" Alex glanced at him, then kept looking through the various art pieces. "Don’t get so animated, man! You will be." The two roommates traversed the seemingly endless halls displaying various paintings, pictures, statues, maps and models. The only noise was the buzzing of the air conditioning, the squeaking of sneakers, and the heavy breathing of two already out-of-breath men. As the two walked into the Local History section, Carl stopped to examine the props of the hanged men in the gallows, mouth agape. Alex, continuing on ahead, kept scanning the area, until his eyes landed on exactly what he was looking for. "There it is!" Alex exclaimed and pointed to the sign on the wall that read “Community Contributions”. He looked behind to see if Carl was close behind, only to find he was several feet away, observing the props. Confused, Alex stomped up to him. "What are you doing?" Alex demanded. "You know what I bet this is?" Carl’s mind began to run miles off track. "This is like that funhouse prop from that 6-million-dollar man episode. I bet that prop," Carl pointed with strong resolve, his eyes meeting Alex’s, "is a real body!" "CARL!" Alex shouted, making Carl jump. Alex covered his mouth in shock. He had always tried his best not to raise his voice at Carl. He means well, but occasionally, he’d do something that just irritated his core. He sighed again. "Sorry. But Carl. What the fuck are you talking about? Follow me, please, dude. Jesus". Alex began to talk into the Community Contributions section. "…I’m talking about 6 million-dollar-man, dude." Carl said under his breath with a palpable sadness, looking down. He shuffled after Alex. Alex led Carl to a specific painting hung on the wall. "There it is! We’re stealing this." Carl observed a painting, about as big as a laptop screen, depicting Julius Ceasar’s stabbing. The brush strokes were obvious, but purposeful, creating an energy that leapt off the canvas. The colors were vibrant, and the anatomy was perfect. "What is this, I’ve never seen this in my whole life." Carl muttered, unimpressed. "What? No- Look who made it!" Alex pointed to the plate below it. It read “Julius - Dedicated by Lisa Worble”. "This was made by my art teacher!" Alex lectured. "From 8 th grade?" Alex brought his hand up to Carl, pointing in confirmation. "Exactly. The one who failed me." "Is it worth money or something?" Alex’s brow furrowed. "No, why would it be? She’s a shit artist and a shit teacher. I just don’t want her getting a big head, being displayed and all". As this dawned upon Carl, his eyes widened, boring into Alex. "Are you serious? I thought this was to pay our rent, dude!" His voice began to raise, and his hands began to fling around. "I thought we were going to be set!" Alex looked around, worried someone might hear him. "Calm down!" "Calm down?! Fuck this, they’ll give me money for the body in the mannequins, right? I’m going for the body!" Alex held up his finger again. "Hey, they have alarms in that exhibit. Don’t do that”. They stared into each other’s eyes, daring each other to make a move. Seconds passed, feeling like minutes. Carl’s knees were bent, ready to spring. Alex stood stoically, attempting to convey some sense of authority. Within what seemed like a millisecond, Carl went from a statue, looking into Alex’s soul, to sprinting the opposite direction, toward the gallows exhibit. "Shit!" Alex began to panic. No time to execute what they had planned, which was to use the pocketknife to cut the wall, taking the alarm with the painting. Surely it would have worked, but no. Alex’s fingers ripped the painting from the drywall anchor it was hung on, causing the sensor to start blaring an ear-bleeding screech. He turned about face and ran in Carl’s direction. His legs could never carry him fast enough. He entered the Local History exhibit just in time to see Carl launch himself at the hanging mannequin, grabbing firmly onto its torso. As his momentum continued his arc in the air, the rope tugged on the side of the hole of the flimsy fake gallows it was hung from. The entire structure began to lean. As Carl ran, it all collapsed, introducing another shrieking alarm to the symphony. He turned behind him to glance at the damage, and his gaze was met with broken plywood, cracked mannequins, and… bones. Carl froze, astounded that he was evidently correct. Then his scream joined the atmosphere of alarms. "Come on, we need to leave!" Alex darted past him. With the speed of a frightened gazelle, he bounded through halls, rounding a corner that led directly into the stinging pain of the clenched fist of a night guard. The alarms and moonlight faded. ~~~ Alex and Carl sat side by side, warming the cold concrete under them. Harsh white light illuminated the rest of the concrete cell. The only noise, besides their breathing, was the crunch of chips as the county jail warden reclined in his office chair. Alex’s newly black eye seared with pain, but he tried to distract himself mentally. Alex looks at Carl. "Can I ask you something? When we were in that coffin, did you use your phone light to look at your watch? "Yeah. Why?" "Your phone has the time on it." Carl thinks on this for a moment. "Oh." Alex shakes his head. "You are one goofy ass goober, dude."

gzccu9

Beauty in the Process

“The River Goddess in Sapphire. Beneath her sapphire veil, the river whispers secrets of timeless beauty. The painting that has taken the world by storm. It has captured the attention of every painter, art critic, and student of the fine arts and held it tightly in a vice grip for weeks now. Ever since its creation, people have lined up for days around the Aramondi Museum to catch a glimpse of the Goddess’. The newsboys are heralding it as a gift from the Gods, granted to humans so that they might bask in the light of true beauty in an ugly world. For that alone, I can think of no greater reason to steal it. Painted by one of the least likely painters, a veritable nobody, Liam Fastler. A vagabond scoundrel, who peddled his caricatures to tourists for coppers. Struck by what he calls divine inspiration, he claims the painting flowed through his brush onto the page. He claims to have locked himself in his home for days on end, without food or water and emerged with the painting. He has created a work of utter beauty that has turned the art world on its head and sent many would-be artists into spirals of depression, claiming they could never do something like what Liam has created. Now worth approximately 273,000 gold pieces, The River Goddess in Sapphires hangs at the Aramondi in the kingdom of Dressle, where it is frequented by the royal family of Dressle. King Alber himself has taken quite the shine to the painting, going so far as to bask in the Goddess’ beauty every day after the museum closes. Imagine how much he would pay to get it back. This job won’t be easy. The painting is guarded by a team of twelve at all hours of the day. Seven roam the halls of the Aramondi, each trained to be soldiers under the royal army. Their surveillance routes ensure that someone checks in on the Goddess every four minutes. That’s our window. The other five are positioned outside of the Aramondi on overwatch. They are all equipped with those new devices from the south that utilizes that explosive black powder, so their range and lethality are nothing to scoff at. On top of all that, the painting is large. Twenty feet high and six feet wide, I am amazed he painted something to such a scale. The Aramondi closes its doors to the public at dusk, as King Alber is usually the last visitor of the day. This operation will require pinpoint accuracy, synchronization down to the second, and a team of experts at what they do. For those reasons I have put together a crew. Only the best, the cream of the crop. Gordan Lloyd, marksman, code name Ice Breaker. He will be positioned behind the rooftop snipers and will systematically take them out once the mission starts, giving us our own overwatch as the mission progresses. Julie Voss, high-society aristocrat, codename Switch. Using her wealth and connections, she has already acquired a replica of the painting from a copycat and has arranged for it to be stationed inside a box in their storage under the museum along with a bunch of other throw away paintings. She is one of the museum’s benefactors so getting access to the basement storage is trivial, and she will ensure our entry point in the loading bay by unlocking the doors. Mike Halker, professional thief, codename Bagman. He will handle the actual cutting of the painting from the frame, and replacement with the copy. Doesn’t have to be perfect, just good enough for the guards to not notice for a few rotations. Garrett Willow, demolitions expert, codename Fuse. He will be our safety net in case our window of opportunity shrinks. Nothing grabs the attention of soldiers like an explosion. Franny Dart, professional stagecoach racer, codename Wheels. She will get us out of there for our clean getaway. And lastly me, Aniq Bazer, professional thief, codename Foreman. I will enter with Bagman and oversee the operation. If all goes to plan, that painting will be in the backseat of our stagecoach before the moon reaches its highest point. With that I only have one more thing to say, we ready to do this?” I said taking time to look every one of my cohorts in the eyes. They all looked back with bright eyes and confident smiles, nodding in unison. “Alright, remember your signals and let’s go get rich.” The sun was setting as we all took our positions around the museum. I could barely make out Ice Breaker as he slunk into the shadows of the alleyways between the building across the street. The snipers on the rooftop had already started making their rounds and took their overwatch positions. Down a few blocks away I could see the front end of Wheels and the stagecoach waiting at the corner, ready to drive in at the first sign of the signal. The last few patrons of the museum were starting to exit as a young tour guide was yelling, “Sorry everyone, closed for the day! We will open at sunrise! Feel free to come again and have a nice day!” Bagman nudged me, indicating it was time to move in. We pulled our dusty brown hoods over our heads to conceal our faces and walked around the block to the backside of the museum. After a quick hop over some fences, we were in the loading bay outside the museum. We took our positions, hiding behind some discarded boxes and a few storage houses, waiting for the first signal. After a few moments a small rock in my pouch began to softly vibrate. I reached in over some loose sections of rope and pulled out a green stone. As I held it in my hand, Ice Breakers gravelly voice came through, “Clear.” “Got it.” I replied back. I put the rock back in my pouch, as Bagman smirked, “Those stones turned out to be pretty useful. Tell Switch I would like a pair when this is done.” I nudged him forward, “What do I look like? Your secretary? Tell her yourself. Now, let’s move.” We made our way to the small staff entrance beside the docking area where carts could be loaded and unloaded. Bagman in front with me close behind. He pulled the handle and cursed, “Locked! Didn’t Switch say they would be unlocked?” he said in a quiet whisper. “Relax, she confirmed she unlocked them as she left. I guess an employee of the month went behind her and locked it back. That’s why I am with you. Besides it wouldn’t be a heist if things didn’t hit a snag.” I pulled out a lockpick and moved Bagman out of the way. “How are you a professional without lockpicking skills?” I asked Bagman mockingly. “I specialize in other areas of thievery.” He retorted back. I managed to get the lock open, and we proceeded inside. The loading bay led directly down to the storage rooms under the museum. Boxes upon boxes were piled high to the ceiling, carefully arranged and positioned to take up the least amount of space possible on their massive shelves. Scattered around were the oblong pieces, either too large or too misshapen to be placed inside boxes. “Another snag it seems.” Bagman said as he gazed upon the mountain of artifacts and boxes. I didn’t know what he meant until I looked closer at the boxes. “Yeah, none of them are labeled.” I said with a sigh. “Did Switch say where the box would be?” Bagman asked. “No, just that it was labeled ‘tapestries from the far east.’” Bagman sighed, “Classic rich folk. Giving us an inch and expecting a mile.” I snapped at Bagman, “Enough, she is risking just as much as we are.” Bagman snickered, “Yeah, because if we get caught she is the first person I am ratting on. Let’s just see if we can’t find it.” My blood boiled with anxiety at the thought of us getting caught. It had actually never crossed my mind before right now. I had pulled hundreds of heists before, but with our window shrinking the pressure was mounting. “We aren’t getting caught.” I whispered to Bagman, but really to reassure myself. After a couple minutes of skulking around the storage area our time was starting to run short. “Why don’t we get Fuse to start the distraction. Buy us more time to look.” Bagman whispered. “We only get one distraction, and I don’t want to waste it in case something worse happens.” I whispered back. Suddenly, the glint of metal caught my eye, as a steel plate was reflecting some of the light from outside. The plate was screwed into a box in the corner on the floor and was engraved ‘tapestries from the far east.’ I motioned to Bagman. He smiled and said, “An engraving on metal to mark the box? Couldn’t she have just carved into the wood or something?” I chuckled, “Nothing like an aristocrat to spare no expense.” We got to work opening the box and looking for the replica. She had placed a number of decoy tapestries on top to get past any cursory glances from the staff, but buried underneath was the copy. Rolled up like a large carpet, Bagman hoisted the copy on his shoulders, and we made our way to the stairs. We opened the door to the main museum floor and peaked around the entryway before going in, trying to get a sense of where the guards were in their rounds. No one was in sight. Bagman and I spent hours memorizing their paths, someone should be around. Bagman noticed as well and tapped me on the shoulder. He put the rolled-up copy next to me and ventured out to get a better view. His footsteps were light for someone so burly. He managed to make his way across the main floor and peered around a corner wall. I pulled out a blue stone from my pouch and whispered into it, “Bagman what do you see.” I could see Bagman fumbling around in his many pockets trying to find the stone until he finally managed to grasp it. “Another snag. Leave the copy and come here.” I propped the copy up and snuck over to his position. As I peered around I saw all seven guards that were supposed to be on duty gathered around in a circle chatting away. “Why aren’t they on patrol?” I asked Bagman, who simply shrugged. The guards were laughing and joking, gathered around the reception desk like a bunch of children on a field trip waiting to actually enter the museum once their chaperone gave them the go ahead. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a green stone, “Ice Breaker, come in. Is there anything unusual happening outside?” I waited for the response as Bagman kept a careful eye on the pack of guards. A few seconds later the green stone vibrated and Ice Breakers gravelly voice came through in a low whisper, “Alber’s carriage is still out front. No sign of Alber.” Bagman and I shared a confused look. The sun had completely set.  Bagman whispered, “This is way past his usual time Foreman.” I put the green stone up to my mouth again, “Got it”, as I shoved it back in my pocket. “Why was he still here? What is going on?” I thought to myself as the pressure continued weighing down on me. I could feel my mind plotting out the worst scenarios, clouding my judgement. Instead of focusing on the task at hand my mind rushed to thoughts of failure. I slapped myself to gain control again and looked to Bagman, “How many guards are in the circle?” He started counting with his fingers, “Looks like all seven.” I nodded, “Good, let’s leave them and go for the Goddess.” “But what about Alber?” Bagman said tiptoeing back to the fake painting we stashed. I pulled out a red stone and whispered, “Fuse. Light it up.” After a couple seconds the stone whispered back, “Finally.” Bagman and I made our way through a couple of the exhibits and finally to the display hall of the Goddess. There we finally saw her in all her glory. A soft hair maiden clad in white silks, bathing in the deepest of blues. A river ran through her feet as she poured an ornate golden pot of sapphires into the same river. I had to nudge Bagman to get him to take his eyes off of her. But as we looked down towards the floor, my heart sank. King Alber himself was sitting on the floor weeping into his hands. Dressed in his royal garb of jewels and puffy silks, he laid his crown and royal cane on the floor. His voice boomed as he put his grief into words. “Oh Goddess, curse you, curse you and your beauty. You have filled my mind with the image of what could be instead of what I have. Your visage is unattainable in these human forms. No one in my kingdom comes close to your beauty, not even my wife. I love my wife dearly, but since your face has shown itself to me, it is all I think about. Why can I not look away from you? Why must your beauty shine brighter than the sun? Why do you torment me so?” King Alber said as he went back to sulking. Bagman looked to me for our next move. “I mean, I get it. Honestly, feel kind of bad for him.” Bagman said glancing up at the Goddess again. “It is just a painting Bagman, quit being so sentimental. We need to get him away from her.” Suddenly a small rumble reverberated throughout the museum. “Perfect timing Fuse.” I said as I could hear the footsteps of the guards echoing down the hall. The footsteps grew quieter as they were heading the opposite direction, but the king did not move. He simply continued weeping. “Foreman? He isn’t moving. What now?” Bagman said growing anxious. Different scenarios flashed into my head all at once. Throwing one of the speaker stones and talking in it as a distraction. Pretending to be a guard and lying saying we need to leave for his own safety. Us getting caught. Eventually I just said, “Screw it. Here is our window. Pull the hood over your head and cover your face. When I go in, immediately get to work getting the painting. Got it?” Bagman nodded and readied himself to move. I covered my face with the hood and rushed in, pulling out the small section of rope from my pouch. My footsteps caught the king by surprise as I rammed my shoulder into him, tackling him to the ground. I managed to get on his back and began tying his hands. His screams of protest followed by “GUARDS! GUARDS!” rang throughout the museum. By the time I finished tying and looked up, Bagman was already at the top of the painting standing on pitons he had jammed into the wall. “Wow, he does specialize in other areas.” I said to myself. Eventually I heard the ripping of canvas as Bagman was cutting the painting from the frame. He managed to slide with the cut of his knife, bringing him back down to the floor. As I started rolling up the painting he started going for the fake copy. “Stop, we don’t need that anymore, our cover is blown.” He dropped it and began helping me roll. I reached into my pouch and pulled out a yellow stone and yelled into it, “Wheels! We need extraction now. We have the Goddess.” Wheels responded immediately, “Understood.” Bagman hoisted the Goddess onto his shoulders and started running back to the staircase to the loading bay. I ran after him but looked back at King Alber on the floor. His words finally reached my ears as I had been shutting him out to focus on the mission. “No! Please, don’t take her! Don’t take her from me!” His eyes were flooded with tears as he watched Bagman abscond with the painting around a corner. I felt a twinge of sadness fall over me, but I pushed it away and followed Bagman. We made our way down the stairs and out the doors to the loading bay. Bagman hoisted the painting over the outer layer of fences, where Wheels was waiting for us. As I hopped over the fence I could here Bagman yelling, “Come on, let’s go!” I jumped into the back with the painting and Wheels whipped the reins, escaping the scene with the goods in hand. As we got further and further away from the Aramondi, Bagman was already celebrating and recounting our exploits to Wheels. “…and then this guy tackled the freaking King! Wouldn’t be surprised if he is on a wanted poster by morning.” Wheels looked back at me and said mockingly, “So, all according to plan?” I unfurled the painting a little see the top portion of the Goddess’ head and smiled, “Not really, but therein lies the beauty in the process.”     

rja8sk

Favors and Promises

I refuse to give her more power over me than she already has by admitting she was the one who drove me crazy. I had always been insane and had always been bound to lose all sense of reality the way a wet painting or an uncapped marker were bound to go dry. She just happened to be the one who wrenched it out of me to present to the whole world, like a magician showing his audience - which really wasn’t all that surprised - the dove he had just pulled out of his hat. … I wanted the job because I loved art above everything else and I got the job for that same reason. I had always had a deep affection for it (my mother liked to tell and retell the story when I asked to have my birthday party at The Metropolitan Museum of Art instead of the zoo or arcade like the other boys my age had wanted). I liked to lose all sense of the world by looking at it alone. When I was with another person they always interrupted my train of thought with a stupid comment “I think Van Gogh was nearsighted because stars don’t look like that.” or question, “I’m hungry, are you hungry?” Even when I wasn’t with someone, other people in the museum, talking or laughing too loud, aggravated me. So when I was given the chance to be the night watch of the old Victorian Museum after the former guy on the job quit all the sudden of course I took the position, excited by the idea of gazing, undistracted except by the wind, at masterpieces under the lonely blanket of night, for hours, At first when I wasn’t aware of the critical danger I was constantly in at the place, the museum never scared me, it just put me in a sort of nervous unease. A kind all too similar to when I would play ghosts in the graveyard with my brother during the moment right before he jumped out from behind the couch or from under the table screaming, “Boo!” and “Ha! Got yu’ Archie!” It was just that sort of place though, one simply expected something to pop out of the corner and to be chased throughout the cold dry air of the seemingly-endless halls while the paintings watched you with unwavering, uncaring eyes. Nothing ever did pop out of course, but that was a petty terror compared to the truth. I had been working as night security for a couple months before something worth mentioning happened. I was walking down the hall, clearing my throat every so often as to warn any monsters that lurked within the walls not to come out or else… (or else what, I’d hit them with my little flashlight or delicate radio?) when I heard a sound in front of me a bit similar to cloth rubbing together or maybe even a whisper. I stopped and listened hard but the sound didn’t come again and I continued moving. As if the universe had noticed me not paying attention to it, instantly there was a crash and then a man’s yell. I began to run towards it, ignoring my fear.  When I got there, someone was in the room with the dinosaur bones, attempting to make his way to the exit. I called for him to stop, and surprisingly, he did. For half a second, I marveled at this new power I had just by wearing a name tag that read Archie - Security and then shook off the feeling and tried to pretend I wasn’t flabbergasted at all. He turned around very slowly and I saw him relax when he saw me as if he was expecting something else. I approached him, and realized how much bigger I was compared to him. I almost smiled. He looked like he was about to dart so I grabbed his shoulder as soon as I could reach it and drowned in the feeling of authority that was now mine, then I noticed the painting in his hands and he rushed to hide it from view. I had seen the painting he was holding before, something made by Alfred Stevens of a little Victorian girl in a nightgown. It was a beautiful piece, and anyone in their right mind would know it from the plumpness of the girl's lips, the shadows and highlights on her dress, a beautiful flush of childish red on her ears and arms and the scarlet of her little red necktie but the only problem was her horrific eyes that ruined the entire picture. One was as perfect as the rest of the painting, an endless brown I was sure the visitors found themselves drowning in constantly, but the other was all wrong. It looked like she was suffering from a kind of chronic pink eye or some other illness that made one of her eyes too big and bright red. Other than that and despite her almost pitch-black background she looked like a rich man’s kid who would be flaunted around a party and introduced to all the guests as, “Hello, this is my little girl Mari Williams!” Stevens had probably simply been too lazy to paint the rest of the party. I held out my other hand, feeling awfully plestent in my jurisdiction over him, “Why don’t you give that back sir.” He cowered, reminding me of the painting on the second floor of the golem-like creature. “Just let me take it.” His eyes darted widely at the surroundings, differing greatly from the ever-still eyes of the paintings in the other rooms, like either of us should've been afraid of a couple canvases with only well-layered paint to distinguish them from one another. He lowered his voice to a whisper and calmed his timid-rabbit eyes long enough for them to meet mine. “I promise I’m doing you a favor.” My arm was getting tired from holding it in the same place for so long but I refused to show it and gingerly took the painting from his hands. He didn’t protest but still looked like he was about to vomit. “Yeah right, this is gonna stay right here,” I said, gesturing to the girl but I wasn’t as sure of that as my voice sounded. … After I put the painting back in its place on the wall with the others I stepped back to look at it. From afar it seemed like she was caught right at the moment when she reached up to play with her necktie but if you looked closely you realized that it wasn’t a tie she was holding, but a knife too deep in her chest to be seen from behind her pale hand. The thing upon her chest was too red to be an innocent tie as Alfred had intended it to be. I stepped forward to get a better look and it became a necktie like before. I shook myself and looked at it and it became blood again. I stepped back and it became a tie all over again but I didn’t bother to continue with this routine of stepping, now I knew Stevens, and knew the tie was just something he used to conceal onlookers from the horrific truth. Maybe that was also why that one eye was red, she was too astonished at the subject of death that was coming presently for her to hide it in both eyes. This was probably also why one noticed a little cornflower behind her back, a simple but crucial part of the piece that couldn’t mean anything less except that she was preparing for her own funeral. My eyes moved up to her face and I realized that her cheeks and ears were red, not from life - something that was leaving at least one of her eyes all too quickly - but from being forced to do something. I squinted and raised my flashlight, half-expecting her to flinch away from the glare, but instead she stared forward right into it. To the left of her was a sliver of orange-ish light, likely from a crack between a door and a doorway and at the left side of the canvas, incongruent to the black room behind her, there was a blotch of barely visible green-yellow gleam. It reminded me of when, as children, my mother, inside of the house, looked at my brother and I playing in the backyard and sometimes even smiled. Understandment hit me like a bullet train, Steven had forced this poor little girl into a dark room, (hence the bit of orange light escaping from the place where the guests at the party hadn’t yet noticed her absence) given her a knife and simple instructions, and went outside to sketch her while looking through the window into the room where she was standing, scared as death. I could almost see it, Steven all professional-like sitting in a chair, ever-green trees behind him, glancing up every so often through the glass to get the lines of the face, the round flawless arm, the poof of the dress, and, most importantly the specific color of red, on the dying girl. It made me hate Stevens, how could he sit down and paint the near-dead girl rather than helping her? But how was I any better, staring at this now-dead girl like an animal at the zoo, while she couldn’t do anything more than stare back at me before I got bored and moved on. … Following the night the man broke into the museum, I became infatuated with the painting. I spent hours at a time not doing my job and just looking at it, and even when I was looking and looking at it and getting lost inside all of its terrifying beauty, I still wished I was drowning in its depths as if I wasn’t really looking at it at all. I was obsessed with it and repeatedly found myself asking Stevens unanswered questions; “Was that bit of brown behind her head just her hair, or a rope binding her to the ground?”, “Did you make her eye like that on purpose or was it a mistake and I was overthinking it all?” , “Was the flower in her hand dying with her, a bit like I was?” Sometimes I would be so attentive in the painting that I would think I was hearing things. It was always nothing more than one echoing giggle or childish whisper, but nevertheless it always left my heart racing and me rushing to get out of the room as if she had anything to do with the noise. After a couple of days of doing not much more than looking at the painting or wishing I was looking at it, I became accustomed to the oddities of the piece and even the noises I heard while looking at it. One clear breathless night, I was falling into its abyss and forgetting myself to another idea of the truth about the painting that was worse than the one before which was worse than the one before that one. On that specific night, I, or she, or the universe decided she must look outstandingly gorgeous for no good reason at all, but not anything like the angel I had once imagined her as - no, alluring in the way the devil was imagined to be - forbiddingly so. For the first time I saw the dreadful eye for what it was, not a virus-ridden thing that I was sad to know would eventually take over her whole body, but as the only demon part of her that she couldn’t manage to cover up with her innocent-girl costume because of how evil it was. My mother had once said the eye is the window into the soul and I am still haunted by the soul I found on that ink-black night behind her right eye. On that specific night she was awfully pale in the full moon’s light which was pushing its way through the massive windows behind me and it made every feature on her, from her lips to the tips of her fingers, seem blue and cold. It caused the painting to look as if the little demon-girl was caught inside some kind of ice cage and the glare in the left was not from the trees she was looking at through a window at, but a reflection of the plants on her frozen cell. Something told me she was meant to be stuck there for the rest of forever and it caused me to dread the moment she might escape from her frozen world, into mine. As always the giggle that tormented me during the last couple days came back but not from in front of me as per usual, but behind me. I ignored it and didn’t break my gaze on the painting, until it came again, louder and I turned around, not sure what I was expecting. There was nothing there. The laugh came a second time from where I had been facing before. I whirled around, fear beginning to rise from its resting place in the pit of my stomach. There was nothing there. The laugh came again from where I had just turned from, I turned as the terror, drowsy from sleep, crawled up into my throat. There was nothing there and over and over again the laugh came from the direction I had just turned from as if an invisible someone was making circles around me like a stalking tiger. Over time the laugh grew more and more shrill and jubilant as if the invisible figure found immense pleasure in disturbing me. The laugh rang out into the emptiness for the last time, louder than ever and I turned back to the wall where the painting hung very slowly this time. There was someone there. My shadow blocked the moonlight, preventing me from being able to see the features on her face but even in the darkness I could tell that she was a little girl in a white dress. I gaped at her, too surprised to raise my flashlight and see her face. When my adrenaline had calmed from telling myself it was just a simple girl and I had nothing to worry about, I spoke. “W-What are you doing here,” I glanced behind me, just to make sure she wasn’t distracting me from a terrible something. “Who are you? How did you get in here?” She didn’t say anything, she didn’t have to, she just raised a pale hand that had once held a knife to the painting I had been too obsessed with for too long - a mistake I will regret for the rest of my short eternity - and pointed. That was when I ran and ran because I was afraid for my life and everything else in the world there was to be afraid of. … When she raised her hand the painting was empty, not completely empty, there was still the light in the left and the right the dust from old age, but it was missing the one, crucial, horrific, concept - the girl. Who of which I never did find out was either a murderer unto herself, a demon or just a normal girl, and in her place an impossible darkness that terrified even the monsters who lurked whiten it. I quit immediately after that night and only came back to the museum once to finish the job that I hadn’t had to sign any contracts or be a part of any interview to become involved in. I brought only two things, my notebook of useless papers that I had once used to write my ideas of what paintings ment in, and a lighter. I could do it right after I got out of the museum. Hell - I’d do it in the place and burn the rest of the paintings just for being anywhere near that terrible, terrible girl. And as all their dreadful, unyielding eyes crumbled into ash and all their pale faces turned a charred black in the ocean of red and orange and yellow she could be burnt alive before she could escape from her icy captivity ever again. They had already hired a new night watch but I knew the place well enough to be able to stay quiet. I made my way through the dark, my heart beating so hard I was afraid he might be able to hear it over the museum's silence. When I got to its place, I gingerly took the painting in my hands without daring to look at it ever again. I was so, so close to the exit, when I saw the new night watch standing in front of me as if he had appeared there just as she did a couple nights before. He held out his hand and I shrunk from the looming figure. I tried to move but he caught me by the shoulder. “Why don’t you give that back.” He said it in the way I knew it wasn’t a question at all so I resorted to begging, in futile attempts to try to save him from the fate I and so many others before me had endured. “Just let me take it.” I tried to escape him but his grip tightened on my shoulder, my heart screamed to get away but to no avail. I looked up into his unmoving eyes and felt a pang of pity for the man. “I promise I’m doing you a favor."

zeuxje

No Name Museum

“I always thought that museum in the weird little building at the end of Harrison Street was odd, more than unusual, but it displayed incredible art. Masters all. I told my friends about it constantly but they could never find it.  That used to make me so angry. I would rant and rave, jump up and down, wave my arms and beat my chest, but I would not take them there. It was ridiculous. They should just drive right to it and they were running a con on me. Hell with them.” Monet, DaVinci, Manet, van Gogh, Rembrandt, Gaugin, Picasso, Dali, Matisse and many more. I would bore you with all the names, but they were all there. Even Georgia O’Keefe. Well, especially Georgia O’Keefe. Kelly Mondale was a huge fan of this non-descript museum that only she seemed to know about. I haven’t seen her for long time but she used to be such a fun person. “Gods, bods, I used to spend two hours just looking at four paintings. Frankly, it was the limit of what I could handle. You start out glancing at a van Gogh, then you look a little closer, then you start combing the canvas, then you get captivated by one thing, then another thing, and at least half an hour has whizzed by. Grief!! I love every second of it.” “I would get home and immediately start sending texts and email about my latest visit to the No-Name museum. That was true. I could find a name on the building or the door. The door was fascinating. It looked like the big entrance way to a 12 th  century castle (another reason why I couldn’t believe nobody could knew of it. The door was oversized for the building but it was spectacular. The door. Come to think of it, I couldn’t describe it but I can drive right to it and it’s always there.” Christine got a nasty gram back from Jane. “Jane was always kind of bitchy anyway, but tonight she came down really hard on me. Besides suggesting someplace I might go she also demanded, yes, demanded that I seek professional help. Run, don’t walk to the nearest shrink.” Her friend, Jerry, had a few unkind words as well. He made it clear that she had just gone too far with her “gag” and that it was beyond funny. “Well, it never was funny. He also had some ideas about where she could go and one of them was his bed. He thought that a little, maybe a lot of rousing sex with Jerry was just what she needed to abate her female disturbance. “Very kind, Jerry.” Of course, her ex, Jonathan, had to launch into an interminable lecture. Weighing in on all her faults, fantasies, failings ridiculous opinions. He also wound up his missive with the thought of some roaring, passionate sex which might be good therapy for him. “These guys, all so thoughtful.” Both of those guys, and Jane, questioned the wisdom of continuing her job, her profession, at Apple as a graphic artist. She was the top artist in her department and managed all the game graphics. She was not just good at it, She was blessed with exceptional talent. Being at Apple, she worked very long hours. Apple was supposed to be such a humane, enlightened place to work, but a 60 hour week was normal for her and most of the people who worked for her and with her. Enough she thought. “I am going to have a glass of cabernet and then head down to the museum” She did just that, parking her Fiat about a block away and walking to the massive door. As always, she was very impressed but could not find a name. Christine walked inside and immediately encountered a new Gaugin. She was thrilled. The museum was so quiet and peaceful. Such a relief from the hectic day at Apple. As she studied “A Study of a Nude,” she thought she heard some men’s voices engage in a rather heated discussion She made out a few words like “pointillism,” “Schuffenecter,” “Cezanne,” and “The Markets of Vaugirard,” but they were indistinct and she was surprised. The museum has always been so quiet. She turned from the painting and started down the hallway towards the voices which were getting louder. “My,” she thought. Then, she heard things like “Metter and Marie and Pont-Aven. “Merde” came a screech. “My God that looks like Vincent and the other guy must be Paul. Did they just step out of the ‘Bedroom in Arles?’” “Look Paul, I saw her first, she’s mine.” “No, no, no Vinny. My firstie. She isn’t going to like your red beard and your sliced up ear. Besides, if I bed her first, she will be all warmed up for you. You know, this is an interesting place. That looks like some sill thing by Monet over there. Look! It’s all Claude.” “By the way Paul, did you bring the wine? “That shook me a bit,” thought Christine. “Those two guys looked real and I swear they stepped out of that painting. Who’s this woman they are talking about?” Christine was extremely shaken. It became quite obvious that Vincent and Paul were talking about her as there was no one else in the museum. Plus, she finally noticed how quiet it was in the museum, dead quiet. That was one of the things that always attracted her to it. Now it was mortifyingly scary. She walked around the corner from Paul and Vincent. “Well, bonjour! Said Euoard. “Or maybe ‘hello.’ Yes?” The shock was powerful. “Who is this guy?” “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Edouard Manet and I am a painter. You may be aware of “The Dead Christ with Angels? Ne pas? Oh, and this is my friend Atonin Proust, no relation to that bore Marcel. And, you are?” Manet and Proust wore big smiles. Proust said, “Mademoiselle, I understand you are tonight’s treat. Wonderful. You are quite desirable. I am sure all will be pleased,” he said with even a bigger smirk on his face. With a very loud scream, Christine ran around both of them, down the hall and turned the corner. There she a saw a man dressed in strange clothes, stranger at least than the other men, passionately kissing a nude woman. As she watched, the woman pulled down the man’s pants and gripped his very erect penis. The woman turned and smiled at Christine. “I call him Harm, but most people call him Rembrandt,” and she slid his cock into her vagina. She let out a deep moan and Rembrandt shouted,”Aaah!” As Rembrandt was slightly humping her, between gasps, she turned to Christian and exclaimed. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your turn.” Screaming again, she ran around the coupling couple and smack into de Goya. ”Oh, thank you. I never get firsties. I am so aroused and I apologize in advance for being crude.” He threw Christine to the floor and start tearing off her clothes with absolutely no finesse. Just then, Proust and Monet rounded the corner. “C’mon Francisco. You are too old and ugly. I am sure you just climbed out of that hideous “Yard with Lunatics. I am sure that you are one of the people in the yard,” exclaimed Proust. “Shut up, Atonin. I am taking her now. I deserve a little pleasure and I am about to get it,” he shouted as he pulled his pants down and off. “Disgusting,” moaned Christine, on the verge of hysteria. “Wait. Goya’s right,” yelled Manet. “His paintings are grotesque, but he deserves a place here and he has never had firsties. She is really fighting back. Proust, you grab her arms, Claude, you take her left leg, I’ll grab the right. I’m next,” and he dropped his pants. Paul was standing over her with an enormous grin on his face. Beyond her violent screams, heavy sobbing, lying naked on the floor with de Goya lowering himself on her, Christine became aware of another sound. It was like a pounding on a door. It was incessant and getting louder and louder. She opened her eyes. It was her door and it was Sherry, her downstairs neighbor. “Christine, let me in. Are you all right. Open up!!!” Christine struggled out of bed and stumbled to the door. She opened the door and wrapped herself around a shocked Sherry. “Oh my god, Sherry,” and Christine was bawling as hard as she ever had in her life. “Let’s go in and have a cup of tea” said Sherry, holding Christine close.” The next day, Christine took a Lyft to Cupertino. She was early and there was nobody in the Human Resources department but she didn’t mind. She could wait.

uibbyu

Swept Away by the Fine Arts

“Dad, this is the girl of my dreams. I’m sorry, but I’m not taking her to Crusty’s. No matter how good the chilly dogs are.” I may not be the most experienced guy when it comes to romance, but I know that there are certain places you should never bring a girl on a first date: McDonalds (obviously), monster truck rallies, your parent’s house (or any relative’s), and any establishment that sells food and gasoline under one roof. Crusty’s may be a local legacy—rumor has it President Roosevelt once stopped in and bought a corn dog—but it’s the poster child for unromantic eateries . They may have the best burgers in town, but it’s one of those places you don’t intentionally go: you just kind of wind up there when you need gas and then end up walking out with a plate of fried chicken and a sausage biscuit. I love Crusty’s—we all do—but tonight has to be perfect . Dad unmuted the History Channel and I continued scrolling through local restaurant reviews. “This looks like a good one. Marabella’s. It’s downtown, a bit more upscale, and it has great reviews.” Dad slipped his glasses down to peek at the picture on the screen. “And” I added, “it’s right around the corner from the movie theater. Dinner and a movie. That’s good, right? It has to be good.” Dad sat up in his chair and lifted a finger like he was having an epiphany. “The girl of your dreams, you say? I’ve got an even better idea than the movies.” He pulled something from his back pocket and held it out. “Now listen, Paul. If you screw anything up, it could cost me my job.” He handed me a thick, scratched-up card that said “Caroway Art Museum” on the front and “Employee Access Card” on the back along with Dad’s picture and his name, William Anderson. “The art museum? But they close at five.” “Not for my boy and the girl of his dreams.” Most people would probably say he was an idiot for giving a twenty-year-old, testosterone-inflated college kid access to the most prestigious cultural center in town, but I’m no bull-in-a-china-shop, meathead. I’m at the top of my class in my statistics program (sexy right?), the dungeon master at Friday night D&D, and I didn’t get my license until last year because, well, frankly, I’m terrified of driving. Forty-three thousand fatal crashes occur each year in just the US alone! Basically, I’m the last guy you have to worry about destroying an art museum. I took the access pass and clipped it to my shirt. “This is perfect, Dad.” I held out my fist and bumped it to his. “Kara is actually an art major. I think she’s taking a sculpting class right now.” Dad unmuted the History Channel and chuckled. “Then she’s going to love Conan.” *** “Close your eyes.” “I am!” Kara clutched my arm as we ascended the steps. “I’m going to trip, Paul.” “I won’t let you fall, trust me.” I swiped my Dad’s access card and pushed open the heavy glass side-door to the museum. A rush of cool air enveloped us, smelling like paper, pine-sol, and fresh paint. I flicked on a few lights and led Kara to the front entrance where “Caroway Art Museum” was displayed in bold, gold print above the arched walkway. “Okay. Open them.” Kara blinked, letting her eyes adjust. “Oh my.” Below the sign, gracing the grand entryway, loomed a large statue of a nude man wrestling a leopard. They were both carved in exquisite detail, every rippling muscle and bulging vein visible in their battle for survival. “That’s a big penis,” she said. I’d always questioned the placement of Conan (as most people jokingly called him). Maybe the curators thought if visitors saw Conan first, they’d assume the rest of the place was equally as exciting. Or maybe they thought of it like ripping off the shock-value Band-aid, like “hey everyone, now you’ve seen a giant, marble dick. Don’t worry, that’s the worst of it.” Either way, Conan made it into most of the tagged pictures of the museum on social media. “Come on.” I tugged Kara’s hand, leading her down the wide hall. “We’ve got the whole place to ourselves.” *** We strolled through the post-modern exhibit first, where I showed Kara a structure made from stacked metal blocks. “They didn’t use to be soldered together like this.” I pointed out where the blocks had been fused together. “Apparently, my Dad brought me to work with him when I was maybe two or three, and I climbed up here and knocked the whole thing down.” Kara giggled and I decided her laugh was my new favorite sound. In the Baroque exhibit, I pointed out one of my favorite pieces—it wasn’t anything all that special, it just made me laugh. In the ornately framed painting, a woman with a strikingly large forehead and a tent-like dress held a duck by one foot, while behind her, an obese baby was riding a bony dog around the sparsely furnished room. The woman’s eyes were bored, tired slits of non-descript brown, but the dog had a terrified expression on its narrow face, and the whites of its eyes drowned its tiny black pupils. We stopped in front of it and stood in silence for a moment. Then Kara spoke, lowering her voice into an accented monotone. “Persius, how many times do I have to tell you to get off the damned dog. You know she has arthritis.” I joined her game, stretching my vocal cords taut, squealing like a cartoon pig. “But Ma, she’s my emotional support terrier. I simply must be physically close to her or else how will I regulate my turbulent feelings?” We burst into laughter and started toward the next painting. “Don’t let the corpulent infant deceive you,” a voice said. “He is actually a grown man.” Kara and I both jumped, colliding with one another. We turned around, but there was no one behind us. Something wavered in my peripherals. I glanced at the painting. Then the big-foreheaded woman pivoted, her face protruding from the canvas. Kara shrieked. I lurched backward and tripped over her shoe. “Yes, yes, a talking painting, how disturbing. Are you quite through with your hysterics?” Forehead said. What is happening? Did I eat some bad alfredo? Was this some kind of carbohydrate-induced hallucination? Is that even a thing? The woman’s eyes widened, and she leaned out even further. “Are you both deaf? Or just dumb.” “Sorry,” I mumbled to Forehead. “You just surprised us is all.” Kara gave me the side-eye and spoke through clenched teeth. “Why are you talking to it?” “ It can hear you,” Forehead says. “I may have diminutive ears, but they work perfectly well.” “Sorry,” Kara mumbled. “You, boy.” The woman leaned all the way out of the painting and stopped inches from my face. She fingered the access card clipped to my shirt. “You're not Bill.” She called him Bill . Not William. She knows my father? I struggled to my feet and gripped Kara’s arm. “Bill is my dad.” “Ah, yes. I can see the resemblance.” She leaned back into her painting and picked up the dead duck, suddenly appearing much less intimidating.  Kara looked at me, eyebrows raised. I felt like I was trapped in the tail end of a lucid dream, standing at a crossroads: part of me wanted to get as far away from this painting as possible and the other part wanted to explore this statistically impossible phenomenon. “So. You were saying,” I cleared my throat, “that the baby in the painting is a man ?” “Oh, yes. Dimitri, my husband.” We waited for her to continue. The overhead lights hummed faintly, like a distant swarm of gnats. “May I ask, why is he a baby?” I said. Forehead began plucking feathers from the duck’s thigh. “Because he behaves as an infant: throwing tantrums over land disputes, overindulging in drink and sweets, and lying about while the property falls to ruin.” She slammed the duck on the table. “All he does is mope and whine about every little thing—so I depicted him as a pitiful, fat baby.” “ You painted this?” Kara asked. “She shows signs of intelligence,” Forehead said to me. “ Yes , I painted this. I felt like I was always painting images of everyone else—the children, my nit-wit husband, the dog; I have far too many paintings of the dog—but no one ever painted me . So, I took it upon myself to capture my own likeness. What do you think…girl?” Forehead turned to Kara, then to me again. “Oh, this is Kara. She’s my…friend.” “I see. And what do you think of my work, Kara ?” Kara chewed her lip. Oh no. She’s freaked out. She’s going to run away and delete my number for sure. My shot with her is definitely blown. First and last date with the girl of my dreams. “It’s, well, a bit depressing.” Now I was the one giving her the side-eye. “The whole left half of the room is shrouded in shadow, and it makes the house seem claustrophobic and uninviting.” She pointed in demonstration. “There’s a dish here with a crack in it, and you’ve painted all the furniture with this spiny, spindly sort of look. It’s all very sickly, like the wood is shriveling up.”  I braced myself for a tongue-lashing from Forehead—something about how we were dumb and rude. But she only continued plucking her duck. “Go on.” Kara cleared her throat. “The whole piece imparts a sense of deterioration and malaise. I don’t quite understand the dog, though. Why is it so scrawny? And why is the baby… I mean, your husband, draped over it like that?” “She’s a clever one, your Kara.” Forehead said tapping her large, sloping skull. “The dog represents our land. It’s sick. Dying. Useless. And my husband is a leech upon it, sapping what little life it still has to give.” She laid the plucked duck on the rugged table and reached for a butcher’s knife. “He’s a better gambler than he is a farmer. And that’s saying something, given he lost fifty acres in a game of whist.” Whack. The duck’s head rolled to the floor. Kara and I jumped back a step. Just then a new voice called out. “Aye, you may have fooled these folks, but I know what a strapping lad your husband is. He’s no wee babe.” In the painting beside us, a man in a high-necked black robe stood holding a scalpel and hunching over a rough-hewn table. On the table lay a naked man, draped semi-modestly with a white sheet. The prostrate man began to shift, and a leg slipped out from under the sheet. The man sat up and leaned out of the painting. “And ye can’t deny he’s a charmer in the bed! I’ve seen all those snot-nosed bairns you’ve got running around. Aye, like rabbits the two of you.” He turned toward Forehead. “I can hear the bed frame creaking from all the way over here. Night after night.” The sheet slid off his lap and onto the floor. “Oh, shut up, Malcolm. Lie down.” Man in Black shoved him back onto the table. “Malcolm, for the love of St. Peter, cover up! I’ve seen enough of your dirty plum tree shaker to practically impregnate me. And poor Kara here is a fair young maiden who doesn’t need to be spoiled by the sight of you.” Forehead turned to Man in Black and waggled a finger toward Malcolm’s crotch. “While you’ve got him on the table, take your little knife and just cut the whole thing off, why don’t you? He’s a danger to womenkind.” Kara looked at me and we both began to back away from the painting. “Well, this has been a real pleasure, guys,” I said. “A night I’ll certainly never forget.” Just then the ground began to vibrate, and a deep voice boomed in the open space. “Did I hear there’s a fair maiden in danger?” The paintings softly clattered against the wall. Man in Black sighed, “Oh, here he comes.” Malcolm shot up again. “God, not this arsehole.” Man in Black pushed him back down. The footsteps grew louder. Someone turned the corner, and eight feet of perfectly sculpted marble male strode into the exhibit holding a limp leopard above his head, giving us all an unobstructed view of his impressive…abs. Conan. “What a specimen,” Forehead leaned onto her elbows, right in the duck blood pooling on her table. “I’d give fifty acres for him to plow my fields…if I still had fifty acres.” She winked at Kara. “What a loathsome oaf,” said Man in Black. Whatever he was, he was running straight toward Kara and glaring at me with cold gray eyes. I stepped in front of her, only to be knocked to the floor by a rock-solid dead leopard. Conan dove after Kara. “Put me down you jerk!” Kara screamed, fists beating against his back. He turned and ran deeper into the museum. “Yeah! Put her down!” I yelled, running after them. Voices pinged at me from the exhibits on either side of the hall. “He’s taking her to the roof!” “Run, boy, run!” And other exclamations I couldn’t translate. I panted, trying to keep up with his impossible stride. I was ten paces behind him when a woman darted in front of me. I dove to the side to avoid colliding with her, which I’m glad I did, being that she was crafted entirely of nails. Her rusty brown-gray body looked like metallic ground beef, the way the long iron nails were soldered together in wavy rows. There must have been thousands of them. “Are you alright, Sugar?” She leaned over and pulled me to my feet. “I wasn’t expecting to run into anyone at this hour.” My hand was bleeding from where hers had stabbed me. “It’s okay, but I really can’t chat. Conan—or whatever his name is—ran off with my date. He’s heading to the roof.” “Oh, that old dummy. Thinks he’s slicker than owl shit.” She wrapped her arm around my shoulder, trapping me beside her spiky metal breasts. “You just gotta learn to play his game.” “I don’t have time for games! I have to help Kara!” “Look at me, boy.” Metal Lady grabbed my face. “What’s your name?” “Paul.” “Okay, Paul. Here’s what you’re going to do: I need you to hit me.” “What?” “Hit me. Right now.” She tapped her steel cheek. “Give it a real good sucker punch.” “I’m not going to hit you. Look, he’s getting away! We don’t have time for this!” “Do you want to get Kara back or not? I said hit me!” “Ugh! This is the weirdest night ever!” I shut my eyes, reared back, and punched the metal sculpture in the face. She let out an ear-piercing wail. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I told you didn’t want to hit you.” Metal Lady winked at me. “That’s just for theatrics, Hun. Keep ‘em coming.” I peeked behind her and saw Conan had stopped running. He turned around, watching us. I got a running start and kicked Metal Lady right in the ribs. The impact reverberated up my whole leg. “Save me! Oh, someone save me from this monster!” Then to me, she whispered, “Now choke me.” “What? No! God, this is getting really out of control!” “Do it. Now!” I reached up and wrapped my hands around the sculpture’s neck. Conan zeroed in on me and began to sprint. “Unhand the lady!” he bellowed, shaking the room. He was nearly to me when he dropped Kara and lifted two balled fists. “Go. Now!” Metal Lady said. Then she shot out her arms and wrapped them around Conan’s bicep, intercepting his trajectory. “My hero!” “Paul!” Kara called, waving at me to follow her to the exit. We raced back through the halls together, cheered on by Forehead and Malcolm and Man in Black. Metal Lady’s buttery voice echoed after us. “Ya’ll come back and visit any time!” We pushed through the glass exit doors, chests heaving, and we collapsed in a heap by the hedges. The sounds of the city nightlife slowly cut through the fog of adrenaline. Car horns. Music. Airplanes. Traffic. Breathing. “Kara—I’m so sorry. I didn’t know that was going to—” “Paul, you're bleeding!” She reached for my hand. My knuckles were chewed and bloody. “You should get this looked at.” I laughed. “What do I say? ‘Hey, can you fix my hand? Yeah, I beat up a lady made of nails to save my girlfriend from a rampaging statue man.’” “Girlfriend?” Kara said. I froze. “That’s not what I…well, I didn’t mean...” Say something, you idiot . “If you want to be my girlfriend, I would love that. Like big time. But after tonight’s disaster, I would understand if you never wanted to see me again.” Kara held my mangled hand in hers. “Disaster? That was probably one of the best dates I’ve ever had. Definitely top five.” She winked at me. Her stomach growled then, loud and hollow. “I’m sorry. I was so nervous at dinner. I didn’t eat much.” “I noticed,” I said. “Let’s go get something. I’ll take you wherever you want.” “Ok,” she said, “there’s this really divey place across town that sounds kind of gross, but they have the best burgers. Ever been to Crusty’s?”

v1in20

The Price of Art

If the townsfolk of Jarth were paying any attention, they would have seen the cloaked stranger sitting in the corner of the small village’s inn. And if they were even slightly observant, they would have noticed a similarly garbed figure hanging about the crowded marketplace. But no one saw. No one knew. The night was cold. A slow persistent drizzle of rain dampened the little village. Every honest citizen was asleep in their homes. A flag hung limply from a pole in the town square. It featured a red hand clenched tightly into a fist behind a black background. In the gloom of the night, a pair of eyes watched and waited. The drenched form crouched under an overhang, trying to stay warm. Her hands reached up and pulled the cloak tighter around her body. She saw a dim flash from the building opposite the one she was leaning against. It was time. Rising from her crouched position, water rolled off her cloak. She let the cowl fall further down on her head, concealing her features. She crept from her hiding place, peering into the darkness. As she neared the building, she whispered the code, “Why did you choose the little horse?” A voice snickered, “because Tag trumps Knight.” She let out a sigh of relief and ducked into the shadows between the houses, shaking water off of her clothes intentionally spraying the mostly dry boy. His hiding place was much drier than hers. “Malachi, you are insufferable,” she joked. “That is why we are friends,” he retorted. Then in a more serious tone he motioned towards her. “Come on, let's talk in a safer area. I’ve got some things to tell you.” The two disappeared into the dark.  After a long, wet, cold hike through the nearby forest, they finally arrived at their temporary base - a small cave big enough to hold them and their two horses. A friendly whinny welcomed them into the cave. Two horses stood in the recesses of the culvert. One was tall and jet black with a long silky mane. The other was little. His coat was shaggy and chestnut brown and one white splotch covered half of his face like a cloud. “I’ll get a fire going, Kestrel,” Malachi whispered, walking over to the pile of dry firewood they had collected before heading into town. Kestrel nodded and removed some jerky from Knight’s saddle bag. Knight nuzzled Kestrel’s hand. She laughed, “Looking for food, are you?” The horse lowered his head. “Are you nodding at me?” Knight snorted. In half an hour the pair had a crackling blaze that set shadows dancing and expelled the doom and gloom of the rainy weather outside. Kestrel sat chewing on tough jerky while Malachi crunched on an apple. Tag and Knight noisily slurped up water and oats. Malachi sighed, “Rumors are flying. The whole of Jarth is chattering about the oppression of King Gavin. Nobody likes him, but they are afraid. They won’t rebel. His powers have them terrified. They say his castle is impossible to attack. What are we supposed to do?” Kestrel drummed her fingers on her leg, trying unsuccessfully to calm her nerves. “They’re just rumors. Most of the townsfolk have not been to the capital, much less seen Castle Malg themselves. They are just going off of what they have heard and their fear.” She hoped she sounded braver than she felt. They were just kids. Kestrel was fourteen and Malachi was not much older. Why were they picked for this mission which the hope of the rebellion rested on? “Remember our mission,” she continued. Malachi smirked, “Yes - our mission: Break into the castle that has never been defeated in the 200 years of its life. Infiltrate the secret holding place of the secret weapon, which no one knows what it looks like and is the only way to kill the immortal King who, by the way, supposedly has powerful magic. Then escape with the weapon and hopefully not be killed or worse, be captured. If we are captured, we will be tortured until we die. Yep, brilliant plan.” Kestrel rolled her eyes. “They never said it would be easy. You could have backed out. Why didn’t you?” Malachi ignored the question and sighed again, “Ok, tell me we have a better plan.” Silence reigned. Rain pattered, seeming to settle and calm as if sensing the tension in the little cave. Fire crackled and wavered. It’s beauty dangerous and inviting at the same time. It reminded Kestrel of the rebellion. They had named themselves Falcons, representing how the rebels would rise above the challenges and pain. Not all of the fight was battle and glory. Sometimes they failed; sometimes they had to desperately claw their way foot by foot, scrabbling to reach the top of an ever-growing mountain. Sometimes the fire of the fight and hope waned leaving the Falcons reeling. Now it all rested on the shoulders of two young teenagers, on the shoulders of Malachi and Kestrel. Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, Kestrel then cocked her head, “Did you hear anything else important?” Malachi’s spirits rose, “Yes - one of the men at the bar was a guard for the castle. He had a little too much rum and was spilling secrets he probably would be beheaded for if King Gavin knew he had said them.” Malachi paused dramatically. Kestrel leaned forward. “Tell me already!” “According to the guard there is something that the king is hiding jealousy. No one is allowed to enter the vault except Gavin himself, and he only goes in the early morning at the same time every day. Twenty soldiers guard it day and night.” Kestrel’s spine pricked. She felt like the air around her was on edge. Malachi continued, “He calls it his ‘art museum,’ but it is not hard to guess. Art is not what he is guarding.” Kestrel sucked in a breath. “That is it. The weapon has to be in there.” He nodded. She smiled. “I have an idea. While I was in the market, I overheard two girls about two years older than me talking about how the castle is hiring new servants.” Malachi stared at her. “You have got to be kidding. I am not going to be a slave to our greatest enemy!” Kestrel groaned. Why did he have to be so stubborn? “We would be in disguise. We are not actually his servants. Just think about it. No one pays any attention to people under their status, and we will have access to the whole castle without having to dodge soldiers. Also, we may not be allowed to see the museum, but it will be easier to sneak in.” “Fine,” Malachi growled. “But you get first watch tonight.” “Deal,” Kestrel agreed. Malachi rolled over and promptly fell asleep. Two months later Kestrel scrubbed at a sticky honey covered plate until the skin of her knuckles were raw and bleeding. She cursed under her breath. Why did King Gavin and his court have to be such messy eaters? Their plan had gone well. They had traveled to Castle Malg and had inquired about getting a job. Almost immediately they were hired. The castle constantly needed new servants because the smart people did not want to serve such an unpredictable and cruel lord. Kestrel was assigned to the kitchens and Malachi to the stables, but of course they also did other jobs - cleaning the dining hall, fetching water, serving the food, and one time, Kestrel was commanded to bring food to King Gavin himself. She could still remember the terror of placing the meal at his spot, head down. “He is going to know. He is going to see me.” Kestrel had trembled with a combination of fear and anger. She felt as if she could sense the evil and power coming off of him in waves, but he only shooed her away like a pesky fly. Now as Kestrel cleaned the disgustingly dirty dishes, she only felt contempt. Malachi had come back from a day of work with a dark bruise on his cheek and battered rips. A fellow stable boy had failed to tighten the saddle on an important commander’s horse. The commander went down in a dust cloud. Instead of accepting the blame, he had pointed his finger at Malachi. Malachi had taken a beating. It could have been worse. The head servant had threatened to whip him next time. Kestrel’s brooding thoughts were interrupted as she heard a loud bell clang. Relieved she set the clean dish on the rack and headed towards the door. It was break time. Kestrel joined the flood of servants rushing to the mess hall. Kestrel snagged two plates of food, one for Malachi and one for herself. She sat at an unoccupied table as Malachi plunked down next to her wincing with pain. “You ok?” She asked, concerned. “I’m fine,” he said with a small smile that grew larger as she placed the food in front of him. “Now I am magnificent.” Kestrel knew that Malachi was the one who suffered the most cruelty from his superiors, and she admired his perseverance. Malachi shoveled the stew into his mouth like it was going to run off his bowl. Kestrel laughed. It felt good to have something to be happy about. As they ate Kestrel noticed how thin Malachi had become and the bands of muscle that lined his arms. That had not been there before. Malachi finished in record time and looked around as if hoping that another bowl of stew would magically appear in front of him. It didn’t. Malachi turned serious and locked eyes with Kestrel. “I’ve gotten word from the Falcons. Tonight's the night.” Kestrel sucked in a breath. This was it. Tonight, they were going into the king’s art museum. Kestrel tried to quiet her breathing. Tucked in a culvert behind a large plant, she looked up and down the hallway searching for Malachi. Where was he? She had discarded the uncomfortable servant's garb and exchanged it for her old tunic, breaches, and cloak. Kestrel hated wearing dresses and was relieved to be back in her own clothes. Squeezing her dagger in a white knuckled grip, she scanned the empty hallway once again. Her dagger and Malachi’s short sword were a trick to smuggle in, but they had succeeded. Crouching behind the plant, Kestrel stared hoping that Malachi would come. “How long are we gonna sit here?” Kestrel whipped around pulling the dagger out of its sheath to see Malachi grinning from ear to ear. He had tucked himself into the same culvert behind a different plant. He too had donned his regular clothes, including his cloak. Kestrel muttered a stream of curses, “You know our life is in danger right now.” Malachi nodded, becoming serious. He pointed down the passageway. His message was obvious. “Let’s go.” Creeping along, barely making a sound, the two intruders slunk through Castle Malg like twin shadows. Malachi’s hand did not stray far from his short sword’s hilt. Rounding a corner they paused listening. During their time in the castle, they had both learned the location of the art museum from the servant’s gossip. They were close. Kestrel strained her ears. A loud guffaw erupted from behind the corner. They had made it. Now for the hard part. Malachi gave a shrug and a wink. Kestrel could plainly see he was still hurting but doggedly determined to press on. She folded herself into the shadows behind a statue of King Gavin. Ironically, she was protected by a representation of her greatest enemy. “Wish me luck.” Malachi smiled, and then he launched out of his hiding place. Shouts of alarm spread through the guards like wildfire. “Come at me bro!” he yelled and bowled a small spherical object into the chaos. One of the many advantages of being a secret resistance group was that the enemy had a hard time knowing what weapons the Falcons possessed. One of those weapons was a compact, round explosive. Malachi ran as the bomb exploded, and the concussive wave knocked him off his feet. Kestrel wanted to help him but knew she had to stick with the plan. Malachi stumbled to his feet and bolted back down the hallway. Fifteen of the twenty soldiers ran after him furiously. Three of them collapsed. They would not rise again. After a muttered prayer that Malachi would survive, Kestrel emerged out of her hiding place and sprinted to the now unguarded museum. Grabbing the handle, she pulled… and twisted…and turned. The door remained unmoved. Fear tore through her like a lightning bolt. “No no no no,” Kestrel cursed at herself. She should have thought of this before. The one person who entered the museum was King Gavin. When she had served him in the dining room she had seen a silver chain around his neck. Was that the key? She thought of her father. Both he and her mother had been killed by King Gavin. He had always said, “My dear Kessy, never give up, no matter what.” She closed her eyes on tears. Kestrel would not give up. She checked her pockets. One time she had been on a mission with Malachi and another boy named Max. Kestrel had picked the lock to get into a box of goods the Falcons needed. She could do that again. Her hand found what she wanted. Kestrel held up a small knife. She pulled a pin out of her braided hair. As her loose hair fell down her face, she stuck the knife firmly into the lock. With trembling fingers Kestrel slid the hair pin inside and wiggled it around. For a few terrifying seconds nothing happened. Kestrel heard a click. The door creaked open. She sighed, tension draining from her. Kestrel stepped into the forbidden art museum. Torches flickered. Kestrel gasped. She was surrounded by weapons. Beautifully made swords, shields, and every kind of pointed object imaginable. They were indeed works of art, but which one was the weapon that could kill Gavin? Kestrel knew that any of these could annihilate her. Suddenly she felt drawn further into the museum past row upon row of battle gear. None of these were what she was looking for. Somehow, she knew. Kestrel felt like a fish on a line. Something was drawing her forward. Then she saw it. In the very back of the creepy museum, a hook was mounted to the wall. On it hung a simple gold chain with a heart pendant on it. This was it. How was this it? The weapon that was somehow supposed to kill the immortal powerful king was a heart necklace? It seemed ridiculous, but Kestrel knew this was it. With shaking fingers Kestrel seized the Art, the necklace, the weapon. As soon as Kestrel touched the precious heart, she felt a roar thunder through her mind like a sword thrust. “NOOOOOOOOOO!” Kestrel bolted out of the museum; the heart clutched in her left hand. King Gavin was coming. He knew. Tearing down the hallways heedless of the noise she was making, Kestrel ran. Refusing to give into her exhaustion, Kestrel sprinted into the courtyard. The night air was cool on her sweaty skin. Kestrel wanted to collapse, but she forced herself to stagger forward. I will not give up now. Kestrel heard shouting. At the edge of the courtyard was the gate to her freedom. It was shut tight. Her hopes sank and rose in the same instant. Suddenly, galloping at top speed, Malachi emerged on Tag. He was followed by Knight and a garrison of angry guards. He stopped in front of Kestrel and threw another bomb at the oncoming assault. The effect of the explosion was devastating. Kestrel grabbed the reins and practically leapt onto Knight’s sturdy back. They took off hurtling towards the closed gate. Malachi was out of bombs. It was hopeless. They were nearly there, caught between the hammer of the pursuing garrison and the anvil, the impenetrable gate. They were doomed. Arrows whizzed above their heads missing them by mere inches. The soldiers laughed as they saw the kids' plight. Kestrel felt tears spill down her cheeks. To come so far just to fail was unacceptable. They slowed their horses to keep them from plowing into the gate. Kestrel and Malachi turned from the closed gate and faced their enemy. They would not give up. They would go out with a bang. They will remember us . Malachi glanced at Kestrel, “I love you, Kestrel.” He smiled a sad smile. Kestrel looked at him surprised. Suddenly without warning Malachi leapt from Tag’s back and ran toward the enemy, short sword out. No, he was running toward a wheel Kestrel had not noticed. Sliding the sword into its sheath, he gripped the wheel in both hands and turned with all of his might. The gate began to open. He heaved, straining all of the muscle he had gained during his time as a rebel and as a servant. The gate opened. “Go!” Malachi yelled. Kestrel didn’t want to. She wanted to charge in and fight at his side, always. “You're our only hope!” Malachi pleaded. With that he turned and struck out at the nearest guard, his sword biting into a man's gut. He was sacrificing himself for her. Tears blotted out her vision. Knight decided for her. He sprinted forward. She rode out sobbing. Malachi was fighting for his life when an arrow plunged into his thigh. He collapsed to the ground crying out in pain. Through his hazed vision he could just make out the dark looming figure of King Gavin. Later at the Falcon’s Base Kestrel vowed to save Malachi, if he was still alive. In her hand she gripped the hope of the Falcons and the hope of the kingdom - the Art, the weapon, the golden heart.

om1d5z

When Will We Ever Learn

When Will We Ever Learn? “Careful. That whitewash may still be wet.” “What are you talkin' 'bout? How would you know?” “Helpin' paint picket fences is one of ma many talents. Used ta spend hours doin' it just fer fun.” “Just fer fun? Sounds like work to me.” “Then ya'll haven't ever met my good ol' pal Tom Sawyer. He'd talk ya inta it alright. But then agin, ya'll pretty little. Maybe ya couldn't handle the big ol' brush, anyways.” “I'm plenty big enough to use a brush. Ya gots one on ya? I'll prove it to ya.” “Na, they's got fancy maintenance people in uniforms ta do that kind o' stuff in this high-falutin' place. I'm free an' easy these days. What's ya name anyways. Wheres ya come from?” “Scout. My name's 'Scout'. Maycomb. Maycomb, Alabamie, is wheres I come from.” “Boy, ya'll a long way from home up here in Chicaga. How'd ya get here?” “Don't rightly know. Just opened my eyes an' I'm a sittin' on that bench next ta that book. Thought I would look around tryin' ta figure wheres I at. Where's am I, anyways? Who are ya? Have ya seen my brother, Jem, or my friend, Dill?” “This here's the American Writer's Museum in Chicaga, Illinoiz. It's a place where lots of famous or well known past writer's from all over the USA hang out to edicate and entertain folks. Name's 'Huck'. Iz comes from the south, too, along the Big Mississippi River. I popped out o' a book just like ya a whiles back. “Come on. I'll show ya around a bit. It's a really grand place even if it's small. Iz even think I've seen your book here somewheres. Look up above. There's a rainbow of books up there. See one by Miss Harper? That's the same as the one on the bench. A visitor must o' left that behind. Haven't seen ya folks, tho.” “They're always off on some adventure. They'll be sorry they missed this place.” “Hey, Iz like adventure, too. Kinda known fer 'em. Stay close an I'll take ya on one now. “Sos this here room with the picket fence around it is the kid's corner. See the giant oak tree with the little woodland critters curled up in the nooks and crannies o' the branches all a readin' some sort of book. 'Wizard o' Oz', Richard Scarry, 'Cat 'n the Hat' an' others. Big mural paintings on the walls like 'Charlotte's Web'. Bean-bag chairs and cozy couches fer little ones ta curl up in an' have books read ta 'em. An' some fun interactive adventures, too. Kid's can explore an' get lost in this corner. “This long wall is filled with banner's showing picture's o' authors with some o' their famous words and when they lived. Here's the desk a Mr. Ray Bradbury used. On these tables are typewriters some o' them there authors actually worked with when they wrote their masterpieces. Ya can type some wisdom of your own and pin it on the wall or add ta the story o' the day. Guests create a line ta advance the story started out with a famous first line from a novel, short story, poem, screen play, song or news report. All forms o' written art are represented. “With these buttons ya can find out what authors liked the same things ya'll like. Other interactive ideas tell ya the story behind the stories and a lot more. Look at that waterfall o' ever-changing words that are quoted from favorites. “Here's a whole nation showing where writers come from. Ya'll's creator, Lee Harper, come from the same hometown as Truman Capote who wrote 'In Cold Blood'. Betcha never knew that! They even wrote something together once.” “I never even knew I was created other than by Atticus, and, o' course, Ma who I don't remember.” “Na, we's all what they call 'characters'. Some o' us are 'protagonists' and some are 'antagonists'. But we live our lives in their creations with conflicts and resolutions and 'character arcs' that prove we learned sumpin' or maybe we didn't learn nuthin'. I know Miss Watson tried to 'sivilize' me with all kinds o' learnin' an' I had ta get away from it all. Iz happiest just floatin' down the Mississippi with good ol' Jim. Boy, did we have some sketchy adventures!” “Well, I don't know if I'm an agonist or what. Thought I was Baptist. Atticus tried ta teach me right from wrong but things sure got mixed up in my town. See that wall o' Negroes there? Says they was all real educated and wrote a lot o' wise things. But Atticus, ya see he's a lawyer, and a good one, he proved this black man in our town was a good man and never did the cruel thing he was accused o'. But the jury said he was guilty anyway. When poor Mista Robinson tried to escape they shot him dead. “All along it was this mean ol' girl's daddy that did the mean things to her. Then that mean ol' man tried to hurt Jem an' me. Broke Jem's arm. But Boo came to our rescue. I was always afraid of Boo when I was littler but he turned out to be a good man after all. He just acted differently. Anyways. Hard to understand the justice when an innocent man is thrown in jail 'cause of the color of his skin.” “Yeah, ma friend ol' Jim was a slave who just wanted ta get home ta his wife an' kids. We had an awful time sortin' that all out. Not right fer someone ta own another person but anyone wit' dark skin were thought o' more like animals in ma time.” “My time was seventy years after slavery was done away with yet they was still treated poorly. Looks like what this man King says they was still suffering thirty years past my time and fightin' fer rights. When will we ever learn? When will we ever learn?” “Ya know, Scout, ya'll real smart an' kinda cute even if ya dress like a boy in ya rolled-up bib overalls. But we needs ta get back inta our books 'fore folks come in. Think I can see ya agin tanight afta the place closes up? WWW americanwritersmuseum.org

16hmw3

To See is Not to Notice the Obvious

Roman Hallowe liked to think of himself as the ultimate collector. There wasn’t a single gallery that had been able to protect itself from his…let’s call it talent. Because that was the way Roman’s head was wired; his skills were God given, how could he ignore them? And after his last heist up in Northern Canada, where he managed to snag a once in a lifetime piece by none other than Paul Cezanne, his skills felt more perfected than ever. Of course, it had all gone rather smoothly. He went in, averted the security, took the canvas, and walked right out. But a new opportunity had yet to present itself to him. A new chance to take something big, one of a kind. There had been a few small conventions scattered across the country in the past few weeks, each hosting hundreds of local paintings made by hundreds of local artists. But that didn’t interest Roman. To him, the value of an artwork lay within the name it held, because chances were, that if he’d never heard the name of a local artist named Annalise Deviet, not many people would either. A small town painting wouldn’t sell for much, and his customers paid him millions for just a single canvass. Once it was theirs, whatever they did with it was not his concern anymore. He did what he did for the money–if someone else cared so much about paint on a board, so be it. Let them pay a stupidly ridiculous amount for it. He was browsing online to see if there were any conventions being held around the area. Prowling the web, on the hunt for mentions of any famous loans on display at museums or art conventions, he scoured post through post, eager to find a new opportunity. It took a few hours of scrolling and clicking but eventually he found word that a loan by a newly famous artist, Richard Bassett, was going to be on display at the DePaul Art Museum of Chicago. Richard Bassett was not an ancient artist, because although he was said to have been a bit old, his art was only surfacing just now. Roman wasn’t sure why but there had been a few mentions of the words abstract, juxtaposition and depth. Whatever that meant. But apart from that, although various attempts had been made to steal his work, nobody had ever managed to do it successfully. Roman wanted to prove them wrong. If he could steal a guarded Paul Cezanne piece, Robert Bassett was a piece of cake. He found out that the first showcase of this art, a piece entitled There Goes the Moon, was tonight, at eight p.m, and ended at eleven. After that, it was lights out in the museum, and in would go Roman to take the painting. He’d put it on his website, get some rich man to buy it, rinse and repeat. That was his job. And looks like it was time to get to work. ~~~~ Roman made it to the museum at midnight. The night was dark, the stars twinkled above his head when he got past the gate and began to stalk his way around the building, avoiding the cameras he had previously marked on a map. This way he got around without ever being spotted. No proof, no crime. Once he found a window with no direct access to any camera inside or outside, he cracked it open and slipped inside, looking around the displays around him. There were ancient, worn down artifacts encased in glistening glass that shone in the moonlight seeping in through the even shinier windows. He caught a metal strip spark at an angle and he squinted to see what it said: “Don’t touch the glass.” He snorted. How crazy it was that some people would go so far as to touch the crystal barrier, as if that would get them any closer to the object trapped inside. It took a while of sneaking around the cameras and staying undetected, before he found the near empty room where the Robert Bassett painting was encased. It was hung on the far wall of the room, the walls on either side of him were adorned with some other paintings from some other, lesser known artists. He overlooked them and made his way to the front of the room, where the painting was encased in its own little crystal cage. He decided it would be easy to break and made for it when a voice echoed from behind him. He froze. “The museum is quite beautiful after hours, isn’t it, young man? I assume that’s why you’re here.” The voice came from an old, creaky looking man, who wobbled as he made his way to the front of the room. Roman was stunned. This couldn’t be a guard. Just some lost old man. Easy to get rid of. “This painting is one of my favorites.” The ancient soul went on. “I think it really does enrapture the true essence of abstract beauty.” The man nodded towards the painting and Roman reluctantly followed his gaze. For once, he actually took the time to look at the art he stole. To look at the meaning engraved into each delicate fiber of the canvas. The painting was that of a moon. But the moon was warped, disheveled. And yet, when placed beside the sun in the painting, it was still oddly…beautiful. There was something about the way the brush strokes captured each and every groove, shadow, and spark the moon had to offer. And even though it was warped and did not hold a shape even remotely resembling a sphere, one could still tell it was a moon. It held the beauty of it: the scars of eternal lifetimes and yet had the glow of a million youths. Roman stuttered. “I…yeah, I guess it does.” “I’d hate for you to get into any trouble, young man, so I’d advise you to leave. Maybe come see the painting in daylight.” Roman took a step back and shot a sullen glance at the painting before turning around and giving the man a nod. He left. But fully intended to come back and simply steal it tomorrow. ~~~~ Roman kept his promise. He went back to the museum and he snuck in the same way, deftly avoiding the probing eyes of the cameras around him, before finding his way back to that barren room. The painting was still there but with the absence of the old man. Quickly, he made a dart for it, getting closer than he did last night. He reached up to the corner of the class case but a throaty cough made him freeze, then slump in irritation. He spun and the man was there again, holding a smile with trembling lips, wrinkled and soft with old age. He was beginning to get increasingly annoyed. This man always had to come up and interrupt him while he was trying to take the painting. It was beginning to become a struggle to pull off something that Roman was once able to to so swiftly. And he'd never admit it, but maybe he was losing his edge. “Why hello, there, young man. A pleasure to see you again. I was hoping to run into you. I thought I could show you around the museum. There are many more paintings you should look at. They are all equally beautiful as this one, although I can understand your interest in this one. It’s quite the spectacle isn’t it?” Roman gave him a forced smile. “Yes. It is.” The man turned around and indicated for him to follow. “Come along, young man. This museum is too much of a haven for you to look at only one painting.” Roman suppressed a sigh and contemplated knocking the old man out. It would be quick and he’d be awake by the time Roman was long gone. But the man had already taken to the right of the hall and Roman had to hurry to follow along. He caught up with the man in another room, with yet another painting inside another glass casing. This one was of a boy, his hands were in his hair, and in front of him, lay a bunch of paper. It took a close look to realize they were educational: essays, tests, and worksheets and that the boy was a student. He looked disheveled, and in the background, there were two sets of eyes that stared at the boy with such intensity Roman's breath caught in his throat. He could almost feel the expectation and scorn coming through them. How could someone capture such emotion through paint ? “Tell me, boy. What do you see?” It took a second before Roman came to his senses and realized the man was talking to him. “Pressure?” “Elaborate.” “It’s just…as if the boy is bending underneath the pressure of being a good student. As if he's finally cracked under the pressure to be perfect .” “Exactly.” The old man gave him another wobbly smile and placed a hand on Roman’s shoulder. “Now, do you see why people come to see art? It holds depth, emotion and knowledge. This is raw talent, don’t you see? Art like this takes time to master. That is where the true worth of this painting is stored.” Roman was rendered speechless. He risked another glance at the portrait and the truth was, he saw it. He understood what the man was talking about. “Yeah. I guess it is.”  “Tell you what. Tomorrow is the last day of this art convention. I want you to come and take a look at the exhibits. I’ll be waiting.” The old man left Roman to exit and he made a stop by the long room with the Robert Bassett painting. He was almost tempted to go in and snatch it, now that the old man had left him alone, but he found himself staring at the painting instead, half fascinated and half frustrated at himself for not going up and taking it. His fingers twitched but he forced them to stop, and this time, before leaving, he made a different promise to himself. He’d be back tomorrow morning. ~~~~ Roman was standing near the entrance when the old man approached him, all warm smiles and quick blinks. “I’m so glad you could make it young man.” He said in his withered voice that Roman finally noticed came laced with so much wisdom. “Come with me.” The man led him to the long room with the moon painting and walked them both up to the very front. From here, Roman would have been itching to take it, but instead he turned and looked at the man, expectant. “I knew you wanted to steal this,” the man said, his voice eerily calm. “But I’ve dealt with many of your kind. Thieves, burglars, crooks. I’ve seen it all, but the thing is, they haven’t. I opened their eyes, just as I opened yours. That is why my paintings have never been stolen.” Roman’s brows furrowed. “Your paintings?” The man offered him a wider smile than any of the others he’d gifted Roman with. “My name is Robert Bassett.” The puzzle pieces clicked in Roman’s head and his eyes widened. “You’re the creator of this painting?” “That I am. I also know what you do, but not why you do it. That is why I stopped you. You, young man, have a lot of potential, but stealing is not where it’s at.” Roman tried to force words out of his mouth but the shock made his tongue numb. He should have been angry at the man. This scheme was a waste of time and potential money, but his brain had been rewired. How could he steal this man’s work when it conveyed so much more than Roman ever could? “I hope you take this experience with you.” The man said, and he was already turning away and walking out. “To see is not to notice the obvious, but to understand what is hidden inside. Now that’s a lesson worth taking. ”

vtqurb

Little Boy Blue and His Striped Balloon

“Lilia. You’ve gotta think. Where did you see Thomas last?” Lilia sighed heavily, staring blankly down at her palms. “We went to the museum.”. “What … museum?” “In the woods. Oh, ma. I’m sorry. I really really am.” Lilia scrunched her face and sat weeping in her chair. “Officer Rick” “It’s pronounced Rick-ee , ma’am” “Officer Ricky, You’ve gotta believe I had NO idea about Lilia and her friend sneaking off into the woods like this. I wouldn’t have allowed it. We’ll talk about this later young lady, but you need to give us more information. We need to figure out what happened to your friend. Oh, I can’t imagine how his parents are feeling right now …” The officer shifted in his seat. “Now, Lilia. Tell me about this museum, here, that you and your friend would visit. Maybe it will give us some answers and we can get to the bottom of this. I pray that boy’s alright.” Thomas always joked that Lilia would be the one sitting across from a police officer in an interrogation room. He was right, though it wasn’t because of anything she had done wrong. She hadn’t toilet-papered the neighbor’s house or set fire to an abandoned junkyard car. No, she was sitting across from this police officer because her best friend had gone missing. Thomas said that she was the adventurous one; the one most likely to discover a cure for cancer or unveil the ninth Wonder of the World. She felt like Thomas was the adventurous one because he was the one who discovered the abandoned art museum in the woods. He even noticed strange things about the place; things he’d tell her that were hard to believe and that he, alone, would see when he’d go by himself to visit the bones of the art-filled casket. Things moving, shifting, turning, and changing about the paintings and one painting in particular. The museum had stained glass as fire mixed with water; each diamond-shaped window bleeding into the one next to it in a sea of color. Imagine standing along the sands of a beach and witnessing the tides pulling in and out, but every single time a different color emerges from the water. The tide pulls in blue, then pulls out purple, the tide pulls in orange, then pulls out red. The museum was a memorial for those beautiful works of art which once lived inside of it. It was desecrated, but beautiful. Much like the paintings in that museum. It wasn’t, however, the exterior of the museum that was most beautiful but the painting that sat within it. There were many paintings within the museum left to rot away but one particular painting stood preserved. The painting was of a large, green meadow that stretched into a huddle of trees. A little boy sat with his father against the grass as each one of them stared up into the sky at a hot air balloon ascending into the clouds. The air balloon was striped like a zebra, but colorful like a peacock with gold, purple, green, orange, red, and yellow filling each stripe. A brown basket dangled from the large balloon inviting onlookers to take a ride. While Lilia always felt happy staring at the painting, Thomas said that he would often feel a sense of longing; as if the father and the boy longed to jump aboard that brown basket and ride off into the wind away from the seemingly lush land. Thomas would tell her strange things about the painting, too. He said that, one night, he was looking at the painting and the little boy turned his head to look back at Thomas. The boy was, according to Thomas, sad. Then one day, Thomas said that he noticed the green grass turned to grey ash as if a volcano had recently erupted. The boy was on the father’s shoulders as the father reached out waving his free hand toward the balloon; someone was in the balloon this time. When Thomas would tell Lilia these things she wouldn’t know what to think. All she could do was ask him questions and wait as he told her the same thing every single time: “Lilia, you have to believe me. I’m not making this stuff up. As weird as it is, there’s something wrong with this painting. Could those people be real? What if they’re in trouble?” She’d tell him she believed him time after time only to find that doubt resided where belief in her friend should. Thomas spent countless hours talking about the painting and especially the little boy; who he believed to be in grave danger. He said that the boy and his father would visit him in his dreams and that, one time, he thought he saw two pale figures that resembled them across the street as they walked along the sidewalk after school. He yelled toward the crowd as people eyed him curiously; looking around and wondering who Thomas was yelling at. Lilia could faintly see two people, a small-ish child and a grown adult, briskly walking away from the scene though she never understood who those people could be. But, Thomas did. He believed it was the boy and the father in the painting with all his heart. Then Thomas went missing. Thomas’s parents called the police, Lilia’s mom, and the school principal to put out flyers. They were all scared and Lilia was having a difficult time focusing on her school work. One day, she ran away to the abandoned museum to clear her head and cradled her knees, sobbing. A strange wind lifted her chin and forced her to look toward a broken glass window. She stared through the broken window and looked at the familiar painting only to find something very peculiar and unfamiliar about it. The little boy held his father’s hand and, with his free-hand- a paintbrush with black paint dripping onto the grass. In black paint the words ``save Thomas' ' were written in the top left corner of the painting. The boy’s head was turned and faced toward Lilia as she thought she saw a teardrop from the little boy’s pale blue eyes.

qtuyqv

Alone at the museum

Must be some mistake, when he read the museum's business hours on the internet this morning, Jesus was certain it closed at 8 pm. The paintings at the corner caught his eyes and attention; neither did he realize the time or it getting dark nor notice he was all alone, all other people having left. This is bad. Gee, his biggest concern an hour ago was being able to proclaim his love to Adele and now that chance is gone. She will be at the café across the street at 8:30 and think he stood her up. She will leave town on Sunday to start college on Monday and he will never see her again. Just his luck, getting locked up in the museum at night. Jesus gets his left hand into the pocket of his pant to retrieve his cell phone. - Who can I call? - he wonders. Finally finds it weird there is no guard in the museum, he needs to make sure not to touch anything, wouldn't want to trigger any alarm device. Bummer, his cell phone just died on him, had he only charged it while looking for the perfect outfit for his date with the girl he loves since the second grande when she moved in to the house next door, exactly where the other girl he loved lived before she was taken away. And now, Adele is also leaving him. Suddenly, he hears a noise, he was sure there was no one else with him. Must have imagined it. What could be moving, the sculptures, the people from the paintings he admired for a couple hours? - Don't be silly, I'm all alone- he says to himself. And then, there it is, a shadow growing closer. Got to be his imagination, right? He's never been afraid of the dark, either. - What are we taking, then?- says a man. - Other than the paintings?- answers a second man. Jesus runs as silently as he can and goes hiding to the right corner, cautious as not to touch anything or make any noises. Not only is he locked up, but there are some thieves taking those marvelous pieces of art and they might be armed and dangerous. Must survive until Monday morning, when it'll be too late for him to say goodbye to Adele and what will he do about the thieves, he would love to save those paintings. - The easiest would be to make the alarm go off- says to himself- I have to look por a control panel or some switch, but carefully enough or they might spot me and hurt me- those men certainly did not plan to stay in the musuem all weekend, if he only had a charger for his phone. - Phone, but of course, it just struck me, no body has a landline anymore, but a museum might. - I told you, we came for these paintings- says man number 2- however, if you find anything worthy. - I saw no jewels or anything of value- says man number 1. - Also, we must be careful with the alarm system, we don't want to get caught- he has found the panel next to the entrance, he takes a piece of paper out of his shirt's pocket and unfolds it, he presses on the panel the numbers written on the paper and there is a beep. He appears to have successfully set the alarm off - there. We have twenty minutes to take whatever we want. The men go back to where the paintings are and Jesus has his opportunity to the office upstairs. - Just what I thought- says when he picks the phone up to his ear- phone's dead. Of course- those thieves mean business -. Now what do I do. He looks around the office, perhaps there is a charger in here, somewhere, seems no. Last hope is gone. He goes back downstairs, could find a charger in the restroom, very unlikely, but he's run out of options. - Is anybody in here - asks when he hears what appears to be someone whimpering. And he was right. He finds two men muzzled and with both feet and hands tied, tape on their mouths. He then procees to set the men free. One is a guard, and that's when he realizes the thief which wanted to take more than the paintings is also a guard, Joe reads a name tag. - The other guy had me write down the passcode to set the alarm off- says the guard once Jesus takes the tape off. - Any of you got a phone- asks Jesus. - Sorry - answers the other man -. They took them.- Should have known. No way to call 911, they are on their own. Both men probably saw the resolution in Jesus's face. - They got a gun- says Joe- watch out-. No doubt Jesus had to be brave and fast, very if he wanted to stop the thieves. - You staying here? - asks Joe to the other man as he starts following Jesus. - Name's Tom, I'm coming with. The three of them stop suddenly when they hear the thieves getting to the entrance of the museum. They must have what they wanted and be on the leave. It's too late, no chance lf stopping them. Then Jesus hurries up as much as possible, he doesn't want to loose them but wouldn't want to face them either. As they get out of the room and into the hall the thieves open the main door and are about to disappear, Jesus presses the upper button on his cell phone. - Here's to hoping - says as he expects his device to come to life for a few seconds, enough to call the cops. But then, when all hope seemed lost, alas, the police arrives... - I fooled them, it worked - explains Joe while seeing Jesus's surprised emotion -. I gave them a fake passcode, it sends a silent signal. The new guard was too new and didn't suspect, luckily for us... Jesus did run out of luck, though. He was too late and couldn't say goodbye to Adele. The thieves taken to jail and the stuff from the musuem was saved and is still there, where Jesus can appreciate it anytime he feels like it. Not everything ended badly. And now, he never leaves home until he's got enough battery on his phone.

xv8l0f

Midnight Mischief

The crisp night air nipped at Huebert’s cheeks. Just a few more minutes of silent patience before his part of the job started. Leaning against the concrete wall of the Modern Museum of Art, he pivoted his head from left to right to make sure there was no one patrolling outside the building. “Ok Pierre,” Huebert whispered into his Bluetooth earbud. “All quiet on the western front.” He pulled up his black long sleeve and checked his watch - exactly 11:58pm - two minutes before a vital shift change of security guards. For upwards of two months, Huebert and Pierre cased the museum, confirming patrol routes and the shift changes. They knew this museum like it was their childhood home, and the corner Huebert stood at, was exactly 15 feet below the score that was going to change their lives forever. Pierre ran his fingers through the fake beard and wig he applied earlier that evening, the glue felt nice and tight, hopefully security didn't pull on it too hard, because if the illusion broke, he was gonna be deeper than a frog in a sinkhole. Pierre wore a dirty brown coat, covered in mud stains and another stain that did not smell like mud at all, but it kept the deception strong. If you’re going to make the commitment, it has to be as real as possible. That's how a distraction works best. He snuck a glimpse out of the bush he hid in and checked the front entrance to the museum. Right on schedule. Three heavy set security guards mingled inside the door, watching as three fresh guards walked up the pathway, their footsteps clicking away on the wet pavement. ”Punctuality,” Pierre whispered to himself, “the best quality to exploit a mark.” Pierre heard Huebert whisper his Western Front line in an earbud of his own, Huebert did love his movie references when called for. “Eastern invasion set for 60 seconds,” Pierre replied. “Good luck, man,” Huebert said back over Bluetooth. Luck will take you only as far as your talents , Pierre thought. He pulled out two mini bottles of whiskey from his coat pocket and downed one in a single gulp. The fire in his throat worked two fold, it's part of the character, and provided a little bit of liquid courage. The second bottle was poured over the coat and a few drops into his hair, to overemphasize the smell. “Here we go…” Pierre said. Huebert checked his bag for the millionth time - putty knife, chewing gum, the bottle of muriatic acid, and the mini flashlight. He sifted through them all and could feel the sweat inside of his gloves. He always got like this right before the game began. Thank god this is the last job , he thought . He wouldn’t miss the knotted stomach feeling that's for sure. The timing had to be perfect. Once Pierre distracted the guards at the moment of the change, there would be one guard inside the museum doing his patrol, it was the best time to get in and get out with little to no interference. Huebert chuckled to himself as he remembered casing the museum a week and a half back. He couldn’t believe the on duty guard that day let that bit of information slip without much thought. Sometimes people can be taken advantage of when they’re too nice and too honest. It wasn’t the best part of the job, lying to people, but it was a necessary evil. He turned around and placed his hands on the 20 foot ladder that laid beside him and prepared to move… just as soon as Pierre got started. The six security guards stood at the door of the museum, chatting and paying little attention to the surrounding area. Pierre couldn’t hear what they were saying exactly, but the mix of the crickets and the conversation up ahead provided him just enough ambience to pop up out of the bush and start making his way to the doors. Pierre stumbled and stammered, crossing his leg over the next, and leered towards the guards at the door. He bent his back just a bit over forward to hide a bit more of his face, even though the beard and wig should do most of the work, but it didn’t hurt to try and make it a little more difficult. He tried to think himself dizzy, and shuffled to the left to continue the drunken charade. “Lillith!” Pierre screamed in a gruff scratchy voice. The scream startled the guards and two of them immediately reached for their maces and flashlights. Pierre heard a few expletives coming from their mouths as well. “Lillith! Please don’t do this! Come on, give me one last chance! You don’t need to call your father, I promise I’ll change!” As he projected out, Pierre gripped one of the mini whiskey bottles, props made for better realism, and he swung his arms out as if he was ready to jump in front of a bullet. In essence, he kind of was. Huebert , Pierre thought, you’d better not miss this cue . “Hey sir!” One of the guards was approaching delicately, pointing his flashlight and one finger on his mace can on the left side of his belt. “Sir, I need you to calm down, who is Lillith?” “You know who she is, you son of a monkey's bottom!” Pierre slurred and tried to let the saliva in his mouth accumulate. “She’s in there right now and I want her to come talk to me so I can tell her I’m sorry. Lillith please! Just come out and we can talk about this!” Pierre stood and wobbled in place, then he swung his arms around in front of him, acting as if he was catching his balance, and he knocked the flashlight from the guard’s hands. This got the expected reaction, the other five guards starting moving towards him as well, away from the door and into the fiasco in front of them. Huebert could hear the ruckus Pierre was creating in the front, he couldn’t help but smirk at the ridiculousness of it all. Pierre was good, there was no denying that. Now, it was his turn to move. Huebert picked up the ladder and slowly angled it against the side of the building, he grunted as he tried to lay it against the concrete without any sound. Once he got it in place, he hopped up on the rungs and started climbing. He was very happy it was dark out, twenty feet off the ground with only the bushes and grass below to break his fall would be a major distraction, and he needed to focus. When he reached the third floor window, he carefully removed his bag from over his shoulder and placed it on the rung in front of him. He had to be quick, but he also had to be thorough. He removed the bottle of muriatic acid and poured it starting at the top of the window seal and all around the four sides. It would take a few seconds for the acid to start wearing away at the sealant. Huebert froze and listened to make sure the commotion was still happening in the front, he could hear the voices still clambering. Pulling the putty knife out of his bag, Huebert started slowly working the end into the sealant, turning the edge back and forth, loosening the window. It had to be done just right, too soft and he would get nowhere, but too hard and the window would crack, possibly shatter and this whole thing would be for nothing. Huebert could feel the window starting to give way, it was getting easier to push the putty knife around the edges of the window, when he completed the next pass, the window started to lean and suddenly it broke off the frame, scrambling on the ladder, Huebert grasped at the top of the window and with his fingertips he held the window in place, keeping it from shattering on the floor below. He let out an exhausted sigh, he felt the sweat dampening his forehead, and as quickly as he could, he moved the window out of the frame and jumped down onto the museum floor. The air smelled of fresh floor wax with a tinge of library books. Huebert could no longer hear the noises out front, and instead only the sound of his own breathing, and the pulse of his racing heart. The museum was a tomb this time of night. It was a treasure trove of ancient artifacts, jewelry, and paintings all from ancient European descent. The moonlight cast shadows across the hardwood floor from the glass cases displayed in the walkways, and the paintings were all dimly lit with small accented lights that gave off the tiniest bit of detail of each artwork. If he was accurate, the guard patrolling would be there in a matter of minutes, so he had to move fast, luckily for him, the painting hung directly in front of him, encased in a beautiful hand carved wooden frame. The Scourge of Constantinople was a fiery piece of art that showcased a famous battle during the Crusades. It was famous for its depiction of Christian soldiers ravaging and plundering the infamous city, despite it being a Christian nation. Huebert didn’t know much about art, but he knew someone was paying him a good amount of money to steal this painting, and he intended on delivering. Pulling a piece of chewing gum out of the bag, Huebert began to frantically chew on the gum until it softened in his mouth. He caught himself chewing loudly due to breathing out of his mouth, unable to catch his breath from the near disaster of that window, but he controlled himself and focused on the task at hand. He snuck his hand behind the painting and felt for the sensor attached to the wall just below the nails that held the painting in place. He had to remove the frame without triggering this alarm, and his plan was to do just that. Pulling the gum from out of his mouth, he stuck the gum on the end of the same putty knife he used for the window. Smashing the gum down on the edge of the knife, he prepared himself for the moment of truth. He pulled the small flashlight out and turned it on before covering the light with his thumb, giving off just a bit of light that he could control and use just enough to accomplish his task. Slowly and cautiously, Huebert slid the knife edge up the back of the painting frame. Shrrr! The knife whittled into the back of the frame, slicing a thin piece of the wood. Huebert stopped in his tracks and let the sound dissipate, but the echo made him feel like the sound traveled miles in the air. With his sweat cascading down his forehead, Huebert went back to work and continued the journey up the backside of the frame until he felt the metal edge click against the sensor. No going back now , he thought. He pressed the knife against the sensor and pressed down with all the strength he could. If he didn’t get the gum in place, when he removed his hand from the knife handle, the alarm would sound, and he would have to make for the window as fast as he could. Footsteps in the distance. The rhythmic pace of the guard’s movements were creeping in the distance. He was coming now, and Huebert had no time to get the painting down. “Please god, please, don’t let it go off,” Hubert whispered. Clamping his eyes shut and praying to whatever god would listen to a thief in this moment, Huebert let go of the putty knife, and nothing… no alarm, no blaring siren in the air, no flashing security lights… but the sound of the guards footprints were getting louder, he could see a reflection of a flight light bouncing off the floor at the corner not ten feet from him. The guard turned the corner and shone his light down the hall, nothing was there. Huebert, crouched behind the display case of antique hand tools, was fighting the urge to breathe. He watched the floor as the light swiveled from left to right multiple times. How the hell was he going to get out of this? “Hey Dave,” a voice followed by another pair of footsteps. Huebert wouldn’t dare turn to look, but he could hear another guard join the one on patrol. “You hear all that noise outside? Some crazy homeless guy was making a racket about some woman who wouldn’t take him back. The psycho wouldn’t stop barking into the moonlight. Then, you’ll never believe this, he took off his coat, shirt, and shoes and started going on about how Orion’s Belt was on fire in the sky.” “Are you serious?” The other guard said. “I swear they have to do something about this homeless problem in this city. It’s ruining everything.” “No kidding. Come on, Steve can tell you the whole thing, he was the one who got in the guys face and slugged him. He's icing his hand right now in the bathroom.” The footsteps traveled off into the distance. Huebert let out a gigantic breath and collected himself. That was too close. Hopefully Pierre didn’t get hurt too bad, but wow, was he really a good actor. Sliding across the floor, as to not make noise with his boots, Huebert got back to the painting and pulled it from the wall, he took a second to press the knife one more time to make sure it held and laid the frame down on the ground. Drops of his sweat plopped against the painting, a few small dabs wouldn't hurt but he didn't want to damage the art too much, so he hurriedly removed the painting and rolled it into his hands. Making his way back to the window, he turned back to look down the hallway one last time, but he could only see darkness, nothing at all in the distance. When he turned back to the window a hand reached out towards him. “Good god!” Huebert exclaimed. The sight of Pierre on the ladder reaching out put a scare into him that gave him a heart attack. Pushing the fear back down his throat, Huebert handed the painting to Pierre. “What the hell man!” “Sorry,” Pierre said. “I’m just trying to speed this along, do you mind?” Pierre disappeared down the ladder and Huebert grabbed the edge of the window and pulled himself up. “Hey! You, stop!” Emerging from the darkness, one of the guards started rushing towards the window, his flashlight aimed directly at Huebert. Wasting no time, Huebert climbed out the window and slid down the ladder like an action hero. He tossed the ladder off to the side once he reached the ground and took off across the grass field. Turning to look over his shoulder, Huebert could see the lights of the museum flicker on and off and the alarm started to whale in the silent night. He ran full speed across the grass and felt a hand grab him, pulling him into a large collection of bushes. Pierre was crouched down with the painting in hand. “What the hell do we do now?” Pierre asked. “We split up, give me the painting.” Pierre held the painting close to his chest. “No, you go, I’ve got the painting.” Hubert looked back confused. “Pierre, seriously, give me the painting. I have to give it to the buyer.” “Yeah, see, about that,” Pierre started. “I have another guy who’s willing to pay double. So I need it.” The guards came rushing out of the door of the museum and started fanning out in all directions, flashlights out. In the distance, Huebert could hear sirens approaching. “Pierre, seriously, you know I need this painting. I owe this guy and if we don't deliver to him we are dead.” Pierre looked dead straight into Huebert’s eyes, a look Huebert had never witnessed from him before. “Then you’re dead.” He was a good actor , Huebert thought. He had me fooled from the jump . ”Over here!” Huebert heard a guard shout. Police cruisers screech into the parking lot of the museum and officers jump out of the cars and start racing into the grass behind the guards. “Damn!” Pierre swore. “We wasted this time arguing when we should have gotten out of here. Look what your squabbering did!” The distraction was just long enough for Huebert to remove the bottle of acid from his bag and loosen the cap. He threw the bottle into Pierre’s face, causing him to scream and drop the painting. His hands swung to his face and he writhed in pain. Huebert saw his chance, he grabbed the painting and took off. He heard the guards and officers shouting at him to stop. The voices got quieter as his breathing and racing footsteps drowned it all out. With one quick look behind, he saw the officers checking on Pierre, he afforded himself a small smirk. Sometimes people can be taken advantage of when they’re too honest. Huebert continued dashing into the darkness of the trees and disappeared into the night. 

hj999d

Exhibition

“You ready, kiddo?” Mickayla looked up at her dad, his hand poised to open the door. She was just sorting through her backpack that was laid haphazardly on their leather couch, trying to find the notebook she had stuffed in earlier. “Yeah, just give me a second.” Mickayla shoved her hand deeper. “Aha! Here it is!” She pulled out her worn, leather journal with a sheepish smile. “What? You never know, I might meet Betye Saar, and I have to be prepared.” The circular glasses that engulfed his warm, almond eyes traveled down his angular nose as he observed his daughter. “Doubtful, but I love the optimism.” The screen door slapped behind him, expecting Mickayla to follow. “You don’t give yourself enough credit!” Mickayla snapped as she chased after her father, nearly tripping over her brother’s plastic toy truck idling by the cement driveway. She climbed into the passenger side of their sky-blue Honda.  “Pftt, it’s hot,” Mickayla complained as she turned up the cool air. Buckling her seatbelt, Mickayla watched carefully as her dad backed out of the driveway and avoided hitting her mother’s poorly parked car. “Have you heard from mom yet?” Mickayla asked, fiddling with the lock button. Up, down, up, down. “Not since she left two nights ago. But you know, she’s always busy on her business trips.” “Yeah… I just can’t help but feel this time is different,” she mumbled. “She’ll be back, and then you two can talk.” He reached over and squeezed her hand, flashing a reassuring smile. “Let me hear those questions.” He’s trying to distract me. Mickayla flipped to the most creased page in her journal, concentrating on the over-thought vowels and consonants that flowed from the page. When they arrived at London’s National Gallery, the parking lot was already packed, and Mickayla’s dad made a beeline for his office. “Have fun, kiddo.”  This meant Mickayla was left to her own devices. No one could judge her awe-struck staring at the tapestries, statues, and paintings that adorned the impeccably clean white walls of the gallery. Mickayla gave a leering snort as she opened the expansive doors. Because these snobs are doing the same thing. The security guard, Richard, waved to Mickayla as she entered the commune area. Guests milled about, slowly trickling into the exhibit that was ahead of them. “Hello, little miss.” Richard, a beefy man with a receding hairline, cracked a smile even though his stance was rigid and authoritative. He had known Mickayla since she was little; her father had often hefted her on his shoulders so she could stare at the exhibition’s artifacts. “Excited?” “Every time,” Mickayla said through a deep breath. Her peripheral vision caught a swirl of blue. “See you at the end,” she cast over her shoulder as she advanced toward the one painting she had been antsy all day to see. “Wow,” Mickayla whispered as she stared at Van Gough’s A Starry Night. How could she be so aware of every muscle in her body, every puff of air that escaped her lips? The outer world melted; the cluster of visitors around her evaporated into nothingness. Pure bliss. When she was satisfied, Mickayla moved on to a Greek gecko statue, carefully reading the fine print beside it. The curves are exquisite, and the museum did well with the supple lighting. It emphasizes the statue's feminine features .  Mickayla tactfully honed her attention to the art; she didn’t want to bump into people and have to hold a twenty-minute conversation. “Mickayla.” Mickayla whirled around, expecting her father to be standing behind her. But it was nobody, not even a stranger playing a prank. “Mickayla.” “Hello?” Mickayla said hesitantly, immediately blushing when she caught the stare of a confused middle-aged woman. “I’m sorry,” Mickayla mumbled as the woman drifted by. “Mickayla, here.” Mickayla was almost certain it was her mother’s voice. But how? Her mother was halfway across the world. “Over here, Kayla.” Mickayla’s gaze traveled to the far-left corner. A separate hallway, somewhat set aside from the other connected rooms, beckoned with an ominous persistence. She took one step, then another, till she saw through the dim corridor a boxy-like room hung with rich tapestries and paintings. It was oddly quiet and spacious, with a singular oak bench screwed onto the polished wooden floors. What is this place? The first oil painting was of a man with sun-blazed hair, adorned with a yellow robe so bright it seemed to bleed through the ink. Mickayla had to look away after a minute. She searched the wall for some sort of inscription but soon gave up when nothing appeared. The next few paintings were of battle scenes, dotted fairy-like landscapes, and portraits of fierce people heaped in fluid cloth. Her eye caught a statue opposite the room, a long willowy woman with a billowing marble gown. And then her heart stopped. Placed to the right of the statue was another decent-sized painting. It was her mom, running across a vibrant forest with a tarnished aluminum scepter. The top of the scepter–an orange orb–shone as bright as the sun-man in the previous painting, casting brilliant shards of light. “Mom?” Mickayla walked to the painting, reaching out to touch the flora. When she felt it, however, she gasped. Why was it still wet? Mickayla wiped it on her black slacks, wincing when the green paint smeared. I have to get out of here. Mickayla swiveled her head, ready to shout to call someone, but the hallway she entered was no longer a hallway. It was a shadow on the wall. “Someone help me!” Mickayla cried, even though she knew she was alone in this rectangular exhibition. Mickayla strode across the room, peeping behind the statue. Maybe a hidden door? When Mickayla had pressed and put her ear to the wall, hoping for a hollow echo or distant murmurs, she sighed in defeat and looked back at her mom's painting. Again, her eyes flew open. Now, her mom faced a man with cargo pants and a sweat-stained gray shirt. His eyes were a sickly yellow; slanted downwards like his widow's peak. Dark veins spread from the tip of his mouth to the corners of his face, jumping out amongst his pale flesh. His fingertips, which were obsidian dark claws, reached up to grab an approaching spear. Mickayla shuddered, shifting perspective to her mother’s face. It was determined and calm; her hand reached for the dagger stuck in her back pocket. The scepter she had handed to someone else, but the hand that grasped it was too close to the frame of the painting to reveal their identity. “She’s in trouble,” Mickayla whispered. She whipped her head around and advanced to the shadowy spot where she had first entered. Balling her fists, new determination took hold. If she could find a way out, she would have time to warn her father. Or perhaps make sure her mother was safe. “ You’re too late.” “Come out, whoever you are!” Mickayla shouted, observing the room. She had grown tired of this taunting voice. She was sure she was growing mad. Her eyes caught movement. Did the statue take a step? Mickayla closed her eyes, then opened them. No. But something is different. “ You’re a foolish girl if you think there’s hope for your Mother.” Mickayla shrunk back into the wall. The marble woman’s authoritative stance did not change but her mouth was slightly parted, as if she were the one talking. “You were the one calling to me,” Mickayla said, half expecting the statue to tilt its head. When its porous body remained rooted to the floor, Mickayla shook her head. “This is ridiculous. I’m talking to a statue.” She turned her attention to the wall, tapping on it. “Come on. There has to be something on the other side.” “ You were right to be worried.” Mickayla froze. She pushed her heels back against the wall, an uncomfortable feeling welling up as she remembered the last conversation she had with her mother. “Do you think she truly forgives you?” “My mother knows what I said meant nothing,” Mickayla bleated, although she wasn’t sure. The marble statue, although mute and un-animated, seemed to be staring into Mickayla’s soul. “You told her that she didn’t deserve to be called a Mother.” Mickayla slid down the wall, the gold-studded buttons scratching the painted exterior. She bowed her head and rubbed her eyes. I’m in a nightmare. This doesn’t exist. This is some sort of dream … “You told her you would be just fine without her.” Mickayla covered her eyes, trying to block out the searing voice in her mind. “Do you remember your exact words?” Mickayla knew them well enough, but she couldn’t utter them out loud. “I remember. You said you wish she was dead. Well, look at the painting now Kayla.” Mikayla looked up, transfixed on her mother’s grave, ashen face. She had never seen that sort of pain; never felt the grip that her mother’s strong hands had on the spear protruding through her abdomen. “MOM!” Mickayla cried, springing up from her fetal position. Was it possible to taste the blood? To smell it? The electricity crackled, and the lights grew dimmer. An intercom cut into the grievous silence: “Attention, please. Attention, the museum will be closing momentarily. Thank you.” Mickayla resorted to heavy pounding on the wall; hoping that those on the other side would hear the desperate pleas of a teenager. Just don’t look at the painting. It’s not real. It’s not real. The canned ceiling lights suddenly turned off. “No, no no!” Mickayla cried, resting the top of her head against the wall. She wrapped her arms around herself, blinking into the inky darkness. “Now it’s just you and me,” the voice crooned. “MICKAYLA!” Mickayla smacked her head against the wall when she heard her father's faint, yet urgent voice. “DAD!” Mickayla shrieked, clawing at the wall. Even through a shower of aggravated assaults, Mickayla herself didn’t hear the echoes of her fist. Rather, it was a dull thud. Her father’s voice grew distant as he moved farther away. “DAD! I’M IN HERE,” Mickayla cried. She howled till her throat was raw. He can’t hear me. No one can. Mickayla’s hand trailed down the wall till it stopped at her thighs. She was trapped. “ Don’t be discouraged. It will all be over in the morning.” “Mom?” Mickayla sounded; did she dare believe it was her mother’s voice in his hollow room? If she squinted, Mickayla could make out the frame of her mother’s deathly scene. How I wish I could see her step out of the thick globs of paint and pastels. Mickayla smiled dreamily, a sudden weariness descending. Tell me it’s alright, Mother. Tell me the morning comes with new promises. She was nearly asleep when the unconscious thought pervaded her brain: What if my Mother can’t come back? What if she’s truly dying somewhere, alone, with the belief that her only daughter detests her? Mickayla shifted, the silence driving an inner force of sorrow. The darkness was the inescapable tension to her frustration. I’m both oblivious and innately aware of my circumstances. She brought her knees to her chest and focused on her mother’s painting. I will keep looking for clues, Mother. Till this nightmare ends.

xn9i7r

The Eye Of Ludum

"We shouldn't be here," Elna whispered. Jochen turned his head towards her but didn't stop moving forward, though Elna's face troubled him. For an elf, her complexion looked unusually pale in the torchlight. He knew better than to ignore her words, in any case. Elna's foresight had saved his skin at least half a dozen times. He gave Elna’s hand a gentle squeeze. Sapphire eyes gazed into his own, filled with apprehension. "Don't worry," he whispered back, "we're going to be fine." In truth, Jochen couldn't shake the feeling they'd been betrayed. But by who? He'd personally selected every member of this little party. All had proved themselves stalwart companions many times over in the years he'd known them. So why did he feel like a target was painted on his back? It's this forest,  he told himself, shivering. The trees surrounding them seemed eager, watching in silent anticipation. Their trunks bent slightly toward the party as though observing rats scurry about in a maze from above. Long, skeletal branches spread outward like grasping talons, eager to capture unwary prey. The moonlight played tricks with the shadows, giving him impressions of movements at the edges of his vision. Elna's right; I should call this off right now.  Jochen's heartbeat fluttered in his chest, but he couldn't — not until they'd found the Eye, if indeed it was here. And if it isn't? If this is some kind of trap? No, stop it! No one here would ever betray me! Raising his torch, Jochen called to the two men scouting the forest before them. "Glanealle, Finnius, see anything?" Glanealle grunted in response. Not surprising for the stout man, who typically spoke less than twenty words on any day. He was the only one who seemed wholly unaffected by the gloom. Finnius called back, "Nuthin' but more dirt n' leaves, Jochen. That, an' more trees o' course. Can't see much in front o' us though, this damnable darkness is hard ta penetrate." Jochen nodded, swinging the torchlight to his left. Sylvar, his longtime friend and Elna's half-brother, held a shortbow in his slim hands, an arrow half-nocked. Sharp eyes kept vigil against whatever might lay in wait out in the dark. "What about you, Sylvar?" Sylvar shook his head. "No, but something smells wrong." Eyes narrowed, he studied a tree they passed as if it might pounce at any moment. "I've never scented wood like this before. They're more than old trees." He inhaled deeply through his nose. "Like memories of an ancient storm. It's like the air is still charged, waiting for the next group of clouds." "What you're smelling is the remains of old and powerful magic," Elna said. "Your human blood weakens your senses, brother, but if even you can smell it, then it is indeed potent." Sylvar bore the comment without remark, used to Elna's constant reminders of his ancestry. Her jabs weren't really meant for him anyway; they were meant for their mutual father. "Do you know this magic, sister?" Elna lifted her chin. "We walk the land of the Dryad now, brother." Returning her gaze to Jochen, she repeated, "We shouldn't be here." # Three days ago, Jochen had all but given up on finding the Eye of Ludum. They could have been on their way home by now. If not for Sylvar's story, they would be. But Jochen wasn't about to start suspecting his best friend. Besides, hadn't Finnius told Sylvar to speak with that guard? Yes, and it'd been Elna's idea to travel to Vestleton. Jochen closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. This kind of thinking was going to get them nowhere. Vestleton had been the party's last stop among over a hundred since they'd begun their fruitless search nearly a year ago. "Someone in this world has to have heard something, anything, about a powerful artifact like that," Jochen had said over a mouthful of bread, sitting at an inn table. “These kinds of things leave traces, you know? Impressions. There should be stories about them—legends told by bards containing nuggets of the truth." "An artifact capable of summoning fire from thin air?" Elna snorted, rolling her eyes. "Come on, Jochen. We knew this was a long shot from the start. Even your king thought the Eye unlikely to be real; you said so yourself." Jochen nodded and took a long sip of wine. Thank the gods he'd brought his own stock, good Aborian red. If he'd been forced to drink the piss this inn tried to pass off as ale, he'd likely have quit drinking. "True, but you don't know the king. If he'd heard enough to send us on this hunt, he'd expect us to return with more than empty words." "Human kings," Elna sniffed, wrinkling her nose, "are utter fools." Jochen laughed. "Sometimes they are. Unfortunately, they are also powerful, so we must bow and scrape to their whims, whether we think them foolish or not." Elna opened her mouth - no doubt to add some biting comment - when the door opened. Sylvar walked in. Blue eyes - mirrors of his sister's - peered out from under bushy eyebrows. "I thought I'd find you two lovebirds here," he said. "Where are Glanealle and Finnius?" Jochen gestured to the seat beside him. Sylvar sat and helped himself to the bread. "Downstairs at the bar, betting on who can bag that raven-haired serving girl. My money's on Glanealle." "Glanealle hardly knows more than a dozen words," Elna smirked. "She'd have to be deaf and blind to go for a man like him." "You'd be surprised to find out how charming that man can be, sister." Sylvar shrugged. "Not that it matters; a lot of women like the strong and silent type." “Good man to have in a fight as well,” Jochen commented. “He’s tough, got skin that just about turns away steel.” Elna's lips curled. "I don't like him." "You've never given him a chance, dear heart," Jochen said, though not with any heat. They'd been through this song and dance a dozen times already. "I don't want to. There's something wrong with a man who communicates in grunts and gesticulations. Not to mention, he smells like molasses most of the time." Sylvar poured a cup of wine and leaned back, unconcerned with his sister's opinion. "Anyway, I might have some good news for you, Jochen." "You've finally given up gambling? That is good news, Sylvar." "And give up the coin I keep winning from you?" Sylvar chuckled. He leaned forward, capturing Jochen's eyes. "I heard an interesting story. About a ferocious giant who died in a forest nearby." He paused, tapping a slim finger against his chin. "A giant who lost its eye." Jochen’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Is that so? Tell me about it." "I was outside practicing sword forms when Finnius says he wants to introduce me to a guard he just met. An interesting fellow with a long family history in this town. We spoke for a while, and then I asked him if he knew any old stories involving this area. Well, it turned out he does. The way he tells it, around four to five generations ago, a giant came down from the mountain to live in the forest. His brethren had banished him for disrespecting the clan chief. Took more than his fair share of meat or some such thing. Before he left, the giant stole a golden flask from the chief that was said always to be filled with the sweetest water, or wine if the giant holding the flask wished for it." "Now, that would be a trinket worth having," Jochen said. Elna laughed and shushed him. "Yes," Sylvar agreed, taking a sip from his cup. "So, a few years go by, and the giant lived peacefully in the forest. Sometimes, he would get drunk and sing so loud the trees would shake. But this didn't happen often, so the people of that time left him alone. Then, one day, his old clan won a fierce battle with a dragon in the mountain. The chief wanted to celebrate this great victory and remembered his golden flask. Furious that his treasure had been stolen, he sent warriors down the mountain to find the banished giant and retrieve the trinket. But the giant loved the flask, and when the warriors tried to take it from him, his screams of rage caused all but the bravest of them to flee in terror. One of the stronger ones snuck behind and tore out the giant's eye before stripping the flask from his hand. Before they could leave with their prize, though, the giant called out to the heavens for vengeance. In response, the gods sent down rivers of fire that scorched the ground, killing every living thing nearby. The guard claimed his ancestor later went into the woods to ascertain what had happened, but nothing was left except ash. That, and the giant's gorged eye, covered in amber tree sap. The man tried to take it for a souvenir, but the heat exuding from it was too great, so he left it there, where it remains to this day." Jochen sat back in his chair and glanced across the table. Elna caught his eye and shrugged. "That's some story, Sylvar," he said, "And it's supposed to be in a forest nearby?" Sylvar nodded. "That's what the man said. West of here. According to him, if we left in the morning, we'd make it a couple hours after midday." "Does this forest have a name?" "Yeah. The Blackwood, but he said it used to be called the Iphycian Grove." Elna suddenly hissed, and they both looked up at her in surprise. Her brows were furrowed as she gripped Sylva's wrist. "You're sure the guard spoke this name, brother?" "Yes," Sylvar replied, frowning. "Why, do you know it?" "I have heard it somewhere before. An ill-omened name, I remember that much. Something told to me long ago, in my youth." Elna shook her head. "I can't fully remember, but I don't think we should go there, Jochen." "No one does anymore," Sylvar said. "Not in the last fifty years or so, according to the guard." Jochen fixed his friend with a steady gaze. "Why not?" Sylvar shrugged. "He says otherworldly beasts haunt those woods." # "What's a Dryad?" Jochen asked, not sure he wanted to know the answer. "Ancient protectors of the oldest forests," Elna answered. Her eyes flicked nervously over the trees. "Perhaps elven ancestors, old before the first humans were flickers of imagination in the minds of gods." She licked her lips. "It seems they are still alive." Jochen had heard enough. "Perhaps it would be prudent to leave, then." A look of dread passed over Elna's face, replaced by calm acceptance. "It's too late for that, dear heart. They are already here." Jochen straightened and drew his sword, hearing the hiss of steel as Sylvar did the same. Together, they stared around wildly. "Are you sure? I don't see anything." "They aren't people like us, Jochen. They are the trees." "What -" Jochen began, when Finnius screamed. Whirling about, he raised his torch in time to see his companion jerked upright by one skinny leg, a thick branch wrapped around his calf. Jochen dashed forward, intending to slice the branch in half, but was knocked off his feet by something hard and springy. "Jochen, help me!" Dazed, Jochen got to his feet. He'd managed to hold on to his sword, but Finnius was no longer in sight. "FINNIUS!" Jochen bellowed. His only answer was another terrified scream, but he couldn't tell which direction the scream was coming from. A tree to his left quivered violently. Jochen ran back to Elna, who stood calmly next to her brother, a look of pained sorrow on her face. "Did you see which way Finnius went, Sylvar? And where's Glanealle?" Sylvar only shook his head, face slick with sweat as he tried to look everywhere at once. All around, the woods seemed to be coming to life. Jochen could hear the loud, creaking groan of bending tree limbs and a cacophony of dirt and rocks pelting the forest floor as something massive pulled free from the earth. A vine shot out from the dark and wrapped itself around Sylvar's neck. Elna cried out wordlessly as it dragged her brother to the ground like a lion pulling down a gazelle. Sylvar dropped his sword, clutching at the vine as Jochen screamed in rage. Jochen ran forward and slashed deeply into the vine, but another wrapped around his sword arm while yet another pulled his sword free of his hand. Before Jochen could respond to the new threat, he heard a great rustling sound from above. He looked up to see one of the trees bending over him, great limbs reaching lightning-quick to wrap themselves around his body. He looked around, desperate, as the branches began to squeeze and more wrapped around his legs, his chest, and his neck. He saw Elna's body sinking into a tree trunk as though it were made of nothing more than quicksand; her hand outstretched toward him in a final farewell. Jochen tried to cry out to her, to tell her he was sorry. He should have heeded her warning. He felt his ribs crack, then pop, and the world went black in a sea of agony. # Once the screams had faded and the woods were filled with the music of crickets again, a figure stepped out from the gloom behind the trees. With a sigh that sounded like wind passing through leaves, it knelt next to the man’s corpse. Had Jochen been alive, he would have recognized the figure, though it had changed. Withered vines sprouting tiny flowers grew where thin strands of hair had once been. Its skin had turned a shade of brown and grew patches of verdant moss over its body, but the face was mostly the same. "Sorry, old friend." Its voice was light, almost musical. Another change. "That guard was bad luck for you. We couldn't risk you taking the stone. It’s much too dangerous to be trusted in the hands of men again." Standing, it walked over to Elna's corpse next. Her dead, pale face filled it with suffocating sorrow. An innocent daughter of the forest, but the Dryad's secrets had to be protected. It picked up the elf's broken form and laid it gently next to Jochen. Perhaps they would find comfort in each other's arms in the next life. "I tried to warn you, long ago," it said. "You should have remembered. You knew what my name meant once. Glanealle. It means, 'Guardian of the Grove'."

gw5c2u

A Boy's Best Friend

Three Days Ago I could never hate him. I truly couldn’t. But there was an ache in my brain thinking about what he had done to me, bringing such heavy guilt to set on my back during what I had coveted for years. Anything but that life. That life was as useless to me as a sword was to a librarian or a match to a blacksmith. How could he? I was devastated, alone, and left with a future of sharing meals with the vermin and making deals with the devil. I couldn’t still help but wonder if I was the coward. Current Day  Twelve days. Twelve days since I had escaped my godforsaken town, if one could even call a few huts and a well just that.The gods only knew how many miles I had voyaged, fueled by anger and spite. My feet begged for mercy with each forcing step, the compression biting at my sores. “We just have to make it through this mountain range, Larkly, where a hot warm soup of jlefta and bread rolls wait for us. Or, for me, rather. I assume you’d prefer rabbit”. Not getting a response, I kept climbing, only assuming my companion’s lungs were rather occupied as we climbed. Though my conscious time whispered of months passing, the rotations of the suns fed the truth. One rotation of Oslanda, four of Oshlinda, and six of Ostlenda. I am anything but mathematically inclined, but however daft I may be I knew how to count days. Twenty days, a generous amount of time I had given myself, to persuade my father to not force my kin to crown me the village head. Larkly was as aware as I was that the implications of a dutiful diadem would only widen the gaping hole of misery I felt in the center of my soul. A tad dramatic is what he would tell me when I described it that way, but would he have preferred I called it my lack of a will to live? We continued to walk, my glutes burning and aching as I pressed my legs into the soil beneath me, the crunching of pine needles satisfying my boredom. He walked up next to me, a mischievous smile on his face patiently waiting for my intrigue. “What’s that dumb look on your face for? I know better than to assume you’re just excited for the journey”. His smile only widened. You’ll figure it out eventually his face seemed to tell me, quite too excited. Then, it crept up on me, clingy to my skin and peeling away any sort of inhibition I had been reserving for legitimate obstacles. It punched right into my nostrils, the stench suddenly overbearing, nearly making me wish I was only born with four senses. He read my wrinkling nose and coughing as easily as a wall painting and began laughing, his barks reverberating off the trees around us. “Really? Really? You find some dead… skunks to roll in just when we don’t have water to clean you off with. You foul beast!” I screeched, grabbing at him as though I would enact some sort of vengeance, but he was too quick. Bounding happily ahead, his fluffy white paws crunched on the brush of the forest floor. This was my trusted and loyal travel companion. Wonderful. The sun was about to set and the cold started to set in. I became much more aware of the lack of fur I had on my body, becoming envious of my sidekick furball. Larkly and I stopped at the edge of the last hill, a rocky cascade enveloping the sight that lay ahead. A city, Vertrian, a collective merchant municipality built off the spines of artisans and dreamers, given to the shrewdly wealthy gangs. Fools were devoured by their own gluttony and greed, and the average citizen was about as moral as a wolf surrounded by lamb, but if you were smart, you worked slowly and kept your mouth shut. I had been here once to trade for lamb pelts when the white wolves from the outskirts of the mountain ranges had been driven into their camps by a windstorm. The man was a lepidopterist by practice, but a shepherd by trade. Moths and butterflies don’t feed the family. However, through the event several years ago I had grown a small network within the city. Nobody I had kept up with except for one. Tindy Tournsborough, a woman of nineteen years, the daughter of the shepherd. She lived in the city as an art curator for the wealthy and lived comfortably and so, throughout the ten years between when I had first laid eyes on the tented collective and now, we would visit each other. She passed through to the cities beyond my village for her work and I had come here again when I aided my father in relying on the shepherd’s resources. Now, I was at her door, praying to the gods that her lips, the same ones that had passionately pressed upon mine nineteen months and four days ago, had not lied. She had told me that if my father and I ever decided to change my life’s path I knew where I could stay. A heavy knock thumped on the door. Two knocks. A bark from Larkly, my loyal mutt. I looked around, hoping that I could imagine the shadows pulsing and squirming. Our walk through the city had been no stroll in paradise and I only glanced at Larkly nervously when nobody came to the door. Nine. Ten seconds. I turned around, taking a step off the entrance of a small walkway when the door opened and a light flooded out onto the street. “Well, this is a day I never thought would come.” I whipped around to see the curves of a woman illuminated by a kitchen light wrapped in a silk robe. Tindy’s red curls sprung up from all directions and her soft cheeks were dotted with freckles. “Tindy, I’m sorry I couldn’t warn you of my intent to come, I hope it’s not overstepping-” “Oh nonsense, Paulie,” she interrupted. Larkly seemed to take that as an invite as he trotted on in and sat on the multicolor braided rug mere feet into her home. We both chuckled, knowing that Larkly always knew his way in the world, confidently. I envied him, his precious little green orbs staring at me, a challenge. She stepped to the side and gestured her hand in a welcoming motion towards her house, already twice the size of the one my six-person family had grown up in. What had I gotten myself into? Larkly was the only one who already seemed comfortable with our living arrangements, probably because he could curl into a little ball at the end of the couch and I had to do the same, only I wasn’t a twenty-pound dog. Tindy had been even more nervous that I was to be there, though she had to get over the initial disgust at the pungent stench that Larkly had brought with him. She claimed today we would go shopping together since all the clothes I had brought, the same clothes I had worn the day I left home, wouldn’t do. I didn’t want to tell her that I would rather watch grass grow, since to me it was about the same, but there was nothing in the world I could do to wipe that beautiful, cheesy smile off her face. “Somebody has to make sure I don’t act a fool again. You’re coming with, whether you like it or not”. Larkly huffed a breath out his snout as he continued to brood on the couch, preferring to rest after such a long journey. I also suspected other motives of his mood that morning but, alas, I was not going to put up with his pouting. Tindy strutted out of her room wearing a pair of thick-framed black glasses, a red pair of high boots, and a black pashmina shawl. Stylish, per usual, my own dirty clothes suddenly asking to be incinerated. But I could never part with the cloth that covered my awkwardly framed body, the ones sewn with love by my mother, the hides peeled off the meat of our animals. Their animals. Not mine anymore. Under the shade of the cotton awnings, Tindy, Larkly, and I searched for what felt like hours. Vendors called us out by whatever characteristic they thought would grasp onto our attention. Dog boy! Strawberry woman! Larkly had nearly gotten them killed when he snatched a pear off the edge of a merchant’s caravan, sprinting like hell when a man with a peg leg started hobbling after him. We both chuckled and continued on, as though nothing had happened. We made our way through the boundless market, stopping to breathe in an alley cooled by the dewy mist that carried down the mountains, unfelt in the suffocated streets. Here, I began to smile as the optimistic beginning of a life I had yearned for came to yield. How many nights had I stayed awake in that rickety farmhouse, imagining futures and trivial things such as sharing a ham sandwich with my fellow dreamers? I looked down at Larkly in hopes of catching a smile once I heard his panting halt, but his eyes laid on something further down the alley. I turned to see what he had and my heart skipped a beat. A man blocked the shadows of the rats, his large build creating an intimidating atmosphere that reverberated down my spine, such a familiar dread that came with it. I took a step back. “How did you find me?” I asked. He stepped forward and his eyes slid to Tindy. No. She wouldn’t. Couldn’t . “That’s not even possible, she wasn’t aware of my arrival. Plus she wouldn’t. Right Tindy?” I looked over to see her eyes droop, her freckles bunched as she winced. How was this even possible? “I had a feeling where you would go, and seeing there was nowhere else you knew, and like a logical traveler, I took the stallion here. I told her, should Paulius come to you, bring him to this alley and we will meet,” the voice boomed. My dream. My life. Larkly stayed in the same place, frozen. Frozen or willful, I did not know. As for Tindy, well, she was dead to me already. I didn’t even blink in her direction as I continued to listen. “Do you know the pain of a father whose son does not love him? I searched everywhere for you when I awoke the morning after you left. This world does not thread its blessings into my life lightly, I am not willing to give you up as easily as you would hope. I have come here every day since I arrived, hoping that Tindy would bring you to me. Come home, son. It is your duty .” “No,” I said without hesitation. He snorted. “Are you so stubborn and selfish in your own ways to realize that we need you and you need us? You may not love us but our hearts are not complete without you. You do not belong in this city. Let your fun end here and I will let you visit this… pig sty again.” “I may have lost my only reason for visiting, though you do not lie in insinuating that pigs occupy this city.” A low blow I shot towards Tindy, but her face was still angled towards my father. “ I will create my own life here. The village is not where I belong and time has only proven that! Don’t try to make me go because I won’t”. I felt the desperation again, the same one I had felt those many suns ago when I had tried to convince him of the same. I could feel the ghost of a hand on my shoulder as Tindy reached over but I swatted her hand away. My father began walking towards me and I backed up, step by step, knowing that if he grabbed me I would not be able to escape his clutches again. I prepared myself to run, but I stopped, realizing that Larkly still had not moved. “Larkly, come on, let’s go.” He did not move, though his small head looked over his shoulder to watch my face contort in anger. “ Larkly, come” I commanded. Why would he not move? “It seems your mutt has more sense than you, boy.” I didn’t understand. I looked into his eyes, the only ones I thought had understood me all these years. If humans weren’t to be trusted, I would have hoped nature and all its creatures would not share the same fault. A sadness sparkled in the green depth, as though to say this was the only way. My best friend, the one who had helped me create this dream, ready to give up so soon? “I would sooner live on the streets with the filth than to go back with you,” I spat. Bold words for somebody who had nothing, but I didn’t think as I sprinted back into the market, not looking back as I zipped between flowing dresses and grimy men. The heat stung my face but I kept running, my eyes racing from tent to tent, trying to find somewhere to hide. It wasn’t until nightfall that I stopped moving, finally turning around to see nobody behind me in the alley. I fell against the slick wall and slid down, putting my hands in my face. Why? Why would she do this? Had my father offered her some sort of money? For all the authority he had, I knew he was not flush. He did not love me. There were long, spindly scars on my back and thighs to prove that. I had made my resolve with my decision and reflected on what he had said, thankful that Larkly and I had taken a new route to Vertrian. Larkly. I didn’t understand how he could have done this. Sure, Tindy I had not seen in over a year so the pain, although fresh and raw, did not cut as deep at the loss of my companion. Had I not been so wrapped up in the adventurous anxiety and doldrums of my choices I may have even seen it coming. But Larkly, never in a million years. I almost wondered if he was right. A wet raindrop brushed my cheek and I recoiled, looking up frightful of the downpour to come. I lowered my head to see that, in front of me, sat a dog. A scruffy, lovable, little mutt. How he found me only the gods knew. And I embraced him as he nudged his way between my knees, smothering my sweaty face in licks, because for all the fates in the world, for my stubbornness and failure, I knew he would follow me anywhere. “Okay buddy, we got work to do. It’s time to go rebuild that network”. He barked and the joy his exuberance filled me with was enough to make me stand up, ready to take on the world. 

yosmjp

Red Feather Flight

Red Feather Flight By Marc Stutzel Eagle Tehan is mindfully sensing the afternoon's northern breezes as the tranquil young man sits upright, yet relaxed, with lids gently closed.  His legs dangle over a wooden platform that sits atop a Great Grandaddy-sized lofty Red Oak. The focused young man is full-blooded First Peoples in heritage: his mother, Cherokee, and his father, Lacota. Eagle’s stocky, lean, well-defined muscular anatomy is fitted with cream-colored leather shorts. His Indigenous DNA-expressed bronze skin is gently toned from copious sun-time-induced melanin dispersal.  He chose the briefs to allow him the largest skin surface area to sense and, thus, analyze the temperature and speed of the intermittently fluctuating breezes flowing around his body. Eagles’ physique is that of a powerfully built athlete: stocky and lean, with well-defined muscular anatomy. The disciplined young man's multi-sport physique is balanced with predominantly upper-body muscle mass atop thick marathon-trained legs.  Eagles mid-back, shiny raven black ponytail is tied with a braided leather strip embellished with a red raptor flight feather that dances rhythmically with the slightest breeze. A poke-berry-dyed purple headband adorns his scalp. His necklace holds a string of polished half-inch turkey leg bones. In contrast to his impressive physique, Eagle’s demeanor is quiet, kind, and compassionate. The intermittent breezes Eagle is sensing stem from passing thermals. He feels the breeze temperatures on his face, outstretched forearms, legs, and bare torso. Warm, moist, rising air passes along his bare body, then transforms into dry, cool, down drafts between the thermals. The breezy cycle repeats, although not in an easily predicted pattern. Predicting the upcoming thermal requires another sense: vision. These wars of the winds result in ‘funder and lighting,’ as his grandmother used to call a storm when he got scared by the booms. Her name was Ahyoka, and she did “bring happiness,” as her Cherokee name defined her. She taught him how to count between the boom-booms so he knew when the next would sound out. As a child, he would still hug her until the worst of the funder passed. Eagle is training his bird brain, sensing the breezes on his well-defined lean muscular anatomy. He looks forward to his first hang-gliding lesson that needs to wait until a South day, a required incoming wind direction for the South-facing training hill. Until then, he must remain patient with a head full of book knowledge on aerodynamics, micrometeorology, and all the safety rules accompanying any hang glider pilot. He learned early on to think of the wind as a fluid like water. The wind passing over a mountain top where one flies produces eddies and swirls just as water over a creek rock. Danger lies in those wind currents and can toss a glider without warning. It can happen in a field behind a mountain. One must pick their landing zones carefully. There are formulas to figure danger zones based on wind speed and mountain height. Flying is an art and is filled with science. Eagle has a Type-T personality, T designating thrills, which he inherited from his dad, Mato, and what a Bear he was. Mato saw his son's brave nature at an early age, which he thought was a little too courageous sometimes. Thus, Mato guided his son with wisdom: “Have fun and be safe. Thrills without the spills.” As Eagle feels the breezes pass over his body, he hears a distinctive high-pitched, drawn-out teeeeeee. He knows that bird. He has followed her for many years. She has a nest close by. He looks up. Sure enough, a graceful brown and rust Red-Tailed Hawk circles overhead, riding a thermal, attaining hundreds of feet in ascension with each three-hundred-and-sixty-degree circle. Eagle, “Hello, pretty Red Feather. Oh, how I envy you. Someday, I will fly beside you in a glider.” Eagle rolls over, setting his body prone like Red Feather. He lies prone, head hanging over the deck, stretching his arms laterally. Then, he closes his eyes and focuses his mind, envisioning his arms as wings floating aloft on the warm breezes, imitating Red Feather's soaring position. Eagle reminisces about returning to a Northern Great Plains plateau that he reached after an extensive morning hike. He is in awe, overlooking the great grass prairie. Buffalo graze, half buried in the wind, undulating waves of tall grasses as they roll across the vast expanse of the prairie as far as his eye can see. A herd of horses farther to the north are running towards him. Drawn to the wild herd of painted ponies, Eagle feels the strong and steady incoming breeze on his face and outstretched arms.  He gazes skyward towards the sun. And behold, there she is. Red Feather soars between him and the hot yellow orb, her shadow cast upon him. Eagle closes his eyelids, and, feeling the strong, steady, warm breeze, Eagle launches. He drops down the cliff face to gain airspeed, then gently levels off with a gentle wing adjustment to lift his leading wing edges to slow and feel the updraft from the incoming steady breeze. He rapidly feels the uplifting air from the wind hitting the cliff face and then heading upward. That’s it. Ridge lift. He reacts to the winds lift effect on his wings by gracefully banking right and speeding up slightly ninety degrees. The turning maneuver loses him a little elevation but gains him that sweet spot gliding parallel to the cliff face. He is taking advantage amid the smooth breeze of ridge lift, a sweet spot distant from the cliff's rocky edge and the wind shadow where there is no wind, a potentially perilous no-fly zone. Eagle is relaxed, enjoying a steady, smooth gain in altitude with his wings set for best glide, a speed safely beyond stalled, and losing elevation with too much speed. Not too slow, not too fast, but just right for his current requirement to attain the best lift aerodynamics. Developing a bird's wind sense is critical to a long life of airborne survival. A sense one must demand upon themselves as their sapien brain evolves from a wingless terrestrial bound creature into a proficiently trained thoughtless bird brain with the spinal cord reflexes required to become ‘one with the wind.’ Eagle releases a long shrill, “Teeeeeeeeeeeee….” as he is lifted skyward towards the plateau of the ridge in the breeze's strong, smooth, steady current. Soon, he will be well above launch. He can feel it, and Eagle is soaring along and above the cliff's rim edge within minutes. Miles off to his left is the gorgeous galloping equine herd headed his way. Eagle must use a bird's best skills to fly into the wind. Eagle hears a voice within, ’First we must gain the highest altitude possible in the ridge lift then fly into the wind meeting the thermals”. The steady incoming North wind is enough to gain him a thousand feet above launch. At the peak altitude, he scans the prairie grasses and notices an undulation-breaking rhythm out of the prairie grass in sync with the surrounding undulations. The out-of-sync tall prairie grass movements continue towards him and into the trees, leaves rustling below him at the base of the cliff. He suddenly realizes his vision is acute as if wearing field glasses. He is not surprised to feel a warmer wind pushing him back over the plateau. He banks North straight into it, rotating his wings to an angle wherein his forward speed is equal to the incoming thermal wind speed. The resultant vectors cancel each other out, and he finds himself stationary, floating above launch. The upward-rising thermal wind raises him higher than he had gained with ridge lift alone. Eagle feels the breeze slightly cooler, causing a reflex within him to angle his body downward to gain speed. He thinks, ‘Fly fast in cold sinking air, slow in warm rising air, the former to race to the latter’ as he leaves the plateau and heads out over the vast expansive open prairie towards the herd heading his way and the Bison herds. ‘Meet me halfway, pretty ponies, meet me halfway.’  A medium-sized growing cumulus with a darkening, flat base is next in a cloud street heading his way. Eagle is screaming along at an impressive airspeed into the wind, although much slower about ground speed, as he courses high above the Bison. They behave entirely at ease as they meander haphazardly, doing what they do best: munching on prairie grasses. Calves from the spring birth season lay around and look to be asleep.  Eagle passes under the cloud, now even more significant. He is only about one thousand feet above the prairie when he feels his right-wing lift and reflexively banks into the warm, moist, rising thermal air. With each circle, the Buffalo below appear smaller. A few turns and a thousand feet higher, his bird brain knows he can make it to the horses on his next glide but continues his rapid ascension. ‘Teeeeee, is he ever having fun as he climbs well over five hundred feet per minute. It is getting quite cold now. He is rising too fast. He pulls in his wings and dives out of the strong cloud suck.  He shoots out of the thermal as he descends into the cooler air, then slows and inclines less sharply towards the herd, picking up more speed.  Eagle now sees a large white, black, and brown splotchy painted pinto carrying a man mounted bareback leading the herd. As Eagle glides closer, he realizes it is his grandfather, with his feather-adorned sun-bleached white braids flapping rhythmically in the wind as he bounds along astride the mighty steed. A bow and quiver of arrows hang from the left shoulder of Black Elk's dark, leathery skin, outlining his well-defined, lean, muscular body. Eagle, soul embodied, dives as he emits a long, single shrill, “Teeeeeee....” Grandfather looks skyward towards him. Black Elk holds his arms laterally, upward, and forward in an embracing gesture and starts chanting. Eagle, now overhead, turns in steep banking circles, rapidly dropping in elevation. With weight shifting and leg action, Grandfather slows the pinto to a halt. The tawny warrior projects his right arm to his side as he continues chanting. Eagle circles once more, banks, and makes his final glide toward his Spiritual Warrior guide. Dropping his tail and slightly flaring his wings, he slowly decreases his speed. At the last instant, Eagle fully flares his wings, stalling completely to alight gently upon his grandfather’s forearm. Eagle folds his wings.     Grandfather speaks in the archaic First Peoples Lacota tongue, “Greetings, my grandson. I am happy you have found the gift within such a lovely bird to share your spiritual journey. It will soon be time for you to join me in your quest to learn the old ways of the Great Spirit world. Your mind has grown with this gift and is prepared to start your journey to learn the teachings of our fathers. I am saddened for you as well. Soon, your heart will be broken, and you will cry many tears. I will be waiting for your return here in the tall grass prairies. I will guide your healing and growth into a strong warrior and Spiritual Traveler.”     Eagle Tehan feels the floor against the front of his torso, legs, and arms. He looks to the West to see Red Feather. She is gone. Eagle does not need to look. He knows. He twists his neck to gaze straight overhead, and there she is, floating above him, eclipsed with the sun, and he is her shadow. Eagle becomes engulfed in her fully dilated black pupils and projects, ‘Thank you, Red Feather, spirit sister.’ Red Feather glides North, catching an incoming thermal, then banks gently right and starts circling. She gains sufficient altitude, then tucks and dives over the upwind ridge. Eagle knows Red Feather is nestward bound. He closes his eyes and feels a warm, moist breeze flow over his body.

0zd5ks

The Phoenix

Everyone had scattered after the shootout. Everyone that is, except Cal. He couldn’t run. He had been shot. Nothing to do but just lay there on the cold, hard pavement. Waiting, bleeding. Gritting his teeth, biding his time. Off in the distance, he could hear the wail of sirens getting closer, ever closer. That wasn’t good. He really didn’t want to go to the hospital. Too many questions, too much paperwork. It wasn’t a good idea for him to be in the system. Not at all. For many reasons. He’d rather just have one of the guys in his posse fix him up. A stiff shot of whiskey and some gauze tightly wrapped would stop the bleeding. The bullet had only grazed him. It didn’t penetrate, he tried to tell himself, though his body told him differently. It hurt like hell, but he was tough. He could take it. He could take it. He repeated that statement to himself like a mantra. It was his last thought as he fell into unconsciousness. Somehow Cal had lived. He had survived. Miraculously. And he had gotten out of the system the only way he knew how. He cut a deal, a deal that would take effect as soon as he was fully healed. He felt his physical wounds were penanance enough. Going to prison would serve no great purpose. He had already suffered plenty. He had once vowed he would never be a squealer. He would never rat out the blood brothers in his gang. But when push came to shove, he had no choice. After the bullet was painstakingly removed and some powerful narcotics were undoubtedly addling his brains, he had spilled his guts – relentlessly, ruthlessly. His betrayal was a quid pro quo . He gave names and excruciating details to the pigs about everything – the shooting, the drug deals, the scams. He was a true narc. In exchange for his monumental betrayal, he received no prison time. He also received a new identity. A new life. Cal became Carl. He thought ironically of his gang, the Carrions, and their motto – Death on one level means life on another. It wasn’t any sort of religious epiphany or promise of eternal salvation, however. The gang had used that motto to justify their violent methods. Their mascot was the carrion, a scavenger bird. The vulture feasting on the bloody entrails of its victims. The Carrions consumed the life blood of others in order to survive. They took what they wanted, using threats and extortion to achieve their ends. It was permissible to hurt, even kill someone, anyone, for any reason, if it allowed a Carrion to thrive. They were modern day pirates, on Harley motorcycles instead of ships, pillaging and plundering their way through life with no regard for others. Cal just needed to rethink the motto. Death on one level means life on another. He needed to spin it in a different way. The ends still justified the means. Now, however, he was a new bird. The death of his former self and his true identity had given birth to another. Fight or flight, and he now chose to fly. This Carrion, a scavenger bird, had now turned into a phoenix, rising triumphantly from the carnage and the ashes of his blood brothers, his fellow carrions. Soon he would soar high above the clouds. Alone, unhindered. After an initial twinge, when he first started blabbing to the feds, he discovered that his conscience pricked him not in the slightest. In the struggle between gang allegiance and self-preservation, the self always won. He would never return to the gang again. What had they ever truly done for him anyway besides get him shot? He was done with that way of life. For good. Cal was now Carl. The Carrion was now a phoenix. There was one person left in the gang who still mattered to him, however. There was one exception to this rule of ultimate self preservation. One person could entice him to drop his cover and still act loyal to the gang – his nephew, Dean. He would do whatever it took to keep Dean safe, even if that meant rejoining the Carrions, even if it was just for show. Dean was a scared young kid who had somehow fallen into the Carrion way of life to support his burgeoning drug habit. As drug dealers often do, the gang had used a sweet-faced, young kid to ply their trade and collect their money. And as often happened, Dean ended up getting hooked himself. He had gotten addicted to the merchandise. After collecting the money from drug deals, instead of turning it into his supplier, and following the Carrion chain of command, Dean had kept the money himself to buy more drugs. Sometimes he didn’t sell the drugs at all, but just used them himself. He was the kid in the proverbial candy store, sampling all the candy until it made him sick. His own needs trumped those of the Carrions. He just needed his fix and he needed it right away – consequences be damned. Yes, Dean was in way too deep and couldn’t see his way out. Cal was painfully aware that if this continued, Dean would come to no good end. He would kill himself with an overdose, or the Carrions would resort to strong arm tactics and teach him a painful lesson, a lesson that the kid might never recover from. No, the outcome would not be pretty. Cal was desperate. He knew he needed to do some sort of intervention with the kid, both to get him off drugs and to get him out of the Carrions. At the very least, whether Cal was still in the Carrions or not, he knew he needed to still watch over Dean to make sure he didn’t get hurt. Whatever it took. Dean was simply too fragile. Too expendable.  Yet Cal knew if he rejoined the gang, he would also be in trouble. It would mean a certain death. The gang would surely discover that he had ratted them out to the feds. They weren’t stupid. Cal was no longer a Carrion. The only way out of the gang was to die. It was a known fact. Prospective members knew that when joining the gang. Blood in, blood out. Cal felt that he had already spilled enough blood for the Carrions. He was lucky to have survived the shooting. He simply couldn’t survive prison. Nor should he have to. He had a choice. Cal was no more. He had become Carl. But like the phoenix flying too close to the sun, Cal would burn his wings and crash to the ground in a painful ball of fire if the Carrions discovered his betrayal. His new life. Yes, it could, and would, happen if he dropped his cover, even for a moment. He only hoped it would never get to that extreme. He prayed that Dean wouldn’t get himself into any deeper trouble. Somehow the kid needed to get himself clean and out of the Carrions. Before it was too late. For both of them. Naturally, it was only a matter of time before Dean’s sticky fingers caught up to him. The Carrions soon discovered missing money from Dean’s drug sales. Dean had become careless, and the money trail wasn’t hard to follow. The gang sent its usual enforcer to collect. If Dean did not come up with the money, the enforcer’s mission was to mete out the usual Carrion punishment. “Death on one level means life on another. You haven’t forgotten, have you kid? We’re Carrions. If you’re not true to the gang, it can mean your death. This Carrion will go right on living, though, feasting on your corpse,” the hard looking biker said. “Remember the drill?" The tough looking bearded man flexed his tattooed biceps where a fierce looking black bird with its beak poking into something red and nasty seemed to move with his words. The skinny, strung out kid swallowed. He could feel himself giving into panic. The room seemed to be closing in on him. Spots danced before his eyes. He couldn’t breathe or even respond as the man continued speaking. “But first, you’re going to give me the take. The take that you stole from us. Didya think we wouldn’t find out? Do ya think we’re idiots? Some dude even died cause of you. He wasn’t even in the gang, but we thought he had the money. We were wrong,” the biker then swore. “Not that his death was a big loss”, he amended with an evil grimace. Suddenly, he reached into the pocket of his leather vest and pulled out a big, black gun, waving it around for emphasis. The kid swallowed, saying nothing. “So, where’s the money?” the biker asked, continuing to wave the gun around. “I don’t have it right now,” the kid replied, licking his cracked lips. “Give me some time,” he pleaded. “I’ll get it to you, I promise. Please …” “Yeah, I can see where that money went, and I don’t really trust that you can get more. I know where your money goes. Do you think I can’t see your habit? It’s written all over that scabby face of yours. And I see your shaking hands. Your time is running out, my druggy friend.” “Please, I’ll do anything,” the kid begged. “Too late,” the biker said and pulled the trigger. The kid dove for the floor as the shot went wild. A second shot sounded from the doorway in rapid succession. In horror, the kid covered his head with his hands, certain he was about to die. He heard a resounding crash as the biker fell backward, hitting a table before collapsing on the floor not far away. “Relax, Dean.” The kid heard a familiar voice that seemed to cover from beyond the grave. “I got your back,” the voice said, continuing, “I know you thought I was gone, but I’m back, just in time to save your sorry ass.” Silence greeted his words. Too stunned to speak, Dean lay on the floor mute. He couldn’t seem to move a muscle as he let this news sink in. His uncle, the one he had worshiped all his life, was here. Cal was alive. Come back from the dead. Back to save him. As soon as the shock wore off, the kid slowly, painfully got to his feet. He was filled with questions. How had his protector, his uncle, survived the bullet wound he had received months ago? And how had he escaped doing time? How did he end up here? How did he know where and when to step in, just in time to save Dean? And where did they go from here? The kid didn’t know what to think. Dean didn’t want to touch or even look at the biker’s body. He was perfectly fine with letting his aggressor lie where he fell. Dean carelly avoided looking at the fallen Carrion, although he couldn’t help but see, out of the corner of his eye, the blood pooling around the man and staining the already dirty tile floor. The image was permanently imprinted in his brain even when he closed his eyes. When he finally opened his eyes and stole another glance at the fallen man, he shuddered, realizing how close he had come to being that body on the floor, rapidly bleeding out. He must have looked as shaken as he felt, because Cal turned to him and spoke. “You need to pull yourself together and disappear quick, man. I'm sure someone in the neighborhood probably heard those shots. We gotta get out of here before cops come.” Cal was in no man’s land, caught between the gang and the cops. He now had betrayed both groups. There was no way he would ever disclose to the feds Dean’s involvement in the gang, and the drug deal gone bad, let alone how Cal himself had just shot a Carrion enforcer. He needed to now disappear. Quickly. The phoenix needed to once again fly away. Dean needed to fly away too. They were standing in a small room off to the side of a large open warehouse area. The room had probably once been an office, empty now save for a small table on which rested a heavy glass ashtray, overflowing with ashes. “Are you sure they can’t trace me? What if I left prints or something?” Dean asked worriedly. “Did you touch anything?” Cal asked. “I can’t remember. It’s all a blur,” Dean answered. “Well, there’s nothing we can do about it now. As long as they don’t find a murder weapon, they can’t trace anything to you,” Cal said. “I’ll make sure the guns are never found. Don’t worry.” Of course, Cal knew just what to do. He always did. He had always had a sixth sense about things – a sixth sense that was almost spooky. Dean wanted to ask him more, but sensed now was not the time to rehash things – although he really wanted to know how and why Cal had been resurrected and how he had ended up here. Just in the nick of time. Concentrating on the matter at hand, and blocking out the image of the fallen man, Dean forced his feet to move. Slipping out the back door leading into a narrow alley, he wanted nothing more than to melt forever into the night, never to return. He wanted to be like Cal. He wanted a fresh start. Before he took his leave, Dean turned his head and looked beseechingly at his uncle. A little bit of that long ago hero worship still rested in the kid’s dazed eyes. “Will I see you again?” The kid asked around the suddenly painful lump in his throat. “I don’t know.” Cal answered honestly. “I suggest you find the money though and give them what they want. Don’t put the money up your nose. Next time, I may not be around to save you.”

m08t0l

Not Your Perfect Heist

I don’t know if perfect heist is the best way to frame what I finally accomplished last Thursday. My name is Beans and that’s what I prefer to be called; don’t put a mister or doctor or reverend or any other term of endearment in front of it. Just Beans. Quick history since I know you are wondering. People who read are always nosy as all get up. So, here’s the scoop. Since I was little my daddy used to tell me and everybody who met me that I would never amount to no more than a hill of beans. Then he’d make me wear white starched shirts with stiff collars and told me a man has to dress for success. I’d say, “ but Daddy you tell everybody I won’t amount to no more than a hill of beans. Why do I got to dress up ?” He’d say “ It’s up to you what that hill of beans is worth, Son. Don’t never let anybody tell you what you worth. You be the beans that everybody wants to be around because you got it going on. Your great great granddaddy was a third cousin to a brother named George Washington Carver way back in the day. Carver didn’t have squat…no mama, no daddy, nothing or nobody to brag about. He just quietly went about doing what he was put here to do. He worried every plant, seed or leaf he could get a hold of until he figured out what they were here for and before long folks was calling him the plant doctor. Pretty soon he had folks using peanuts for over 300 different things and using soybeans to manufacture paint.” My daddy told me a version of that story so many times that I wouldn’t wear sweats or cutoffs or such anywhere but around the house. That story also perked my interest about paint and it didn’t take long for me to see what I could cook up with some paint and a homemade canvas. We had a storage shed behind our little house in Hillsborough, California USA and I turned that little place into my own little art studio. I didn’t know much of anything going in but I made it my business to dib and dabble until my creations even made me take a second look. The day I graduated from middle school, my Daddy said, “ Beans, you got to bring home some bacon too. Get you a job.” I don’t know if you know anything about this town of Hillsborough in northern California but it wasn’t like it was a place where a brown skinned 14- year old like me could just walk into a store and say You hiring . Shoot, the whole time I was at Crocker Middle School I didn’t see anybody anywhere that looked anything like me ever. Before you go to the internet I’ll tell you myself. Hillsborough is one of the richest towns in America and the reason we had a little house there was because my daddy inherited it from the folks he worked for. Mama worked for the Willford family while she was going to Cal Berkeley and Daddy said they cried like babies when she left to take a teaching job at Menlo College. She might still be here if she had stayed at the Willford’s but that’s another story. Don’t even ask. Daddy and Mr. Willford loved restoring classic cars and when Daddy would pick up Mama from work he just kept coming to the Willford’s house earlier and earlier so he could talk shop with Mr. Wilford. Mr. Willford must have had ten or more cars at the house and Daddy said even more in storage. When Mama left the Willford’s they hired Daddy to help around the property but mostly with the cars. The Willfords were way up in age and my Daddy drove them around and took care of them until they left here. They never had kids and they left the property down the hill and a couple cars to Daddy. Daddy said the Willfords died up to their necks in debt but he was grateful for the unexpected blessing. In my mind I had my whole summer planned out after graduation. I was going to sleep late, grab a bite and head to the shed to turn out masterpieces. Getting a job was not anywhere on my mind. I know one thing though. I knew better than to protest. Nope. I hopped on my bicycle dressed in my white starched shirt that Monday after graduation and headed downtown. I figured Safeway or 31 flavors might just give me a chance to shine and neither of them gave me the time of day. They both said ‘C come back when you’re 16 .’ I thought to myself, they don’t know my Daddy. I cannot go home without a job. I biked up that hill to Crocker sweating like a smokehouse to see if they had something for me. Ms. Kavorski, the guidance counselor, made me wait for an hour but then let me come in her office so I could watch her look on her computer for job openings. I was hoping they would let me tutor some 6 th graders or something but she just shook her head and said “ Sorry but you have to be 16 to work in the school district ”. Then she put on her counseling hat and asked me what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. I said, “ Well I’ve been painting for two years and I have a shed full of masterpieces. The last two should be in that San Francisco Airport Museum but they probably have an age limit too .” Then I said, “ Ms. Kavorski could you please tell me what is so special about 16 ? She looked at me and said “ Do you have a lawn mower, dear ?” I thought to myself, If I am really a descendant of George Washington Carver then I ought to be able get my paintings into the airport museum and earn enough to shut Daddy’s mouth for a couple of summers. Out loud I said, “ Ms. Kavorski, this is Hillsborough. Folks here hire professional landscapers to push the mowers. I can’t compete with them .” She said, “ Mr. Davon, I appreciate your gift of gab and your desire to be productive but I have a plane to catch so you’re going to need to scoot so I can get out of here .” I was too through and said, “ Please, please remember to call me Beans, Okay. My name is Beans and thank you for your time. I’m headed down town to the Coffee Shop and I am going to tell them all the reasons they should hire a kid named Beans to do all their grinding.” I did get that job and worked a bunch of summers and even some school breaks for years and years. Daddy was thrilled to have his son earning his keep. I also kept painting and knew that it was just a matter time before my art masterpieces were displayed in museums not just here but all over the planet. Yup, that was my dream and every time I looked up and saw a plane I’d say oh yeah my time is coming. Fast forward to last Thursday night. After I dropped Daddy off at the airport I couldn’t just pull off. The policeman kept waving me on but I just sat there thinking there is no better time than the present to make a dream come true. I popped open the trunk, grabbed my latest masterpiece entitled “Mule Dung Rides Again” and my tool box and sprinted into the airport like I was late for a flight.  I didn’t care about Daddy’s 1966 Mustang or the policeman. I just headed on foot in the direction of the airport museum on a mission. I was all the way out of breath when I got to what looked life an office or information station for the museum. I didn’t have any questions and I didn’t need any information. I just looked about for the best spot for my masterpiece, grabbed the right tools from my kit, broke a little glass that stood between me and my dream and very carefully removed the present display and made room for my “Mule Dung Rides Again”. I very meticulously set my work on the easel previously occupied by a work whose time was up and my work looked magnificent. It was at that moment that I understood beyond measure what my Daddy meant when he said a man should dress for success. I looked at my masterpiece and just stood there with my right hand pointing to my painting. Art by Beans right here, right now.  I didn’t even see the broken glass nor did I hear the footsteps of security or police or anybody. In my mind I had arrived and those footsteps running toward me were adoring fans coming to see Beans’ greatest work ever. It was a moment in time and I didn’t mind the handcuffs nor the brutal way they hauled me away. In my mind I now stood in the shoes of Picasso or Carver or any of the greats. What would come would simply come. An epic moment I’ll call it and as I said earlier probably not a moment one would call a perfect heist , but certainly a moment worth sharing, don’t you think?

9c94my

Bitter Twisted

Everything felt off and I couldn’t place my finger on it. The air had an unseasonal bite to it tonight, prickling my skin and setting my nose running. Usually this time of year the weather would be calm and cool but lately the winds had taken to screaming through the streets, turning every bit of rain into shards of ice, biting and cruel. Squalls of it pounded me now as I crouched in a rancid alleyway waiting for the remainder of my team. Whilst the weather was a discomfort, it was not the reason for my disquiet. Things had not been going well lately, not for any of us. Our people had been getting sprung left, right and centre and others had simply vanished. Now there were so few of us left. It was as if we were suddenly cursed but life goes on and we still needed to eat. Stopping was not an option. Not even when something felt this wrong. All I could do was suppress the feeling that someone was doing this to us. There was a scuffing sound behind me. I didn’t turn. I didn’t need to. “You’re late, Brother.” It felt like I had been waiting forever and my demeanour was as cold as the sleet pelting me. “Looks like everyone is,” he replied, his fingers stuffed under his armpits. “Can you really blame us? Weather’s miserable.” Irritation stirred in my gut. “Yes I can blame you. You of all people should know better.” Rybin was always so casual, so blasé. He had escaped by the skin of his teeth on his last job, the dalgrue hot on his heels. He’d gone underground for a couple of days until the heat died down. I’d searched for him in all the usual places but to no avail. As it turned out, he’d been hiding in a brothel. How he’d paid for his stay was a mystery as our pockets held nothing but moths these days. He hadn’t said and I didn’t ask. I don’t think I wanted to know. But Rybin could take care of himself. It’s not as though that had been his first brush with the dalgrue. “Hey, I’m not the only one that’s late.” Two figures turned into the street huddled close together under their cloaks looking like lovers caught in a storm. Babette and Luc. They were another thing that added unease to the night. I hadn’t worked with them before though they had been a part of our collective for years. Their reputation was one of spontaneous, reactionary work. Never planning, always diving head first. They were far more suited to Rybin’s personality than to my methodical one but I had no choice. My crew had been Rybin’s crew. It had been fate that I had fallen ill that night and now, this, this was the last of us. “Seems like I’m right on time actually,” he continued as he stepped out into the street just enough to be seen by the couple. We stayed where we were, heads turned in opposite directions looking for any sign of the dalgrue, a flicker of silver shoulder bars or badge, but the weather hid hid as much as it hid us. Babette and Luc had stopped before a gate, Babette’s form hunched as she fiddled with the lock, Luc standing beside her, head on a swivel. The gate swung open, its squeaking hinges only faintly audible over the clink of ice on cobblestones. A low whistle sounded out signalling us to join them. As we reached them the lock to the house clicked open, Babette’s deft fingers making quick work of it, and we slipped inside out of the cold and into the darkness. My sense of apprehension grew in that musty, dark hollow, the sound of our dripping cloaks echoing into the void. Rybin had scouted this job himself. The empty house of some middle class bureaucrat that was vacationing elsewhere, chasing warmer weather. But for all the emptiness it was supposed to be, it did not feel empty at all. A lighter snicked, once, twice, and a flame sparked to life. Luc fed it to his dark lantern and, half closing the slide, limited the light to a narrow beam. “Where are we going, Rybin?” Yet another thing that rubbed me the wrong way. My brother was the only one that knew anything. There had been zero preparations for this. Not even a layout drawn in the dirt. It was all based on what Rybin had learnt from who knows where. Most likely some not-to-bright scullery maid or perhaps one of the whores he’d sequestered himself with. “He has an office beyond the main hall with a safe,” he replied, pointing between the sweeping staircases to the great doors beyond. Babette was shaking her head. “I’m not too good with safes, Rybin. You know that.” “But it’s worth a try,” he dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “Other than that, there’s plenty of silver decorations and I was told he showers his wife with jewellery. She can’t have taken it all with her but we’ll start in the office.” Luc led the way with the lantern, his fingers gripping the shutter in case he needed to quickly douse the light. Slipping forward, Babette put an ear to the hall doors but soon pushed them open and we filed through after her, Rybin bringing up the rear. As the lamp light moved passed them, gilded frames and candelabras glittered faintly, like fireflies on a summer's night. The candlesticks would be easy enough to carry should Babette be unable to open the safe but money was preferable. Easy to carry, untraceable and no need to involve some suspect pawn broker who would take a more than healthy cut. Babette pushed forward again to listen at the door. I had to admit that while they were rumoured to be careless in planning, the couple had exercised caution at every step. I could feel the tension in them. It clung to them. Perhaps they too shared my misgivings. The handle turned and Babette flashed us a concerned look. Of all the rooms in a house, offices were usually locked. We all held our breaths as the door swung silently open. “Hello there,” crooned a smug voice. Babette squealed, jerking back in surprise to thud into Luc. He dropped the lantern and it cracked open on impact spilling fuel across the floor. The flame took to it, hungry and devouring, and within the blink of an eye the entire room was filled with light. We ran. No hesitation, no second thoughts. But there was no escape. Rybin stood at the main hall doors. None of us had noticed that he hadn’t followed us across the room. With a face cold as ice, he flung the doors wide and there stood a group of dalgrue, their truncheons gripped tightly in their hands. “Brother?” My voice was choked with shock as every bit of unease settled into my stomach like a sickening weight. “What have you done?” The man from the office swiftly moved across the room to rip a curtain from the window. He began beating at the flames, the rhythm thumping along with my own heart, but I could not take my eyes from Rybin. “Brother?” But the word no longer applied. What brother would do such a thing? “She was mine, Jasper,” he said as the dalgrue moved into the room. They fanned out about us, moving to block any escape. “What are you talking about?” “Chantelle. She was mine,” he hissed through his teeth. An unknown rage, I never knew he harboured, oozed from every pore. I shook my head in disbelief. “She was never yours, Rybin. She was not a possession.” “She was mine!” His voice bellowed through the hall. “You stole her and then you killed her! Just like you did my mother!” “I didn’t…” “Yes you did!” I had not killed them. Not intentionally. Was a birthing death really the babe’s fault? Was it the lovers? They had both died the same way though my child never lived. I had lost most of my family. Rybin was the only one left and now I had lost him too or perhaps I had never had him. “What’s this got to do with us?” Luc asked as he and Babette pressed in closer to me. The dalgrue moved in. The noose was tightening. “You were all there. You watched her die.” Spittle flecked his lips and his eyes bulged. My brother had shed his facade, opening wide the delusion within. He had harboured such hate, such resentment, and it had eaten him alive. My throat tightened at the memory. Chantelle had been the love of my life. The very moment we laid eyes on each other the rest of the world had ceased to exist and when she died it had ceased in an entirely different way. “Brother.” It was barely a whisper. What could I say? None of it was my fault, yet I had not noticed his pain either. A small seed of guilt sprouted within me. Babette let out a squeal as one of the dalgrue yanked her away from us. Luc lunged to her defence but was greeted with a truncheon to the head. He staggered, falling to his knees, and two men pulled his arms behind him to clap handcuffs about his wrists. “How could you do this, Rybin. We are family.” My brother laughed. “We are not family. You were a means to an end and now the dalgrue are a means to your end.” I barely felt it as my arms were pulled behind me. I was in shock. My mind, my body. It had all gone numb. “We need to go,” said the dalgrue that had beat at the flames. It had been a losing battle and the fire had spread at an alarming rate. I hadn’t noticed. Rybin grinned at us as they shoved us forward, his self-satisfied grin stretching his face maniacally. Babette cried softly while Luc swore a steady string of curses, some aimed at the dalgrue, some at his own stupidity for ignoring his gut but most of all, they were aimed at my brother. Luc spat on him as we passed by but there was nothing we could do. We were done. The sound of snapping fingers rang out sharp and clear above the crackling flames. “What are you doing?” Rybin asked, all triumph disappearing from his voice. “This wasn’t our deal.” I twisted under my captors grip, straining to see through the gathering smoke. What I saw brought a smile to my face. It shouldn’t. He was still my brother but he had sold us out and he deserved this. The wall of fire framed their silhouettes beautifully, Rydin on his knees, the dalgrue standing over him. He made to rise but they kicked him back down. “This was not the deal,” he cried, his words ending in a smoke strangled cough. The dalgrue laughed mockingly. I squashed that sapling of guilt that had sprouted. Pulled it out by the roots. My brother had been a fool and now we would all hang.

vy73qq

A Revolting Date

"What did you say?" Megan demanded, her steely gaze laser focused under a furrowed brow. Brad knew he'd messed up, but he had no idea how . This woman was too complicated. He couldn't even compliment her without it somehow becoming an insult. "I said you're beautiful," he choked, his mind racing to find a way out. They sat across from each other at a little outdoor table where they were waiting for dinner to be served. The cool evening air did nothing to help the cold sweat that was collecting on his forehead. "That's not what you said." "Well, I mean, I think we belong together, you know? You're gorgeous and I'm..." but something told him it was already over. "Go on," she said indignantly. "Finish that sentence." He could almost hear the words "I dare you" in the look she leveled at him. This can't be happening, he thought. His father's stern, disapproving face loomed in his mind, constantly judging him. The weight of the family's expectations made him groan inwardly as his stomach churned at the thought of what would have to come next. She sat back and folded her arms, glaring at him. "Go on," she challenged. "I want to hear you say it again." Brad looked around nervously. Her father's palace garden was dimly lit by a few nearby torches. Aside from the server who would undoubtedly be bringing their food out soon, he couldn't see anyone else around. His gut gurgled and twisted in on itself, but not from hunger. He felt ill. She was not into him. Three weeks of courting and calling on her and still she remained just as cold and hostile as she had on the first day. Her father supported the courtship for political reasons, but Megan was so vehemently opposed to it that no amount of charm or persuasion was getting him any closer to accomplishing his task. She bored into him with a fiery, fierce stare that made him clench his jaw and shift in his seat. He'd have to be quick, before any of the serving staff came out. In his mind he plotted an exit route through the garden to where his horse would be waiting. He narrowed his eyes at her, his heart pounding. This was it. He had to kidnap her. *** Cassian took a deep breath. He checked the serving tray one last time, making sure every detail was perfect. He knew the princess's every preference. Not too much garnish, extra sauce, juicy meats, soft bread. He'd been serving her since she came of age, and nothing brought him more satisfaction than her smile when he remembered how she liked her cheese or that she always wanted at least three napkins just in case. Closing his eyes, he focused. Sometimes her beauty was too much for him. It made him feel incredibly foolish, and he could never admit it to anyone, but he often dreamed that she would notice him as more than just a friendly, attentive servant. He imagined her smiling at him and saying, "It's Cassian, right? Would you like to join me for dinner tonight instead of this brutish, idiotic nobleman my father wants me to marry?" He let out a long, frustrated sigh and picked up the tray, checking his posture before shoving his way through the heavy door that led out to the gardens. His heart nearly leaped out of his chest and he stopped short in his tracks, taking in the baffling scene before him. The table had been thrown to the side and lay in three splintered pieces. The chairs were knocked over. The princess and her suitor were gone! His mind immediately began to race through the possible explanations. He started positive. What if they just went for a walk? But his eyes were drawn to the smashed table. The overturned chairs demanded a different story be told. So he pictured the evil nobleman tackling the princess to the ground and running off with her. He hadn't heard anything from inside, but the kitchen had been noisy and... he felt lightheaded and sick. He was shaking. Yet he held the tray as steady as he could while he thought. It didn't take long. He rushed back into the kitchen and set the tray down. "Alex," he said, grabbing his friend by the arm and locking eyes with him. "Get a message to the king. Princess Megan has been kidnapped by the duke's son Brad." Immediately he took off through the kitchen heading toward the courtyard stables. "Wait!" Alex called out. "What did you say? Really?" There was no time to clarify. The princess was in danger. Cassian knew the way to the duke's castle. He knew it was a long ride. *** Six hours later the guards outside Brad's father's castle were shouting excitedly as they raised the gate for him. The soft roar of torches crackled in the night as his horse rushed under the iron bars of the gatehouse. He'd ridden hard to get home quickly, just in case he'd been followed. He'd stopped briefly a few minutes out from the palace to tie Megan's hands and feet and gag her, a necessary pitstop to prevent her from mauling him to death on the way, but otherwise he'd ridden straight through the dark night, positive he'd just started a war. Brad jumped to the ground and unloaded Megan's petite, struggling body. She was tense and continued to fight while he threw her over his shoulder and made his way toward his father's bedchamber. He knew the old man would still be awake. His heart pounded furiously as he made his way through the castle. He couldn't think clearly. He wasn't sure of much, but he knew one thing for certain: he would succeed at the task he'd been given. Baffled servants hurriedly threw open their lord's sleeping chamber door as Brad marched passed carrying his captive princess. "Brad," his father croaked, sitting up in bed. Two young women popped up from beneath the covers with wide eyes and looked to his father. He nodded to them and motioned for them to lie back down as he gave a hand to one of them. "What on earth is going on? Is that the princess you've been courting?" "It's no use father," Brad said, struggling to keep her draped over his shoulder. His head rocked about violently as she twisted and squirmed. He had to raise his voice over her muffled protests. "If you want me to produce an heir to the throne, this is the only way." His father squinted at Brad and a slow, weary smile spread over his thin, pale lips. "Fine," he said. "Just be careful how you proceed after you're done with her." He chuckled. "You're likely to start a war." To Brad's surprise, his father seemed almost proud of him. He allowed a stern, faint smile to crack as he turned and left, dragging the betrayed princess up to a room high in the castle's tallest tower. *** Cassian saw the tiny twinkling lights of the castle up ahead and felt as though the wind had been knocked from his lungs. This is stupid, he thought. He had no plan. He had no weapon. He had no training with the sword or the bow. He was pretty sure he was going to die. But his wildly pounding heart urged him on. This was his princess. He *had* to try. He knew he'd never make it in through the front gate, so he guided his horse off the path before he was within view of the guardhouse and made his way around to the side. Eventually he was riding along the tall outer wall, looking for a way up. He wished he'd brought a rope or a knife or anything that could be useful. His horse trotted along between the trees of the forest, taking a wide arc around the dark, foreboding castle. Something in the cool night air caught his ear. He quietly drew the horse to a halt and waited. He heard it again, but clearer. It was a high pitched chirp, or a whistle. Confused, he scoured the top of the castle wall, looking to see if perhaps a guard had spotted him. He could see no guards, no movement, only... his eye was strongly drawn to a long, thin strand of something swaying along the wall. "No way," he breathed, squinting into the distance. "It can't be." He softly spurred his horse toward the castle wall, crossing the clearing quickly. A moment later he was holding the end of a rope that he could barely grab from atop his horse. It hung a good ten feet off the ground, swaying in the breeze. Was it a trap? An oversight? He tugged on it, and it held firm. It didn't take him long to decide. He had to climb the rope. It was his only hope of helping the princess. *** Princess Megan bounced violently on the stiff mattress as Brad threw her down harshly and growled at her. "The more you fight the harder this will be for both of us. You can make this easy, or you can make this hard and painful. It's your choice." He kicked off his belt and trousers and climbed onto her, grabbing her tied hands and holding them high over her head, the weight of his body digging painfully into her thighs. "I'm going to untie your feet because I want to see your pretty face, but if you give me trouble I have no problem tying you up and bending you over a chair, got it?" She glared at him with hatred and wrath. She wasn't about to cooperate, but letting him think she'd cooperate meant he might untie her feet. She wondered what else he might untie if she were extra cooperative. She smiled through the gag and relaxed her body, tilting her head to the side seductively while his eyes widened and he grinned. "That's a good girl," he said. "It seems you can be reasoned with." *** At the top of the rope Cassian looked around nervously before heaving himself onto the ramparts. To his shock he found a loaded crossbow sitting by his landing spot with a few extra bolts. He glanced up and down the length of the walkway again but saw nobody. Thoroughly confused, he had no time to ponder his good fortune. If it was a trap, he had no choice but to walk right into it and die. He would die for princess Megan, without a doubt. But he would die trying to free her. He glanced over his shoulder once more before swiftly starting toward the nearest tower. Just as he took his first steps though he heard the whistle again, but behind him. There was a tower a little further away in the other direction and the sound seemed to come from there. Briefly he considered ignoring it, but if the source of the whistle was a friend, he could certainly use the help. He turned around and rushed to the other tower. He found the door slightly ajar and ducked inside quickly. A hushed voice said, "hurry, follow me," and a dark figure began to ascend a nearby staircase. "Wait," Cassian said. "Who are you?" The figure stopped and turned around. From underneath a hooded cloak he looked up and saw a middle-aged woman's face looking down at him. "I am no-one. I am one of many here at the castle who have been planning to rise up against the evil duke and his son for many months. Unfortunately, the others did not feel ready to revolt tonight, so it is just you and me. Will you help me kill the duke and his son to liberate the castle?" "I'm here to rescue the princess," he stammered. "I'm not a knight or a hero, I'm a lowly servant." "I know," the woman whispered, smiling. "But you have a noble heart. Help me, and I will help you free the princess. Hurry, we don't have much time." *** Brad's thick, grimy fingers slid eagerly along Megan's calves as he tossed the rope aside. He stopped briefly to feel the deep impression left by the coarse rope on her soft ankles and a twinge of guilt stabbed at his heart. She had gone so docile and soft. He looked down at her lustily, eager to get on with it but wanting so much more than what had to be done. She was so beautiful, so lovely. He wanted to remove the gag and untie her hands, but he... well maybe? "Do you want it?" he asked, hesitating. "Do you want to know the pleasures of love? This doesn't have to be difficult. It could be enjoyable." He straddled her and bent over her face, caressing her soft cheeks and admiring her bright eyes. She held a steady gaze, searching his eyes as though she had something to say. His fingers twitched. He wanted so badly to kiss her lips, to feel her womanly delights in the way he'd always dreamed of enjoying her. Behind him he thought he heard something. He looked over his shoulder and stared at the door a moment, but the princess mumbled something through her gag. He turned back to her just as the door behind him flew open. Swiftly, the princess brought a powerful knee up between his legs, smashing his manhood. He doubled over in agony, crying out as she rolled beneath him and out from underneath his knee. He slowly sat up and took a powerful punch to the chest, accompanied by a searing, piercing pain. Looking down, he saw a crossbow's bolt sticking out of his chest, right over his heart. His eyes widened as his vision faded. He looked up at the door again, his chest on fire and watched as a cloaked figure rushed to the princess and a scrawny, spindly servant glared at him holding a crossbow. *** With her hands untied, the princess rushed to Cassian and threw her arms around him. "Thank you," she said, holding him tightly and trembling. "I was sure I was..." she choked and buried her face in his neck, warm tears flowing down his skin under his tunic. He dropped the crossbow and held her, his heart pounding uncontrollably in his tight, breathless chest. "Come," the older woman urged. "We must kill the duke before the guards are aroused." The princess slowly stepped back from Cassian and looked over her shoulder at Brad's lifeless body, which was now slumped over on its side. She stooped and picked up the crossbow. To Cassian's surprise she quickly grabbed one of the spare bolts he'd tucked into his belt and expertly loaded the crossbow, though not without some trouble. He wanted to help, but he was sure he wasn't strong enough. Soon though, she raised it proudly and with a determined look in her eye said, "I want to do it." *** The ride back to the palace was pleasant. Cassian was sure he'd never been so tired in his life, yet despite heavy eyelids and a weak, exhausted body, he also had never felt so alive in his entire life. The princess held on to him close, her body firmly pressed against his while he sat up proudly in the saddle. She rested her head against his back and he wondered if perhaps she had fallen asleep. Liberating the duke's territory from his evil reign was, of course, just the beginning. Surely the land would descend into unstable chaos for a few years, but nobody would be sad to see the duke and his son gone. The princess, in particular, had been happy to put a bolt through the man's eye. Even his concubines hadn't shed a tear at his passing. And once the duke was dead, the old woman's resistance fighters had quickly rallied together to take the rest of the castle without much resistance. But none of those concerns occupied Cassian's mind long. Instead, all he could think of was the princess and the last thing she'd said to him before going into a silent slumber with her arms wrapped around his chest. Those quiet, simple words had changed his entire world, and now his mind was obsessing over every syllable she'd uttered through those soft, sleepy lips. "I think I shall make you a knight so that we can be wed, my dear Cassian."

duwuzt

A Walk Reveals the Unexpected

A Walk Reveals the Unexpected Jamie loved the long walks with grandpa.  At ten years-of-age, he found the weekly walks with grandpa special.  They loved the stream that bordered the farm and usually the walk included an exploration of the creek bank.  The older man would point out the plants, birds, and animals to be found in the water as well as things to be avoided.  They also carried a bag to fill with garbage left by those with less regard for nature.  On this occasion, they had collected a variety of plastic, cans, and wrappers.               Grandpa pointed a plastic baggie floating down the stream.  It was partially inflated and had something in it.  Grandpa used his walking stick to poke it and steer it over to the bank.  Jamie reached in and pulled it out of the water.  He opened the top and found a piece of paper folded around a small plastic device.  Grandpa looked at the small device that was about the size of a salt shaker and told Jamie it looked like a recording device.  He read the note written on the paper and decided they should cut their walk short and go home to further inspect the contents of the bag. The Note: To whoever finds this.  I am a US Marshal.  I was transporting a protected witness to court.  We were ambushed.  I think my witness is dead and I may be next.  I’ve recorded my story.  Please read it, but do not, DO NOT talk to the local police.  Take it to the FBI by hand.  And please, please, be careful.  US Marshal, Nelson Sanders Back at home, grandpa and Jamie took the bag into the garage.  Grandpa again read the note.  He turned on the small recorder and as expected, it didn’t work.  He had no idea how long the bag had been in the creek.  After rummaging through his junk drawer, he managed to find the correct batteries.  Still, he was surprised to hear a voice when he hit play. This recording is about Rory Inkler.  He is, or was, my responsibility. Rory had been a thorn in my side for years.  He had been a bully from our first encounter in elementary school right up through high school.  After that, I had thankfully lost track of that miserable waste of space.  I only rarely looked back on the days of stolen lunches, derisive comments and insults sent my way by Rory.  I had assuaged my bruised psyche by rationalizing that while I had two caring parents, Rory had none.  That sufficed till I discovered that Rory had been the pampered scion of a prominent family whose social status was far above that of my family.              But in college Rory was gone, and while there were other unpleasant classmates, none reached the soul rending level of my public-school nemesis, Rory.  College passed.  ROTC, college courses, occasional social activities and finally Susie were enough to sweep away the stabbing memories of Rory.  After college came the military and deployments to some of the most dangerous regions on earth.  Again--there was no thought of Rory.  Following that, I returned home and selected a career in law enforcement.  With a degree and experience I rose up the local ranks.  Life was sweet; until Rory re-entered my life.             Rory had followed a different career course.  He had barely graduated from high school and soon developed a cadre of questionable acquaintances.  Money from his family obviated the need for employment and to Rory’s mind made further education a waste.   He migrated to a life of debauchery and endless schemes involving ‘easy’ money with his new-found friends.             He moved quickly from mere delinquency to severe criminality and soon was on the radar of local, state, and federal authorities.             At the department I was busy with a mountain of paper-work that all officers deal with when my desk mate made a comment, “Don’t you know Rory Inkler?”             After a moment of frankly stunned silence I responded, “I remember an Inkler from high school, but that’s a long time ago.”             “Well, he’s here in our lock-up and making life a pain for the jailers.  They’ll all be happy to be rid of him.  With his family; not the nicest people, and with his lawyers, you’d think he was something of criminal royalty—Kind ‘a small time Al Capone.”             “Rory—did you say Rory Inkler?  Of course,”  I knew who he was talking about the instant he said the name, but I was too stunned to admit it till my heart stopped pounding and the sweat stopped dripping from my arm pits.  It’s an odd thing, I’d faced machine gun fire and IEDs in the middle east without the panic that one name dropping on me caused.             “Well, he’s singing like a bird and apparently the feds think he has info that will reveal the secrets of the universe.  I think he and his lawyers have built himself an impressive deal.”             “Somehow I’m not surprised.  Now that you’ve triggered my memory, I recall that even in school he was always working an angle and able to slide out of any trouble.”             “That’s him all right, and now he’s asking to see you.”             “That’s okay, he can ask, but I have no reason or yen to see him.  In fact, I’ll do anything possible to avoid him.”             I hoped that would be the end of any discussions regarding Rory, but within twenty-four hours the high sheriff was at my desk.   “Detective Sanders, I understand that you have a friend down in lock up.  He’s asking. No. He’s demanding to see his old friend Nelson Sanders.  Ordinarily I’d brush him off, but the feds think his s*** don’t stink.  They love the SOB.  So will you do me a favor and go see the little prick.”             Seeing Rory was the last thing I wanted.  I would rather have stuck my hand in a hungry tiger’s mouth and give it some salt and pepper, but the boss was, well, he was the boss.  “Okay, I’ll get to it was soon as I get caught up on this stack of reports.”  I looked at the stack of paper on my desk with the frown that indicated I might never finish in order to see my old friend in stir.             “Nelson, the feds think they are juicing some valuable info. from this guy and they want to keep him happy.  They say to go see him; so, will you just go see the bastard?”             “When?”             “How about now?”             With a dry mouth and light headed feeling bordering on out and out panic I made my way to the basement cells.  The chief jailer seemed happy I had come.  “Well, Det. Sanders, the cry baby in #5 will be awful happy to see you!  You’d think that you two got somethin’ going on.”  He said this with a wink that assured me that he was just putting me on.             I looked down the hall and back at the jailer.  “Well, let’s get this over with.  The jailer escorted me to cell #5, Rory’s.  Rory was sitting on his cot.  He looked up with the same self-indulgent grin I remembered from high school. “Well, if it ain’t my old friend Nellie. How ya doin’ ol’ pal?  Pull up a chair and let’s sit a spell, We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.  Jailer, either unlock this door or bring my buddy a chair.  We’re going to have a real palaver.”              Sorry Mr. Inkler, the door stays locked.  Only your attorney gets in. Them’s the rules.  I’ll get the Detective a chair.”             The chair was produced and Rory regarded the jailer, “Now get lost.  Me and my old buddy got some talking to do.”             I sat there, on the edge of the chair, unwilling or perhaps, afraid, to say a word.  What would I say after all?             Eventually Rory spoke with all the arrogance I now remembered from decades ago.  “Well pal, it’s been a while.  How ya been?”             With a dry mouth that seemed to be getting worse by the second, I managed a response.  “Well, I’m not in jail.”             Rory only laughed.  “It’s a minor inconvenience.  I’ll be back on top of the town in a few days.  I may even run for office.  You know, the public really dig a guy whose had a little skin in the game—a guy who knows how to shake things up to get what he wants.”             “Look, Rory, it’s been a long time, but I know that you didn’t want to see me to remanence.  What do you want?”             “That’s the old Nelson I remember.  You’re still a real straight shooter—right to the point.  Okay, here’s the thing.  I got a lot of info. The feds want.  They’re all over themselves to get me to a grand jury.  I also got a lot of associates, let’s call them associates, who would just as soon not have their dirty laundry exposed; if you catch my drift.  Now I don’t trust many people.  Hell, I don’t trust anyone.  The lawyers are all on the take from everybody.  The jailers would cut my throat for two dollars.  So, who am I gonna’ get to cart this fine body of mine to the big city to talk to the grand jury?  That would be you.  You and you alone.  No stinkin’ partner or chaperone, just little Nelson and his good friend Rory on a little road trip to visit the grand jury.  The feds already agreed--though reluctantly.  The sheriff was tickled to be rid of me for a while and I think he was almost as happy to be rid of you.”             It was settled.  Done and done with or without my consent.  The next day the two-hour road trip to the city was scheduled, the car was gassed and Rory was brought out in hand cuffs.             My comment, “What, no shackles?”             Rory looked at me with a mock hurt sneer.  “We’re best buds.  I assure you, no shackles needed.”             The trip seemed to be a true milk run.  The winding highways of our hilly town soon evolved into a four-lane highway.  That’s where the trouble began.  First traffic slowed, then virtually stopped.  After twenty minutes of stop-and-go bumper to bumper traffic I said, “Screw this,” I called the sheriff’s office to see if there was some alternate route.  The dispatcher said he had been expecting my call.  He had no idea what the traffic tie-up was, but had already been told how I should avoid the freeway stalled traffic. I hit the lights and siren and used the curb to reach the next exit--Pinnacle Notch.             Pinnacle Notch was like many of those exits seen often from super highways that is passed by frequently, but goes unnoticed.  I instantly understood why.  I had passed this way hundreds if not thousands of times, but had lost recollection of exactly where this road went.  Somehow it was absent on the GPS.   I assumed I would encounter a familiar sign or road soon.  The narrow two lane seemed to get narrower and then turned to gravel.  I understood why mine was the only car taking this questionable alternate route.  Just as I was about to turn around and take another chance with the expressway, I came across a road worker in a yellow vest with fluorescent stripes and an array of orange cones.  As we passed, I asked if this would improve or come out anywhere near civilization.  He assured me the road would soon improve.  We moved forward. I noticed he repositioned the cones after I passed.  Had he closed the road behind us?  Soon, even the gravel disappeared and all that was left was a true quagmire.  Another worker came to the driver’s side door.             He was loud and not at all helpful.  “You might as well get out.  This car ain’t goin’ nowhere, at least not till we can get it pulled out.”             “Look, this man is in my custody.  I have to radio for help.  Someone will be here in a minute.”             ‘No ones coming, Nelson.  Not for you and certainly not for this, this Rory.” With the use of my name as well as Rory’s, I knew I had been had.  Rory and his crew had planned a break and I had been a perfect patsy, a real idiot.  I took a look into be back seat at Rory.             I was expecting an exultant grin of victory from my ‘old pal.’  But Rory was anything but happy.  He was terrified.  I realized that I had been stupid, but he had been duped and double-crossed by his own crew and probably my boss as well.             The man in the vest motioned for us to get out.  “Ain’t no one comin’.  There ain’t no sheriff coming and none of Inkler’s family.  Boys, this is the end of the line.”             I stepped from the car as directed and was instantly relieved of my service weapon.   I opened the back door and out came Rory with some not so gentle urging from the two workmen now gathered by the car.  When I stepped in the mud, I instantly sunk to my shins.  With difficulty I took a step and both of my shoes were sucked into the muck.  I was able to lift one shoeless foot, but the other remained stuck.  Rory fared better if it could be called that.  He was virtually dragged across the mire by the hijackers with his feet barely touching the ground.  Soon he was out of sight, and likely never to be seen again.             The second man returned with no malice stated, “Now it’s your turn.” With one foot free from the muck, I was able to kick at his gun hand and knock what had been my weapon away.  It landed in the mud and was instantly sucked beneath the surface.  I was still virtually helpless with one foot solidly mired and my weapon gone—taken away, but as he dug into the mire to retrieve the weapon, I saw it was covered with the same thick mud that had seized me.  Now I dodged away from the tract off the side of the path and found myself rolling down an embankment of briars underbrush and finally landed in a stream.  I wriggled myself into a culvert beneath the road and lay, listening for any hint of sound above.  I heard a crackle that may have been a shot.  I heard the hijackers above and around, but not yet close.  I managed to get to the opposite side and squeeze out of the culvert only to find the stream flowing down a steep grade, almost a cliff, beneath dense foliage.             I heard one of them.  “There!  There he is.”             But I wasn’t there, I was now on the opposite side of the path.  Slowly I slithered, crawled, and fell down the stream into the larger creek below.  There was nothing to do.  There was no one to call since I had likely been sent to this fate by law enforcement as well as organized crime.  I knew they would come.  Sooner or later, they would find my tracks and follow me.  I found some trash and a plastic bag.  I still had my pen so I began writing.  I’m writing a message for anyone who finds this.  I’ll put my note and my recorder in this plastic bag.  Maybe I can inflate it enough that it can float down the creek.  Those few pathetic words are the basis of my account.  Oddly, I wish I could see Rory again.

uwww9u

Rather You...

“In here!” Chelle pushed the dark, metal door open and urged me through it. I crashed through the gap. The adrenaline coursing through my body fighting with a terror that threatened to tear me apart. I could barely see through my eyes, they vibrated with fear and a roiling river of tears pushed at the weakening dam, almost undoing me. Holding it together was a full-time job I just wasn’t qualified for. My bladder vied for my attention and somehow shouted more loudly than almost everything else assailing my beleaguered senses. I was a wreck of a human-being seemingly filled to the brim with piss. The pending humiliation of wetting myself was a straw that had a sharp end tipped with the poison of shame. I hit the wall, an instinctual presence of mind had me reaching my hands out to manage the impact. The wall itself was cold and rough-hewn. There was something satisfying about its solidity and substance as I slid my hands down it, my legs going from under me as the last of my strength evaporated. Over my ragged breath I heard the door shut and for an insane second I thought Chelle was the wrong side of it. My heart took a pause and I froze in the seeming isolation I now found myself in. “That was intense,” Chelle breathed the words out with every laboured exhalation. I turned slowly towards her. “Intense?” I asked the question even before I saw her face and the triumphant smile she wore on it. She nodded now and I saw it all for the first time. I saw it and I took it in and allowed it to wash over me. There was a resignation here; I should have known. “They don’t usually get this far,” she examined me as though I were a specimen, or rather a lamb to the slaughter, “you did well. At one point, I thought you’d get away.” The cold expanse of the wall was matched with the chill that ran through me. The time for running was over. Sometimes you know what is required, even if it isn’t to your taste, “you don’t need to do this,” I told her. “Oh! But I do!” she crowed. “You’re making a big mistake,” I replied. She stood at the door, her hand on the handle. I looked from the handle to her vindictive face and she saw it all, “there’s no mistake, and don’t even think about trying to get out.” I sighed and the resignation took hold a little more, “why, Chelle? Why betray me like this?” She chuckled, a cold and cruel laughter that pinballed off the bare stone walls, “because I can!” Her eyes narrowed and I had a vision of her killing insects, then working her way up to small animals. I wondered how far she’d gotten in her callous career of petty hatred and the murder of innocents. Cats, I thought to myself, this is a girl who has killed cats. Maybe not kittens though, not yet anyhow, “besides, it’s fun!” Her face hardened in readiness to deliver the verbal coup de gras, “I like to watch,” she hissed this phrase in an am-dram approximation of a snake. Before our exchange could go any further, there was a loud, confident knock on the door. Rap-da-rap-rap-rap, that familiar rhythmic pattern so oft used by those who knock on doors. It had no place here. Another morsel of wrong that detracted from the world around it. I shook my head at Chelle, she read this as my wanting her to keep the door firmly closed, “too late now!” she said cheerily. I wondered what she thought was going to happen. How much did she know? Was she prepared for what was about to happen in this room? “I hope you have the stomach for this,” I said to her, a melancholy haunting my words. She trilled with that hollow laughter, “you’re the one who won’t have a stomach!” With that, she opened the door to reveal a hulking figure in the doorway. The figure that had chased us into this abandoned building and run us to ground. Run me  to ground. He stood there before me, in no rush to enter the room. Using this moment to intimidate me. Confident in the knowledge that I had nowhere to go. I could no more go through him than through the door that he had replaced. “You don’t need to do this,” I repeated these words to him as I pushed myself up to a standing position. No point in remaining on the floor, I wasn’t going to make it easy for either of them. In answer, he brandished the hook he’d slashed at us with when we’d encountered him in the woods. The silent terms of engagement had been established via the sight of that crude and brutal weapon. There was no finesse here, only a clumsy sadism. “Chelle,” he said gruffly as he stepped into the room. “Dad,” she replied. “He’s your dad?” I asked with incredulity. “Yes!” she said proudly. “Figures,” I said sarcastically. She grimaced at that, but did not deign to respond. She pushed the door closed and bolted it. “You’re making a big mistake,” I told her. She flicked a switch and a bare bulb added inadequate illumination to the space we occupied. “Mistake?” she said, “you’re the one who made the mistake, and now you’re trapped in here with us.” I smiled my best shit-kicker smile. A smile that can mean a great many things, but certainly didn’t fit with the current world view of either of these amateur monsters, “no, you’ve got this badly wrong. You’re trapped in here with me.” An eerie silence crawled into the room and wrapped itself around the both of them, just one of the many devices at my disposal. A piece of punctuation. A noticeable drop to a whole other line in the script. Only this was not in their script and it would take them a while longer to fully understand that this was now my show and they were lucky to have speaking parts. That would of course change presently. I stepped into the centre of the room, “I thought we were friends, Chelle?” I said this in a pleading and wheedling sing-song voice. Chelle only gawped at me, then she had the presence of mind to actually do something. She made the mistake of getting angry. I have always marvelled at how limited people make themselves. They have so much going for them, but time and time again, they fuck it all up. Their insecurities and worries are bad enough. They overthink themselves in ever decreasing circles in favour of actually living. They have such wonderful brains and they are capable of creating immense beauty, but far too often they corrupt their own operating systems and limp around in an ugly pastiche of life that is barely an existence. Anger is pretty much the worst of it though. Anger is giving up. A mindless emotion that never got anyone anywhere worth going. Faced with any number of viable options, anger is the most ridiculous cop out going. Worse still, people fall for anger’s false advertising. Anger is not power. Anger is the relinquishing of everything of value. A degradation to a state that is beneath animalistic. I smiled a supercilious smile in the face of Chelle’s anger, just to turn the dial up on her stupidity, “you betrayed me, Chelle,” I said in a mocking baby voice, “how could you?” “Kill her, dad!” she hissed, “the bitch is proper mental!” Her dad duly obliged. Only for the first time in his murderous career, things didn’t work out the way he had expected them to. He raised his muscular arm in a fine show of power and dominance and he brought it down and around in a majestic killing blow. I have to admit that it was pretty good, right up to the point before the metal met the meat. Yeah, that was never going to happen. Instead I happened, and I happened quite meaningly to his arm. He screamed. You might think me a little odd, and you are entitled to that viewpoint of yours, but I find certain screams so very satisfying. They speak to me on a musical level and Chelle’s dad’s screams really were music to my ears. For starters, he had a fine pair of bellows on him. In another life he could have been quite an impressive tenor. I took a step closer to him, right after his knees buckled. He was cradling the useless part of his arm and trying to understand exactly what it was he was cradling, let alone how it had come to be that his arm had snapped so completely that it only remained a part of him by virtue of the skin that held it there. If he’d let it go, it would have flapped like a meat pendulum, counting the final seconds of his life. Through all his pain and incomprehension he understood that this was the end. His end. He fell silent and he looked up at me. His eyes transformed by the overwhelming sadness of a dawning comprehension. He had seen this look, but never worn it. It was the dumb look a sheep wears and it was a desperate, last ditch plea for mercy and escape. Not once had he shown mercy upon gazing at that look and he wasn’t rendered stupid enough to expect to receive it now. I appreciated that about him. This is the part that an ignorant bystander would misconstrue as my taking a moment, perhaps considering whether I should proceed with the pending bloodshed, or perhaps relishing the fatal violence to come. What most miss is that I am, in this moment, deploying another of my weapons. An invisible knife cutting away all the incomprehension and mental protections so that in their final moments, they not only see it all, but they feel it all too. “You bitch! What have you done!?” I’d almost forgotten about Chelle. It can get like that. I get very focused at times. I think I might be on a spectrum. I looked up at my erstwhile friend. My BFF. The lying cow who wanted me to be her dad’s  plaything, “quiet…” I said this softly, but it roared in her mind and she saw something in my eyes. That thing she saw was me. That thing was what I really am. At least I think that’s what I really am, even though I am rarely myself. Mostly I’m your average kind of girl. Well, a little above average if you take into account my grades and all the merit points I get for being really kind and caring. Everyone has two sides to them though, right? Chelle pissed herself. The girl I usually am nearly did that just a short while ago. That girl would pity Chelle. She would care about her friend, and she would make sure Chelle was OK. She’d even help Chelle to clean herself up and she’d never say a word about Chelle’s little accident to another soul. And Chelle would hate her for it. Hence Chelle’s current predicament. Her own worst enemy was Chelle, and she was about to learn a harsh lesson and learn it in the hardest of ways. She would also learn that sometimes you come into the possession of knowledge that you will never get the opportunity to use. “Not my daughter,” croaked Chelle’s dad. I looked down at him and grinned wickedly, “I didn’t think you knew that?” I cocked my head and widened that grin of mine, “and your best mate Pete? What a duplicitous bastard he was! But then, you asked him to look after Tracy when you did your stretch and Pete wasn’t one to pass up that sort of invitation.” Chelle’s dad looked hurt. Genuinely hurt. “You didn’t know?” I shrugged, “oops! I seem to have made you angry…” Chelle’s dad was rallying himself for a second go at me. Not an act of bravery, more a misjudged angry lunge. Anger gets them every time. I’d had enough fun with him. Time to open his neck up. I’ll spare you any lurid details. Suffice to say that I was thirsty and I was done playing games. With him anyway. Chelle wasn’t lying. She really did like to watch. Naughty voyeur! I revised my assessment of her down from cats. I think she was more a watcher than a doer. Most people are. I blame the internet and box sets. It’s certainly got worse, and the pickings are less rich. It was only as I finished up and was wiping my chin along my sleeve that Chelle had the presence of mind to move. She woke up from the mesmerism of my feeding time at her dad and she spun on her heel and fled. That old fight, flight or freeze response can be hilarious. I swear slapstick comedy was sired by this ancient instinct. We’d had it all this evening, and I do love a variety show. Chelle had been full of fight. Then she’d frozen when I snacked on her dad, and now she was in full flight. The problem with these instinctual reactions is the exact same problem there is with anger. They have no brain. In fact they fully disconnect the brain. Right now, Chelle was a headless chicken, and even headful chickens are not adept at operating doors, less so doors with a big, metal slide bolt. Chelle was delightful. She didn’t even bother with the door handle. Nor did she bother with her hands. Her arms dangled uselessly at her sides as she accelerated at the door and used her face as a battering ram. That battering ram was not very effective. It made a cracking sound though. Literally. She froze for a moment, then she turned towards me with the most idiotic expression I have ever seen. In the midst of that expression was a very messed up nose. Now I knew what had made that very satisfying cracking sound. I could see that she wanted to bestow a look of hatred upon me, but right now, she couldn’t quite remember how. I stepped over the prone and very dead lump of her not-father and I took Chelle in my arms and I embraced her in only the way the very best of friends would embrace. I whispered softly in her ear, “this is going to hurt you more than it’s going to hurt me.” She screamed. She screamed and that scream made me wonder whether she was his daughter after all. Or maybe nurture really is more powerful than nature. She screamed a lot that night. I took my time. I made her feel everything until she went beyond feeling, but still she screamed. She screamed until her lungs bled and the screams were as much a gurgle as a noisy expression of her pain and anguish. I didn’t have to make it hurt. Of course I didn’t. When I’m with my friends I make them feel good, and I can even make it feel really  good. Sometimes, it’s the best they’ve ever felt and they always come back for more. I don’t always kill them. I don’t often kill them. Not straight away anyway. After all, there are any number of ways to kill someone and they can be dead well before they ever expel their terminal breath. But Chelle wasn’t my friend. Chelle had betrayed me and there’s a special place in hell for the betrayers, but before they go to my father’s place, I like to have some fun with them. Give them a taste of what is to come…

4knxt1

Forsaken Son

Forsaken Son Xavier took a deep breath, his hands curled around the bars of the jail holding cell he had just been confined to and all he could think about was how he got here. The charges against him were murder. The murder of his best friend. And sure he had done illegal things, mostly petty robberies but murder? He could never hurt anyone, especially his best friend… his partner in crime. He was still reeling from the fact that Gavin was dead, they had been friends since they were kids. How was Gavin dead? - He thought- How was he locked up for his murder? The answer came a moment later when the arresting officer walked into the hall and toward his cell. It was at the moment their eyes locked that everything had finally made sense. Revulsion set in as Xavier stared at him. “It was you?” The officer looked deep into his eyes and smiled so evilly it sent chills down his spine. “Yeah,” he said proudly, “it was me.” The words angered Xavier even more than he already was, his hands tightening around the bars that held him back from this man. The man who had killed his best friend. The man who had betrayed him and framed him. The man whose eyes were the same as his. His older brother, Jude. Xavier’s eyes narrowed as his heart broke. “I guess you’re not the golden boy anymore, are you?” Jude laughed as he winked and walked away. “Come back here,” Xavier shouted, panic setting in. “Get back here, I demand my phone call!” But Jude continued to walk away laughing maniacally. * It was hours, hell it could’ve been days before Xavier was finally granted that phone call- it sure felt like days- time seemed to stand still in this place he found himself in. Both physically and mentally. As he waited he could only think, dwell… on how this had happened. He thought about the moment he found Gavin’s body, there had to have been a clue there. He thought about his time on the run… had there been something he missed. And he thought about the smug look on Jude’s face just now. There was something about the look in his eye, the smile on his face. How could he be happy about his own brother being arrested? How could he be happy about murder? And then it hit him… it was about her. It had always been about her. *** 2 months earlier… Xavier was woken up to the sound of a knock on his door. He rolled over and ran his fingers through his hair, not fully registering the sound; until he heard it again. He reached for his watch on the night table to look at the time. It read: 4:08 am. “What the hell?” He mumbled to himself as he dragged himself out of bed. Another knock was heard. “I’m coming, keep your pants on,” he shouted. When he pulled the door open he was surprised to see who was standing there. “Harper,” he said softly and she smiled. His former longterm girlfriend. His brother’s current girlfriend. “What are you doing here?” “I was thinking about you,” she said softly. “And not just tonight, I’ve been thinking about you for months,” he nodded because he understood that feeling. “I’ve been thinking about you too,” he admitted. He had never stopped loving her and he had tried. He tried so many times to be better, to become the stand up guy she wanted him to be, yet he constantly failed. “So are you going to invite me in?” Her eyebrow was arched and he certainly recognized that look in her eye. He stepped aside and motioned for her to enter. Once the door was closed and locked he turned to face her and found her standing within inches of him. So close that he could feel her breath. “What are we doing Harper?” He asked cautiously. “I mean I love you, you know that… I always have,” she nodded because she did know that. “And I know you love me,” she nodded again. “But the reason why we always break up is because I can’t be the man you need me to be,” he took a deep breath. “I can’t be Jude.” “I know that.” “I hate that you’re with him… like I want to rip those thoughts out of my brain so I never have to think about it again,” she frowned. She hated that her actions had and continued to hurt him. “But I also know he’s stable, and can give you the kind of life you deserve.” “But that’s just it X,” she cut in. “That’s what I thought too, that’s why I allowed him to gaslight me into thinking he could give me what I needed but what I’ve found over these very long three months with him is that he is possessive, and angry.” “He hasn’t hurt you, has he?” “No, no, no,” she said quickly. “But he has broken several things in front of me when he is angry about work, or…” she trailed off. “Or?” “Or whenever your name comes up,” she finished and he nodded knowingly. “Well Jude and I always had a bit of a rough relationship, since mom died.” She knew that; she had been dating Xavier when their mom died. She knew Jude was a Momma’s boy and Xavier was the apple of their father’s eye. “I know,” her words were hushed. “So not all of his anger about me is because of my past with you… it goes way back. But my point is… he is the kind of man you need-” “No he isn’t,” she cut him off, his eyes widened. “Yeah sure on paper he and I would be the perfect power couple. But in reality he is boring,” Xavier laughed. “He is controlling in a way that makes me want to get as far away as possible, and he is not you.” He couldn’t hide the smile. “And this is real life, it’s not perfect and it’s messy.” “Yeah it is,” he agreed. “And Xavier,” she reached up and circled her arms around his neck. “I want the mess,” she licked her lips gently pulling him closer. “I-If you’ll have me back.” “For me, it’s never been over,” he said before he pressed their lips together in a loving kiss that said more than he could ever find the words for. The kiss broke a moment later but she didn’t let him move too far away, “even when I was with him, I was still yours… I always have been,” she whispered before their lips crashed together again. The second kiss was passionate and leading which is exactly what happened a moment later when he lifted her into his arms and led her toward his bedroom. She wrapped her legs around his waist, feeling like herself for the first time in months. She was finally back home. * Again, Xavier was woken up to the sound of a knock on his door. This one was louder, banging, and constant. He looked over at Harper who was beside him, also awake. “You think?” “Yeah probably,” she shrugged. “I mean when he got home and saw I wasn’t there.” “Okay,” he got up and pulled his pants on. “You stay here, I’ll handle this.” She nodded. The banging on the door was incessant by the time he pulled it open and sure enough it was Jude. “What do you want?” “Where is she?” “What are you talking about dude?” Xavier played dumb as he hoped to not cause a scene, but Jude merely pushed past him and into the apartment. “She’s mine Xavier and if she’s here,” he walked directly to his bedroom. “She’s not yours,” Xavier followed him. “She’s no one but her own, and she chooses who she wants to be with, we don’t.” He tried to reason with him but he saw that Jude had stopped at the door, staring at her in his brother’s bed. “I’m sorry Jude, I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she said softly. Xavier reached for his brother but the second Jude felt the hand in his arm he turned quickly and slapped the offered hand away. Their eyes locked and Xavier could see the hate burning in his eyes. “I’m sorry, she loves me and I love her.” He watched as Jude clenched his jaw and steadied his breathing. “I will make you pay for this,” he pointed at him, looked back at her, and then back to Xavier. “I will make you both pay.” Both watched as he walked away and out of the apartment without looking back. Neither knew just how much he meant those words. *** 2 weeks earlier… Xavier was hanging out with his best friend Gavin at his place after they had done a job together and gotten some quick cash. Gavin was another long time friend of his- since middle school- and was well aware of the brothers tumultuous relationship. He was also very aware of the long term, also tumultuous, relationship Xavier and Harper were in. He was there when they started dating and knew that regardless of how they have hurt each other over the years they were meant to be, he was the one who always told them how perfect for each other they were. He filled Gavin in on his and Harper’s once again rekindled relationship as they watched a game and had some beers. “Okay bro,” Xavier got to his feet when the game was over. “I had a good time but I have a girl to go home to… again,” he laughed and Gavin smirked. He was happy for them. He always would be. He also got to his feet, “okay enjoy that my man,” they fist bumped. “But don’t sleep on Jude’s threats, that man is going to lose his mind one day… he is wound way too tight.” Xavier chuckled, “nah man, deep down he is too much of a coward, he might lose his mind but he doesn’t have the brass to do anything about it.” Gavin nodded in agreement, “I guess you’re right, but please don’t drive home, and tell Harper I said hey,” they shook hands and hugged. “Will do, I’ll walk home and grab my car tomorrow.” “See you then,” and with that he left. He had no idea that Jude was there, hiding in the shadows, watching him. He had no idea it would be the last time he’d see Gavin alive. * The next afternoon, he walked back to Gavin’s place; remembering he left his keys there, and that Harper had to let him into the apartment the night before. He went up to the apartment and when he got to his door he noticed the door was not fully closed; instantly causing a fear and panic to settle in his stomach. “Gavin,” he called as he slowly pushed the door open. It was the smell that hit him first, the smell of blood and death. He felt bile in his throat. And once inside he saw Gavin on the floor, two bullets to his chest and once between his eyes. He didn’t need to touch him to know he was gone. His first instinct was to call 911 but that was when he saw the murder weapon, on the floor several feet from the body. He knew that gun. It was his own gun. Just as he realized the murder of his best friend was also someone framing him for it; he heard a phone text tone. It was Gavin’s phone. Without thinking he grabbed it and saw that it was a text from him. “What the?” Confusion washed over him, he hadn’t texted him. Which made him realize he hadn’t seen his phone since last night, when he was here. He had walked home, realized he didn’t have his keys, knocked on the door, spent a few minutes with Harper and then went right to bed, passing out almost instantly and never realizing he had forgotten it. He opened the text; it read:  I’m sorry G, I had to because you betrayed me, I still love you man. -X In that moment there wasn’t anything he could do but run. He could figure out how to clear his name but he needed time to do that so he ran. *** 2 days earlier… Xavier knew the one person that could and would help him was his father so he immediately made his way to Texas, where he lived. He bought a bus ticket and a burner phone and once he was safely on the bus to his dad, he called Harper and explained what had happened; she promised to meet him at his dad’s place. She knew he couldn’t murder anyone, especially Gavin. When he reached his father they came up with a plan, he was going to flee to Mexico and his father along with Harper would work to clear his name. But before he could get that chance he was cut off by the local police, and arrested, and sent back to Chicago. * Present Day… Xavier waited in his holding cell for both an attorney to arrive and for his girlfriend to arrive; instead it was Jude again. They stared intently, as close as they could be with the bars between them. “One question Jude,” he said softly and Jude nodded. “Why did you do this to me?” “Oh please, you did this to yourself,” he spat. “How did I do this to myself?” “I mean you made it so easy, you left your keys. I was able to get your gun while you slept like a drunken fool. Our girlfriend was gone for work… because most people have actual jobs,” Xavier growled and lunged but the bars stopped him and Jude laughed harder. “You leaving the phone behind was even dumber bro… I thought I was going to have to forge your handwriting but once again your stupidity prevailed.” “What did Gavin ever do to you?” “Nothing,” Jude shrugged. “He was cool but you needed to be brought down from your pedestal.” “What?” Xavier was fighting the tears. This angered Jude because he was tired of Xavier’s poor me attitude when he always got everything. “You stole her from me!” he screamed, so close that Xavier could feel spit on his face. His eyes widened in horror. “She has her own mind and makes her own choices but if you want to treat her as a mere possession, my brother,” his own anger boiled within him. “ You stole her from me, first!” Xavier clenched his jaw, again tightening his fist around the bars so as to stop himself from reaching out and strangling the man before him. Jude laughed, “Maybe that’s true, but she was just the catalyst. This was meant to happen.” His eyes narrowed. “Was always meant to happen.” “And why’s that?” Xavier was confused. “Because my brother ,” he repeated his earlier words. “I graduated from college with honors, while you somehow stumbled your way through high school and yet you were still dad’s favorite. I joined the police academy while you were running drugs on the streets and still Dad said you were just misguided … I,” he was shouting now. “Became a detective and you became a petty car thief and once again…. Our father thinks you hung the damn moon,” Xavier chuckled humorlessly. “Now and finally I am going to be dad’s favorite,” he finished and Xavier couldn’t believe this was really happening, that was his reasoning for all of this. “Really? Really Jude?” He stared incredulously. “You murdered my best friend and pinned it on me all because Daddy loved me more?” Jude clenched his jaw, he was so angry he was close to his breaking point, but he remembered his plan and he took a deep breath, calming himself down. “You’re going away for the rest of your life,” he said, still angry, but his tone was much softer, calmer. He looked deep into the eyes exactly like his own. “And I will finally be free.” “You’re insane.” “Maybe,” he laughed again. “But after years in solitary, you will be too,” he winked before leaving and Xavier reached for him, if he was going away for murder he was ready to commit murder. But Jude was out of his reach. *** 2 hours later… Xavier was still waiting for both Harper and a lawyer to arrive but what he didn’t know was that while Jude was being awarded a medal of bravery for not only catching a murderer so quickly but also for the courageous act of that murderer being his brother and still turning him in; Harper was lying dead in the back of an alley, her throat slit. She had never gotten a chance to get him a lawyer. She never had a chance at all. Neither of them did.

f54ifk

The Collective

“Hello!” Izzy called out in the dark warehouse. “Is anyone here? Hello!” she called out again. She pulls her brown hair away from her eyes. The young woman walked slowly through the deep darkness. “Why didn’t I bring a freakin’ flashlight?” she mocked her own stupidity at that moment.   Her hands extended outward. She had already ran into four things that were probably old warehouse equipment. This place seems abandoned. She thought. Out of nowhere a massive spotlight hits her face stopping her in her tracks. She was no-less blinded than when she was stumbling through the darkness. The intrusion of the light caused her to jump a little and quickly shield her eyes with her forearm.  She couldn’t let her fear seep through. She came this far. She followed the Dark-Web prompts for weeks to this warehouse. Izzy had nothing to lose at this point. Her life wasn’t going as planned as is, but her incredible intellect led her to this very warehouse on this very night. She looked down at her watch and used the beam of the light to read it. Midnight on the nose! She thought.   Izzy heard footsteps. She couldn’t see or tell where they were coming from, just that there were two different sets of shoes approaching the young woman. She reached in her sweatshirt for a knife her brother gave her years ago before he went missing. She held the handle tight in her hands, ready to lash out if anyone touched her. The footsteps stopped abruptly. “Put the knife down Miss Anderson.”  The voice was obviously deep, covered up with a voice changer. “How do you know my last name? Tell me who you are first.” Izzy held her knife tight and brought it up to the light on her face so whoever spoke could see it in the room. “Very well.” The voice replied. The light shut off throwing her world into darkness again for a few seconds. Then three lights hit the floor a few feet in front of her. Two masked individuals stood on the other side of a table by two chairs on their side, and one on Izzy’s. “Please take a seat young lady,” the person on her right spoke. “You may put the knife away as well. We need to present a proposition to you.” The one on Izzy’s left spoke using the same voice changer. One person was shorter than the other, but no less intimidating with the dark ski mask covering their faces. They wore two very distinct black suits. Izzy approached the table still holding the knife with her left hand. She reached for the chair with her right and pulled it out slowly. As soon as she did, the two mysterious individuals pulled their chairs out at the same time in unison and sat as she sat. Each individual placed both hands on the table and folded them in front of them. Izzy kept her chair back from the table still assessing if she needed to run out of the room. “Your name is Miss Isabella Dawn Anderson. We know a lot about you.” The one on the Izzy’s left spoke. The right one continues the conversation as if on cue, “There were 350 persons attempting to crack our code, and yet you are the one in front of us now.” “Okay. So, do I get a prize or something?” Izzy looked at each masked person still unsure of the situation. She held her knife under the table by her lap not letting it go. “You get something much more lucrative than a prize, young lady.” The one on the right continued. “We have an invitation we’d like to offer you.” The left individual pulls out a file from his suit coat and lays it on the table. They pushed the folder to Izzy. “Open it, please.” She opens the folder and inside is a few pages of documents. At the top left corner is a photo of the Francine E. Mills Museum. Izzy looks curiously at the next few pages. The second document shows a photo of a large emerald about the size of a tennis ball. The third document simply says at the top, ON THE 6 TH FLOOR. THIRD ROOM ON THE LEFT FROM THE ELEVATORS. The person on Izzy’s left speaks. “Steal the emerald from the Museum. Come back in three hours to this same warehouse to this same table. Put the emerald on the table. All will be revealed.” The guttural tone of the voice changer sounds ominous in the dark warehouse with the only light on the three people sitting at the table. Izzy looks up and closes the folder. “Who are you people?” Both individuals look at each other at the same time. They nod to each other then the one on Izzy’s right speaks. “We are a collective of gifted individuals in every city across the world. We only choose the best of the best and so far, you have shown us that you have what it takes. Do not let us down.” With that, the lights shut off. Izzy is left in complete darkness. She is startled a little by the sudden change in lighting. She sits there in pitch blackness as her eyes adjust a little in the darkness. She does not see any silhouette of anyone sitting across from her. She felt around on the table and there was no envelope. Izzy calls out again, “Guys?! Where’d you go? Hello?!” She’s left with no answer. Izzy stood from the table and walked around the table. She held her knife out in front of her. She very softly reached out her free hand and felt the back of the chairs, but no one was sitting in any of them. “How did you . . .?” She stopped herself. “Okay then. This is crazy.” She stumbled slowly away from the table in the direction she entered the warehouse. “Right. Just steal some stone on the 6 th floor of a museum. Easy Peasy”. She walked a few more steps. “I did all that work to crack this code for some mystery theft. Some bull, I got myself into.” She whispered to herself as she felt around for the door. When she got the knob in her hands, she turned it and stepped out into the lights of the city. No one was on the streets. The cold air nipped at her body like an invasion. She shuddered and pulled her beanie out of her sweatshirt. There was a piece of paper in there as well. She reached for it and when she unraveled it there were only a few distinct words written. You will finally have the family you’ve been searching for. You will be one of us. Izzy’s eyes nearly flew out of her head. “Who put this in my pocket? When?!” Realizing that no one would answer her. She looked up at a sign on a building. FRANCINE E. MILLS MUSEUM. “Of course they planned this.” Izzy laughed to herself as the words spewed out. She looked up. The entire museum was six-floors. “So, the emerald must be on the top floor. Smart Izzy. You’re the smart one.” She mocked herself. “I really have no idea how to. I’ve never. . ." A homeless man comes out of nowhere and bumps into Izzy from behind. She is nearly toppled over and reaches for her knife again. It fell. She turns and the man is walking away from her, but he’s mumbling just enough so she can hear. “Everything you need is in the bag. You will be our family.” He walks around the corner. “Izzy picks herself up and runs after the man. Izzy rounds the corner but there is no one there. “Hey!” but no one answers. She looks down and by a dumpster, there is a black bag. She looks around before approaching the bag and unzips the main opening. She reaches in carefully and finds climbing rope, carabiners, climbing spikes, a glass cutter, some picklocks, and a flashlight. “I don’t know how to use picklocks or a glass cutter.” She mutters to herself. “Still though. The rest I do know how to use.” She attaches the bag around her body and straps it in. Izzy approaches the building but not before pulling her hood and her beanie low across her forehead. “Hmm. Doesn’t seem to be any cameras” She wraps the strand of rope over her shoulder and climbs a dumpster out back. Izzy had never climbed a building before, but she and her brother Jack who gave her the knife used to go rock climbing when they were teenagers. That was just seven years ago. I still got this. Izzy takes the rope and wraps it around her waist. She sets the carabiners to the rope and then freestyle climbs on the first ledge of the building. She places her first spike in the brick between the outlet of the window and the building itself. She then intertwines her fingers on the next outcropping of the old brick. She makes her next step and repeats, climbs, spikes, set, and next step up. By the time she gets to the fourth floor, her fingers start to go numb. “Shit, it’s been a while. This cold isn’t helping either and you should have brought gloves goofball.” Izzy laughs to herself and nearly falls. Her left foot slips off the top ledge of the fourth-story window and her right arm quickly catches herself. Her entire body bangs into the window and cracks the glass. She looks at the glass, her eyes huge. “Oh, now you done it.” She tilts her head to the side then looks up. Still two stories to go. She looks back at the window and makes a quick thought. She grabs the rope and pushes both feet to the glass. She shakes her weight, and the crack starts to travel up to the top. Izzy breathes before taking her left foot and stomping on the window. “Hope there is no alarms.” The glass gives way, and she crashes into a room of the Museum. The rope then drags her entire body back up over the ledge to the outside, but she catches herself on the window ledge cutting her hand on the shards of glass. Her determination keeps her from flapping back outside. Izzy catches herself with her one sneaker and pushes herself back inside the building. She unties the rope from her waist and flops onto the floor. “That was loud but no alarms from what I can tell. This old museum probably doesn’t have any,” she whispers. Izzy felt the pain. Her hand is bleeding. She could see that in the dim lights of the Museum. “I have to . . . “She reaches in the bag still attached to her torso and pulls out a rag. She ties it around her hand. “That will have to hold for now. Izzy looks around the museum. She’s in a small room with children's paintings of dinosaurs. She sees the exit sign of that room and silently runs to it. She stops in her tracks as a voice from the other side of the hallway calls out to someone on the radio. “Yeah, I thought I heard something. Going to check it out. I’ll check in then.” The voice came over from the radio. Copy. Let me know. The security guard’s flashlight is bright. Izzy has to think fast. She looks to the right, away from the guard and there is a sign for the stairs. She shoots down that hallway and into that door quickly. She closes the door as silently as possible and sees the ascending stairs. She darts up the stairs like a bullet to the sixth floor. Izzy doesn’t realize how out of breath she is and is breathing so loudly from nerves and the quick run up two flights. She opens the door slowly. “What did that file . . . Yes,” Izzy recalls. “Third room on the left from the elevators.” Izzy rounds the corner and sees the sign for the elevators. She walks up to it at the end of the hall then counts the doors. She sees the third archway and runs to it. It’s a room of all sorts of geological digs and crystals and gems. She grabs her flashlight and shines it through the glass of each of the displays. “Where is that freakin’” The flashlight hits something large and green. She stops. She signs the flashlight on the plaque near the display. Fourth Largest Emerald in the World “This is it.” Izzy reaches into her bag and pulls out the glass cutter. “Okay,” she mutters to herself again. “So, I guess you suction this thing onto the glass then move the cutter . . . clockwise, I think.” Izzy does just that. The glass doesn’t break though. She turns the crank around again. Izzy shines her flashlight and there is a line, but the glass is too thick. There isn’t a way—suddenly she hears ALARMS. “Shit. I bet the guard found the broken glass.” She quickly looks around. There's a small stone statue on a pedestal near the display. She takes it off and smashes the glass. Izzy grabs the emerald and throws it into her bag quickly. The girl runs out of the Geological Room and back to the hallway. She hears someone yelling, “HEY YOU! STOP!!” Izzy takes off toward the opposite end. Izzy rounds a corner where another guard is standing. He pulls his taser out of his belt clip and forcefully yells at her, “STOP RIGHT WHERE YOU ARE!” Izzy is running to fast toward the guard to stop. By the time she does, he’ll grab her, so she doubles down on her run. He’s to big to knock over, but he may be too slow too. She fakes a leap over the man, but quickly changes to a slide and her entire body moves under the guard’s legs before he realizes what happened. He turns and she is more than twenty feet away from him. He points his taser at the girl, but she already rounds another corner and the electric current misses her by inches. With no time to spare, Izzy has to think on her feet, literally. She sees a window at the end of the hallway. She runs toward it grabbing at a small bust of Caesar on a pedestal in the hallway. She uses her body weight and flings the statue at the window. It breaks upon impact. The bust flies out and lands on a parked down below causing that car alarm to go off and add to the alarm of the Museum. Izzy leaps onto the ledge and looks down. Way too far to jump. She grabs hold of a nearby drainage pipe. On the other end of that is a fire escape. She curses to herself. She probably could have used that on the way up had she taken the time to canvas the entire building. Either way, she sees it now. She jumps toward it. Her bag nearly flies off her shoulders, as she catches herself from falling six floors and pulls herself up on the iron bars. The girl skips steps on the way down. She hears the sirens in the distance. Third, then second, then First. She vaults onto the ground and switches toward the warehouse. She looks down at her watch. It’s 2:47 am. Izzy darts inside. This time she uses the flashlight given to her to peer into the warehouse. She points it at the table where the two individuals are standing. She aims in that direction pulling the emerald out of her bag as she runs. She gets to the table with a slide and slams the stone down out of breath. “There is your emerald. What now?” The two stoic beings look at each other and back at Izzy. The one on the shorter one speaks first, “Well done. If you please, follow us.” The taller one leads the way to the back of the warehouse outside to a dimly lit alley. There is a limousine waiting for them. The two individuals motion her inside. They do not follow. They walk to the back of the alley just as the lights of the cop cars round the corner. A beam of light shoots out from the shorter one. Izzy quickly turns to the person sitting beside her in the seat, her mouth agape in astonishment. “JACK!” she gasps. “Hey, sis. Long time no see, huh. We need to go.”  Jack taps the glass between him and the driver, and he speeds off. ()()()()() A YEAR LATER TO THE DAY A beautiful Hotel bar in Mumbai sit's a blonde woman sipping a vodka and cranberry as she looks at her phone. She looks up as she hears the two gentlemen beside her talking. “They know who did it. They got her DNA from the break-in at that Museum. Isabella Anderson. This is exactly a year later. They never caught her.” The other guy takes a sip from his drink as his friend is recounting the actions of the anniversary. “I wonder what she’s doing now?” “Wouldn’t it be crazy if she was here at this very hotel considering this is the unleashing of the biggest Ruby in the world” the other one laughed. “Crazy indeed my friend, but crazier things have happened.” The blonde woman wore an earpiece. A voice came over it saying, Show time dear sister. Izzy smiled and took a last sip of her drink as she stood. Her beautiful dress hit the floor. She answered back with a smirk, “Let’s do it.” 

yxe1oa

The Perfect Night

In the deep silence of the night, Rick, with his heart pounding with a mix of fear and exhilaration, snuck in the art gallery. This was it, the final act of his thievery career, spurred by the love for his fiancée and the thrill of one last challenge. The gallery, with its dim lights casting long shadows, seemed to whisper secrets of the past, secrets Rick was about to become a part of. He moved slowly, each step calculated, avoiding the creaky floorboards seasoned with age and secrets. The irony of the situation didn't escape him; the artwork he aimed to claim was “The Perfect Night”. Rick’s mind wandered briefly to his fiancée, her uneasy expression when she accepted his risky lifestyle for one last time, her whispered fears echoing in his memory. Yet, tonight, he promised himself, marked the end. As Rick approached the painting, his future flashed before him: a new beginning, a clean slate, dreams of daylight rather than shadow. But destiny had a twist in store. There, basking in the moonlight filtering through the skylight, stood a mysterious figure — a woman, with light blond hair, face covered with a long shadow, and thin pale hands. Her whisper cut through the silence. She spoke of the painting, her grandfather's legacy, and her hidden resentment towards him for constantly saying she would never be good enough to become a real artist or have her artworks displayed in this gallery. Rick listened, entranced by the raw emotion in her voice, her story unfolding like a parallel to his own life’s canva. Rick: "Why are you here so late? This place is supposed to be empty." Woman (Whispering): "I could ask you the same, but we both know why we're really here, don't we? This painting, 'The Perfect Night", it's more than just canvas and paint, it represents my shattered dreams, courtesy of my grandfather's harsh words. I've spent my life hiding behind these shadows, letting fear dictate my choices. But you, breaking in here, why do this?" The conversation turned, unexpected and surreal, to her own hidden artworks, her fears, her repressed artistic soul yearning for recognition. Rick, moved by her vulnerability, saw a mirror of his own concealed desires in her confession. Here was a fellow shadow walker, a kindred spirit bound by her own chains of fear and familial expectations. Rick faced a crossroads, his heart torn between the adrenaline of the theft and an unforeseen connection. The painting, once the symbol of his final victory, now stood as a beacon of potential change. Could he abandon his plan for this stranger, this artist trapped in her own silent gallery of unfulfilled dreams? Their eyes met, two worlds colliding in the dim light of the gallery. Rick, the seasoned thief, recognized a flicker of hope in her eyes — a hope that he knew could shatter the darkness of his own existence. Rick: "Because I thought this was the only way out, but maybe... maybe there's another path, one that doesn't involve taking what's not mine." Woman: "Another path... I've always dreamt of showing my own art, of stepping out from under my grandfather's shadow. But fear, it's a powerful jailer. I feel you know what I am talking about, am I right?" The gallery, a silent witness to their burgeoning understanding, seemed to hold its breath. The choice was his: to continue down the path of shadows or to step into a unknown world painted with trust to a stranger he met a few minutes ago. Rick: "Show me your art. I know that it sounds strange, we just met each other, totally strangers. But let's me look, please." Woman (Pauses, then softly): "You would do that? After planning such a heist? All my life I was told I wasn't enough, that my art was worthless. that my dreams, my art, were nothing but childish fantasies. 'Real artists are born, not made,' he'd say, and he made sure I believed it. Standing here with you, a total stranger, yet offering me what I've longed for—acceptance, belief... it's overwhelming. It's hard to accept that he was mistaken, that I allowed his words to crush me so thoroughly. He was oppressive, unrelentingly harsh. I can hardly fathom it—I sought his approval, yearned for his love and belief in me. Yet, what did I receive? Only emptiness. And now, fate throws me against a thief, someone who sees value in what I’ve deemed worthless because of my grandfather’s assertions. Perhaps he was right. I’ve lost myself completely. I need a change, a big change. I do not trust myself, people. I do not listen to anybody. I live my small life without friends because I am so miserable. And you are stayimg here and saying that you can offer me something that absolutely impossible. Who are you? And how dare you to tell me that? If you want to steal it, just steal. I don't care. I would be happy if you do so. Give me a favor, just destroy it. I am so done." In that moment, under the watchful eyes of timeless art, Rick realized that the true heist wasn’t about stealing a painting; it was about reclaiming lost pieces of oneself. He understood now that life’s most exquisite art form was connection, the intertwining of souls on their journey through the shadowed corridors of existence. Moving together into the realm of her unseen art, Rick knew that this night, indeed, was perfect. Not because of a successful theft, but because it was the night he stole back his future, guided by the light of a stranger’s spirit. The night was deep, the journey uncertain, but for the first time, Rick stepped forward not as a thief, but as a guardian of dreams, his own and those reflected in the eyes of the woman beside him. This night, the gallery of his life welcomed a new masterpiece, one painted with the hues of hope and the promise of a dawn yet to come.

v3dxu0

The Great Dominion: The Unveiled Betrayal

"You stole my family from me," the Supreme Enforcer's voice was laced with a dark intensity that sent a shiver down Desmond's spine. "You manipulated me, betrayed me, and stood by my side all these years, feeding me your poisoned counsel." Desmond's breath hitched, a cold shiver coursing down his spine. In that moment, he felt a powerful intrusion into his very mind. Memories, emotions, and thoughts were laid bare, and the Supreme Enforcer's gaze bore into him with an intensity that left him utterly vulnerable. The memory played out in the Supreme Enforcer's mind, the room seemed to warp and twist, shadows deepening around them. As his consciousness plunged into the memory—a chapter etched in the recesses of his mind, a glimpse into a past when his name was Erik Thaddeus, a devoted husband and a loving father. Long before he became the Supreme Enforcer of the Great Dominion. Erik inhabited two worlds—a military leader bound by duty, and a family man driven by love and aspirations. The image of him at home was vivid—his wife Isabella, a woman of grace and charm, his partner in a dance of life's highs and lows. Their children, their laughter, and the simple joys of familial bonds painted a tableau of happiness. He surrendered to the memory's pull, allowing it to carry him further into the folds of time. Laughter echoed—a symphony of voices, the joyful sound of his wife Isabella's laughter, the carefree innocence of his children's giggles. This tableau of love and connection was a reminder of a life untouched by darkness. The memory's lens focused on Isabella—a woman whose presence had been his beacon, a rock to cling to amid life's storms. He watched as a series of heart-stopping events unfolded—an unexpected and tragic sequence of chaos that shattered their world. The devastating incident unfolded with relentless swiftness. The sanctuary that had once sheltered their love was invaded by an untamable force. And in that moment Erik's world had crumbled. The Supreme Enforcer’s heart pounded as the memory replayed the events—an altercation that spiraled into a maelstrom of violence, an exchange of raw fear and desperate pleas for mercy. Helpless and unable to stop the chaos and destruction about to unfold, the intruder managed to catch Erik off guard and hit him with a metal crowbar to the back of the head. He later awakens tied to a kitchen chair, his head bleeding and vision blurry; he watches in horror as his wife is slain before him, red blood staining her sunflower dress as the intruder lets her body fall from his arms, her body now laying limp and pale on the family room floor. The Supreme Enforcer felt a swirl of rage as he knew what was to happen next to his innocent children. He tried to look away but could not as the intruder severed their life force from them. The intruder's appearance was clad in shadow, his features were shrouded in darkness, rendering his face a chilling mask that was once concealed. His eyes, devoid of empathy, glinted with a cold, calculating edge—an edge that bespoke the danger he posed. The intruder's presence was a nightmare incarnate, a storm that raged with relentless fury. But with this new found power the Supreme Enforcer could see the truth, a truth that was hidden by lies and deceit. The intruder on that fateful night was his best friend, Desmond. Desmond's heart raced, his breath catching in his throat as he stared into the eyes of the man he had betrayed. The Supreme Enforcer's gaze bore into him like a dagger, a potent mix of anger and betrayal. His face paled as he watched the Supreme Enforcer's reaction transform from uncertainty to realization, to a seething rage. The realization that his own confidant, his right hand, was the architect of his deepest pain sent shockwaves through him. The room seemed to close in, the air thickening with a new level of tension. "You," the Supreme Enforcer hissed, his voice laced with venom. "You were the one who brought darkness into my life." Desmond's eyes widened, his heart racing as he struggled to comprehend the situation he now found himself in. In that moment, he realized the true extent of the power that had awakened within the Supreme Enforcer—a power that reached into the depths of memories and emotions, and laid them bare. The realization was chilling, and as the tension escalated, a maelstrom of emotions swept through Desmond. Fear, anger, regret—it was all there, mingled with the agonizing truth that he had been caught in his own web of deceit. He had risen to power, standing beside the very man he had betrayed so many years ago. As the truth hung in the air like a specter, the room seemed to pulse with an eerie energy, a collision of power and deception that threatened to consume them both. "Desmond," the Supreme Enforcer's voice cut through the tension like a whip, resonating with an eerie undertone that seemed to echo from the depths of some abyss. "You dared to stand by my side, to gain my trust, all the while hiding the truth of your role in the most heinous act of my life." Desmond's hands clenched at his sides, a torrent of emotions surging within him. Fear, regret, shame—they all crashed together, forming a maelstrom of conflicting feelings. He had known that the day of reckoning would come, but facing the Supreme Enforcer's wrath was more chilling than he had ever anticipated. With a gesture that was almost casual, the Supreme Enforcer extended his hand, tendrils of darkness coalescing around his fingers. The shadows seemed to respond to his unspoken will, spiraling and weaving, forming an almost tangible force of malevolence that circled him like a protective shroud. Desmond's lips parted, words failing him in the face of the Supreme Enforcer's newfound power. The very air seemed to grow heavy with the weight of their shared history, their twisted bond of loyalty and deception. The darkness that clung to the Supreme Enforcer's fingers seemed to seep into every corner of the room, casting an oppressive aura. The tension escalated, the atmosphere growing suffocating as Desmond found himself pinned under the weight of the Supreme Enforcer's judgment. He wanted to explain, to beg for forgiveness, to convey the turmoil that had driven him to that fateful night, but his voice caught in his throat, silenced by the magnitude of the situation. And then, with another flicker of the Supreme Enforcer's fingers, the shadows surged forward, tendrils of darkness wrapping around Desmond's form, binding him in an invisible grip. Panic surged within him as he struggled against the constricting force, a gasp escaping his lips. "You will pay for your treachery," the Supreme Enforcer's words resonated with a chilling finality. The room seemed to echo with his power, shadows dancing like specters, threatening to consume Desmond's very essence. Desmond's breath quickened, his heart pounding in his chest as he realized the gravity of his situation. The Supreme Enforcer's untapped power was a force beyond anything he had imagined, and it was now turned against him. As the shadows tightened their grip, fear and regret intertwined within him, a maelstrom of emotions that left him teetering on the precipice of the unknown. Desmond's struggles became increasingly feeble as the tendrils of darkness continued to wind around him, squeezing the life out of him. His gasps turned to strained wheezes, and his form grew more translucent as if his very essence was being siphoned away. Panic surged through him, his mind racing, desperately seeking an escape from the consuming void. The Supreme Enforcer's eyes gleamed with a malevolent triumph as he wielded his newfound power with unnerving precision. The darkness swirled and pulsed around Desmond, his form becoming less substantial with each passing moment. Memories, regrets, and fleeting images of his life flashed before his eyes, a disjointed montage of moments that defined his existence. Desmond's fingers clawed at the encroaching shadows, but they slipped through his grasp like smoke, leaving him with a profound sense of helplessness. His voice, once strong and confident, was reduced to a mere whisper, carried away on the currents of darkness that surrounded him. And then, as swiftly as it had begun, it was over. The shadows tightened their grip one final time, and Desmond's form dissipated into nothingness. He vanished into the consuming void, leaving behind only a chilling silence that echoed through the chamber. The Supreme Enforcer stood there, his breathing ragged, his eyes still ablaze with the remnants of his unleashed power. The darkness receded, the tendrils retracting back into the shadows from whence they came. The room, once charged with tension and malevolence, now felt heavy with an eerie stillness. For a moment, the Supreme Enforcer simply stared at the space where Desmond had stood, a mix of emotions swirling within him. There was anger, yes, but also a haunting realization of the depths to which he had been deceived. The power he had accessed—the darkness that had surged through him—had given him the means to exact his revenge, to obliterate the one who had orchestrated his greatest loss. Desmond's deceit gnawed at his thoughts, a festering wound that refused to heal. The very fabric of his existence had been shattered by the knowledge that his once-trusted confidant had been the harbinger of his most profound pain. Desmond's actions had set into motion a chain of events that had ultimately transformed him into the being he had become—a ruler driven by ambition, power, and an insatiable thirst for control. And yet, as the echoes of Desmond's existence faded, a chilling emptiness settled within the Supreme Enforcer. The victory he had sought had been achieved at a terrible cost, leaving him to grapple with the extent of his own power and the darkness that it had awakened within him. As the silence stretched on, he turned his gaze to the shadows, a new awareness dawning within him—an awareness of the abyss that had been unearthed, the abyss that was now his to wield. With a heavy sigh, the Supreme Enforcer took a step back, his mind a tempest of conflicted emotions. The power he had tasted was both intoxicating and terrifying, a force that had forever altered the course of his destiny. And as he stood there, in the wake of Desmond's vanishing, he was left to grapple with the price of his revenge and the abyss that now lurked within him, waiting to be called upon once more.

kxyv9m

Don't Call Me Son

There comes a time when you need to accept the family you have. It's a hard thing to do. Especially when the family you have isn't the family you want to have. When that family is dysfunctional and broken. When that family hates you. It's hard not to take it personally. To not carry a grudge. I used to think I was the forgive and forget sort. That I could just...figure out how to get past it all. And maybe I could have, if they'd come for me. If they'd bothered to lift a finger and attempted a rescue. Something, anything, to prove they cared whether I lived or died. But they didn't, did they? For all of their fancy names, nifty outfits, and extraordinary reputations, they really were terrible people. How else could you view a group of people blessed with such power that couldn't be bothered to save their own flesh and blood? Why was I worth less to them than a random stranger screaming across town? When I was a kid, my parents had high expectations. The first born of a popular and extremely powerful metahuman family, all eyes were on me as I turned 5. That is when metahumans start showing signs of their powers. I turned 5 and showed no signs. They waited another year. Nothing. All the buzz died down, and instead the paparazzi started questioning my utility as a metahuman. That is when they decided to have another child - my younger brother.  Was I defective? At a very young age the question bothered me. Why was I not like other kids? Even my own brother had shown signs of super strength - like my dad - even before he turned five. So why me? Why was I the one who was different? As we grew, I became ostracized from my own family. They looked at me, eyes filled with hatred, disappointment and pity. I decided to withdraw from the world, even as I was bullied and beaten in school everyday. Why are you even here? They would taunt. They were right - but I didn't know why I was there at a school for aspiring heroes. There was no point in training for a power that I did not have.  I learned to accept them for what they were the same day I learned something else: Supervillains aren't born that way, they're made that way. By life and circumstance. No one wants to be evil, they just don't want to be vulnerable and hurt any more. They learn to act against others so no one is given a chance to act against them. Sigue was like that. Labeled the most dangerous villain of the century, on the surface he was brutal and ruthless. Kidnapping me was evidence enough of that. He targeted me because I was weak. He waited until I was alone and defenseless and made his move. He executed his plan to perfection, grabbing me while walking home from school. His only mistake was assuming anyone cared. You can only gain leverage over an enemy if you possess something they value. Well, my family didn't value me. They didn’t value me enough to save my life when they save hundreds every day doing their jobs. It came as a shock to us both. It's one thing to suspect, and quite another to have it confirmed. I glared pitfully at the floor, the chains rattling around my ankle. “Well there you have it.” I spat, the ground a victim to my glare. “The great Whitlock family, savior of thousands of people, can’t be bothered to save their own son.” Tears pooled in my eyes but I furiously blinked them away, not willing to cry in front of a villain. I’m going to die here. The horrifying thought crossed my mind quickly but it was true. I was alone with a murderer, someone who killed without mercy. I looked up, my vision still blurry from tears. He had an odd expression on his face, twisted, a painful grimace. He reached his hand out and I flinched. He retracted his arm slowly, hands clenched into fists by his side. “Look, kid-” he tried. “Carson.” “Carson.” He corrected himself. His face twisted again and I squinted at him, trying to figure out his thoughts. Before he could speak again, I blurted out, “If you’re going to kill me, make it quick please.” I bowed my head, surrendering myself. After all, what was the point of fighting? I had no chance. It was better to give in in the hopes of a quick death. “Don’t do that.” He spoke out, his voice hard. I snapped my head up quickly, only to be startled for a different reason. He had taken off his mask. No one had ever seen his face before, Sigue’s identity a carefully concealed secret. But now I watched as he set his mask aside on the ground coming closer to me. “I’m… sorry.” My eyes widened in bewilderment. “What?” I laughed incredulously. More out of hysteria than anything. “You’re sorry ?” “Yeah.” He admitted. He walked closer and I tensed, watching his movements carefully. Surprisingly, he sat down next to me, also keeping his gaze trained on the floor. I stared unwaveringly at his face, the one he had kept so carefully hidden from heroes and villains alike. He had strong facial features, arguably handsome if it wasn't for the long scar running from the corner of his mouth all the way to his ear. It looked painful. I wondered who could’ve possibly landed a hit like that on someone so powerful. “I know what it’s like being betrayed by your parents.” I scoffed. “Yeah I’m sure you do.” I pulled my knees closer to my chest, the chains rattling. My eyes filled with tears again. I blinked furiously. “You can cry.” I startled, turning towards Sigue. He wasn’t looking at me. “I won’t say anything.” “You kidnapped me,” I said dryly. “You're not supposed to be nice.” He chuckled softly. “That wasn’t personal.” He took a key from his pocket. “Here,” He said, unlocking my wrists. My ankle was still bound but I had more freedom of movement now. “Thanks…” I said carefully, rubbing my raw wrists. “My parents…” He hesitated. I cocked my head in confusion. His voice was slightly shaky, unlike anything I had ever heard from the fearsome villain. “They threw me out. I had a “villainous” power. They were scared. So, off to the streets I go.” My eyes were wide as I took in his story. Surprisingly, I could relate. I could relate to someone who has killed and hurt so many people. I almost laughed again, but remained silent, not wanting to break the careful air of peace between us, “It was terrible. I was the same age as you, homeless, cold, no place to go.” He sighed. “I went to so many metas. People supposed to be heroes turned away a starving kid because of his power. Because they were scared .” He clenched his fist, and the beam next to us exploded. I jumped, watching the shrapnel drift to the ground like confetti. My mouth felt dry, going cold with fear again. “So,” he continued, his voice carefully even. “I do know what it’s like to have shitty parents.” I chuckled. “Well I guess that’s one way to put it.” A tense silence fell over the room, the only noise in the room was my heavy breathing. “Is that why you’re a villain?” I whispered quietly, breaking the silence. “Part of it.” He sighed. “When you get hurt, you hit back. When society shuns you out, you have to find a way to claw your way back to the top.” For some reason that’s what finally made me break down, the tears filling dripping down my face. The words were harsh but in the end they were true. I was at rock bottom. How could those I had loved and admired for so long inflict such pain? Despite my desperate attempts to earn their affection, my parents remained distant, their indifference a silent condemnation of my existence. Now I knew the truth. They never cared, and they never would. Sigue looked way out of his element, seemingly not knowing how to deal with a crying kid. “Shit, I’m sorry.” He reached out, but seemed hesitant to touch me. I let out a shuddering breath, it sounded more like a sob. “No, I just…” More tears fell. “I just wish my parents cared about me!” He froze. “I mean they just left me here! ” I wailed. “With you!” “Hey-” “I just want them to like me. To care about me and pay attention to me for once in my life.” Sigue sighed. “I’m sorry. I really am.” He put a hand on my shoulder, the action strangely caring. He took the key and unlocked the shackle around my ankle. “Here. You’re free to go.” I looked at him in shock. I didn’t move. He got up to leave and walk out the door. “You’re not going to kill me?” I asked incredulously. He turned around to look back at me. “I don’t kill kids.” He gave me a wry grin. “I have no need to keep you here if your parents aren’t coming. Go back to your family.” I stared at the floor, processing. My heart still felt like it was shattering in millions of pieces, my family’s unwillingness to help their own son cutting deep. But, a new feeling was emerging beneath all the shards. Rage. How could they turn their backs on their own son, leaving him to navigate the darkness alone? The pain of abandonment morphed into a seething fury, burning hotter with each passing moment. No longer would I allow their neglect to define me. “No.” He squinted at me. “No?” I stood up, drying my tears with my sleeve. “No, I’m not going back.” He sighed. “Don’t go to the streets, boy. It’s a tough world out there when it’s every man for himself.” “No. I want to stay with you.” He laughed. “Okay, kid, now I know you-” He paused when he saw the expression on my face. “Oh. You’re serious.” “I want to work with you.” I took a step forward. “I want to be your sidekick. My parents left me here so they’re not going to get me back.” “You. The son of the most influential meta family of all time, wants to work with me, someone who’s killed thousands?” “Yes.” My eyes glowed white in the pale moonlight. “They abandoned me. They have never cared about me. And now they’re going to pay. Such people don’t deserve the title of ‘hero.’” Sigue stared at me with barely concealed bewilderment. “It’s going to be tough, kid. Your family will be gunning for your head. Every single meta in the city will be out for your blood if you work with me.” “I want to.” I said quickly. “You… You don’t understand how much everyone hates me.” I whispered quietly. “I’ve been beaten, teased, and bullied all because of something I can’t control. I don’t want to live in a society that shuns people like me. People like us. After this… I would rather be dead, than go back to my good-for-nothing parents.” “Well then,” He said, a hint of what seemed like pride in his tone. He wrapped a strong arm around me pulling me closer to him. “Let me show you the ropes.” As we walked, I could help but feel that this was what it was meant to be. I was never supposed to be a hero. I was never meant to confirm the expectations set out for me. No, I had a much more important path. In the failed attempt at luring my family out from hiding Sigue had gained something: a devoted apprentice. Someone who was willing to dedicate themselves fully to furthering his goals and ambitions. Someone who would rather be with him than their own family. Strange, I know, but I cannot stress enough how terrible it feels to be betrayed by your family. Particularly when that family possesses every ability to at least try and do something about it. So, while I had lost my family, I gained something too. This wasn't a simple case of Stockholm Syndrome. It was the first time where my effort was noticed and appreciated. Where the skills I did possess, while not superhuman, were certainly powerful when given the opportunity to be of use. And Sigue gave me that opportunity. He let me be powerful. Yes, my father could bend steel in his hands, but I could shoot a bullet between the eyes faster than he could crush me. My sister could fly faster than the speed of sound, but my viruses traveled at the speed of light. My mother, my dear, indifferent mother, could boil water with her eyes, but I could set the world on fire with my mind. So many things come easily to metahumans, that they often lose sight of how the world actually works. When you are above the world, the world is beneath you. You have strength, but you lose context. Since you are powerful wherever you are, you forget that you can only be in one place at once. He taught me how to exploit that. How to be everywhere at once. How to harvest the data left lying about and unsecured online. How to inflict damage without risking anything of value. How to gain power over the powerful. Piece by piece, we built our empire in the underworld. An unassailable bastion from which we launched our attacks. And attack we did. The metahumans had woefully under-invested in their own base. They thought no one would possibly dare to attack them from within. Proof of their narrow-minded mindset. We gained the power to hurt those who had hurt us. To teach the world that creating supervillains had consequences. My family immediately caught wind of my alliance with the most powerful supervillain of the decade. Immediately, without hesitation they attempted to kill me. I was not surprised. It hurt seeing the people I once loved turn on me without even bothering to get an explanation from me. It hurt but I pushed through it. I understood what kind of people they were now. I wasn’t going to shed any more tears on them. Not anymore. Yes, I learned to accept the family I had. They unfortunately learned the consequences of that too late. One supervillain is an annoyance. Two supervillains? Well, that's a problem. And Sigue and his sidekick were a real problem.

fcyx9l

Mona Lisa's War

(Note: There is mention of war in this story, and in the title.) It was a cold day in summer at Le Louvre and Bernardine had a problem. He'd lost his keys again. It was time to lock up for the night and he was at a loss for how he would accomplish his duty. In record time, he sprung into action. Was it in the African section? The Middle Easter tapestries? Was it in the bathroom? He knew he'd left his set of keys there before. All the while, time was ticking away. As he was looking around, something felt heavy in the palm of his hand, but he paid that no mind. He went on the search, looking through the museum as thoroughly as one could. Only to discover that the keys had been in his hand the entire time. "Again?" said Bernardine. He then proceeded to lock everything up. He locked up the visitors area, the photo booth, the tchotchke machine, the merchandise center, even the mini zoo. "We should really be getting going," said another guard. "I'll catch up to you. Really, it's okay." Bernardine kept the lights on as he made one final pass through the museum, looking everywhere he could. He made his way upstairs, downstairs, and through each wing. It was a harrowing experience, but it was his life. He knew this place inside and out. But still, something felt...off. He didn't often have this intuition, but when he did, it was wise to take heed. Something didn't feel quite right at Le Louvre. "Somebody's here," said Bernardine, his fist tightening. He went into the Italian Renaissance section, to where "The Big Guy" was housed. He had no idea what to expect, but he was prepared for everything. His pepper spray was sitting right on its holder. At the spray of a second, he'd be able to take out anything within a five-foot radius. He turned on his rock-solid flashlight, which doubled as a baton in a pinch. This was the situation. As he made his way through, he started to wonder: What was the point of it all? Open the museum, close the museum. Did it mean anything? Did it ever make a difference? Suddenly, he saw her sitting in the Da Vinci room. He couldn't recognize her at first. He'd been there all day and he hadn't even seen her walk in. She hadn't been in any of the bathrooms or the gift shop. "Lady! Lady. Museum's closed." She was silent. She just sat there, looking away. Her back was to him. It was almost as if she were deaf. "Lady," said Bernardine, reaching out for her arm. "This is not the time. Nor is there any for this..." Just then, he happened to look up at the the Mona Lisa, the famed Da Vinci painting of old. It had already been stolen at least once. He looked at the painting. So pristine. So serene in its formulations. But wait. Something was missing. Where was...she? He dropped his flash light for a moment, unable to process the reality of what he was seeing. Did someone spray the painting with acid? Was it a duplicate painting put up as a joke? As a lesson? Was the real one on some smuggler's run warzone, running toward its intended buyer? Bernardine looked down at the woman. Surely, she knew. Or did she? "My village," she said. "There was a war." "Listen, honey, you have to leave now. Where...Where is the painting?" "My village. There were many killed. We must return to save who is left." By chance, Bernardine looked at her face. It was round and fierce, with thin lips and a conscientious expression. "The Mona Lisa! Oh my God. Mon Dieu! What has happened to you?" "My village. It is torn apart by war. There has been death and suffering. I must escape." "No. You have to go back in the painting. It's where you belong." "I cannot. It's too painful." "How can I get the war to stop?" "Talk to him. He'll listen to you." "Talk to who?" "Da Vinci." "Da Vinci? He's been dead for 500 years!" "He is there. In that painting." "You want me to go into the Mona Lisa to convince Leonardo Da Vinci to stop the war?" "It's the only way. I cannot go back. I have lost my family. There is a famine." Bernardine had no choice. He took the Mona Lisa painting off the wall, with its giant, empty space where its protagonist once stood, and placed it on the floor next to a wall. He then got on his hands and knees and literally crawled into the painting. It was a sunny day in the Mona Lisa. The heat was oppressive, but there was a feeling of melancholy spread throughout. Bernardine walked through the area, looking for Da Vinci's home. Off in the distance, a few feet from where he had entered the painting, he saw a dark castle. It was high and imposing. "That where Da Vinci lives?" Bernardine advanced toward the castle, his trusty flashlight in his hand. When he got to the building, the front door was open. Bernardine couldn't believe his luck. He then entered the building. Inside there were paintings on the wall. Some by Michelangelo, some by Titian, though they had never been released to the public. "Da Vinci!" said Bernardine, realizing he'd just missed his favorite show. "Da Vinci! Show yourself!" Just then, Bernardine became nauseous and began to wince. A voice came into his head. "Who dares enter the secret lair of the Sultan of Sense, the Almighty God of the visual medium. I must not be disturbed. Must not. Must not be disturbed. The universe wouldn't like that. Must continue working, yes. One more invention won't do. I must invent them all. Reinvent them, too. I must...Who are you?" Just then, Bernardine felt a jolt of energy course through his body. "Da Vinci! End this war so that the Mona Lisa can go home! She misses her family!" "What's it to you? Are you a patron of the arts?" "No. I am just a lowly security guard. A peasant, really. A hired hit." "So what's it to you? Why do you sacrifice your own world for this one?" "My boss will be mad at me if I don't put her back on the shelf!" "So, if I end this war, you will leave me in peace to make my apps and smartphones?" "Da Vinci, you have my word!" And so it was. Da Vinci ended Mona Lisa's War and all was back to normal. Bernardine got laid off.

haxerr

Fire and Shadow

The drums of revolution echo beneath Shadow’s feet. No, not a  revolution. His  revolution. Beneath a sickle moon and her attending stars, Shadow stands on the edge of the city of Montauvers’ grandest cathedral. Spread out on the roof before him are men Shadow would’ve gladly died for, men who share his island skin and exotic, emerald eyes, now pointing crossbows at his heart. At their center, Cassia stands with red curls whipping in the evening breeze, her crossbow pointed at her husband’s face with a steady grip; Hoa stands by her side, sword in hand — at least Shadow’s dearest friend has the decency to look ashamed. “Hand me the key, my love,” Cassia repeats. Shadow swallows his anguish. Mourning is not a luxury he has right now. For the revolution to succeed, he must survive. Far below, among the throngs of Wati hurtling through the streets with fire and rage, Shadow picks up the clanking armor of the king’s Valor Guard, entering the cathedral doors below. He needs time. “Who got to you?” Shadow asks. “The Grand Shepherd? One of the Premiers? How much is my life worth?” Cassia spits at his feet. “You know what’s worse than being married to a fool? Marrying an arrogant fool. You were blinded, believing you alone strived for our independence. So blinded, you didn’t know your closest friend bedded your wife. In your bed. Every night.” Shadow’s former blood brothers grumble. For a husband to be cuckolded in their culture speaks more to the man’s dignity than the wife’s. Many tighten their grips on their crossbows. “You disrespected us, brother,” Hoa adds. “You never listened. You led our rebellion like the king we look to destroy.” “I’m ending his tyranny!” Shadow roared. “For us! For our children!” His voice almost breaks at the last, but Shadow refuses to give them the satisfaction of his torment. “We don’t want the Onyx Castle destroyed,” Cassia says. She steps forward, standing at a distance where missing Shadow’s eye is impossible. “I’ll not ask again, husband. Hand over the key to the undercroft so we may dismantle your explosives. I don’t wish to remove it from your corpse.” Shadow looks between his wife and friend, comprehension finally dawning. “You want the throne for yourselves?” he says with disgust. “We want our people to rule!” Hoa says. Shadow sees more hunger in his friend’s eyes than he could have imagined. Was he indeed so blind? “With the Wati in power, imagine the legacy we can leave for our people.” “That betrays everything! Our people’s blood feeds the roses at the foot of the castle’s battlements.” Shadow makes a tight fist. “It’s too powerful a symbol. Any fool hungry for power will try and take it from you, risking our people’s lives for decades to come. No, the castle must burn.” The roof door slams open as Valor Guard pour through, swords in hand. The Wati crossbows thrum in the night as they turn and fire. Soldiers collapse, but more come through the doorway. “We must hurry—” Hoa starts to shout, but a sword strike takes his head from his shoulders. Shadow uses the distraction to leap from the cathedral’s rooftop. Cassia fires her crossbow, sending a bolt into Shadow’s shoulder as he falls. His shoulder screaming, Shadow tangles himself in thick vines of garland that traverse the narrow streets to swing into the growing mass of marching bodies. Shadow knocks down a dozen of his people. They curse as he untangles himself to sprint for the Onyx Castle. Blood leaking down his side, Shadow pushes his way through throngs of screaming revolutionaries, running past burning shops and ringing steel from tiny knots of fighting. Shadow aches that he cannot enjoy it. This was supposed to be his finest moment. A story he would tell his children on nights when they refused to sleep. Cassia would chide him for being too stern. He would relent, telling them the story of the night their parents ushered in a new world in which they could thrive as equals, not be tormented as immigrants by the people they were invited to save through their labor, because the people of Montauvers were having fewer children. He would tell them that they now work for their own futures. That they were free. That dream is gone now. All that is left for Shadow is the freedom of others. Another father will have that moment. Another mother will listen as she stokes the fire in their home with a quiet smirk. Shadow’s feet pound the cobblestone streets as he makes his way over the Somerisle Bridge, the dividing line between the high- and low-class territories, enters the Ruby Village township that surrounds the castle — now a neighborhood of burning mansions — and charges through the broken gates of Onyx Castle. Shadow’s lungs burn as he runs through the immaculately kept hedges of the lawn that stretches before the black stone fortress. He finds the hole he helped dig only twelve hours before when all that occupied his mind was the promise of a better tomorrow. He jumps through, crab-walking through the narrow corridor of black earth until he reaches the underside of the castle’s west wing. He climbs through the broken wall, finding himself inside a vaulted room of ancient stone. The hall stretches to a locked door. Shadow sighs with relief as he steps through when another bolt tears through his thigh. He goes down with a cry. Cassia steps through the wall right after him, already reloading her crossbow. Her jade eyes stare down at her husband without remorse. “It could have been us,” she says. “We could have been rulers.” “We are not rulers, Cass,” Shadow replies through gritted teeth. “Our people lived free, without power hanging over our heads.” “And look what happened,” she seethes. “We were overrun! Too weak to fight back, forced from our lands, lured to this city by a promise, only to be abused. Again. There are more nations out there, husband. More powerful countries than this one who see people like the Wati as deserving to be taken.” Her eyes pool with unfallen tears. “Women raped. Children dashed against the rocks. Elders burned. I have seen it. You have seen it. And yet, you think we could live in peace with nature. You’re an idealistic fool.” “It’s what you loved about me. Once,” Shadow says. Cassia shakes her head. “Your ideas will lead us to our death.” She raises her crossbow, tears now falling with abandon. “I love you.” Shadow grabs the fine dirt he collected when he fell and throws it in his wife’s face. Cassia cries out, coughing and blind. Shadow rolls onto his good leg and vaults off the floor with his strong arm, bowling her over and knocking the wind from her lungs. Cassia’s bow fires but misses Shadow completely. He pulls the key from his pocket, turns it in the lock, and throws the door open. The undercroft runs the length and width of the castle, filled with a forest of stone support pillars. Long ago cleared out of the king’s goods, it is now a sea of crates filled with the combustible powder of the far east Yuhan Provinces. A line of purple powder snakes from multiple points among the boxes, all leading to Shadow’s feet. He quickly removes an unlit torch from a wall sconce and a tinderbox from his bloodied shirt. Cassia leaps on his back, sinking her teeth into his exposed neck. Shadow screams. He tries to ram her into the stone walls behind him, but his wounded leg buckles, letting Cassia scurry away before Shadow falls back into the wall. An explosion of white takes his vision as he slams his head. Cassia kicks the unlit torch from his hand, but Shadow blocks the tinderbox with his body. Cassia kicks and punches anywhere she can to loosen his grip, then jumps on top of him. “Why can’t you see what you’re doing?” she says with a desperate pleading. “Let go!” Cassia bites Shadow’s fingers, still wrapped around the tinderbox. With a surge of anger, Shadow elbows her face. She falls back, dazed, but still holds on to Shadow’s arms. Feeling woozy from blood loss, Shadow takes his final surge of energy and rips himself from his wife’s grip. He shambles to the unlit torch, grabbing it in his blood-soaked fingers. Cassia stumbles towards him, but Shadow swings the torch at her head, catching her with a clumsy hit that still topples her against the wall. With numbing fingers, Shadow lights his tinderbox and sets the torch aflame. His vision dimming, Shadow stumbles to the line of powder. “You would end up like them,” he whispers. You would wear their royal gowns and crowns and be seduced by their strength.” Cassia shakes her weary head. “The Wati would be different.” “Now who’s the idealist?” Shadow sighs. “If not us, it would be our children or our grandchildren. They will forget our ways and turn themselves over to their lust for power. That I have seen.” “You believe in it enough to kill us both?” Cassia says. Shadow watches the fire dance on the tip of his torch as his life leaks from his wounds. In the distance, the Wati war drums have become a furious pounding. The Valor Guard has engaged in earnest, with whole legions descending on the city and fighting in cramped alleys and expansive pavilions. The past three years have led Shadow to this moment. He carries with him the promise of his parents that he would never know chains, never feel the tug of bondage around his neck, the kind of subjugation Cassia would be forced to bring again if she were to rule. Shadow looks to his wife. “We could’ve been happy,” he says. Cassia frowns. “I stopped respecting you long ago. I was never happy.” Shadow gives her a lazy shrug. “I was. And our people will be, too.” Shadow drops the torch on the powder, watching the line of fire sparkle and jump towards the crates. He hobbles to his wife and sits with her, watching the line disappear. “Fool,” she says. “A fool you married,” he replies. As the flames race towards them, Shadow and Cassia sit together, their backs against the cold stone wall of the undercroft. In the fire's flickering light, Shadow casts a weary gaze upon his wife. Even amidst the betrayal and destruction, a sense of peace settles over Shadow’s heart. As the flames consume them both, Shadow closes his eyes, his last breath a whispered prayer for the future of his Wati.

9h08on

Alex and Penny at Barnes Museum

Alexandra: Hey there, Penny! Fancy meeting you here at the Barnes Museum. What brings you to this fine establishment today? Penny: Oh, hey, Alexandra! Funny seeing you here too. I'm just here to soak up some culture and maybe find inspiration for my next sketch. How about you? Alexandra: Same here! I thought I'd stroll around, take in some art, you know, the usual. So, have you seen any masterpieces that have caught your eye? Penny: Well, Alexandra, I must admit, I've been so distracted by your pies lately that I haven't given much thought to the art around us. Have you baked anything new recently? Alexandra: Oh, Penny, you flatter me! But I haven't had much time for baking lately. I've been busy with this new endeavor—writing my memoirs and trying my hand at self-publishing. Penny: Oh, really? That sounds fascinating! I'd love to hear more about it. But I did hear that you've been facing some criticism. Is that true? Alexandra: Unfortunately, yes. It seems the critics aren't as enthusiastic about my writing as they are about my pies. But fear not, Penny! With your charm and quick wit, I'm sure we can come up with a plan to turn things around. Penny: Ah, Alexandra, you always know how to lift my spirits! But you know what they say, where there's a Penny, there's a way! And speaking of ways, how about we make our way to that café nearby and grab ourselves some of your legendary pies? My treat! Alexandra: Well, who could resist such an offer? Lead the way, Penny, and let's hope we don't bump into any critics on the journey. After all, with your charm and my... well, whatever it is I bring to the table, we're sure to have a delightful time! Alexandra: Penny, isn't it fascinating to learn about the history behind this museum? I never knew that it was once someone's family home for over a century! Penny: Absolutely, Alexandra! It's remarkable to think about all the stories and memories that must be woven into the walls of this place. Makes you wonder what life was like for the Bradley/Barnes family all those years ago. Alexandra: Oh, definitely! I can't help but imagine what it must have been like for Amon and Sylvia to raise their children here, and then Bradley Barnes inheriting it and becoming such a prominent figure in Southington. Penny: And to think that Bradley Barnes chose to leave such a significant legacy behind, not just for his family, but for the entire community. It's quite inspiring, don't you think? Alexandra: It truly is, Penny. It reminds me that sometimes the greatest wealth isn't measured in monetary terms but in the impact we leave on others and the places we call home. Penny: Well said, Alexandra. It's moments like these that make me appreciate our own friendship and the adventures we share, whether it's exploring museums or simply enjoying a slice of the pie together. Alexandra: Agreed, Penny. And speaking of pie, shall we make our way to that café and indulge in some of those legendary pies you've been raving about? Penny: Absolutely! Let's go, Alexandra. Who knows, maybe we'll find a bit of inspiration for your writing along the way. Alexandra: Here's hoping! And if not, at least we'll have each other's company and some delicious pie to enjoy. Let's make it a date! Penny: Sounds like a plan, Alexandra. To friendship, inspiration, and pie! Alexandra: To friendship, inspiration, and pie!        As they stroll through the museum, Alexandra and Penny find themselves drawn closer together by the shared warmth of their conversation and the nostalgia evoked by the historical artifacts around them. Eventually, they pause near a particularly striking exhibit, their eyes meeting in a moment of quiet understanding. Without a word, Alexandra reaches out, wrapping her arms around Penny in a gentle embrace. Penny reciprocates, leaning into the hug, feeling the comfort of Alexandra's presence. In the stillness of the museum, surrounded by echoes of the past, their bond feels stronger than ever. As they pull back slightly, their gazes lock once more, and a soft smile plays across their lips. In a spontaneous gesture of affection, Alexandra leans in, pressing a tender kiss to Penny's cheek, a silent expression of the deep connection they share. The moment lingers, filled with a sense of warmth and possibility, before they continue their leisurely stroll through the museum, hand in hand, their hearts beating in sync with the rhythm of their shared journey.          As the day draws to a close and the museum begins to empty, Alexandra and Penny find themselves standing outside, bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun. With a gentle breeze carrying the promise of spring in the air, they share one last lingering kiss, a sweet affirmation of the connection they've forged. With reluctant smiles, they part ways, knowing that their paths will cross again soon. They promise to keep in touch, to cherish the memories they've created together, and to continue writing the story of their friendship as the seasons change and new adventures await. As they walk away, the echoes of laughter and shared moments linger in the air, a reminder of the bond they share and the magic of unexpected connections. And as spring blooms around them, they both feel a sense of excitement for the journey ahead, knowing that whatever the future holds, they'll always have each other to lean on. As the golden hues of the evening sun cast a warm glow over the museum courtyard, Alexandra and Penny find themselves enveloped in a final embrace. Their arms wrapped around each other, and they held on tightly, savoring the closeness and the shared moment of affection. With a gentle sigh, they reluctantly pull away, their eyes meeting with a mixture of fondness and anticipation. In that silent exchange, they make a silent vow to stay connected, to cherish the bond they've forged, even as the seasons change and life takes them on separate paths. With a soft smile, Alexandra leans in, pressing a tender kiss to Penny's lips, a silent promise of the love and friendship that will endure despite the distance. And as they part ways, the promise of spring in the air, they both feel a sense of hope and excitement for the future, knowing that no matter where life takes them, their connection will always remain strong. And so, with the promise of new beginnings and the warmth of their shared memories to guide them, Alexandra and Penny step forward into the embrace of spring, ready to embark on the next chapter of their journey together. Alexandra turns to Penny, her eyes bright with excitement, and calls out, "Hey Penny, how about next week we take a hike on the trail?" Penny's face lights up with a grin as she nods enthusiastically. "That sounds like a fantastic idea, Alex! I'd love to spend some time outdoors with you." With a playful twinkle in her eye, Alexandra adds, "And who knows, maybe we'll stumble upon some hidden treasures along the way." Penny chuckles, her spirits lifted by the prospect of adventure. "Count me in, Alex. It's a date!" And with that, they share a knowing smile, already looking forward to the next chapter of their friendship and the adventures that await them on the trail.

mqbgap

Animals we be

warning, unshown but implied cannibalism Evidence: Journals of alan percivial smithson and William ty-kell Robertson Report: found on a deserted island,writings very old appearing to be from twenty first century, almost two hundred years ago , journal very torn and and worm eaten but still readable Significance: two hundred year old murder. contents of journals are a follows Journal of Alan Day one This cruise will be very exciting! They say it goes Deep into the pacific islands and shows us many new things! William will be accompanying me on this trip, he is my oldest and dearest friend, and I think together we will have a wonderful time! Day two I woke up early this morning to walk on the deck, nice and sunny out with clouds, the sky is gorgeous! Along with the sunrises! William accompanied me on my walk, as we walked the talk was of wonderful things, we then went to breakfast, delicious!. Afterwards we explored the ship and we saw many things, including some dark looking clouds off in the distance, but nobody seemed worried about them, so why should I Worry? day four  Terrible storm has arisen, waves like mountains, cascading over the rails, the storm thunders like Zeus himself is angry. Lighting flashes in he sky like jagged smiles grinning at our possible demise. The captain has ordered us all on the main deck and to put on life vests, i will bring my journal with me to document the event, I’m sure this will pass and and everything will be fine day five The most terrible thing has happened!! The ship was wrecked and me and William were the only survivors! It was horrible! The engines exploded and water flooded the underside of the boat, i still remember the people screaming for help in the night and then their blurbing noises as they drowned, and now me and William are stranded on a lifeboat at sea. Fortunately I have my best friend in the whole wide world with me, and together we can get through this Day six It’s been one full day at sea, I’m unbelievably bored, there is nothing to do and now the hunger comes, nagging at me, beating me, ripping the very organ in my chest right out, i have not eaten all day. But William keeps the spirit alive by telling jokes and talking with me, he is a good man and a amazing friend, i cannot understand why so he would be drivin to the insanity of eating another man. for wiiam is a very kind person, many a person would walk and talk and eat with him, he knows how to help people just the way they need.good old William, a true gem Day seven We’re at an island now, our lifeboat landed there today, we’ve managed to find some food, and we have eaten very little of the coconuts we found as there are not many, we will explore deeper into the jungle of the island as time goes on,hopefully we can survive Day eight We have explored deeper into the jungle, night get cold on the beach, so we were forced into the protection of the canopy. The night is terrifying, with the trees branches popping out from all sides like the crooked fingers of monsters in the night, somthing rustles in the bushes, setting my heart into A succession of brutal thumps. The night was the heardest as i felt the entire world fall upon me, as though god himself had forsaken me, with the stakes so high, i fear for my life, terror pulsing tough my veins i can feel my mind slipping. Until suddenly that moment comes and then i am crying, can you imagine that? A fully grown man crying! Shameful! but i cannot help it, and the tears keep coming until William slides over to me, he asked if i was ok, and comforted me, saying just the right thing “we may die,yes,but we die as brothers” as usual Willam came through Day nine today we went to work on the business of survival, i recall a class i used to take,a survival one, as a lad, and we have one mor advantage, William and i used to be very versed in the topic of survival as boys, if only we can remember our knowledge, today we headed into the jungle to find a fiber based plant, when indent one we split it into strips using out fingers then, taking a rock, we began to begin the flintknapping process, in which you use another rock to split razor thin strips of the bottom by smacking the two rocks together, with the “hammer” stone hitting the “anvil” stone at a specific angle after achieving this after several tries, we used the newly Made stone “caveman knife” and split. A short stick, down the middle from the vertical top. We then forced the “knife” down between the split, and then tied it off with the fibers. Out first knife was complete we did the same with with another and then set to work making a weighted club which consisted of a similar idea to the knife but instead of forcing a sharpened rock we force a rock, about four inches long to an inch wide down the split. And then tie it off at the top above the rock and below the rock then in an x pattern across the rock. We did the Sam again and soon we had two weighted clubs, this took much of the morning, and we still had much more to complete, a pronged spear, we took a long stick and split it down the middle an then forced a rock deep into the split, forcing the two “prongs” apart, we then shared the prongs, we now had a a “rodent stick” or “rabbit stick” walking to a burrow. Nearby, then commenced the hunting, we drove the spear deep into the ole until we felt it make contact with the animal, twisting so the stick caught itself within the animal fur, we yanked the now visible mole out of its hole, we then beat it to death with our clubs, that took care of dinner, as the mole was considerable in size, as for sublime nuts, we found more coconut trees, i laugh as i think of this classical deserted island food i think we are going to be ok Day twenty He first days we a. success, the animals for his forest have never seen man before so were easy to kill and beat to death, but the animals began to be more cautious, and as the days dragged on we began to to starve, we ran out of food of yesterday i am hungry like never before, i wish i had food, but i dont , William keeps my spirits up, talking and laughing with me, even as u stomachs growl and our pounds drop and deaths scythe begins to come closer,I dont cry anymore, for we May die , but we will die as brothers Day thirty No more water, we can’t get a fire started, it is torture, I am sallow and small with my ribs poking through, i know many people who despise there bellies and wish the would go away, but i miss my baby fat now, I miss my lost fatness. Me and William talk of better times as we die, I couldn’t ask for a better BROTHER to die by Day thirty five Death is imminent, as we lie here dying, i worry about William,he suddenly seems antisocial,Ike he is losing hope, i have prepared inspirational things to tell him, and will tell him them tonight,i will remind him we are brothers and we will die toether, if anyone ever finds this journal, i give my love to William, my brother, who helped me throug the the hard times, here comes William i wil talk to him now Journal two: Willam ty-kell Robertson Day one I am going on a cruise. I have asked my lifetime friend, Alan Perceval smithson, to join me, i can only imagine the happy times that are ahead, the laughing, the talking, I couldn’t ask for a better freind o spend the next few weeks with Day two  Went on a walk this morning the sky was beautiful, the copper orange sun rising high in the sky, barley a flash in the distance, the blue sky was tinged with red and pink, and the clouds rolled and played in the sky, it was beuitful, breakfast was amazing, gs and bacon, with biscuits on the side. Afterwards we had a look around the ship, we saw the boiler rooms, the main decks, the staterooms, and the observation area, as we headed back to our room, we noticed some pretty dark thunderclouds in the distance normally i would worry but Alan seems calm, so it’ll be ok Day four a storm has come, the rain hammers upon us as we trudge out to the main deck were life jackets are being distributed. i am terrified Day five  We are shipwrecked, he most terrifying thing ever to occured as occured, people are dead all around me as i write this, there embodies liter the water their skin swollen and there eyes lifeless, i feel broken, as though the sky is falling on my head, constant butterflies rustle in my stomach i am beyond terrified Day six As w sit in the water, i feel bored, however Alan seems to b taking it harder than me. As he i down, i decided to do what I do best: get him laughing. We told jokes all day, eve though we are massively screwed, at least we dont die alone Day seven We may have hope after all. We have landed at an island, stoke of massive luck, we need and sang around. The islands here’s for an our, then set to work on the business of survival there is little food on the island, at least close to shore. we will explore the island further tomorrow Day eight We explored the jungle further today we built a shelter out of trees and sticks, creating a lean-to. When night fell, I looked over and Alan was crying, i don’t blame him, I’m pretty close to crying myself, i tired to help him iwth some comforting words , i told him that even if we die, we will die as brothers, and brothers never forsake another Day nine  Set to work today making all manner of survival weapnary, clubs, flintknapped knives, spears, and set to work killing and eating game in this jungle Day twenty We ae going to die, i can feel it death is close, i can feel the raspy breath of the grim reaper as he comes closer and closer, we wil die unless…. no it’s unthinkable, I dismiss the thought IMMEDIATELY. Day twenty two  Can’t get the thought out of my mind, days go on, and we starve more and more, I can’t help but think this though. Day twenty three I can’t bear it anymore, i must voice my though, there is only one way for me to survive if i eat Alan, its horrilble, it makes me want to throw up . At first but as the days go on, the idea becomes appetizing Day twenty four The idea of eating Alan is becoming a. possibility, though i dont want to do it, i have reasoned it will be the only option for survival one last meal. Day thirty I’m going to do it, my skull critically shows in y face, and my arms are small, but i can do it, i have a rock i will use, to do the deed Any thirty five I’m ding it today, tonight, I can’t bear to imagine his screams and pain, but i must do it to survive, love you to death as my brother Alan, but better you than me night has fallen, it is time

nsn0to

expect the unexpected

“UGH! Why does this always seem to happen to me?! Alice said under her breath. She was sitting in the women’s restroom in one of the stalls for a discreet smoke break when the lights turned off. Her friends forced her to go on this blind date with some random man they knew from their book club and since Alice just got out of a two year relationship they thought that pushing her back into love would be the best idea. Alice only agreed to make her friends happy. Taking one last long puff from her vape, Alice opened the stall door and did the awkward hand wave to show the automatic light sensors that she was in fact still in there. When nothing happened she drew in a big sigh as if getting up was a hard task to do. As she stood up she started to bounce around while waving her arms around. Still nothing. “What the hell” she said as she felt her way towards the door. Suddenly she tripped over her own feet as she was blindly staggering towards the restroom exit. With a loud THUMP she landed on the floor. At this point she was not annoyed any longer but the feeling was replaced with confusion and pain. She laid there for a few minutes just listening for anything but all she could hear was the dripping from the old bathroom sinks. She pulled out her phone from her back pocket to see she had no service. 21:04 the time flashed on the screen in front of her. Realization washed over her face instantly as she remembered the museum closes at 21:00 on weekdays. “Why did they not think to check the restrooms?!” she grunted as she slowly lifted herself up from the tile floor. As soon as her left foot hit the ground she stumbled back to the floor. Her heart rate quickened and the air started to feel heavy, panicking she felt around in her purse for her inhaler. Once she found it she fumbled as she attempted to shake it. After a few inhales from the device she was able to regulate her breathing and calm down some. In her right hand she brought her phone flashlight to her ankle to see the damage the fall did to her. The pain seemed to be lessening so she knew the injury wasn't severe thankfully. Grabbing onto the wall, Alice was able to pull herself back to her feet once again. Once she was able to stand she shifted her body weight to rest more on her right side to allow the twisted ankle to hopefully heal before she can get out of this mess. As Alice limped towards the exit of the restroom she heard a loud noise come from what sounded like inside of the museum. Alice was always the type of girl that did not get afraid of anything, she spent 8 years active duty in the U.S Navy so she always had a sort of “I can do anything” type of personality. A bead of sweat made its way down Alice's face as she crept the door open just enough to see what was happening around her and what caused that loud noise she heard. At first she didn't see anything, just a dark and empty museum. Movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention. She could hear footsteps echoing and she was about to open the door in excitement of getting out of this place, that she was there as a misunderstanding and she didn’t want any trouble. Alice stepped back into the restroom swiftly and used the wall to guide her, that man that she saw was not a guard. She was trapped in a closed museum that was being robbed… “The museum will be closing in less than ten minutes boss. When do you want me to signal to the other guys to proceed?” Jack asked the large man with his back turned to him. He watched as his boss put a black jacket on. Seeing his boss do this Jack followed with putting his on as well. The man next to him made a loud grunting sound as he turned to look at him. Taking a step back as Jack looked at him, his face large and eyes that looked like it could kill a man. His face was scarred from past heists. “Who do you think you are asking me dumb questions like that new guy?” the boss said. “Do you think you make any calls in the shots I make?” the boss added as his face was now inches from Jacks. Jack stood his ground in fear as he could feel the boss’s hot breath on his forehead. “No sir, I just..” Jack began to say but the boss cut him off. “We go when I say we go! Understand boy?” the boss snapped. “Yessir” Jack shyly whimpered. Once the crowd started making their way out of the museum for closing time the boss and Jack made their way to the closed off section that was off limits due to construction. As they hid behind a large tarp that draped over a soon to be sculpture, the boss eyed the security guard that was about to make rounds to make sure everyone was out of the building. Without hesitation the boss pulled a blow dart from his bag and aimed it at the guard passing by. With one sharp blow the guard was on the ground. “Take these keys new guy and signal to the others to let them in” the boss said as he was taking the keys off the guards belt and handing them to Jack. Jack looked at the keys that were placed in his hands, regret washing over him. He had no choice though, his wife needed chemotherapy and this is the only way to get money for her treatment since the bank declined any loans to be pulled out in his name. “TODAY NEW GUY” the boss said annoyingly to him. Jack closed his hand around the keys and made his way to the back door where the others were waiting. Jack could hear his breath as he reached for the door. Knocking three times waiting for the signal so he could open the door for the other guys that are involved. It took a few seconds but the other side of the door responded with a pattern of five knocks to prove that the coast was clear. Jack opened the door to three guys waiting for him, two walked in and the third guy took the keys from Jack and disappeared to get the rest of the guys in from the other side of the building. Making his way back to the boss, Jack froze. He swore he heard a sound come from the restroom to the left of him. It sounded like someone fell. Jack shook his head, he must be hearing things. There's nobody else in here but the others involved in the heist. Jack joined the others as they game-planned the events one last time, just like we have one hundred times in the warehouse leading up to this moment. As they were all speaking Jack saw in the corner of his eye the women’s restroom door peek open a tiny bit and close real fast. What should I do?! Do I tell my boss? Oh we are screwed. If I tell him then it will be my head on the line. Jack decided to take this matter in his own hands as he silently backed away from the group as they were still talking about what they were going to steal. Jack slowly made his way towards the restroom. Alice grew afraid as she heard footsteps come closer and closer to the restroom. She needed to come up with a game plan and fast. Before she could put any more thought into the situation the door opened slowly and she heard someone enter the bathroom. Alice held her breath as she quietly shuffled herself to the furthest corner of the dark room. A flash of light came from the person that entered the bathroom. How did I not think he would have a flashlight?! I'm dead. Alice said in her head. Her thought came to an end as the light hit her right in the face. Instead of instant death like Alice thought would happen there was silence. She lifted her eyes to see who was standing there and instead of seeing a hard looking criminal, she saw someone she knew. “Wait... Ramirez. Is that you?” Alice said in a soft and very confused voice. She looked at his face which had more fear than hers at that moment. What are the odds that the person robbing the building she was trapped in would be her old coworker from the Navy. he must have fallen off a bad path because last she saw him a little over a year ago he was only an E-3 that was getting medically separated for mental health reasons. Now he was here. Jack took a step back, Alice could tell that he didn’t mean any harm but the question was, what in the world was he doing. Before Alice could try to get any information from him he ran to the door and yelled “WE HAVE SOMEONE IN THE BATHROOM!” Within ten seconds Alice was surrounded by a lot of hard core looking men. She screamed and thrashed around as they grabbed her and dragged her to the main area of the museum. “You two! Tie her up and the rest of you follow out with the rest of our plan!” the big guy yelled as he walked away from where Alice was at. Alice glared at Jack as he and another guy wrapped her up in ropes and taped her mouth. Jack stood next to her as guard as the rest of the men started throwing valuable artwork into bags. She could hear Jack breathing heavily as if he was in distress as she tried to loosen the rope. These men must be amateurs because they only tied her hands and not her feet so in a quick movement without thinking she swung her leg at Jack causing him to come crashing to the floor. On Jack's way down he hit his head really hard on the artifact next to him causing the glass to shatter, knocking him out cold. Alice frantically grabbed a piece of glass and started to saw at the thin rope wrapped around her wrists. She struggled with cutting it because she had to hold the glass in a weird angle to reach the rope and not cut herself. As the string was fully cut through she ripped the tape off and tried to get to her feet. She was able to limp a few paces away before the guys got her down again and this time they were furious at her. Right as she thought this would be the end of everything; she saw her blind date that her friends set her up with in the window standing with what looked like hundreds of police officers. The door to the museum burst open and within seconds police officers swarmed the entirety of the building. They were all yelling and holding guns. Alice looked around as one by one all of the guys involved in the heist dropped to their knees with their hands up. As the men were being cuffed and taken out, Chris, my blind date ran up to me. “I guess now is a good time to tell you I am a police officer, '' he said as he examined Alices’s body for injuries. “Gourney over here! She has a pretty swollen ankle and it needs to get looked at ASAP” Chris yelled followed by medics running up to her with a hundred questions. Chris hopped into the ambulance as they were about to drive away. He explained to her that today was his day off so he decided to go on the blind date with her because he was also just straight out of a long term relationship and thought he would give it a try since his friends were pushing him to. He said how he heard from his coworkers a possible heist plan at that museum after they were already there and he went to look for Alice but she disappeared for the restroom a few minutes prior. He focused on trying to get everyone out of the museum and sat on the street waiting for backup to arrive to bust the robbery in action. Chris grabbed Alice's hand and looked into her eyes with regret and sorrow as he apologized for not being able to get her out of that situation sooner. Alice smiled and said “one hell of a first date huh?” 

f1x50j

Pay it Forward

Archie knew he had a problem, but he also had another problem that compounded that problem. Firstly, he was in the habit of not listening. But what made it worse was that even in knowing that he wasn’t listening and that this was increasingly becoming a problem, he did nothing about it. “You can’t do this,” Archie said as he was manhandled from the car and walked to the back door of the huge edifice of a building made ominous by the dark shadows thrown by street lamps that stood well back and avoided the less salubrious parts of the city. “Are you going to remind me of daft laws that had no business being passed for the likes of you and I?” It wasn’t the question itself that made Archie gobble up air like a guppy fish, but it was a good question. Neither was it the challenge that the question presented, or rather a pushback on something that Archie had thrown at his old man a few times too many. No, it was the look the big man gave his son. That look crushed Archie in a way he didn’t know was possible. What that look crushed was a piece of his heart that had lain forgotten in his chest for far too long. Archie saw a heady cocktail of love and disappointment in his father’s eyes and in that moment, he knew he’d pushed it all too far. Now he had an unspoken question of his own. A question that haunts the world and visits unfortunates with a gift of shame; how did it get to this? An inexplicable feeling of sadness threatened to rear up within Archie. If he’d allowed it to come forth then everything would have turned out differently. It certainly would have been far easier for Archie. But Archie wasn’t about easy. He had a feeling he was owed, but he’d never sat down with that feeling to have a chat about what it might be that he thought was coming to him. Instead, the shame gripped him. The shame knew its business, besides which, it had a willing host. Archie thought he was ignoring his shame as he invoked his anger. The shame smiled, it was the deceitful face of anger and it had won another battle against a supposedly superior opponent. “No,” said Archie defiantly, “this is trespass.” Archie’s Dad rolled his sad eyes, any doubt he might’ve had about this last-ditch endeavour was dispelled by his errant son’s arrogance. He knew his son was better than this, but he was sick to the back teeth with Archie’s shows of bravado. More and more he suppressed his true nature and it was becoming increasingly difficult to get through to the boy. Even so, Dan, or Big Dan as he was known in the village that he’d made his home for the past thirty years, almost faltered. Archie was his little boy and he’d never lost sight of that. He drew in a breath of resolve, reminding himself that he’d probably been too soft on the lad. That he’d tried his best to understand and done everything he could to be the boy’s world. There was a compromise there though and that compromise had done them both a disservice. What was about to happen was harsh. Some would call it unfair. Life was unfair and there was too much suffering for some. But it was what it was, making excuses only made it worse. Blaming others, worse still. He unlocked the door and waved his son through. “I can’t believe you’re doing this!” said Archie, his voice rising in pitch to convey the depth of his protest. “You’ve brought this on yourself, son,” said Dan shaking his head in sorrow. Archie opened his mouth to speak, but Dan raised a single finger in stark warning, “don’t, you had ample opportunity to turn the corner, but you thought better of it and now this is the consequence.” He narrowed his eyes and grit his teeth, “you’ve gotta learn sometime. You reap what you sow, boy.” Archie knew better than to pipe up. This was as much survival instinct as respect. Sometimes the message was clear however much you didn’t want to hear it, and however much noise you made in an attempt to drown it out. They walked in silence into the depths of the building. It was dark, but the full moon and the city’s ambient light was sufficient for them to see where they were going, but it carried with it a lack that was verging on a dark threat. Archie didn’t want to admit that the place scared him and this internal battle increased his fear, even before he got around to considering how it would be when his father abandoned him here. Suddenly, there was a blinding flash of light. Dan had the presence of mind to clap a hand over his son’s mouth and drag him into the shadows. The lights in the next room had been switched on by the security guard doing his rounds. Dan leaned into his son and whispered into his ear, “you don’t want to be seen by that guy. If you are, you have nowhere to go and you will be arrested.” Archie’s eyes went wide, Dan noticed this even in the shadows. Turned out that he did still listen when his life depended upon it. Maybe the boy would turn the corner after all. If not, then Dan had done everything that he could. They waited as the guard did his patrol in the neighbouring room, relaxing a little as the light went out. A flashlight beam danced around and the next light switch was flicked. Thankfully that next room charted a course away from Dan and Archie’s current location. Dan smiled inwardly at this. He’d not known where the guard was headed, but Archie wasn’t to know this. The perception of Dan’s knowing would add a certain something to the proceedings, or ordeal as Dan was sure Archie would be viewing it right now. That would change. Or if it didn’t then Archie was too far gone. Dan refused to believe that. His love beat his chest fiercely and reminded him of what really counted. Not him. Not Archie. There was far more at play here. More than even Dan understood. By the time the sun rose and transformed death into life once again, Archie would understand a little more. Dan believed this with a burning passion, a force of will. His son would open his eyes to the first day of the rest of his life and they would get through whatever obstacles they were presented. Together. Three heartbeats later, Dan released his son. He stood before him and prepared to leave him to face the music that would only be played for his ears. This was a moment. A solemn moment. Something passed between father and son, and Dan automatically presented his little lad with his spade-like hand. “It’s time,” he said fiercely, perhaps a little too fiercely. It sounded too much like you’re on your own. “You’ve got this,” he added with a squeeze of his hand. Then he turned on his heel and vanished far too quickly for Archie’s liking. Archie watched his dad go and the moment of overwhelming pride at what he had just said almost exploded into shards of pain as an all too familiar feeling of abandonment assailed him. It’s not his fault. He didn’t abandon me. Words in Archie’s ear, the voice of the little boy he once was. The little boy that he now loathed. He stood there in turmoil. He was that weak and pathetic little boy, but his dad had just made him feel like a man. The little boy didn’t want him to be a man and that man resented the little boy. A powerful urge threatened to drag him down to the floor and it was all he could do not to let go, give up and cry tears of pity that should be a comfort but could never bring the comfort he required. He pushed himself away from the protection of the alcove that his father had pulled him into and drove himself forth. If he stayed where he was, he would be discovered. He had to do something. He had to move. Now he was on his own and walking through the building he was more himself and this brought an awareness that he had been lacking in the bubble of the panic he’d experienced in his dad’s car and had been fighting ever since. “It’s done now,” he whispered to himself. His dad had referred to one guard. So it should be a simple case of moving around in a circle so he always had sufficient distance from that man. There was the question of how he would make his exit, but there was something about the way his father had acted that gave Archie an assurance in that respect. He trusted that all would become clear and all he really had to do was evade the bloke who was paid to wander an empty building to ensure it remained empty. Simple, as long as Archie stuck to the brief. Even now he got that that in itself was a lesson. Archie had made simple increasingly hard and that difficulty was not isolated to Archie. He knew he was hurting his dad, and once he was in receipt of that awareness it had only seemed to make him worse. Once that was the case, Archie couldn’t see a way back. That was the point, he realised. His dad was making it clear that he also couldn’t see a way back unless something changed. Unless Archie changed. He should have resented being here. He should have carried on with his dull and destructive downward patterns of behaviour, but he felt exhilarated by the adventure he was now presented with. It took him a while to realise that a part of that was the belief that his dad had in him. That his dad had always had in him. As this sank in, he began to see around him. Really see around him. Now he was taking in his surroundings and there was a weird and eerie sense to what he saw. He was in a place devoted to the past. A carnal house of sorts. The ancient bones of times lost, arranged in meaningful ways to speak to those who paid attention enough. His surroundings transformed around him. Obstacles and potential hiding places stepped out before him and greeted him. He’d heard the word gravitas several times, but never attended to its meaning. Some words were like that. They sat in a crowd of context but never made a fuss. Instead they awaited an appropriate time to make a proper introduction. Archie didn’t think that inanimate objects could have gravitas. People had gravitas. They walked into the room and showed it off to everyone in order to manipulate them and get what they wanted. He stopped at a bust and read the plaque in the surreal light that bathed his surroundings. The date meant nothing to him beyond old. He couldn’t comprehend the distance of time between himself and that of the life of the person the bust depicted. He moved on, but only a short distance to a cabinet which contained weapons of war from the same era. The naughty boy inside him wished that there were no cabinet. He had an overwhelming urge to reach out and brandish each and every weapon. Feel the weight of them, imagining himself on a battle field in the midst of conflict. A shiver ran down his spine as he was reminded that he was in a place of death. Everyone who had wielded weapons such as these were dead, even the victors couldn’t escape that inevitable conclusion to life. In the next room there were paintings. He didn’t note the change that was overcoming him. It crept up on him until he was calm and flowing through the place with little care for anything other than what was presented to him. He was floating in the blue light and taking in a world he’d never realised existed. He’d passed through places like this previously, but on those occasions there had been hustle, bustle and a glare of lights that reminded him of school. Too much of it had reminded him of the structure and rules of education and there had been little room for him to experience any enjoyment. This was different though. Somehow, he could be himself here in a way he never knew possible. The centrepiece in this room was a huge, imposing painting made all the more daunting by the horse upon which a pompous man was seated. Pompous he may have been, but there was something in the imperious look of the man that made Archie feel small and insignificant. He wanted to resent that feeling, but something else spoke to him and said simply; relax, this is important. Archie moved on and as he wandered with a purpose he could not quite describe, he thought of those words and the importance of this night. His dad was at the end of his tether. Archie knew that. He’d pushed and pushed and pushed until he forgot why it was that he was pushing. He thought he’d probably wanted a reaction, and that each time he’d been in receipt of a reaction he had deemed it insufficient. Now he was here. As a final act, his father had locked him in this place. Why? Of all the options available to him, his dad had chosen this place. His dad’s choice intrigued him as much as his surroundings did. He thought he knew why he was here, but there was no simple answer to it. Instead, there was a suite of answers and many of those answers spawned more questions. Not a surprise because this was a place of learning as well as the resting place for old bones. Archie stood before a weather worn and pockmarked statue that had once sat proudly in a desert kingdom. He looked at the artist’s interpretation of how the statue had looked thousands of years ago when it was as young as him. It’s presence had not diminished with time. Quite the opposite. He continued his circuit, barely aware of the guard he kept at a constant distance, only once thinking of the only other occupant of the building; hoping he enjoyed this solitude with the wise dead as much as Archie was. As the light in the building shone more brightly, heralding the end of Archie’s adventure, he felt a sense of loss. At first it was a far off call, but a call he could not deny. It was as he sensed the arrival of the first hoard of visitors and the end of his time in the museum that he found himself in front of a marble statue of a woman in robes. The statue was a statue he’d seen a thousand concrete copies of, in garden centres and the like. The contempt of his mistaken familiarity almost led him to miss the moment this museum had saved until the very last. He looked up at the statue and came face to face with his mother. His mother as he was always supposed to remember her, a faint, mischievous smile that held a thousand promises. He wanted to cry, but instead he returned the smile and he held it close as he ran from the building and into his father’s arms. “I’m sorry dad,” he said into the big man’s chest. Dan eased him away, but not out of his arms, “what did you see?” “Mum,” Archie said simply, “I saw Mum.” Dan nodded. That was enough and more. But for Archie it wasn’t. The boy needed to say more, to share the truth of his night at the museum, “I…” he began. “It’s OK,” said Dan, “I know,” he added kindly. “No!” protested Archie, “it’s not that… I mean… I am sorry. I’ve been a little git and I took things out on you that I shouldn’t have.” Dan shrugged, “it’s what I’m here for,” then he grinned, “sometimes,” he added with loaded meaning. Archie scrutinised his dad’s face, looking for an answer he was already in possession of, “it wasn’t just Mum you wanted me to see was it?” “No,” confirmed Dan as he turned and lead his son away from the museum and towards a greasy spoon. The night’s work had made them both ravenous. “You wanted me to learn,” said Archie. “I always want you to learn,” said Dan, “that’s what it’s all about. Took your mother to truly teach me that. And you…” he turned and smiled sadly at his son. “I miss her too,” said Archie, falling into his dad like the little boy he would always be as far as his father was concerned. “She’s right here with us, son.” Dan said softly as he ruffled the boys hair lovingly. “They all are,” whispered Archie, “all the people that made us possible. All the people that made this possible. We owe them more than we can ever repay.” “True,” agreed Dan. “So how’d we…” began Archie. “Pay it forward,” Dan said, “Give. There is a light that burns within each and every one of us. It burns all the more brightly for everything we’ve been given. Throughout our life we are the custodians of that light. We’re meant to nurture and grow it. Give and add to it and in the end, we give it all away so that it continues to light this world up. That is living well.” Archie smiled, wondering how he’d ever been so angry with his Dad. He’d learnt his lesson and then some.

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