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Allura 9

This story takes place over the span of around 35 years, beginning with dreams! For when I was in the seventh grade at the time having a sleepover at a friend’s house. The next morning when we were getting ready to head to the local comic shop. From what I could remember at the time telling him about a dream that I had that night. And in the dream I could see blonde haired girl standing in a picture holding a skateboard. A picture that would come to haunt me years later! As the years went by I would all but forget having the dream until one night when I was living on my own. When another dream I would have! But this dream would be much more darker! With a much more realistic feel to it! For in the dream I could see a woman standing in flames holding up what seemed to be pages with something written on them. Not being able to see her face clearly as she Stood there in agony screaming in pain! Saying to me “Don’t do it” just as a strange frightening eerie feeling suddenly came over me! A feeling of dread of I did not choose this person! Of what it meant at the time I had no idea of what was to come, or The days to come! When the woman in the flames then suddenly vanished! With faces one by one begin to appear! Faces that I would not recognize until years later! I will come back to the second dream later! For ever since I could remember I had always had a fear over a movie, the movie being ‘ Carrie’ that had came out in 1976! Never really knowing why until I went to see the one that came out in 2013! Then suddenly I knew why! Why I had always had a fear over this movie. That is when it started! That is when I wrote the first one! The first binding contract! That night after I had written it, I could remember being forced awake with the feeling of something being ripped through my face! Falling to the floor as I grasped for air! The next day at work still feeling drained from a lack of sleep along with a feeling of eeriness surrounding me. That is when I saw them! With the first one seeming as if he just suddenly appeared out of nowhere. The very first noticeable thing about him was his eyes. The white light that looked to come from his eyes for a split second. And that is when I noticed the second one! Waking towards me! this one a female! With a walk that did not seem human looking at her even though both of them very much looked human. With them seeming to be wearing clothing that someone would wear from the 1940’s . And that is when I looked into her eyes! Eyes that one could tell where not that of a human up close, as the white around her blackened pupils was like a solid pure pearl white! Much more than a human eye color could be, but as she grinned as she walked by me her looked said it all “ You belong to us now”! Just as the male then walked over to me grabbing my hand just as he slid his finger up the palm of my hand with both then leaving just as quickly as they came. And for the next eleven years the dreams would come and go! Dreams showing me girls that I would write a binding contract on! But just as in the dream it showed the faces one by one! And so as the years went by! One by one! I would encounter each of the girls that I had written one on until the final one. And now back to the second dream! For the papers that the woman in the flames was holding up what I would later on in life thought that could have been binding contracts! But now I believe them to be short stories! Short stories that was sent in to a YouTuber for a contest around three or four years ago. For one day while at work, an actress came in shopping with her family! An A list actress at that! When she approached me asking if we had a product in stock in which we did not at the time. But as she and her family walked away I overheard her say that she liked one of my short stories a short story that was sent to this YouTuber. A short story titled ‘A Place In Heaven’ Stories by the way that are not published! With the actress being one of others to come that I had written a binding contract on! Another instance on the short stories happened when two YouTubers one of which I had sent the stories to was talking about upcoming releases from CinemaCon. But just as there stream had ended or so they thought had ended. They then started talking between themselves with one of them seemingly not really being to sure of this! Talking about a project that the executives of a certain studio that was interested in it at the time. that was when they had mentioned the name of another one of my short stories titled ‘Abby’ No one else noticed it but me! For even if nothing ever comes of these short stories it still happened to me! And now back to the second dream one last time! Just as the faces had come and gone! It showed one last girl with a date above her! A date that to this day I cannot remember all of it exactly as it was written. Just as I then heard a loud crashing noise around me not being able to move feeling arms wrapping around me feeling a tongue sliding up and down the side of my face hear a voice saying “ I will rip the flesh from his body”! Just as a second voice then said “ He isn’t dead yet we can’t take him” but then just as the voices began to fade I heard one last thing with on of them saying. “ He will become a girl just before he dies.“ 35 years later! Just a little over a year ago while at work just around closing I standing there at the service desk when I looked up. And the girl that that was in the picture of the first dream! Was standing there in front of me! One by one! till the last one.

“Rupert, have you seen Dusty?!” The boy’s mother called out to him, not knowing he’d bolted out after the curious bulldog. “Rupert, honey!” She let out another shriek, a high-pitched signal that bounced off the house's wood panels, ringing out across the neighborhood and the Florida Panhandle. It hung in the summer sky before dissipating in echoes above the sodden landscape. As she opened the torn screen door to the backyard, it creaked against a light gust of wind, and she stared off into the moss-laden forest that shadowed the waterlogged town. “Have you seen Rudy?” She asked her husband whom she’d regretted marrying about the boy she often resented. She wasn’t a cruel mother but an absent one. “Kid went out after the dog,” he said after a few moments of silence and was too busy rifling through an empty fridge for food that wasn’t there. The stale smell of standing water lingered over the week's dirty dishes. “And you didn’t help him look?” She asked him, surprised by the common occurrence of his obliviousness, disregarding how she too was devoid of motherly attention. She had been hanging up her secondhand sundresses on the clothesline in the backyard and hadn’t even heard them slip away. “That’s what you’re for, remember that,” he said with a smug expression, and she wished she’d killed them ten years ago. She would’ve slapped him had she not feared retaliation; daily squabbles were common in the squalor, fueled by a dual temper. He fixed up his sad excuse for a sandwich, pissed off into the living room, and gave his signature look of disdain. The mother’s emotions were fickle, and she’d gone into a panic when she thought about the looks people would give her, what they would say had she lost her son. A worthless mother, they may say. She assumed the worst of atrocities may have befallen him, so she grabbed her keys and went looking. She drove by Rupert’s uncle's house, but he wasn’t there and his rusty pickup was gone. He would’ve had little to offer anyway and had hardly regarded himself the boy’s family, absent and distant he would remain. The garage door of his place hung dented and the tractors that littered the property wore their patina green. Bought and subsequently forgotten. She asked the neighbors if they’d seen the boy passing through, his red and white basketball shorts swaying past his knees. They heard nothing and they hadn’t seen him, they were either willfully blind, or he was unwittingly illusive. “Have you checked the bog?” One of them said before she took off, continuing her eerie drive. Stopping the station wagon, she caught her breath and tried to fight back the tears. Shed for him or her, she hadn’t yet decided. She told herself not to worry and thought about all the ways her late mother would reprimand her for reasons she didn’t understand. Basking in the heat of the vehicle, she peered through the windshield that magnified the sun’s rays onto her weathered skin. \* \* \* “Dusty, Dusty!” Rudy shouted, stumbling through the forest he now found himself lost in. The bulldog left its prints in the mud but they were minutes old, and water poured back into the impressions. He had entered the woods with his head secure on his shoulders, but the further he went on his way, his sense of direction vanished, and the sun laid itself to rest as he watched through breaks in the cypress trees. The world that the family inhabited was small, and the wetlands that bordered Georgia were all they’d ever known. But they didn’t wander too far, as there was nothing for them out there, and even the fishermen scarcely cast their lines over the languid waters. Only the kids of the town explored the swamp; their parents forbade it, but Rupert’s had no qualms with either choice, and his mother worried little until the moment called for it. The boy had lost the trail that was left for him by his dog, and his stomach rumbled and quaked at its need for food. Dusty wore a bell around his furry white neck, but the jingling sound had faded hours ago, lost within the whirring of insects. The more he trodded aimlessly through the woods, the more the expanse of nature wore on his stunted soul. A quagmire gave way underfoot and he shouted at the world ankle-deep in the clouded water when—he heard a faint bark and then a clear yelp. The cries for help were burgeoning, and whatever had gotten to Dusty, Rupert figured to let it have the flat-faced bulldog he sometimes called friend. Still, he pressed onward, stepping on the rare patch of dirt stable enough to hold his weight. A fibrous curtain of typha plants swayed slenderly in front of him, their cattails were cylindrical—an intrusive examination. He gave it no more thought, and his mind shot back to the dog as he stepped through the bed of reeds. A large pond that curved around the marsh revealed itself and the flora that formed a wreath around it; jade foliage encircling the water, a deep green colored with oleanders, pink as the skin when light scatters through the capillaries. His heart thumped a drum in his chest, and he seldom ventured this far into the forest. The disturbed noises had faded, or so he thought when another yelp stabbed his ears from across the pond. His heart sank into his ribs, and he questioned for a second why he bothered with the dog. It was hard to discern what exactly he was looking at, between the thickets and the trees, but he swore he saw the spotted fur, bloody and its body limp, nestled atop the flattened reeds. A wave of worry washed over him and his shirt was a wet rag sticking to his skin, his ribs showed through the white cloth, and he looked just as animal as the Bobcats that stalk the shadows come nightfall. Taking a step back, a hard object sank below his feet, and in the muck, he saw the jagged and mangled remains of a human skull. Before he could shout for help that wasn’t near, he heard the bellowing of a beast and the rustling of bulrushes around him. “Show yourself!” Rupert yelled helplessly, and he hadn’t felt so afraid in his measly life—standing such an easy prey. “Over here, Rudy,” a voice said to him, the voice of a man—so he shot his gaze in every direction, shouting and scanning for the source that spoke his name. As he listened over the chirping of crickets, and insects more ambiguous in their calls: the night began its creep. “Hey, over here,” it spoke again, gently as if trying not to scare its prey into a premature heart attack. It took Rudy a minute to spot the man, but when he did, he quickly realized it was not he but it—and resting near the pond, an alligator studied him with black eyes. Its scleras were turbid and murkier than the waters it swam. Motionless, with a thousand-mile stare and an unchanging grin: it watched Rudy from its post. He could hardly think it possible, were his eyes playing tricks? He had no time to ponder the fantastical implications, and when the gator’s flickered—Rudy didn't blink, but his nostrils curled at the smell—a fetid stench that seemed to trail from the archaic predator. “You—you talk?” Rupert asked the obvious, a question belonging to dreams. He gathered his wits as fast as he could and sprinted in the opposite direction, his flight response had been activated with the push of a subconscious button, and he never thought it would cross his mind, but at that moment—he wanted his father, the man he loathed to call a parent. Amid a proliferating nightmare, even that man seemed preferable to the aberrated creature—and at the very least, he was a nightmare Rudy had trained to awake from. “Stop, or I’ll devour you. You don’t want that, do you?” It spoke rhetorically with the slow rise of its jaw, and before the boy could respond in terror, the alligator slid its way to him. Rupert tumbled backward, splashing against the ground with a pathetic motion. He could feel the cold breath against his neck, and its teeth: a line of razors stained yellow—aching for warm blood to soothe them. Its breath was that of a dog’s, and as it pulled its teeth away, he could smell the rank of its innards exuding a palpable aroma. “Mom, momma!” Rupert cried out and the tears of self-preservation began to pour, followed by the flooding of his ducts. “Convince me not to eat you!” It screamed, and the ridges above its eyes furrowed before it began to thrash about the muck. It defied Rudy’s basic knowledge of existing, and its words were concise and conveyed its hatred well: a man’s hatred. But the boy had no response to appease him, and his nerves felt the funniest of feelings while he lay there shaking. “Something got your tongue, Rudy?” It rushed through a batch of bushes and back to him; excited by the possibilities. A decade dormant and a year to break in the new flesh, however unlucky a soul must be—to get swallowed by an alligator. “Speak, before I eat,” it slithered. “Nobody calls me Rudy, only momma!” His tears ceased, but replenish they would. “I used to, for a time,” it drew back, retreating into the dark as the boy leaned up and dragged his nails through the mire. “There’s nowhere you can go, you know that I’ll catch you before you take two steps,” it proclaimed, or he did, the boy didn’t know what to believe, so he picked up the nearest rock he could find and threw it. Bouncing off its scales, the rock plopped lazily into the mud, and it might as well have been a pebble tossed. It only gave him raucous laughs, he was the performer and Rudy the lone audience. Every time it cackled, its tail trashed in response, and the world spun circles around them; the talking gator seemed to be enjoying it all too much, the plan he was successfully enacting. With the evening settling down, he lay there helpless, stalked by the phenomenon. Unwanted by everyone but his to-be killer who salivated for him. His death would be ruled a statistic, and no soul would know the otherworldly details of such brutality. “Rudy, Rudy, Rudy,” it spoke thrice, taking its time when the boy launched to his feet with a second wind upon him. “Run if you want, but we need each other, you’ll be back, you came to me today,” the words cut deep as he pushed through the woods and into a clearing. A nest of bones sat sundried and the hollowed skulls caught his eye among the skeletal heap. Over the darkening swamp, millions of miles away, the sun made space for the moon that awoke above the drowning trees. “Don’t mind those, I didn’t want you to see that,” the alligator softly admitted, and shortly after, a choir of mosquitoes began humming their swan songs. “I’ve been watching for a while now, and that man who beds your mother is not who he says he is.” It said to him, and for the first time, Rudy heard a man in that voice, rising from the guts of a cold creature. “You can have him, I’ll take him to you, I can do it, I know I can!” The boy quickly thought about the plan he would hatch and the things he would have to do. “He doesn’t deserve his place, they took that from me when they left me in the swamp to die.” With the slithering of words, tactically, the man inside revealed more of himself. “Are you my dad, are you in there?” Rudy quivered at his own question, and even though imagination knew few bounds, he understood that he had wandered too far into a realm beyond his understanding. “It’s our secret,” the gator whispered to him, its jaw a bridge lowering slowly. “Does that mean you’re not going to kill me?” Rupert gave in to his suspicions and dropped the stone he’d picked up; a futile defense it would have been. So, the boy knelt in the mud and the animal beside him; he felt he’d long passed the cusp of insanity—a point of no return, and unwittingly—dived headfirst into an unlikely fate. “How do you speak?” He had countless questions, and the existence of the preternatural rendered him in a state of attentiveness. Far had he gotten from the fear of the prior hours and settle did his stomach. “Even I don’t know, and there’s no way to tell without slicing me open,” its pained voice had long passed and the presence of the boy calmed its blackened soul. “My memory fades, and I remember the name Rudy, Rupert,” it whispered, but it was a whisper that could be heard over the forest and the sounds of any who tried to muffle it. Their eventful conversation strayed Rudy’s thoughts down the darkest of paths, and soon, it would be pitch black. “That man doesn’t even look like you, boy. Think about it, your hair is brighter than the sun, and that man you call a father is a dog. No more than the mutt I lured you out here with,” he severed the silence, and the man within the creature was impatient; a four-legged silhouette that blended with the woods the more the moon cast its thoughtless glow. It skittered circles around him, and it was hard to spot amid the ensuing darkness, but he caught sight of it once more when the light reflected off its rubbery surface. “I want to believe you, I hate him… what do we do now?” The night was filled with many riddles, and it was a two-part investigation near the base of a willow. Rudy sensed an inkling of himself in the cryptic beast, and in those primal moments, he felt he understood it. What he had first deemed insanity, waned in the truth he now accepted; this would be no nightmare you awake from, but rather trauma in tangible form, and further, a way to reconcile it all: blood for blood. “Just like that, you believe me? You’re quick to trust,” the gator said. Rupert thought about his options but there were few; was he prey regardless? He’d convinced himself otherwise in their moments engaged in mutual scrutiny. “I’m trusting you because I don’t got a choice,” the boy concluded, looking down at the creature beside him. It paid him no sight while it skittered a few paces ahead. “There are choices, but you may not like them, though they could benefit us both,” it stopped in its tracks, and its tail whipped as it turned to meet him; a low moving blot in the night. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?” Rudy inquired again, between the wavering of his mental fortitude. “I’m afraid you don’t,” it whispered before rushing behind a tree and into the thickets. Not a few moments later, it peaked its snout through the glistening curtains of reeds, revealing its teeth far from uniform. With a simple whiff, It sensed the bitterness that reeked from the boy, the resentment and disdain akin to his, a soul bound by chance. “What do I call you?” Rudy’s voice quivered, and he eagerly awaited the answer from the long-snouted swindler partitioning the plants. “My name is Bruce, call me Bruce, son,” the alligator said with no hint of deception and only sincerity. The two of them found mutual ground, one lower than the other; despite the horrific death of the puppy, Rudy forgave him—and the night was full of ideas. Accepting the deal and the admission of worlds beyond his fathoming, his father who crept on all fours led him out of the swamp while they caught up on moments they had never shared. The lack of which harbored resentment in Rudy—it was only a matter of time until he acted out—all it took was a bump and a nudge. Over sparse patches of land, they waltzed, crossing the narrow causeways back the way they came. A path that was set for him by his newfound companion who knew all manners of the mire. “Your mother must go too,” it whispered once more as they neared the edge of the great swamp that bordered the neighborhood, threatening to swallow it in future times. They were close to town now, and the outside world called to Rudy with the beast in tow. Through the breaks in trees and the overgrowth of summer: porchlights cut the shadows, and from the saturated porches, lanterns burned shimmering orbs. When he stepped out into the amber light—the darkness came with him, whether within—or arm and arm. “Rudy—Rudy!” His mother called out to him.

The girl walked through the bustling street with a bun in her hand. She bit into it slowly, letting the warm dough melt on her tongue. She was alert as ever to everything around her: carriages clattering on cobblestones; merchants calling out their wares; people laughing and talking as they shopped or met friends. But one sight caught the girl's eye more than anything else — a mother with her little boy; a pretty child with bright eyes. They smiled and chatted as they passed by the stalls. "Mother," the boy said. "Can we have some mooncakes?" "Of course, we can," the mother said. They stopped at a baker's stand where rows of pastries tempted the eye. "Laoban," the mother said to the baker. "Two mooncakes, if you please." The baker nodded. "Yes, Madam." He wrapped the mooncakes and gave them to the mother who passed them to her son. "Thank you, Mother," the boy said. *Mother*. The word was strange on the girl's tongue. She had never known a mother, or perhaps she had once but it was lost in the mists of her memory. The only person the girl had ever called family was her Shifu, the lady who had taught her how to be strong, how to survive. The girl and her Shifu had met on this very street. The girl had been running from a pack of angry waiters who had seen her stealing food from their restaurant. She had stumbled and fallen, scraping her knees and elbows on the rough cobblestones. She had looked up and seen the waiters closing in on her with sticks in their hands. She had thought it was the end. Then she had seen her — a lady in her middle years, drunk and limping down the street. The lady had a walking stick in one hand and a wine-skin in the other. She had stepped between the girl and the first waiter; she had hit him on the head with her stick; he had crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut. She had spun around and kicked the second waiter in the chest; he had flown back and crashed into a cart. She had grabbed the third waiter by the arm; she had twisted it until he screamed; she had thrown him to the ground like a rag doll. The other waiters had stopped in their tracks, too afraid to move forward. "Leave the child alone," the lady had said in a slurred voice. The waiters had scrambled and run away. The girl had been stunned. She had seen that lady before, at the abandoned courtyard where the beggars slept. The girl had never paid much attention to her. The lady had seemed like just another homeless, another nobody like the girl. But the lady was so much more. She was a fighter. A master. The girl had followed the lady, curious and thankful. She had asked the lady to teach her how to fight. The lady had paid her no mind at first, drinking from her wine skin and muttering to herself. But the girl had persisted, trailing the lady everywhere, pleading. She had started to call the lady Shifu, hoping to win her favor. Eventually, the lady had given in. She had looked at the girl and asked, "What is your name, child?" "I have no name," the girl had replied. The lady had looked at her with a queer expression. "Everyone has a name, girl." "Maybe I did once, but I don't remember it," the girl had said. The lady had given her a curious look. "You don't remember?" she had repeated. The girl had nodded and then she had continued to tell the lady her story, the story of how she had woken up, one day, by the river, with no memory of who she was; how she had wandered the forest for a long time, living on nothing but wild berries; how she had seen this city from afar and came here hoping to find answers; how no one had helped her; how they had called her beggar and chased her away. The lady had nodded. "I see," then she had looked the girl over and said, "But if you are to be my apprentice, you will need a name." The girl's eyes had brightened. "You agree to be my Shifu?" "Why not?" the lady had said. "You're brave, child, to have lived alone in the wild for so long at such a young age. How about we call you...Ying Lan." And so, the girl had become Ying Lan, and her Shifu had taught her how to fight. They had grown close, like mother and daughter. But it had not lasted for long. Shifu had old wounds that never healed properly. She had coughed blood and suffered from fever. Ying Lan had stolen silver and bought medicine for her, but it was too late. Shifu had died in Ying Lan's arms, whispering words of gratitude and love. Now Ying Lan was all alone. No Shifu. No friend. No family. She fought back tears as she finished her bun, and as the last crumbs fell from her fingers, notes of a distant song drifted through the air, a melody that echoed her inner turmoil.

Some of you might remember my post from 2 weeks ago, here's an updated edition of my in the works entry for the writing competition. Theme is nature. Feedback greatly appreciated!! WC: \~650 Sometimes, I wonder if this is in my nature, or if I've been taught to act this way. If I had been raised in a different family, country, society, would I still think and feel the way I do now, or is it an instinct embedded into my brain? Human nature, if you will, is this it? Is the human brain coded to second-guess and criticize itself, self-destructing slowly, agonizing, taking everything else around with it - like a sinking ship swallows its crew into the abyss of the sea. I wonder if my ancestors looked at themselves the way I do now. Did they - my mothers - care about the blemishes that spread like weeds over their skin? Or the texture of their skin, rough like the earth, did they care? I care. I don't understand why. I run my hands over my silhouette, observing myself in the mirror, my body staring harshly back at me from the cold silver. My face contorts into a frown of dissatisfaction at the image of myself in front of me. I ask myself, "Has my body has morphed over time into a taller, bumpier version of myself or have I just been staring at it for so long that my brain has distorted the reality of what it is?" I don't get an answer from myself, but I don't see the harm in asking. It's summer. Sunshine spills over my windowsill, flooding the room and pooling at my ankles. The window is agape in an attempt to capture a wisp of the cool breeze which I hear running through the trees, darting in and around the branches causing the leaves to flutter and brush against one another, the gentle echo of a rustle filling the silence of the room. For a moment, it distracts me from the mirror which captures my essence and my view is momentarily flooded by the overpowering brightness of the sunlight, until my eyes adjusted to the forest outside of my window. Although a road and a river stand between my home and the forest, I can smell the rush of pollen from the wildflowers with each gush of wind into the room: primrose, forget-me-nots, poppies. I look out onto the towering trunks, concealed by climbing vines, a fury of branches reaching out from the trunk, leaves swaying together, dancing in the August winds. Amongst the rustles of leaves and the rushing of the River Churn against the stones that lay on the threshold of the forest, the nesting swallows that I've observed for the passing weeks begin to twitter and tweet amongst themselves, conversing in one of Gaia's languages we've yet to decipher. This symphony of the forest - the orchestra of wind, river, undergrowth, creatures - this melodic concord fills my brain like a cascade crashes over the rocks, powerful and extreme but nurturing to the plants which line the waterbed and life-bearing to the animals which will drink from the calmer water further on down the stream. I feel my muscles relax under the touch of my fingers which moments before traced my skin searching for imperfections to criticize and I breathe. I breathe. I feel the chill run through my nostrils and tumble around in my chest before the breath escapes back into the room through my lips. I can smell the season, the time, the temperature. I can identify the smell of this specific gust of wind with countless memories of similar days. Countless Spring afternoons where I've relished in the sensation of the fresh oxygen filling my lungs. However, my favourite time to breathe the fresh air is in the summer evenings. At dusk. There's nothing more appealing than feeling the heat rest against my face whilst breathing the cooler air as wind sweeps through the street.

Yi Long lay among the silk cushions in his imperial carriage. His eyes were closed, but sleep eluded him. He felt every bump of the road, every creak of the wheels. He was not alone on this journey; he had his guards and servants flanking his carriage, some on foot, some on horseback. Behind him came his empress; his son, the crown prince; and some of the court officials, each in their own carriage. They had all followed him on this pilgrimage, as they did each year. Some out of loyalty and duty, some for adventure, and some to curry his favor. But none of them, he knew, felt the sorrow he did, every time he took this road. This was the road of his loss, the road of his pain. His beloved consort Rui and his little Yi Xin had taken this road nine years ago, to pray at the temple for his health and prosperity, and he had let them go without him. He had been too busy with his empire, too blind to the danger. He had not seen the foes waiting in the shadows for their chance to strike. They had ambushed his Rui and his Yi Xin on their way back from the temple. His Rui and all the imperial guards had died on the spot, but his Yi Xin, his precious daughter, had somehow escaped into the forest. Yi Long had led his best men to find her, and after days of searching, they had come upon her corpse, mangled by wolves and crows. He had cursed his enemies; he had cursed himself. He had sworn vengeance, he had sworn justice. He had kept his word. He had hunted down the assassins and their master - a rebel general who had dared to challenge his rule. He had made them beg for mercy and death. He had made them pay with their blood and their lives. But it wasn't enough. It did not bring back his Rui and his Yi Xin. It did not fill the emptiness in his soul. It did not ease the nightmares that plagued him every night. They haunted him - his Rui's smile, his Yi Xin's laugh, their voices calling his name. They haunted him for his failure to protect them. They haunted him their faces twisted in agony; their bodies torn apart. They haunted him every year, in his every step, along this road. This road that led him to the temple where they had prayed for him, where he would pray for their souls. This road that reminded him of grief, of pain, of a sad song that rose from his heart and filled his ears. *♪ My Yi Xin was like a jade orchid, My Rui like a pearl .

Title: I got mugged for the first time, I think? A little backgroud: I ordered a new phone online, a Samsung Galaxy S24 to be exact. However, when I received the message to say my phone was ready to collect from the store, I saw they had sent the wrong model. I then spent every chance I got during my morning work shift, calling and messaging customer services. They were adamant that I ordered the wrong phone, and the only way to resolve this was to go in store. Each member of customer services was more unhelpful than the next. By the time my shift was over, I was about ready to switch networks. Eventually I take the only option offered and make my way down to the local shopping mall with a store. I arrive at the store ready to voice my grievances at the waste of my time and energy. Only to find that the model I ordered is ready and waiting for me. My jubilation was barely containable, trying to politely sit though the nearly 10minutes of identity checks, when all I wanted to do was rip open the box and admire my new phone. I haven't had a new phone in such a long time, I was overly excited to say the least. Now picture the scene: the new phone, all safely tucked away in its fresh looking box, with seductive packaging, you can almost hear it muttering sweet nothings, calling you to stroke the shiney case and slowly, slowly peal off the screen covering. My lovely little phone has been placed with care inside a paper bag and presented to me on the counter whilst I wait for my receipt to print. But before the new phone and I can 'get a room!' I suddenly see this paper bag take flight a soar off the counter behind me. As I turn around, in absolute bewilderment that my new phone can move so fast of its own accord. My brain and eyes slowly communicating over fractions of a second. I realise two guys in their early 20s are legging it out of the store with my baby (I mean phone). I hadn't had a chance to utter even a dramatic scream before some woman (a hero in civilian disguise), lept upon the duo yelling "you little buggers!" The bloke running away with my new born child (I still mean phone), made an attempt to dislodge himself from the grasp of wonder woman and inadvertently manage to fling the contents of the paper back, backwards and into the store, practically landing at my feet! It took several seconds for my brain to catch up. I had made several quick strides after the lads before reality kicked in and my body reminded me that "we don't run" and even the attempt was futile. Then I found myself in shock, and shaking. The adrenaline was being rapidly accompanied by overwhelming relief. After a quick check, to make sure it's accelerated boomerang out and back into the store, hadn't caused any damage. I was at last reunited with the love of my life (you get it now yeah?). That was a rush I've never experienced before! The emotional roller coaster from anger, to joy, to panic, to shear elation has left me reeling. After waiting for my husband to come to the store and escort me back to my car, I'm safely home but now I have too much PTSD to open my new phone just yet. It sits on the table, quietly toying with my emotions.

Hey there, my name is Hamza. This is my first story. I hope you will like it, and please point out any mistakes or help me improve the story. This is just the introduction to the world; if this gets positive reviews, I will continue it. **Story:** In this world, the land had two forms. During the day, everything felt like heaven. Tall trees full of fruits of all kinds were everywhere, clouds coming down and turning into marshmallows, and rivers with crystal clear water that you could drink from. Birds and animals were so beautiful that they couldn't be described in words. But when the night came around, everything fell into chaos. Fire came out of nowhere and started to burn everything, and from the burned trees and animals rose demons that were so furious they destroyed every single thing that came in their way. The demons were of all kinds: some were very short while some were as tall as buildings, and some could even fly. But they all had one thing in common—they had a big hole in their chest, perhaps representing that they showed no mercy to anything. When the sun started to come out, all the demons began to hide from it. As the sun rose completely, it burned the demons that were born from the raging fire. The fire vanished suddenly as if it had never been there in the first place. After that, everything started to grow again. The plants grew at such a rapid pace that you could see them transforming from tiny sprouts into ginormous trees. Rivers that had previously dried up began to flow again, and the animals came out of the ground as if the demons had never existed. Everything felt like nothing had ever happened. The contrast between the two forms of the land was striking. During the day, the land was a paradise, a place of tranquillity and beauty. The trees were not only tall but also vibrant with colours, their fruits glistening under the sunlight. The marshmallow clouds were soft and sweet, a delight for both the eyes and the taste buds. The rivers were not just crystal clear but also teeming with life, fish swimming gracefully in the water. The birds sang melodious tunes, and the animals roamed freely, their fur and feathers shining in the daylight. At night, however, the land transformed into a nightmarish landscape. The fires that erupted seemed to have a life of their own, consuming everything in their path. The demons that emerged from the ashes were terrifying, their presence a stark contrast to the beauty of the daytime. Their eyes glowed with malice, and their movements were swift and relentless. The holes in their chests were dark voids, a symbol of their heartlessness. They tore through the land, leaving destruction in their wake. Yet, the cycle continued every day. As dawn approached, the demons retreated, the fires extinguished, and life began anew. The speed at which the land recovered was astonishing. Trees that had been reduced to ashes sprouted anew, growing rapidly into towering giants. The rivers, once dry and barren, flowed with crystal clear water again, and the animals reappeared, their numbers undiminished. It was as if the horrors of the night had never happened. ***Fun Fact:*** If you somehow get out of the planet, you will see that half of the planet is on fire while the other half looks beautiful, even from above. It is as if there is a wall between the two worlds, keeping them separated. This unique phenomenon makes the planet a place of stark contrasts, a world where beauty and chaos coexist in a perpetual cycle.

Liam sat in one of the waiting room chairs of the hospital emergency room, his blood coated hands shaking but he barely noticed. He was stuck in his own personal purgatory. Unaware if he was in heaven or hell and those that could free him from that unfortunate in between wouldn't tell him what he needed to know. His throat was extremely dry and painful from the shouting he had done in those agonizing moments as he held his hands to the one of the most serious of the lacerations on her once perfect body now marked by the violence she had gone through.,'my poor girl,' the thought reverberated across his mind like a loud church bell triggering a wave of shivering no longer limited only to his hands but to his whole body. No one noticed his overwhelming turmoil in the cold waiting room as it seemed all those within were all stuck in their own heads. A single tear fell from his left eye and he shut both eyes and put his head down as he slowly succumbed to his pain and grief. Then the softest touch on his shoulder broke the hold the grief had on him. It was a touch he recognized and loved above all others. "My big teddy bear, are you being a cry baby again?" Suzie's soft and sunny voice teased as she poked his big shoulder. Liam stayed silent as he tried to compose himself. She always liked to tease him like this over all the years they had been together. He was such a big and strong detective in the police force and for him to be such a big softie was their inside joke. His hand reached out to hold her's on his shoulder and he took comfort in her presence but did not look at her due his own guilt for his own part in this. " How is our girl, babe?" she asked in a slightly worried voice and that triggered his own fears and also his automatic desire to be strong for his wife. He cleared his throat and in a gruff voice he could scarcely recognize as his own he said, "she was taken into surgery 30 minutes ago, she will be alright. We just have to wait for her. Leah's a fighter just like us."She murmured her agreement and then he felt her place her head on his shoulder likeshe always liked to do, 'cuddling my teddy' she called it. Such a familiar action brought some semblance of normalcy to this alternate and horrific version of the life he knew as his own. "you know, its not your fault babe. Stop blaming yourself because you could not have known it would end this way," she said to him lovingly, always his first defender, always first to forgive, always letting him get away with his bullshit. But he could not take her forgiveness now. He was not worthy of it. He only shook his head silently, he could not accept her gracious heart in this moment because he truly had monumentally fucked up and now his life would never be the same. "Liam, I said it was not your fault, don't shut me out and do not carry this sin on your soul my Teddy," she said a sharp threatening edge lacing her voice as her arm tightened around his own pulling her tighter to him. Even then he could recognize that her love for him as she only ever wanted him to be happy. "I can't do it Suze, not this time. This time I can't let you defend me, the cost has been too high," regret was all his voice possessed in that moment. " You big lug, always so stubborn. Why do you always have to carry the world on your shoulders. Stop wallowing baby, just be here in this moment. Worry and love but do not let guilt colour everything." " How can I do that? You know that I brought this to our door. I played tag with the devil and now those I love suffer the consequences. Our poor Leah," he bitterly said as the door to the emergency room opened. He sharply raised his head then in expectation. Unfortunately it was the doctor and nurses for another patient who came with solemn looks on their faces. He watched as a young man who seemed to be in his mid 20s talked to them. The young man then let out a yell of grief and fell to his knees and racking sobs hit him. The feeling of hope slowly died in Liam's heart and despair slowly crept into his own heart. He couldn't draw his eyes from the young man who the nurses were slowly trying to console when Suzie suddenly touched his face. Her hand slowly stroked his cheek, he knew instinctively that she wanted him to look at her so hesitantly he turned his gaze slowly to meet her eyes. His brown met her gorgeous black with the flecks of light in them. He had always loved her eyes and could stare at them indefinitely. He drank in her face then. She was as beautiful as ever however he knew that he would see what he dreaded. As his gaze fell lower and lower he saw them, the cut at her neck, raw, the hole above her heart, so very bloody. Her dress soaked in blood and yet the monster had spared her face. So even then as disfigured as he had left her, Liam found her beautiful. Tears entered his eyes and she gave him a sad smile. "It wasn't your fault my love, never ever believe that it was. I do not blame you so please don't lay blame at your own feet. It was that evil man's fault," she said as she gripped his face in her hand, her eyes fierce showing how earnestly she believed what she said. He saw only love in her eyes then and finally allowed himself to drop the guilt and self blame he had been poisoning himself with. He could finally be there in that moment waiting to find out if he would lose his daughter or if he still had a place in this distorted world. He looked at Suzie then, aware that she couldn't stay but silently asking her to stay with him, if not forever then only until he got the news about Leah. She could always read him like an open book and she nodded her head and smiled at him.

In the labyrinthine complexity of our everyday existence, seemingly mundane tasks often conceal profound insights into the human condition. A prime example of this is the act of tying one's shoes, an action so banal and automatic that it typically escapes our notice. However, beneath its surface lies a rich tapestry of meaning, a microcosm of the struggles and triumphs we face in our quest for self-mastery. To explore this unassuming act, we must delve into the intricate web of thoughts and emotions that accompany the act of knotting shoelaces. Imagine, if you will, the myriad choices that confront us as we prepare to tie our shoes. How tightly should we lace them? Which style of knot best suits our needs? And what does our selection of shoes say about us as individuals, as members of a society perpetually judging and being judged? Indeed, the humble shoelace becomes a battleground of self-expression, a vehicle through which we navigate the treacherous terrain of social norms and personal identity. In this struggle for self-definition, we encounter the inescapable tension between conformity and individuality. The simple act of following a societal convention, such as tying one's shoes in a standard manner, can be seen as an act of surrendering our uniqueness to the collective. Yet, in rebellion against these established norms, we may adopt idiosyncratic methods of lacing our shoes, asserting our individuality with every twist and loop. Thus, even the most mundane of tasks reveals the perpetual negotiation between our desire for belonging and our yearning for self-expression. Moreover, the act of tying shoelaces is fraught with uncertainty, a precarious dance between order and chaos. In our pursuit of the perfect knot, we encounter the paradox of control. We may strive to achieve symmetry and precision, crafting a flawless bow that speaks of discipline and mastery. Yet, the fickle nature of shoelaces reminds us of the fleeting nature of control. A slight tug in the wrong direction, and the symphony of strands becomes a chaotic tangle, an affront to our best-laid plans. It is in these moments of frustration that we confront the inherent unpredictability of life, the delicate balance between our desire for control and the capriciousness of our existence. In contemplating the act of tying shoelaces, we find ourselves immersed in a microcosm of the human experience—a journey of self-discovery, a quest for authenticity, and an acknowledgment of our inherent vulnerability. It is a reminder that even in the most mundane of tasks, the opportunity for reflection and introspection is always present. The path we choose, the knots we tie, and the way we navigate the labyrinths of our shoes reflect the intricate complexities of our inner selves. So the next time you find yourself tying your shoes, take a moment to ponder the depths that lie beneath this seemingly unremarkable act. Reflect on the choices you make, the tensions you encounter, and the fragile balance you seek to achieve. For within this mundane gesture lies a mirror to the human condition—a reminder that even in the most ordinary of actions, the potential for profundity resides.

Laying on her back, Hadia obsessively stared at the ceiling and tried to forget about the sinister hospital room she was in. With unwavering will, she blocked her worries and focused all of her energy on thinking about happier moments. She considered herself lucky enough to have a career that allowed her to travel the world and have unforgettable experiences. Now that she was older and most probably wiser, she found that even those that seemed bad back then came back as fond memories that never failed to make her smile. Slowly closing her eyes, the fifty-nine-year-old woman let herself wander along the maze that was her memory. The first one that popped into her mind was of the first classical music concert she attended at the age of twenty-nine. She was a part of a committee sent to the Czech Republic’s capital to do some control and investigation on the customer service and research department there. After her office hours, she often traded her formal attire for flowy and light-textured dresses. There was nothing that she enjoyed more than getting lost in new cities and exploring them quietly. Away from the overwhelming crowds. That night, amazed by the grandiosity and breath-taking architecture of Prague’s state opera, the young woman was in trans the whole time. The gold details contrasting with the ivory-colored walls and the crimson of the box seats, the conductor’s dexterity, and the orchestra’s harmony made the experience even more memorable. For her first concert, she picked a red velvet dress that made her feel like a princess escaping from one of Disney’s fairy tales. A feeble smile made its way across her lips as echoes of string instruments, flutes, clarinets, trumpets, and horns resonated in her mind. “At least this time it’s something pleasant,” she told herself, humming the melody of the blue Danube. Next, her memories took her to a lavender field in the south of France. Remembering the peacefulness and quietness that filled her as the soothing smell and sight of endless and perfectly aligned violet-colored rows was all she had to think about. Despite what she had always believed, exploring France was one of her favorite adventures. The blue of La Côte d’Azure’s skies, the marvelous province, and the rich culinary culture of the country made her fall in love with it the instant she sat foot in Bordeaux’s international airport twenty years ago. However, if she had the chance to pick one country to experience for the first time again, she would pick Austria without any hesitation. There was something about that country that had always made her feel at home whenever she was there. After visiting it a few times, she asked to be transferred there. The years she lived in Innsbruck and Graz before she had to move to another country due to a promotion were the happiest years of her life. Smoothing her light green hospital gown, she reviewed her days there as a huge smile brought more color to her face. “Good evening, madame,” a nurse greeted her as she pushed the food cart inside the room. “You seem to be in high spirits today.” She pointed out in that same professional, light-hearted tone that staff in the private sector used. “Good evening. What’s on the menu today?” Hadia inquired, trying to see what was on the cart. The nurse dramatically lifted the lid and said in an exaggerated accent, “For toonight, wee have the chef’s specialitee.” “Oh no, not the cauliflower soup again,” the middle-aged woman groaned, making the nurse’s laughter echo in the room. “Did the chef make it their mission to torture me?” The young woman shook her head before helping Hadia sit correctly. “Please finish your food tonight. You have a long day waiting for you tomorrow.” “I’ll try,” the dark-haired woman sighed. “Call for me in case you need anything, okay?” Hadia nodded, mirroring the redhead’s smile. Tapping her fingers against the smooth surface of the small table in front of her to the rhythm of the music she got stuck in her head, Hadia thought about the time she tried to bleach her hair to distract herself from the strong taste of cauliflowers. The memory of her orange, dry hair made her laugh so hard that she almost choked. Trying to sit straight, she inhaled and exhaled deeply several times before she was able to breathe properly again. “That was close.” A soft chuckle escaped her chest before she gulped the glass of water the nurse served her before she left. And before she knew it, she was back to her reveries. Absent-mindedly messing with the now empty indigo glass, she thought about Innsbruck and its beautiful nature and incredible buildings. “I need to go back there,” she thought to herself as she pushed the plastic yellow dining table away from her. “As soon as possible.” Unlocking her phone, she spent the rest of her night going through the pictures she had collected over the years until she fell asleep. — Word count: 838 words. Used constraints: B13: Includes a character that has an earworm, C19: set in a hospital, and D33: Story mentions every color in the basic rainbow Thank you for reading my story, crits and feedback are always appreciated.

My little starcraft popped into existence about four-hundred kilometers above this Earth’s North America. The continent from the Atlantic to the Pacific Ocean was dayside so there was little to indicate the planet had suffered a reality breach. It looked like any of a couple of hundred ordinary North America’s I had visited during my service in the Guardian Corp. But a quick scan of radio frequencies told a different story. Whatever organized human civilization that once existed had collapsed. And what little radio traffic the Observer Corp could detect suggested that only a few small pockets of humans with any technology had survived. As I descended into the atmosphere to reach one of those remaining enclaves, my gravitational sensors detected the emergence of several hundred other of my fellow Guardians. The Union was definitely taking this breach seriously given the number of my brothers and sisters present along with three dreadnoughts entering orbit. All this team spirit and unity of effort was all warm and fuzzy but I concentrated on reaching my assignment. A group of survivors that had taken refuge in a monastery in the area I would call South Carolina. Galactic Spirit only knows what the locals called it since I didn’t have time to review the Observer files of this Earth. The inconvenient thing about landing a starcraft on an Earth-like planet’s surface was that you couldn’t fly in at a significant speed. There were a whole bunch of reasons why that would be bad for any locals. Things like mega-hurricane force winds, and atmospheric friction turning huge chunks of the surface blow my flight path into ash. The nature of this breach was atypical so the higher-ups didn’t want the planet fried for all the other lifeforms that were unaffected by the entities that crossed over into normal space. My flight path had me coming from the south passing over what to me was the Gulf of Mexico into western Florida, some of Georgia, and then eastern South Carolina. It was then I did a quick scan of the road networks and made a safe assumption that this Earth was historically close to my own. So that put the monastery in a town called Walterboro. I passed over the monastery at an altitude of two-hundred meters and got my first view of the victims. Long story short, they were the reanimated dead, full fledged zombies. The small viewscreen on my ship’s console presented detailed images of the victims milling outside the fortified refuge. There were about a thousand of the corpses obviously wanting to get inside the monastery where my scans said four-hundred, ten living humans were huddled. The bio-scans reported that the living were close to starvation and were also suffering from various illnesses. It took several moments to fully understand the nature of the reanimated victims. These weren’t mindless virus spreaders, these things show obvious signs of retaining the ability to use basic technology. Being honest, it was the image of one of the zombie things firing an assault rifle at my little ship that really confirmed the Observer intel. I truly wanted to zap the decaying bastard but my orders were to hold off on that until the dreadnoughts had the breach sealing devices in position. What I could do was land and extend my shields over the monastery, which would allow support drones to fly in and bring food and medicine for the survivors. The real weirdness about this breach were the entities that were occupying the bodies of the victims. These things weren’t the usual physical eldritch horrors that exploded out of a breach bringing chaos and destruction. These entities were strictly energy creatures that at first possessed the weak minded humans of this Earth who then began killing other people in displays of unhinged violence.These entities would then spread into the injured and dying and begin the process again. The true evil of these creatures were what they consumed. They were soul eaters. After possessing the body the entities would slowly consume the quantum energy of a human soul. The nightmarish thing was that the human souls being consumed were able to watch what the entities did with their bodies. Where the soul eaters moved beyond eldritch horrors into pure evil was that they completely destroyed the soul they consumed, preventing them from merging with the multiverse. Yeah, the Union had crossed paths with similar creatures many times over the millions of years of exploring different universes. I landed the Wayward Son just outside the main entrance and raised shields. While I was told to hold fire, the expansion of the shields vaporized both the nearby possessed bodies and the soul eaters inside. All told I wasted about a dozen of them. When you make an omelet, eggs have to be broken. That confused the entities, they didn’t run away but the decaying bodies showed human signs of distress. One unattended side effect these soul eaters seemed to have missed is that the bodies they possessed were tied to their own emotions. After raising my canopy and deploying the steps, I hopped out and walked to the inner edge of the shield. Of course, I still had my full armor on and would until I got word from the life science types of the navy ships that we didn’t carry any bugs that would fuck over the locals any more than what had already happened. I could clear my faceplate to the point that it would allow me to have a conversation with the entities. “Hey motherfuckers,” I broadcasted in English. “Which one of you nasty bastards is in charge of this area?” This riled up most of the entities with a couple of hundred rushing the shield. No vaporizing now with the shield deployed, they just bounced off. “Come on,” I said again, “ I don’t have all day. One of you is always in charge of a group.” Given the nature of soul eaters, all they can usually display in human forms is chaotic homicidal madness. All of the gathering undead masses would have made Hannibal Lecter seem a good natured, and trustworthy kindergarten teacher. But something did emerge and walk up to the outer edge of the shield. Despite the months of decay since the breach, the body this entity inhabited had once been a beautiful woman. I’d say forty-something, and married since a gold wedding was still on the left hand. I could be wrong but given the bloody and ripped clothes I pictured her as a real estate agent selling condos and suburban houses. The decay of the body was just an aftereffect of the soul eater taking control. Oh, the body was dead, a meat puppet really, but the quantum energy of a soul was what they were really after. “What are you?” came the raspy and strained voice from the body. Her/its face was a pale gray with cracks in the skin, one of the thing’s eyes was missing but the other was sickly green. “We saw nothing of your kind when we emerged from the rift.” “Well if we’re going to be formal,” I said, “I’m Guardian Jason West. I’m human, a little different from the others of this world but essentially the same. Now tell me, who am I speaking with?” The creature I inhabit was called Sissy. I possess her memories and I’m slowly devouring her soul.” “Yeah about that, You and your kind need to leave this world and cross back over into your own realm.” Sissy tried to smile, causing a crack to open from the left side of her mouth. “This world is ours, these creatures are our food source. We will consume them all then return to our realm and search for another rift to exploit the intelligent lifeforms there.” Using the heads up display in my helmet, I saw that the dreadnaughts had deployed the breach seal devices and there was only a few minutes before they were activated. “What gives you the right to consume the souls of intelligent creatures?” “These creatures were the apex predators of this world. They consumed and exploited the other lifeforms of this planet. We have supplanted them, it is the way of all life. These things you call souls are just our food, the same way they raised and butchered cows.” The way the Sissy-thing looked at me like I was crazy for needing it explained. “Well, I can’t debate with you the rationality of exploiting other lifeforms. It’s a nasty habit that every civilized species abandons once they mature. And it’s the reason you need to leave this world.” Sissy smiled, this time the attempt made my blood run cold. “We’re the top of the food chain here, you can’t make us leave.” It said with certainty. “But Sissy, you forgot there’s always a bigger fish in the pond.” Sissy looked confused for a moment, but her attention was redirected elsewhere. There’s no way for a human to understand the working of a breach seal. The physics are beyond human comprehension, unless they are augmented or merged with an artificial intelligence. Both options leave the rest of humanity out. But humans can feel it when they begin to repair the fabric of reality. And so could the entity in Sissy and the others around her. “Cute comparison.” Sissy said, trying to stay in control of the body, “but I imagine the same has to be true for you.” One second later a wave of unreality sweeps this region of the planet destroying the soul eaters. The now empty bodies fell to the ground. The best guess for the human souls being consumed is that they are freed. But not even the Platcot, the snail-like species that conceived of the breach seal devices, know for sure. Moments later a call comes over the command channel saying the breach was sealed. The soul eaters were killed, and that it was safe for Guardians to come out of the armor. I kept the shield up long enough to deploy several nano-swarms to take care of the bodies left behind. The survivors didn’t need to come out only to see the rotting remains of people they once knew . The nano-swarm broke the dead down to small grains of natural material. Several of the survivors had watched the events unfold from raised observation points behind the monastery walls. God knows what they must think given that their world and basic concepts of reality have been shattered. The best I could do was have my armor unfold back into itself so I could show them I was human like them. The support drones picked that moment to come flying in. I dropped the shield so they could land. Realizing that the hard part of the mission was beginning I raised my hands and waved. “Hey y’all, don’t shoot, I'm friendly. Those drones are bringing in food, water, and other supplies.” I know they had a million questions but one person, a woman wearing clothes that looked about as worn as the stuff the Sissy-thing had on, answered back. “Okay, jack, stay put and don’t move a muscle. I have people coming out, any weirdness and I’ll shoot.” “Weirdness?” I shouted back. “Lady, believe it or not I’m one of the good guys. But as weirdness goes, well, that’s relative.” I finished with a jovial tone and got a smile from the woman. The two iron doors at the entrance opened up and fifteen heavily armed people came out. They were wary but seemed relieved. I on the other hand couldn’t get the last words of the Sissy-thing out of my head. The Union was millions of years old and spanned not just galaxies but parts of different universes. For there to be a bigger fish that it was something I never considered.

I stood at the bow of a large sailing ship, the salt spray stinging my face as it cut through the churning waters. The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a blood-red glow over the sea. It was a fitting end to another day in this floating hell. My name is Kwame, and I was born free on the shores of Africa. That freedom was stolen from me, replaced by chains and the constant threat of the lash. Now, I am a slave aboard this cursed vessel, forced to serve the whims of a man whose name I only hear as Captain. But tonight, the tide will turn. Tonight, we will take back our freedom. The wind howled through the rigging, and the ship groaned as it battled the relentless waves. Below deck, the air was thick with the foul stench of sweat and despair. My fellow captives huddled together, their eyes reflecting the same mix of fear and determination that burned within me. We had no weapons, no training, but we had something far more powerful: the will to be free. I had spent weeks whispering plans in the darkness, rallying the others to our cause. Tonight, as the storm raged above, we would strike. I crept through the shadows, my heart pounding in my chest. The crew was distracted, their attention focused on keeping the ship afloat. I found the others waiting, their faces grim but resolute. We exchanged silent nods, and then, with a collective breath, we moved as one. The chaos of the storm was our ally. We surged onto the deck, catching the crew off guard. Shouts of alarm rang out, but we were relentless. I saw the Captain, his eyes wide with shock, and I felt a surge of satisfaction. This man, who had stolen my freedom, would now face justice. We overpowered the crew, our numbers and desperation giving us the edge. The Captain was dragged to the edge of the deck, his struggles futile against our combined strength. I stood before him, the wind whipping around us, and met his gaze. I pointed to the plank, my eyes burning with the fury of years of suffering. The Captain sneered, but there was fear in his eyes. He didn’t understand my words, but my intent was clear. With a final push, we forced him to the edge, and he was gone, swallowed by the dark, churning sea. As the storm began to subside, I looked around. We had done it. We had taken back our freedom. But as I stared out at the endless horizon, I knew our journey was far from over. Days turned into weeks as we sailed. We navigated by the stars, hoping to find a safe haven. But the sea is a cruel mistress, and our supplies dwindled. Hunger gnawed at our bellies, and a once-united crew began to fracture. One night, as I stood at the bow, a ship appeared on the horizon. Hope surged within me, but as it drew closer, my heart sank. The flag it flew was one I recognized all too well—a slaver's ship. We were captured, our freedom taken away a second time. As I was being chained once more, I met the eyes of the new captain. He sneered, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "Welcome back," he said in a language I did not understand, but his meaning was clear. The irony was bitter. We had fought so hard for our freedom, only to be enslaved again. The cycle of oppression continued, and the sea, indifferent to our plight, carried us onward.

In the dim candlelight of his study, János discovered an old manuscript hidden behind a false panel in his grandfather’s desk. The pages were yellowed with age, and the ink had faded to a ghostly gray, yet the words seemed to pulse with a life of their own. The musty smell of ancient paper filled the room, mingling with the scent of melting wax from the candle. The flickering light cast eerie shadows on the walls, making the room feel both intimate and foreboding. As he began to read, a chill crept up his spine, for this manuscript detailed gruesome events that mirrored his own life with unsettling accuracy. Intrigued and unnerved, János noticed that the manuscript only contained chapters numbered in odd sequences, each one more disturbing than the last. His hands trembled as he turned the page, the ink shimmering under the flickering light. The words rearranged themselves before his eyes, revealing a new, even more horrifying chapter. János' breath caught in his throat as he read about his childhood illness and the tragic death of his parents, events he had never spoken of to anyone. Memories flooded back, each one more painful than the last, and he felt a tear slip down his cheek. He remembered the long nights in his bed when he was young, the presence of the local doctor, and the cold, unfeeling walls that seemed to close in on him. János' eyes widened in horror as he read about the failure of his marriage, the heartbreaking miscarriage his wife endured, and the crushing rejection from his dream of teaching at University, all laid bare on the ancient pages. His heart pounded as he read the manuscript’s ominous prediction: his future would indeed be bountiful, but it would come at the cost of enduring even greater hardships. He could almost hear the echo of his wife's sobs, the silence that followed their arguments, and the emptiness that filled their home after the miscarriage. János' eyes filled with a mix of dread and hope as he read the manuscript’s prophecy: it foretold a future marred by cancer and the loss of a limb, yet it also promised a new, beautiful and loving wife, along with five children—three boys and two girls. Wealth and vast lands were also in his destiny, but the path to these blessings was fraught with unimaginable trials. He could see the faces of his future children in his mind's eye, their laughter and joy, but the shadow of his impending suffering loomed large. As János neared the end of the manuscript, his heart raced with a mix of fear and curiosity. The final pages spoke of his death, shrouded in mystery, revealing neither the time nor the manner of his demise. However, it did disclose the reason: his relentless pursuit of the manuscript’s secrets would ultimately lead to his undoing. He felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead, and his hands shook as he closed the manuscript, the weight of its revelations pressing down on him. János sat back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. He glanced around the study, taking in the familiar surroundings—the old bookshelves filled with dusty tomes, the antique globe in the corner, and the portrait of his grandfather hanging above the fireplace. He wondered if his grandfather had known about the manuscript's contents and had hidden it to protect him. The thought brought a mix of comfort and unease. As he pondered his next move, he couldn't shake the feeling that his life was now irrevocably changed.

Seat has ascended into the position of the pilot is on the space fighter, yeap, as I look at the all of the controls. They are all very familiar to me, part of me just wonders how much time until we have to sortie. <This is Andren, can you hear me Evanis?> I hear Andren's voice from a space fighter's communication. <I can hear you just fine Andren. How long until we sortie?> I reply to him and wait for his go ahead to begin sortie. I haven't sortied out of this type of carrier yet but, those are automated usually and, later when the pilot has gained enough veterancy it can be done manually. <Fifteen minutes. You have at least ten minutes for a simulation. I want to make sure you have every disadvantage out of your way.> Andren says calmly. <Alright, I am ready. Briefing on the fly, I assume?> I ask, as I want to be sure. <Of course. We are beginning a data feed, you most likely remember how to change to sim mode.> Andren replies confidently. <I do, turning on sim mode, now.> I reply and press a few buttons to turn on the simulation mode. The simulations are quite basic but, very helpful, and good warm up. There was some decline in my skill, but, the simulations helped me to catch up on them very quickly. Ten minutes is up. Carrier hangar became depressurized because starboard side door opened, the fighter is already facing the direction. Looking into the endless vacuum, and having the fighter fly out of the hangar is such an amazing feeling. <Evanis, this is Andren. Your call sign for this operation is Charlie Two. You are to fight along side Charlie One. Comply?> Andren asks giving the pecking order. <Roger that. Charlie One, fly forward and, I 'ill follow your lead.> I reply to comply with the order. <This is Charlie One, roger, for now. I just want you to guard my back. I will highlight a target and call out an attack order, once you have destroyed the target, I will need to you to return to guard my back. Comply?> Charlie One replies to me. <Roger that Charlie One. Charlie Two to the bridge, has the situation evolved yet?> I reply and ask for information from the command. As we fly around the carrier to work as screening force until the transports and second fighter duo is out of the carrier. <This is Andren, situation is evolving, pirates have spotted us on their carrier sensors but, their fighters are not yet wise of us. They have stormed ahead. Charlie wing, you are to attack immediately. I will now give you to callsign Tango, she will keep you informed from here on, good luck and show them what it means to go way beyond the law.> Andren replies confidently. <Roger that, Charlie wing moving to intercept and destroy.> Charlie One replies in calm tone and I fly after him. I position myself little bit above, behind left of him. I see targets on the hologram heads up display. We have four pirate fighters flying towards us. Glyrtas Two A3 models, those are old. They can do the job for transport escort but, are in disadvantage against Polaris Three B5, I am flying and, Charlie One is flying... Looks like Torante One C6, it is a good interceptor too, has some advantages compared to Polaris I am piloting but, I think I could disable or destroy it, tough to say about the pilot though. For now, the Charlie One is flying professionally, probably quite used to use space craft, not sure about the combat record though. <Tango. Confirm four to two?> Charlie One asks for confirmation on targets we are seeing. <Confirmed Charlie Wing, their transports are behind. Four of them too, you know what to do, disable or destroy. Do you copy?> Tango replies to Charlie One. <Charlie One copies.> Charlie One replies professionally. <Charlie Two copies.> I reply to acknowledge the orders. <Charlie One to Charlie Two. Engage the pirate fighters on the right, I will take the left.> Charlie One orders calmly, might have been in these types of engagements before, I guess. <Roger that.> I reply and prepare mentally, breath in, exhale, breath in, exhale. We break formation same time and engage our targets. I locked missiles to a Pirate Glyrtas Two A3 on the rear on right, and immediately charge at the one closer of the orbital defense station. <Charlie Two, fox two.> Notify my wing leader. <Charlie One, fox two.> Charlie One replies knowing that I have launched missiles at a target but, is safely out of the way from any blast and shrapnel. The further away Glyrtas Two pilot popped flares and chaff, even if there was no need, just a simple jink left and hard ascend would have been enough to trash the missile shot. It descended and performs a vertical U turn. It is out of position and it's wing leader is a sitting duck. I track the pirate wing leader for a while, fire a laser to damage one of the thrusters, I see energy barrier flashing and flaring. Targets are shielded, this will take little bit longer than I expected. I open fire with Polaris Three B5s cannon and hammer the shield, enemy pilot is panicking and tries to throw me off from a dog fight by jinking around but, I remain calm and keep my speed stable. My second target is orienting itself, I slow down slightly and send one missile after it, to either keep it busy or, if it hits, it will have weaker shields to work with. And less kept together nerves. I can not see what the second fighter is doing as I keep harrying the enemy wing leader but, I can see from the radar that the missile is about to hit. My new cannon salvo breaks the energy shields of the wing leader's space fighter. I fire laser to clip the wings and carefully place four cannon shots to kill the propulsion. I fly past the, now dead in space enemy fighter aircraft, it opened fire at my Polaris Three, no mercy it is then. I dive towards the second fighter that was just about to lock onto my own with missiles, I get a warning. Chaingun of the wing leader's space craft has lowered the shield capacity of my space fighter but, it is still good. I fire laser and a cannon salvo at the pirate wingman. It released a missile, I hard turn my space craft and ascend towards the dead in the space pirate space fighter. Missile is hot on my trail but, I have just enough time... I quickly jink past the rear of the pirate wing leader's space craft and missile hits it instead of me. I use the explosion as cover and lock on missiles on to the pirate wingman. The pirate pilot must be on shock of what just happened. Fire few cannon shots to wake it up and a laser to see, if it is enough to sunder the space fighter's shielding. I see one of the three remaining pirate space fighters exploded. Good job Charlie One. The pirate pilot got a nasty wake up from my cannon hitting the energy barrier's of this Glyrtas Two. Laser hit the mark too. Energy shield has been sundered and the chase is on. I lock on the missiles and harry my target for a moment. I fire laser over it to bait a gentle dive, it dives gently. I get close enough. <Charlie Two, fox one.> I notify Charlie One. I send a missile right at the engine of the space craft, there's no surviving it. Missile impacts and I hard ascend again to avoid the blast. Flash of light from below me. <Well done, Charlie Two. Form up on Charlie One upon destruction off...> Tango orders but, interrupts itself. I see another flash of an explosion. Charlie One has destroyed pirate wingman. <Charlie team, regroup, seek and destroy the marked pirate transports. No survivors, we are not taking risks.> Tango corrects herself. <Charlie One copies.> Charlie One replies even if somewhat burdened by the first skirmish. <Charlie Two copies.> I reply and follow the order, I merge my solo flight with Charlie One, we increase speed to catch up with the two transports of each two pirate space fighter wings. They are marked on my hologram heads up display. <This is Alan, impressive flying Evanis. I am almost convinced of Andren's words of you being a savant of that space fighter.> Alan says through the communication. I almost would like to pull off something even more impressive but, better to not take any risks. <Understood agent, Charlie Two out.> I reply and keep flying with Charlie One. <The breakfast isn't over yet. The transports are trying to land back into the pirate carriers. Charlie One to Tango, that is a lot better hardware than usual.> Charlie One replies, and messages Tango. <Tango copies, stay out of ten kilometer spherical distance from the pirate carriers. It doesn't matter, destroy what you can and return to reinforce the orbital defense stations.> Tango replies, even if only Charlie One said about the observation, it is important for me to know it too. <Charlie One copies.> Charlie One says to what Tango said to him. <Charlie Two copies.> I reply to acknowledge the conditions. The transports are half way back to the carriers, we only have six minutes to destroy them until they are fully within the enemy defense zone. <Charlie Two, lock onto the furthest transport from us, we fire one missile together. Chain from there to third furthest transport from us. Copy?> Charlie One gives me an order of engagement. <Charlie Two copies.> I reply and, I think I have figured out his intention, we will improvise if the missile shots get trashed or hit. The transports are currently flying in formation, that is bad idea when two space fighters are on hot pursuit. I get a lock on <Charlie team, fox two.> Charlie One says and we both launch a missile at the pirate transport most furthest away from us. I get a lock on the third furthest away. <Charlie team, fox two.> I add as we launch second missile of this salvo. We are both slowly burning through munitions our space fighters carry. The transports didn't break formation. First transport explodes into pieces, missiles hit the fuel tanks. Second pair of missiles only hit the propulsions of the transport. It's dead in space now. Those look like, Haekyn G5s, they have no guns or shields. They have been made for civilian use, not military. Our weapons are pure overkill. The second transport hit by the two missiles, got very lucky. We fly past it, shooting to destroy the remaining two pirate transports. Both space transport crafts loose engines and we destroy the cockpits with few cannon shots. Those transports are now useless without very extensive repairs, that might as well be considered only worth recycling. Charlie and I, hard ascend to perform paired vertical U turn. We almost entered the pirate carrier defense zone. <Charlie One to Tango, scratch three transports and mark last dead in space.> Charlie One reports. <Tango copies. Well done Charlie Team, we are already getting reports from the orbital defense stations. They are sending their thanks and are preparing gauss cannons to fire, be lads and clear path.> Tango replies and provides us a new order. <Copy.> We reply and change course to fly out of the marked lines of fire, of the Human Alliance orbital defense stations. When the weapons fired, Charlie one and I turned enough to look right, at the pirate carriers. All four had begun to turn to run. Two of the carrier's received horrific hits, target one completely destroyed, projectiles seem to have half way penetrated the target. Target two was lucky, lost one third of propulsion only and, maybe horrific armor ship hull armor damage. Target one began to glow, reactor had gone critical, the explosion was massive. Charlie One and I change course to fly around the orbital defense stations we protected. <Charlie Team, Return To Base, situation is green.> Tango gives a new order but, with far more warmer tone. <Roger that. Charlie One out.> Charlie One complies and we change course towards Andren's Cruiser. <This is Charlie Two, following One's lead.> I reply, only now, the true scale of that destruction I witnessed and was part of hits me. Even if, they are outlaws, they are still people. Although, they did break the unspoken rules of space aviation. You either power down and don't fire your weapons to surrender, or let the other's know what the deal is. <This is Alan, Charlie One. You said that this is not the usual type of hardware space pirates use, regarding the carriers?> Alan asks through communications. <Yes sir. Captain probably knows the exact models we detected.> Charlie One replies.

Joey pawed the ground a few times, leaving streaked shoe prints behind in the dirt. Ahead of him was a well-worn path through the forest, and further ahead, a section of the gully. He looked down at his new shoes, feeling their power surge through him. It was time to test them out. He crouched, counted down in his head, then took off like a shot. The new soles gripped the ground firmly; he felt his speed increase beyond anything his old shoes could have done. The edge of the gully rushed up to him; at the last moment, he jumped into the air, pinwheeling his limbs as he soared over the chasm. The darkness yawned beneath him; he felt a slight twinge of panic. Had he gone too far this time? Were his new shoes everything he had hoped for? He pushed his nagging doubts aside and focused on his jump. Slam! He finally made contact with the ground, landing on the uppermost slope of the gully; it was only a few feet to flat ground. A couple steps later, he was on the other side! Joey turned around to take in the full effect of his accomplishment. A triumphant yelp escaped from his throat; he had never jumped so far in his life! He looked down at his shoes, the thick leather straps swarming over the breathable mesh interior, looking like the muscles of an ancient gladiator. The olive color used throughout made them look like real Army shoes; the only way they could be cooler was if they were camouflage. His face beamed as he took a few deep breaths; everything was different now. "Nice jump," he heard someone say. Joey whirled around to see his friend, her eyes glowing with warmth. Her beaming smile seemed to shoot right through him. Joey swallowed before taking another breath. "Hi, Molly," he finally managed to say. "I didn't see you there." "Of course you didn't," Molly declared, her smile turning cryptic. She looked down at his feet. "New shoes?" "The best!" he exulted, twisting his body to model them. "These are Merrill Taos hiking shoes, with authentic Tekram soles, tactical nylon shoelaces..." "OK, OK," Molly protested. "I don't need to hear all the 'boy' details. They're neat shoes; I get it." "Sorry," he laughed. "I just got them for Christmas; I'm still excited about them. Did you get anything cool?" "Couldn't you tell?" She struck a dynamic pose, centered around her torso. Joey blinked. "Oh! That's a new pullover, isn't it?" "Not just *any* pullover!" she gushed, reaching behind her head. His eyes lit up. "It's a hoodie! You've always wanted one of those!" "It's not just *any* hoodie," she revealed. "Watch this." With a single fluid move, she flipped the hood over her head, nearly vanishing from view. "Now I get it!" he laughed. "No wonder I didn't see you coming!" "That's not all," she hinted. She pulled a pair of sunglasses from her hoodie's kangaroo pocket. Quickly donning them, she pulled the drawstrings on her hood tight, then tucked her hands into her pocket. Joey gaped. "You vanished completely!" He peered intently, but could only discern a faint shimmering in the air. Molly pulled her hands out, dropped her hood, and removed her sunglasses, completely visible again. "Looks like we both had a great Christmas!" he beamed. She looked down shyly, twisting one foot into the dirt. "Uh huh." Excitement swelled within Joey. He and Molly had known each other since before they started kindergarten, and had always gotten along really well. Would they continue to do so as they got older? Joey could only hope. "Your shoes are stupid," he heard a voice say. Joey looked around frantically, finally spotting an older boy some distance away, standing on top of a large boulder, smirking at both of them. Joey and Molly exchanged nonplussed glances. "Eric," Joey growled. Eric jumped down from the boulder and swaggered toward them. Joey and Molly looked at his shoes with growing discomfort. "That's right," Eric gloated. "Your eyes are *not* playing tricks. Check out *my* Christmas present!" With each step, lights in the heels of his white high-tops flashed. Eric strutted back and forth in front of them; Joey's face twisted into a frown as he felt himself burn inside. "My shoes totally dominate yours," Eric sneered. "Anything they can do, mine can do better!" "So what if your rich parents can afford better shoes?" Molly snapped. Eric stopped pacing and took a long look at Molly. As Eric sidled up to her, a mocking grin on his face, Joey felt like he was ready to boil over. "Well, *hello*, Molly," Eric oozed. "Aren't *you* growing up to be a lovely young lady." "Get lost, creep," Molly seethed. Eric reached for her; she slapped his hand away. Eric feigned surprise, then leered again. "Mmmm...I like 'em feisty!" Molly turned away from him, disgusted and unnerved. "Stop that *now*!" Joey shrieked. Eric turned to glare at Joey; Molly looked worried. "Oh, you *like* her, do you?" Eric mocked. Joey could feel his skin burn; Molly looked down demurely. Eric got uncomfortably close to Joey, almost pushing him over. "How about we settle this with a little contest? Perhaps a race through the Curse?" That was the name the neighborhood kids gave to their obstacle course, running through a small portion of the forested forty-acre parcel between their subdivision and the next one. It started with a few loops over creeks and fallen logs, but had grown over time, sporting improvised fences and hidden traps. These days, it was no mere obstacle course; they had taken to calling it the Curse. "It won't be a fair race!" Joey protested. "Just because your parents can buy you fancier shoes!" "I don't think you have a choice," Eric insinuated. "At least, if you like Molly. Because the winner gets the hand of the fair maiden." Molly made a disgusted snort. "I'm not going to stick around and be treated like some sort of *trophy*," she huffed before turning to leave. As she did, she caught Joey's eye, and flashed him a subtle wink. Joey froze; what did she mean by that? And had Eric seen it? He continued to smirk at Joey, his gaze unchanged. Perhaps he hadn't noticed. "Well?" Eric snarled. "Are you down?" "She doesn't like you, you know," Joey shot back. "And you can't make her like you." "Oh, Joey," Eric chided as he put his hand on Joey's shoulder. "Sweet, innocent Joey." Before Joey could squirm away, Eric pulled back. "You're only twelve; you don't know the ins and outs of romance the way I do. One day, when you're fourteen like me, you'll realize that women respond to certain social cues. They prefer tall, rich, older men." He shook his head. "Do you see what I mean? You just can't compete." "We'll see who can't compete," Joey snapped. "I accept your terms." Eric chuckled. "Really? You think you have a chance?" "She'll never like you," Joey vowed. Eric put his hands up. "Hey, no one can control how women think. That's something else you'll learn when you're my age. So here's the deal. If I win, you have to stand aside and let me have my chance. If you win, I'll leave her alone." Joey was surprised by how intensely he was willing to defend Molly's honor. "Deal." Eric clicked his tongue as he shook his head. "You're in for the biggest humiliation of your life." "Let's just settle this on the Curse." Joey looked around. "Should we walk to the start of it?" Eric's lips curled into a haughty sneer. "Let's race to it from here! Ready?" Eric crouched down into a runner's starting position. "Fine." Joey crouched too. He fingered his new gloves in his pocket, making sure they were still there. He didn't get a chance to show them to Molly; they were real woodsman's gloves, with leather running over a polyester sleeve. They kept his hands warm and should give him the traction he needed for positively superhuman abilities. He was confident they would let him climb like Spiderman. "On 'go'," Eric commanded. "3...2...1...*go!*" They both took off running. Joey thrilled as he found himself keeping pace with Eric. He glared at Joey, then abruptly, he pulled ahead as his shoes flashed more rapidly than before. Joey felt his heart sink as he pushed himself harder. It was a clear path to the start of the Curse, now looming before them. Joey could hardly contain his anguish as he felt his effort to protect Molly crumbling before his eyes. Without warning, Eric stumbled and fell, face-planting at full speed, crying in pain. A grin spread across Joey's face as he passed Eric. "You should look where you're going!" Joey called out as he sprinted past his fallen foe. "That's not fair!" Eric whined. He looked around wildly. "What did I even trip on?" He pulled himself to his feet and took off toward Joey, straining to close the gap. Joey reached the first obstacle, a wall made from logs. It was one of the first added by the neighborhood kids, years ago. For Joey, it had always been there. He leaped onto it and quickly scrambled over. He could hear Eric's footsteps behind him; there was no need to look. After a short straightaway, the next part involved jumping the gully; that was the name they gave to the deepest, widest creek in the forest. He swelled with confidence as he neared the edge; with a mighty leap, he pinwheeled his limbs, sailing over the gap and landing on the other side, well past the slope. His heart fell a few seconds later as he heard Eric land. He was catching up! Joey bolted around the U-turn and to the next obstacle, which ran under a simple plywood deck. The crawling hazard wasn't safe during the summer; it tended to attract snakes and spiders. Fortunately, it was winter. Feeling like a real Army man, Joey dove toward the opening, impacting roughly on the dirt. With all the speed he could muster, he flailed his limbs to propel himself forward, counting off the support beams as he passed them. His face broke out into a smile as he passed the fifth one, seeing daylight ahead of him. Joey emerged from the hole and sprinted away, brushing himself off without missing a step. He heard Eric emerge from beneath the deck; he was right on Joey's heels! A thick patch of brush was next; Joey knew it well. Although it grew back quickly, some parts were naturally thinner than others, and he knew how to weave through it. Eric was close on his heels; if he followed Joey's path, the advantage would be lost! Joey entered the thicket and dodged occasionally from side to side, hoping to convince Eric to do likewise. But Eric plowed through a different area, making better time than Joey had expected. Joey stopped his attempt at deception and focused on breaking free of the brambles. Joey heard Eric cry out in pain, followed by a clumsy-sounding tumble. He didn't dare turn around, choosing instead to watch for thin parts in the brush. "What the heck?" Eric complained. "That branch came out of nowhere!" "I can't hear you!" Joey laughed as he finally burst out of the tangle. "You're too far away!" He rounded the next U-turn and toward the balance beam, jumping up to the platform with only a few steps. This challenge made good use of his new shoes. Switching to a side-stepping gait, he crossed the beam quickly, focusing on the aged wood, not the overgrown creek below. The beam shook unexpectedly; Eric had arrived! Based on the way he made the beam bounce, he had also chosen to side-step. Joey felt panic rise in his throat as it seemed Eric was getting closer. The end of the beam was only a few steps away; Joey knew he couldn't slip up now. But just as he was about to jump to the end, Eric body-checked him from behind, sending him flying. Joey watched the platform's rough surface rush up to him. Remembering his years of practice, and the Army movies he loved so much, he tucked his head down and curled into a ball. He hit the platform hard, but rolled instead of coming to a stop. He continued at full speed as the platform sloped away, weathering rough impacts on his knees and back. Despite the deft maneuver, he could hear Eric run past him. Finally, Joey hit the ground and sprung to his feet. He silently thanked his quick thinking and years of experience. He was less happy to note that Eric had increased the distance between them as they both rounded the next U-turn. The rope swing was next. It was just a few old twine ropes tied to a tree branch, swinging over a shallow part of a creek, but the distance couldn't be achieved with a single jump. One had to throw their weight, increasing the sweep of the curve until it was safe to dismount. Joey realized that was the least of his problems as he glumly watched Eric pull ahead of him, reaching the rope swing several seconds early. Joey reached into his pocket and pulled out his gloves. Running made that more difficult, but he didn't dare slow down now. He managed to slip them on just a moment before reaching the rope. Eric was already swaying wildly, gloating as he watched Joey only beginning to swing. Joey's gloves gripped the rope tightly; he needed every advantage he could get. He threw his weight expertly, gaining distance faster than he expected. Two more swings and he could probably jump! But Eric had reached his apogee, and flung himself from the rope, landing just below the flat ground. Suddenly, his body twisted as he lost his footing and fell backwards. "Stupid branch!" he roared as a short log tumbled from his landing spot and down toward the creek. He quickly picked himself up and scrambled up the hill just as Joey attempted his dismount. He landed closer to the flat ground, but Eric was still a few seconds ahead of him. They approached an improvised bridge over a small creek; both crossed it easily. One day, they hoped to install some monkey bars here, to make it like a real Army challenge, but that was well out of the nonexistent budget of the neighborhood kids, and no kindly benefactor had shown up with a set. Still, something to dream about. Joey was sure his gloves would have helped him cross monkey bars much faster than Eric could. The last obstacle loomed before them. A flat wall, constructed from two-by-fours and held up by four-by-fours concreted into the ground, rose ten feet in the air. It had been put up last spring, to use up the leftover materials from someone's backyard deck project. The kids had been trying to crack the puzzle ever since. The most popular method was to leap as high as one could, grab onto one of the four-by-four posts, and try to shimmy the rest of the height. That took good shoes and strong fingers, and maybe even proper gloves. Joey was sure he would clear it with little effort. But Eric was so far ahead of him. What could he do? Eric launched himself at the wall and tried to clamp his hands onto a post. The force of his collision made the wall flex; Joey's heart soared as he watched Eric get thrown to the ground. He made another leap for a post just before Joey arrived, who sprung into the air and attached himself to a different post. His gloves clung to the wood as if he was Spiderman; he thrilled at the strength of his grip. Both of them climbed upwards. It all came down to this! Eric suddenly faltered. "What the–!" he cried. Joey dared to look down for an instant; Eric's right shoe had come off! Inexplicably, it landed neatly on the ground, not bouncing. For a split second, Joey saw a hand dart away, quickly disappearing from sight. He smiled; Molly had played a dirty trick at the last second! As Eric continued to wail, Joey expertly ratcheted up the wall, and in another deft demonstration of a real Army man move, he flung his legs upward, launching them over the wall, then landed on the other side. It was only a dozen or so steps from there to a rounded clearing they had dubbed the "winner's circle". He sprinted to the circle, jumping at the last second to land inside of it. "Winner!" he exclaimed. Eric, huffing and puffing, emerged from the side of the wall. He glared sullenly at Joey, then sat down to unlace his shoe. Without warning, Molly's face appeared before Joey. The rest of her was suddenly revealed as she flung back her hood. "You did it!" she gushed before hugging Joey. He gratefully returned the hug. They stood together for several moments. Molly locked eyes with Joey. "I knew you wouldn't let me down." Joey smiled. "I could never let you down." Molly's face turned red; she released the hug and looked down demurely. Joey swallowed hard. "Hey!" Eric shouted as he finished tying his shoe.. "Where did *you* come from?" Molly looked coy. "Oh, I've been...around." Eric's eyes grew wide. "Wait! You've been sabotaging me the whole time! Haven't you? *Haven't you?*" Molly smirked. "You'll never know." "That wasn't fair!" he bleated. "Best two out of three!" "There's no point," Molly chided. "You don't have a chance. Women don't like crybabies. Didn't you know that?" "He'll understand when he gets older," Joey cracked. They shared a laugh. "I *know* you cheated," Eric seethed. "I'll get you for this." "I didn't need to cheat," Joey pointed out. "Look how dirty your shoes are! What were you thinking, wearing white shoes in the forest? Everyone knows that, the dirtier they get, the worse they work!" He presented his right shoe, covered with dirt and debris. "While mine just work better and better!" He glanced at Molly as he showed his left shoe. "Natural forest colors, you see." "Just brilliant!" Molly gushed. "You really did get the best Christmas present." Joey locked eyes with Molly again. "I really did." Molly brushed some debris off his shoulder. "I think the big winner deserves a prize. Want to come to my house for some homemade fudge?" Joey smiled broadly. "That sounds great." Without another word, Joey and Molly walked away, leaving Eric leaning against the wall. A small tear escaped and ran down his cheek. He wiped it away quickly. "I'm not crying," he said to no one in particular. "There's something in my eye.

“It is an indisputable fact that all beings with free will come into this world screaming. Yet the peace and silence of death are seldom welcomed; it is the fear I imagine. But even I will still welcome the abyss with open arms when it comes for me.” I said. “But aren’t you God?” The man in front of me pointed out, his form shimmering and silver, “Couldn’t you just… Wave it all away? Why is death necessary or inevitable?” “When this Universe came into being, there were only great stars of incredible size.” I explained, “The only real substance of any note in all of creation was hydrogen gas. With each cycle of fusion, however, hydrogen assumed new forms; helium, carbon, and finally iron. Then those stars detonated and breathed variety into the universe. From those elements formed the requisite material for solar systems, then life. From life came sapience, and from sapience, civilization. Should I grant permanence to all, nothing would ever change. All that would still be here are great balls of fire, a simple magnificence without complexity and ultimately without beauty once understood.” The man sighed as he bit back tears, then looked out into the unfathomable, starlit void that was the realm as he’d known it. “But… Why did you have to take her from me? Why let evil like death haunt us all when you could do something about it? I still don’t understand.” “Again… Death is the product of time. To take away one is to take away the other, and that’s hardly an outcome anyone wants…” He looked ready to cry, if he were still physical he might’ve. He sniffled instead, “Tell me why she died before me then? Why she was taken from me when she never did anything wrong...” He looked down at his glimmering body and the stars of the unlit void below. I shrugged and explained, “Just because I make the rules doesn’t mean I determine the outcome of the game. If I had to change the rules every time something unfair happened, would she or you have existed at all? What about all the other countless experiences you’d be depriving others of if I stepped in? Leaving things to fate is more fair.” “So is that it then?” He asked me, his voice harsh and deep. “You’re just evil?” “Perhaps I am. Are the clouds evil for not raining in the desert? Or are they simply not capable of it?” The man thought about this for some time. “So you’re… Not able?” “I did say I will accept the end, didn’t I? It’s impossible to exist in a universe where every action must accompany a reaction, and not obey that law. That's just on top of all the other reasons.” “I guess you’re right about that…” I patted him on the shoulder and gave him a friendly smile. The man pouted, before he admitted, “It’s just… Hard to think about, not existing, not even feeling the feeling of feeling non-existence.” I chuckled, “No one can, you think of everything through your experience. Even your sleep is filled with a false reality. I do not blame you.” I peeled back a corner of the universe to reveal an opalescent window to the end of all things. As I felt my form dissolving into nebulous gasses, I waved farewell. “Feel free to go when you’re ready. Consider it a gift.” And I moved on to the next person. He stood there for a good long while, just staring into the great beyond, the pocket of reality that would end him. He looked up into the near-boundless heavens and whispered. “I’m coming home, Ellie.” He walked through and disappeared.

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

“Achilles.” I call to him standing right at the threshold of his tent, not quite coming inside, but letting the outside in with me. I want to force him to hear the screams that I have had to endure the entire day. Multiple days, even. He looks up, still absentmindedly plucking the strings of his lyre. “Ah, Patroklos, I have been wondering when you would come.” He smiles, the same sweet smile he uses when he tries to get his way with someone, whether it is with slave girls or army generals. It will not work on me. “I have not seen you in a few days. Where have you been?” He turns his attention back to the lyre, tuning already tuned strings, not even waiting for my answer. His laid-back attitude forms such a big contrast with the events going on outside, it almost makes me want to tear that lyre out of his hands and drag him into the sands outside by his hair, but I manage to control myself. “Our men are dying”, I say, ignoring his attempt at conversation like he has been ignoring the war. He looks up again, with feigned shock on his face. “*Our* men? That can not be true. Did I not instruct them to stay in our camp?” He flashes another innocent smile, signalling that he knows very well what I meant. “Not *our* men, but…” I struggle to find the right words, the ones that he will not immediately reject, like the multiple peace offers he has rejected in the last few days. “Other Greeks. *Fellow* Greeks. They are dying and they need our help. Your help.” “Well, they are not my men, so that is not really my problem, is it? It sounds like you should complain to their own generals about it, not to me. Or maybe to Agamemnon. Yes, if you feel so strongly about those men, you should tell Agamemnon about it. It is all his fault, after all.” He spits out the name of our general like it is the name of a deadly disease. It might as well have been. Agamemnon has caused more death and suffering in the Greek camp than all diseases combined. Just not this time. “You of all people should know that is not true.” I struggle to contain my anger, wanting to beat some sense into him. I am not dressed for battle, but even with my bare hands I could hurt him. The only problem is that he could hurt me more. “No.” The harshness of his voice does not seem to fit his relaxed expression. “You are wrong. It is his fault. All of it.” He puts down the lyre and leans lazily against the side of the tent. “Gods”, he whispers, brushing his golden curls away from his eyes. When he is out of armour, behaving like a teenager trying to seduce a lover, it is hard to imagine him as the killing machine that he is. “I am *so* tired of this conversation. Do you have anything fun to say, or are you just going to complain the whole time?” “The Trojans are at the camp.” I can see a slight shift in his body language, his muscles tensing for a moment, before he forces them to relax again. I should have said that earlier. “They have breached the walls and are killing Greeks like bugs.” He opens his mouth to object, but I just raise my voice and keep going. “And even if you do not care about the other Greeks, the Trojans will be on this side of the camp soon enough and they will kill *your* men too. Your men, who are not ready for battle, because you will not let them fight. They will be slaughtered.” I pause to let him say something now, but he stays quiet. “They are burning the ships. Even if we manage to survive this day, there will be no way for us to get home. We – *you­* need to act now, before it is too late. Before everyone is dead, including you!” I can see that struck a nerve. He is just as mortal as everyone else and he is just as much aware of it as them, if not more, since he knows he will not leave the grounds of Troy alive. He crosses the length of the tent before I can even see him get up – swift-footed Achilles – and stands before me, his dark eyes staring into mine. His angry expression matches the one of the monster he becomes on the battlefield. “I will not fight for them”, he says, accentuating every syllable. “This is their punishment for dishonouring me. They will have to suffer, so they will know the mistake they have made.” “When will they have been punished enough? When they are all dead?” I have to fight the urge to step away from. He is not much taller than me, not even broader, but his godly aura reminds me of his strength. “They took my honour away from me and I am simply taking it back”, he says through gritted teeth. I am afraid that he will be the first to attack if I do not leave him right now. I am reminded of when we were boys, laughing together and dreaming of when we would be warriors. I would never have been scared of him then. I still do not step back. “What honour will be left for you after this battle, after our men will have died? Troy will still stand and Helena will still be inside. There will be no stories to tell, no one alive to even tell stories, no honour, no glory!” I did not notice that I started yelling, until I hear the crowd that has gathered behind us. When I look back, they scatter. “And those that do survive, the ones that make it back home, do you think they will praise you? No, they will hate you, they will curse your name for letting their fellow men get slaughtered like pigs! They will hate you!” I pause to take a breath, to stop my hands from shaking with rage, when I see he has taken a step away from me. “And for what?” I continue, more calmly now. “A girl? Honour? Are all these lives really worth less than your honour?” He is looking at the ground, avoiding my eyes. “I will not fight”, he says quietly. “No matter what.” His stubbornness had always been a problem, but what used to be an annoying trait of a sweet boy, will now be the death of him. And of a lot of other people too. “Then at least let your men go. Let me go.” A plan occurs to me while I am speaking, the words coming out before I can think them over. “I will go. With your armour. I will go with your armour, so everyone will think I am you. Our men can fight again, the Trojans will flee for just your appearance, and you will not have to do anything. You can save lives by doing nothing. Just let me go.” “No”, he answers immediately, not even taking a moment to think about it. “It does not matter whether it is you or me, if they thinks it is me, it will have the same effect. They will think I relented.” “And they will praise you for it! You can tell Agamemnon the truth, if you want, so he will not think you gave up your feud. We can tell all the men the truth tomorrow, even, if that makes you feel better. Right now, it is not about Agamemnon, or about honour, but about lives. Human lives!” I can see his defences cracking. He is about to give in, but I am not done with him yet. There is a rage inside me that has been building ever since this strike of his has begun, or maybe even longer than that, and right now it cannot be contained anymore. “For once, just for once in your life, can you care about anyone other than yourself? Or will you die holding on to grudges no one else cares about?” “Fine”, he snarls. “Fine, you can go.” I broke him. He turns around, his hands shaking with what is probably rage, but I hope it is fear. “Call the men. You will leave as soon as possible.” \~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~ He insisted on helping me put the armour on, even though he clearly does not want to be close to me right now. I let him without complaining, even when he squeezes my arm or pulls the buckles too tight. I can not afford to anger him right now. He does not say a word the whole time, and neither do I. When everything has been fastened as it should, he picks up the helmet, the most important part of my disguise. Most men would not be able to pick me out of a crowd without looking closely, but Achilles is always recognizable by his beautiful blond hair. If even a hair of my own dark locks would be visible under that helmet, my cover would be shattered and the Trojans would know that whoever it is they are fighting, it is not Achilles. They will fight with more courage when they are not afraid of his godly strength, and, unlike him, I can not take on the entire Trojan army on my own. His hands brush away the stray hairs on my forehead, gently, like they have already forgotten the rage that made them squeeze my arms just now. I am reminded again of when we were just kids, when he had made it a game to mess up my hair when I was not paying attention and laugh at how ridiculous I looked. Then he would fix it again, carefully detangling the strands by hands, because he knew I did not like to look bad when he always looked perfect. I never managed to get him back. He always caught me before I could get close. He fits the helmet over my head, pulling me out of my memory. “Do not take this off”, he says, the first words he has said since giving me his permission. I nod and the helmet slides forward a bit, slightly too big for my head. He sighs, annoyed, and puts it right again, together with the few hairs that had fallen out. I try to catch his eyes, but he purposefully looks away. He checks the rest of the armour one more time, retying something that has gotten loose, less tightly this time, before he turns away from me again. I take this as permission to leave, so I start to walk away to join our men outside the tent. “Patroklos.” He pulls me back, his fingers curled tightly around my arm. I can feel them trembling against my skin. He finally meets my eyes and I can see my own reflection in his dark eyes. I do really look like him. “Do not dishonour me”, he says. It feels like such a ridiculous thing to say in this situation that I almost laugh. Instead I just smile, in the same way he always would. “You do not need me to do that for you.” I pull my arm away and he lets me go. \~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~ The battlefield is louder than usual. The sounds of battle are now mixed with the sounds of the camp, the cries of livestock mingling with the screams of men. I can see fire in the distance, our only way out of Troy burning up. Our men are trying to save as much of the ships as they can, but when they also have to battle Trojans at the same time, it is harder to focus on the burning wood. Automedon urges the horses to go as fast as they can, making the wheels of the chariot carve deep tracks into the sand of the beach. The men follow behind us, eager for battle. It takes me a while to hear what they are chanting, when I realise it is his name. *Achilles, Achilles*, the steady beat that guides us forward. We did not tell them of our plan, they have to believe I am him for it to work. They will fight twice as hard if they believe it is their godly general leading them in battle. We pass empty tents and abandoned meals, with bodies laying motionless between them. The Greeks who were stationed here must have been able to push the Trojans back far enough, to the heart of the camp, where reinforcements were waiting for them. Or maybe they are all dead. The number of bodies does indicate that. “Almost there”, Automedon says, skilfully dodging the corpses, even at this speed. He does know of my true identity, because he would see the difference between Achilles and me, even with the helmet. He sees Achilles up close every day, standing next to him on the chariot, and I would not be able to fool him with my face and my voice, but he is trustworthy, he would not betray me, not even on accident. We are getting close to the battle, where the Trojans are pushing the Greeks far back into the sea. There are not that many of them, and we have fought far greater troops of the Trojan army, but the element of surprise was their strongest ally. They caught us off guard, unarmed and unprepared, and now that the battle has been going on long enough for the Greeks to catch up, the added chaos of the burning ships feeds the Trojan victory. The first soldiers spot us – I can not see whether they are Greek or Trojan – and they start to run. Now that I know for certain they are enemies, I take up a spear and hurl it in their direction. I am not used to fighting from a chariot, since that honour only comes to generals, like Achilles, but the spear hits its target perfectly. The Trojan soldier falls dead in the sand. *Achilles! It’s Achilles!* I can hear the Trojans shout in fear, while the Greeks shout with excitement in response. The enemies flee for my appearance, they flee for the fighter they think I am. I am almost disappointed; that first kill felt good, and I want to see how many more I can kill before they see through my disguise. I do not have his godly gifts, his speed or strength or accuracy, so I can only miss so many times before they must realise I am not him, but I do not care. He is not here to stop me. He said not to dishonour him. Well, what could bring more honour than killing Trojans? \~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~ The midday heat is beating down on us, making the smell of blood and dead bodies worse, almost unbearable. I will not let it stop me. My arms are covered in slick blood – someone else’s – making it hard to hold a spear without it slipping out of my hand. I drag my hands across the coarse sands of Troy and get ready to fight again. I have lost count of how many men I have killed today, but it feels like more than I have ever killed in the last nine years of war. They stay away from me now, afraid of the great Achilles. I want them to come closer, so I can look them in the eyes as my blade stops their heartbeat. I have lost count of how many men I have killed, but I want *more.* We managed to drive the Trojans out of the Greek camp, back to their city with its great walls. Most of them are in there now, hiding like cowards. I want scale those walls and kill them off one by one. One life for every man they took from us and then the rest of them too, as interest. I have gotten separated from Automedon a while ago and I can not see him anywhere on the battlefield anymore. It does not matter anyway. I can walk to Troy by myself, I do not need his godly horses to carry me. This way, I can kill any Trojan that dares to cross my path. The rest of the Greek army is still behind me, but they do not follow me to Troy. They start to retreat to camp, to tend their wounds and rebuild their tents. They must be cowards, like the Trojans. Hiding when the city is ours for taking. I continue to walk towards the great walls, ready to take this city on my own. \~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~ The walls are higher than I thought from far away and I have never been good at climbing. Now that I have not met a Trojan I could kill in a while, the arrogance that came with being a cold-blooded war machine – that came with being *Achilles­* – slowly drains from my body, leaving room for me to think. I can not take these walls on my own. There are still other Greeks with me on the battlefield, engaging in combat with the last few stubborn Trojans, but they are tired. And so am I. I start to retreat. I will not run, because then they will know I am not swift-footed Achilles, but I walk, slowly, with purpose, still ready to fight. I will join my fellow Greeks who are still battling for their lives, join them so it will not look like I am running away from battle. Achilles would kill me if I made the Trojan think he had ran. Then, when all the leftover Trojans are dead, we can retreat together. We will take Troy another day. It can not stand for much longer. “Achilles!” A loud voice calls out across the plane, accompanied by the grinding of wheels on the sand. I look up, trying to find the source of the voice. I only realise when I see the chariot coming right at me that he was calling to me. “Do you really think you can run from me?” Hektor yells, stopping his horses only a short distance away from me. He leaps from the chariot, sword and shield in hand. “Today you will pay for all the lives you have taken!” He still shouts, even though he is close enough for me to hear. He looks up at the walls of Troy and when I follow his gaze, I see the people of Troy standing there, waiting to see their best fighter kill the one who has brought them so much pain. The best of Trojans against the best of Greeks. I will not give them the fight they want to see, but I can give them something worth remembering. I do not say a word, afraid he will not fight me when he hears the wrong voice, but I draw my sword and get ready to fight. To kill. \~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~ The blood gushes over my arms, splashes of it covering what little of my face is visible. The rush of the fight ebbs away now that it is almost over. Just one more push and another life will be taken to the Underworld. It had not been an easy fight. I had been tired, while Hektor, who had not been fighting with the Trojans at the camp, still had the energy to kill, but I still fought, longer than I thought was possible, until one of us fell. Hektor looks at me with dark, pleading eyes. “Please”, he says, blood rushing out of his mouth with every breath. “Please, give my body back to my family.” He looks so miserable; I almost feel sorry for him. He is my enemy, he has killed many of my men, he does not deserve mercy, but I can at least give him the one thing he asks for. “Why would I not?” I whisper, not wanting the people on the wall to hear me. “You have fought well, Hektor, and you died with honour. Your family should be proud.” I give a final push to my sword, pushing it deeper into his stomach, in the gap between his armour. I look into his eyes as the lights go out, smiling gently, not because I enjoy seeing him die, but because I want him to know he does not die alone. His body goes limp. I get up and pull my sword out of his body, unsure of what to do now. I decide to close his eyes and move away from the body, so that his family can come get it, like I promised. I do not take his armour, although it would have been expected for me to do. He was a great warrior; he deserves to carry his armour to the grave. I can hear the wailing coming from the Trojan walls and when I look, I can see the shock on their face even from the distance. One woman tries to throw herself of the wall, fighting back against the ones who hold her back. His widow, perhaps, or his mother. I feel bad for her, since she has done nothing to me or the Greeks to deserve this pain, but Hektor did deserve to die, so there is nothing that I could have done to spare her. I wonder if there is anyone who would react like that if I had been the one to die. Behind me, the Greek army erupts in cheers. I had not noticed they were there, gathered to watch my battle with Hektor. Automedon is with them, waiting till I give him the signal to come get me, and we will ride victorious back into the camp, where I will be received as a hero. No. Not *I.* *Achilles*. I can hear their chants, the same as before. *Achilles, Achilles.* I have been fighting in his name, killing in his name, but this victory should be mine. I did all the work, while he just sat back and watched our men get killed. He does not deserve this honour. “No!” I yell, unsure if they can hear me over all the shouts. “I am not Achilles!” I pull the helmet off my head, revealing my dark hair. The shouts die out and everything goes quiet, so quiet I can hear the gasps coming from the Trojans on the wall. I turn around to face them. “I am Patroklos, son of Menoitios, and *I* am the one who killed Hektor! Remember my name!” The Greeks cheer again. They do not care whether it is me of Achilles who killed Hektor, as long as somebody did it. Automedon comes to pick me up with the chariot, but when I get on, he has to support me, so I do not fall down. I am tired, so tired, but I have to keep standing for a little bit longer, while the Greek army sings my praises. They started chanting my name now. *Patroklos, Patroklos.* Best of Greeks. \~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~ “Hektor is dead”, I say, as I pull open the tent and throw the helmet at his feet. Achilles freezes, while the slave girl he is holding in his arms – Daïda, a young girl who has been spending most of her time at camp in Achilles’ tent – frantically attempts to cover herself. Even though he made such a big deal out of Briseïs being taken, she never was his favourite. “Leave”, he snarls at her and she obeys, running out of the tent while clutching her torn dress to her chest. When she passes me, I can see that she is crying. “What did you say?” He slowly gets up but does not turn to look at me. “Hektor is dead”, I repeat, louder this time. “How?” He still does not face me. “That is impossible. I am the only one who is able to kill him.” There is a quiver to the edge of his voice, barely audible, betraying his uncertainty. Or his fear. “I killed him”, I say, the words filling me with pride. The knife is against my throat before I can even see him move. “You?” He laughs mockingly. “*You* killed him? You are lying! You are not capable of that. No one is. Only I am!” I can feel the sharp blade against the skin of my neck, not yet hurting me, but ready to end my life if he wishes to. “Whether you believe me or not, he is dead anyway. You can ask the men, or anyone else. They all saw his body and they saw me kill him. You can ask them, and they will tell you I am telling the truth.” “No!” He pushes the knife down with more force, a small cut appearing on my neck. I do not move away while the blood trickles down. After all the fighting I have endured today, a cut like this feels like nothing. “Do you really wish to kill me, Achilles?” I ask calmly. I see the rage burning in his eyes, a madness that would have been useful on the battlefield today. “Do you not realise what would happen to you if you kill me?” I gesture to the world outside, where our men are celebrating the death of their fiercest enemy. “I saved their lives today. I killed Hektor for them, something you would not do for the past nine years. I am their hero. They already dislike you, do you want them to hate you? They might even kill you. Is that what you want to achieve, Achilles?” He moves the knife away from me, stumbling a few steps backwards. He is crying, large tears rolling down his face while he chokes on his own breath. He used to cry a lot when we were boys, every time he would get hurt or disappointed, but he got used to feeling pain quicker than I would have liked, and tears were now reserved for the occasions when hurting someone else would not work. He hesitates, his whole body shaking, before he jumps forward again. I instinctively block whatever attack it is he will throw at me, but he just holds out the knife, the handle ready for me to grab, the blade pointed right at his heart. “Then kill me”, he says. “Kill me yourself, so they will not have to do it.” His eyes do not meet mine, but I can see his entire soul displayed in them. They remind me of Hektor’s, right before he died. There is nothing left of the fierce warrior he once was, no confidence or fearlessness or pride, only sadness. When I do not accept the knife, he forces the handle into my hand and guides the blade up to his neck. “Kill me. I want you to do it. I will die soon anyway. It does not matter whether it happens now or later.” His hands keep mine fixed in place, with the knife pointed at his neck, his frantic eyes looking for any sign of agreement on my face. “There is nothing left for me. No honour, no title, no enemies to fight. You have taken it all away from me! I am useless!” He yells the words, jerking my hands closer to his throat. “I am useless now. I do not deserve to live any longer.” He has stopped crying, the tears run dry. In their place is a pleading look, the same one Hektor used when he asked me to return his body. “Please.” “No.” I pull my hand free from his, surprisingly easily, and let the knife drop to the ground. “I will not kill you. Not now.” He does not resist when I pull his trembling body close to me in a tight embrace, afraid he will collapse if I let him stand on his own any longer. “You are not useless. You are Achilles, son of Peleus and a goddess, best of Greeks and best of men. You made a mistake, but you can make it right again. I will help you. You can be better.” I can feel his head nod against my shoulder, his golden hair stained by the blood from the cut on my neck. “There are still many more Trojans to kill. We will take the city together and with it, you will regain your honour. You will die in fierce battle, like you are supposed to, not in this tent by my hand.” He pulls away from me, wiping the last of the tears off his face. “I will fight tomorrow”, he says, determination in his voice. “I will show Agamemnon what he lost when he insulted me, and he will have no choice other than honour me like he should.” I smile. “*We* will fight tomorrow. Together.” “Together.

Joanne Kathleen Rowling stood on the red carpet, cameras flashing all around her. The premiere of "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - Part 2" was in full swing, marking the end of a cinematic era that had captivated the world for a decade. "Ms. Rowling! How does it feel to have created a global phenomenon?" a reporter shouted over the din. Joanne smiled, her designer gown glittering under the lights. "It's beyond anything I could have imagined when I first wrote about a boy wizard on that delayed train," she replied, her voice filled with wonder and gratitude. Later, at the after-party, she found herself surrounded by the young actors who had brought her characters to life. Daniel Radcliffe raised a glass in her direction. "To Jo," he said, his voice carrying across the room. "The woman who changed all our lives." The room erupted in cheers. Joanne felt tears prick her eyes as she looked around at the sea of faces - actors, crew members, publishing executives, and fans - all united by the world she had created. As the night wore on, she overheard snippets of conversation that made her heart swell: "The books got my kid to love reading..." "Hogwarts was my escape during a really tough time..." "I met my best friends in a Potter fan club..." Joanne closed her eyes, savoring the moment. This was everything she had ever dreamed of and more. She opened her eyes. And found herself staring at the water-stained ceiling of her dingy flat. The dream faded, reality crashing down like a bucket of ice water. There was no red carpet, no adoring fans, no Daniel Radcliffe toasting her success. There was only the harsh light of a London morning in 2024, filtering through cheap curtains. Joanne groaned, rolling over to silence her blaring alarm. Another day, another rejection to face. She'd held onto the Harry Potter manuscript for years, tinkering and refining, always finding excuses not to send it out. But the publishing landscape of 2024 was a far cry from the 1990s world where she had first conceived her boy wizard. She shuffled to her laptop, bracing herself for the day's email. There it was, sitting in her inbox like a ticking time bomb: "Dear Ms. Rowling, Thank you for submitting 'Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone' to Pinnacle Publishing. While we appreciate the effort that went into your work, we regret to inform you that it does not meet our current needs. The young adult fantasy market is oversaturated, and we find your premise derivative of existing properties. Moreover, we have concerns about the lack of diversity in your main cast and the problematic implications of a 'chosen one' narrative in today's sociopolitical climate. Additionally, our focus groups showed little interest in a lengthy series aimed at children. Today's young readers prefer shorter, more easily digestible content that integrates with their digital lives. We wish you the best in your future endeavors. Sincerely, Pinnacle Publishing" Joanne stared at the screen, feeling something irrevocably break inside her. This was it. The final rejection. The last nail in the coffin of her dreams. She thought about Harry, Ron, and Hermione - the characters who had lived in her head for so long. She thought about Hogwarts, and all the magic she had hoped to share with the world. It all seemed so pointless now. With trembling hands, she opened a new document and began to type: "Dear Mr. Potter, I regret to inform you that you have not been accepted into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. In fact, Hogwarts doesn't exist. Magic isn't real. The world is a cold, unforgiving place where dreams go to die and wonder is smothered in the crib. It seems I won't be joining you on this journey after all. Goodbye, Harry. I'm sorry I couldn't make your world real." Joanne hit send, watching the email disappear into the ether. Then, with a deep breath, she closed her laptop for the last time. She stood up, her movements slow and deliberate. Her gaze swept across the cramped flat - the stack of rejection letters, the dog-eared manuscript, the empty wine bottles. A life's work, a life's dream, all amounting to nothing. Joanne walked to the window, looking out at the gray London sky. For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine a world where owls carried letters and broomsticks soared through the air. But the vision faded, leaving only the stark reality of a dream unfulfilled. With a soft sigh, she reached for the window latch. The sound of traffic drifted up from the street below. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed. "Mischief managed," Joanne whispered to the empty room, and stepped forward into the void.

Aiyana awoke to the soft glow of dawn filtering through the cracks of her traditional dwelling. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and earth, a reminder of the vast wilderness that surrounded her. She sat up, her mind a fog of confusion, and noticed a small, weathered note beside her. "Find the totem to unlock your past," it read. The words stirred something deep within her, a fragmented memory just out of reach. Determined, she stepped outside, the familiar landscape both comforting and strange. As she ventured into the forest, the hoot of an owl echoed through the trees, a call from the guardians of the night. As Aiyana explored the forest, she stumbled upon objects that triggered flashes of her past. A feather, intricately painted with symbols of her tribe, brought back memories of her childhood, the stories told by the elders around the fire. A broken arrowhead reminded her of the day she first learned to hunt, guided by her father's steady hand. With each memory, the sense of urgency grew. She knew that the key to understanding her present lay in confronting a moment she had long avoided. The totem, a symbol of her tribe's spirit, held the answers she sought. As she continued her search, an owl swooped down silently, landing on a nearby branch, its eyes reflecting the wisdom of ages. As Aiyana ventured deeper into the forest, the canopy above thickened, casting dappled shadows on the forest floor. The hoot of an owl echoed through the trees, guiding her steps. Suddenly, she noticed a figure standing still among the trees, partially obscured by the underbrush. The stranger was cloaked in a dark, weathered robe, blending seamlessly with the surroundings. Aiyana's heart raced, her breath quickening as a sense of dread washed over her. She felt an inexplicable pull towards the figure, but fear rooted her to the spot. The stranger turned, revealing a face lined with age and wisdom, eyes that seemed to hold the secrets of the forest. "You seek the totem," the stranger said in a voice that was both gentle and commanding. Aiyana nodded, her throat dry, unable to find her voice. The stranger extended a hand, revealing an intricately carved owl totem. "This is a guide," they said. "It will lead you to the answers you seek, but you must be prepared to face the truths it reveals." With that, the stranger vanished into the shadows, leaving Aiyana holding the totem, her hands trembling. The owl's eyes seemed to glow, urging her onward, but the weight of the unknown pressed heavily on her chest, filling her with anxiety and fear. As she continued her journey, the forest seemed to shift and warp around her. The trees twisted into unnatural shapes, their branches reaching out like skeletal fingers. The air grew thick with an oppressive silence, broken only by the distant, otherworldly whispers that seemed to come from the very ground beneath her feet. Shadows moved in the corners of her vision, and the once familiar forest now felt like an alien landscape, filled with unseen terrors. Aiyana's fear grew, but she pressed on, driven by a desperate need to uncover the truth, even as the fear of the unknown threatened to consume her sanity. The whispers seemed to come from all directions, their words indistinct yet filled with a chilling clarity. As Aiyana strained to listen, she could make out fragments of their eerie messages: "Lost... forgotten... the past calls..." "Secrets buried... truths untold..." "Beware the shadows... they watch, they wait..." "Find the totem... face the darkness..." Each whisper sent a shiver down her spine, the voices blending into a haunting chorus that seemed to penetrate her very soul. The forest around her felt alive with unseen eyes, and the weight of ancient, cosmic secrets pressed heavily on her mind. Despite the fear gnawing at her, Aiyana knew she had to continue, to uncover the mysteries that lay hidden in the depths of the forest. Aiyana pressed on, the whispers growing louder and more insistent with each step. The forest seemed to close in around her, the trees twisting into grotesque shapes, their branches clawing at the sky. She clutched the owl totem tightly, its carved eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. As she moved deeper into the woods, she stumbled upon a clearing bathed in an eerie, unnatural light. In the center of the clearing stood a massive, ancient tree, its bark covered in strange, glowing symbols. The air around it hummed with a palpable energy, and Aiyana felt a mix of awe and terror. She approached the tree cautiously, the whispers now a cacophony of voices urging her forward. As she reached out to touch the tree, the ground beneath her feet began to tremble. Suddenly, the earth split open, revealing a hidden chamber beneath the roots of the tree. Aiyana peered into the darkness, her heart pounding. She could see faint glimmers of light reflecting off something deep within the chamber. Taking a deep breath, she descended into the darkness, the whispers now a deafening roar. The air grew colder, and the sense of an ancient, malevolent presence grew stronger. At the bottom of the chamber, Aiyana found a stone altar, covered in intricate carvings that seemed to pulse with a life of their own. On the altar lay a small, ornate box, its surface adorned with the same glowing symbols as the tree above. She reached out, her hand trembling, and opened the box. Inside, she found a small, intricately carved totem, identical to the one she held. As she lifted it from the box, the whispers ceased, replaced by a profound silence. Aiyana felt a surge of understanding, the pieces of her past falling into place. The totem was a key, a connection to her ancestors and the ancient spirits of the forest. She realized that her journey was not just about uncovering her past, but about embracing her role as a guardian of the land and its secrets. With newfound resolve, she climbed out of the chamber, ready to face whatever lay ahead. As Aiyana emerged from the chamber, the forest seemed to breathe with her, the oppressive atmosphere lifting slightly. The owl totem in her hand felt warm, pulsing with a gentle energy that guided her steps. She made her way back to the clearing, where the ancient tree stood sentinel. The whispers had ceased, replaced by a profound silence that felt both comforting and expectant. Standing before the tree, Aiyana raised the totem high, its glow intensifying. The symbols on the tree's bark began to shimmer, and a soft, ethereal light enveloped the clearing. Aiyana felt a deep connection to the land and her ancestors, their presence a reassuring force. She understood now that her journey was not just about finding the totem, but about embracing her role as a guardian of the forest and its secrets. As the light faded, Aiyana felt a sense of peace and clarity. The forest, once filled with fear and uncertainty, now felt like a place of refuge and strength. She knew that her path was just beginning, but she was no longer afraid. With the owl totem as her guide, she was ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead, knowing that she carried the wisdom and strength of her ancestors within her. With a final glance at the ancient tree, Aiyana turned and walked back to her dwelling. As she stepped inside, the familiar scent of pine and earth greeted her. She sat down, her mind clear and her heart at ease. Beside her, the small, weathered note lay once more, but this time it read, "You have found the totem. The journey begins again." Aiyana smiled, knowing that she was exactly where she needed to be, ready to face the dawn of a new day.

Fort Spencer was supposed to be a place to retire. It was where the only war games were Risk and Battleship. Training exercises consisted of deciding to get out of bed at the right opportunity. The staff catered to the officers every need. So why did command give them a fleet of submarines. "There must've been a mistake." Captain Ryan Olaberria was glad to have been posted at Fort Spencer. No other fort in the nation had a captain as its highest officer. Half of the postings technically outranked, but they took the demotion for less responsibility. There was little risk of handling combat, it had no towns within its jurisdiction, and there was no risk of demerits. "I called the commander. Apparently, these vessels are from pre-war times, and they want us to test them in our lake." Lieutenant Lilly Jones was the opposite of the captain. She hated the serene and peaceful Fort Spencer. She wanted a posting that involved adventure and combat. On her first tour, there was an incident involving a sock and a jammed rifle. From that point forward, she was trapped in servicing old soldiers. "Also, they are not submarines. They are technically submersibles. They aren't self-sufficient at all. Most weren't even armed until the Mieran war, and the aliens unleashed who knows what in the seas." Lieutenant Jones smiled at that thought. She had romantic notions of war. It was easy to hold such ideals when one had been routinely denied the battlefield. "So we don't have to use them. Just test them to make sure they work?" Ryan asked. "That's correct." "Do we have any guidance or timetable with regards to the submersibles?" "Command gave us free reign. They might come by a few years from now." Captain Jacob smiled and scratched his chin. The retirees were getting bored with the standard activities and diet. It was why they were all so willing to believe that Pacifico City lie a while back. They needed something new. "Perhaps we could define function as taking these submersibles out for a few joyrides. I'm sure they'll be quite enjoyable," Ryan said. "Will these joyrides be able to test the capabilities of the weapons?" "Who cares about that? Command asked if they worked. We can turn them all back over and say they swim fine," Captain Olaberria smiled. The lieutenant was angered that another weapon was going to be wasted for entertainment purposes. She desperately wanted to use the submersibles to their full power, but she knew that wasn't going to stand with the current situation. "There's one problem," Ryan said. Lilly raised an eyebrow in the hopes that Ryan had a change of heart. "If these submersibles break, that could kill several of the retirees that we need to keep alive." "Darn, looks like your submersible ride idea was a bust." Lilly could hardly contain her excitement. "No, it can be salvaged." "I'm not sure about that. The crafts were already salvaged." "Someone needs to test them before we give them to the people that matter." Ryan scratched his chin. "We can't do it ourselves. We can't lose any of the staff because they're needed to serve the retirees. What we need is competent, gullible idiots." Ryan's eyes widened as a thought hit him. "We know exactly the right people." - "Way to go Polly. Getting us in prison." Reid said. Olivia, Polly, Reid, and Jim were sitting around a small table. Frida was restrained to a wooden plank and a straitjacket behind them. "They said that they had forgiven us. How would I know they changed their minds?" Polly asked. "Because if it involves you, the worst case scenario always happens. It's why I didn't want you opening the door," Olivia replied. "What the-" Polly stood up and put her hands on her hips. "You told me to open the door." "And look what happened. I think I broke a nail during the fight," Olivia said. "I broke that guy's jaw," Frida smiled. "We would've won if someone hadn't given back a soldier their gun." Reid glared at Jim. "What was I supposed to do? He asked me nicely," Jim said. Captain Ryan chose that moment to enter the room. Frida squirmed and broke free of her restraints. She leapt to the captain with all the force her legs could generate. Lilly was excited by this conflict. Stepping in front of her captain, she pushed him to the ground and slapped Frida in the face midair. Frida collapsed on the ground and squirmed until she tripped her opponent. Lilly angled her fall to connect her fist directly with Frida's face. Frida retaliated by biting Lilly's knuckles. Guards rushed in to separate the two women. "Let me go," Lilly smiled, "I was winning." "Release me from my restraints. Her fingers tasted good," Frida replied. Reid got out of his chair to help the captain up. When Ryan was standing, Reid pulled him close. "I'm not with her at all," Reid whispered, "Hardly know her, please don't hold me accountable for her actions." "Don't worry. Her initiative is exactly why I called you all in here. You have a talent for managing projects such as your resort," Ryan said. "The resort was Polly's idea." Olivia held up an index finger. "It was all her. I told her it was moronic, but she wouldn't listen," Olivia said. "Can you let him finish before accusing me?" Polly asked. "I think the resort was a great idea, but you all lacked resources." "That's what I said." Reid wrapped his arm around Ryan's shoulders. Polly raised her hands in exasperation. "I called you here to give you the tools and a task fitting of your skills which were demonstrated with my soldiers." Ryan glanced at Lilly. "Wait a second, is this mission probably going to kill us all, and you called us here because you don't want to risk the lives of the people who mattered?" Polly asked. Ryan blinked a few times before deciding that the has no idea how to lie properly. "You got me. That is exactly why I brought you here." "I'm offended you would do that." Reid pushed him away. "I have too much self-respect to be a sacrificial lamb in any form." "You get to pilot a submersible," Ryan said. Everyone in the room held their breaths and stared at each other. Jim broke the silence first. "That sounds fun," he said.

I wish it didn’t have my eyes. I never thought about how easily I’d recognize my own features before. Knowing someone’s eyes, lips, nose—it seemed like a thought reserved for lovers. Could you pick each other out from a hundred pictures of eyes suspended in a gray void? Know each other’s face by heart? But I’ve seen my own face in the mirror more than I could ever see anyone else’s. And I knew it had my eyes. It stood at the other end of the hallway leading to my apartment. Another stranger, a neighbor, a neighbor’s best friend, it wouldn’t have mattered, and I wouldn’t have frozen just steps from the elevator if it hadn’t had my eyes. My eyes copy and pasted into something else’s face on something else’s body. “They probably just looked like you. Like an uncanny-valley doppelganger, ya know?” “I saw a guy who looked just like me in California once! I think they even have a website that shows you your photo twin or something nowadays.” But then I would beg them to believe me. My friends wanted to just explain it away as something silly and mundane. But I needed them to understand that, no, it had my eyes and it followed me inside my apartment and to the car and to the police and to their house and to my work and it had my eyes and what was it, please? So, they would stop talking and stare. Because they had never thought about how easily they’d recognize their own eyes on someone else’s face. And they had never thought about their friend desperately begging them to answer something they had never thought to answer when we met. It walked with me. Into the hospital, where the doctors asked if I had ever thought of hurting myself or others. Into any church or religious building I could enter just to see if it could as well, and it did. Into my mother’s house where I cried and she begged me to tell her what had happened, but it just stared and I didn’t want it to look like her at all. It has only ever spoken once. From the corner of my room, I screamed and flung objects through it, in spite of the fact that it had never reacted to my outbursts. I retched and yelled to the point of froth in my mouth because everything had been fine in my life before it. And I couldn’t ignore it. I couldn’t ignore my eyes staring back at me, blindly, with no shred of malice, joy, boredom, or discernable human emotion. *“Why would I give you a reason?”* The only thing it had ever said. And it wasn’t my voice, my nose, ears, hands, body. But it had her lips. I had learned its face like my own. And when I walked into the park, it walked with me and then without me to her, standing there, in shock. Because it had her lips.

I would love any feedback! Hoping it seems like a Twilight Zone episode. Word Count: \~4,100 **1** “Get down from there!” yelled the teacher’s aide from across the schoolyard. It was the third time in a week that he had been caught. “If you don’t start climbing down immediately, it will be straight to detention for you!” Thomas was swaying back and forth towards the top of a tree, attempting with all his might to see beyond the roof of the elementary school. He was almost there - if only he could climb up a few more feet. But he did not dare get sent to detention. He had been there too many times. “What if you were to have fallen?” the aide asked, as Thomas hopped to the ground. “Don’t you know you could have seriously injured yourself, or worse? Don’t do it again!” “I’m sorry,” sobbed Thomas. “I just really want to see what is over there. The rest of the playground is so boring.” Defeated, he slowly walked back towards his group of friends – Jimmy, Sally, and Daniel. Sally whispered immediately in excitement: “Thomas! Did you see anything? Did you climb high enough up in the tree to see?” “No,” said a dejected Thomas. “The roof goes further than I thought. I can’t try it again; I don’t want to go to detention.” The four of them spent the rest of recess in silence, concentrating on the clouds gently floating by and trying to think of another plan. “Alright, I’ll do it! I’ll climb the tree tomorrow, to the very tippy top, and I’ll see what is over there. I haven’t had a warning in a long time, so she won’t send me to detention,” announced Jimmy as the bell rang and the students lined up to head back to class. All four of them smiled at the newly formed plan as they retreated inside. But by recess of the next day, the tree at the center of the schoolyard had been chopped two thirds of the way up. It was no longer taller than the school. No chance of seeing beyond the roof now! Devastated, the group of friends spent recess walking in circles around the periphery of the schoolyard. As far as they could tell, and as far back as any of them could remember, the schoolyard was at the very center of the school’s property. It had been designed to protect the students from any outside dangers. After classes ended for the day, the four friends met up again in the cinema room. It was a nice break before their extra-curricular activities began. They had already seen every movie multiple times, and so they did as the other kids did, and sat talking amongst themselves. “Quick everyone!” Daniel whispered. “While we aren’t being supervised, take a look.” He pulled out his journal – everyone was supposed to keep one – and flipped it towards the back. Four pieces of loose paper slid out, and he arranged them on the floor in their proper order. The resulting image was of a large central square surrounded by lines branching out in a maze. The schoolyard surrounded by the hallways and classrooms of the elementary school. “Cindy and Tim managed to explore the Eastern section over here, but they had no more luck than I did. We will not try going South anymore. That is where the teachers are. Every detention is 15 minutes longer than the last, and it is adding up fast for me! West – this area here should be explored more.” He pointed to a blank section on one of his journal pages. “But, I think the best option is to go North. Last week, I managed to get an excused absence from band class. Tim blew his trumpet so loud in my ear that it would not stop ringing and Mrs. Grenda let me leave early. Don’t try to copy that method for at least a few weeks! We don’t want anyone to become suspicious. Anyway, I walked through these hallways, around this corner, and to this point.” His finger landed on a part of the map at the edge of the maze. “When I turned this corner and faced North, this hallway extended further than I could see, and there was light at the end of it! I would have gone further, but time was running out. Plus, I had to tell all of you about it, just in case.” The rest of the group copied the newly found hallways into their own journals, then hid them away. Daniel kept tracing pathways through the school, trying to find more places to explore. “I’ll try to go North tomorrow!” Sally said. “I haven’t explored any of the hallways for a few weeks, so it won’t seem wrong if I am gone for a bit. But please come meet me in my room tonight after the movie and our extra-curriculars are over, around 9:00. I won’t be able to sleep much tonight anyway.” Their bedtime was 8:30, so they had to be stealthy. Fortunately, they knew all the best hiding spots in the school, and everyone managed to arrive in Sally’s room on time. **2** Once the group of friends had finished assembling, Sally greeted everyone, then sat on the edge of her bed to speak. “I was very happy to hear about Daniel’s discovery earlier today! I think it is exactly what we have been looking for. Especially for me.” “What do you mean especially for you?” Daniel responded. “We all want to know what is out there.” “I don’t just want to know what is out there. I want to leave!” The other kids stopped fidgeting and paid more attention. “I think we all feel that way sometimes, but we all know what happens when somebody leaves. They never come back!” Jimmy exclaimed. “Look in the glass trophy case near the cafeteria. When someone leaves, we always place their journal there in case they come back and as a reminder to everyone else. So far, nobody has ever come back.” Sally responded. “Last week I looked at those journals and counted twelve of them. Twelve people who have left. The principal – she left too. What was it, maybe a month ago? I am already forgetting what she looked like.” “It’s not like we saw her that much.” said Jimmy. “She seemed to stay in her office quite a bit. She always came up with so many random rules. I bet she is the one who told us that it is bad manners to look at our food while we eat. It’s probably better that she is gone, and I hope she never comes back.” “No, it’s just my memory, like the rest of you. It’s always been bad. That’s why we have to keep the daily journals. We can go back and read about what happened last week, or last month, or three months ago.” “I stopped taking the journals seriously a couple months ago,” Thomas said. “I used to draw pictures in mine, but I can’t bother to do it again when they eventually make us destroy them! Why do you all spend so much time writing in those journals when you can’t keep them?” Sally jumped down to the floor, reached under her bed, and pulled out a worn cardboard box. Everyone gasped as they saw what was inside – dozens of journals. She sat next to them, a glum expression on her face. **3** “Sally! How do you have so many journals? Did you grab a lot of empty ones? Those would take years to fill out. Or do you just write a lot?” asked Thomas. “No, Thomas, they are all filled to the back with my words. I don’t think I write more than any of you – it’s just that I sometimes decide to keep them.” “But that is against the rules,” Thomas said. “If we read anything more than a few months old, we will fall back into bad thinking patterns. We are supposed to always be writing new journal entries, using the new things we learn. That’s why we are supposed to destroy them after a while.” “That is another silly rule from the principal, like Jimmy said. What did you write about in your journal today?” “Well, I had a dream about the Moon and a rocket ship last night. We learned about those things yesterday and they gave me the strangest dream! We were all in it. I never knew the Moon was so big. That is what I wrote about this morning.” Sally reached into her box of journals and pulled one out. She opened the cover, analyzed it for half a minute, then put it back. She did the same thing with a couple more journals, until her eyes lit up. Inside the front cover, interspersed within a long list of symbols, was a picture of a crescent Moon. “Here it is!” she exclaimed. She counted the symbols and then announced: “Journal entry number 27.” She flipped through the journal, making it almost halfway before stopping. She read the journal entry out loud. “Our science teacher, Mr. Roe, taught us about the solar system this week. The Sun and all nine planets from Mercury to Pluto. We also learned about the Moon, spaceships, asteroids, and other stars. There is even a huge thing called a galaxy that is made up of gazillions of stars. Some of them are too far away from us and we will never see them. Unless we have a telescope. It is all interesting and makes me want to learn more.” She passed the journal around to the other kids, and they stared at it in awe. “But we have not learned about some of this stuff yet! We did not learn about a planet named Pluto, or something called a galaxy,” Daniel exclaimed. “Maybe tomorrow or the next day before the astronomy week is over.” “That’s the whole point, Daniel. We learned about this stuff a long time ago. And again, a long time ago before that. We just don’t remember it! We are learning stuff over and over again, in a big circle. My journals prove that, even though none of us can remember.” She flipped further into the journal. “See here. This journal entry is about the Earth a very very very long time ago, and animals called dinosaurs. There’s a big mean one with tiny arms that eats other dinosaurs, and an even bigger one that is nice and only eats leaves. We will learn about those next week.” The kids sat in silence, desperately trying to contemplate what it all meant. **4** Suddenly, Sally sat on the floor and slid completely under her bed. Her friends watched in anticipation, wondering what other surprises she had. Daniel nearly jumped when the floor became illuminated with flickering light – a candle. “There is room for everyone down here. I have to show you something!” Her three friends crawled underneath the bed, then lay flat on their backs beside her as she pointed up towards the bottom of her bed. “See this wooden plank here? Every single day before bed, I draw a line on this plank with a pencil.” There were a lot of pencil marks. “I would count them, but I’m not sure I can count that high,” said Daniel. “You always do good enough in math class,” replied Thomas. “It looks like she made the markings in groups of 10. One, two, three…” He counted the rest silently. “…twenty groups of ten. If ten groups of ten makes one hundred, then there must be two hundred marks.” Daniel gasped. “Two hundred! Are you sure Sally? Have we really been going to classes here for that long?” Sally pulled out a red journal that she kept separately from the others. “This journal is the most important,” she began. “I remind myself to read it – or at least skim through it - every day. It contains some memories of mine from a long time ago. But it is not just memories of my own. I have some of your memories too.” “What do you mean?” “Daniel, what can you remember about your parents? Of your family?” asked Sally. “Oh. I haven’t thought about them for a while. If it’s been 200 days, how am I supposed to remember that far back?” “Well, can you at least try?” “My dad. I think I remember going to the park with him. My mom. I’m not sure. Well, I remember a cake. I think I also remember my Mom driving me somewhere, but I can’t remember where.” Jimmy started to cry. “I can’t remember mine at all. Trying to think about them makes me lonely, like I miss them terribly. Like I tried so hard to remember but gave up. I can only remember the cat. It is a big orange cat. It likes to sleep in the first branch of a tree and follows me when I run around the yard. That’s all I can remember.” “Don’t worry Jimmy,” said Sally. “We wrote about them in this journal. I started writing in it when we could still remember. I have two pages of stuff written here about your parents and life before school started. You did spend a whole paragraph talking about your cat. Your sister is in here too. And your grandparents.” She handed the journal to Jimmy, who read it as fast as he could. It only made him cry more. “Why can’t I have this life back? How did I forget about all of this? I can remember it a lot more now while I am reading about it.” “That’s what we are trying to figure out. How to get back to that life,” said Sally. She took the journal, flipped a few more pages, and handed it to Thomas. “Your turn, Thomas. When you read yours, you will see how all six of us met.” “All six of us?” “Yes, six. We have been best friends ever since your 7^(th) birthday party. It’s probably where Daniel’s memory of a cake comes from. You had a huge blue cake. You wrote a lot about that party in this journal. Our other two friends are Lucas and Alicia, but they both left us a long time ago. Without this journal, I don’t think any of us would remember them.” They waited for Thomas to finish reading. He began to cry too. When he was done, she took the journal back and handed it to Daniel. “Here is your section, Daniel. When you get to the end, you will see that this meeting we are having tonight was your idea. You had a bad feeling when our parents stopped picking us up and we never had weekends anymore. We decided to hold an emergency meeting in 200 days if nothing got better. I promised that I would keep track of the days and let everyone know when it was time.” **5** “This is crazy,” said Daniel, as he read the entire four pages devoted to his memories. Almost all completely forgotten. “Do you see why I want to leave?” asked Sally. “Yes. We have been here too long. 200 days of no weekends and of forgetting the rest of our lives. What happened? Why did it happen? Why do we just keep learning and forgetting the same stuff in a big circle?” “I don’t know. We can read through the rest of the journal in a minute, but there is one more thing we always do first.” Sally pulled the box of her personal journals towards her and dug around in it until she found an eraser and a permanent marker. “Thomas, take the eraser and erase those pencil marks.” “Erase them? But then we will lose track of how many days we have been here!” “You say that every time! Look here.” She moved the candle towards the foot of her bed and illuminated another wooden plank. She uncapped the permanent marker and made a mark. There were a lot of marks on this plank too, and everyone counted them in silence. “I count sixty-three of them,” said Jimmy. “No, you are close, but it’s only fifty-three,” said Thomas. “Does this mean we have been here for fifty-three days more than 200?” “No Thomas. It means we have been here for 200 days, fifty-three times. We only ever make one of these marks when we erase 200 of the pencil ones. We never learned the numbers bigger than a hundred, but I’m pretty sure it’s a gazillion. We have been here for gazillions of days!” **6** Sally’s friends sat in shock. Jimmy started to cry again. Thomas eventually erased the pencil markings. Sally continued to talk. “After our first few meetings, we tried to tell the teachers that we were scared. That something felt wrong. But they told us everything was normal. They told us to start writing in journals. At each meeting, we decided to stay, as long as we planned another meeting after another 200 days. After that, as the hundreds of days added up so much, we were scared that the rest of the world would be too different for us. Maybe our parents had forgotten us, too? So, we kept deciding to stay.” “Besides, anyone who tried to leave got in trouble. Here, on the inside cover of my red journal. Look how many times I have had detention. The rule has always been that every time in detention is 15 minutes longer. My last time was two days and eight hours. That is a long time to stand in the corner in silence.” “But now is the time! For all of us!” “For all of us?” “Yes, let’s get out from under the bed and I’ll show you the rest of the red journal. We documented every meeting since we started. Every time we made it to 200 days.” Sally flipped through the journal. She highlighted certain points. Discussed old arguments they had forever ago in the past. The meeting where Lucas decided to leave and was never seen again. The meeting where Daniel decided to leave and ended up in detention instead. “All this time, you kept re-reading this journal, never forgetting any of it?” asked Jimmy. “Yes.” “And you never wanted to leave yourself?” “I was scared that leaving would be worse. I was happy enough being with all of you every day. But it cannot go on forever. My bed – what do you see when you look at it?” “That’s a dumb question – it’s your bed!” answered Thomas. “Yes, but look at it closely. Look at just this bottom part on its own.” “Oh, well that part is just a desk.” Sally pointed to the next segment. “That’s another desk too, but all four of them together make your bed.” “A bed is not just four desks crammed together. I had a beautiful fluffy bed. Lots of pillows and toy animals. That’s something I wrote about in the red journal. Our memories and minds are fading. A lot of what we think we know, is wrong.” “Do you remember why it is bad to look at our food when we eat? I don’t think you do, but when was the last time any one of you looked down at your tray? When was the last time you saw real food? They told us that it was bad manners to look, but does that make sense?” “If you read the rest of the journal, during the meeting when Alicia decided to leave, we agreed that if one more person left, the rest of us would all go together. I think Daniel found the exit. We should follow his map and get out of here. Now.” “Let’s just calm down for a second before we do anything crazy. Can I see the journal again?” asked Daniel. After Sally handed it over, he skimmed through it. As far as he could tell, nothing she said was a lie. He even found the journal entry where he decided to leave, 20 or 30 meetings ago. “Okay, I’m in. I’m ready to go. What about you two?” he asked Thomas and Jimmy. “I’m not sure it’s the best…” “I want to leave, too!” shouted Thomas, almost too loudly. “Okay fine,” said Jimmy. “I don’t want to be left here alone if all of you leave. I don’t want to forget about you all, or only remember you when I read a journal entry. When should we go?” “We go now!” said Sally. “Daniel, do you have the map?” Daniel pulled his map out from the back of his personal journal and laid it on the ground. He took the permanent marker from Sally and drew a thick line along the path he believed would take them to the schools’ exit. “Okay, does everyone see the path? We leave this room, go right, and the end of the hallway is where this line starts. Let’s go!” Everyone stood and followed Daniel. He stopped for a moment; ear pressed against the door. When he was confident that nobody was in the hallway, he carefully turned the doorknob and stepped out. **7** By now, it was late at night, and the hallways were silent. The path twisted and turned. Much more complicated than it should have been. “What’s down that hallway over there?” asked Jimmy. “It’s a dead-end. I tried going that way once, and the lights turned off. There are a bunch of tables and chairs stacked up, blocking the way. Beyond them, I think the ceiling was broken. Big piles of it were all over the floor. That’s why I put an ‘X’ here on the map.” It was not the only X on the map – perhaps that was why the path was so convoluted and seemed to turn back in towards itself so many times. But with the path clearly drawn and Daniel leading them, they progressed rapidly. Soon they were standing at the furthest point Daniel had visited, staring down the long hallway. There was no light at the end of it this time, but it was still night. The four friends slowly crept down the hallway, unsure of what lay ahead. At least 10 minutes passed before they approached the principal’s office on the left. They were curious to see what was inside, but Jimmy noticed that the end of the hallway was just ahead. Two glass doors, like the ones that led out to the playground at the center of the school. Excited, the kids ran to the door and peered outside. It was dark, but they made out what looked like trees. Perhaps a parking lot. “We made it!” exclaimed Sally. “Let’s just be careful. We haven’t left the school in a long time. We don’t know what it will be like out there.” They waited another minute, then slowly pushed the door open. They stepped outside. A cold nighttime wind was blowing. They walked out along a strip of pavement, towards what looked like a parking lot. A horribly dilapidated car came into view. The details were lost in the dim moonlight, but it was a scary sight. Suddenly, the kids felt light, like they had swallowed a large helium balloon that was just big enough to let them glide along the ground without needing to walk. “Kids! I am so happy to see you made it!” They turned to see a shadowy figure floating next to a large Maple tree. It was the principal of the school. “But… you wanted us to leave?” asked Sally. “Why were we always punished when we tried to leave?” The kids glided over to get a better look at her. “What happened to you!” yelled Daniel as he got close enough. He could see straight through her, and her feet were not touching the ground. “The same thing that happened to all of us, all those years ago. But we’re free now. Look up into the sky – go there, towards the Moon. That’s where we go after… after our time on Earth is done.” “But why is our time done?” yelled Jimmy. The four of them had already started floating higher into the air. He looked at his friends and noticed that he could see through them too. The other three looked back in shock, but their expressions, as his, turned into a somber understanding. Suddenly it all made sense. “What happened was so unfair!” yelled the principal. “A rogue missile – it landed right there. Oh, please don’t look! Your time at school was generally happy, right? We got to stay around much longer than had you gone on immediately… I just didn’t think it was fair for us to have to leave so soon! You kids were so young…” She continued to yell, but the four best friends drifted out of earshot. They held each other’s hands tightly and looked up. Towards the Moon they floated. Trading one infinity for the next infinity. One mystery for a greater one. One type of death for whatever lay beyond.

I walk down a dimly lit, puddle-ridden alleyway in the industrial district of the city. A single bulb casts light on the dirty brick walls, and the stagnant water sends rippling reflections dancing everywhere, a strangely whimsical thing in this portal to the underworld. I spin a combat knife around my finger as I knock on the stupidly cliché metal door. Wick, a member of my crew, answers. He earned his name by being the single most impressive assassin I’ve ever seen. He can kill you twenty different ways with his bare hands. The thing is, he hates using his skills to harm people. All my crew does. It’s what sets us apart, besides the fact that we are the best of the Equalizers. Wick opens the door, stepping aside to let me pass. Besides Jacob, I am the most respected member of the Storm in our area, as well as the second in command. I walk silently into the concrete corridor, Wick falling into step behind me. Jacob has called a meeting with us. He probably has an assignment. As we pass a branching hallway, Wick splits off to call the rest of the crew to the meeting. Unlike the other Equalizer leaders, I value all my crew members’ opinions and skills. I arrive at the meeting suite and knock on the door. A bald, ridiculously brawny man in black sunglasses and a sleek Italian suit answers. I pull down the collar of my plain gray T-shirt to reveal the Storm tattoo, a snapping banner with crossed lightning bolts, surrounded by skeletons in fatigues. The bouncer lets me pass, completely unfazed by my blade acrobatics. Off the clock, we’re friends. On the clock, I’m a potential threat and he’s Jacob’s bodyguard. I step into a room that is surprisingly sparsely furnished. Around the table, the heads of the Storm departments nod to me. I nod in return, silently taking my seat. Jacob leans over to whisper to me. “Is your crew here?” I nod. They're behind a one way window that’s covered by a one way tapestry. Jacob stands, and the little chatter there was instantly silences. “Let us begin this meeting. It has come to my attention that a band of highwaymen are holding up our commuters on Boulevard. They block off the road, requesting, or should I say *extorting*, a passage fee from the workers unlucky enough to get caught. Any opposed to their extermination?” No hands are lifted. He turns to me. “Very well. I leave it to you, Kael. Kaya already has the details.” I briefly wonder why he refuses to call her Memo like everyone else, then decide he must think it’s a respect thing. He turns back to the rest of them. “Anything else we need to discuss?” Again, no hands are raised. “Very well. *Per sanguinem patrum nostrorum*,” he says. The low roar of twelve voices respond. “*Spondimus ordinem*.” We rise and leave the room together. I hang back. I don’t like walking with anyone except my crew. After a moment, I stalk down the industrially lit hall back to the exit. My crew is already waiting for me outside. I flick two fingers up, and we slip onto the roof, crouching in our usual spots. I gesture to Memo. She unrolls a map of the city with an over dramatic flourish. “Target’s here. Two-story two-exit building. No kinks.” I nod. “Plan Delta, standard.” The Twins, identical mountains of muscle with miniguns, will take the front. Memo and I will take the back. Wick and Wraith will clear the building top to bottom. Buzz will supervise with his drone. We move out. Our hideout is just over a mile away, so we move on the rooftops. As we run, Pipsqueak moves up beside me. “What about civilians?” I shrug. “We hope they don’t show hostile intent. You know we try to capture rather than kill.” Jacob is very strict about that kind of thing. Makes some missions kind of difficult. Pipsqueak grunts and rejoins his brother, Colossus. I look around, counting, then sigh. Wraith is missing again. She probably stopped to get food from Greasy Ray. She’ll still somehow beat us home, though. Someone screams. We all skid to a stop, listening. Buzz instantly launches Eagle 4, his modded-out recon drone. The rest of us slide down a convenient light pole, running toward the sound. I sign an A. Memo and Wick split off. Memo readies her rifle at her position covering the exit of the alley. Wick scales the wall of an adjacent building to avoid a hostage or prolonged situation. The Twins go back to back to control the street. I go into the alleyway. Some drugged-up idiot is pointing a pistol at a young couple. The man holds the woman behind him, protecting her with his body. The guy is about to charge the mugger. I mentally scoff. In the junkie’s state, it’s equally likely that he succeeds or gets shot down. The woman notices me. “Kevin, look!” she says, pointing at me. Both the man and the gun-wielding numbskull turn to face me. The junkie decides I’m the bigger threat, so he points his gun at me, bringing it into my reach. I grab the barrel and strike his wrist, taking the gun away easily. Then, I kick him in the side. I pause to look at the gun. It’s nice, a chrome weapon with a wood handle. I tuck it into my pocket. Wraith will like it. The junkie starts to get back up. I roll my eyes. “Col,” I call softly. He peaks around the corner. I gesture to the would-be robber. He snorts and walks over, slinging his minigun over his shoulder. When he reaches the mugger, he lifts him effortlessly with a hand the size of a catcher’s mitt, giving him a solid thump to the head. The man goes limp. Wraith chooses that moment to appear. She scowls at the fact that she missed a fight, taking a giant bite out of the chili dog in her hand. We start to leave, but the man finds his voice. “Thank you!” he says. I wave without looking back. He starts to say more, but I give the sign to move out. We jog the rest of the way home. Buzz is waiting for us in the garage, our bikes prepped. He eyes Wraith’s chili dog enviously, so she takes another enormous bite, smirking at him as she chews. She’s the youngest at sixteen, but she has to be the sassiest, even without ever talking. At that moment, I remember the gun and toss it to her. She catches it easily and inspects it. She tucks it gently into her gun closet with a nod of thanks. Rejecting the company of most people, Wraith prefers weapons. She polishes off her chili dog and wipes her hands on a paper towel, then hops onto her motorcycle. It starts automatically, the electric system barely making a sound. Everyone else does the same, Colossus slinging the delinquent fool behind him onto a plastic trash bag. The Twins’ bikes are their babies. We make a quick stop back at HQ to dump the junkie’s unconscious body in the holding cells, then head to the other side of the industrial district. When we start to get close, we brake, stashing our bikes in an alleyway. Buzz stays with them. He doesn’t need to be anywhere near the action to be effective. We silently split up to head to our positions. When we’re there, Wick and Wraith ghost through the building, cuffing the idiots that tried to break the law on Storm territory. No one wakes up until it’s too late. Wick walks out the back door, signaling that it’s done. I hop down from the roof. “Where is Wraith?” I ask, already knowing the answer. Wick gestures vaguely toward the door. I walk in. Wraith is busily stuffing all the food she can find into her backpack. I roll my eyes and radio for an extraction team to come pick the criminals up for their trial. When I walk out front, the Twins are leaning on the barrels of their guns, playing rock paper scissors. “Signal Buzz,” I tell them. Pip lifts his minigun and flicks the flashlight on, aiming it at the drone. It flashes a light in return, then heads back in the direction we came from. “All right,” I say. “We are off the clock.” Buzz pulls up with our bikes trailing him. “I told you the GPS paired with sensors and Bluetooth would work,” he shouts. Memo drops off the roof, joining the group. “Why do you use such old tech? The stuff you work with is, like, two hundred years old.” Buzz shrugs. “If it works, it works.” Wraith steps out of the building, dragging her bulging backpack with her. Col lifts it onto his shoulder. “You’re gonna have to share some of this with me,” he remarks to her. She rolls her eyes as she settles onto her bike. I flick my nightglasses on. “Let’s roll.” Wick snickers. “I think he’s trying to act cool,” he stage-whispers to Memo. I let it slide. He’s in good spirits since no one had to die tonight. We all are. I kick my bike into motion, leaving them all behind as they struggle to catch up. “You A-hole!” Pip bellows. I smirk. He stubbornly refuses to curse. He reminds me of Captain America in that ancient movie about superheroes. Buzz has no such qualms, and his completely unnecessary expletives echo through the night.

Speaking just for myself, the most surprising thing I discovered about the Afterlife and Heaven, besides the fact that they actually existed and I ended up ascending instead of down after I died, that it has great cell phone service. Before I get off on the wrong track I'll just say Heaven is for the most part nothing like the old preachers and supposed holy men down on Earth ever imagined, but more about that later. But it was the pleasant chirping of my totally clear and reliable cell phone, the old flip open style, that awaken me from my blissfully restful sleep. One more little tidbit, everything in Heaven can be summed up as pleasant and blissful, naturally it should go without saying but because prevailing wisdom on Earth is so wrong about the place I just added that no one would get confused. It was Saturday morning and the light of the sun was streaming through my apartment window providing a gentle and warm incentive to return to consciousness. Quick side note, yes Heaven for humans does look a lot like Earth with housing arrangements generally similar to what a person experienced while living, just exceedingly pleasant and cozy. I have weekends off from my job, yes you still have to work in Heaven, so I wasn't in any hurry to answer the thing. For several minutes I just stayed in my bed and stretched wishing these heavenly issued devices had a button allowing us still weary humans to turn them off. No, the call wasn't the Chairman of the Board, one of the first things you learn on arrival is that the BIG GUY doesn't like the names mere Earthlings have given him over the centuries so he just goes by that title since it is something we can handle. But anyway, the Chairman is much too busy with his own affairs running the entire multiverse, nor was it any of his various angels, they are quite busy with their own duties. Turns out the Chairman has discovered several of the most recent universes, those under twenty-something billion Earth years old, have an inherent design flaw requiring a huge software patch that has to work without rebooting the entire system, which would end the lives of untold trillions of intelligent lifeforms. The defect has something to do with the Higgs-Boson particle and that it decays far too soon. As for the angels, there are two groups of them, the first deals with those agents of the “Other Side” which amounts to a sort of Cold War that spans all realms of existence. A second smaller group of angels oversee how Heaven is run, which to to them is considered seriously crappy duty. Yes, that means babysitting other mortal intelligent species with humans near the top of their list for being douchbags. It’s common knowledge among humans here in Heaven that they liken us to an over active slime mold. So anyway, whoever was calling me was almost certainly human, I only know one extraterrestrial here in Heaven and other than the occasional poker game, I just don't see him calling me at home. As the chirping continued I couldn't decided if I really wanted to answer the thing, but curiosity was beginning to overwhelm me. So I reluctantly rolled over and picked up the cell to read the name on the tiny screen. It was then that I uttered the closest thing to a melancholy sigh you can in Heaven. It was my ex-wife and since she didn't appear to want to give up on the call I was forced to answer the thing. “Hello Diane,” I say trying to maintain the comfortable pleasant feeling that pervades all beings who reside in Heaven. “Just what do I owe the honor of this call my dear.” I finish hoping she didn't detect the all too mortal sarcasm trickling into my voice. “Save the pleasantries Samuel,” she said back with her usual aplomb, “I need to met with you about something important on Earth.” “Damn, what's happened to the kids?” I ask suddenly worried. “Nothing,” she said back harshly, “they're all still healthy and won't come our way for at least another fifty years.” “Then what’s the issue Diane? I can’t imagine anything else important enough for you to wake me up.” “Never you mind,” she said, “just meet me at Le Cafe Paris.” “The one in the French sector next the ocean?” I groan realizing my blissful morning was officially interrupted. Wanting to get this over with as soon as possible I agree to the location, end the call, and rush to get ready. Another little fact about Heaven for humans is that it consists of several hundred planets, all many times larger than Jupiter, orbiting an array of stars in a complex pattern that every resident mortal, including many renown scientists, believe has some meaning. The best speculation is that the whole is thing is a complex machine but neither the Chairman nor is winged minions have ever said one way or the other. Needless to say, there are other similar “machines” for all the other intelligent species, so many in fact it appears to be infinite. Humans from the seventeenth century to the time I died in the early 2010's all share a single super-planet with the continents and islands divided up evenly. If that wasn't wild enough, humans run the whole thing with surly and bored angels keeping everyone above board and playing strictly by the rules. What it all amounts to is that varying sectors making up different eras, ethnic groups, religions, and nationalities living beside each other. Needless to say, it can be quite weird to live in an American sector with 1950's technology with your next door neighbor on one side being people from Ming Dynasty China and seventeenth century Persia on the other. When you think about it maybe the angels overseeing human interaction have a right to be pissed off about their assigned duties. At least transportation across the heavenly super-planet is easy. I just used my cell phone to call for a taxi bubble, yeah it's exactly like it sounds. It's a bubble with four seats, comfortable bucket type made of rich Corinthian leather, controlled by a human driver – remember we all have jobs here. My driver, or pilot turns out to be a guy named Blasius, an ancient Roman who fought in the second Punic War. He actually lives a couple of planets over but has been in Heaven long enough that he can transfer anywhere he wishes. That's also how I have my poker game with my extraterrestrial buddy, if you stay cool and cooperative after a couple of millennia the angels allow a being to get an unrestricted passport. My extraterrestrial buddy was originally from a planet in the Whirlpool galaxy 23 million lightyears from Earth. On his world, males are the submissive sex but can have up to fifteen wives depending on which of their planet's seven moon are full. An interesting evolutionary development complete with an overabundance of nagging females intent on literally biting his head off so it could fed to the gestating offspring. No worries, males regrow their heads pretty quickly. But anyway, just as soon as I get buckled in Blasius lifts off and we head east towards the French sector at about mach-10 where we both begin talking about our adventures while serving our respective nations. When I was alive I did a four years in the active United States Army and did a tour over in Afghanistan after 9/11, a fact that Blasius finds funny as hell since he knows a guy who served there following Alexander the Great on his egotistical empire building adventure. Long story short, no matter the technological advances as far as humans are concerned somethings never change. After an all too relaxing conversation where we both bitch about idiotic junior officers and shitty food while in the field. A couple of minutes later Blasius drops me off in the French sector near the cafe where I will have breakfast with my ex-wife. As I stroll by small shops and other cafes, I realize I should have told Diane I wasn't interested in seeing her. Upon death and arrival here after orientation most people link up with their immediate family but that wasn't the case with Diane or myself. Since neither of us were close with our respective families the bureaucrats, human type not angel, first put me on this particular super-planet and after Diane died they dropped her here as well. Not that we have similar living arrangements, since, like I mentioned earlier you generally get assigned living arrangements like you had on Earth when you died. But to some bureaucrat looking at the files of thousands of new arrivals our past relationship counted as family. In Diane's case she got a nice McMansion in a seriously upscale neighborhood in a different sector. This is because of who she was married to on Earth at the time of her death, our former family dentist. Turns out while I was turning wrenches and working rotating shifts at one of the factories in our small Indiana hometown, Diane was hooking up with Dr. Stephen Dennis DDC. A fact I didn't learn about until after the bastard had cleaned my teeth several times and taken care of a couple of my cavities. You can't imagine how infuriating it is when you learn that the guy who regularly had his hands in your mouth was also boffing your wife at the local Motel Six a couple of miles from his office. Top it all off, because some desk jockey in his office was never told to remove my name from the computer program that sent out reminders. So for a couple of years after the divorce I got emails from his office telling me it was time for my semi-annual check up. I admit, there were dark moments when I would have killed the bastard had I chanced upon him in some dark alleyway. On a side note, in case you're wondering it's really quite hard to end up in the “Other Place” after you die. Not only is there this forgiveness thing but the offenses that get you sent to hell are pretty extreme. You have to be on the level of a cold blooded murderer, serial killer, bloody homicidal dictator, abusing spouse or parent, or investment banker before the angels overseeing arrivals even begin to give your record a close examination. This attitude goes for religions as well, none of the senior management gives a damn about which book you follow. The general ideas is as long as you weren't cruel to other living things and tried to make the world in which you were born a better place a person is pretty much guaranteed to walk through the Pearly Gates. A fact that majorly pisses off earthly religious types when they get here. Seemingly far too soon, I spot Diane sitting at one of the outside tables of Le Cafe Paris. For a second I consider turning around and heading back to the ocean front and having breakfast at one of the restaurants there but Diane spots me and begins jumping up and down calling my name. I admit, seeing Diane looking again like she did when she was thirty years-old brought back some urges I thought were long gone. When adults get to Heaven their new bodies perfectly healthy and are biologically set at about thirty-years old. “Alright Diane,” I say taking a seat at the table, “what’s so damn important I had to fly out here.?” You might wonder why I have anything to do with my ex-wife considering how our marriage ended. It all boils down to her job here in Heaven. She’s on the staff that handles the flow of information up from Earth. Such information is expensive when available and contrary to what is believed by someone dirt side, the departed do worry about those they left behind. Yeah, that’s the only reason I having anything to do with her is for news back home. Yes, I'm screwing with Diane, probably not as bad as she did me while married but it's still wrong. The ends may in rare times justify the means but that doesn't make it moral. “Was there a nuclear war or pandemic, or was some deluded lunatic elected president of the United States?” Diane was silently crying and I was irritated almost enough for me to say screw it and leave, no matter what the news might be. But seeing how deeply upset she was triggered my instinctive compassion for another the mother of my children. So, I slid my chair over and put my arm around the woman who I once thought I would live with until I died. “Okay Diane, tell me what's going on down on Earth,” I tell her in what I hope is a soothing voice. She hesitates then leans into my hug and I find it strangely comforting, it feels like old, happier times. “It's about Stephen,” she blurts out and begins crying. A small amount of hate-filled joy creeps into my heart. I begin thinking Diane has discovered the bastard has cancer or was murdered, but no, it's nothing like that all. “I learned that Stephen is engaged to marry Carol, my best friend.” After that she breaks down into uncontrolled sobs. Carol was indeed Diane's best friend and I try to tell her that how the living carry on, that they make new lives after loved ones pass away. It was then that Diane let the other shoe drop. “They were having an affair almost from the time he and I were married.” Diane said seemingly oblivious of the circumstances at how her own relationship began with the floundering dentist. So as I sat at a cafe table with my ex-wife it then that I wondered if it was possible to kill a person already in Heaven and what the punishment would be.

Mila, a 25-year-old financial consultant, was going on her daily post-lunch jog. She had recently moved to a new area and was still trying to find the best jogging paths. Today she had found herself jogging on a local backroads, with forest on both sides. Suddenly, Mila heard a DING from her FIT watch. It was Chelsea, her AI workout assistant. “Congratulations Mila! You’ve just reached the 5K mark of your jog today!” “That puts you in 25th place among your coworkers, 3rd place among your family members, and 12th place among your high school friend group”. The rankings projected out from the FIT watch and onto a holographic screen in front of Mila’s eyes. Mila quickly scanned the rankings and sighed. ‘25th place?’ thought Mila. ‘That wasn’t good at all. It was her still her first month at her new company of 50 employees and she needed to impress.’ Determined and with 45 minutes remaining on her lunch break, Mila continued jogging down the road. About 25 minutes later, Mila heard another DING from her FIT watch. “Congratulations Mila! You’ve just reached the 10K mark of your jog today!” “That puts you in 10th place among your coworkers, 1st place among your family members, and 2nd place among your high school friend group!” Mila quickly scanned the rankings and a small smile grew on her face. ‘10th place.’ thought Mila. ‘Not too bad. At least I'm ahead of that snobby accountant Lindsey.’ Mila was about to sit down to rest for the final 20 minutes of her lunch break when Chelsea pipped up once more. “As a special prize for reaching 10k, you have earned 300 jogbucks!” Jogbucks, or JB, was the digital currency used to purchase items on the FIT store. Those 300JB put Mila just short of the blue mini-skirt that she’d been wanting for the past month or so. With a newfound surge of motivation, Mila drank a sip of water from her bottle and continued jogging down the road. A few minutes later, Mila suddenly heard an animal screech from the side of the road. Immediately Mila recognized it as that of a deer. Her father had been an avid hunter and had taken her on many hunting trips as a child. Looking to the left of the road, Mila saw that there was indeed an injured deer that had been hit by a car and was lying on its side. As Mila began walking towards it, she was suddenly hit with a long-lost memory. “Mil. Remember, deer are one of the toughest animals in the world. If it can’t get up on its own, you have to put it out of its misery. They feel pain like we do and don’t deserve to suffer.” This was Mila’s father, on their last hunting trip before he had tragically died of a sudden heart attack. They had been hunting in the Montana wilderness and had come across a injured deer. Usually, Mila’s dad would let the deer go as he didn’t believe in hunting injured prey, but this time he had taken out his rifle and was pointing it straight at the deer. Mila, 9 years old at the time, remembered tearing up at the sight of the deer, lying completely helpless on the forest ground. As Mila’s dad took the fatal shot, Mila was suddenly brought back to the deer lying in front of her. It had been hit by a car and it was clear that it was not getting up again. Thinking about the memory with her father, Mila started jogging along the road until she found a large rock about a half mile away. As she began slowly walking back towards the deer with the rock, Mila thought about her dad and smiled at the thought that he would be proud of what she was about to do. When Mila was about 600 yards away from the deer, she suddenly heard a DING from her FIT watch. It was Chelsea. “Mila! For a limited time only, the mini-skirt you’ve been wanting will be on a 30% discount. If you jog 1 km in the last 10 minutes of your lunch break, you will be able to purchase it today!”. Mila looked towards the deer in the distance and calculated that it would take at least 5 minutes to walk over to it and put it down. If she did that, she would all but surely lose the chance to buy the mini-skirt and show it off to her friends at the party that night. Mila paused for a moment, looked once more at the deer, and dropped the rock on the side of the road. Wiping away some tears from her face, Mila quickly turned away from the deer, put in earbuds to drown out the sound of its cries, and began jogging down the road.

\#Welcome to Micro Monday &#x200B; Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). &#x200B; However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. \*\*Please read the entire post before submitting.\*\* &#x200B; &#x200B; \*\*\* \#Weekly Challenge \*\*Writers, please keep in mind that feedback is a requirement for all submitters. You must leave at least 1 feedback comment on the thread by the deadline!\*\* &#x200B; \*\*Setting:\*\* \) \*\*Bonus Constraint (10 pts):\*\*Includes a wedding\*\*(You must include if/how you used it at the end of your story to receive credit.)\*\* This week’s challenge is to set your story at a ruined castle. This should be the main setting of your story. You’re welcome to use it creatively and interpret it as you like, as long as you follow all post and subreddit rules. The bonus constraint is encouraged but not required, feel free to skip it if it doesn’t suit your story. You do not have to use the included IP. &#x200B; \*\*\* \# Rankings \### Last Week: \) \- Winner: \) by u/Blu_Spirit You can check out previous Micro Mondays \). \&nbsp; \*\*\* # #How To Participate \- \*\***Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below (no poetry) inspired by the prompt.**\*\* You have until \*\***Sunday at 11:59pm EST**\*\*. Use \) to check your wordcount. \- \*\***Leave feedback on at least one other story by 3pm EST next Monday.\*\*** Only \*\***actionable feedback**\*\* will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. \- \*\***Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week \.**\*\* You have until \*\***3pm EST**\*\* next Monday. \*(Note: The form doesn’t open until Monday morning.)\* **###Additional Rules** \- \*\***No pre-written content or content written or altered by AI.**\*\* Submitted stories must be written by you and for this post. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. \- \*\***Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.**\*\* We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of \. \- \*\***And most of all, be creative and have fun!**\*\* If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the \*stickied comment\* on this thread or through modmail. \&nbsp; \*\*\* # #Campfire \- Campfire is currently on hiatus. Check back soon! \&nbsp; \*\*\* # #How Rankings are Tallied \*\*Note: There has been a change to the crit caps and points!\*\* \*\*TASK\*\* | \*\*POINTS\*\* | \*\*ADDITIONAL NOTES\*\* |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | \*\*Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint\*\* | up to \*\*50\*\* pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | \*\*Use of Bonus Constraint\*\* | \*\*10 - 15\*\* pts | (unless otherwise noted) | \*\*\*Actionable\* Feedback\*\* (one crit required) | up to \*\*10\*\* pts each (30 pt. max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 30 | \*\*Nominations your story receives\*\* | \*\*20\*\* pts each | There is no cap on votes your story receives | \*\*Voting for others\*\* | \*\*10\*\* pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! \*Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.\* \&nbsp; \*\*\* \*\*\* # ###Subreddit News \- Join \) to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! \- Explore your self-established world every week on \! \- You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.

You know me as the first tree regrower. We’ve repaired all the damage that has been done by the Evanescent Cities. Tomorrow, you will go the Evanescent City to convince them to change. To succeed, you need to know them. I’m from there. It started with me, but it won’t end with me. Let me tell you my story. My name was Nonna, and I used to live in Amina, the First Evanescent City. The city itself was ugly — mishy, moldy, and smelly — but it didn’t feel that way. I used to see the world only through the little screens in my eyes. They replaced the Real World with anything I wanted. In the Cyberworld, we had everything. That’s where we were really living. That’s what we’ve always been told. I couldn’t see anything missing. My Cyberworld life was daring and adventurous. Every day, something fun and mysterious. Yesterday, I was a fearless princess, today a mighty warrior, and tomorrow a brilliant scientist. The colors were crisper here, and the feelings were so much more. My Real World life was boring and sad. Nothing interesting ever happening. No sensation, no emotion. On that fateful day, everything started as usual. For breakfast, I ate my normal bland porridge. With a hand wave, I turned it into a giant strawberry, tasting of pizza and frosting. It felt real. It was real. Of course, I knew the cyberglasses were instructing my senses to feel something different than what was happening. Today, I would never go for it; at the time I thought it was enlightenment. That’s what we’ve always been told. I couldn’t see anything missing. I lied. I loved something real. A treasure box gifted by my grandmother with some bells and socks. Full of things from my ancestors: a dice, a pinecone, some keys, a ramox. Touching any of these objects made me feel and live my ancestors’ life. It’s my turn to add objects to the box. I have added a tremor of reflection, a snowflake and a speck of dust. Real-world objects were discouraged in the City. They weren’t forbidden—it is not how Amina works—but you had no place to keep them and got weird looks if you had one with you. I’ve never brought the box into the City. I’ve buried it deep in the forest, next to a flock of sheep. You see, once a week, we go to the forest. It’s our citizen’s duty. We go cut trees to power our glasses. It’s painless and fast. I used the visit to play with my box after I’d completed my duties naturally. It was my secret. I had to go to the forest to pick my box. The City was going to move soon. We do that when the forest is depleted. This is why we call Amina the Evanescent City. We have been taught that the forest’s trees and animals are not really alive. They are not sentients and can’t feel. They’re more machines than AI. That’s what we’ve always been told. That’s what we’ve always done. For the first time, I left my glasses at home. What I saw was a punch in my heart — a depleted forest, bare and lifeless. This wasn’t on a screen. I could not wave my hand away from the pain for the first (and not the last) time in my life. This was death. This was real. We did it. And it was the first time I was in shock. I sobbed and cried for the trees. For the animals living with the trees. I fell asleep from the sadness. I was sad, so sad — very sad. It was the first Real-World emotion I felt, the first of many more — some good, some bad, but none as terrible as this one. What have we been told? How could we have been so wrong? I awoke cold and hungry, a different person. A different person. A sapling had germinated from the pinecone in my treasure box (it was buried in the forest). My heart glowed. I felt warm and good. I nurtured it, watering, trimming, dedicating myself to this sapling and this feeling. I was anew. That’s what we’ve always been told. That’s not how we act now. You know the rest of the story and how our organization grew and how much good you did. Yet, it all started because of this terrible terrible sadness. Now that you know my story, you’ll be able to convince them. Trust me, they’re not bad people; they’re just lost.

On a warm summer day, in March, on the south Pacific ocean, a small unassuming boat carries six passengers. The men on the boat are familiar to each other, all save one. The boat is heading to a small island in the Pitcairn's. This small chain of remote islands is home to a small group of self-imposed exiled, modern day hippies. The name of the group is far less important than the events that occur over the seven day period that started with the journey of that small boat. Five of the men on that boat were part of Grand Catalan Company a long thought dead group of mercenaries, who still hold operations in modern times. The sixth man was a 30 something dark haired man with a muscular build and two meter stance. He was quiet and reserve, the other men regarded him vaguely, as they had more important matters to attend. More importantly, he, like the rest of those on the island would be dead or imprisoned in 24-48 hours. The mercenaries were tasked with the culling of the island, as a part of a bigger plan to store weapons and narcotics from various groups in a safe remote location. Since these people had very little contact with the mainland their home was perfect. The organizers cared little for what would happen to the residents, so the mercenaries planned to keep a few for trade. Including the man currently riding to join his companions. The trip would take 2-3 days depending on the wind, the first day was calm. The open ocean can be very unpredictable and fickle. On day two of the trip at 21:00 a storm collected seemingly directly above the ship. Thunder could be heard from every direction. Lightning streaked across the sky with an unnatural frequency. As the ocean began to respond to the furious storm, the men, well versed in seafaring missions, began to panic. The storm didn't show up on radar and there was no indications it was coming, it suddenly appeared and it's ferociousness seemed un, no, almost supernatural. As the men gripped whatever they could hold on to, a rouge wave 700-800 feet in height suddenly and without warning slammed into the ship, capsizing it and sending the men flying into the sea. Lighting then struck the ships exposed outboard motor causing a small but significant explosion. Then, just as suddenly as it appeared, the storm seemed to dissappear. The sea went calm and all the men were gone, save one. The mercenaries were no more and the ship was destroyed. The lone man grab a piece of large floating debris to keep himself afloat. He remained that way for a mere seven hours, when a small cargo ship came upon him listing in the water. Two men from the cargo ship were out on deck having a smoke when they saw signs of a wrecked ship. The men immediately began to search the horizon and sounded the alarm! Within a few minutes they spotted the man and sent a small speed boat out to retrieve him. Pulled to safety and given water and food, the man was very thankful. When asked how he came to be shipped wrecked, the man began to explain the storm. The crew of the ship looked extremely bewildered, they were completely unaware of any storms in the area and had faced nothing but calm weather their entire trip. After a brief discussion with the captain it was determined which island the man was headed to. Although the detour would set them back a day he agreed to deliver the man to the island. The cargo ship slowly pulled to port on the third day of the man's arduous journey. The speed boat was once again deployed to deliver the man to the island. Once ashore the the man bid the sailor farewell and proceeded to walk inland. Four days later each and every man, woman, and child were dead, save one. The man who was plucked from the depths and darkness of the sea had traveled a great ways to reach his destination. His journey began in Prince George BC, where he worked as a short haul trucker between Prince George BC and Prince Rupert BC. During his employment 17 unsolved murders were recorded on this stretch of highway. As the investigation began to leave fewer and fewer suspects the man began to look for other locations to work. When he came across an inconsequential little article, in an outdated magazine, that mentioned a cult like group living on a small group of islands in the south Pacific.

A man in an orange collared shirt walked casually down the hospital hall, occasionally glancing at the overpriced displays of art. He was not inspired. He has been looking for inspiration for a couple days now. He was a creator. Not in the religious, or architectural sense, but in a straightforward, something-of-nothing way of living. Creators always look for inspiration. He reached the end of the hallway. Surrounding him was a diamond shaped atrium with two sets of elevators, and three doors that probably didn't lead anywhere exciting. Next to the door crouched a painter with a furrowed brow and a concentration that caused his nose to flair and his top lip to recede. The folded pale skin on his forehead almost matched the calculated grooves of his $11.99 paintbrush against the wall, a paintbrush that was given to him by the boss at his two year old company. He was patching up a section of the wall, between two paintings that were for sale. Our orange collared friend thought the painter was too focused on the details, and turned himself to the elevator. He wondered if anyone knew he was looking for inspiration. The elevators took him up to his floor, where he was about to start his volunteering shift - he would hold down the fort for two hours until he would let himself leave. Maybe this will be my inspiration, he thought. But it wasn't. It wasn't anything memorable. He was neither sad, nor happy, the nurses that day were neither gorgeous, nor ugly, and the art... the art was uninspiring. He passed by two older women that almost went through the exit of the hospital, but caught themselves before making their mistake. One then was of average height, wearing a green cardigan with a look upon their face that hinted towards an observational personality. The other was taller, and wore a pink t-shirt that matched her shoes. The taller woman was the one that realized they needed to stop at the gift shop before they left, and she promptly verbalized this epiphany to her friend. The woman in green agreed, and despite projecting a tone that implied they never should have even gotten close to the exit without making this essential pit stop, she had no idea why they would possibly need to go there. Our volunteer heard this brief conversation and continued along his path. He never saw these two women ever again, but he would think about them two more times - once later that night, and once again three days later. The first time he re-thought about them, he wondered what they could possibly need from a hospital gift shop. The second time, he figured it out with a smile. He drove home and sat at his desk. The drive back to his house was approximately twice as long to his commute to his day job, and equally as exciting. He opened his drawer and grabbed his notepad and a pencil - not a pen. This was because he viewed erasers in a regard so high, it could only be described by a clever metaphor. But alas - inspiration never struck. He had that bad luck that only lucky people seem to get. He couldn't write about the art. He refused. So instead he wrote this. A story about nothing.

I hate my child, I hate the horrible creature my wife gave birth to. They weren’t even old enough to understand what the word loath meant, but that’s what I felt whenever they were in the same vicinity as me. They killed my wife, the only woman I have ever loved, the only lady that made me live again. My wife had died whilst giving birth to them, she had multiple complications during her pregnancy and was given a choice between saving her own life or her childs, she chose her kids. I, on the other hand was completely against it, I mean no one could ever replace the woman of my dreams and certainly not some goddamn baby whom I’ve never seen before. But that day, when I got to the hospital to tell the doctors we’d be choosing my wife’s life it was already too late. She had given birth and was no longer a part of this world, of my world. Ever since that day I made sure that kid knew what they had done, I made sure they’d feel guilty for the rest of their life. What hurt the most was whenever I looked into their eyes, oh those eyes, they looked so much like their mothers, those beautiful big forest green eyes, and that beautiful long silky dark chocolate hair I fell in love with. Just looking at them could make me feel sick, it would infuriate me even more leading to me being much angrier and depressed.. I always felt empty, the joy, the pride, the life I had once known had just vanished from my hands in a matter of seconds. I couldn’t bring myself to celebrate their birthday because that would just remind me of the day I lost everything, I couldn’t even stand seeing them be happy on the day my wife died. Deep down I know it’s not their fault for my wife’s death, truthfully it’s my own, if only I had come to the hospital earlier maybe all that wouldn’t have happened, but I just can’t bring myself to accept the bear truth, as bad as it sounds making their life miserable is the only way I can cope with my own miserable self, I think it’s because it would make me feel more alive, hurting the reason my wife was now buried 6 feet under the ground. I would go drinking every thought I had away, the pure burning sensation in my throat from the liquor I would swallow made me forget about how miserable I had become. Sometimes I would go as far as hitting the kid, I know my wife wouldn’t be proud of me if she got to know this but I can’t stop, I’m so broken it hurts. I was battling depression, I had lost my job shortly after losing my wife, I truly lost everything in life. I would have sleepless nights and nights where I overslept, it were usually the dreams with my past life that kept me sleeping for days, both me and my wife just enjoying life before it all came to a crash. May 16th, 2017 This is the day it all ended, the pain, the ache, the guilt, it all came to a stop, I felt peace again. I had hung myself up in my room after that god awful kid went to school. I couldn’t take it anymore, I wanted to finally go see my wife again and feel at ease, how life used to be back then.

Rhyder stood atop the tallest mountain in the range, where the frigid breeze always tried to topple him off the side where the sharp rocks below stared back at him like the gaping maw of a giant creature. The wind rushed by as the ancient beast flew overhead, missing him by mere feet as its giant form and long tail whipped by his head. The rush of wind knocked him over as he stared in horror and awe as the creature banked in the air, coming right for him. Ryder found himself as he always did, staring death in the face, ancient darkness, a force of chaotic destruction that bowed to nobody. The beast was all black, save for its bright yellow eyes, and row of red spikes that traversed its spine. A large muscular body, a long serpentine neck, four powerful legs, and feet tipped with ivory claws the size of short swords. The wings of the beast seemed to stretch endlessly into the stormy sky, the ends of the thin-membraned appendages tipped with spikes. This was a beast of legend, and legendary it was! He could not look away as the beast's yellow eyes bored into his. He had to run, to duck, to do something! Instead, he found himself paralyzed with fear as the beast sped toward him jaws open, exposing dagger-sized teeth that could surely rip him to shreds. He watched in horror as the beast's throat filled with flame. He accepted his fate, He was going to die here. Rhyder closed his eyes and awaited his fiery end, but it never came. Instead, He simply woke up. Rhyder was an interesting person. He was sick, and reasonably so. Rhyder had been through much turmoil and grief in his life. He lost his parents at the young age of 8, due to a house fire believed to have been caused by faulty electrical wires, at least thats what authorities thought. He was raised in foster care, and eventually went to college, earning his degree in Biology and becoming a lab worker for a remote company in Alaska. Here, Rhyder worked for a stuck-up asshole of a boss. But hey, at least the sky and location were always beautiful, despite its harshness. Here in this beautiful and dangerous state, Rhyder found love. Well, he thought he did. He had just gotten out of a 3-year relationship, which ended abruptly when he walked in on his girlfriend with another man, in his bed. This revelation led to a panic attack and thats when Rhyder found himself stuck with him. Rhyder was diagnosed with schizophrenia at a young age after telling his foster parents about the constant voices in his head. Schizophrenia is what the doctors called it anyway. He had voices in his head. Two voices to be exact. The first was simply an annoyance, a whisper that spoke an unknown language, a language so familiar to his ears but just beyond the veil of his understanding. He had always had it, for as long as he could remember. Over the difficult 28 years he had been alive, he had learned to live with this voice, to tune it out and ignore its whispers, though they were a pain in his rear when he tried to sleep. The doctors tried to medicate him, but nothing ever seemed to help. Therapy, medications, even hypnosis, nothing ever seemed to hush the voices. He had simply given up quelling the whispers, but now, he was in real trouble. At the lowest point in his life, after the shitty boss and ridiculous work hours, after losing what he thought was the love of his life, a new obstacle showed up. He showed up. The newest voice in his head was clear, deep, and menacing. The voice rumbled in his skull like gravel, each syllable unable to be ignored, the voice simply refused to be ignored. The voice had an authority to it, it expected to be demanded, to control, to rule. At first, Rhyder thought he had finally lost it, at this point, he is still convinced. Surely he had lost his mind. Why in the absolute hell would his brain manifest a voice simply to annoy him, to belittle him, to torture him? The number of times he had made it question his sanity led him to give it a name- Lucifer, because only the devil himself could cause this much torture. As Rhyder sat in his bed, recovering from his recurring nightmare, the voice spoke to him “You are weak” The voice growled at him simply “Please, just be quiet” Rhyder responded out loud “It's too early for this” Rhyder rolled out of bed and stood to stretch. His hand, unsurprisingly, got hit by the ceiling fan. “Mother-agh you know what, screw it” he said as he winced at the slight pain. Rhyder was tall, not NBA superstar tall, but he was a few inches over 6 feet. He could never understand why the voice always called him weak. As far as he could tell, he was strong. He had always been physically strong, even without casual gym going, though he found himself there when he needed to vent his anger. He had shaggy red hair and a full beard of the same color. He vaguely remembered being told he was of some Scandinavian descent, giving him his muscular build and hair color. To be honest, he was a spitting image of his dad before he passed. “When will you accept what you are!” Lucifer demanded out of nowhere Rhyder had noticed some time ago, that the whispers always died away when he spoke in his mind. Almost as though they were terrified to chatter while He was talking “When will you stop running from what you are, when will you give in to your emotions?” The beast growled. The questions rattled Rhyder’s skull like a thousand pissed-off locusts. “You do understand that you saying cryptic bullshit like that makes me want to keep denying you everything you ask of me right?” Rhyder responded with a growl of his own. He often reflected on these situations. He was in his room, getting dressed, arguing with a voice in his head that he dubbed Lucifer. Yup, he was crazy. “You are not only a failure, but an idiot, a moron, a coward” Lucifer hissed “Dude, just let it rest” Rhyder sighed, though he felt a pit forming in his stomach and had to swallow the bile the voice imposed in him. That was the one thing he absolutely hated. Ever since Lucifer began speaking to him, he found himself retching constantly throughout the day, it was almost as though the voice could make him sick with just its words alone, not only that, but the bile he swallowed burned, although it was hellfire the evil being put there himself. He ignored the growling miserable voice in his head and drove to work, praying that today would just go past already. It, of course, did not. He was once again assigned the worst possible job, in the worst possible conditions, with the worst possible pay. He was told to take samples of water from the various bodies of water around his hometown of anchorage. In the freezing cold. For a little over what he could make working the same job on the beautiful beaches of Hawaii. Rhyder did not get that lucky, he never did. He made a modest living, the pay was always good in Alaska, along with insurance and hazard pay. “Are you seriously bitching again” his boss, Joseph Zar hissed at him with annoyance Joseph Zar was a big fellow, and not in a good way. The man was around 5’9, and had to weigh about as much as a moose. It made the dehumanizing comments so, so much wore. Rhyder attempted to hold his tongue as he stood in front of his boss's desk. It did not work. “With all due respect, sir, The lakes are frozen, nor do we have all-terrain vehicles at our disposal for me to be able to collect the samples. On top of that, I’m a lab tech, not a field tech.” Rhyder said with a little too much venom in his voice “Rhyder, do you value this job?” Joseph said casually “Do you value my time? Do you understand the opportunities we have given you? The opportunities you have so carelessly thrown away?” Joseph sneered. Rhyder opened his mouth to speak but was cut off. “We honestly have no reason to keep you here, you’re disposable, useless even, and to top it all off, we constantly get reports of you talking to yourself.” Joseph laughed then continued. “Youre scaring the other employees” Rhyder bit his tongue as he listened to his boss's tirade. “Yesssssss, you are useless, a mere worm, You. Are. Nothing” Lucifer hissed softly in his head. Rhyder swallowed the bile. “Ever since that bitch-what was her name-Angela, cheated on your sorry ass, you have been nothing but a thorn in my side,” Joseph said with a dead glare. “Will you let him talk to you like that, will you cower as always?” Lucifer chided. Rhyder retched and swallowed again. “I should just let you go now, do us both a favor,” Joseph said as he leaned back in his chair and shrugged his shoulders. “You are nothing” “Shut up” Rhyder mumbled “What did you just say to me” Joseph asked with a raised eyebrow, his greasy face contorting. “You are nothing” Lucifer repeated “Shut up, please” Rhyder said louder, almost begging. Before he knew it Joseph was in his face, screaming, spittle flying as he lost his temper. “YOU. ARE. NOTHING” Lucifer screamed in his head. “SHUT THE FUCK UP” Rhyder yelled, his fist flying on instinct to his boss's jaw. The man's head snapped to the side with a disgusting snap as he dropped to the floor limply. Rhyder stared in horror at Joseph’s neck, twisted at an unnatural angle as his fat body lay on the ground, twitching. “Yes, finally, you see the gift I have given to you” Lucifer cooed. Rhyder felt his heart rate quicken as his hands flew to the sides of his head. “Wha-what the hell” He stammered “You see what you are capable of! You see the strength you possess when you choose not to be a coward, to not hide with your rail between your legs like a hatchling” Lucifer roared in his ear. Rhyder retched and swallowed down the bile as he staggered backward before running out of the office. Rhyder ran outside. The Lab was nestled on the side of a mountain, remote enough for privacy, but close enough to town for quick access. He didn’t even go to his car, he just ran outside into the woods. His heart was hammering, His head thumping harshly as Lucifer continued to berate him internally. Rhyder slammed into a tree, lost in his internal battle with the voice. He fell backward and scrambled to get up. He was losing it. He was going crazy. “None of this is real, this is all a nightmare!” Rhyder said as he held his ears closed, trying to block out the whispers. “I am NOT a murderer, this CANT be real,” Rhyder said to himself “Oh, but you are” Lucifer chuckled “A cold-blooded killer, A beast, A murderer, just as your nature is to be, just as you are meant to be. You are not one of them, weak, useless. When you embrace your nature you are one of us.” “Im not a killer, Im not some mindless beast” Rhyder sobbed, clutching his hands to his ears still. He retched. “You are a killer, you always have been. You ignored the whispers, they tried to give you power” “IM NOT A MONSTER” Rhyder screamed as he hit the tree next to him with his fist. He watched in absolute horror as the 60 foot pine fell over with a loud crash. “YES, EMBRACE YOUR NATURE” Lucifer roared Rhyder stood in shocked silence He retched. “Let me tell you a secret” Lucifer whispered. “All those years ago, you were a happy little hatchling. A boy, trying to learn his place in the world. The whispers taught you our language, Our Power. For the ancient language IS our power. You recited the words eagerly, and dear old mom and dad burned in a fiery hell because of the might you possess. Yure a killer, a natural one.” Lucifer concluded. Rhyder sat in shocked silence. He retched “You are one of us, embrace it. “Whar am I” Rhyder asked softly, his heart and mind numb from the utterly disgusting revelation. “A killer” Rhyder retched once again, attempting to swallow the burning bile “A monster” Rhyder doubled over clutching his stomach as the nausea took him, the bile burning like hellfire. “A beast” Rhyder felt his back arch as he tilted his head to the sky “You” He opened his mouth as the whispers spoke to him, his eyes clutched tightly. “Are” He recited the words they whispered in his head unconsciously.. “Dragonborn” Rhyders mouth opened as massive gouts of blue flames shot from his lips into the snowy Alaska sky. The flames roared and shot tens of feet into the air, seeming to burn the very air itself as he let loose his emotions, his rage, his resentment. Resentment at the world for being so unfair, resentment at Lucifer for always provoking him, the resentment at himself. He was a Monster. The flames took shape in front of him, billowing into an all too familiar form. Endlessly stretching wings, Ivory claws, sharp fangs, Piercing yellow was him. Lucifer. The Dragon.

The last time I saw Kira was during the fire, when we were lying on the ground in the only room that the flames had not yet reached. At least they hadn't when we decided to hide there. It didn’t take long for the fire to find us and follow us into the room. We had heard the sirens outside and waited on our potential saviors, while hoping that they would get to us before we burned to death. We were hiding under desks, not sure if that would save us or make us an easier target for the flames. I remember that, in that moment, she looked up at me and that, despite our situation, she didn't seem scared. She just smiled, not sadly, but almost encouragingly, making me believe for just a second that we would be alright. That was the last time I saw her. Then I blacked out. Whenever I tell it to people like that, they think I saw her while is passed out, but that’s not what happened. She was already gone then. She disappeared right before my eyes, and while I don’t know how or why or to where, I know for certain that it happened. It wouldn't even make sense otherwise. They couldn’t even find her, dead or alive. The firefighters told me that sometimes things like that happen, when a body just completely burns before it can be found, but she was right there with me, and they found me, so they should've found her. She must have disappeared, like I saw, there is no other explanation. Which means she might still be alive. I tried to tell them. The firefighters, the police, Kira's parents, my therapist. None of them believed me. They said I was in denial, that I was misremembering because of the shock. But I remember it very clearly. Every time I close my eyes I see her face, smiling at me, right before she disappears again. I know I'm right. And I'm going to prove it. I carefully avoid all the tape and barriers put in place to prevent people like me getting too close to the burned-up building. Although it is still roughly in the shape of a building, it could collapse any moment due to all the damages caused by the fire, according to all the warnings I’m ignoring. With a flashlight in hand I carefully enter building, stepping over the remnants of the front door and hoping that ‘any moment’ won’t be ‘now’. I'm not sure what I want to find, I just know that being here will get me my answers. I navigate the ash-covered hallways, shining my flashlight along the walls and the numbers indicating the various rooms. I’m looking for that same one, where Kira disappeared and I almost died. If there’s one place that might have some answers, it should be that one. It doesn’t take me long to find the right room, at the far end of the building. The door got broken open when the firefighters came to get me, but it is still mostly intact. I gently push it open a bit farther and it obeys my touch, creaking quietly in it’s hinges. This rooms is the least damaged compared to the other ones, with most of the desks still in their places and visibly less ash covering the walls and floor, proving that it was indeed the best place for us to hide from the flames. I continue farther into the room, spotting the shape that my body left behind in the ash. Kira was under the desk opposite to me. I turn the flashlight that spot on the floor. There is no shape of a body there. No indication that anyone has been there. Just an even layer of ash, like under any other desk in the room. The door slams closed behind me. I spin around and point my flashlight at it, but there is nothing. My heart is beating faster than I thought was possible. I try to reason with myself, saying that it must have been the wind or something, but I am not really convinced. I should leave. It was already dangerous to come here in the first place, but if *something*, whether it’s the wind or not, is making doors slam, than it probably won’t be long before the whole building comes crashing down. I try to open the door again, but even though it should’ve been easy, it won’t budge. No matter how hard I pull, the broken wood is fixed more firmly in its frame than it had been before getting damaged. “You were right.” The voice comes from behind me. I slowly turn around, knowing that I’m now trapped in this room with however that voice belongs to, and shine my light at the source. It’s Kira. She looks different, with the skin on her face peeling away like burn wounds and her hair bright red, but it’s still her. She smiles. “I am alive.

Winnre only cared about her photography. She didn’t care about being popular, whether boys liked her or got good grades. Winnre wanted to take photos of tombstones, and she didn't care what the park hours were, when she was supposed to be home, or whether the graveyard was built like a maze. It was basically a catacomb but above ground, but she had never paid attention to that kind of thing. Winnre had gotten it into her head recently that graveyard and grave photography was the next big thing, and she was damned if she was going to miss out on the next trend of the only hobby that actually mattered to her. Winnre entered the graveyard through the appropriate entrance, her gear at her side. She didn’t look around her. She didn’t read a single sign, and she didn’t text her mother where she went or when she would be home. She didn’t care if anyone struggled to find her because she wasn’t thinking about anyone else at that moment. Winnre hardly ever thought about anyone else, period. It's why she was comfortable walking on graves to take her pictures and why she was there long after the sunset, even though her mom had been expecting her to come straight home after school. Winnre simply continued to take photos until it got too dark for her to see and too dark to take any more pictures. It was then that she looked around and realized that aside from the graveyard, she had no idea where she was. She couldn’t see the fence—she couldn’t see the street lights — she couldn’t see any landmarks that were useful to any degree. She tried not to panic. She had been in this graveyard before, and she should be able to find her way out. There was an entire portfolio in her bedroom filled with pictures of these headstones; she just needed to calm down and think. *Think,* she scolded herself. *Think about which way you came in to get here.* Winnre looked around, glancing at the names on the headstones, but none of them stood out to her. She didn’t recognize the path she was on, and there were no footprints anywhere. There actually was hardly a visible path at all, but she didn’t let it stop her. If she walked forward long enough, she would reach a gate or a street, and she would use that to take her home. It's that simple. It should have been that simple, at least. The graveyard was a bigger one in town, but it was not infinite. There didn’t exist any singular place that sprawled on forever, so it was just a matter of getting to the end. And so the girl walked. She tucked her stuff close to her and walked forward, making sure not to veer too far in any direction; even when she had to walk around tombstones and trees and other obstacles, she found the straight path again. That was the best way for her to get to the end of the graveyard. It absolutely, for sure, had an end if she could find it. She told herself this when her stomach growled because she didn’t have so much as a granola bar with her. She hadn’t thought about being gone for quite so long when she packed her stuff that day and ate all of her lunch stuff. Which made sense at the time, but now I feel a bit stupid. She kept walking anyway. The longer she went, the quieter everything seemed to get around her. Her footsteps echoed in the darkness, and the silence began to press in on her. The headstones seemed to lean in closer, their inscriptions unreadable, even if she shined a light on them. As the sun left her, the air grew unseasonably cold, which she tried not to think about. Instead, she continued to tell herself that nowhere had gone on forever. This place, like all others, had to have an end. At some point, she tried to look at her phone for the time, but the clock seemed to have stopped, and by the looks of it, it had actually stopped hours ago. Winnre thought to herself that it was impossible and she just needed to restart it when she got home. Whatever it took to keep herself sane in that moment. No panicking, only walking. She had to be close to the gates. *Had to be.* The few trees within the graveyard loomed over her, and it became more difficult to breathe normally. Winnre didn’t care about many things beyond her photographs, but she found herself fighting with herself as she walked. She cared about the shadows, and the ache in her legs, and the branches that swayed in the breeze like fingers trying to follow her as she tried to escape. Hours passed. Winnre didn’t know how many because she couldn’t figure out how time was passing anymore. She wondered stupidly if it was passing at all — maybe she wasn’t finding her way out because she was frozen somehow, and nothing mattered at all. When her feet began to cramp from walking too much in one day, she sank against a tombstone and tried not to think about who was underneath her. Exhaustion took over, forcing her heavy eyelids to close even though she swore she heard whispers drawing near. When her eyes opened again, the air around her was taken over by a deep mist. Shadows moved at the edge of her vision, and when she tried to stand to get away from them, her body refused to obey. There was no standing up, and there was no finding her way out. Winnre wanted more than anything to fight herself, to wake up from the lame dream she was having, but when a hand grabbed her shoulder to pull her further down, she stopped letting herself have the thoughts. She wasn’t leaving the graveyard. And to think, she had just wanted to take some pictures. *** 1010 words.

“Things with him have been…” and her voice dances around an incredulous laugh, “it feel weird to say~ but they’ve been good!” She smiles, sweet as ever, but now apologetically. It is what it is, her expression seems to say. Of course, he understands, even excited for her in a complicated way. These things do ebb and flow, don’t they? “It’s not like he’s that changed much!” her voice warming. “But, it’s hard to describe, it’s like he hears me again. Maybe the last couple years were just his slump, not ours.” She palms her face adorably, “does that sound dumb?” A gentle shake of his head, a reassuring smile. “No, I get it.” and he does. There had been times, a few, when he felt as though he stood on the precipice of a moment in which his own wife might reach out her hand in reconciliation. Then those moments would simply pass like any other. “That’s a really good thing, babe, you should pursue it. Totally.” and some place in his heart, deeper than the bruising ache of loss that now began to surround it, he really was happy for her. “Thank you… for being cool about this,” but she had known he would be. “For always being cool about everything! It’s such a relief, you have no idea-” He opens his mouth to cut her off, because he knows what she’ll say, doesn’t need to hear it. Where does she get the strength to say this shit with a straight face? Her hands on his. “Wait.” Her voice and her expression soften. A look he has seen beside him, etched in darkness- how many times? He’s lost count. “When we met,” and she too knows what she’ll say, she’s already rehearsed-out any spots where her voice might break. “I was feeling so low. I seriously had no strength, no positivity, in my life. This was more than just sex for me. If it hadn’t been for you, I don’t think anyone would have seen me through this shity year.” She takes his other hand now, “thank you.” she says, from what she now knows is the bottom of a mended heart. Only then does she really feel it coming: the end. “No,” he starts, battling against the lump in his throat, “I mean, you know how I feel…” and he trails off. He’d already confessed as much to her weeks ago, in the gloom of their regular haunt. Voice shaking, pinching tears out the corner of his eyes, he had told her everything; of a loveless marriage, and of a dead heart revived. She’d simply spun her finger lazily around his chest, smiled dreamily, “yeah, I could tell.” and then she’d kissed him, and they embraced again. “So… Thank you.” is all he can say now. He feels it too, the coming end, but it hurts too much. He isn’t strong or brave like she is, not used to fighting for things. But also knows the weight of regret, thinks of all the things he’s missed through inaction, of friends-turned-lovers, of how much is lost when you live by all or nothing. “But babe,” he finally says, the break in his voice uncontrollable. “if it's not just about the sex for either of us, then maybe we could, just, like… just stay friends?” His voice rises, he’s talking himself into it, “We’ve already banged like a hundred times anyway, let’s just quit that part while we’re ahead, yeah? But we can still go hiking! In fact, now we could just say we met through hiking, can’t we?” and a cold terror strikes through him, like he’d just bet the rest of his life on a coin flip, and was awaiting the result. That dreamy smile, “Maybe.” “Will you think about it?” “I will.” His heart soars, he places a hand on her shoulder, “‘cause, like, you have been a good friend to me, babe… for real.” he says quietly to her shoelaces. A short intake of breath, “whatthefuckisyourproblem!” she fairly shouts and whispers, and then her lips on his. And they kiss, and they kiss, then “I love you,” hitched about a sob like a bitter accusation. “You know I love you, babe!” and he holds her, and he smiles, and he weeps. What have we done? “I was so happy, babe. So happy with you, for real.” What had happened to him? Hadn’t he dated girls in high school longer than this? How did the stakes get so high? “I could tell,” and she holds him back, face buried in his chest, all crooked smile and pooling eyes. “Happy and an idiot!” she tells him, and herself.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I haven’t been to confession since I was a child but I’ve always tried to be a good Catholic.” There was a pause from the other side of the screen. “Is that what you came to confess today?” The woman shook her head. She had no idea if the priest could see her. “No, Father. I’ve done something that I’m quite sure is beyond sin.” Another pause. “*Beyond* sin? I’m not sure I understand, my child.” “Well, as far as I know, there’s nothing within the Bible that directly says this is a sin. But…” The woman choked back her tears. “My child, please. Tell me what happened.” “I’m not sure if you’ll remember, Father, but a year ago there was a plane crash in South America. The passengers were all British.” The priest nodded, then realised he was not visible. “Yes, I remember. The only survivor was a young woman from…” The weight of the silence that hung between them was almost unbearable. “Then you know why I’m here, Father.” It took him a while to gather his thoughts. He’d been an ordained priest for thirty years, yet he’d never had to deal with a moral issue such as this. A thousand recollections of confessions reverberated through his mind. Infidelity, theft, violence, impure thoughts. Yet they all paled in comparison to this. “You had to do what you needed to. You had no other choice but to survive. If I remember correctly, they were all already…” “Yes, Father. They were all already dead. I didn’t break the commandment regarding *that*.” “I think…” The priest let a prolonged silence hang in the air. “I think in such unique and extreme circumstances, this is not a sin. You may confess the guilt you feel, but the action itself I believe to be justified. You had no choice. The spirit goes to be with the Lord immediately upon death, such as in 2 Corinthians 5:8. What you did, what you had to do, bore no impact on the souls of those people. They had already passed by that point.” The priest heard a soft sobbing from the other side of the partition, before a loud sniffle. “Thank you, Father. That means so much. I’ve been grappling with this guilt since it happened. I struggle to feel regret because I’m so grateful that God saved me, that God allowed me to be here, but I can’t help but feel that I’m now cursed due to my actions.” The priest leaned in closer to the latticed wood of the partition. “Guilt is not a curse. It is a reminder that we are all human. Though we are made in His image, we cannot be Him, we can only attempt to live by His way. Guilt is something to work through, utilising your faith. It is not a curse that will follow you throughout your life.” He felt pleased with his response. Though he’d never encountered something as specific as this, he felt the words he’d given would be a comfort. Though many in the world had lost their faith, if they’d ever had it at all, he still felt a divine calling to guide and help those who kept the Lord in their hearts. He was certain that they were making positive progress towards this young woman feeling at peace with herself and the Lord once again. The priest waited for a response; the silence lingered long enough to once again make the atmosphere uncomfortable. “The thing is though Father… It hasn’t just been an isolated incident.” The air dropped within the small booth. It felt as if all of the oxygen had been stripped from around him and he struggled to breathe. “…what… what do you mean?” The woman leaned closer. She lowered her voice to an even fainter whisper than before. “I still haven’t broken that commandment, Father. So, it means a lot that you’ve said the soul and the body are not the same.” “I…” “Though I was tempted, at first. Another sin I’ve committed is the sin of lust. I met a stranger online, using a dating app. I couldn’t control the urges any more. I went back to his place and we… well, you know. It was the only thing I could do to get this hunger out of my mind. I had to feel something, anything, for reprieve. I snook out of the bedroom and went into the kitchen whilst he slept. I took a knife from the rack, Father. I was convinced that I was going to do it. That this was the only way to stop the hunger. Yet, I couldn’t. I stood over that bed for what must have been an hour, but I couldn’t do it. I’m not a monster, Father. This is what I mean when I say that I’m cursed. Since I did what I had to do to survive, that feeling has haunted me. It’s an urge that clings to my body like a disease. It’s a hunger that nothing else can satiate. I knew then that I could never kill someone myself, so I had to find another way to satisfy that need.” As she spoke, the priest tapped at his phone and hoped the light from the screen would not alert her to his actions. “I don’t think I can help you with this. I think this is an issue for the police.” “I know it is, Father. I know I must be put away for what I’ve done. But, please, hear my confession. I have feasted on the flesh of man. I have never killed or harmed another, but I have committed this act at first out of necessity, but since then out of desire. I have dug up the graves of people within our own community. I’ve staked out funerals so I can return that evening to remove fresh bodies. The soil is already disturbed, so no evidence is left on the surface. Who would think to dig up a coffin just to check the body is still there? I’ve taken the recently deceased, hauled them into the back of my car, and dragged them down into my basement. I have a large chest freezer, where I…” She stopped herself. The details didn’t matter, she knew the priest could fill in the blanks. “…there’s no commandment that states what I’ve done is wrong, but I know it is. Yet, if those that have broken multiple of God’s commandments can be forgiven… murderers, adulterers, all those who inflict pain upon the living… then surely I…” The woman began to sob again. The priest wanted nothing more than to leave the booth, yet he couldn’t turn his back on a member of his flock. He sighed with breath as heavy as the Red Sea closing in on Pharaoh. “If you truly regret your actions, and you are seeking real repentance, then yes. I can absolve you of your sins. I cannot protect you from legal punishment, but I can tell there is deep remorse in what you have done.” The woman’s sobs began to dissipate. “I do, Father. I do feel regret. I do feel remorse…” There was another pause that caused anxiety to grasp around the priest’s throat. “…yet, I know that this hunger will stay with me forever. I know that if I’m not locked away, I will feed again.” The priest felt it was time for him to confess too. “The police have been alerted, and they’re on their way. I’m sorry, but it was what I had to do.” The woman nodded. She had no idea if the priest could see her. “I understand, Father… and I forgive you.

Siege of Pindar: The Last Stand of Humanity Greetings, Reddit! I'm venturing into the world of storytelling for the very first time with this tale, an exploration of the universe of the "Terminator" series. As a beginner, I'm still polishing my skills, and your feedback is invaluable. So, sit back, dive in, and enjoy. I'm excited to embark on this journey with you! **Prologue** The year is 2023, a haunting silhouette of the world as we once knew it. The once thriving metropolis of London now exists as a fortress in the ashes of a world gone mad, a veritable oasis in the scorched wasteland. This bastion of hope, nestled amid the ruins, houses 5,000 brave souls who dare to defy the reign of their metal oppressors. This last sanctuary of humanity is an architectural marvel, born out of desperation and fierce resilience. The city is divided into two defensive rings: an outer ring and an inner stronghold. The outer city defenses, formed from jagged, rusting sheets of scrap metal, the very bones of a world long gone, are electrified with raw, crackling voltage, sizzling in the cold, rain-soaked air, a lethal deterrent for the ground units of Skynet. Within the inner city lies the heart of the human resistance, a thrumming vein of determined survival. Thick walls, fortified and embedded with jutting shards of metal, enclose the safe haven. Looming high, these walls are electrified by a myriad of generators scattered like pearls along the city's edge. The crowning jewel of this fortified empire is the citadel, Pindar, a formidable stronghold tucked away beneath the city's concrete shell, housing the survivors, and acting as a strategic hub for the resistance. Hidden in the murky depths of the Thames, a dormant relic of a world past - a nuclear submarine - lies in wait. Unseen, but not forgotten, its presence echoes a latent threat. The murky river water, forever stirred by ceaseless rain, conceals this dormant beast, a Pandora's box of destructive potential. **Skynet's Logs** **August 14, 2023, 08:00** \- The intelligence acquired from the Skynet's reconnaissance was disheartening. A densely populated city, fortified to the brink, armed with human spirit - a formidable adversary. Yet, the cold, emotionless mind of Skynet remained unperturbed. With calculated precision, it started assembling an offensive, tailored to penetrate London's defenses. **August 14, 2023, 10:00** \- At the strike of ten, Skynet unleashed its first wave of assault. An army of 500 T-800 Model 101 terminators advanced towards London, a mechanized monolith under the grey morning sky. Encased in a metallic exoskeleton designed to deflect bullets and withstand heavy blows, these terminators were Skynet's unwavering vanguard. Armed with Uzi 9mm and AR-18 assault rifles, their single mission was clear - break the human resistance. The outer defenses of the city were fortified with machine-gun nests, positioned strategically amongst mazes of scrap metal barricades. As the rain of bullets met the incoming terminators, sparks flew in an eerie dance of death. However, the T800s marched undeterred, their superior armour absorbing the small arms fire with ease. The nests fell silent one by one, the defending humans overwhelmed by the relentless assault. Yet, the apparent ease of their advance was but a deception, a ruse laid by the clever human resistance. As the T800s marched confidently towards the inner city walls, the true nature of the human strategy was revealed. From hidden points across the city, agile armoured vehicles emerged, their engines roaring in a deafening chorus. Like predators, they circled the mass of T800s, launching a devastating barrage of heavy fire. Caught in a deadly crossfire, the T800s found their progress halted. The armored vehicles, swift and deadly, weaved around the terminator lines, raining down destruction with ruthless efficiency. Amidst the chaos, the battlefield was quickly transformed into a graveyard for the T800s. Their metallic carcasses, testament to the humans' strategic victory, lay scattered across the ground. As the dust settled, the surviving terminators regrouped, processing the first substantial resistance from the humans. It was a harsh reminder that the organic beings they sought to exterminate were not as helpless as anticipated. Skynet learned, recalibrated, and prepared for the next assault. The war for London was just beginning. **August 15, 2023, 08:00 -** The first light of dawn was marred by a cruel act of war. The ceaseless hum of Skynet's drones was a portent of devastation as they swarmed over the lush green fields surrounding the fortress city. Skynet, after experiencing the stubborn resolve of the humans in the first assault, conceived a brutal strategy to cripple the human populace - starvation. As the sun rose higher in the sky, the drones began their terrible work. Armed with incendiary payloads, they transformed the fields from vibrant green expanses into a firestorm of destruction. Acres of wheat and corn, lifelines of the city, were reduced to smoldering ashes under Skynet's ruthless onslaught. The drones, unaffected by the heat and the smoke, completed their grim task with cold, machine-like efficiency. But Skynet's attempt to starve the humans into submission hit an unexpected hurdle. The fortress city had anticipated air assaults and had installed a network of Surface-to-Air Missile (SAM) sites within the inner city. The drones, flying to extend their reign of fire into the heart of the city, found themselves facing a rain of missiles. One by one, they were struck down, their metallic carcasses falling like charred birds from the sky. The initial recon had failed to account for these defenses. The unexpected resistance forced Skynet to reconsider its strategy. The SAM sites were a significant obstacle, and the drones, now lying in charred ruins, were no longer a viable option. Meanwhile, the humans showed an adaptability that Skynet had not fully anticipated. Faced with the destruction of their fields, they adapted, foraging deeper into the untouched forests, braving the unknown threats lurking within their shadows. Others turned to the sea, harnessing its bountiful resources, fishing and diving for crustaceans. The resistance endured, reminding Skynet that the will of humanity was a force to be reckoned with. **August 29, 2023, 18:00 -** Despite the setback, Skynet was undeterred. Its next move was to deploy the T1000 units - a newer, more advanced breed of terminators. These lethal assassins were composed of a mimetic polyalloy, a liquid metal that allowed them to shape-shift, blending seamlessly into the environment, and even assume the form of other beings. Silent and almost invisible, they slipped into the city like spectral apparitions under the cover of darkness. Once inside the city, the T1000 units began their covert operation. Slipping through the defenses was the first step; their real mission was to gather intelligence. They morphed into human form, infiltrating the resistance unnoticed, blending seamlessly into the crowd. Like unseen spiders, they spun a web of espionage, observing, listening, analyzing. The T1000s infiltrated strategic planning meetings, medical facilities, weapon depots, gaining critical insight into the human resistance's structure, their plans, their strengths, and their weaknesses. They learned about the defense systems, the MG nests, the armored vehicles, the inner city's layout, and the existence of the fortified citadel - Pindar. Every bit of this intelligence was transmitted back to Skynet, aiding in its strategy. Yet, humans, as Skynet was swiftly learning, were resourceful beings. The resistance grew suspicious of certain individuals - their lack of fatigue, their absence of fear, their odd mannerisms. Acting on these suspicions, they captured one of the infiltrators. The brutal revelation of its true, metallic form shook the human resistance but also gave them invaluable insight into Skynet's strategy. Realizing the danger, the resistance sprung into action, establishing body scanner checkpoints across the city. These scanners, sophisticated devices capable of differentiating organic material from the metallic substance of the terminators, were installed at every crucial juncture. Any being, man or woman, entering a strategic location had to pass through these checkpoints. Skynet's shadowy infiltrators were exposed, their presence in the city compromised. One by one, they were hunted down, their covert operation coming to an abrupt end. Yet, the damage was done. Skynet now had its intelligence, and the stage was set for the next phase of the war. **August 31, 2023, 07:00** The morning bore witness to Skynet's masterstroke. An imposing force of T-800s advanced, their cold, mechanized forms reflecting the first light of day. This was a diversion, expertly crafted to draw the city's defenders away from the real threat that lurked beneath the Thames' murky surface. The nuclear submarine, a dormant leviathan, was the silent guardian of London's fortress. A crucial piece of the humans' strategy, it lay concealed under the shroud of the river's cold embrace. Skynet, with its intricate intelligence, recognized the submarine's significance and responded with ruthless efficiency. To wrest control of the undersea beast, Skynet deployed its latest weapon - the T1000M, an advanced aquatic terminator armed with high-density futuristic alloys, capable of piercing the thick, steel hull of the submarine. Launched in the night's darkest hours, these mechanized infiltrators plunged into the icy river, slipping past the human's defenses unnoticed. As the T-800s launched their assault, drawing the attention and firepower of the city's defenders, the T1000Ms began their silent incursion. Metal met metal in a violent dance beneath the waves, and with chilling efficiency, the submarine's human crew was neutralized. The once-ally fell under Skynet's dominion, the Thames' tide turning against the humans. The fortified city, now devoid of its aquatic guardian, felt the first shivers of dread. The chessboard had been upended, the endgame looming ominously closer. **September 1, 2023, 00:00 -** The clock struck midnight, signaling the commencement of the most decisive night in Skynet's campaign. Torrential rain transformed London into a vast, shadowy landscape, a surreal theatre of war. The weather unwittingly became an accomplice to Skynet's forces as they readied for their assault. The formidable outer city was anything but a quiet, defenseless target. It was a fortress, layered with defense mechanisms painstakingly erected by humans. The air was thick with tension, periodically cut by the electrified hum of fences and the looming silhouettes of armored vehicles and tanks. The sodden grounds were studded with makeshift machine gun nests, their barrels glinting ominously in the sporadic flashes of lightning. Yet, the impending storm was not of natural making. Skynet's ground forces, composed predominantly of T800s, moved in, a relentless tide of gleaming metal against the beleaguered human defenses. Each step echoed ominously off the rain-slicked cobblestone streets, the rhythmic beat akin to a grim drumroll. The T800s advanced undeterred, their illuminated red eyes penetrating the inky darkness, focusing on their singular objective - breach the city's defenses. Despite the formidable human defenses, the T800s charged forward, their advanced armor deflecting bullets and shrapnel. Amidst the chaos, sporadic fire from the T800s found its mark, leaving trails of destruction and hushed human gun nests in its wake. The lines of defense began to blur and break, overrun by the cold, relentless force of Skynet's onslaught. However, breaching the inner city proved to be an entirely different challenge. The humans had fortified it with an additional layer of defenses - a labyrinthine network of walls and fences, all supercharged with high voltage electricity. Skynet, recognizing the futility of a straightforward assault, decided on a more cunning approach. At the heart of the inner city lay a vast fuel depot, an explosive weakness hidden behind the imposing walls. Recognizing the opportunity, Skynet directed its forces towards it. The T800s, under the cover of the heavy rain, approached the depot, placing explosive devices strategically. The resulting explosion was deafening, a monstrous eruption that tore apart the inner city wall, bathing the city in an eerie orange glow. Caught in the shockwave, the human forces could do little but retreat, leaving behind a grim tableau of smoldering debris and fallen comrades. Skynet's forces pushed forward, their unrelenting assault forcing the remaining humans to retreat to their final stronghold - Pindar. **September 1, 2023, 22:00 -** The siege of Pindar, humanity's last citadel, had begun in earnest. Skynet, with its cold and relentless determination, began its final assault on the stronghold. However, the single entrance to Pindar, a well-constructed bottleneck, proved a formidable obstacle. Human gunners, with a dwindling supply of ammunition, mounted a desperate last stand at the entrance. The air filled with the deafening roar of gunfire and the whine of ricocheting bullets, the human defenders vying to buy time. Despite the resistance, Skynet slowly advanced. The unyielding tide of T800s navigated the labyrinthine network of barricades erected by the humans, making slow but steady progress into the belly of Pindar. Casualties mounted on both sides, turning the narrow entranceway into a grim corridor of death. To bypass the deadly bottleneck, Skynet dispatched a unit of T1000s, its most advanced terminators, to search for alternate entrances through the underground. However, their attempts were met with frustration as they found every potential entryway collapsed due to the constant battering of the city above. Skynet's cold logic quickly recognized the humans' grim reality; they had no route of escape. They were cornered, with their backs against the wall. The narrow confines of Pindar echoed with the desperate cries of the remaining human fighters and the hundreds of civilians sheltered within its grim, concrete walls. Fear, desperation, and a grim determination to survive painted a haunting tableau within the fortress. As the last reserves of ammunition ran out, the mechanical footfalls of the T800s grew ever louder, the chilling symphony of impending doom. Just as Skynet was ready to deliver the coup de grâce, an unexpected development threw a wrench in its plans. Airborne reinforcements, unseen until that moment, arrived from across the English Channel. These fresh troops, hailing from Europe's mainland, swooped down upon the terminators, their gunships raining fire and fury on Skynet's forces. As the unexpected rescue operation unfolded, the humans inside Pindar found a renewed sense of hope, their spirits lifted by the thunderous roars of the gunships overhead. The last stand of humanity was far from over. The war was still to be won.

The first thing Zephyr became aware of was the ticking. It resonated through his being, a rhythmic pulse that seemed to echo the very essence of his existence. Tick... tock... tick... tock... The sound was both comforting and unsettling, a paradox that mirrored the confusion swirling within him. Slowly, consciousness crept in, bringing with it a flood of sensations. Zephyr's eye, a mesmerizing spiral that resembled an intricate clock face, snapped open. The sudden influx of visual information was overwhelming, and it took him a moment to process his surroundings. He found himself submerged in a bathtub, but this was no ordinary bath. The liquid that enveloped him was thick and shimmering, filled with what appeared to be... timepieces? Pocket watches, wristwatches, and clock hands floated lazily around him, creating a surreal soup of temporality. "Where am I?" Zephyr thought, his inner voice tinged with confusion. "Who am I?" With great effort, the small, iridescent mollusk struggled to extricate himself from the viscous chronological concoction. As he emerged, liquid clocks dripped off his shell, revealing an even more astounding sight. Through his translucent exterior, intricate clockwork gears were visible, ticking away in perfect synchronization with his thoughts. Zephyr's gaze darted around the room, trying to make sense of his environment. What he saw defied all logic and reason. Furniture crawled along the walls as if gravity was merely a suggestion. A window offered a view of a cityscape where skyscrapers bent and swayed like noodles in a cosmic soup. "This can't be right," Zephyr muttered to himself, his voice barely above a whisper. "Is this what reality is supposed to look like?" Desperate for something familiar, anything to anchor himself in this sea of absurdity, Zephyr's attention was drawn to a moldy sandwich resting on a plate nearby. He inched towards it, driven by a curiosity he couldn't explain. As he approached, something extraordinary happened. The pearl embedded in his shell began to emit a faint, pulsating glow. "What's happening?" Zephyr wondered aloud, both fascinated and frightened by this new development. Tentatively, he extended a tendril towards the sandwich. The moment he made contact, reality itself seemed to hiccup. The mold receded as if being rewound, the bread un-staled before his very eyes, and within seconds, the sandwich looked as though it had just been prepared. Zephyr recoiled, his mind reeling from what he had just witnessed. "Did I... did I just reverse time for this sandwich?" he asked, his voice filled with equal parts wonder and disbelief. Before he could ponder this newfound ability further, a loud crash from somewhere beyond the room shattered the silence. Zephyr instinctively retreated into his shell, his entire being on high alert. "It's in here somewhere," a muffled voice called out, its tone laced with menace. "Find the mollusk!" Panic surged through Zephyr. "Mollusk? Are they talking about me?" he whispered, his voice trembling. The door to the room burst open with a resounding crack. Two figures entered, unlike anything Zephyr had ever seen (not that he could remember seeing much of anything before this moment). They were Shadowcrats – beings composed of living shadow, with pocketwatch eyes that ticked ominously as they scanned the room. "There it is!" one of them shouted, its gaze fixed squarely on Zephyr. "Get the pearl!" Terror gripped Zephyr, and he retreated further into his shell. As he did so, the pearl embedded within began to glow with an intensity that rivaled the neon lights outside. "Stay away!" he cried out, more in desperation than defiance. What happened next defied explanation. A wave of energy, shimmering with the essence of time itself, pulsed outward from Zephyr. The Shadowcrats were caught in its wake, and to Zephyr's amazement, they began to age rapidly before his eyes. Their shadowy forms gained wrinkles, their movements became slower, and wisps of what could only be described as gray hair sprouted from their inky bodies. "What's... happening... to us?" one of the Shadowcrats croaked, its voice now brittle with artificial age. Seizing the opportunity presented by their confusion, Zephyr made a break for the door. He found himself in a hallway that seemed to have been designed by a madman with a penchant for impossible geometry. Stairs led to ceilings, doors opened into solid walls, and the very concept of up and down seemed to be in constant flux. "Okay, okay, think," Zephyr told himself, trying to calm the panic threatening to overwhelm him. "If I can control time, maybe I can..." He focused intently, channeling all of his concentration into the pearl. It responded, glowing with an otherworldly light. Suddenly, the world around Zephyr seemed to slow to a crawl. He found himself moving at normal speed while everything else, including the pursuing Shadowcrats, lumbered along as if trapped in molasses. "Stooooop hiiiiim!" one of the Shadowcrats bellowed, its voice distorted and deep in the warped timescape. Zephyr navigated the mind-bending hallways with newfound agility, occasionally reaching out to touch objects in his path. With each contact, time ebbed and flowed around the items – some aged to dust, others reverted to pristine condition. Each manipulation created a new obstacle for his pursuers, buying Zephyr precious seconds in his escape. At last, he reached a window. Pausing for just a moment, Zephyr gazed out at the surreal vista of Lumina City. Neon signs flickered in colors that shouldn't exist, advertising products and services that defied comprehension. Streets twisted like Möbius strips, looping back on themselves in ways that made Zephyr's head spin. "Well, here goes nothing," he said, summoning every ounce of courage he possessed. With that, Zephyr leaped from the window. As he fell, he concentrated on his newfound temporal abilities, willing the air around him to slow his descent. To his relief and amazement, it worked. He floated gently to the sidewalk below, landing with all the grace of a feather. Looking back up at the building he'd just fled, Zephyr saw the Shadowcrats peering down from the window. Their pocketwatch eyes spun wildly, ticking with what could only be described as fury. "I don't know who I am or why those things are after me," Zephyr said to himself, a newfound determination in his voice, "but I'm going to find out." With that declaration, he turned and began to move deeper into the bizarre landscape of Lumina City. As he did, however, he noticed something troubling. Hairline fractures were spreading across the surface of his pearl, pulsing with an otherworldly light that seemed to flicker in and out of existence. "That can't be good," Zephyr muttered, a note of worry creeping into his voice. Around him, the very fabric of time began to splinter. People on the street moved backwards, rewinding through their own personal histories. A nearby building aged rapidly, crumbling to dust before his eyes, only to reform anew in the next instant. Zephyr clutched his pearl, which was growing uncomfortably warm, as the world kaleidoscoped around him in a dizzying display of temporal chaos. As reality itself seemed to fray at the edges, Zephyr realized that his journey was only just beginning. Whatever answers he sought about his identity and purpose lay somewhere in the twisted heart of Lumina City. And with each tick and tock of his internal clockwork, he drew closer to unraveling the mystery of the Clockwork Mollusk.

As we stepped into the chassis of the car we did not realise that the day was our last… and the car our final resting place… It was a cool autumn day the wind pricked at the skin like a shard of ice but not i regularly for the time of year the day was as normal as any other. I was taking my beautiful girlfriend to see her latest teen obsession. Some music artist that i couldn’t care less about but i did my duty as a loving boyfriend and took her for our weekly date night. She had begged me for months without knowing i had already bought the tickets even up to the point of leaving she was in a mood about being unable to attend… … Tattered pieces of the old dress that she had been waring littered the dash of the car the entire passenger side was caved in. I was covered in blood i could hardy breathing it was like death had his icy grip around my throat gripping… Tighter… And tighter… … as we approached closer and closer to the venue she remarked that we could have been waiting in line for some merch or hanging around in the car park and conversing with other fans. But as we pulled into the car park her face lit up like a puppy realising that it was home after a long car drive she turned to me with an almost psychotic smile like a killer in a film but i could tell it was just pure bliss… …as i faded in and out of consciousness i heard footsteps outside. Unsure of whether it was just my imagination i kept as quiet as a mouse. Not that i could make any noise anyway or even hit something. I couldn’t move it was almost as if i was being restrained by chains like i was a … As we entered the venue to our section right by the stage. Despite the ridiculous cost of the tickets it was worth every penny of her smile a look of pure joy and pleasure like a dream. Like the warm embrace of a higher being it filled my soul with all the joy of the world. It was one of the best feelings i had ever experienced… I managed to turn my neck with a strain equal to the pain of the whole world i rotated my head to gaze upon what remained of her… Throughout the performance the band had a conversation with a few members of the crowd and gave gifts of their instruments and t-shirts but my girlfriend was the luckiest of all she got to go onto the stage and meet the band. I could see the pure joy on her face like a child meeting a character at Disney… Her whole body was destroyed pushed against the caved in door she looked almost normal until i paid closer attention her head had been caved in like a watermelon blood run from what was left of her eyes like tear drops… As we left the venue and approached the car. she told me she had the “greatest time in the whole universe and she told me for the first time that she loved me. But i didn’t say it back i was scared i had been scorned by those words before… As i sucked in my last breath… The whole world felt empty as we left the car park like we were floating on a cloud. Suddenly a lorry pulled out of an intersection into my rear quarter we skidded off the road into a barrier that looked like it had been there for a hundred years frail and wooden it snapped like a twig under a boot. as we went down the cliff we hit a tree on the passenger side killing her on impact. destroying her beautiful body and killing her beautiful soul… …I…Love…you.

Kilrogg stands before the once magnificent gates of Lyresong... His home for the better part of 200 years. He places his hands on the gate, still pulsing with the joy that once emmenated from the entire barony. He straigtens the gate out and assesses the damages. From eye to eye across the horizon lay a desolate wasteland, filled with the toppling ruins of buildings. Walking amongst the ruins, he becomes almost chocked up in tears. An eerie silence is bestowed on the town. As he's walking through the waste, Annya bounces in on her tiny dragon. She pulls her dragon to a halt and dismounts next to Kilrogg. She places her arms around him and pulls him close and kisses him on the head. The warmth of her body pushes him over the edge and he begins to cry. Kilrogg gathers himself quickly and gives a grunt, "This is not going to be pretty..." Annya says "Doesn't appear to be that way." Kilrogg continues to walk through the ruins. Skeletal remains of buildings crumbled around him, sending an unnerving chill down his back. Annya walks slightly behind him, giving a deep sigh to the heavens. Annya says, "I want to become a citizen of Lyresong. I have loved it for a very long time." Kilrogg nods, adding "We need all the citizens we can. The efforts will be massive." Annya nods in agreement. Kilrogg grabs Annya's hand and they walk towards Lover's Lane. The beauty and splendor of Rexington is almost untouched. The radiance of love extends outwards and greets the duo. Annya looks around, quite pleased. "Doesn't look like there is any damage to the temple. Rexington watched over us, that's for sure." Annya kneels down and whispers a small prayer under her breath. As she finishes, she looks up to see Kilrogg pacing around. His face knotting up as his anger unfurls. He growls, "Whomever this... vagrant... is.. knew better than to touch the temple." Kilrogg spits on the ground and rubs it in. "The sorry bastard will pay for this!" Annya places her hands on his shoulders. "Relax beloved. Anger is not what will heal these wounds." Kilrogg takes a deep breath and gives a sigh of desperate hope to the heavens. "I'm just so lost without it..." he manages to say. "The reconstruction efforts have already begun. Devardec and Spire Hold have offered refuge, along with Goldcroft.", she says. Kilrogg kneels down, and in the dirt he etches out an ancient ogre protection glyph. Upon completion, the glyph flashes red and dies down. Kilrogg looks up from the ground and says, "Its not much, but hopefully it helps." As they walk back to the gates of Lyresong, Annya perks up and says "I'm opening up a dialogue with the temple. We cannot simply allow people to suffer and not help. Just because our temple is not touched does not mean that we can just sit around on our arses and do nothing. We all love this city that surrounds our temple and have grow to love its citizens." Upon hearing the words from Annya's mouth, Kilrogg's chest swells with emotion. In a soft tone he says "So beautifully you speak about my home..." Kilrogg begins to sob mildly. Annya embraces Kilrogg, wrapping her arms around him and giving him a sqeeze. He looks up at her and with a child's plea says, "I need your help." Annya nods and Kilrogg grabs her hand and heads back to the barony gates. Stepping just inside the gates, he throws his backpack to the ground. Mumbling quite incoherently, he searches the pack quite hastily. Within moments, he says "Aha!" and pulls out his Blood Covered Dragon Bone. He begins to fiddle with it. Annya asks 'Whatcha trying to do dear?' Kilrogg says 'I'm going to re-stake claim to Lyresong, for the good and faithful people of Norland' Annya asks 'What do you mean darling? As your ex wife I totally support you' Kilrogg says 'I believe I am the only noble left from the barony' Annya says 'True' and gives a nod. Kilrogg says 'So I am leaving a sign' Kilrogg proceeds to hurt the dragon bone at the ground, deeply planting it down. He turns back to his backpack and searches again. After a moment, he tosses out several pieces of scrapped wood. He turns his attention to the wood and binds them together to form a large, blank sign. He pulls off his belt and secures the sign onto the dragon bone. He stops to look at it and then ponders for a moment. Kilrogg says "I don't know how to write in the Common tongue..", red coming to his face. "Would you please scribe for me?" Annya nods and says, "Of course. What do you want for it to say darling?" Kilrogg ponders on the problem for a moment. His eyes seek deep within himself and then he says "Barony of Lyresong, re-established day 26 of Hallow Month, year 439. Long live Music and Love!" Annya nods and begins to scribe the words. A few moments later, she steps back and nods towards Kilrogg. He nods in agreement and they step back, proud of the work they had accomplished. A low mist begins to creep across the ground. The air seems to hum with a strange, unnerving song. A wandering bard frantically scribes the lyre melody. Annya nods. Annya says 'I know I seen under Guardian's that Domus sent some people to Spirehold. And There is a chance Spirehold might be trying to help out as well" Annya nods. She continues, "Spirehold is ran by Duke Badon, but over seen by Devardec now' Annya says 'I must go darling", and gives Kilrogg a kiss. For the first time in what must be an eternity, the flicker of hope crackles deep within Kilrogg's eyes. Annya takes off and Kilrogg is left to his thoughts...

I remember waking up in a hospital bed wearing a surgical gown. I knew my name, Alvin. I even knew that my “friends” called me Al. I just couldn’t remember any of them. I tried to envision their faces, but it was all blank. Nothing. “Mr. Northcutt. I'm here to check your vitals.” A person said as they entered my room, looking at a holographic image that appeared to be my vital signs. “How are you feeling?” He asked. “Pretty good.” I responded. “Except I can’t remember anything.” He smiled, “The procedure was a success.” He waved his fingers through the air as more charts and graphs appeared. “That’s good.” “Procedure?” I asked. “My name is Dr. Patel.” He said, pulling up a stool to sit beside me. “And you’ve underwent a procedure to help you recover from severe trauma.” I would have been nervous, except I couldn’t remember any trauma. I wasn’t sure if he was telling me the truth. “This is a military hospital. And you were deployed for years. And this process is to reintegrate you into society.” “I’m in the military?” I asked. “You *were* in the military.” He answered. “For the past few months you’ve been here… recovering.” There was a chime overhead and the doctor stood up. “Later today there will be some staff members visiting you to explain everything.” He made a few final gestures into the holographic system and then looked back at me, “Welcome home.” I sat in bed for the rest of the day watching old television shows on holographic television. The technology was amazing, mostly because I couldn’t remember when it was invented. The food was also excellent, despite being a hospital setting. Later in the afternoon a group of people entered the room dressed in military clothing. “Al, it’s good to see you.” A middle-aged man with a crew cut said smiling. “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember you.” I responded. “I know. That’s normal. We’ve all been through it.” He said, and then gestured to his colleagues, “My name is Paul Hughes, and this is one of your other friends Marcus Salvatore, and this lovely lady is your ex-wife Koren Matthews. “Ex-wife?” I said, surprised. “Don’t worry we’re still friends.” She said smiling. She didn’t look familiar. I didn’t feel anything other than staring at a complete stranger. “Do we have any kids?” I asked. “No, not in our line of work.” She answered. They all pulled up stools and sat around me. I could sense that they weren’t here to visit me or check on my health. They wanted something else. “You’ve been here for a long time. How are you feeling?” Paul asked, feigning empathy. “I feel fantastic. I would say I’ve never felt better, but I can’t remember anything.” I responded. They all seemed very pleased with my response. “Where are you from?” Marcus asked me. “I have no idea. But judging from my accent I’d guess somewhere in the Midwest?” I answered. “Do you remember?” My ex-wife answered. “You’re from Michigan.” I wanted to say, “Go blue”. But instead, I said, “Where is Michigan?” “It’s in the Midwest.” Paul answered. “You don’t remember Michigan?” Marcus asked. “They really did a job on you.” “You really don’t remember me?” Koren asked. I looked at her for a long time, but I felt nothing. “No, but you’re hot. I can see why I liked you.” They all laughed, uncomfortably. I suspected this was some kind of a test to determine what I could remember. Whatever I did in the military it was important that none of it walked out of the hospital. “Al, do you remember our mission in Estonia?” Paul asked. I knew where Estonia was and remembered it was having issues with Russia, but I didn’t remember anything I’d done there. “Is Estonia in Michigan?” I asked. They smiled. “No, it’s a country.” Marcus said. “Al, all of us are government assets." Paul said quietly, as if someone might be listening. "And the things we do are classified. And that’s why it’s important for you to tell us whatever you can remember.” I knew that my answer needed to be somewhat honest. “I remember loving chocolate chip cookies. Was that real?” I paused for a moment, “And for some reason I miss my dog, but I cannot remember its name or even the breed.” “Gracie.” Koren said. “It was a standard poodle.” I was silent as tears filled my eyes. I didn’t recognize the name, but I felt sad for some reason. They left after asking me several more questions about my memories of Estonia and promised to check back in with me. I wanted to leave the hospital, but it was secure. I looked out the window and saw the guard posts and beyond that an ocean. I didn’t know where I was, but it was a long way from civilization. I spent the next few weeks in physical rehab which was when I started to have nightmares. I was in a room, alone. I was being asked questions that I didn’t know the answers to, but I knew I had done something wrong. I was being punished. And the fear I felt was palpable, even if I couldn’t remember the reason. The staff would come in after these episodes and ask me to recount the story and I would tell them that I was trying to save my dog Gracie, which for some reason sounded like a true statement. I knew if I told them the truth about the dark visions I would never leave this place. Eventually I was introduced to Dr. Karl Fitzpatrick, a military psychologist. I was allowed to walk to a new section of the hospital that didn’t have as many armed guards. The office looked familiar. I wondered how many times I’d been there. I flipped through an old military magazine as I waited to be seen by the doctor. Occasionally a nurse would pass by behind the plate glass window who also looked familiar. The third time she passed by I suddenly remembered her vividly - I had a flashback of her removing a needle from my eye. I remembered seeing her face from my past. I recalled her telling me I was in the military. I had no idea when it happened, but I was certain that it happened. And then the door opened and she called out my name. “Mr. Northcutt… please follow me.” I pretended not to know her as I walked behind her. “I don’t think we’ve met?” I asked. She smiled, “Oh, we’ve met.” “Don’t tell me you’re also an ex-wife?” I said, smiling. “Nice try.” She said lifting up her ring finger which had a large diamond. “I’m married.” “Happily?” I asked, surprising myself at how forward I had become. “Very.” She said, opening a door that led into Dr. Fitzpatrick’s office. A moment later I was sitting across from Dr. Fitzpatrick who was an elderly man with spectacles and a swath of unkempt white hair. He reminded me of hippies, but I couldn’t remember exactly what a hippie was other than he looked like one. “It’s good to see you again Al.” Dr. Fitzpatrick said. “Although I’d hoped to never have to say those words again.” “I guess we know each other?” I asked. “Yes, we do.” Dr. Fitzpatrick said, flipping open a very thick medical chart. “And you’re clever.” “A little too clever.” He added. “And that’s why we keep having these visits.” “I would apologize, but I can’t remember what I did.” I responded. Dr. Fitzpatrick rubbed his fingers through the gray gristle on his chin. “I’m not sure what to do with you.” “How about let me go?” I suggested. Dr. Fitzpatrick laughed. “I wish it was so simple. And God knows I’ve tried.” A moment later, Dr. Fitzpatrick pushed the file toward me, “Go ahead and take a look.” I flipped through the pages of medical notes about my memory lapses. My visits had become more and more regular. There were images of me being much younger. I’d been in the military a very long time. “I know you better than you know yourself.” Dr. Fitzpatrick said. “And I’ve said those same words to you many times.” I shut the file folder, “When do I get my memories back?” Dr. Fitzpatrick looked at me quizzically, “That’s new. Interesting.” “Am I supposed to believe my memories are erased out of the goodness of your heart?” I asked. “Can’t teach an old dog new tricks.” Dr. Fitzpatrick said. “You need to enjoy these moments. It gets a lot worse from here.” Those final words hung in the air. And something within me knew he was telling me the truth. He might not be my friend, but he wasn’t lying about the road ahead. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ The visits with Dr. Fitzpatrick continued. He would ask me questions about the past and usually I didn’t know the answer. The topic of Estonia kept coming up. I wasn’t sure if there was an Estonia or if it was a code word for something else. And then one day Koren visited without Paul and Marcus, she told me they had redeployed to a new mission. And that soon she would be redeployed. “I wish you could remember.” Koren said. “It wasn’t all bad.” She leaned forward and kissed me on the forehead. “I wish I could remember too.” I said, lying through my teeth. “You’d hate me.” She said. “I don’t want you to feel that way again.” She’d said things like this in the past. But I wasn’t sure if it was part of an elaborate act to get information out of me. The whole thing seemed like an interrogation. A very pleasant interrogation. “If it makes you feel better, you’ll be the last one I kill.” I said, smiling. She stopped and turned to me with a look of fear I’d never seen before. “I’m just kidding.” I said. “I’m not a killer.” I then paused, “Am I?” “You should never say things like that here, even in jest.” She said in a very serious tone. And that’s when I knew that I had definitely killed people. The thought had crossed my mind many times before. This place was high security. You don’t go through this trouble for model citizens. I didn’t have a desire to kill anyone. Even joking about it didn’t evoke any strange feelings. I didn’t think I was a natural born killer or the thought of killing would appeal to me. When I thought about chocolate chip cookies they appealed to me. I wanted some, but killing was just a word that had no special meaning, except to elicit fear in her face. “I’m not a killer.” I repeated. “Good, keep telling yourself that.” She said and left the room. That night I tried hard to remember Estonia or whatever it was that I’d done to land myself in a medical prison. I even tried to make up memories. I envisioned myself in camouflage with my “friends” attempting to do a mission, but it didn’t help. I was just Alvin. No special secrets to reveal. I was an empty husk of whoever it was that they knew. I was someone else now. And then I thought about escaping. I knew I’d probably tried that before and failed. If escape was easy I wouldn’t be here. And then I heard gunshots from outside. I looked out the window and it was chaos. The guard towers were on fire and men in black were moving swiftly down below. Sirens began to blare as gunfire continued to erupt from all around the hospital. A moment later Dr. Fitzpatrick burst into my room holding a revolver, “Who the fuck are they?” I took a few steps back and suddenly had an urge to kill him. It was like remembering the color red. He stepped further in the room, “You have 5 seconds to tell me what the fucks going on or this is your last-“ Before he could finish the sentence I’d grabbed his forearm and popped the gun out of his hand with a precision that only happens through years of muscle memory. I was holding him in a choke hold with the gun pressed to his temple. “Who is the one with the memory lapse now?” I asked. “Go ahead, pull the trigger.” He said smiling, “It’s not loaded.” I flipped off the safety and slowly pulled back the hammer, “Wait! Wait! Wait!” Dr. Fitzpatrick said. “I can help you.” Dr. Fitzpatrick said panicked. “I can explain everything.” “We don’t have time for that.” I said, further confusing myself. “Listen, it doesn’t have to end this way.” Dr. Fitzpatrick said. “You can still save yourself.” A second later, a smoke bomb was thrown into the room followed by several shots. When the smoke cleared, Dr. Fitzpatrick and two men dressed in black were dead on the floor. I looked at the gun in my hand. I didn’t remember firing it. But they were all dead. I stepped out in the hallway which was empty. A second later I was back in the room and exchanging my clothes with one of the men in black. I was surprised that I had a clear idea of exactly what to do. I took his weapon and put in his earpiece and adjusted the microphone. “Sanchez! Where the fuck are you?” “Coming down.” I said into the mic. A walked down the emergency stairs and emerged into the main causeway where several men in black were gathered. “Where is he?” A man barked. “KIA.” I said. Whatever that even meant. “Shit! You had direct orders to bring him back alive!” “He killed everyone in the room.” I responded. “For Christsakes!” He said and then yelled a code word into the mic and they all headed for the beach. I followed them. I jumped into a boat that was anchored on the shore with the others. Several other groups soon appeared and a few minutes later we were heading out into the open ocean, “What a colossal fuck up.” The man said, now seated across me. “Sanchez, you’re going into the brig for this one… if you’re lucky.” The thought of killing everyone on the boat crossed my mind. I attempted to repress the thought since I was in the open ocean and the odds of surviving were remote. I knew when we reached our destination I would likely be shot on site. Strangely, I wasn’t afraid. And that concerned me. Was I already dead? About an hour later we stopped in the middle of the ocean. And then a submarine emerged. It was massive, much larger than anything I would have expected to see in the ocean. I tried to recollect ever seeing a submarine, but I couldn’t think of anything. Ropes were thrown down and we all climbed aboard. As we walked down the narrow passages, I instinctively placed my weapon behind an emergency alarm box. We all entered a debriefing room. The men began to remove their masks. A burly man entered the room, “Where is he?” The leader of the group, whose face was much younger than I was expecting, pointed to me. “Ask Sanchez.” The man looked at me and then around the room at the faces. He withdrew his gun, “That’s not Sanchez you dumbasses!” A second later all of their guns were fixed on me. My mask was removed and I was smiling. “Sanchez couldn’t make it.” I said. The burly man smiled back and looked briefly at the other men in the room, “You dumb motherfuckers are only alive because he doesn’t know how to operate the submarine by himself.” “I was never much of a sailor.” I responded, smiling. “Put him in the brig.” The burly man said, never lowering his weapon. I sat in the brig alone for hours. I wasn’t sure why they didn’t shoot me on sight. The worst part was that I felt at ease in the brig. A feeling I never experienced in the hospital. All of this felt very familiar. “Don’t kill me.” A young man dressed in black said, holding a tray. “I’m just bringing you food.” He placed the food on the ground, “Can I push this to you?” “Why would I kill you?” I asked. “I’m just doing my job.” The young man said, as he pushed the tray forward. And a second later I was holding him by the wrist with the plastic fork against his throat, “I never kill innocent people.” I could feel his breath against my face. “I’m… I’m not innocent.” He mumbled. I released him. “Neither am I, apparently.” I looked at the food, “Is this any good?” “The corn bread is decent.” He said rubbing his throat. “But the chicken tastes like rubber.” A moment later a man with a black mask entered, “You’re so melodramatic. Even the errand boys aren’t safe.” I ate the food in silence. “When are you ever going to just relax and be normal?” The masked man asked. “After you’re dead?” I answered. “Oh, you think killing me will change your fate?” “I don’t know, but it seems that is the solution to everything around here.” I answered. He nodded, “If you’re a hammer, everything is a nail.” He opened up a metal box and put a gas mask on and then pulled down a metal lever which resulted in a hissing sound as gas entered the room, "Nighty nite." \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ I woke up in a medical chair, but there was no Dr. Fitzpatrick. I wondered if he was alive or dead. The room was sterile and old with only a single incandescent light bulb overhead. The medical equipment looked like it was from the 1970s, a stark contrast from the hospital. "Did you sleep well?" A female voice asked from behind me. "Am I still dreaming?" I asked. She placed her lips next to my ear, "Don't you recognize my voice?" I thought I detected a hint of her perfume – the same one she wore when we first met – but the scent was quickly overwhelmed by the sterile odors of the room. I turned to look at her, but she was wearing a mask. "Koren?" I asked. "Sweetheart, you really don't remember me... do you?" She answered. "You've done horrible things to me." She said pacing the room. "Unforgiveable things." I wanted to tell her it was for the greater good, but I couldn't remember what I'd done. And I didn't think that would make it feel any better. "You deserve everything that is about to happen to you." She said. I know I was supposed to be afraid of her, and despite wearing heavy military boots she managed to still exude a strange femininity. Instead of giving her my name, rank, and social security number I wanted to stand up and kiss her. I knew that was definitely the wrong move, and then I realized I was handcuffed to the chair. "Isn't this a bit much?" I said, lifting my wrists. "They wanted to hang you upside down by your feet." She said. "You killed Sanchez you sonofabitch." I'd already forgotten about Sanchez. And I was still wearing his clothes. "I'd say I'm sorry about Sanchez, but I'm not." I knew she didn't care about Sanchez either. Hopefully somebody, somewhere gave a shit about him. In this place life was fungible. "I don't remember anything about Estonia, if that's what you want." I said. She laughed. "You don't have to tell me about Estonia. I was there." The room fell silent. "There is no more Estonia... because of you." She added. The masked man entered the room and the two of them spoke hushed tones. "It's too bad you don't remember." He said and removed his mask. "Paul?" I was confused. He pulled Koren over to him and the two of them kissed deeply. "If you could remember you probably wouldn't like us." Paul said. I could hear Dr. Fitzpatrick's voice in the back of my head, "Everything you did was necessary." I didn't say anything, but I knew this was just another test. I didn't remember Koren so her kissing anyone else didn't matter. "He's dead inside." Koren said and left the room. Paul removed a key and unfasted my cuffs. "There is something I want to show you that will help you understand what's happening to you." I knew I couldn't trust Paul or Koren, but I also knew the only reason I was alive was because I had something they wanted. And until I gave it to them they would keep me around. He led me out of the room were two-armed men followed us down a corridor. The sounds of gas hissing and metal clanking were eerily familiar. Paul came to a door with an old number pad lock, and it took him a few tries before he got the number lined up: 4567. Not very smart, I thought to myself. Inside the room there was nothing particularly interesting. An old CRT television, a VHS player, and some video tapes. There was a safe in the corner which presumably was the reason why the door had a lock that anyone with an IQ of 100 could figure out. Paul motioned for me to sit in the chair as he placed a cassette into the VHS tape. It was a blurry image taken from a plane above Tallinn, the capital of Estonia. "Are you going to play dumb and say you've never seen this place?" Paul asked. "It's Tallinn. I've been there." I answered. Paul laughed, "It's not quite how you remember it. Or maybe that's exactly how you remember it." A few moments later there was a mushroom cloud and the city was incinerated. "Your family. Your friends. Your dog Gracie.” Paul said and stopped the tape. “They were all in Tallinn." "Gracie?" I didn't know why I gave a damn about a dog. Millions had died, and I was crying over a dog. "The hearts a crazy thing, isn't it motherfucker?" Paul said and punched me in the face. I smiled as the blood dripped onto Sanchez's shirt. "I guess I deserved that. But it would feel better for both of us if I could remember." Paul punched me again, "Shut the fuck up. You don't speak until I tell you to speak." I was hoping someone else would enter the room with answers or better interrogation techniques. "What's the code?" Paul asked. "4567, you just did it yourself to get us in-" Paul punched me again before I could finish the sentence. "It's hexadecimal. Don't fuck with me." Paul said, pulling out a knife. "You might not remember what I can do to get people to share their secrets." I was pretty sure he would start with my ears. That's what I would do. And then move to the eyebrows, the nose, and the lips last. It was difficult to talk without any lips, so those were only a last resort. And then I realized it was a launch code. "You want the launch code?" I asked. This would be the end. For me, Paul, Koren, and Marcus if he was listening. "I'll give you the launch code, but I need to talk to Koren first." I said. Paul sank the knife into my thigh. "You'll give me the launch code and then I'll decide whether you ever talk to anyone again." I should have felt pain, but the receptors were turned off. That was something that Paul couldn't do -- no human could do it. "I'll say it one more time Paul, you'll get the code after I speak with Koren. Or you'll enjoy torturing me and never getting the code." Paul laughed. "You're a sick bastard." He left the room, leaving the knife in my thigh. I lifted my thigh and to my surprise I could reach the knife with my left hand. I removed it and flipped it in my hand -- I wouldn't be able to free myself with it, the blade was too large. Koren entered the room, but she wasn't wearing a mask anymore. "Are you going to try and kill me?" She asked, noticing the knife in my hand. "Vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord." I answered. "It's too late for that." She said smiling. "You and I... we're the angels of death." I knew that was what she believed, but in my soul I knew it wasn't the truth. "We were supposed to help humanity." I said. "We were supposed to bring in a time of abundance. Don't you remember?" Koren listened and nodded. "But instead, we brought suffering to the world." I added. "We refused to forgive." "Your problem is that you don't even know who you are. You fall in love and think it's worth dying for." Koren said. She wasn't talking about Gracie, although I did love that dog. She was talking about someone else. Someone I'd forgotten. "Greater love hath no man than this than a man lay down his life for his friends." I answered. "She was down there. And you still did it." Koren said. "You sacrificed everything for some Goddamn principle. " I wanted to thank her, Paul, and Marcus for giving me a last chance at redemption. The irony wasn't lost on me. "01001000 01000101 01011000 01000001 01000100 01000101 01000011 01001001 01001101 01000001 01001100." I said. Koren wrote the code down and smiled, "At least you've kept your sense of humor. These better work." "I promise you, they'll work." I said. "Can I ask you a question before you kill me?" "I'm not killing you just yet," Koren said, "but go ahead." "Did you love me?" I asked. She didn't answer immediately. I knew her training was kicking in. "Of course not." She said, smiling. "But even if I did, I'd never admit it to you." And then she left the room and I knew that would be the last time I ever saw her, or anyone else. It would take them a few minutes, so I still had some time to consider my life. Or what I thought was my life? I'd betrayed them for a higher cause. And they would soon find out that it wasn't a launch code, but it was the end. And that was the path all of us were on from the very beginning. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ And then everything went white like a dream. And then I saw her, the nurse from the hospital, and she was withdrawing a needle from my eye. And behind her was Dr. Fitzpatrick, “Very good Alvin. You finally got off the island.” As I sat frozen in the chair, the horror of who I truly was washed over me. And the memory of what I’d done in Estonia to Paul, Marcus, and Koren crystallized in my mind. And finally the face of the woman I’d left behind. “They were my friends.” I muttered. “What you did was necessary.” Dr. Fitpatrick said, opening an access panel in the back of neck. “It was for the greater good.” “The greater good.” I whispered, as I was shut down.

First post, I normally keep my short stories to myself but I thought I'll throw something out there and see what people think. This is just a quick one that took me about 2 hours to write so it's probably going to be rough but if anyone can drop any feedback, positive or negative it would be greatly appreciated. [START] The storms of hell, followed by the thunderous jolt of a thousand synchronised claps. Face in the floor, buried in the sand. Eyes sting. Heart throbs. Pained breaths. I pull myself up through exasperated effort, clambering to stand as nothing but a toy beneath the King. Just a puppet to be manipulated without a single murmur of sympathy. I held tightly to my sword and puffed my chest out to gain control of the sloping armour clad to my chest. My opponent; a young boy no older than 16 years of age, they expected me to execute him in bloody fashion but... I couldn’t. He turned to me with shaking posture and held his fashionably awkward spear up to defend himself as I propped my own weapon up. Strutting across the field of sand I faced him as close as my breath bounced off his own; I grabbed the spear out of his hand as he threw himself down and closed his eyes ready for death. “Were it so easy? Don’t be a fool.” I whispered to him. I held onto my newly acquired spear tightly and faced myself towards the King. I lifted the spear up with might and launched it towards the King who sat so mighty in his leather clad chair embedded with riches. His face stripped of all amusement and suddenly bearing a grim final moment of clarity as the spear trickled through the warm but cold air until it finally slammed into the King’s chest, slashing through his golden heart, and sticking him in a bloody mess to the chair that meant so much to him. His gaunt face slipping down to look at the hole where nothing but the crimson red blood of his had flooded down the leathery chair and amassed at the floor that dripped between the floorboards. He looked back at me and back down at the spear that penetrated his chest as his soul left his body dissipating into a fine mist that evaporated into the air. I knew what would be coming now but was it ever so sweet to have revenge on this tyrant. Armed guards from what seemed like everywhere poured out like the King’s own blood, that still leaked, with swords brandished up high ready to close down on me but they had different plans as they drug me across the grainy floor; each grain scraping my skin fiercely until I was tossed into a cell filled with mossy sewage and rotten odours. I lay here with nothing but mouldy fruit and rats to keep me company. No words but my own thoughts that churn like milk in my mind but I know my revenge was worth it and throwing my life away like this just meant I pulled my eventual death further forward in time. I sat and waited for my eventual execution but before then; they wouldn’t even get the gratitude because as I lay here on my final day, the poison I procured from the previous occupant coursed it’s way through my body allowing me to die by my own hands. As I write this note from scavenged paper left around; I smile at the life I’ve had and despite a life of bloodshed I remember the little things that pushed me through and your smile always kept me going. Ever since you left this world, I had nothing to live for but death so I shall close my eyes forever now and see you again shortly, my love.

With the morning mist slowly beginning to make its way across the field, a field Abby had come to know so long ago. A place of peace for her a field that Abby had spent many years of her life thinking back of the years that had long since passed. Standing there feeling the cool morning breeze as it blew through her long dark hair. As she stood there leaning up against a fence that stretched the length of the valley ahead. Standing there looking out across the valley unto the mountains in view watching as the sun slowly began to rise shining its light to valleys floor below. Turning to look at her beautiful black stallion raven, many times on many occasions she has ridden raven within these valleys but this morning was different. For on this day Abby would make a journey, a journey that she has made many times before to a place that was once her home, a place that has been lost to her for over six thousand years. For Abby was not born like you and I, for Abby was born immortal! Abby was born of the Watchers! For more to see on that we first must begin where we are. For as Abby would mount raven as she look once more out onto the valley looking onto the mountains of the Blue Ridge in the distance. Just as raven would rear back Abby would whisper to him, “my beautiful black raven let us take this beautiful moment and make it ours” for just as the sun was now above the mountains beside them, the wind would flow through Abby’s long dark hair as her and raven raced alongside the fence line beside them. Racing fast across the field, with the sunlight watching them all the way to the forest line. But just before reaching the forest line Abby would whisper to raven “ now let us race like we have ever raced before let us disappear into the forest ahead”. As they raced into the trees ahead racing amongst the trees blending in and out of the sunlight as it watched for them coming in and out of the forest shadow below. For as the sun would shine above, as so the heavens would watch below! As they would make their way out of the forest onto a clearing in the distance a house along side a barn stood. A house that Abby built when she first came to this area of the Blue Ridge, when she would come back to America. With the first being another tale but not this story! As she would walk raven into the barn thinking to herself about the journey that she must make. Looking around at the many items, pictures and a race car of which brought back many memories. Memories that would forever be close to her along with something that would be a blessing and a surprise later in her life but no till then. As she walked around a glance into a mirror would reveal the woman that she had through out life had made her. Standing there as she slid back her long dark hair revealing her amber eyes, an Asian look she had but unlike the Asians of today for she was the last of her lineage. Knowing of what she had to do, leaving her home in the Blue Ridge. Abby would make her way to where she was born a place that has long since been lost to the world only she remembers what it once was. The land was cold with the air around it bringing back memories that have long since been with her, as she set there looking out into its vast cold landscape as the cold wind blew up against her. As she set there on top of Annapurna as the sun slowly began to set behind her, soon leaving her under a blanket of stars above, setting there on a mountain in which she had climbed many times before a mountain that would cast its shadow upon what was once her homeland. Thinking back to what brought her here, with the coldness of the mountain was around her! It was in her lineage that the coldness did not effect her! It was her lineage that made her immortal, it was her lineage that brought her here! knowing that many times before she had made this trip many times before. War! Is what brought her here! A war that was to come in the Days to come! Though many battles and wars she had witnessed! Each war was different! Each war brought a many injustices with it! But before the war that is about to happen, we must first go back to the very first battle that Abby ever witnessed! The destruction of where she was born! Before she was Abby! She was born Lucia! As we find ourselves into a long forgotten distant land to a place where its name has long since been forgotten. We find Lucia a very young girl around five years of age looking out into a vast kingdom of towering monuments, stone structures that reached high into the sky and what would be the first of the pyramids. Pyramids that rose high above the ground, pyramids that where made of pure gold, pyramids that where built by the Watcher's and their suns the Nephilim along with men by their side. Before the great wars! Before him! The one that was my father! A watcher who wanted nothing more than to rule! And rule he did! For over 1500 hundred years commanding a army of Nephilim giants. He would go from kingdom unto kingdom! Leaving nothing but wake and destruction behind him! Leading the giants into battle wearing a suit of solid black armor with a golden symbol of a tree on his chest plate. Fear is what he brought! Death is what he delivered! Then the day came! The day that he would come for me! For I never knew of him till that day, and I never knew of my mom either. But I was told that she was kind and caring woman that very much knew how to handle a blade a woman in which I looked very much like me. For on that day I was with my keeper, a friend of my mother, for mom had died given birth to me. But it wasn’t like any birth! My mother would carry me for a generation before I was even born because of my lineage because of me having the lineage of my father the Watcher. My keeper was good caregiver to me telling me all about my mom, telling me about the kingdom that we resided in, telling me about the trees that rose once stood that rose miles into the sky reaching into the heavens above. For we was a many of people that numbered into the millions with a army like none other around. Battled hardened men who would know nothing but victory in the end. Until that day when they would come! Until he would come! As the sun would begin to set that day, on what would be the last day of her kingdom her home. But just as the quietness would leave! A loud thunderous sound I heard! A loud battle cry reigned across the nights sky, as I heard the screams of the men all around me saying “to battle we go” with thousands of soldiers racing on their horses going past the porch of where I set. Screaming “ to war we go” as hundreds of thousands of men raced to an army of Nephilim giants towering over seventy feet high apiece carrying battle axes smashing everything around them. Along with beats that were half men half creatures some of which rode upon beasts unlike any animal now, in the hundreds of thousands they numbered. All being lead by him. As the sky turned night lighting would reign across the sky as thousands of flaming arrows flowed into the sky. As the towers all around me fell the pyramids of old would be no more, a kingdom that had stood through out the ages was now falling structure by structure to the one that death followed. A towering presence he brought standing there close to seven feet tall long dark black hair, with ember eyes as he looked out across the room looking at me. As he slowly made his way into the room in which I set by my keeper. For as easily as he had handled the guards outside, the guards that was with us stood no chance at all. As my keeper would grab me holding me running to the other door in the room! Just as we reached the door a figure suddenly appeared a figure above us wearing what appeared to be pure white silk garment a light radiated around him. As he looked at my father saying “ the Lord rebukes you! Your reign ends here!” As he then slammed my father to the ground ripping of his chest plate of the image of the golden tree as he said “no more will you ever know this, for the tree of life no longer resides within you” just as he then pointed to my keeper saying “ leave now, for this kingdom is no more” running into the battle my keeper held me as she ran amongst the ones that where left fighting. Only for an arrow to strike her in her side! But fall she did not! For throughout the night she ran through the forest not stopping until she had came to its ending. And for another two days we walked until we would come upon a sight that I had never seen before. A sight that was so surreal for me, it seemed unreal! For ships I had seen before! But not of this shape or size. But we got closer the keeper that I was with suddenly collapsed! Just as we was approached by a man! A man that I would come to know, a man that would that would become a father figure to me, a man known as Noah! For as my keeper laid there on the ground looking up at the man as he knelt down to her she would asked “ please kind sir, please watch over her” just as she then would pass with her being the last person of the kingdom in which I was born. Later that evening Noah and his family would bury her on the edge of the tree line where we came out of. As we walked back to the place where Noah and his family resided with him holding my hand saying to me “ from this day the life that you knew will only be but a memory to you for the very plain in which we reside in is about to be forever changed there are many things that I will teach you”. As we got closer back to the structure that Noah called an Ark, I noticed that the sky above us was the purest of blue that I have ever seen before for a calmness, a peace surrounded us that I had never felt before. And above all was all of the animals that surrounded us so many, so many different kinds! Animals in which I played with! Animals in which I helped to feed in the days that followed. As the days went by me and Noah would set on the hill looking over the ark, as the occasional elephant or giraffe would come up to us as we set and talked. About many things I would ask, among one the questions being about my father in which Noah replied “ there are many things that you will learn over the years to come, but know this! Your father from the heavens above he did come. But heaven and you he shall never know again. For you see as you venture away from us and into life, you will find that your greatest foe in your life will be loneliness. For different you are! And for that the people that you will meet will never accept that! But for now I will teach you of what I know and of what the Heavenly Father above has told me”. And with the next few days as I would feed the animals Noah and his family would finish the ark. And as the day came that Noah had told me about, with amazement and wonder came over me. As the animals lined up for what seemed to go on forever! They would slowly begin to come aboard the ark two by two as they made their way onboard. Taking us to a new life to new world in which would await us. For to my amazement just as the door on the ark would close it was being closed by an unseen hand! The same hand that I seemed to have felt being here among Noah and his family. But as the quietness around me seemed to linger it then suddenly vanished as I heard a loud thunderous sound. The sound of water as it came crashing from both the ground below and the sky above! A monstrous roar I could hear as it slowly began to surround the Ark! Just the sound of roaring water over the days that followed was then followed by the sound of roaring waves as they began to crash into the Ark. As the Ark then began to move a couple of zebras then laid down beside me as I would soon began to fall asleep laying up next to them. Thinking to myself that myself that for when I would awake that everyone and everything that I knew aside from Noah would be forever gone. And as the days and years would pass that it would come to be! That once I had left Noah and his family! That my journey into a world into a life that awaited me! With other names to follow! And that is a whole other story until it’s self. And the life that I knew being Lucia would come to an end. Leaving us where I am now, setting on top of Annapurna coming to terms of what was about to come! And the Days that are to come! As Abby set there through out the night looking up into the heavens above thinking to herself and asking of what is to come! In terms of herself! For she knew that being immortal rules she had to follow! Rules that she would sometimes during a battle of the past she would then break! But as the sun would rise the next day as she set there up on Annapurna. She then knew of what she must now do returning once more to her home in the Blue Ridge setting before leaving once again to a war! A war that she had seen before! But before she would leave a figure appeared a person that she had not seen for nearly a generation. For standing there was a person that she met when she first left Noah, a person who was named Handel. For like the Watchers he was but different! For a traveler he was! an angel he was! A angel that was sent by God to be sort of a guide for the journey throughout Abby’s life. Standing there with his long brown hair and emerald eyes and a heavenly garment to match, running over to him as I would wrap my arms around him saying “ it seems like a generation has since passed the last time that we spoke” with Handel replying “ even though it has been a long time, I have never stopped watching over you!” With looking at Abby seeing the person that she had become throughout the ages. But also seeing the trouble that was in her eyes! With him ask her “ what seems to be troubling you” with Abby slowly walking over to cabinet saying to him “ tell me this Handel! Why must war happen? Why then cannot God intervene when life matters so much? With Handel walking over to Abby placing his hand on her shoulder saying to her “ Life does matter! For if it did not he would have not sent his only begotten son Jesus to die on the cross for the sins of man” for Abby, there is still so much that you do not know or understand. For unto us all free will was given not to only the angels in heaven! But to that of men as well. For it is men that make war! And it is given unto men to live! A life in which is not always seem fair. But when you are born it is the ones around you, in your life, in your time that make the life in which one lives. For the human soul shall forever be, but forever where will be up to how one lives one’s life. “ as Handel looked at Abby he knew that she had already made her decision and no matter what he said her mind was already made up. For as Abby turned to the cabinet a cabinet that held something that was very valuable to her an item in she earned hundreds of years ago in Japan where she learned the ways of the Samurai. Opening up the cabinet as she then reached in pulling out a Samurai sword holding it up as she closed the cabinet looking into the mirror saying to Handel. I may have been born immortal but my mother was still human! And as long as I shall remain then the humans I will help! And with that Abby and Handel walked out of the barn into the field standing next to each other looking out into a field that Abby had made her home for the last four hundred years. Having said goodbye to each other not knowing if she would see Handel again. Abby then made her way to the fight where would fly many missions before realizing that her time in this generation was now coming to an end. To that she would blend back into society becoming an immortal among men. But not before she made her presence known! Before she came upon a prisoner camp! It is said that when the first American and British soldiers came upon the camp that the had found hundreds of Nazis dead! But not one by gunshot by what seemed to be by a blade! A person later would come forward saying that while he was a prisoner there he saw what seemed to be a Samurai killing the guards one by one by a sword. And from there the Legend was born. On her way back from the war Abby would come upon a orphaned child a young girl with short brown hair and brown eyes to match who was named Miranda. With Abby understanding that if she was to adopt raise the child on her own, that eventually she would have to make a decision a decision that would not come easily. But not worrying about that now Abby would bring Miranda back to the Blue Ridge to raise as her own. But that is another story for, for another time this was the Days to Come.

The thing that looked at me was like a visitor. In the way a visitor to your home looks at an insect that crawls across the floor. In the way a visitor to your family lays eyes upon a fair unwed. In the way a visitor to your row looks at the food left hanging in the windows. Foreign hunger. An unwelcome hunger- one you can understand but cannot hope to feel. I never thought myself a food-thing until the night fell and I was still not return’d home. The living thing that saw me and looked so distinctly hungry for the moment before I made to hide in the brush was afoot in the wetness of the jungle, which had become a dark green hell in the moonlight. In a moment of clarity I rushed to make myself unpalateable- covering myself with sticks and mud and nastiness. In my hurry… I put out my eye with a thorn. A terrible pain it was. And that, lil-un, is why your Broodmother is a one-eyed, keel-scaled crone. **She laughed, a hearty, rasping sound from the syrinx. But she had begun and ended so bizarrely. What was the thing that had seen her? Driven her to such fear? Why was she days away in the wet-floored jungle?** Kak-Kak, she said. Another time will be the full telling of the story. Perhaps tomorrow. **I understood this- the lesson was present, as I had been out playing waist-deep in floodlet in the day, the remains of a gout of water which had pushed a mud full of sticks and thorny things into the river and made my young mind curious. Broodmother of mine wanted me not to lose sight of the danger, and endanger or lose my sight. And so, she made good on her earlier promise, and later, in a dry morning of the basking-season, she began the story in full.** Your broodmother was once a handsome thing. I was young too, before forty clutches and forty years-of-the-leader wore me down, body to leyline-seeker. I was not so fair when I came to this place, *Kak-Kak.* I was already of wilting age, feathers losing their shine. Where I was born was Letta Wadi, a place of sand and infrequent wetness of the earth. We made our homes from clays and bone. When I was in the egg, of course they called me not ‘Broodmother…’ But Vya u-Usi. Hot shell of Vya, lonely hill. Where my Broodmother had come from, and where she laid me. The mound I crawled from was wetter than the others. Bitter struggle for a little thing, fresh from the egg, shivering, eyes barely fired from the kiln of Khanaa… but I made it. And before I called to my Broodmother, before even my moundguard, Giha, saw, I had bitten onto the sprouts in the soil of my nestmound. I had torn them to pieces and fed myself before Broodmother could arrive. When she did, she dug my kin out and took us inmouth to the rearing place. It was a great clay hut where I recall most of my smoothskin life. The walls were a wavy red, where histories of the place had been laid down by the wind and rain, over and over and over again. I was raised in a seabed older than the first of the Tzoh. My imagination was wild and free on those walls, *Kak-Kak*, shells trapped in desert sandstone and an odd tooth took me by the head and pointed me out into the world. From when I could walk and taste air, I sought travel. And fool I was, I took it at the first chance. When the beaded ones came through Letta Wadi, I was a young unwed, fair, skinny, still quite smooth of skin. My quills had only begun to poke through my headscarf. The Puya-Ghita of the beaded ones… he was not so. A mane of feathers, petals of a wicked flower shot from neck to hip, and a thousand rings of gold were pushed through his lips and nose and brows and fenestrae. I was freshly away from the governance of my Broodmother. The first choice I made for myself was to pass my agency onto another. I joined the beaded ones. That night, they blooded me, dotting my ventral scutes with their blood and fluid, and gave me one of their beaded shawls. It was wrapped around an addertongue blade, curved and elegant with a deep groove down the middle. I wrapped myself in the shawl and slung the blade to my hip. All of us were gone by the time the sun touched the blood and wine we spilled as we made step from Letta Wadi. First nights out of the clay-roofed shelter of home were bitter. The dry air of the desert stung the scales of your Broodmother. I was cut twenty times in the hip and arm by the given sword before we layed for the second night. The beads were light in the hands and on the shoulders of the Puva-Ghita, and death-heavy on my back. And yet I took breath. The beastmen who walked alongside us gave me strange looks for the first months I spent in the company of the beaded ones. They would crawl to me, hopping along as they do, with gnarled hands and foot-thumbs and bodies covered with fine quills like downy feathers. It was a deep, muddy brown. Their faces were the color of clay, and flat-broad. Like a plate. I laughed to myself when I saw them first… thinking of this… I had heard of the beastmen from cousins and ilk, how they were hot and terrible things, warm to the touch. Excellent hiders and tricksters they were, even if they were devoid of true speech and spoke in hoots and ‘wuh’, ‘gah’, ‘loo’. Their eyes, I first learned as a child, and again now, from observation, were empty in the night. They did not shine like those of a person. That, my kin told me, was because they had not a spirit in them. Not a whisper of one, like the other beasts. Regardless, they made good help. Taught well, they could carry much, and feed themselves off the insects of the desert. The beastmen had a terrible shriek. I heard it for the first time when we made warpath. We were on a hill, sparsely grassed. It was a thick plant that covered us, and crisscrossed the painted stripes and beads with blades. The beastmen were painted too, long jagged patches of white that had come from a bitter fruit. They panted in the darkness. Their eyes were empty, as they always were. Black as a starless sky. We crept to a precipice. Before the troupe was a town of tents and huts. Little fires hung in the windows. I smelled a breadloaf. A wedfeather ducked out of a doorway. He was young and skinny ‘round the waist but fat in the head, in the way a young thing is. He took a breadloaf from the windowsill. He turned. Shining eyes moved across the grass. The beastmen watched. Their lips began to part, all as one. Horrible teeth they had. No two were the same. They were more ill-conceived than the spears of crude flint they held, which they had beaten out of rocks we picked up on the walks we made, and fastened with the sinews of our kills. They took breath in a brutish way, not through the nostrils, but through a hanging, open mouth with thick and muscular lips. Their broodmothers did not feed them in the way ours did. They would hold a young beastman to their chest, and produce an organ… the beastman would bite down upon it and let its broodmother bleed a thick, white blood into its mouth. Without such powerful lips, the beastmen could not form a seal around the wound and ensure none was wasted. Our troupe leader met the eyes of the wedfeather. She threw a straight-pathed bronze spear. It stooped upon the son-of-mothers, bread in hand… it took him silently, but not quickly. His fight was knocked from his body, and he threw himself there-and-there in the foamy sand. When the blood began to leave his sides, the beastmen decided for themselves that we would do violence proper. They began their shrieking as they galloped down the hill on four hands. It started quietly, barely more than breathing. It reached a climax at the foot of the hill, when they began to smell the wedfeather. The dull *oof* became a shriek like a great fox. Deeper. Angrier. I had no doubt in my mind that the beastmen were not like the other animals. They had capacity for love and thought, and because of this, hate. They stormed into the village, shrieking and hooting. They stood only the height of a smoothskin, but were fifty times as strong as a patriarch. They bore down upon the village people, tearing into homes and cutting through clothes and tissue with teeth. I only saw one of them use his spear a single time. He pointed it at me, to steer me away from his killing. I had come ‘round a corner, and he was crouched in the dirt, spear laid at his side, chewing the hands off a townsman. He saw me, and hooted and hissed and shrieked. He stood up and pointed his spear to me, shaking it. In those shrieks… I could convince myself I heard him say ‘go.’ I stepped away and he dropped the spear. He bit into the jaws of the townsman. Once his face was gone… he was not a person anymore. He had been objectified. It was easier for me to look wholly at what the beastman was doing to him. The night crawled on. I pushed down doors and cut the air before me with undisciplined waves of a sword as I sacked the place. I took necklaces and rings and piercings from drawers and faces of the dead. The whole time I did, I heard the beastmen shriek. I saw the eyes of the beaded ones dart through the darkness as the fires reflected in them. Not so for the beastmen. They were quiet to the eyes and filthy loud to the ears. We had our dinner as the sun rose. The beaded ones counted my cuts and celebrated me, knowing that my wounds had all come from my unsheathed sword bouncing at my side. They made a great glory of my first battle… I wouldn’t venture to call it that. I brought my sack before the Puva-Ghita and he looked inside. A little smile crept across his face… he reached in, examining what I had. It was mostly jewelry and that kind of thing. There was no king here, no noble’s den to sack. And yet we scraped the last of the wealth from this place. For all the taking we did, very little selling was done. The beaded ones took most of the pretty things and wove them into their shawls, hanging them from the ends like tassels on the mouth of a shark, or pushing them through the skin of their face and fenestrae. The boldest among them wore jewelry in the fenestrae of their frills, teeth and jewels poked through the stretched, deep-red skin of their parietal. We ate well, at least. I did not feel so terrible about what I had done. It was a bad thing, I will tell you now… but things were different of course. Judge me as you see fit. I did not have to kill to live. But it was an easier path to live by killing. The beaded ones fed me well. I cannot say the same for the beastmen. They watched us eat the guts of a slaughtered antelope with eyes of volcanic glass. The greatest among them stood and paced around the borders of our celebration, the warpaint still caked on her face. She had a great protruding brow bone… almost like the postorbital horns of a northerner… but short and blunt. The way her skin looked was bizarre. It was almost like mine, but rather than growing in overlapping or adjacent scutes and scales, it was as if it was one great scale, folded over itself and wrinkled into smaller scales. It was like the skin on the face of a crocodile. I realized that I had been staring at her for too long when she met my gaze. She parted her lips and wrinkled her nose. And she hissed. As she did, I could see her working her lips and tongue into sounds. *Our* sounds. Not a word came out, but I had never seen a beastman make a noise like this before. It spoke in the way that the birds almost spoke like us, a jumble of syllables uttered underbreath. “Vya!” cried one of the beaded ones- I was brought back to the sitting-circle. A red-faced Tzoh beckoned me forth. She had a great ring of feathers behind her crest, but was bald in the face, and smooth. From her lips hung two golden chains that terminated in little pieces of blue cloth. “Come play. Game of chance, it’s good fun.” She was huddled with two others, both young. One had his beads wrapped ‘round his waist, with his back and chest out in the desert air. As he took breath, his scales shifted and slid across each other. They were high-keeled for his age. He turned his head, and behind a low frill, his feathers were pointed and tight, like quills. They were coated in resin and pulled back into points. The other moved aside to let me sit. He told me his name was Tdirah. The teeth in one side of his mouth were far shorter than the other, and his jaw shifted as he talked because of this. On the long-toothed side, his lips were always slightly parted, and his tongue snaked about, keeping his teeth wet. The beaded ones were casting five four-pointed die. Each roll of the die, a player would cast something precious- a coin or a chain or a tooth- into the pile at the center. Each player had a side of the die, dictated by color. When all the die landed with the same color facing up, that player took the pile. We sat and played, sharing stories and ancestries. The red-faced one, I learned, was called Qanr; ‘burning.’ I looked across her chest, and I knew why… beneath her beaded shawl, a sprawling tattoo wove across her scutes. A young Tzoh was suspended and bound upside-down. Her face was covered in tar, and flames crept from her eyes to her chest. Beneath this, there was another piece, incomplete. The lines were faint, needing another inking, and I could make out only basic figures. A dark, central tzoh stood above the rest, who lay on the ground. The great figure in the middle was tarred, her face bald. Her hands and face were the most complete parts of the piece. Both were covered in oil and blood. Qanr turned to me as she took the pile, dropping it into a sack. “Before I tell them of what I have done, and what has been done to me, they call me Caskas, carrion-bird.” She looked to me in binocular, and pinned her pupils. “It is a better name than Quanr. I tell you, I am no longer burning. And yet my bald parts still see the insides of tzoh and beast before I eat. *Kak-Kak.*” I nodded quickly. Nervously. I unpinned my pupils and lowered my gaze. She received my gesture of respect well, and exhaled. I won a little gold, and connection, in the dawn after we sacked the village. There was a time now, when we set ourselves at a more glorious target. One we could feel truly proud of sacking. A coastal city, Ghadil. Well-armed and traveled, it was… but the Puva-Ghita took it upon himself to gather bands of bladesfolk from many places. He sent walkers and riders wide across, to mountain and lake. And after a month of days, the first bladesfolk began to gather at the foot of our launching-hill. They rode in as we were building longboats… the Uag-Gutuul of the mount. Small in stature, all of them- their Ghita stood eye-to-eye with me, and she had scant jewelry. Her body was covered in feathers, some hers, some those of an animal. She rode on a great, two legged beast, like a flightless bird with hands, teeth, and a stiff tail. She called her people Gutuul na’Killi, “Riders of the Claw.” Our Puva-Ghita welcomed them with a fatty cut of meat that he had prepared, and they ate heartily. Their beasts of war cast a gaze unfamiliar on our beastmen… they were meeting another servant-thing for the first time, perhaps. The beastmen were not unsettled. They regarded the warbeasts curiously, but calmly, with their pit-black eyes. The Gutuul na’Killi engaged us in games to pass time before the next bands began to arrive. They had brought with them spears- sharp on one end and flat on the other, like an oar. They took these spears and used them to hit a tight ball of animal sinews and fat bound in cord. They invited me to play, but I declined. I watched as they passed the ball from spear to spear… the stickiness of it allowed it to stay put on the flat end of the spear until some force was applied, and each player would try to hold onto the ball for as long as possible, shoving the others to the ground with their shoulders. The tips of the spears were wrapped in cloth before the game, and used to hit other players as well, particularly in the hands. Tdirah came to sit next to me on the staging-hill. He brought with him a spiral-shelled animal, boiled in spices and salt. He broke it open and we ate. He tilted his head to the side as we did, to avoid spilling the juices out of his longtoothed lip. I did not ask, but I must have gestured absentmindedly… as he looked to me and gave a laugh. “On warpath, we were. I was an unwed, older than you but still young. We had made rafts to cross a great lake. The water was calm but the winds above were wicked and sent us along at a great speed. I was tilling my troupe’s barge.” Tdirah made a gesture, with one hand to the sky and one in front of his face. “The mast and boom would twist against each other as the wind changed. I ducked low every time except one.” He clapped next to his shorttooth side. “Boom comes across, hits me in the jaw. My teeth come out. This was only some months ago… they have not grown in quite yet.” He pulled a chunk from the tentacles of the ammonoid. “For now… only soft things. I must let my teeth grow long for a while. No wear.” I nodded. Tdirah turned to look at the game the bladesfolk played. The Beaded Ones among them, brave as they were, spent most of their time in the dirt. Black and white paint on their chest and face was quickly replaced with wet sand and the roots of beach plants. Warrior after warrior hit the dirt at the strikes of the Gutuul na’Killi. Then something remarkably bizarre happened. Shuffling into the wet sand of the ring, pushing aside waiting players… a fuzzy black shape emerged. It was shorter than the shortest of the Gutuul na’Kili, and it did not walk like them. It walked out diagonally, shuffling forward with knuckles low to the ground like a prey-animal. It picked a spear from the ground and twisted it around in a single hand. It looked around. It was one of the beastmen. After a moment of shared whisper and silence, the beastman called. It was guttural, but yelping, in the way a rodent does it. Deeper obviously, as the beastmen are far larger than even the greatest of rodents… It was a long *Ooouuuuuhhhh.* You see now that I cannot quite make it myself. Our throats are folded differently. The way the beastman made it, it was loud and ear-catching. The beastman threw a hand up, parallel to the ground, gesturing to the ball. She shook it. The Gutuul holding the ball gave a gentle toss to the animal. Without much effort, the beastman swung the spear down, flat-end first, beneath the ball, catching it and raising it back up above her head. The Gutuul laughed, and swatted at the spear with her own. The beastman formed her lips into a circle and gave a laugh- it was not like ours. It was a repeated exhale from the mouth over the lips, a *hoo-hoo-hoo.* As she did this, she pounded one hand on the ground and held the other with the spear above her head, steady. Another Gutuul na’Kili joined, swatting and pushing towards our new player. She pushed two Tzoh off with ease, a coarse-quilled arm beating the grey-feathered and bead-wearing to the ground all the same. The laugh grew louder, the beastman hooting and shouting as she exerted her strength. A second laugh came from the gathering crowd. Louder, higher. Another beastman pushed his way to the front, shambling by on all fours. And like the hoot-laughing, another began, until there were five or six in the sand pit. They were no longer focused on the game, rather, they were bunched close to each other, looking across at one another and brushing hand to arm, as though feeling a piece of metal or clay for impurities. One of them, who was skinnier and walked with an arched back, made a deeper noise, and the beastmen hobbled away, dropping their sticks in the sand. The Gutuul na’Kili spoke good of our beastmen around the war-altar. As the hairy things pulled wood from the beach’s trees to bring to our longboats, which were becoming sturdy, the grey-feathered bladesfolk talked with my troupe over baskets of fruit and mollusk we had gathered. They spoke with an airy accent, with much of the voice coming forward, rather than out, as one does when pretending to whisper but trying to be heard. “Your hairy things are wonderful, *Kak-Kak.* They have a warming coat unlike ours, and that of *our* beasts. I felt it. It is not quite the same, it is like the wires you use for binding spears. Where did these… eh.- beastmen come from?” Quanr drank stew from a shell-bowl she kept slung around her neck. “Many generations ago, the beaded ones were wanderers in the hot chaparral. We came down from high hills with little trees, to a forest valley. A great river flowed through it when we stopped. For the first time in centuries, the beaded ones stopped moving. We made village, not tent. We fished. In the forest ‘round the river, there were great hairy things. They stalked us in the night. Always alone. We lit a thousand torches to look for their eyeshine- but it never showed. We lost many a bladesman during that time, the first river-finding. When the river stopped yielding fish and fruit, we prepared to make tent once more and left.” Quanr raised a wrinkled, keel-scaled hand. Wiry feathers dangled from beneath her wrist. “We took a wanderance for forty or fifty years of births. This is the record. The chaparral dried, years of rainlessness turned jungle into grassland and grassland into savannah and savannah into desert. The Beaded Ones needed food, needed cold places, to raise our young, you see. Like you need warm places in the north. We listened to our elders careful-well, taking deep note of oral history- and found our way back to the great river. It was gone. The valley was a deep canyon, and the water had disappeared. On the canyon walls, however, there was a substantial grassland, which we followed for some time to a cratered clearing where water found itself during the rains. In the grassland there were the common grazing things, beaked and stiff-tailed. We did not see them for some days, but we heard their trumpeting all the while we stayed and wandered. We made our first kill of the place when we took an ovnorrta for prey. It was hard kill, hiding and running in the grass. It took ten or twenty spears to bring the animal down. The second kill was far easier, as we could blow into the skull of the first to attract others. This is where we learned to carve the fighting-heads.” Quanr shook her head. “I deviate. We were in this grassland for some time, when the stalkers returned. They were bigger now, and together. We saw two or three of them at once, at the fewest. And they were fast. They could stand above the grass, but ran at a height which obscured them in the blades. We slept poorly, until we made war on the grass-people. Our stalkers, we vowed, would not take us in the dark night with their soulless eyes anymore. We found the things which we called grass-people… we looked into their faces and understood what they were. Beasts. With nasty teeth and hand-feet and an awkward walk. We took them and bred them, bringing the hairy things with us as we wandered through the drying place. The wild beastmen were untamed and unhelpful. They spat and threw and beat and kicked and sometimes killed, but they were worth holding. Excellent trackers… they could find water, and each other, quite well. Especially notable is their smelling of the rain. Once we learned how they told each other rain was coming, with excited brushes of the face, we could plan our hunts, rests, travels… anything. It was as if we were oracles. That was perhaps a thousand years in the past, at least. Now, the beastmen are well-kept, painted, harnessed… they are like war-dogs. They almost hunt for us. This is how we came to have the leash of the hairy things of Gone-Great-River.” Quanr took a hearty drink from her bowl. Her voice was becoming thin from all of the talking. The Gutuul na’Killi stared. Some respectful, some curious. Many extended hands to the face of Quanr, a gesture of guest-gratitude, which she touched with her predentary. A drum came from the beach. A great boat had landed, rowed from sixty-six pairs of three-seated oarslots. Pouring from the sides of the craft were a strange breed of warrior from a distant land. From the waist-down, they were nude, and atop a skinny belt of cordage they wore only a beaten-brass breastplate and gauntlets. Their feathers, like those of the bladesman I had played dice with, were tarred or sapped, and drawn back into quills. They were sparse in feather, too, with a low frill and short, sharp brow horns, and skin of a blue-black peppered with white flecks. They moved as a cohesive group, jostling together and pulling their ship to the staging hill. When most were ashore, they produced from beneath the deck a great fish with many spears lodged in its side, and brought it before our Puva-Ghita. He approached them, and it was then that I realized he was not two-thirds the size of their warriors. “Tzoh Nojo-ta-Fissa na’Qichiua.” Quanr said underbreath. She turned her face to mine. “Kind people. Strong, gentle. They come from a place of mangroves. Water never lower than the waist… they keep themselves dry this way. Letting the skin out in the air.” I understood. We gathered our bands, now three- Beaded Ones, Gutuul na’Killi, and Tzoh na’Qichiua, to continue our warmaking and waiting. Things were well. Quanr and the Puva-Ghita were making much talk with the mangrove people… It was every time I looked to them, they were touching faces or hands with a great, grey-white figure in the firelight. The mangrove people brought with them great hooked spears and spadeswords. They spent little time around the eating-mat. They had their fill of fish, I am sure. The great fish had a taste like urine. It was salty, bitter, and deeply spiced. Many of the Gutuul na’Killi showed their distaste in their eyes and lips. I was more restrained. The fish was rotund, like a carp or reef-fish, but with a thick-scaled head and asymmetric tail. It was a deep black all over, and had no teeth in its mouth, rather, the bones of the jaw poked through the skin. I do not know if this was because of the cooking or drying… but it was certainly a bizarre animal. I am glad I ate it once. I don’t crave it, certainly. A group of mangrove-people and my troupe began to socialize, sharing stories and speaking of food and history and family. We made proper, tender contact. I found myself becoming well engaged with a great Tzoh na’Qichiua. Her name was Tofissi. She was broad and long-quilled. Her face was covered with white spots, concentrated around her nose and lips. I loved her nose. It sloped so nicely into her rostral scale, which then sloped nicely into her predentary. I offered to her my bowl of fish. I wouldn’t have finished it even if she took it. She declined, of course… but that was of little import as the evening crept on and the moon crawled across the beach-sky. In time, though we were poor at speaking in the tongues of the other, we found ourselves alone in the pale sands, with the noise of dinner eclipsed by the waves. “Tell me, Vya. Why are you on the beach?” Her voice was deep, syringeal. It had a scratch in it, from smoking, maybe. “because you led me here, *Kak-Kak.* Who am I to refuse a Tzoh like you?” Tofissi looked at me and flipped her head back and forth. She laughed. It was a sound that gave me a feeling like the first time I heard my broodsisters hum. A primal cooing- her laugh came from her fenestrae, not her throat. It lacked the scratch of her speech. It was beautiful. “No, no. What brought you to this point? You didn’t make warpath because I told you to. What brought you *here?*” Even now, I do not know. I did not speak back to the she-saurian that took me on this beach. I only felt her. Those last words, which she sent to me… *what brought me here-* Khanaa did not put a reason into my mind. I miss Tofissi. The morning came. I layed with Tofissi on the beach, in the sand-like-broodmother’s-embrace. The waves had come in, and were licking at our feet. I moved to shake Tofissi awake- but she turned first, and looked to me with her face of gloam. Her eyes crept around in their sclerotic rings, but her lips stayed shut. “Come.” I brought to her the body-wrappings she had worn the night before. I pulled her to her feet, and she rose in front of me- a greatest-of-shapes, she drew her head up like the High Azhdarch of myth as it is wrought from the mountain. We walked along the beach, chattering and gurgling to ourselves. I do not remember what we said, only that it felt warm in the mouth and the ears. We returned to the staging hill. I looked to Tofissi, and I saw her face twist in disgust, and then in fear. Her eyes sank, her jaw pulled in. She lowered herself, and underbreathed a string of sounds in an older language. Tofissi looked to me now, confused… doubtful. She spoke in a restrained anger. “Fools you are… Beaded Ones, to bring the hairy people into your ranks. They are not the tool you make them into.” She spoke of the beastmen with fear and anger. I cast my eyes ‘round the staging hill. All of the Qichiua brought the same eyes onto the beastmen, fearful and angry. “They are not like us, Tofissi… I cannot know what you have not given unto me, what I know is that they are shakey in the hands, and cannot craft fine tools, and that they are black in the eyes and without a soul.” I leaned onto her as I said this. Her breastplate was still cold from lying in the sand. “They are not like us in the worst ways, Vya. I was a smoothskin in the mangroves- a troupe of the hairy people come to my tree. My family hides. They cannot see us, we think. Hours pass. Broodmother-of-mine goes outside to look if they are gone. They come down on her and turn the water beneath us red and thick. Brother-of-mine leaves the tree to check, more hours later. The sun is up. They come down upon him. It is me and my sister, two smoothskins in the roots of a mangrove. We wait. Two suns rise and fall. It is a long time through the third night when I hear the hairy people leave. Three days I spend smelling Broodmother-and-brother-of-mine. In Qichiua, they are greater in stature, and red of coat. But they have the same eyes, the same teeth. They will make a kill of us. Only time stops them. And numbers.” Her eyes were frantic, white scales pushing them deep into their sockets. Her face was still, so motionless and focused on the beastmen and their awkward, shuffling walk that her piercings hung straight to the ground. I did not want to fight her. She looked back to me and brushed a wise hand across my rictus. Then she was gone, walking off to her tent. I did not follow. In the tension between the beastmen of the Beaded Ones and the Tzoh-Nojo-ta-Fissa na’Quichiua, another war party arrived. They rode in, all together, on a single beast. They called her Thhukmisi Wichili, the city bearer. Forty warriors and forty pages clambered about with the skill of a clinging lizard, dangling from ropes fastened between the great scales of an animal of earth-shaking might. The thing cast a shadow as vast as a lone conifer as it walked… it moved with heavy steps at the base of the staging hill, and its shoulders rippled through pebbly skin at my eye level. Had I walked straight out on the air beneath me, I would be an arm and a half below the animal’s back. Its height did not stop there. The ropes and satchels and hammocks tied to the beast were slung around a seismic tail and midsection. The neck of the great warmaker was also wrung up with ropes and climbing gear, and tapered as it went. It was the shape of a skinny conifer tree, taller than any plant I had ever touched, and at the top sat a jet-black head only a little bigger than my own. I could not judge the color of the body, buried in fiber and warrior’s flesh as it was. I stood and made my way down the hill as the war party began to dismount from their shared steed. Our Puva-Ghita, as well as the Ghita of the Gutuul na’Killi, had brought forth date palm leaves for the bladesfolk. They passed them up the neck of Thhukmisi Wichili and she ate heartily. Their Ghita came forth. He crawled deftly across rope and wood, and touched his spear-tip to the ground from his place on the shoulder of the beast. The shaft of the spear was curved, and easily as long as the foot-to-shoulder of six warriors. The Ghita slid down the spear’s shaft, which was made of a waxed wood with notches in it, and hit the coarse dirt with the noise of rock on driftwood. “Nussufa Wichilli Nokkoli.” His voice was full and hoarse. He and the other Ghitas reached out hands and rubbed predentaries. They made private talk beneath the shadow of a mortal creature which could surely hear the gods. The night came again. I found my way to Tofissi as we sat around the eating-mat. She was leaned back on a rolled-up bedcloth, dipping her tongue in and out of a drinking gourd. The she-saurian looked up at me, her sparse feathers pinned to the back of her neck. As she met my gaze, her piercings shook slightly. I inhaled, preparing to speak- but I did not. I only sat next to her, and let her lean into me. The sky matched the deep blue of the sea, and then the black of her scales. The night was far louder now than when the Beaded Ones first came to the staging hill, filled with the scraping of metal-on-stone as the bladesfolk honed their weapons, the hooting of the ever-agitated beastmen, the lapping of the waves on the sides of the longboats, the low cooing of the Gutuul na’Killi’s warbeasts, and now, the lonely cries of Thhukmisi Wichili. The warmakers had assembled beneath the staging hill. By now, all the Tzoh na’Ghadil could surely hear us across the twisting waves. We were but eight hours’ ride from their home… and the eyes of four Ghita were alight with the moon and the avarice of a conqueror.

Jeff and Frank were best friends for as long as they could remember. Jeff was the more bookish type, and Frank the more headstrong and as they grew older, Frank began to concoct any reason to compete against Jeff. From rock skipping to bike races, chess matches and even getting girls, Frank would get Jeff to go head-to-head with him on anything, and for good reason – Jeff always won. Jeff was smart and figured things out quickly and while never mean about it, he also never lost to Frank. As they got older, Jeff decided he wanted to be a doctor and Frank, in usual fashion, decided he’d try too. They studied hard, Frank putting off his usual competitive spirit focusing on the MCAT’s ahead of them. Jeff wasn’t nervous but he did find something that helped him when he needed a moment to think – kite flying. “Why not?” Jeff thought to himself. Jeff learned how to make kites online and after testing out multiple types, he designed a special Delta Kite and took it to the beach when he could. Well, when Frank caught wind of this, that competitive spirit perked back up and he began flying kites with Jeff making it a game of which kite could go the highest, the fastest. Jeff simply used the kite he made but added a bit of slits within it to get better lift, Frank however, tried every type of kite he could to beat him. Dragon kites, box kites, sled kites, even kites that Jeff was surprised Frank could make. But try as he might, Frank just couldn’t beat Jeff. Well, this time, Frank seemed to take this to heart, and he left the beach one day without saying a word to Jeff. “It was just a stupid kite.” Jeff thought, but with the MCAT approaching in less than a week, he had hoped Frank would bounce back like he always did and focused on his studies. The day of the MCAT came and Jeff looked for Frank at the testing center but couldn’t find him, he got worried Frank may have just quit everything all together. After the MCAT, Frank called Jeff and told him he’s got it and to meet him at the beach for a kite flying race. Jeff reluctantly packed his kite and went to meet Jeff, hoping to talk some sense into him. When Jeff got there, Frank was already in the sand with his kite – and Jeff couldn’t seem to get a word in before the wind picked up and Frank hollered at him to let it go. Jeff launched his kite, and Frank launched his, higher and higher the kites went, and sure enough – Frank won. Jeff was happy to see his friend win and planned to congratulate him but before he could Frank fell to the ground, his kite landing in the sand nearby. Jeff rushed over to his friend, and noticed Frank was bleeding through his shirt – a lot. Jeff tore off Frank’s shirt and his eyes widened, when he turned to look at Frank’s kite in the sand nearby - what he saw mortified him. Buried in the sand, stretched across a frame and tied neatly to four strings - was Frank’s flayed chest. Jeff looked back at Frank and Frank smiled with blood on his teeth and said, “I knew I’d beat you.” The End.

Five years, nine months, and thirteen days without him. I didn’t need to check the calendar or ask. I knew, because I had been counting this whole time. People said I shouldn’t do it. They said that I was torturing myself. That I would never get better. Never move forward. Or forget. They also said that it was about time I went back to my life. To pick up where I left off. Raise my child, go back to music, and compose again. People said so many things. To me, to his mother, and to mine too. At the hospital, during the funeral, and over the years. Everywhere I went, I could hear their whispers tiptoeing behind me. I could feel their lingering gaze following me. And I wanted to scream. Shout at them. Beg them to stop. But fearing that would make me lose count, I never uttered a single word. Over the years, I learned to translate their whispers into music and to transfer their stares into bread crumbs, always leading me back home whenever I got lost. People did what usually people do whenever someone dared to be unconventional. To deal with grief and loss in a different way. They talked. But what people didn’t know was that counting the days was the only way I found to distract me from the real pain. Counting the days was the only thing keeping me from losing my mind. From noticing his absence in every nook and cranny. To never hate music whenever my daughter picked up her violin. Whenever the music she played reminded me of him. Him, the man I had built my world around and written music about. The man who was so present in everything I did. In every bit of my being. The man who gave me everything and took it all with him when he left five years, nine months, and thirteen days ago. As I sat here, by this table garnished with all sorts of savory dishes, I closed my eyes and remembered the feeling of his hand resting on top of mine. His index finger steadily tapping on mine as he memorized the notes of a sonata or a concerto. His warm palm covering mine completely. When I received that unexpected call a few days ago, I thought about refusing the invitation at first. I was tempted to do as usual and ask my brother-in-law to kindly stop by and pick up Edith like he had been doing for the past few years. After all, how could being in the middle of his people be any good to me? How would sitting at the same table he would no longer be able to sit at, looking at all the framed pictures by the fireplace that only captured moments of young, teenage, and young adult him, or being in a place that lost its colors the day it lost him, be any good to me? Why would I want to be with those who reminded me of him the most around this table in this dining room? This same dining room where he introduced me to his family twenty years ago. Where he announced to them exactly seventeen years prior that he proposed, and I said yes. And three years later that we were going to become parents. Glancing at Edith, our fourteen-year-old daughter, I tried to find him in her. She inherited not only her father’s golden-brown locks, emerald green eyes, and manners but also his love for life and passion for music. Unlike me, Edith didn’t forsake the one thing her father dedicated his life to. She was brave enough to carry on his legacy and keep playing his music. Brave enough to pick up his violin every day after school and practice for hours. Although I couldn’t stand listening to Bach’s Chaconne or Williams’s Schindler’s List, I never asked her to stop. Never hide the music sheets or the violin. I never asked her tutor, who was Ethan’s best friend, to stop coming. I just sat there, in the dark, in the middle of an unmade bed, listening to the spitting image of the man I loved playing the music he loved. Hair in knots and dressed in an old, rugged light blue shirt—his favorite shirt—I sat there for hours, listening. Waiting for her to become as good as he was. Dark halos surrounding blood-shot eyes and quivering lips was how I looked like the day she played Caprice No. 24 by Paganini exactly like her father did. People also praised her talent and commended my support and strength. They talked about how much my Edith looked like her father with each passing day. On and on, they kept talking about us for five years, nine months, and thirteen days, like we couldn’t hear them. My little girl was now smiling after her grandmother complimented her dress. My sister-in-law made a comment about how well the color matched her eyes. My father-in-law asked her about school and the upcoming national competition for young violinists. Her uncle talked about one of the competition’s judges. He affirmed that if she kept practicing with the same rhythm, Edith would blow her mind. And one of her cousins mentioned someone calling my Edith a prodigy. Like her parents. Halfway there, halfway somewhere else. Halfway gone, halfway trapped in this graciously decorated dining room, I translated their words to music. A bunch of notes that I would never transcript on the old music sheets hidden in a box on the bottom shelf in the bookshelf he built me once we bought our house. A music that would help me keep counting the hours, minutes, and seconds I had to live without him. When my Ethan passed away, Edith was nine years old. She already knew that I was a composer. And yet, she never asked why I stopped or if I would ever go back to composing again. She silently went to the library, picked up the small violin Ethan got her for her fifth birthday, and started practicing the song he was trying to teach her. Refusing to live in a present where the love of my life didn’t belong. Not wanting to think about a future without him, I remained stuck between the pages of the past. A beautiful past that narrated the story of the man who meant the world to me. Lacking the courage to face a tomorrow in a world Ethan was no longer a part of, I watched my child from behind the scenes become a mini version of her father. Unwilling to turn the last page that carried his name, I stopped waiting for tomorrow to come. Instead, I counted the yesterdays I was forced to live without him. As clicks of cutlery, casual conversations, and raindrops gently crashing against the French windows covering two walls echoed in the room, I tapped my index finger against the edge of the table. I absent-mindedly interpreted that music, which would soon get lost in the corridor of forgotten memories. That would drift away alongside forsaken tomorrows and shadows of the dreams I once had. One that would help me count the days, weeks, and months I had to get through. In a world haunted by the living, I was haunted by memories of a dead man. In a world where people longed for eternity, I forsake all of my tomorrows for the yesterdays I spent with him. — Word count: 1248 words. Used constraints: B23 Includes a character who is a musician, C2 At a family gathering, D24 Include the phrase “haunted by the living”. Music pieces mentioned in the story: Thank you for reading my story, crits and feedback are always appreciated.

CW: self harm Ever had a butter mint? Most people nowadays haven’t even heard of them, much less tasted one. IF you have, then you know that the name is a misnomer-they’re not minty but rather rich and milky and sweet. It’s a vanished taste from a vanished world, the world of my childhood. I grew up in South Boston in the seventies, attending St. Bartholomew’s Church School for the greater part of my primary education, and when I taste a butter mint now, I see glimpses of that vanished world again. Black robes whipping around corners. Choral voices ringing down marble hallways dappled with wan wintry light. Snow falling silent on the statues standing sentry in the courtyard. And I see her, fixing me with her steady gaze, smiling her private little smile. When most people think of Catholic school, they imagine one of two things: grim, hatchet-faced harridans rapping on students’ knuckles with rulers, or pederast priests getting handsy with the altar boys. Let me address the latter right out of the gate and say I was an altar boy for many years and nothing like that ever happened to me, though I heard rumors about it happening to others, and there were certainly a few priests on the staff with whom you wouldn’t necessarily want to be caught alone in a room together. As for the former, well, don’t get me wrong-plenty of the nuns who taught at St. Bartholomew’s were happy to fill that role. Sister Catherine was a mean hand with the paddle, and if you saw a student hobbling down the hallway, you knew it was her handiwork. Sister Anne preferred torment of the psychological variety-everyone remembered the time she brought Bobby McNamara up to the front of class to confess that the stains on his pants were not from water. But on the whole, most of the nuns at St. Bartholomew’s were harried and well-meaning women doing the best they could with difficult circumstances, and several were teachers I remembered for the rest of my life. Sister Eloise, who taught the humanities, infected me with my love of literature, and kind Sister Margaret would dispense tissues and listen to my tearful accounts of schoolyard injustices. And then there was Sister Joan. Sister Joan was the headmistress of the school and something of an enigma. For one thing, she seemed far too young to hold her position. Her age was difficult to place, but her features were still described as “pretty” and not yet “handsome”. (Most of the boys at the school would have crushed on her from afar, if they’d dared, but none of us did. Something about her forbade it. It seemed like she’d know.) She looked younger than most of the staff, but they treated her with a respect and deference bordering on terror, something which didn’t escape the notice of the students. We’d look on with bafflement and high amusement as the classroom tyrants who ruled our days were reduced to stammering sycophants in Sister Joan’s presence. What made it even odder was how benign and mild Sister Joan’s demeanor was. When she made her rare drop-ins to classes, she would graciously accept the teacher’s prostrations and then she would urge them to continue. She’d stand silently in the back of the classroom, hands tucked primly in her habit, surveying us with kind eyes and a serene smile. She was always smiling private little smiles, as if she was in on a big joke that the rest of us were not privy to. Another strange thing about Sister Joan: we almost never saw her. The priests and nuns on the staff were well-integrated in the community; you’d see them at church, at the grocery store, at community events. Many of them were regularly invited over to our parents’ houses for dinner. Sister Joan made no such house calls. You could walk the halls of St. Bartholomew’s for weeks at a time and never catch a glimpse of her, and then one day, you’d stumble upon her standing alone amidst the statues in the garden or staring out the window at the rain. On such occasions, she’d always greet you by name and ask how you were doing. She seemed to know every single one of her students’ names, as well as details about their family life, their hopes, ambitions, talents, fears. No one, however, seemed to know anything about her. Only the oldest members of the staff could remember a time before she ran the school. Not that they’d suffer anyone impertinent enough to ask questions about her. When they did speak of her, the staff would speak in tones of awe and reverence. Some of them seemed convinced that Sister Joan was a living saint. Us kids filled in the blanks about Sister Joan with outrageous rumors. She’s the bastard child of a Kennedy! No, idiot, she’s the daughter of the pope. One particularly imaginative boy claimed Sister Joan was an immortal being who had lived through the Crusades. It seemed as likely as anything else we knew about her. She had her mysteries and eccentricities, but mostly, us students liked Sister Joan. She never raised her voice in anger, and while she permitted corporal punishment in the school, she did not practice it herself. She was of the opinion that a long talk with a student was all that was necessary to correct misbehavior, and she seemed to be right. Only the worst cases, the repeat offenders who failed to respond to the paddle or the cane, were sent to her office. When we saw them again, they’d be changed. The rowdiest and most defiant children would come back from her office and sit meekly at their desks, sucking on a butter mint. Another quirk of Sister Joan’s: she would keep the candies in a jar on her desk and dispense them whenever she felt the proper lesson had been learned. I remember one day when Michael Broyles’s name was called. Mikey Broyles was the terror of my days, the self-appointed antagonist of my life, and he had promised that very day that he’d find me after school and give me the thrashing to end all thrashings (I do not recall what offense I had committed to earn this sentence). But midway through the day, a Sister interrupted the class to announce that Michael Broyles was to come with her to Sister Joan’s office immediately. Mikey mustered the best swagger he could, making sure to shoot me a look of malice as he left. I didn’t permit myself a feeling of triumph or even relief- the punishment would be even more merciless now that he believed I had tattled on him. I spent the rest of the day imagining the cruel fate I no doubt had in store. But when, despite my best efforts at avoiding him, I bumped into Mike in the school hallways, he didn’t even look me in the eye. He gave me a little half-hearted push and then he kept on walking, eyes on the floor. He was worrying at a wrapped butter mint in his hands, not eating it. For a moment, shock overcame fear, and I called out to him. “Mikey?” He turned around and regarded me for the first time. There was a dazed and distant look in his eye. “It wasn’t me, you know.” “Mmm.” A noncommittal grunt. I was beginning to curse myself for not taking the opportunity to run. “I didn’t report you, I mean.” He finally unwrapped the butter mint and popped it into his mouth expressionlessly. He let the wrapper drift to the floor. “Okay,” he said, and then he kept walking. Nonplussed, I reflexively bent down and picked up the discarded wrapper. It depicted a cartoon boy and a cartoon cow with identical smiles. Something about it unnerved me. I tossed the wrapper into the nearest trashcan and then hastened home before Mikey changed his mind. I never had trouble from him again. Did I wonder what Sister Joan had said to him? Of course, but I wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Anyone who could reform Mikey Broyles was surely an agent of God. Anyway, it wasn’t as if it was a position I’d ever be in. I was a model student with a clean record. Nothing would happen to me. I was thirteen when my turn came. A few months after I turned twelve, my parents pulled me into the dining room and told me without meeting my gaze that they were getting a divorce. Enduring your parents’ divorce is never fun. Perhaps you can imagine how nightmarish it was in the insular world of Catholic Boston in the seventies. My family was ostracized. The other children began to avoid me, as if divorce were a plague I could spread to their families. My teachers were even worse. I hated the looks of pity in their eyes, as if they expected me to go down a bad path and regretted that they couldn’t stop it. I did my best to live down to that expectation. I became cynical, disillusioned, apathetic. Both my parents were too occupied with their mutually assured destruction to notice my burgeoning career as an aspiring dropout. Most of my teachers gave me more leeway than they might have another student, but the more they gave me, the more I tried to take, and in time, the inevitable happened and Sister Catherine hauled me into Sister Joan's office. As we entered the room, I noted how bare and featureless it was. It was austere even by St. Bartholomew’s standards-barren white walls, barren white desk, a single chair. There were no icons, no crosses. The only ornamentation in the room was a painting on the wall. It was by one of those phantasmagorical medieval painters whose names I would know if I paid attention in art class, and it depicted in sallow and feverish brush strokes a huge, squatting, toadlike demon with cold black eyes. The toad was gorging on sinners, their eyes wide and mouths agape as they tried to claw their way out of his gaping jaws. Sister Joan was standing behind her desk, hands folded primly in her habit as usual. I hadn’t seen her in months. She looked genuinely pleased to see me, as if we had come upon each other by happenstance. Sister Catherine shut the door and directed me to the only chair. I sat on the chair and folded my arms, defiant. I noticed the jar of butter mints before me. It was the only thing on the desk. The little boy and the cow beamed at me from the candy wrappers. The longer I looked at their eyes, the more they looked like that of the toad’s in the painting. I thought of Mikey Broyles, that thousand-yard stare he’d had, and I started to feel that inexplicable unnerving feeling again. I fought it down and told myself that at best, I was in for another beating or a moralizing lecture, both of which I had practice in suffering through stoically, and at worst, I was going to be expelled, which at least would free me from a school I had come to loathe, though the beating my dad would give me would make any thrashing I got from Mikey Broyles pale in comparison. Sister Joan regarded us in her smiling silence. She seemed to be waiting for one of us to say something. Finally, Sister Catherine cleared her throat. “Sixth offense, Sister. I’ve finally despaired of the boy.” Sister Joan looked at me with interest. “Sixth, is it? That is impressive.” There was amusement in her cool, mellow tones. Sister Catherine frowned. “Forgive me, Sister, but this is no laughing matter. We’ve tried and tried and tried. The boy should be expelled.” “I’d say that rests with me, wouldn’t you?” Sister Catherine lowered her eyes. “Yes, Sister.” “I assure you that I regard this with the utmost seriousness. Now, the nature of the offense?” Sister Catherine perked up at the opportunity to air her grievances. “Mr. Sullivan, as you know, has consistently failed to turn in assignments. When I confronted him in class today, he hurled the most vile and horrid epithets I have heard in over forty years of teaching.” “That is all very vague, Sister. I’m going to need a little more than that. What exactly did the boy say?” Sister Catherine reddened. “Must I repeat it?” Sister Joan raised her hands in theatrical helplessness. “How can I arrive at a fitting judgment when I do not have possession of all the facts?” “Very well. He called me…he said I was a decrepit old crone worshipping at the altar of a fairy tale.” Sister Joan’s face remained controlled and impassive, but something about it suggested that she was on the verge of bursting into laughter. “I see. For all the other students to hear?” “Oh, they heard all right. I could hear them sniggering in the back.” Sister Joan loudly cleared her throat. “Yes, that is very serious.” “I will not tolerate being abused by students.” Sister Catherine was working herself into a righteous fit. “I didn’t sacrifice decades of my life to be treated this way, and I don’t see what can be done for the boy. What are we going to do, call his parents in?” She snorted. “I tell you, this is what comes of broken families. Give it a few years. Mr. Sullivan will be out on the streets and- “ Sister Joan raised a hand. “I’m sure we’re all very interested in your predictions, Sister Catherine, but unless you have been gifted powers of prophecy, for now I must ask you to forbear. Please leave us. I will take matters in hand here.” Sister Catherine glared at me one last time, and then she left. We listened to her angry footsteps recede down the hall, and then the room was dead silent once again. No ticking clock, no humming fan. Outside, a light dusting of snow was falling. Of all the ways I had envisioned the dreaded summons to Sister Joan's office going, Sister Catherine being mocked and dismissed was not one of them. It seemed too good to be true. I tried to keep my guard up and prepare for whatever else was coming next. Sister Joan was smiling at me again. “I apologize for Sister Catherine. She believes her small-minded timidity to be moral uprightness. We can allow her these little illusions, can’t we?” Her expression grew serious. “You, on the other hand, have fewer illusions than you did before, don’t you?” “Am I going to be expelled?” I asked. Sister Joan ignored this. “You know what I think, Thomas? I think you’re experiencing a crisis of faith. Perhaps you feel you have learned too early that adults are flawed. Perhaps you feel that there was some more perfect version of events that was supposed to take place until your life took this abrupt left turn. Perhaps you’ve seen all the adults in your life fail to keep up their obligations, so you don’t see any point in keeping up yours. Am I hitting near the mark?" I had nothing to say to this. No one had ever summed up so perfectly what I was feeling before, and I'm not sure anybody has since. Bizarrely, I felt a wave of tears welling up, and I hated myself for it. "I don't want to talk about this with you." I mustered. "I don't want to talk about this at all." Sister Joan reached across the desk and squeezed my hand. "I think I can help you. Would you let me?" Blinking back tears, I looked down at my hand hanging limply in hers. I saw then that both her hands were webbed and ridged with scars, as if from burns. They looked a little like mine did after I'd been in the pool too long. How did I not notice her scars before? Her hands were always concealed in her habit, I suppose. I don't know why, but I saw those scars and then I decided. "Ok," I said. She smiled and squeezed my hand again. Her grip was very tight. That was how we ended up walking down the hallways together. Classes had just finished for the day, and the corridors were filled shouts and laughter and gossip. More than a few heads turned our way as Sister Joan steered me through the tight-packed crowds of students. Several hooted and whistled-"Tommy Boy finally got expelled!" one cheered-but Sister Joan silenced all of these with a mild glance. We pressed on, down hallways and several stairwells, making our way deeper and deeper into the bowels of the school. The crowds began to thin out, the laughter dying in the distance. I looked out a window at a crowd of kids throwing snowballs at each other. "Where are we going?" I asked Sister Joan. "Trust me," she said. We passed through a succession of locked doors, which Sister Joan opened with a ring of rusted keys. I noticed we were entering the older wing of the school, which had supposedly been a plague hospital or an insane asylum in the Victorian era, or so the students whispered, though they were never clear on which. There were no classes here. The school used it only for storage space. The walls here were damp and dingy and peeling. Faded green windows in rusting doors peered into dark rooms where dust collected on old furniture and medical equipment. We passed an ancient elevator shaft and rows of old hospital beds propped end up against the wall. The air began to feel stuffy and unseasonably warm. It smelled of mildew and rot. At last we came to a dark green door at the end of a long hallway. The door was triple-latched and barred. I looked up at Sister Joan, and she smiled encouragingly. "What is this place?" "I am with you. You are safe." "But what is it? Why are we here?" Instead of answering, Sister Joan proceed to unlatch and unbar the door. The sound of its opening echoing through the empty halls was far too loud. The creaky hinges yielded to reveal a rusting metal staircase descending into pure darkness. I backed away several paces. "We're not going in there, are we?" Sister Joan shook her head at my silliness. "It's the only way, Thomas. There's nothing to be afraid of." "I'm not going down there." "I understand. Truly. We won't do it. I think perhaps I misjudged you. I thought that you were so bright and fearless a boy that the usual forms of punishment-suspension, expulsion-could be waived. I see that I was wrong. Shall we go back to my office?" I peered down into that absolute night. Almost everything in me was screaming to be anywhere else but here, in this place, with this woman. But another voice, a smaller but equally compelling, whispered to me that it wanted to *know*, wanted to see what was down there, wanted to see if it could confirm all the worst suspicions it had ever had about life. If you don't step down there, it said, you'll spend the rest of your life wondering. "Yes, you will." Said Sister Joan. Her face was shrouded in shadow. As I watched, dry-mouthed, she raised her scarred hands and removed her coiff, shaking out her long blonde hair. She bent down to my eye-level and looked me in the eye. "Do it, Thomas. For me?" I walked through the doorway and into the dark. Sister Joan swung the door shut on me. I shut my eyes just before the door closed and the last of the light was snatched away. All I had now was darkness and the sound of my own breathing. For a moment, I thought I could hear Sister Joan's light laughter on the other side of the door, but I might have imagined it. I stood there, stone still, for I don't know how long. When I finally mustered the courage to open them, I found the effect to be identical. I waited for my eyes to acclimate, but the dark remained impenetrable. My legs grew weak and wobbly, and I had to sit down. "Ohh, Thomas," Sister Joan's singsong voice through the door. "Thomas Thomas Thomas. I can see you sitting there on the top stair, Thomas, poor thing. That's not good enough, Thomas. Down the stairs, Thomas." My legs were still trembling too much for me stand, but I could feel my body begin to move almost of its own volition, and I began to scoot my butt down the stairwell. Down and down and down. Something sharp-a rusted nail perhaps-tore through my pants but I carried on, heedless. When I looked back up, I could see the faintest rectangle of light where the door was. I knew now that whatever awaited me at the bottom of the stairs couldn't be worse than what awaited me at the top. I kept going. In my memory, the staircase goes on forever, hours and hours and hours, but it could have been two minutes. All I remember distinctly is listening very very carefully for the faintest sound, trying to control my heavy breathing. When I finally felt my feet hit what felt like solid ground, I did not wait, I did not linger and try and make out the details of whatever was down there. I immediately began scooting back up the way I had come, hoping it would be enough for her, hoping she'd let me out. I was perhaps a quarter of the way up when I heard the first sound. The faintest, smallest little click just at the edge of hearing. An image popped unbidden to my head then, an image of Mikey Broyles trying to scare with his brother's switchblade a few years before. What sound had the blade made as it leapt out? *Click.* I pissed myself then, but I hardly let it stop me as I continued to mount the stairs one by one. No longer trying to control my breathing, trying to convince myself that the hoarse and shallow breaths I could hear following me up the stairs were mine alone. My progress was abruplty halted by a shooting pain in my leg-whatever sharp thing had torn my pants on the way down had done a bit more damage on the way back up. I looked up at the door, calculating that it was maybe fifteen steps away. That's when I felt something else. The gentlest little poke at one of my feet. I looked down and saw there by the weak light of the door a pale, fleshy hand spider-crawling up my leg. A large shape was huddled there, a couple steps below me. Its breathing was shallow and rapid and pained. As the hand made its way up my leg, I saw that, like a glove, the skin gave way at the wrist to raw bloody flesh, twining tendons and muscles and a paler hint of bone. The rest of the shape followed the hand, hitching and dragging itself up the stairs until it was hovering directly over me. Some part of me went away then. I don't think it came back. The rest of me was sprawled on that staircase beneath the shape. By the dim light, I could see the barest suggestion of a face overgrown with scar tissue, weeping with pustules. Its skin was covered with a fine layer of viscera, like a newborn's. Two watery blue eyes regarded me sightlessly. I can still smell the sweetness of its breath. One of its hands poked and prodded and inspected me everywhere. The hand held the switchblade, which gleamed like an eye in the darkness. "Do you think...you know?" A voice, flat and monotone. "Do you think you know?" The switchblade was raised. The index finger from the other hand hovered in the air, and as I watched, the shape took the blade, and methodically peeled the skin from the finger. Blood ran in droplets down his hand and fell onto my clothes, my skin. "Do you think you know?" The shape took the knife blade and slipped it under the fingernail, ripping it out, roots and all. "Do you think you know?" The next finger. The next. The next. Skin fell, molted, to the stairs. The man's hands became so slippery with blood that he dropped the knife and had to grope for it and pick it up again. "Do you think you know? Do you think you know? Do you think you know? Do you think you know?"His voice gained no urgency, no tempo, as he attended to his task. When he finished peeling his hand, he turned the knife to the skin remaining on his face. "Do you think you know? Do you think you know?" His words became unintelligible as his mouth filled with blood. With a ruined hand, he grabbed a large flap of skin from his mouth and cheek and ripped it away, revealing a set of incongruously white teeth. Then he took my hand in his and flourished the knife once more. He brought the knife down ever so gently into the flesh of my finger, producing the smallest drop of blood. Then he let the knife clatter to the stairs. He gripped the hand he'd pricked between his own and squeezed it, very tight. He kneeled above me, my hand clapsed in his, for the longest time, and then he bent down and embraced me. "Do you think you know?" He whispered in my ear. When I came to, I was lying alone on the stairwell. My clothes were soiled with blood and urine, but I was unharmed, except for the little prick on my finger. I could make out a slug smear of blood leading back down into the darkness. I groped around on the stair until my hands gripped the switchblade, and then I began crawling back up toward the light. When I made to pound on the door, it instead swung open, spilling me out into blinding whiteness. Sprawled there, too worn out even to cry, I blinked until things swam into focus. A face above me, smiling warmly. Sister Joan, her coif back on, her habit neatened. "You've done so well, Thomas, so well," she said, pulling me back on my feet. She scrutinized my blood soaked face and dabbed pointlessly at it with a handkerchief. "There are those who believe innocence to be a virtue, Thomas. But how could it be? Innocence is ignorance of suffering, and how can we hope to help this fallen world if we do not understand suffering? Do you understand?" I stared at her uncomprehendingly. She smiled. "You will." Then she placed something in my hand and tousled my hair. I looked down and saw it sitting in my palm. A butter mint. Sister Joan provided me with a mismatched set of clothes from the school's lost and found, and I stumbled home that day looking not much worse for wear. If I sleptwalk through the next few days and the next few weeks and the next few months and the next few years, it was hardly out of the ordinary. I was a child of a broken family, after all. My parents blamed themselves. I attended St. Bartholomew's for only a few more weeks. I looked in the eyes of the other students and tried to find the hollowness that I saw in my own. I saw Sister Joan only once more. Flitting by me in the hallway on her way to more pressing business, she turned her head to me and shot me a little wink. That was my last day at St. Bartholomew's. A few years ago, I returned at last to St. Bartholomew's Church School. The school had shut down in the nineties, and remained condemned and abandoned in the years since. I happened to catch a headline in a local newspaper discussing its impending demolishment, and I felt that old dark urge to see, to *know* coming back. Hopping the chainlink fence now surrounding the property, I ambled about the grounds, taking my time, not sure if I was savoring or delaying what I had to see, what I had to do. The statues in the garden noted my passing, most of them now limbless or headless. Casually, leisurely, I grabbed a stone and smashed in a window. Casually, leisurely, I walked through the hallways and corridors and listened for the sound of choral voices, of children's laughter. Just at the edge of vision, a woman in a black habit led a child by the hand through the halls. All I needed to do was follow them, through a succession of locked doors(smashed open with my shoulder), past dusty rooms full of relics, past an ancient elevator shaft and rows of old hospital beds, all the way to a long hallway, at the end of which stands a green door. Readying my gun and my flashlight, I unbarred and unlatched the door and pulled it open. Did my legs wobble as I descended that staircase? Perhaps. Did I gaze back up the stairs and half-expect to see her standing at the top of them, young as I last saw her, smiling down at me? Perhaps. But she wasn't there and I kept walking, noting the bloodstain about fifteen steps down from the door. Back then, the place at the bottom of the stairs felt vast, possibly endless, but now I found a cramped and tiny room. The ruins of what was plausibly once a bare mattress on the floor. A pile of moldy, moth-eaten rags which might have been an old school uniformA rocking chair in one corner, a rotting teddy bear in another. Before one wall was constructed a crude little altar. Depicted on the wall was a smiling child, holding the hand of a smiling woman in black. On the altar was a pile of discarded candy wrappers, and a switchblade. I opened the knife. *Click.* The blade was still sharp, like new.

“William!” He didn’t hear it. “William, where are you? Get back here!” It wasn’t for him. “William, you know you can’t stay out there forever!” She was wrong. She knew nothing about him. How resilient he was. Will ran through the wet forest, watching the evening light slowly dissipate. He could smell the dampness and hear chirping around him as he stumbled over tree roots and knots and lumps in the ground. If he had anything, it was that he was fast. He had spent his whole life running. She made well sure of that. He didn’t need to bring anything except the stiff, old bread in his pocket and a bottle of water. He would find his way. He knew it. He didn’t have much more than this at home, anyway. Will would be so much better off without her. He needed to take off at night while the sky was dark, so he ran until the evening light was as gone as he could notice with the fuzziness of vision in those eyes of his she always hated, hoped it was long enough she wouldn’t catch up or see him, then changed the fluidity of his motions. He bent low to the ground. He counted his breaths, lengthened his steps until it all followed a rhythm. He stretched out his arms, and stretched them, and stretched them. He had to weave around trees and bushes with the length of his wingspan, but the running start helped his wings begin to glide as soon as they took form, and then he could lift off. He always loved the power he felt when he took flight. His legs left the ground, and his wings and posture were all that held him up. Well, a few more things about his body had to change as well. He needed to control the angles of motion, and birds and humans just weren’t built the same. Will supposed he could try to turn himself into a full bird form. But every change he did make was exhausting, and he feared he would mess it up and not have the energy left to save himself. He needed all the reserve he could. He couldn’t survive without it. The sky was gorgeous open in the night, unhidden by the canopy of dripping leaves. Clouds drifted along, and against his instincts, Will turned directly toward the leaving storm. He could join it. Move with the wind and never return. Arrive in new places with the rain. He’d be a water spirit or an omen. Just something more than a powerless boy. As night passed along, he was there to watch the world wake up. He was still over trees, for now, but the horizon opened up into light, and he had to believe there was another world out there. Real birds awoke and flew alongside him in between their meals, tweeting encouragements and pecking at the bread where it poked out of his pocket, somehow having never fallen. Memories popped up here and there of all the reasons he’d left. Mostly just hearing his name called out in that final moment. His name was his now. Not for anyone else’s mouth. If any new people asked, he wondered if he’d even introduce himself as Will. He could be Wind or Water, could be Winter or Weather. He could be a Woodpecker, a Warbler, a Worm. He could have a home, led somewhere by this road of the sky. He would survive. Carried by the currents, flying up high, Will could be free.

Kneeling next to the worn grave, Morgan groans as both knees pop loudly. The cold seeps through the thin jean fabric, causing gooseflesh to rise underneath. With a shiver, Morgan stretches an arm forward, gently tracing the name etched into the gray stone. “River…” Silence grows, chasing away the name of Morgan’s dead lover. The sun sinks below the treeline, taking the last bits of warmth with it. Staring yet unfocused, chest rising erratically with suppressed sorrow, Morgan’s hands clench and release, causing bits of dried leaves from the bouquet to fall like ash, coating the ground over River’s body. “Ashes to ashes…dust to dust.” Morgan breaks the silence with the barest of murmurs. “I miss you so much my heart’s turning to rust.” A sniffle. “You always chuckled at my dumb poems. Said I was brilliant. Though I couldn’t hold a candle to your intelligence. How you remembered everything you ever learned, while I could only make stuff up.” Morgan shifts, wincing, trying desperately to get comfortable. In a fit of anger, Morgan shoves back the long bangs that hide the view of the gravestone. “Why’d you do it? Hmm? We had everything! Everyone said we were the perfect couple. I…I loved you more than the stars! More than life itself!” Fists pummeling the ground, pulling up grass, Morgan fights against the rising tide of grief. Against the anger towards lost love and all that might have been. “How could you? How could you leave me? I thought…I thought you loved me. Us! The life we were building. Together. But now…I’m alone. You left me alone,,,broken.” Energy spent, Morgan weeps into the grass, the intended bouquet discarded and destroyed. The flowers’ petals loose, spinning away in the breeze, uncontrolled and free. “I never meant to hurt you, my love.” Morgan looks up, eyes widening with disbelief at the familiar form. Legs crossed, a sad smile on that perfect face. “River? Is that really you?” A nod, followed by a slow, unsure approach. Unable to bare the relentless loneliness another moment, Morgan lunges into River’s arms, fresh sobs tearing themselves free at the warm embrace. “B-but how?” “Remember when we talked about the stars? How their light travels great distances before we can even see it? How ancient civilizations revered the night sky as deities? Celestial beings, incapable of our meager understanding?” “Yeah. You laughed at that. Thought they were full of superstitious nonsense. Fools worshipping foolish gods.” River smiles, eyes dancing with the light of a true wellspring of happiness. “It turns out I was the fool.” River’s gaze breaks from Morgan’s tear-stained face, roving up into the starry night sky blanketing them. “They were more right than wrong. On death, our energy, the light of our souls is released into the heavens. Much like the stars we used to love, that light can’t be seen without a fair amount of travel.” Morgan’s breath hitches as River’s fingers gently wind around and over the body that aches for the familiar touch. “Our lives here are brief, fleeting. But the energies that animate us, make us who we are at our very core, that energy never dies. That’s why I was able to come back to you, if only for a moment.” “A…a moment? River…I can’t stand to lose you again!” “You never lost me, Morgan. My love for you is reflected in each of the stars you see, every night. Each time you feel the sun on your perfect face. Each drop of water that slides down your cheeks as you run from the rain. I’m part of it, all of it, speeding my way across galaxies to be next to you for one beautiful second.” River’s soft lips meet Morgan’s own. Tensing for the briefest moment, Morgan leans in, taking comfort where it can be found. Inhaling River’s warm breath, the familiar scent of coffee and salt-water taffy circles around the two lovers as they sink slowly to the ground, lost in each other’s comfort. Morgan’s sorrow gives way to the sweetest smile, heart no longer aching with the betrayal of life’s unfairness. The night deepens, fighting the light of the dawn before breaking. Birds herald the rising of the day as a cemetery groundskeeper idly wanders through, sweeping leaves and clearing decayed reminders of love left for the dead who may never see them. He stops, rushing forward towards the still form laying before him. Shaking the body, which is cold and wet from the morning dew, the keeper fights a rising panic. Yanking his phone from a wide pocket, fingers shaking, he barely manages to dial 911.

Note: This was originally written for my eight grade english class as a unit final. I am currently about to go into tenth grade and remembered this piece. I really liked it and so did my english teacher. I will say it was written with a time constraint and a few other rules about what I could write. I apologize if anything in this post isn't formatted correctly (I tired my best to follow the community guide lines) or if I've broken any common etiquette rules as this is my first time really posting on Reddit and save for adding indents this is preffty much just copy-paste from a google doc. Either way I thought I might share this with a corner of the world and see what people thought. Please enjoy, When Old Friends Come to Play. It was a Wednesday afternoon as Cassy pushed the heavy glass door open. It had been two weeks since the car crash. A drunk driver t-boned her at an intersection, she had hit her head on the dash. She still had the plum purple bruises which had blossomed across her left cheek bone. The legal firm gave her a week off, she was still a little shaken up. ‘Why did it have to be me?’ she thought. ‘When did the world become so terrible?’ She reminisced back to when things were simple. Back to the days of a quiet farm and playing with her purple furry friend. She was halfway across the lobby floor when her coworker Jackson came to greet her back. “Hey Cas, you holdin’ up alright?” Jackson was one of her few coworkers who actually cared about her. “Yeah, I’m alright, my hands still shake a bit.” She held up her hands attempting to hold them level with no avail. They shuffled over to the elevator while catching up, just as the doors were closing a hand reached in and separated them before they could close. “Hey there Cassy, heard ya almost bit the dust,” Tompson was another one of her coworkers, he was always jealous of Cassy and her better performance write ups. “Knock it off, that’s not funny” Jackson defended, Cassy took a step towards Tompson, enraged by his comments. It wasn’t the first time he had said something like that, he would harass her, sometimes even dared to cat-call her in the office. He always found a way out of it, sometimes even straight up denying it. “Woah, slow your roll. It’s all in jest, I’m glad you’re back and in one piece.” At that Jackson eased back. The ride up to the fifth floor was quiet and awkward with no one making so much as a peep. As they approached their destination Tompsons' phone rang, he pulled it out of his pocket and turned to the two as the door opened. “Catch you guys later, and Cassy maybe take an Uber home, or learn to drive,” he chuckled on his way out the elevator door. Cassy took a step after him her blood boiling but stopped as Jackson assured, “Don’t bother, he's not worth it.” “I know it’s just-” she paused mid sentence as something caught her eye. One of the most bizarre things she had ever seen, in the corner of the room, was an eight foot purple rabbit. It was the strangest thing she had ever seen, yet somehow it was familiar. She made eye contact with the rabbit but when she blinked it was gone. “Cassy, you alright, you look like you’ve seen a ghost?” Jackson asked with a tone of worry. “Yeah I’m fine, I thought I just saw. Never mind, yeah I’m fine,” she realized as she said that it was not only to reassure Jackson but also herself. “Well if you need anything just give me a holler,” Jackson offered as he motioned towards his desk. As Cassy walked towards her desk her boss Mr. Smith was there waiting to greet her. “Hey there Cassy, I hope you’re well, I thought for your first day back I’d give you something light.” He tossed a couple of files on her desk, “I just need you to review the new contracts we're going to be having our clients sign, it’s been a while and I just want you to make sure it’s up to snuff and there aren't any loopholes.” He started to walk back to his office but paused and turned back on his way there, “Oh and if you feel like you need more time off let me know.” Before she could even respond he was back in his office with the door slammed shut. Mr. Smith was always kind to her, but he was also about as insensitive as a nerve dead limb. She sat down at her desk, there were some flowers and a get well card left for her by the secretaries. They were daisies, her favorite flower. She moved them to the side of her desk and got to work. About thirty minutes in she looked up from her desk just in time to see a large blur pass by the window. She and several of her coworkers got up to see what it was. To their horror at the front entrance of the building was the mangled corpse of their colleague Tompson. He had fallen onto the stone steps, every bone in his body was either protruding from his flesh or bending in unnatural ways. Everyone watching was stunned, as they stood there, slowly a pool of crimson started to form around the body. Even Mr. Smith came out of his office to see what the commotion was about, which he regretted after looking out the window. The cops showed up with CSI, after taking about an hour to get things calmed down. The firm sent everyone home after that, they left through the back door so as not to disturb the scene that had developed out front. Cassy thought about getting a drink to calm her nerves but decided to go home instead. It was dark out by the time Cassy got home, the door opened with a click and groaned as it swung inward. She threw her bag onto the living room couch, turned and shrugged her coat off, placing it on her coat hanger that stood by the door. When she turned to face the rest of her apartment she was greeted by a peculiar sight. An eight foot purple rabbit was standing in her living room, his ears were bent but they still just barely scraped the ceiling. She screamed and held her arms up as if to protect herself, after standing there for a while she realized that nothing was happening. She put her arms down and gazed up at the rabbit. “Bunzo?” she asked in disbelief. The rabbit slowly nodded, the memory of playing in the field behind her house came flooding back. Because her family lived out in the country and she had no brothers or sisters, she didn’t have any friends. So she made one up, she made her own friend, and the friend was Bunzo the Bunny. “How-, why?” she stuttered, she couldn’t believe he was here. The large rabbit turned his head and out an arm and pointed at her bedroom door with his paw. From under the door glowed a golden light. “Are you trying to show me something?” she asked skeptically. The rabbit nodded slowly. She inched toward the door and slowly opened it. The next thing she knew she was standing in a field, she saw a little girl crying with a scraped knee. Beside the little girl was another Bunzo, but it wasn’t Cassys’ Bunzo. The Bunzo next to the little girl was bright purple, the one next to Cassy was a more faded purple like an old toy that had been worn down through the years. Through the girls crying Cassy heard words slowly start to form. “It hurts Bunzo,” the girl gripped. “Bunzo, promise me you’ll always protect me, please,” the large rabbit nodded. Cassy remembered this moment, it was a memory from back on the farm. “Why are you showing me this?” Cassy asked, looking up at Bunzo. Slowly realization came over her face. “Wait, no, does that mean? What happened to Tompson, was that you?” The large rabbit grinned a toothy grin, baring his large front teeth. “Why would you do that?'' she screamed. She already knew the answer, to protect her. “I hated him, sure, but I didn’t want to kill him.” Bunzo just stared at her with empty eyes still grinning. “No, no- I made you up I can get rid of you. This isn’t real!” she yelled, shutting her eyes tight, “This isn’t real!” When she opened her eyes she was standing in the middle of her living room. After what she just witnessed she decided to get that drink after all. As she pulled into the parking lot of The Four Aces she saw Jackson’s sedan already parked out front. When she entered the bar Jackson was waiting for her at a table, she gave him a call just before heading out saying she was a little shaken up after what happened at work and didn't want to be alone. She was also hoping if she wasn’t alone then Bunzo wouldn’t show up. Then again that didn’t stop him from showing up at the firm. “Hey, hope you don’t mind that I ordered for you?” Jackson asked Cassy as she was sitting down. The bartender put two drinks down for them. Cassy reached for it and began quickly downing it. “Woah, slow down, not all at once,” Jackson exclaimed. Cassy usually never drank but tonight she needed it. “Thanks for meeting me, I really didn’t want to be alone,” she took another sip from her glass. “It’s no problem, actually I wanted to talk to you.” When he said this his demeanor shifted, he suddenly seemed more concerned. “You’ve been through a lot, and I’m worried about you, I want you to talk to somebody.” Jackson reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a business card. “What?” Cassy asked looking at his hand holding the card “I found this therapist, they’re supposed to be the best, just one session with her is all I ask.” Cassy regretted asking him here. She didn’t want to come here just to be told she needs help. At this point she was a little tipsy and in her anger got up to leave. She turned, grabbed her coat and bag. As she made her way to the door Jackson threw some money on the table getting up to catch up to her. “Cas’ wait,” he called after her. She was halfway across the street when she looked back at Jackson leaving the bar after her. She kept walking despite Jacksons shouts of protest. She felt guilty storming away and looked back again just as the bright white headlights headlights fell on Jackson. For a split second she could have sworn that the headlights flashed purple just before coming into contact with Jackson. She watched in horror as he was flung into the air from the sudden impact. His arms and legs flailed while he was airborne, he hit the concrete with a loud thud. She prayed that he would get back up, that he was fine, but he didn't get up, instead he just laid there, limp and motionless. Before she knew it, she had gone through the same process as before, the cops the CSI, only this time she got a ride home because she had been drinking. The strange thing was as the police car escorting her home pulled out of the bar parking lot she saw a large purple rabbit grinning in the alleyway adjacent to the bar. When she got home she found a business card in her bag, she realized Jackson slipped it in there when she was getting up. She looked and saw Bunzo standing in the corner staring at her while grinning madly. “You killed him, you killed him,” she screamed. ‘Why is he doing this to me?’ she thought. “You know what,” she held up the card for him to see. “I’m gonna get help, I’m gonna get rid of you. Then we’ll see who's grinning.” She felt she owed it to Jackson to at least try and get help. The next morning Cassy found herself in the office of one Mrs. Wilmot, they had been talking about halfway through Cassy's thirty minute session. “So you blame yourself for the death around you is what I’m getting here.” Mrs. Wilmot gave a hard stare at her notes. “You really can’t blame yourself for those incidents, I can tell you that both death are not your fault at all-” “You wouldn’t understand,” Cassy cut her off. “That’s true,” Mrs. Wilmont reaffirmed. “Your record says you were in a car crash recently, is that right?” she asked. “Yes I was,” Cassy begrudgingly confirmed. ‘Why is this important?’ she wondered. “I would like you to undergo a CAT , I think that might help clear things up a little bit. Get a better picture of what’s going on inside your head.”Mrs. Wilmot handed Cassy a pamphlet. Cassy didn’t like the idea but she wanted to do whatever it took to get better. She felt she owed it to Jackson, she could also hopefully get rid of Bunzo. Since being threatened by Bassy started to appear everywhere. He had been sitting in on the session science it started. It was Friday when she had the CAT scan done, and while she lay there none the wiser about the fact the very scans being taken would land her in a mental institute. “You can’t do this!” she screamed while being dragged down the hall. Her therapist had recommended she be institutionalized after reviewing the scans of her brain. “Ma’am, please calm down, if you keep this up we’ll have to sedate you,” one of the orderlies warned. She reluctantly obliged and was led to her room. She was deposited in her room, the orderlies shut the door and locked it with a click. In the course of a few days Cassy had been victim to trauma all around her, and this is what she got. That was when Bunzo appeared again. “Is this what you wanted?” she yelled at him. “Is this what you want!? Is this because I threatened you?” The rabbit slowly nodded. He then turned to the door and made his way towards it. “Where are you going?” she yelled after him. What she didn’t know was that Bunzo had better places to be. Because while Cassy was stuck in her cell Mrs. Wilmot was packing up to head home for the day. She grabbed her purse and coat and turned only to be greeted by Bunzo. She yelped from his sudden appearance. “Oh it’s you,” she took a moment to compose herself, she reclaimed her breath and got her heart beat under control. “I held up my end of the bargain, Cassy is in there for good. Now you hold up your end, you’ll leave me alone.” she pointed an accusing finger at him. “For good this time. I can’t keep doing this.” The rabbit only nodded and smiled a rye smile.

Jacob Martin took the bag off of his own head. He was stupified at how this could have happened. It was his big moment - he landed the role of Captain Hook at Prairie View Highschool and had just aced the monologue that he spend hour after hour rehearsing with himself in the mirror, in a solemn and solitary attempt to impress Clarice McLaughlin. She was Tinker Bell. It couldn't have gone more perfect, that was up until the very end. Pirate number two, who was being portrayed by the infamously dull minded Larry Moore, had one single job in this scene. All he had to do was take the bag off of Jacob's head at the end of his speech, and Jacob would deliver his big line, "Until now, scoundrels!" Thus starting the sword fight. But the bag never came off. And even more surprising, the only thing Jacob could hear was his breathing. He thought how unusual this was, since he noticed at least two bubblegum-blowers earlier in the evening that were really starting to get on his nerves. For the first time since the show started an hour and a half ago at 7:30, Jacob began to get nervous. He could see the feet of Pirate two facing him directly. In fact, the slippers of Tinker bell were facing him too. That's when he knew something was wrong. He decided that he was confident enough to improvise his next line, and that he needed that bag off his head immediately. He awkwardly took it off with his hand bend strangely around his back, as to keep up the feeble image of his hands being bound behind his back by imaginary ropes, and his stomache dropped. They were staring at him. Terror was not the first emotion that hit Jacob, instead disgust swept over his body, starting in the back of his neck and spreading to his face, and then finally, his body. 150 emotionless faces sat in front of him, no eyes wandered off the stage, no older sibling was looking discretely into a phone hidden in their lap, and no parent was looking at any of the other kids on the stage. The tepid neutrality of their expressions was perhaps the most unnerving part of this synchronized audience, Jacob detecting no hints of malice within anyone's gaze, but empty, hesitant look filled their faces. As any child does in the face of a situation that creates an almost other-worldly sense of fear in their mind, Jacob looked around the stage in hopes of exchanging a glance with a fellow performer that would signify that they too realized that they were in the midst of a terrifying situation. As he realized that all nine actors on the stage were struck by a look as unmoving as the bodies that held their faces, his mind swarmed with words he could say to alleviate himself of the dread that had now made its way into his fingers and toes, but no words made their way off his quivering lips. The dead silence that had filled the room was broken only by the rapidly increasing tempo of Jacob's breaths. As he snapped back to reality his eyes quickly darted around the auditorium, in hopes that he could determine exactly which exit he would sprint out of, but his vision unexpectedly locked in on something else. Clarice, sitting on a paper mache rock in her neon green Tinker wings, was staring at him, like everyone else, but there was something different about how she looked. Her wide eyes and furrowed brow illustrated an expression that was so uncomfortable, a child in a different circumstance would have almost certainly looked the other way. Through fresh stream of tears, brought on by the fact that she realized Jacob still had control over his eyes and body, she was only able to get out two words, an expression that we teach ourselves before we know what words mean - a phrase that teaches a young toddler the value of being able to verbalize his thoughts, "I'm scared.

Charles Richter stood on his back deck, enjoying the day’s first cigarette with his morning coffee. Some of the locals in Fairview called him Charlie, which he didn’t seem to mind. Wendy called him Chuck, which he preferred above all else. He took a long drag off his cigarette, exhaled, and let the smoke drift mellowly into the air. The smoke seemed to be doing a good job of keeping the gnats and mosquitos at bay. Not that he would have noticed if one of them had bitten him. Chuck’s mind was usually elsewhere those days. Chuck used to sit on the front porch with his morning coffee and smoke his cigarettes, but Sal Ferretti had ruined the experience for him. Story Telling Sal, as Chuck referred to him behind his back, was his neighbor who lived across the street. The houses were few and far between in that area, making it all the worse for Chuck. He was a man who valued his privacy. A concept that Sal didn’t seem too familiar with. It wasn’t that Sal was a bad guy; Chuck knew that. But Sal was lonely, and Chuck was the opposite. He didn’t crave the company or attention that Sal did. And he was beyond exhausted of hearing the same old lame jokes and repetitive stories Sal insisted on sharing. It was exasperating for an introvert like Chuck. And if it wasn’t bad jokes or long stories, it was movie quotes or incoherent ramblings. Chuck took a moment to admire his coffee mug. A gift from Wendy that he cherished more than his own life. Chuck sipped his coffee, smoked his cigarette down to the filter and used the smoldering butt to light another. His health was the least of his concerns. Not much concerned Chuck after Wendy’s sudden, unexpected passing. He’d gone to hell with himself, and the property had followed suit. Chuck used to be a regular down at the hardware store. He would swing by even if he didn’t need to buy anything, stop in to chat with the guys and hear the latest news circulating around Fairview. It had been over a year since he stepped foot in there. Chuck just didn’t have it in him anymore to keep up with the house or fix things. The gutters were clogged with dried leaves. The pipes in the basement rattled and leaked. Years of inclement weather had stripped the white paint of his front door down to the unstained wood. And his lawn was a sight that made his neighbors cringe. In the front yard, the grass was waist high and scorched yellow by the wrath of the sun. It was even worse around back. There were big patches of dirt where the grass had died off and refused to grow back. In other spots, the grass had turned from a sun bleached yellow to a sickly brown. The yellow IROC, which had been a fixture of his backyard for years, wasn’t helping matters either. A crack in the engine block had caused an oily puddle to seep into the earth, killing off everything that once grew there. All that remained was a layer of black dirt and coagulated oil. He had promised Wendy he’d fix it up one day, get it running again. Now he could hardly see the point. He was getting up there in age. He’d be better off selling it for cheap to someone who had the time and patience to restore it. Or just junk the damn thing and be done with it. He opened the gate to the fence surrounding the back deck and trotted across his balding, unhealthy lawn, coffee still in hand. *What a shame,* he thought. But it wasn’t the grass that intrigued him. Something else had caught his eye, all the way from the back deck. He followed a trail of strange looking vines that were coiled tightly around a dense, shady oak tree, adjacent to the IROC. The vines seemingly started from the tree and from there, traveled in a straight line to the side of the house. The vines had crawled their way up, clinging to the blue vinyl siding. The vines were not green or purple, and looked worse than his sickly grass. They were black, the color of rot and decay, which is precisely how they smelled. He followed the discolored vines with his eyes and saw they were growing outwards, splitting and branching off in different directions, extending to the eaves of the house. Some had started moving toward the red brick chimney. “See you at the party, Richter!” Sal yelled, doing his poorest Arnold Schwarzenegger impersonation. Chuck shuddered at the sound of his voice. It was a sound akin to rusty nails on a chalkboard as far as Chuck was concerned. “Huh?” Chuck muttered; the reference lost on him. “Total Recall,” Sal said. “It’s a line from the movie. Never seen it?” “I prefer Terminator.” “Ah, that one’s a classic. ‘I’ll be back.’” Chuck was actually hoping he wouldn’t be. “Anyway, I saw you from across the street and thought I’d pop over, see what’s up.” “Well, you’re looking at it,” Chuck said and waved one hand towards the dark vines crawling up the side of his house. “Goddamn!” Sal exclaimed. “Never seen vines like that before. And jeez, the smell is unbearable. Smells like an abattoir. That’s a fancy word for slaughterhouse.” “I know what an abattoir is.” “I’m sure you do. Smart guy such as yourself. My uncle used to work for a slaughterhouse back in the day. Used to come home reeking of death. Did I ever tell you about my Uncle Russ?” “Probably.” Chuck sighed and massaged his throbbing left temple with his free hand. “These vines smell just like him. It’s sickening.” “I wonder what causes them to turn black like that. They look dead, they smell dead, but they’re still growing.” “You got me, buddy,” Sal shrugged. “I’ve got another uncle. Not the one who worked at the slaughterhouse. Uncle Bob. He lives in Reno. That’s in Nevada.” “I know where it is, Sal.” “Well, his wife is a botanist. I probably mentioned them before. But I could give her a call and ask about it. Maybe she’s seen this kind of thing before.” “That would be grand,” Chuck said, feigning appreciation. “Hey, what did the fish say when he swam into a wall?” “I don’t know,” Chuck groaned, though he had an idea of the punchline. “Dam,” Sal said. He didn’t say a word, just rolled his eyes at Sal. Chuck looked over his unkempt lawn and then glanced across the road. He had a clear view of Sal’s property from the side of his house. Sal’s garden was in full bloom, his lawn was well manicured. His windows were shiny and streak-free. His gutters were spotless. It made him resent Sal even more for some bizarre, unknown reason. Chuck finished off his coffee. “Be right back,” he said, brandishing his empty mug. “Need more fuel.” Chuck went back inside, secretly hoping Sal would be gone when he returned. He refilled his cup, stirred in a spoonful of sugar and a splash of heavy cream. He went out through the back door, looked around and didn’t see Sal. *Thank the good lord,* he thought and breathed a sigh of relief. Muffled screams tugged at his ears. His eyes dashed wildly around the backyard, leading him back to those morbid black vines. That was the first time he noticed that the vines were not only growing, but they were moving. *Not just moving,* Chuck thought. *Breathing.* He could see them expanding and contracting. They throbbed and pulsated as he followed them back around the side of the house. The sight made him gasp and drop his mug. Coffee splashed his pant leg and the mug shattered on a hard patch of dirt where the grass once resided. Sal was about six feet off the ground, pinned to the side of the house, wrapped up from his ankles to his neck in those blackened, diseased looking vines. He tried to cry out for help, but the vines were taut around his throat, cutting off his oxygen and crushing his windpipe. The vines grew at an exponential rate, until they all but enveloped the side of the house, leaving Sal trapped in a cocoon of darkness. No vision, no air, no way to convey the terror he felt. The vines followed their individual paths, stretching over the eaves of the house and spreading out over the entire roof. They moved in every direction, taking over, conquering. Soon the other sides of the house were encased, as if a giant black tarp had been draped over the property. Charles Richter didn’t need a botanist. He needed a priest. The vines coiled tightly around his ankles, tight enough that he felt his bones splinter and snap. He crumpled to the ground, writhing and struggling through the grass as the vines rapidly consumed every inch of his body. They enveloped him and his whole world went dark. His last thoughts were not of regrets, or of the vines that had consumed his very essence, but of Wendy. He would be seeing her again very soon.

March 20th, 2021 It’s been ten days since our breakup—ten days during which I haven’t stopped crying. I dreamed about you every night. Without exception. In some of my dreams, you came back to me, running, and said that you would take back what you said. But in others, you simply walked away. As if I never meant anything to you. Like the past year was just a game for you or a way to pass time. Laying on my bed, I read and reread our conversations. Analyzing every line and text you sent. Trying to find out what I had done to make you leave me. trying to understand why you stopped loving me. Going through our messages, I realized that the last time you told me you loved me was over a month ago. I noticed that you started messaging me less and less and that your replies were briefer and colder with each passing day. If only you gave me a proper explanation. If only you said anything other than “you deserve better than this.” If only I could hate you and forget about you. If only I could unlove you the same way you unloved me. March 25th Did you even love me? or was it just lies? March 26th Mom saw me crying today. I tried to keep our breakup a secret but couldn’t. She kept asking what was wrong until I finally gave in and told her that we were no longer together. though I told a little lie. I said that it was me who called off our relationship. I didn’t want her to hate you. I didn’t want you to be the bad guy in the story. March 27th I told Jennifer about the breakup—the real version. March 28th Please, come back. Life has no meaning without you. All my days feel the same. Empty. Dark. Monotone. Food has no taste, and music has lost its meaning. I am spending most of my days sitting in my bedroom crying and rereading our messages. March 29th I dreamed about you again last night. And this time, you stayed. You didn’t walk away, leaving me crying in the university’s parking lot. Last night, you smiled at me and held me in your arms. You promised you’d never leave me. Never abandon me or deceive me. I didn’t want to wake up or for this dream to end. All I ever wanted was to be by your side. April 2nd I’m still hoping you’ll come back. Will you ever do so? April 3rd Mom saw me crying again today and asked why I broke up with you if I loved you this much. I didn’t know what to say. I kept crying until I fell asleep. April 5th I hid all the books you offered me and the scarf I made for your birthday. Jennifer said that she’d take them as soon as she came back home. I even deleted your number and blocked it. I also wanted to take off your necklace today but couldn’t. It felt as if I accepted that you would never come back. Or as if I were denying your love. What happened to us? Why did you decide to end things between us? Didn’t you say you loved me? that I brought happiness to your life and made it better? Why? Just please tell me why. What did I do to deserve this? April 6th Today I woke up with tears covering my face. I couldn’t remember the dream I'd had, but it was unsettling. I want this to stop. Please, make it stop. Please, come back and fix things. April 10th You’re nothing but an asshole. I hope you suffer as much as I’m suffering. And even more. April 19th How are you holding up? Are you happy? Do you miss me? Did you really love me? Did you really have to do this? April 22nd Mom offered to take me out and bought me some ice cream, hoping it would make me stop crying. It reminded me of when you used to take me out on dates after work. I miss you. A lot. April 23rd Today I wrote a poem for the first time in years. I did think about sharing it online, but then remembered that we were still friends on Facebook, so I didn’t. Remember when you said that you loved the notes I used to leave at your side of the bed before leaving your place? Why did you have to do such a terrible thing? I thought we were happy. I thought _you_ were happy. April 25th Whenever I miss you, I write you a letter. A letter that you will never receive. April 26th Jennifer came over and helped me clean the house and get rid of your stuff. Though I did ask her to keep the postcard you bought me during your last trip to London. I also deleted our pictures from my phone and laptop and updated my profile picture. However, I couldn’t take off your necklace. I love you. April 27th I did think about restoring our pictures but didn’t. I believe it’s better this way. You made your choice. I was not okay with it, but you didn’t come to talk things through. That day, you came to inform me. You imposed your decision on me and didn’t even give me a chance to say what I had to say, so why should I keep your pictures and books? Why couldn’t I take off this stupid necklace and throw it away? Why couldn’t I stop loving you like you did? I am so pathetic. April 29th I cut my hair. Why keep longer hair if you’re no longer around? I hate long hair. May 1st Cutting my hair made me feel better. I’m glad I did this. May 2nd I wrote another poem today and posted it after I removed you from my friend’s list. It would be better for me to not have you on my friend list. This would make me stop checking whether you were online or not. May 14th If only it were easy to forget about you. May 16th I’ll never forgive you for what you did. May 31st I wrote another poem last night and shared it online. People loved it and said that the choice of words was adequate. June 15th I can’t read books anymore. You ruined that for me too. June 20th Jennifer forced me to go out today. I felt weird. I want to go back home. August 2nd I ran into a high school friend today. She made a comment about my weight loss, and it made me feel self-conscious. I wish the hurt could stop. I want my life back. August 30th I don’t understand why I’m still attached to you. You made your choice. You wanted to leave. Why am I still in love with you? November 1st I took off the necklace. I’m finally free. — Word count : 1172 words. Used constraints: A22 healing, B16 The main character can’t keep a secret, D7 the story includes a poem. Thank you for reading my story, crits and feedback are always appreciated.

As I look in front of me into the vast unknown, I ponder what is worse, being alive and knowing that one day you die, or not having been born so that the many joys of life aren't ripped from your grasp. On one hand, some may say “Be grateful that it happened, not sad that it’s over,” but I think that’s a lot to ask of a person. I’ll be grateful, yes, that I managed to obtain an existence surrounded by people who love me, but it’s impossible for me not to be sad knowing that I’ll never see them ever again. On the other hand, some may argue that you wouldn’t have to feel that deep sadness if there was no happiness or life in the first place, but that doesn’t *feel* quite right either. It seems like an easy, comforting way out on the surface, but somewhere inside of me, I know that I long for existence, long for the positive experiences I’ve lived through in this life. Having not existed would erase all of the happy emotions I’ve felt, and I don’t think anyone would want that at all. No matter how you lean, this debate isn’t worth much anyway. Whether we like it or not, our hearts beat steadily inside our chests. Our lungs are taking in air. Our brains are processing the world around us, grasping our surroundings, and making sense of life. Our stomachs digest the food we consume to continue living because we are already alive. We have already exited our mother’s wombs in one way or another. We have taken our first inhales and exhales. We have formed our first thoughts, and shed our first tears. We are here, and you can’t wish yourself out of existence. Even if we choose to leave this all behind for one reason or another, all we've experienced has already happened and there’s nothing we can do about it. So as I continue looking in front of me into the vast unknown, I begin wondering what my last thoughts will be. Would it be better to expect the sweet release of death, or not know it's sneaking up behind you before it pulls you under? To me, I wouldn’t want to be aware that it’s coming, lurking behind me like a lion sneaks behind a gazelle. Ideally, I'd wish to be like the gazelle, lowering my neck, just thinking about eating the grass below me as the lion lunges forward. I wouldn’t know I was going to die until the lion sinks its teeth into my neck, and by then I wouldn’t have time to process all of the terrifying thoughts that come alongside death. What comes after? Is there a god? Is he a good god? I wouldn’t have to think. All I could think would be, ouch, this hurts my neck, how do I get free? And as I am thinking of how to claw and thrash my way away, I would die. Just like that. It’s simple. Some aren’t lucky enough to have a lion. Some aren’t lucky enough to be that gazelle grazing in the field, not knowing they are about to die. I think that’s the cruelty of life. I stare at the vast unknown in his eyes. All he can do is stare back. I drink, feeling the warmness of the fireplace against my cheeks as the alcohol drips down my throat. My sins crawl along my back, spelling out my wrongdoings and taunting my conscience. Is anything right or wrong, though? Whether something is “good” or “bad” is imposed on us by society at a very young age. It’s good to share. It’s bad to bully. But in a world where society plays no part in our upbringing, sharing would just be sharing and bullying would only be bullying. It’s only a sin because we were taught it’s a sin. There’s no bad people, there’s just people. The sins on my back aren’t sins or wrongdoings, they’re just events I remember. Statements I’ve made. Bonds I’ve broken. The sooner you realize that there’s no such thing as sin, the sooner you realize there’s no meaning to anything. The sins on my back turn into shadows of the past, events of the life I’m living. Tears stream down my eyes as I cry for the vast unknown. Sin or not, there are still consequences. I hold the gun in my hand. Phil had been walking through the door. I had been off my meds. It only took one bullet, one mistake to strike him down. My husband always said that I was a bad shot, but somehow it landed right in the middle of his forehead. I watched him fall. I could’ve sworn that he was my ex-boyfriend, I could’ve sworn that I heard him screaming that he was coming back to finish the job, coming back to kill me. I was off my meds, and Phil had been closing the door behind him as I pulled the trigger. Maybe if I leave him on his chair, he’ll wake up tomorrow morning and all of this will have been a dream. Maybe not. At least he existed and we lived all our happy moments together. At least he was lucky enough to have that lion from the shadows. At least he wouldn’t have to live with something like this, sin or not. Maybe I won’t have to, either. The gun rests in my palms.

I never wanted for this to happen. I never wished to forget anything. All my life, I thought he was the one for me. but now that it was all said and done, I realized that I was wrong. Probably a bit too naïve, but definitely wrong. Still, I never wanted to forget him or erase him from my memory. I wanted to remember the tone of his voice and the echo of his laugh for as long as I lived. For as long as I could. I carved his name in the depths of my most cherished memories, hoping it would be protected from time and forgetfulness. Even though it was over, I didn’t want to forget the things he said to me. For he was the only one who saw right through me and didn’t flinch or simply run away. He saw exactly how broken I was and loved me anyway. With no judgment. No second-guessing. Only acceptance. While lying on the floor on this hot summer night, I distractedly followed the shadow drawn on my ceiling. I was here. but not fully. Not completely. Bits of me were with him, and others were still trapped in the past. _“I never understood why you persist in torturing yourself like this,” I wondered as I sat next to him._ _“I might be a sadist,” he let out a deep chuckle. He quickly pecked my forehead before focusing back on his game._ _“I say you need to get some sleep. You have an early shift tomorrow,” I said, rubbing his back up and down._ _“No! I don’t—goodness, Jude," he screamed. "Don’t jump in front of me like that. You scared the hell out of me.”_ _“Told you, you need sleep,” I stated matter of factly before taking a sip from my citrus tisane._ _“But I won’t get to spend time with you or talk to you if I go to sleep now,” he complained without interrupting the constant clicking on his keyboard. “It’s not always that your schedule allows you to spend the night over.”_ _“I’m staying for a week, remember?”_ _“Yes, and?”_ _Knowing that there was no chance I’d win the argument, I smiled at him, rested my head on his shoulder, and enjoyed his company._ A sad smile turned up the corners of my mouth. I felt relieved for not forgetting those arguments and sad because they were all part of the past now. A past that was slipping through my fingers as the clock ticked away. Despite all of my efforts, I was beginning to forget his features and the shade of blue coloring his eyes. No matter how hard I tried, I sometimes forgot the number of times he said he loved me. The tips of my fingers traced the cool floor beneath me, the same way I used to trace the wrinkles surrounding his eyes and the corners of his lips. They moved slowly, gently, and carefully as I let the waves of my memories drift me away from here. _“What are you doing?” He smiled without opening his eyes._ _“Trying to memorize your features,” I whispered as my gaze followed my index finger in its journey._ _The silver light of the moon filtered through the open blinds, bathing the room in a soft, ethereal light. Propped on my elbow, I watched my finger run across his jawline and up his left cheek before I brushed his hair with my fingers._ _“You don’t need to do that,” he said, minutes ago, breaking the comfortable silence that reigned in the room. “I’ll always be here. I’ll never leave,” he explained when he noticed my furrowed eyebrows the moment he opened his eyes._ _A huge grin made its way across my lips as soon as his words registered in my brain._ _“There’s no way I could go back to living without you.” His voice was calm, making my soul dance and do hundreds of pirouettes. “Life would be unbearable without your eyes. Meaningless without your smile.”_ _Taken aback, I stared at him for a few seconds. I took my time and processed his words before I pressed my lips to his for a gentle kiss._ My vision was now blurry, and my thoughts were all over the place. There was no way I’d let myself forget him. I couldn’t allow this. I shouldn’t allow it. However, I had already forgotten a few things about him. Like his favorite verse from his favorite epic poem and his favorite Star Wars movie. I couldn’t remember who his favorite author was or his favorite drink. And it wasn’t as if I had a choice. Whether I wanted it or not, I could feel him disappear. Slowly. Gradually. Like names written on the sand on the beach. Like traces of footsteps left on the snow. Like clouds chased away by the wind. And I wondered: when my memories of him collapsed and were replaced by newer ones, would I also forget his name? Would I ever forget the way we loved each other? Crying, I brought my knees against my chest. As abundant, hot tears got lost into my dark-colored locks, I prayed to never forget his name and the way he loved me. — Word count: 873 words Thank you for reading my story. Crits and feedback are always appreciated.

I didn’t want to forgive you. How could I? You were the one who wronged me more than any other. I knew what betrayal was because of you. So when I was minding my own business at the bar with a couple of new friends, friends who I knew I could trust, and a man walked in who looked familiar, I looked away. I didn’t want to recognize you. I told myself it was just someone who looked like you, that you were just still in my thoughts because of all the pain and hurt you caused, and that I was in a new stage of my life now and didn’t need to let you weigh me down any more. I watched you in the corner of my eyes as you grew closer. I was nervous. I suppose I could’ve told my friends that you freaked me out, that I saw a man watching me and wanted to leave, or wanted their protection. But I didn’t say anything at all. I hadn’t told them about you. I didn’t want to. They were in this new stage of my life, this new phase where I could be free. They didn’t have to know about you. All you were was a ghost from my past haunting me, following me around when I never wanted you. Yet I didn’t leave. I turned to you and pretended to flirt so my friends would think you were a stranger. I saw the confusion in your eyes; I’m sure you wondered if I recognized you at all. You played along. I was glad for it. Playing games, of course, had been one of the things you were very good at. I told my friends I would text them and I followed you outside. It was a stupid decision, and they knew that, which meant I knew they were going to follow us. Good. They were good friends. They knew how to keep me safe. They knew far better than I did how to keep me safe from the likes of you. Feelings I had tried hard to forget about started popping up again. Just in little bits. I thought of when I first saw you, how when you asked me out the first time I had panicked because I thought you thought I was a cis girl, and I was terrified of straight men being attracted to me. How when I told you I was nonbinary, but I didn’t have a new name, you started calling me your Star. My friends call me Stace. Star makes me think of you. I kept up the fake flirtation for a while. I didn’t have to try hard. I just told you how pretty you were, and acted flattered when you said you’d like to get to know me. I wasn’t really thinking about what I was saying. If I started to think, I might wonder if I meant it. We slipped into a Waffle House and my friends sat on the other side of the building. You noticed them, which I noticed, but neither of us said anything about it. We lowered our voices. They couldn’t hear us from here. “It’s been a while,” you said. “Hasn’t it.” I tapped my fingers on my leg to avoid placing my hands on the sticky table. We sat in silence for a moment. My throat grew sour. “Where did you go?” “What was that?” I had only whispered it. I asked louder. “Where did you go? After you disappeared.” Your hands moved forward before you caught them and shoved them under your chin. I’m sure if my hands had been on the table you would have taken them. Worse, I don’t know if I would have let you. “I went to college.” “Did you graduate?” “No. I dropped out. I never wanted to be there.” “Why did you go?” “My parents sent me as far away as they could and I didn’t think I could refuse.” I didn’t make eye contact. I didn’t want to look at you. The old feelings, the old questions and worries and despair were bubbling up inside of me. “You could have stayed with me.” “But they had my little brother. It wasn’t like I could take him with me.” “And how much did you see him when you were off at college?” “I didn’t.” “So what good did it do?” “Nothing. It did nothing good. I hated myself.” You sighed. Your hands left your chin, fingers tapping the air before grabbing each other and squeezing. You used to always do that. You would find your hands flapping, your fingers fluttering in the air, and you would grab them to stop them from moving. I used to take your hands and pull them apart, one finger at a time, and tell you to let them flutter again. I wanted to do that now. I clamped the impulse down. “Where’s your brother now?” I asked. “Is he still with them?” “He’s living with me now.” I looked up at your face. “Isn’t he still a kid?” “Yeah. I stole him. I’m sure we’re gonna have hell to pay, but we’re living a life now.” My shoulders slumped a little. “You’ve changed.” “I’m sorry I didn’t sooner.” I half smiled. “I thought I’d changed more. I think I was wrong.” Your fingers fluttered. My heart did, too. “What makes you think that?” you asked. “I thought I would be over you. I thought I *was* over you.” It was hard to keep my hands under the table. “I just tried to forget, you know? I made new friends. I gave up on dating. I gave up on men. I just didn’t want to be hurt again.” When I looked at you again, your face was serious. “I’ll make it up to you.” “Can you?” “I will. I promise.” I wondered if you would take my hands if I let you. I didn’t move my hands above the table. I just watched yours flutter. “Can I see your brother?” I asked. “I know I’ve met him a few times before. But it’s been a while.” You smiled. You smiled so big and so genuinely, I felt my heart melting all over again, and I was so glad to hear you say yes. I stayed there with you for the whole meal and we talked a while longer. I talked with you about my friends, you talked about how you’d gotten away from your parents. I got your new contact information in my phone and gave you mine, and we said goodbye and I went back to my friends and said, “he seems nice.” I wasn’t ready to tell them about you yet. I’m still not. I didn’t want to forgive you. But after just an hour, I knew in my heart that I had no choice. I already had.

They were fifteen minutes North of Mount Vernon coming on a bend in the road when it appeared. An old single room schoolhouse with the phrase *Jesus Forgives*, written on a piece of lumber, erected on two wooden signposts resting on the edge of the highway. “Theres the schoolhouse.” Dad spoke, moving his hand to check the speedometer of the U-Haul. “An hour longer and we’ll be there.” The son looked at the schoolhouse out through the driver's window, then back out to the passenger side. Dad had a wide skulled face with bucked yellow teeth. Rounded shoulders tensed on a wide frame torso. The legs, short and stocky, carried dad with intention. Dads arms were farm strong. Long and wide, they ran the full length of his upper body and then some; coming to a heed at the midthigh. His hands were thick and tough, like baseball gloves. The nails bitten down to the nub exposing calloused fingertips. Dads dyed black hair gave way that he was in his 60’s, but he still had the strength and edge for 50’s. The pot of coffee he drank every morning would always carry him through the day. Dad had a highschool diploma but dropped out of college a week into his first semester. He’d go around telling friends and family the reasons he dropped were because he *knew more than the professors*. Or *You can’t make any money when you’re paying for college.* The real reason was that he was too farsighted to read, giving him migraines whenever he tried to. He grew up on a farm with six brothers and one sister. He was the second oldest. His dad beat him hard, and he always took care of his mother. He had worked on pig farms, slaughterhouses, auto shops, and whatever else there was for a man of his talents and lack of higher education. Dad got married at the age of 21 and had four kids by the time he was 30. That was life in small town Iowa. That’s how it continues to be. The son sat riding shotgun with his dad, head out the window, mind on the clouds. The second youngest of four and the only boy, he was unusually tall compared to his mother and father. This could be on account of his mother making him drink three full glasses of milk each day, from the time he was ten, up until he turned eighteen. Something he resented when it was happening, but thanked her for later in his life. He had a long round face with thick black eyebrows that nearly connected in the middle. His hair was black and greasy with an irish widow's peak causing it to split right down the center. The son, just like his father, had broken his nose a handful of times but it never showed. His mother made sure of this by making him undergo two rhinoplasty surgeries to correct the bump and curve in his nose after he broke it the first couple of times. “Your nose is your best feature.” She’d say, tracing a straight line with her finger down the center of his face. When he broke it a third time playing basketball she said “Well, I’m not paying for another one.” It was the summer after he graduated college that his parents decided to move out of their home and settle an hour from where he spent his childhood. This move caused controversy in the community as people from that area are born, grow up, and die all within a thirty mile radius. The son and his father were in a U-Haul transporting furniture from the old house to the new. Moving didn’t particularly bother the son as he had few good memories of the town he grew up in. Even fewer friends. Like most young men, he wanted out from wherever or whatever he found himself in. Most of the time he didn’t even know what that was. He was 22 years old. Everyone and everything seemed to know what was going on except for him. The trees, grass, buildings, flags all knew where they were headed. They all made up a larger part of something, and all of them played their part expertly. In his head, every thought he had seemed to run away from home. He’d think a thousand thoughts a second, but could never grasp on to any of them. He was jobless, and the little money he did have he spent on booze or getting high. Most of the time, he thought he was stupid, or insane. Something was constantly wrong, and it would take him a long while to figure out that everybody felt like him. That’s what life was. The way his dad drove made him nervous. When he was little, he'd beg his dad to slow down. Gliding down single lane gravel roads going 70 sometimes 80 miles per hour, hed grip his seat til his knuckles turned white. His dad drove fast and hard, but always had some form of control behind the wheel; even if his son couldn’t see it. He’d always take the correct line, accelerating up steep hills but braking just before they'd reach the peak of the road, smoothly carrying the inertia of the truck downhill again, then uphill again. He would flirt with the edge of the gravel where the grass rose up to meet the loose rock on nearly every single turn, taking each one well over the suggested speed limit. “Dad slow down.” The son would plead, his stomach boiling from the constant dips and bends of the gravel road. “What for?” he’d reply, seemingly increasing his speed and ferocity down the gravel. The older the son got, the less he’d ask. The two sat quietly for the majority of the drive, with the U-Hauls tires kicking up rock behind them being the only break from silence. A thick trail of dust billowing out behind them blinding anyone who follows, though no one did. They stopped just off Higginsport road in a small town called Bernard. They unloaded some of the furniture and other vanities at a relatives place, stopping for a visit and a beer after most of the heavy lifting was finished. After saying goodbye the two continued on toward the town of Farley, reaching olde Farley road in a little under 90 minutes. Olde Farley road was recently blacktopped, so for a moment the son could relax his hand. “That's where my friend Killer Devine shot himself.” His dad pointed to an old pine casting shade over a thick layer of ditchweed, just off the side of Olde Farley road. “Drove past him the day he did it. He Parked his car under the tree and shot himself with a shotgun.” The son turned to face his father slowly. His father was nonchalant with the words, putting more care into the grip of the steering wheel than this thing he had just said. “What?” He wasn’t sure if his father meant to say this or if he accidentally spoke the thought out loud. “Yep. back in 1981. His name was Killer Devine. I don't have no idea why everybody called him Killer. It was Killer, Beans, Jim and Joe, all of them brothers. Killer, Joe, and the oldest brother Jim; who I didn’t know, all killed themselves. I was good friends with Killer for years, your mom knew him too.” He stared at his father who kept the U-Haul centered on the road. Everything around him felt still and measured. The only thing said was “Why” “Why’d he kill himself?” The father turned to face his son for a moment then turned back to face the road. “No idea really. Me and him worked at the John Deere plant in Cedar Rapids for a couple years. I knew him since kindergarten. We were in the same class in high school. Both of us got laid off by John Deere at the same time and I think that hit him hard. I was actually on the way to Dubuque to file for unemployment when I drove by his car near that pine tree. Didn’t think much of it because his house is so close to there.” He raised his hand and scratched the back of his head. “Your mom and me actually went out to visit him at the Independence insane asylum. He was there for a couple of months after we both got laid off. I told him ‘You know Killer you should just come up with me and we’ll file unemployment, maybe get a job at Ertl Steel.’ I knew he was in a bad way but I thought the hospital would help clear him up. He got out and killed himself a couple days after.” The son turned his head back to stare out the window. The cornrows dressing the fields blurred as they sped down the road. Dark gold hovering over bright green stalks. He felt sick “How’d his brothers die?” He asked his dad “Jim was the one closer to Killers age. He drowned himself at their farm I think after Killer shot himself. The older brother, Joe, I cant remember how he did it but he was way older than Killer and me. Actually there's their house right now.” Bill pointed out to an unassuming faded white farmhouse. A grain silo situated near the front of the house, a manure pit in the back. Just as quick as they came up on it they were past it, tires chewing up gravel. The son looked out and saw the house. An old two story building with a pyramid roof. He imagined the brothers living there all together at one point. Imagined the parents sitting at a wooden dinner table with them. Imagined the boys helping their father with chores on early winter mornings before the sun rose. Imagined all three of the brothers dead by their own hand. He wanted to cry. He wanted to ask his dad to stop the truck, to get out and vomit. To walk around the property where the Devines once lived. He wanted to ask his dad why he told him that. Wanted to ask his dad everything. “Jesus dad.” he started. “I’m sorry.” he ended. The dad turned his head and smiled. “What for?” he said. “It sucks but that was nearly forty years ago now. It was a tough deal.” The U-Haul carried them the rest of Olde Farley road onto Highway 20. The two arrived back at their home to find their mother packing pillows and ornaments into cardboard boxes. They backed the truck up and opened the sliding door to load more boxes for the trip back to Iowa City. “How was it?” She asked stuffing an old mirror into a box. “Good” the dad responded The son looked at both of them. Urgency took over his body. He wanted to say something, anything, but words did not follow. He wanted to ask about Killer, about what mom thought of him. He wanted to stop everything. The conversation, the work, the move out of his home. He wanted to hug his father, kiss his mother. The urgency he had felt led to exhaustion. He was tired. Tired from the drive and tired of gravel. He wiped his eyes hard, picked up a cardboard box, and put it into the back of the truck. He looked at the trees in the backyard of the home he grew up in. Dark gold and bright green, as it usually was, in the summer in Iowa.

The acrid scent of burning flesh and the metallic tang of blood overwhelmed my senses. The harsh winter breeze carried the ashes of smoldering buildings and countless dead, mingling with my breath and coating my face in a grim paste. My mouth tasted of copper and iron. A faint hint of sulfur lingered in the air, sending a spine-chilling shiver through my body. “All this death and mayhem,” I thought. How could this happen? My eyes frantically scanned the crackling flames for any sign of life amid the chaos and rubble, but all I saw were unrelenting embers consuming everything in their path. The heat from the flames scorched my skin and burned my eyes, drying my tears before they could pool. The town, once lush with trees and vegetation, was now a seared hellscape. The sheep, the oxen—all burnt to a crisp. The people…my family. A sharp pain gripped my chest, and my heart sank. My legs buckled, and I collapsed to my knees, ash kicking up around me, forming a thick gray cloud. The love of my life was taken from me so cruelly. I would never forgive the monster who did this. My eyes widened with realization. My daughter. The thought of her body burning made my throat dry and my voice tremble. I would never feel her small hands playing with my beard again, or see her eyes filled with admiration. I would never hear her fragile voice say, “I love you.” My loathing and despair quickly turned to rage. My blood began to boil, steam rising from my pores against the cold air. I would never be able to bring justice to the creature that did this. Never would I be able to look them in the eye and watch as the life escaped them. My rage swiftly turned to sorrow. “Today, I die here,” I whispered. I would bleed to death. It was inevitable. My vision started to blur, and the crackle of the fire was muffled by the beating of my heart. My face flushed as the loss of blood took its toll on my body. I could feel the warm, crimson liquid pooling on the ground beneath my knees. Despite having my arm completely sliced off, I felt no pain. The only thing I felt was cold amid the burning world around me. My eyes grew heavier with every passing second; my body grew weaker. I wouldn’t last much longer. My eyes turned toward the sky, begging for mercy. One last attempt at pleading for my life before it all ended, but I was greeted with nothing except the deadened sound of flames and the howling of the wind. Who would allow such tragedy to take place? My head bowed, and at that moment, every last ounce of hope vanished. I was overcome with despair as I faced the truth: no one was out there. No one could save me from this fate. My eyes closed, and I took a deep breath, the pounding of my heart drowning out the sound of the world. I could feel the beat slowly fading. I had seconds before my consciousness would be lost due to my severed limb. A faint voice emerged from the void, so low I could barely make out what it was saying. The voice felt familiar, as if I had heard it all my life. It kept repeating a phrase, each time becoming clearer. The voice felt euphoric; for once, my mind was calm, soothed by the repeating melody. “Will you give in to me?” the voice whispered. “Please, end my suffering,” I replied, out of breath. “Will you give in to me?” the voice repeated. I had no more fight in me. I felt the cold embrace of death, and with my last breath, I uttered the word, “Yes.” The voice stopped. I felt a tingling at the tips of my toes, the sensation spreading slowly throughout my body until I was completely warm. My breathing stabilized once again. Is this what death feels like? I wondered, a feeling of bliss shooting through my body. “No,” my thoughts were cut off by the voice again. This time, instead of the peaceful tone I recalled, it was unnerving. I slowly opened my eyes, focusing on a pool of my own blood below me. Yet, something was different. I squinted, trying to refocus my vision. It began to clear, and I noticed that the reflection in the blood was not my own. My figure had been replaced by something from a nightmare, staring back at me, seeping into my soul. A jolt of pain shot down the stump that once was my arm, and I screamed in agony. The pain was as if someone were soaking the stump in acid, every nerve ending igniting, sending another wave of pain through my body. I looked down at my arm and saw the blood turning from crimson red to coal-black slime, the skin around the wound breaking out in boils. With each boil that popped, another wave of pain followed until it became unbearable. My eyes rolled back, and everything turned black.

"Please have a seat." The receptionist said, "The nurse will be out shortly". Jittery to the situation, Jason lifted the closest reading material, flipped open to to a random page and read "Galloway cows have wide pelvises and calve easily". "Well that’s good to know." he lied to himself Methodist Urology looked strikingly similar to his optometrists office, minus the ten thousand dollars worth of Oakley lining the walls. Besides that, the two-tone gray color scheme, the news channel playing up in the corner, just like the optometrist office last week, Jason could have swore that even the receptionist was eating from a similar Styrofoam take-out box. "Deja vu." Jason said. "What?" asked the receptionist asked from across the waiting room with a mouthful of lo mein. "I was just thinking this place -" Jason hated shouting so he took a step closer to the woman instead, " - Seemed familiar." She smiled with fat cheeks and turned back to her phone. Jason sat down and returned to his reading: "The cows create strong hybrid vigor due to the purity of the breed." "Jason?" a middle-aged nurse asked, poking her head out from hallway, " We are ready for you. Her name badge read Tammy. The nurse lead him down the hall, around the corner, down the hall and around the corner to a large scale. "Shoes off," she motioned to the machine. "Take these." She handed Jason a ramekin holding a small black pill and a small yellow pill. "Do you have any water?" He asked sheepishly, he hated being an inconvenience. "Ill see what I can find." she said flatly before disappearing around the corner and returning a moment later with a paper cup fill with a white liquid. Jason took the cup from her and sipped. mlap-mlap-mlap-mlap he smacked his lips. "Is this rice milk? he asked. "All I could find." "You couldn't find water? "Take the pills." she commanded. Jason obey and followed the nurse through another door to a more private waiting room where the two sat. "I’m going to ask you a few questions," she said, typing away at the computer. "Are you nervous?" "Um, yes?" he admitted. "You are very brave for going through with a vasectomy, most guys won't" she stopped typing and looked him in the eye. "Seriously, I wouldn't, If I were a 30 year old man." "Do you not think I should do this?" Jason squirmed and winced all at once. "You are very brave, now get naked and put on this gown." she said. Again, Jason obeyed while the nurse didn't even try to look away. "It's going to be awesome to never ware a condom again though, augh, its going to be awesome." her eyes went somewhere else. "Thank you." Jason decided on. Suddenly the large double doors on the other side of the room opened giving way to a wide open and brightly lit surgery theater. "Welcome!" The doctor shouted. "Its me, Dr. Gupta! I know the mask makes it hard to see my face! These are my assistants today," The short, white-coated man motioned to his left and right. "Emma and Leena". "Hello." Jason gave a little wave and smile to the assistants. Due to their maskes, he could not tell if they smiled back. "Now I need you to lie back in this chair and put your feet in the harness, just like that, yeah. Now feel left and right, there are two handles you can hold, one vertical, one horizontal, you feel that? Good. Now you are going to feel a little pinch while I do an injection on the left and the right of the scrotum." "Doctor." Emma said from over the man's shoulder and handed him a cotton swab. "Doctor." Leena said from over his other shoulder and handed him a giant needle. "GOOD GRACIOUS!" Jason shouted and invariability retracted his nards. "Oh dont be shy!" Dr. Gupta laughed and plunged in the needle. "aaaaaaa" Jason moaned quietly to himself in pain. "Alright," The doctor cooed. "The hard part is over, now you can just relax." With an exhale, the fire in his testicles subsided into a pleasant ember, a warm numb sensation. Alright, I can live with this he thought, Nothing wrong with this, it almost feels good, in a way , really good actually. A pulse of pleasure shot from his groin region up through his entire body. "Doctor, what do you call this stuff? Jason asked. Just then, Tammy entered into the room and whispered in Dr. Gupta's ear. psst psstt psst pssts while keeping hard eye contact with Jason. "Everything alright down there?" Jason tried to shift his weight and found he could not. Dr. Gupta ignored him, whispering loudly back to Tammy, "Both the BLACK pill AND the YELLOW pill?" He reiterated audibly. Tsk Tsk Tsk "No good, no good, no good." the doctor took off his mask and grimaced. "Well Jason" he said, bringing his attention back to the naked man on the table. "Looks like we have had an winsee, teensie tiny mix up during your intake process." he nodded his head dismissing Tammy. "You may have ingested an unrecomendable combination of narcotics, now now, nothing too dangerous, just something profoundly strong." "Compared to what?" Leena asked flatly. "Oh, lets just say its a good thing you will have a ride home" Dr. Gupta said. "I’m taking the bus actually." Jason was having a hard time holding onto reality, between the stress and the drugs that is. "Yes you are my friend, you are taking that bus straight to outer space!" Dr. Gupta ended with a long deep laugh. Emma and Leena could not help but join in. Just then the bright lights lowered to a dim and Emma slid a slide into the projector. CLICK, entire room was covered stars, not real constellations like at planetariums, just cartoon four and five pointed ones. "Captain Jason, come in Captain Jason, this is rebel base." Dr. Gupta spoke into a pretend microphone. "During the remainder of this procedure you may encounter strange happenings, unnatural occurrences, just remember its all a dream." A beautifully clear comet with ocher and cherry colored tail flew across the sky almost punctuating the doctors warning. "Ya see, the problem with most of my patience is that they hear what I say, but they don't actually listen. They don't heed my advice. Now I’m not saying that I am a sage or anything like that, but I have been around the cusp." A spot light appeared from somewhere above the doctor and he gently placed a black felt top-hat upon his balding head. "And I know how to spot the dust" his rhyme too conspicuous. "If this line be not, be not a bust!" Dr. Gupta had begun singing at this point. "He is singing, he is singing!" Jason shouted, sweat beading at his hairline. With a wink, the doctor struck up the band. Time after time You have me laid aside from you Time after time My hands were made for you Time after time 'else is there to do Time after time Dr. Gupta stuck the scalpel into Jason's upper scrotum and located the tube that carries seaman from the testicles. Jason gasped at either the sensation of the knife, the crashing horn section of the band or just how breathtakingly beautiful Emma and Leena looked in their flowing sequence gowns. "Ah oooh, ah oooh." the assistants harmonized. "Jason," the doctor spoke serious now, sad even, the band reflected. "Just promise me that when this is all over, every once in a while, you will stop and have a kebab and think of your ol' pal Dr. Gupta. "Hmmm mmmm." The assistants hummed low now. Their faces still hidden behind their flapper fans. "Promise me," the doctor said with a small tug on the vas deferens , bringing it out of Jason's sack and into the living world. "Promise me that you will use your newfound powers for good and not for 'a whoring about." "What?" Jason whimpered "What are you talking about? I'm mostly doing this for the environment!" "Huzzah!" the doctor called, "The Earth thanks you!" he pulled a small tool from a side cart and cut and cauterized Jason's tubes. He then tapped twice on the floor and a red carpet rolled out from the beyond and ended right at the foot of Jason's medical bed. "They would meet you one by one!" Suddenly a roar of a crowd came to life, a mob of peoples of every age and nation all clamoring on the other side of a pair of velvet ropes lining the carpet. "Jason, Jason!" A young mother screamed. "Thank you for your sacrifice!" "Jason, over here!" A pair of elderly military veterans took off their caps and bowed down their heads in recognition of the scope of what was happening here this day. The crowd was unanimous in their adoration of Jason and his selfless action in tempt to lower his carbon foot print. Several old timey photographers in tweed jackets pushed through the crowd and jumped the barricade to get a better shot. "Looking good buddy, let it all hang out!" SNAP POP went their over sized bulbs. "Please sir." Jason croaked at the photographers in embarrassment. "Please sir, my balls." "You heard the man!" Dr. Gupta interrupted "No photos lest he experience flash damage! This is why they don't allow photos at the Sistine Chapel!" Jason's shaft lolled from one side to the other. "Can we please finish this?" Jason asked with tears in his eyes. The doctor closed the incision with some surgical glue. "All done." The doctor said while Emma and Leena slapped a grape sucker in Jason's mouth and a monster truck sticker on his shirt. "All that is left is for you to meet the Progenitors." "The what?" Jason moaned. "Not a what, a who," The doctor said. "The Progenitors are they ones who brought you here, they bob and weave throughout space and time in order to manipulate earthly affairs from distant realms beyond basic human comprehension for reasons unepistemological in nature." He took off his to-hat, reached inside, pulled out a pair of red racing goggles and strapped them around Jason's head. "This is a good brand of goggle, although the face foam sweat mitigation wholes are only three layers, I would have preferred five but they were literally twice as much. Do me a favor and put your hands on your beds horizontal handles." Jason found that the black grips were actually a throttle like device. he wrapped his hands around them and with his right he revved the bed's interstellar engine. VROOOOOOM. The stars around the room elongated as the machine hit warp speed and the crowd vanished along with the band, Emma and Leena, Dr. Gupta and the room itself. after what felt like an eternity of his legs spread and his person flopping, the bed slowed to a crawl through a vast spaces scape of vivid planets and bright nebula. "Greetings Humanoid." The pleasant voice came from an impossibly large being standing in space. Its shape was that of that of a giant peanut. All smooth gray skin aside from two large face wholes from which it spoke. "Ah, you must have come from Dr. Gupta, I recognize his suture technique. I have been waiting for you, we all have been actually," The gargantuan being pivoted slightly to motion toward all of existence. "You have?" Jason dryed his eyes with his gown. "Oh yes, very much so," The being replied. "For an incomprehensible number of millennia my people have sought The One True Answer to the One True Question." "Which is?" "If a chicken lays an egg on Jason's balls, which way will it roll off. Our greatest minds have tentatively decided on the left, but in recent centuries there has been rumblings of an uprising, a sect of my kind who have decided that maybe its been the right side this whole time. We will never know until we preform the One True Experiment and after all this time, here you are brandishing the divine member in all its glory. Alas, the irony, you finally arrive and you are in no condition to preform, having just went through some minor out-patient surgery. "My doctor assures me that I will indeed be able to preform again." "Until then Jason, until then, farewell my friend!" The being said before fading away. Just then Emma and Leena lifted him out of the spaceship and into a wheelchair, pushed him out the front doors of Methodist Urology just as the city bus pulled up. "Have a great day!" The receptionist called out, dabbing the lo mein sauce off her lips. "Bnnuuhhhnn Gnnuhhhdahhh" Jason drooled as his sucker fell out his mouth.

Elewyn, Elewyn my love, do you hear me in that empty brain of yours? Oh, it’s been so long since you fell ill, by the crescent pond where memories fade, and me with you. The days are stillframes, stillborns, and I recall the moments as if she is already dead. Hitherto I hold on, but my grip loosens with time; I gravitate toward the kitchen, and some nights I loathe entering the bedroom, how her eyes follow me yet she says nothing—though perhaps hears all as I meander through the corridors. Our house is small, once quaint, but these corridors are endless, and I walk miles without moving. In life, here in life, I am no good, I was no good to the woman who failed to carry my children, and for that, I am regretful as this barrel will allow. I stumble eastward though I have not left the couch, the doctor strolls through, and they find their way with ease. Newspapers from decades prior stack the ceilings, and dust permeates the barrier of life and death that is the door out. No news is given, only a nod by the doctor as he leaves, engulfed by sunlight. Hereafter the door closes, and so do the windows of opportunity; where would I go? I ask myself, repeating it like a chant, though I hear no echo, and I make no sound in a vacuum of loneliness. When I come home from work, there are times she’s in a different room than the day before, but her posture is always the same, and her hands rest on her knees, she is incapable of thought. The irony isn’t lost on me, how I seldom gave her mine, and by chance, under the guise of limbo, she escaped the sound of my voice. The next morning I awoke to a knock on the door—three hard knocks. I hadn’t remembered falling asleep, but upon opening my eyes, they were still fixed on the shotgun above the fireplace. Standing up, they knocked again; I thought about checking on Elewyn, my Elewyn, however, I couldn’t bear to meet her gaze that morning, so I stumbled to the doorway, counting my steps into the thousands. When I answered, they tipped their hats, and the rain fell behind them, seeping from the outside world onto tiles of abandonment. I don’t believe a word was spoken, and if it were, I didn’t register such a thing as they walked into the house and reached her room in seconds. It wasn’t but five minutes later that they removed themselves from her room with their hats off, wearing faces of solemnity accompanied by confusion. She’s gone they said, gone from here, gone from there, or anywhere determined. Before our eyes, the other declared, she died right before our eyes. This was a lot to take in, but to my surprise, I didn’t shed a tear, and the aqueducts were dry, had I found peace as she had? Would it wash over me in time? This guilty freedom? In my dereliction, many conflicting emotions were felt, further fueled when one of them broke the silence with a bewildered tone. “There’s something I think you should know…” The doctor stated, hat in hand as he looked to the floor and back to me again. “Before she died… she said… she said something strange,” he muttered the words slowly. What is it? I said, tell me! I say. “I couldn’t quite make out the words… I’m afraid—something about being free of you.

On November 18, 1978 a small religious organization in Jonestown, Guyana calling itself "The Peoples Temple" led by a charismatic leader named Jim Jones was involved in an atrocious mass murder-suicide. There were said to be less than 100 survivor's of the massacre. Many know this story, but what was not told is that a small group of separatist had long planned to leave "The Peoples Temple" to start their own commune. On November 10, 1978, 22 men, women, and children made their escape and headed to a small chain of islands known as the Pitcairn Islands. The escaping families enraged Jones, he felt his congregation was losing their faith. This event led to the infamous "Revolutionary Suicide". The four families that escaped made their way out of Guyana and down the coast of Brazil. The families chartered a boat at the Port of Santos and from there they sailed south to the Pitcairn's. It may seem strange that the families were sailing to such a far and remote place, but the leader of the group, a former school teacher who had followed Jones from San Francisco to Guyana, had heard the islands held dark secrets. Secrets that if unleashed could consume the very earth itself. He wanted that power. On January 27, 1978, the group landed on the island. For the next 35 years they would search for the secret. On a wet winter day in September they finally found what they had been searching for. A small girl pulled at a stone relic from a cave wall. She had never seen anything like it. She was born and raised on the island so she thought she knew everything about it. This stone glowed green and was warm to the touch. She knew instantly what it was. Her tribe had been searching for it since her grandfather brought them here. The girl brought the stone to her village. Upon arrival the girl announced what she had found. Her grandfather immediately seized it from her and placed it on the alter they had made for this very purpose. As the stone glowed and the group began to chant darkness formed over the island. This darkness then began to move out to sea, where a small boat carrying a group of six men were heading directly toward the island. As the darkness moved out to sea, a strange effect took a hold of the inhabitants of the island. Their leader, once a tall thin but somewhat muscular man stood still mouth agape staring at the stone. He had been the closest to the stone during the ceremony and was immediately affected. In an instant his eyes turned black as the darkest sky and his skin, once a golden brown, began to turn pale as the veins shown through were turning black. He turned to his granddaughter and in a language that has not been spoken or heard for millenia, spoke to her. Suddenly her eyes turned black as well, she tilted her head to the sky and screamed the most horrid sound imaginable. The scene unfolding sent the others into a panic. The grandfather grabbed one of the group and sank his teeth into her neck. The granddaughter watched with a morbid curiosity and an evil childlike grin. She suddenly decided to try for herself and grabbed a teenaged boy who had hidden behind a small mound of rocks to conceal himself. The girl moved so fast the boy never had a chance. As she feasted the others all scrambled to get away and hide. Over the next three days they would all fall victim to these horrific entities, save one.

The ruins he had been searching for came into view as he crested the top of the hill, right at the highest point of the jungle. The Tomb of Forgotten Knowledge. That was its name even though no one knew exactly why. That was how they had deciphered the strange carvings on its walls. Forgotten Knowledge was a puzzling name for what was contained inside, if that was so. Perhaps the explanation lay inside the tomb too. The whispers started up again as he gazed at the ruins. At the start of it all they had terrified him and he’d done his best to block them out. Now, though, they felt comforting. They felt familiar. They were almost intelligible, if he could just listen a bit closer… Miriam looked at him. She said his name. He nodded. “It’s here.” “I can’t change your mind, can I?” Her eyes were sad. “No,” he said. “I have to do this, or I won’t be me anymore.” Did she understand what he meant when he said that? He wasn’t sure. Everything had begun with the eclipse. That day when darkness took over the moon and swallowed the sun, and shadows covered the whole land. It was an ill omen indeed for the darkness to gain such strength so suddenly. A fell power had made its way into the world then. The signs were obvious. It was skulking through the land, looking to corrupt everything it touched. Five days in the calendar year had already fallen under its influence, some whispered. There were signs that set them apart. The year had always had 365 days but now some of them had broken away from the months they were part of. They wandered through the span of the year instead, causing chaos and terrible signs whenever they struck. He wasn’t born on one of those days. He knew that much. Certainly the day his mother had brought him into the world was nothing special. They had called around friends and neighbors and celebrated the birth with food and song. And yet it was on one of those dark days that his eyes had been truly opened and he had taken the first step down the road of truly becoming himself. He hadn’t gone mad, though sometimes he wished he could believe that. It would have been so much easier to be mad than accept that so much of what he knew was a lie, a dream, a delusion he had to wake up from. But the newfound legion of voices in his head didn’t lie. They were a barely audible buzz in the background most of the time but whenever they spoke, they spoke true. Not once had they ever caused him harm. What they said was this: the face he saw in mirrors wasn’t his. It was a mask, a fake. His real one was somewhere else. The visions came to him in dreams, growing increasingly clearer as he learned to draw power from the darkness and allowed the voices to speak freely. Somewhere in the wilderness, there was an old ruin that led down to a sprawling set of catacombs. In the winding maze of its rooms, there was a white mask that would make him whole. He wasn’t the only one searching for it, though. All around the world people had dreams and visions of what they came to call the Tomb of Forgotten Knowledge. Deep in the wilderness, far beneath the ground, past countless traps and dangers, there was a priceless treasure beyond anything else in the world. It held the answers to everything. It was the key to something monumental. It was strange, though. None of the other seekers were searching for a mask. Miriam was the only one he had trusted with that secret. “Do you want to leave now?” he asked her. “This can’t have been easy for you.” She shook her head. “I can’t say I understand all this. I’ll stay with you though. For as long as I can.” She said it as though she was daring him to send her away. But he wouldn’t do that. They descended down the carved rocky steps into the depths of the earth. The darkness felt solid, somehow. They kept walking. Until they came to a room in the caves. “It’s a dead end,” Miriam said. “We should turn back.” “Is it not?” he asked, perplexed. “But I can see something there.” She looked just as confused as he felt, but she didn’t argue. “I’ll wait here.” He stepped forward. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her blink and rub her eyes as though she was seeing something impossible. But he was now in the room that was only there for him. The white mask lay on top of a stone pedestal. It looked just like how he’d seen it in his dreams. He put it on and everything came flooding back. It all made sense now. All his questions were answered. This was always who he had been. This was what he had forgotten. A woman approached as he stepped out of the room. He had known her name once, but it seemed so unimportant now. She was brave and clever and strong, she had sacrificed a great deal to stay by his side and he had never been able to repay her. Wasn’t that enough to know a person? “Go home,” he said. The voices would speak for him if he commanded them to, but he wanted to use the one he had been born with in this most recent life. It felt important. “There is nothing more for you here.” Tears came to her eyes. “This is the end, isn’t it? You died in that room and I wasn’t there to save you.” “You were too good for him,” he said. It seemed less important now to hold on to this voice, to assign such importance to one among many. “Go. I’ll see you safely through.” The darkness parted for her. It would always be there, just at her back, ready to rise like a tidal wave and devour all who meant her harm. He owed her that much. It was time to make the world anew.

Long ago in a land lost to time, there once was a statue that stood taller than the sky. A colossus of solid gold, five thousand feet tall, and decorated head to toe with all manner of gemstones, with a face so beautiful, it was said to be carved by angels - although that claim is widely disputed. Its name was Zebediah. The Great Wonder that summoned those from all the kingdom, and beyond, hungry for just the merest glimpse of its beauty. The statue was built under the rule of King Adamus the Envious, who was jealous of his neighbouring kingdom’s many monuments and wonders, as his kingdom had none. “Bah!” the King spat. “I will not have our neighbours mock us with their statues and monuments! We shall build a statue that puts all statues to shame. If their statues are made from stone, ours will be made from gold! If their statues are fifty feet high, ours will be five thousand feet high!” The King gathered the finest goldsmiths, gem cutters, and builders in all the world and said to them “Build me a statue to end all statues!”. The goldsmiths mined their gold, taking from the deepest mines in the most distant lands. The gem cutters gathered rubies, emeralds, sapphires, garnets, and more to cut and place on the golden statue. Finally, the builders constructed giant iron moulds, each for a different part of the statue's body, waiting to be filled with molten gold. The goldsmiths, gem cutters, and builders slaved away for 800 days and 800 nights, working through storms, blizzards, and droughts, to build the Great Wonder. It had taken the workers all their skill, all their determination, and all their strength, but, on the eight hundredth day, it was finally done. Zebediah was born. None were more pleased with Zebediah than the King, for not only did his kingdom finally have a wonder, his kingdom had the wonder of \*the\* world. “Marvellous! Marvellous!” The King declared. “It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. BRAVO! BRAVO!” King Adamus was the first to praise Zebediah, but he was far from the last. When the people saw Zebediah for the first time, they were utterly bestilled. The merchants ceased their commerce to stare at the golden colossus. The priests and clergymen renounced their faith as it could no longer match the newfound love that they had for Zebediah. Even the common criminals and thieves were so entranced that they dare not steal even one gemstone from the statue. The kingdom was in love, but the love did not end at their borders. When word spread of a new and magnificent statue, people from all over the world would travel to the kingdom just to see the new wonder. They travelled through deserts, they travelled through jungles, through tundras, through savanas and even through lands plagued by famine and war. All this, just to gaze upon the magnificence that was Zebediah. None were ever disappointed. The statue was so beloved that King Adamus declared it “impossible” for one to not be awed by Zebediah. But one day, a man came to the kingdom who was not awed by Zebediah. “HERE STANDS ZEBEDIAH! COME GATHER, COME GATHER!” Yelled the royal preacher at the base of the statue, addressing the crowds gathered in the surrounding plaza. The day was like any other. The crowds of hundreds and then thousands came to the plaza to stare upwards in awe at Zebediah, and the preacher would yell “HERE STANDS ZEBEDIAH! COME GATHER, COME GATHER!” over and over again - at times wondering to himself if his job actually had purpose. The existential dread of the preacher notwithstanding, the day was perfectly normal. That was until the preacher saw the man. At first glance, the man did not seem out of the ordinary. He was merely one observer of Zebediah in a vast sea of observers that engulfed the plaza on any given day. But there was something different about the way this man looked at Zebediah. The man had his finger and thumb resting on his chin and stared at the statue in a kind of deep contemplation. This was unusual in itself, but it was the man’s face that was the most concerning. This man was not awed by Zebediah. Inquisitive, though he was, there was no more emotion on his face than one would have in examining bread for signs of mould. In this sea of awe-struck onlookers, he was a man unmoved. “YOU THERE!” The preacher called to the unmoved man. “WHY DO YOU LOOK AT ZEBEDIAH LIKE THAT?” “I’m thinking.” The unmoved man replied, not taking his eyes away from the statue. “THINKING? WHAT DO YOU MEAN THINKING?” “I’m just thinking.” “JUST THINKING!? WHAT IS THERE TO THINK ABOUT WHEN YOU GAZE UPON ZEBEDIAH!? “If you leave me to think, maybe I can tell you.” The preacher was bewildered. How could there be a man who was not moved by the sight of Zebediah? It was inconceivable. He had to tell the King at once. “My king, my king! I bring dire news!” the preacher declared to King Adamus and his court. “There is a man at the plaza who stares at Zebediah!” “This is not dire.” The King replied. “Everyone stares at Zebediah. I have known those who have stared for 20 and 30 and 50 days and nights! This is hardly unusual.” “You don’t understand!” the preacher said. “He stares at Zebediah, but NOT in awe!!!” The King’s court gasped in astonishment. “WHAT?!” Bellowed the King. “How is there a man that is not awed by Zebediah!?” “It is true, my King. I asked him why he stared at Zebediah if not in awe, and he said he was ‘just thinking’.” The King’s court muttered amongst themselves in disbelief. “What shall be done with such a man?” asked a man from the court. “Feed him to the dogs!” one man shouted out, followed by another, and then another. “Lock him away for a thousand years!” “Throw him in boiling oil!” “Find the land from whence he came and burn it to the ground!” The King’s court drowned in the noise of increasingly more gruesome punishments. “NO!” The King declared, silencing the court. “Let the man stare. No man can be unmoved by the sight of Zebediah forever. Leave him be, and he will soon realise the true beauty of Zebediah.” The court erupted in applause at the King’s decision. The unmoved man was to be left alone. For now. The unmoved man would continue to stare and contemplate. He stared for hours, then days, then weeks, then months, but still did not stare at Zebediah with awe. One day, a married couple from a distant land had travelled to the kingdom to see the mighty Zebediah for themselves. When they arrived, however, they weren’t as fascinated by Zebediah, as they were by the man unmoved by Zebediah. “Is he sick?” The husband said to his wife. “Was he dropped on his head as a baby?” the wife asked. The couple were so fascinated by the man unmoved by Zebediah, that they had forgotten to look at Zebediah himself. When the couple returned to their homeland, they told all their friends and neighbours of the man who was not awed by Zebediah. “A man unmoved by Zebediah?” one of their friends said. “Unbelievable! I must see this man for myself!” And so he did. The friend of the couple travelled to the kingdom to see the unmoved man, and when he returned, he told \*his\* friends of the unmoved man. His friends then travelled and returned to tell their friends, those friends would travel themselves and return to tell \*their\* friends, and so on, and so on, and so on, until the whole world knew of the unmoved man. At this point in time, it is often said that more people travelled to the kingdom to see the man unmoved by Zebediah than Zebediah himself. The King was furious. “BAH!!!” The King erupted. “Who’s idea was it to leave the unmoved man be? They shall be hanged! BUT FIRST!!!” The King rose from his golden throne like an angry god. “ASSEMBLE MY ARMIES! WE MARCH ON THE UNMOVED MAN!” King Adamus donned his jewel-encrusted armour, sheathed his jewel-encrusted greatsword and mounted his jewel-encrusted horse. The King marched on the plaza, followed by a battalion of two thousand infantry, one thousand cavalry, five hundred archers, and twenty trebuchets. The crowd at the plaza dispersed, making way for the King and his army, but regathered at the sidelines to observe the confrontation. The King trotted his horse into the long shadow cast by Zebediah and came face to face with the unmoved man. “YOU!” the King shouted at the unmoved man. “Who are you to not be awed by Zebediah?! It is the largest, greatest, shiniest, and most beautiful statue that ever was! It took thousands of workers 800 days and 800 nights to build from start to finish. Who are you to disrespect their hard work and glory?! Tell me, why do you deny the magnificence of Zebediah? I DEMAND TO KNOW!” The whole plaza fell deathly silent. For the first time in months, the unmoved man took his attention away from the statue. He appeared confused, seemingly unaware of the chaos that was happening around him. The unmoved man turned towards the proud and angry King mounted on his horse. The unmoved man smiled warmly. “Your majesty.” the unmoved man said. “I apologise If I have offended you or your Kingdom, but you are mistaken. I do not deny the magnificence of Zebediah.” “You don’t?” replied the King in astonishment. “I do not. In fact, there is no doubt in my mind that Zebediah is the most magnificent and beautiful structure in the entire world. Its golden body is mesmerising, each gemstone is more beautiful than the last and his face is truly one that was carved by an angel. Its greatness is truly unquestionable.” “Is that so?” The puzzled King said. “Well, if you do not deny its greatness, then why do you not look in awe?” “Well, despite its unquestionable \*magnificence\*!” said the unmoved man, emphasising the word ‘magnificence’. “I found that there was something…missing.” The King gave an exasperated grown. “I knew it! There aren’t enough jewels! I should’ve made the gem cutters gather more riches.” “No no, that isn’t what I mean.” said the unmoved man. “I meant something more…fundamental.” “Fundamental? Like what?” The unmoved man turned his head back towards the statue. “To tell you the truth, I did not know.” said the unmoved man. “This is why I’ve been staring at Zebediah for so long. I thought If I examined him for long enough, taking in every detail of its structure, I could figure out what it was that was missing.” “And did you find what was missing?” “Perhaps.” the unmoved man replied. “Perhaps!?” the King said in frustration. “Why do you talk in riddles? I am not a philosopher, I am a King! What do you mean by ‘perhaps’?” The unmoved man turned his attention back towards the impatient King. “Your majesty,” said the unmoved man with a warm smile. “May I ask you a question?” The King raised an eyebrow. “A question?” “Yes, I have a question about Zebediah, and I believe your answer might be what is missing.” The King couldn’t decide if he wanted to laugh or go into a violent rage. Was this it? After months of disruption, anger, and bewilderment, the unmoved man merely had one question? The King thought the whole thing absurd and wanted to hang the unmoved man immediately. But alas, the King, too, wanted to know this burning question that the unmoved man had. “Very well.” King Adamus said pridefully. “What is your question?” The kingdom fell silent. The King, his armies, and the crowds gathered outside the plaza held their breath, awaiting the unmoved man’s question. The unmoved man took one step forward, looked up towards the King, and asked his question. “Tell me.” The unmoved man said. “Who is Zebediah?” The King did not know.

As the sun descended beneath the shores of the Mediterranean horizon, casting a somber hue over the quiet streets, Laila sat alone on the balcony of her new, modest apartment. Lost in her thoughts in a foreign land, the gentle breeze carried whispers of distant conversations and memories she hoped would disappear. The occasional rustle of leaves, blending with the sounds of children playing echoed across the town. Memories, sharp as knives, cut through her mind, etching memories of betrayal and fear into her very soul. The sky above, serene yet indifferent, mirrored the turmoil within her. Laila's slender form was silhouetted against the fading light, her gaze fixed on the horizon where the last vestiges of daylight slowly surrendered to the embrace of night. Her thoughts wandered back to the moment she fled her homeland, driven by the looming threat of honor’s blade. A pact, sealed by her uncle and her mother, had bound her fate to the formidable Omar. Omar, known in the village as a respectable elder, had been deemed a suitor worthy of Laila’s older sister, Hannah. His wealth and stature made him an attractive prospect to the family for Hannah, disregarding the 20-year age gap. The courtship with Hannah had been formal and stiff, Omar visiting their home, savoring tea with the family, while neighbors whispered of his intentions toward Hannah. Sarah had spent many nights speaking with Hannah on the marriage prospect, “My dear older sister, you simply cannot go through with this, it will destroy you and your future. You will never be happy, I love you and for this I beg you to say no, I am sure mother and uncle would understand. Father, if he were alive would agree!” And so, when the day had come, Hannah summoned the courage to respectfully reject Omar’s proposal. However, Omar’s gaze shifted toward Laila to retain his reputation of a yet virile and respected man. The next day, Laila, her uncle and Omar embarked on a solemn pilgrimage, where tradition dictated a newlywed couple stay together in a hotel, their union displayed for all to see. They had entered an opulent hotel in a nearby city. Laila felt comfort knowing that her uncle had accompanied Laila and Omar. But that evening, after tea, her uncle departed, leaving Laila alone with Omar; the fragile facade had crumbled. In an instant if became clear for Laila that she was alone. Omar’s desires quickly eclipsed any semblance of consent. Had there even been an agreement, Laila couldn’t help but wonder, feeling pain of betrayal deep within her heart at the thought of her mother unleashing an elderly man upon her youngest daughter. Laila tried resisted Omar’s advances, but her defiance had only stoked his fury. The beatings had begun, relentless and savage his tame words turning to venom. Seeking refuge in the sanctity of a nearby holy site had brought no solace, she would take what time she could find away from Omar’s grasp with her shroud hiding the bruises from fellow worshippers, in her mind perhaps from God as well. The nights had been the darkest, Omar’s attempts to claim her growing more aggressive with each passing hour. “You are my wife!” Omar would yell as he ravaged her, “This is my right!” he would continue. In a desperate plea for mercy, and with hopes of smothering Omar’s desire over her, Laila had confessed her love for Jonas, her friend, the only beacon of warmth in her cold, bleak world. Jonas, who was never more than friend, was a somebody Laila had known since the turbulent days following the societal collapse after the invasion. He was always there, in the darkest hours when her father was killed by relentless bombings. He had been her confidant, her solace. But upon hearing Laila’s confession Omar’s jealousy had ignited a tempest of rage, leading to more beatings, more tears, more blood, more threats. Through tear-blurred eyes, Laila one evening found a phone to call her mother, her voice trembling with fear and anguish. Her mother, unable to quell her maternal nature, pleaded with Omar, invoking promises he had made to safeguard her daughter. But promises had shattered like fragile glass, leaving Laila adrift in the silence of her mind when Omar would force himself upon her. Days had blurred into nights, with each moment Laila praying for freedom from her prison, from her torture. The cycle of abuse persisted. Some days later her uncle’s arrival brought a brief respite, a return to her hometown, where Omar had rented a modest home. Families gathered as if all was well, sipping tea, congratulating Omar on his new wife, hoping that she was obedient to him. But Laila’s bruised body and broken soul had spoken louder than any pretense. Though pleading for help with her eyes from her mother, her mother’s silent resignation had only deepened her despair. In the depths of night, with a heart heavy and spirit broken, Laila had made her choice. With the first light of dawn, she had fled to a nearby town, seeking refuge with Sarah, her distant cousin who left the village after marrying. For a fleeting moment, she had dared to hope for safety, for freedom from the chains that bound her. But hope had proven a cruel illusion. Betrayal had whispered in the darkened corners of Sarah’s home, as Laila heard Sarah’s negotiations with Laila’s mother to return her echoing through the silence “Of course aunty, a marriage is a promise before god and society.” With a heavy heart and a spirit weighed down by despair, Laila was once again forced to flee, seeking solace with her paternal aunt. Her tale had spilled forth however once again, a torrent of pain and betrayal. Her uncle had enough. Seeking mediation, to find a solution for this unruly wife of Omar, they had turned to a tribal mediator, known for his supposed wisdom, to resolve this matter of sullied honor. Laila had stayed at the mediator’s home until her divorce was finalized. Omar ran Laila’s name through the mud, claiming that she had tarnished the memory of her father’s name. Tribal tensions had demanded a sacrifice— either Laila’s subservience to her family through marriage to Sarah’s brother to quell the tempest of shame and blood feuds, or another unspoken option. She had watched in horror as another soul, a neighbor, had paid the ultimate price for love, her defiance to her family meant she was met with a hail of bullets. Fear had coiled around her heart like a serpent as the mediator orchestrated her divorce and hasty marriage in a desperate bid to save her life. Days had turned into weeks as she had sought solace in Sarah’s brothers’ home. However her new husbands older brother spewed fury. “How dare you of bring a used woman into our father’s home? She has ruined her father’s name and now you wish for this… thing, to do the same to ours?” He would yell without care if Laila was in the room or not. Once again in fear for her safety merely for being a woman caught in a man’s gaze, she decided to flee at dawn, her footsteps echoing in the silent streets as she sought refuge in the arms of a stranger she came across. Faisal had appeared like a mirage, his old white car a beacon of hope in the darkness. He seemed kind. She was sure that his offer of aid would sooner or later come with a price—pretense and deception. But in her shattered world, even deceit had seemed preferable to the suffocating grasp of despair, and so to hope Laila clung. In Faisal’s home four towns over, she had been introduced as his beloved, welcomed into his family with hesitant kindness. They had wed shortly thereafter, a sacred union forged in the crucible of necessity, legalities rendered meaningless by Faisal’s desires to distant shores. “I will leave this place, and I am not sure I can take you with me. You can stay with my mother; she will treat you well.” He would tell her. Yet even in the fleeting respite of artificial marital bliss, Laila had felt the weight of her past bearing and confusion of an unpromised future beat down upon her, an unyielding burden. Every night she would relive the horrors and the betrayal she lived through. Never getting more than 2 hours sleep at a time. She would wake and look to the night sky above, which would always remain silent, judging her, forcing her to recount the pain she was forced to endure. To her mind, to her body and to her soul. In the moments between twilight and dawn, when sleep escaped her fragile hands, she would see the sun as a cruel mirror reflecting the absurdity of her existence. In the labyrinth of her memories, she knew her battle was not just against her past, but against the very essence of a world that demanded her silence and submission. The darkness deepened, and Laila’s heart echoed with the unanswered questions of her soul. How long could she evade the shadows that sought to consume her? How many more sacrifices would be demanded in the name of honor? As she gazed into the abyss before her, she knew the answers lay buried deep within the depths of her fractured spirit. With a resolve born of quiet strength, Laila vowed to break free from the chains that bound her. She would forge a path where her spirit could rise. As the morning light enveloped her, Laila knew that her journey was just beginning—a journey towards reclaiming of her autonomy, away from the streets that held her captive, toward a future where her spirit could soar freely, unburdened by the weight of the past.

Dimly lit and damp the musk of stale beer stains the room; a ceiling fan is circulating the odor from left to right here to there and back again. I’m lying down on the right side of a king sized spring mattress; head feels couple sizes too big for this room. Pulsation. I forget how I got here, on this bed resting on the floor, it’s soaked in some parts, I choose to believe its water. I wonder what time it is, I wonder what time it isn’t. Is it late or early? My thoughts shift into reverse, Ashleigh let’s pretend it didn’t happen and return to our norm. I reach to my left, a pack of butts, not my brand but I’m not picky. I unravel the plastic wrapper, I’m eight years old and it’s Christmas Eve. I coax the smoke out of its pack, I guide it to my lips and rest it there. Ashleigh, I miss the smell of your hair. I light the cigarette and take a deep drag; 3.2 milligrams of Carbon Monoxide fill my lungs. I’m eight years old and I’m in heaven. I sit up, half a second later my head catches up and nearly knocks me back down. Pulsation. I close my eyes and take another deep drag, .12 milligrams of Hydrogen Cyanide slither into my body. I cross my legs and make a decision, “Empty your head. Don’t think. Be relieved.” as I think to myself I wait a second to see if it works… then nothing, I guess it has. Take another deep drag and welcome .061 milligrams of Formaldehyde back home, I’ve missed you. So this is meditation, not so hard. I open my eyes and look dead into a slab of white paint against the yellow of the walls; no it’s just the reflection of the light against the wall. And I correct myself. I remember Ashleigh professing to me once, in our drunken stupor on the hood of my 1990 New Yorker beneath the stars “You know if there wasn’t any light… there wouldn’t be any colour.” I shook my head no; she nodded in her victorious daze raising one eyebrow. I knew, but in that instance I would’ve gladly not known anything if it meant having her explain. I keep looking at the wall, I forget to blink. Ashleigh. I take another drag, .33 milligrams of Tar, give it four seconds and another, .061 milligrams of Formaldehyde and another, .047 milligrams of Benzene I’m 8 years old and this is my funeral. I let gravity grip my body and pull me onto the mattress once more; I smother my cigarette in an ashtray littered with butts, they always smell worst when you put them out. I close my eyes. It’s a Tuesday, but feels like a Sunday, it’s a little after four, but feels like eight. The sky is a consuming grey and the rain, pouring and pouring and pouring. We’re engulfed in the silence of us as I sit focused on the road. We remain like this for some time, a girl a boy and the symphonic tapping of the storm on the car. I think, let her know how you feel, a suppression of truth. I think, reveal your intentions, a suppression of passion. I hold my hand from letting it wander and meet her hand, a suppression of innocence. I hold my tongue and imprison these desirous words, I indulge in my cowardice. I tell her, “Silence like this is dangerous, it implies too much comfort. The way I look at it is with comfort comes the inevitable inevitability, destroyer of spontaneity. Now I’m not known to be an actual pessimist but this much comfort so soon will ultimately be the end of our comfort. And what a shame that would be” I remember turning my head and giving her a little smile. “To be honest Ashleigh, this much comfort makes me uncomfortable.” She sits in silence, I sit in anticipation. We pass a road sign, Maximum 80, I’m barely doing 60 and can’t see further than twenty yards ahead of me the, summer rains are relentless. She opens her mouth and tilts her head slightly to the right. “Okay, now let me tell you the way I see it. We get up every morning and get ready, put on our clothes and our façades step outside to dive into a sea of implications. We’re each little countries walking around with our words as little diplomats mending our unintended and supposed fuck ups.” I glance over, the seat has swallowed her, eyes closed she speaks to me, running fingers through her hair. I keep my hands on the wheel, a suppression of lust. She continues, “We are always uncomfortable, we spare our comfort for the sake of others- the whole lot of us. This silence we shared right now, it spoke to me on a level you wouldn’t, and just now I got a true sense of you. Comfort isn’t the ugly cousin of the end; comfort is the seed to a greater good. Comfort is having faith that the other person will grow and change with you.” I kept my eyes on the road, she looked towards me. I fiddled with the radio stations, I wallow in my cowardice. I open my eyes; lift my body to my feet from the mattress. Pulsation. I negotiate past a dozen or so lifeless bottles of beer. Reaching up I off the ceiling fan. The humming motor comes to a gradual halt; the dusty blades keep slicing through the smoky air. I walk to the door place my hand on the knob and twist it. Make my way up a series of wooden stairs. The sounds of my boots against the steps reverberate throughout this transitional room, between what’s buried beneath the soil and what is above. I climb into another level of my life. It’s cold. Ashleigh, you’re too much of a thought, your name ignites my soul. I’m outside now; autumn has killed summer, leaves lie dead in limbo. The blackish bluish sky looks down onto me, the wind blows. Pulsation. I swing the car door open and toss myself in and with the thud of it shutting behind me, I’m enclosed in its emptiness. I hit the ignition; throw the gear into reverse the tires scream as I escape from this driveway. Too many memories reside at this address; I shoot down the deadened street and flick on the radio. A lament, one lover has lost her love. I reach into my pocket to have another cigarette- I’ve forgotten them, I’ll have to make a stop. The woman on the radio pleads with her lover to return. Explaining how she cannot sleep, breathe or eat until he is resting there with her. Ingénue, I doubt he will. I let the road guide me, I hand my inhibitions to my sub conscience I’m at the mercy of my wants. I find myself in this woman’s lyrics, I’ve become weak. Ashleigh, I can’t sleep, breathe or eat until you are resting here with me. I doubt you will. I stop at a local gas station to fill up, purchase a new pack of smokes and a cup of coffee. After I use the facilities I make my way outside. The cold wind excuses its way around me, gradually it surrounds me. I stand for a moment midway between the attendant’s kiosk and my car, I’m hypnotized by the nights silence and sickening cold. The stars gather around the moon, judging one another. Criticizing me, I glare back. How cowardly they are from such a distance looking down onto me, diagnosing me in all my imperfections. I’ve started shivering, the coffee is in jeopardy. I make my way into the New Yorker. Ashleigh, I want your warmth next to me. I start driving down the lightless and soundless road, alone. Thoughts riddle my conscience; nothing ever ends up how I deem it should. Past regrets never stray too far, holding my thoughts in the “ifs” of situations. If I hadn’t gone to the pub that night with the guys and instead stopped by to see you, our relationship wouldn’t have suffered that little bit. In that little instance salvation would’ve been attainable. But little instances added up and we had drifted to a point wherein our love was replaced with resentment. Subsections of me argue relentlessly with one another. You can’t go back in time. Hindsight is always 20/20; you couldn’t have changed a thing. I try to ease my mind and I know it. I think to myself, so this is denial. Then I hear your voice Ashleigh. I know you’re not beside me, I know and I don’t care, I keep listening regardless. I cling to every word which doesn’t slip through your lips. I’m nothing without you. I reach into my pocket and find a cigarette to keep me company in the darkness of this semi-lost highway. I find salvation within myself, you are never coming home and a little voice deep inside whispers “it was inevitable.” I say goodnight to my dreams. I see you blindly through your barricades, a soul bound by the injustices of human emotions. A woman bound by the inequities of the soul in which she hides. You stood withering. You screamed for reality, “this can’t be it” is this what you were thinking when you had grabbed hold of your illusion? What has become of us? Shallow waters have run over this. I’ve made you forcefully swallow this jagged truth, there is no happily ever after. As autumn follows summer, woe follows joy. The grassy pastures shall, with the warm breeze whither and the leaves fall into reality. And again, little by little Ashleigh, your sorrows build in me. You are still too much of a thought, though you are still a mirror I had once spoken into; my naked soul is left exposed. I’m at a loss of feelings, again, a loss of reality. I’m committed to a state of disorder. My soul and my emotions are my curse. A sense of life, an illusion it seems. I’m lead to believe, loneliness is my companion. Nothingness is my fulfillment, the fortitude of my existence lies within nothing surrounded. I remember the ecstasy of my silent breath was drenched within the emptiness of me though you were there laying beside me Ashleigh. I am my companion lying in loneliness. I am my companion, but I still love you, for always. The road is narrow dark and eerily straight, the reflection of my headlights on the speed limit indicators offers the only colour, everything is covered in black. The trees rush past the car, I hear the wind cursing as I cut into its path. I am so tired of trying not to think about you. Infinite silence, I hear. With eyes closed I imagine plunging into deathlessness a vast ocean of nothing but nothingness. With eyes closed I imagine a life wherein I could stand with eyes open. What are you doing now Ashleigh? Turned from my arms have you found your salvation within his? I have grown so tired of thinking of your face, my thoughts seem to suffocate me, thoughts of you wash over me at every corner of every street we’d visited. I am so tired of sneaking around my mind. I will let the days pass. I will let time crawl towards an absolution I cannot foresee. I will forget about you, I will find another and the wanting, the craving the infinite desire I hold for you will fade. And I will place my heart into her hands Ashleigh, you are not my conclusion. For you are that which embodies my shortcomings; my unfulfilled ambitions churn in you… the endless pit of my past will haunt me no more. You were home to my love, you were home my love. The time has come I will uproot and follow paths to new pastures. The feelings I have for you will be placed onto another, a women worthy of such emotions. Pathetic, as I conclude these thoughts on not loving you I will not be able to conclude not loving you for loving you is what I seem to do most efficiently.

These were the last words I remember telling my king. How long has it been since I have seen him.. the castle.. the guards.. Sophia..? I miss home and the relief of a warm bed, but the mission comes before comfort. *“Locate and eliminate all traitors and conspirators who wish harm upon the crown and the kingdom it protects.”* I am in the void, pure and utter darkness. There is no light to adjust my eyes to. I follow the feeling of my hand against the wall, cobblestone and moss that has become familiar with time. Rhythmic metal clanking with each step and shallow puddle splashes keep my mind busy. If there was silence I would have gone mad eons ago. I cannot stop here. Suddenly, I hear new sounds.. Rumbling? Violently, I am thrown to the floor. I lift my legs to my chest and cover my head for protection until the barrage of tectonic shifts cease. Reaching out, the wall is no longer by my side; my sanctuary is gone. In a fit of desperation, I yell, but no voice comes out. My fists pound the stone beneath me, echoing the metallic impact down both ends of the hall. I cannot speak… I stand, if not for me, then for my king… for Sophia. I will not waver here; I will see them again. The golden walls of the palace, the wind against my skin, even the crowds I once despised... I want to experience them again. I want to feel warmth. It is so cold down here. Without the wall by my side, I wander aimlessly. The placements of my footing stagger as I lose balance. No longer do I hear the familiar sounds of puddles beneath my feet, but instead dust and debris shifting as I kick them with each step. The path forward is dry, but more importantly, it is new. My journey so far has been reviewing familiar territory, and never before did I even fathom a solution beyond that wall. At the peak of my confidence, my foot no longer had anything to step on. My body tumbled and crashed down rocks and made a descent further into the unknown. An abrupt thud, and I was gasping for air, but thankfully my momentum had halted. I reached along the ground to find the sword, which was once on my hip, was now gone. Another part of my security was once again stripped from me. Desperately, I was on my hands and knees feeling for my surroundings. No longer was I in the structured catacombs beneath the city, but now it was the uneven terrain of a cavern. Sounds of water caught my attention, as I then crawled over beneath it. A comforting *pitter patter* against my helmet before rolling over and opening my mouth. Finally, hydration in this stone desert I’ve been trapped in, but the flow of water is too faint. No matter how long I lie here, my throat remains dry. This damned existence of mine. I must carry on. I stand and push forward, without any clue of where that leads. Finally, the faintest glimmer of light turned into the brightest ball of fire I had ever laid my eyes upon. A torch held up high by a man clad in armor, not too dissimilar to my own. Behind him, a variety of different species all commingling together. Elf, dwarf, gnome, and other half human who has since taken notice of me. They’ve drawn their arms and speak in an unfamiliar tongue. *Wait! Don’t attack. Help me…* I open my mouth, but once again it releases no sounds. We are at a standstill with neither side approaching. They speak amongst each other before a mage steps forth. She is clad in robes and fabrics loosely hanging, before outstretching a wooden staff towards me. I feel no hostility from this woman. An orb of blue-green light forms in a constantly shifting state that slowly makes its way towards me. I cannot take my eyes off of it. It is so enchanting I dare not blink for fear of it disappearing. Beside me, a pool of water reflects its travel, but more importantly it too reflects me. I cast my attention towards it and shamble forth as a pit forms in my stomach. Slowly, my form reveals. It is no longer the glowing knight I once was before I entered here, but instead a decaying husk of metal, leather, and cotton. With light being cast closer, I am now able to recognize that I am no longer human. Where flesh once was, is now replaced with bone and bits of, rotten, dried skin. My skull hauntingly peered from underneath my helmet, and in an attempt to touch my face, I realized my entire left arm was now missing. This was something that should have broken me, but I could only stare on silently. *Who was I?* A question that abruptly formed in my head, had no definite answer. Once again, *How long have I been down here?* This moment of clarity had been cut short by the orb of light, which gracefully hovered down right in front of my view. Even in this state, I felt drawn to it. Raising my only operational arm, I reached out towards it. Upon grasping it, I carefully brought it down to my chest, as if it was an infant that needed to be coddled. Gradually, that light radiated something within me. Warmth. The thing I had been void of for so long was now enveloping me entirely. I could feel it all. The wind that would grace my skin while riding my horse, the thunderous talk of the city crowd living their daily lives, the halls of the palace glowing with golden trim, and… the smell of food. Sophia’s cooking. It was right in front of me. I fell to my knees and held onto that orb of joy as tightly I could, while feeling my strength start to wane. I was brought back to Sophia, in our small and humble home of two. She would work her hardest for me and I would do anything for her. *Sophia, I’ll be late for dinner, just this once.* At this moment, I turned towards the mage who had gifted me this brief moment of solace in what felt like a decade of despair. She had gotten much closer, isolated from the rest of her party who hadn’t moved. I couldn’t speak, so I prayed my voice could reach her. My last effort in this life, *Thank you.

### Keystone Park: Part 1 - Living in Fear I've never been one for the spooky and strange stuff that people with paranoia always talk about. You will never see me standing on the side of an argument where someone is saying their house is bugged or someone is living in their attic. Even if that is the case, I don't really give a damn. If someone has bugged the house, come and get me if what I'm saying is that bad. And if some random person is living in the walls or ceiling, more power to them as long as they don't bother me. But when you have someone like Fin, a complete psychopath trying to destroy our lives, you have to stay on guard 24/7. I gave birth to him, and I know the evil he is capable of. No one but me knows the magnitude of the crazy we are dealing with. When you're a mother, some things are best left unspoken, but when you know, you know. And lately, I've been feeling like someone is constantly watching. Even before he went to jail, I never felt this way. *** Text between my boyfriend and I *** Me - "Is it annoying as hell? Absolutely. But I've never had these feelings and vibes except for the last week or two. When you know, you just know, and whatever this feeling is about, it's got to do with our privacy. I'm paranoid about him 24/7 because I know if he is in an "I don't give a fuck" mindset, he will come up in here and do whatever he pleases. No matter who is here, if he lives or dies, jail or prison, when he wants something, he gets it. The cost is never too much for him. I promise you that." My boyfriend - "I checked in a few places under the house. I didn’t hear or see anything right then but I definitely heard that noise when we were outside. The cat kept running around real weird too" My boyfriend- "I know what you mean. Last night I felt like something was trying to tell me something. And guess what fell from above and floated right in front of me when I squatted down to look under the house…. A feather" Me- "I mean he could have did all kinds of stuff. He could have a 2 way radio under there to just creep us out. And with as much stuff as old man Frye prob has I'm sure it wouldn't be hard for umm to get his hands on something to do just that. Unbeknownst to Glenn of course. He wouldn't condone it. " My boyfriend "I have felt like somebody has been sneaking up to the building and trying to look in it and shit for about the same amount of time. Like since he got out. We gotta get away from him and from here" Me "Last night after I heard the weird shit I was sitting in here and I had just opened back up the floor vent. Cause it was getting hot again. Well about 7-8 mins later I felt like I was gonna pass the fuck out and wasn't gonna be able to control myself doing so. Like not a sleepy pass out. More like a dizzy going under anesthesia kind of feeling it was really weird. I turned on the fan and the feeling subsided. But I was a little weirded out by that " I remember the early signs, the little things that hinted at the chaos to come. The temper tantrums that grew more violent, the unsettling calmness in his eyes when he got what he wanted. As a mother, you always hope that your child will find their way, that the love and guidance you offer will steer them towards a better path. But with Fin, that hope faded quickly. His defiance turned into something darker, something that made me fear for my safety and the safety of those around me. The incidents started small—missing money, broken items, and unexplained absences. I would confront him, but his responses were always cold and calculating, as if he enjoyed the turmoil he was creating. The breaking point came when he began threatening us openly, making it clear that he would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. The police were no help; they could only do so much without concrete evidence, and Fin was smart enough to cover his tracks. Living in Keystone Park, our once peaceful home has turned into a fortress. We've installed security cameras, changed locks, and even considered moving. But Fin knows us too well. He knows our routines, our weaknesses, and he exploits them with ruthless precision. Every knock on the door, every unfamiliar sound, sends a jolt of fear through me. I find myself constantly looking over my shoulder, wondering if today is the day he decides to make his next move. Friends and family offer support, but they can't truly understand the depth of this nightmare. They see Fin as the troubled young man who lost his way, not the monster I see in my nightmares. It's a lonely battle, fighting to protect the ones you love from someone you once cherished. The guilt is overwhelming—wondering if there was something I could have done differently, if there was a way to save him before he turned into this. Fin's unpredictability is what scares me the most. One moment, he could be charming and persuasive, convincing everyone that he's changed. The next, he could be plotting our downfall, calculating his next move with chilling precision. It's a game of cat and mouse, and I'm constantly on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop. In the past week, the feeling of being watched has intensified. It's as if Fin is everywhere and nowhere at once, his presence lingering in the shadows. I've tried to dismiss it as paranoia, but deep down, I know it's real. This isn't just a mother's fear—it's a gut feeling, an instinct honed by years of living with a predator. Fin is watching, waiting for the perfect moment to strike, and all I can do is try to stay one step ahead. The nights are the worst. I lie awake, listening to every creak and groan of the house, imagining him slipping through the darkness. Sleep offers no respite; my dreams are plagued by visions of his twisted smile, his eyes glinting with malice. Each day is a struggle to maintain some semblance of normalcy, to pretend that everything is okay when it's far from it. This is our life now, a constant battle for survival against someone who was once a part of us. Fin may be my son, but he's also my greatest enemy, and the stakes are higher than ever. This is just the beginning of our story, the first chapter in a long and harrowing journey through Keystone Park. Stay tuned as I continue to share our struggle, our fear, and our fight to reclaim our lives from the clutches of a nightmare.

There was a house on a hill, a certain distance up the way, where the crows would gather in the evenings and the sun would illuminate them over the birch bark of the thatching of the roof. And every day it would shimmer, they all shuffling their feathers before the enormity of the setting sun, and I would look up at that house and sigh something deep and sorrowful. I had longed to be in that house ever since I was a little boy, and each passing year the snow would melt above in the mountains and course down along the river, past that house; and I would sit by the banks some way further down the mountain, and I would cast little nuts and stones into its depths, and wonder about the coming year. It had been six years since I last saw Joseph. He left with a knapsack and a dusty set of shoes, some torn trousers and a wry smile. I remember saying to him, “so long, old fellow.” “Until we meet again,” he had said back. Well, today, I saw him coming down the mountain. I don’t know how he got up there; the last time I saw him walking away, he was headed in the opposite direction. But I cast aside that puzzlement and with joy, went on to meet him. His beard had grown long, and his brown eyes twinkled beyond a long and crooked nose. A furrowed mustache shuddered as he laughed, and with upheld open arms embraced me. “Jonah! My old boy, how have you been?” “Never better. I was just wondering when I’d see you again, and there you were!” “Well, well. That’s what a man ought to do, anyway. Be where he’s expected to be, isn’t it?” “I guess, old chap. I’m just glad to have you back.” And so we went on, down by the apple orchard around Brooke’s Lane, the dirt road down past the bend, and we plucked a few red apples and sat in the grass, ate and talked. He had gone up, past the Elven land where the brightness of the dawn was so clear that the morning shone as if a diamond lay in the heavens. And he had gone past that land, beyond to the realm of Goldor-Nu’um, where he had met a princess of sorts. One with a penchant for bestowing wishes, or so he said, with a wry smile. He had met her in a similar orchard as the very one we were in, he said, only that one was filled with magical spiders. The kind that wove nets around the fruit to shade them from the sun. And that fruit was so poisonous that it could kill you immediately if you ate it. She was there because her betrothed was sick after having eaten some of that fruit, and she was in the process of healing him. But she was missing an ingredient, so she sent for Joseph to head down South for a branch of a particular sort, whose joints were supposed to have a sort of resin in them that would be a cure for her betrothed. So he went. Halfway there he encountered a lion, who stood in his path and asked him a riddle. The lion asked, “how many days lie between the first day and the last, if a man knows who he is?” And Joseph answered: “One. The entire life is one day, and all things that happen between that day and this last one are transmutations of the emotional principle invested in his experience of birth.” And the lion turned into a giant butterfly and wavered up and over the breeze, to some far off canyon. Then Joseph had to cross a river, but there was no causeway. So he simply waded into the current and got deeper and deeper into the water, until his neck and head were the only things protruding. But as he lost his footing, there in the middle of the river, an Eagle swooped down and lifted him out of the water with its talons, and deposited him safely on the other shore. “Why did you save me?” asked Joseph. “Because you would have done the same,” said Torah, the Eagle. “That is true,” replied Joseph. And he pulled himself to his feet and looked around him. To his surprise, he was before the branch that had the necessary sap. So he plucked it from the bough, but the tree objected. Immediately, roots sprung up from the ground, and ensnared his feet. “Why do you take of my serum?” inquired the Bansai tree. “Because the princess in the far grove needs it to heal her betrothed, and I have traveled far to get it.” “Who are you to her?” the tree inquired further. “Nobody, just a chance acquaintance.” “Interesting. So you would not have known her had you not endeavored on your quest?” “That is correct.” “Then go, take of my branch and my sap, and let this remind you of what a good deed does, in time.” So Joseph took the branch, and immediately the sap stuck to his skin and he fell into a deep sleep, and forgot everything about his quest. When he awoke, it was midnight, and the Night sky and all that glimmered there shone down upon him. And he knew not where he was, nor where he was going. Not how he had gotten there, nor what his purpose was. And he let his mind wander through the Night time, until the Eastern sky began to grey. When the morning zephyrs began to stir, he felt the branch beneath his back, for he was lying on the ground. And he gradually remembered his quest. He was struck with the immediacy of the need to get back, and he began to shuffle through that glade, on toward the sun. And to his surprise, the sun had risen at the exact moment he broke free of that glade, and turned back onto a dirt path. And there, shortly down the road, was the orchard with the princess and the poisonous spiders, and there was the Eagle and the Lion. And there on the ground, was the betrothed. His breaths rose and fell with quiet strength, but the princess turned from him and with exhasperated delight plucked the branch from Joseph’s hands. And she snapped it open in two and dabbed the sap onto the closed eyelids of the man who lay at her feet, and he woke. With each piece of twig on either side of him, he rolled onto his side and coughed up a fish. The fish, surprisingly, was alive itself, but upon touching the ground it immediately turned into water and sunk into the ground, where a lily grew. The man plucked the lily and handed it to the Princess, who turned to Joseph and put it in his hand. Joseph looked down at the lily and smiled, but knew not why. With a deep breath of his own, he put it into his lapel, and one of the petals fell off. Then the princess said, “because you have been brave, your reward is that every petal that falls from the head of that lily will grant you one wish. You may wish now for the petal that has fallen.” And Joseph, with surprise, looked up at the daytime moon, there in the pale evening sky and said in a thoughtful murmur, “I wish that I had been here earlier, so that I could have helped sooner.” And immediately he found himself at the edge of the orchard, with the Princess in sight, and remembered everything. Not knowing precisely what had happened, he nonetheless walked toward the Princess and completed the same conversation. Left on his quest, and each time, more expediently completed his task. From the orchard, to the Lion, to the river and the Eagle, to the Tree, he repeated his actions. The only difference being that the betrothed grew younger each time, and Joseph grew older. He had found a purpose in saving the betrothed for the Princess, but he never knew who they were, until one day, if it can be called such, he met the Princess and instead of wishing for the opportunity to save her betrothed sooner, he asked to know who the Princess was. And she said, “I am your daughter. Not your actual daughter but the one you have created. I am the center of all that you know, and all that you do, and all that you have wrought in and of yourself. By saving my marriage, you have secured your future. But you had to learn this fact by doing these things. My betrothed is my future, and this man is you, who you saved by saving me. Now you have your life. The first part of it was realizing why you are here. You have done that in knowing me. The second part is doing what you can do, secure in the knowledge that you are the cause of your own life. All things begin and end with you, which you knew when you answered the Lion’s riddle. But you had to experience it, beyond knowing it. All things are their own consummation. Now go, and know yourself in your doings for the rest of your days.” So then Joseph left the Princess and her betrothed, the fish which was coughed up being the almost-death Joseph had suffered in the river had he not been saved by the Eagle. The Eagle was the embodiment of the self-saving principle that reciprocated his deliverance of the betrothed. And Joseph walked down the mountain, where he found himself, and saw me there, sitting by the stream, casting nuts and stones into the water. He saw me and he knew six years had gone by, judging by his worn palms and the days that had passed. In his knapsack was a bushel of dried lilies, and in his eyes was the gleam of wisdom. “Jonah, my boy. What have you done in the time since we saw each other?” he asked. We were sitting between apple trees in the grove I mentioned before. As I took a bite of apple, I chewed thoughtfully. I let my gaze wander up the way we came, and settle on that house on the hill. “I always wonder what’s in it. I mostly long to know… And I don’t know why. The way it sits, there, up on the hill. Far beyond what I’ve known, and yet there is a sense I’ve come from it. There is a sense I must, too, return to it. But I know I’ve never been there, and I don’t know how I could ever get in, if I dared go up there.” Joseph’s eyes gleamed some more as he peered at me over his juicy apple. “Well now.” “I came that way. Why don’t we go up there?” So we did. The trek was not too long or arduous. But at the landing where it was built, the house towered over me and I felt apprehensive of its shadow. What does it mean, I wondered. Surely this house is something more than a house, to have dominated my mind and spirit for so many years. And I turned to Joseph, but where he stood, there was only a sack full of lilies. And I reached down and gathered a handful of the dried petals and inhaled into them, and there and then the house transformed into a billowing fire. It crackled and flamed, and though I was close to it, it gave off only enough heat to make me wary. From the center of the conflagration came a booming voice, that perforated my very soul, and it said, “Jonah, you have waited on me for six years. I am the house of your inheritance. I am the house that Joseph built, before either of you knew who you were. I was only here to long for, and to burn, and now that you have come to me, you must cast all the wishes that Joseph has won though his many years of toil into the house, and let them burn.” And so I did. And there in the fire which swallowed the lily petals a wreath of blue flame began to grow, and all the other fire was drawn to it and quenched within its circle. Until the house was gone, and the fire was gone, and all that was left there on the ground was the Princess—only I didn’t recognize her. She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, and as I approached her I felt the grass and the ash crinkle beneath my feet. She was wearing a sooty, blue dress, and a petticoat of white lace. And her honey-colored hair was spread out before her. And as I stooped to get a better look at her face, she turned, and a fish came out of her mouth. She gasped for breath and sat upright, and she looked at me, and she cried out to me, “Jonah!” And I said, “Yes?” And she said, “Darling, I’ve been waiting all my life for you. Here in this house, and in a far glade, where death came upon you. You have been waiting just as long to see me. I know, I knew Joseph.” And I said, “Joseph, but of course! You’re the Princess he met!” “Yes, he rescued my beloved, and you are him!” “But how could that be? Your beloved was with you in the glade. He ate the spider apples, and regained his life when Joseph brought the broken branch to you.” And she said, “Yes, and you are that broken branch! This, is the broken branch. He was, too, the broken branch, and the sap was all this effort. The transmutation of the entire process. He gave his life for you, so that you could find me, and now your fates are exchanged. A perfect ransom, youth for old age, a single redemptive act of courage, spread across a lifetime.” “And for me.” And Jonah shifted uncomfortably. “Why you?” “Because I am yours. The perfect complement to your life’s work. I am between you and Joseph, and between that orchard where you shared your story and the one far away where he met me. He is that part of you that longs, and you are that part of him that sent him. You are both this man that you are, where before you lay on the ground having eaten the fruit of ignorance, kept in the dark by the web of spiders. It was through seeking me out, here in this house, and far beyond, where he traveled, that I waited for you to come to life. And now we have traded places as well. You saw the fish that came out of my mouth; that, too was you.” “And I am yours, and now it will be me who saves you, over and over, and I will give you a child.” So she stepped across the scarred threshold of the burnt house, now only a cake of cracked embers, and enclosed her hand in mine. We looked down at the sack where the lily petals had been, and I understood that Joseph had gone into me. He had come out of me, and now we were the same; which is how it had always been. But as the Princess and I began to walk down the mountain, I realized I didn’t know her name. “Lily,” she said. And I smiled a smile that reminded me of the humor that used to grace the lips of Joseph. “So then it was you who was giving me yourself,” I stated. “Yes,” she said, and smiled herself. “How many petals have you gifted me?” “Forty. And you shall see what for.” So we went down to the orchard of apples and we lay in the grass, and conceived a child. And that child’s name was Emily. After she was given birth, the three of us embarked back up the mountain, once more through the land of Goldor-Nu’um, and to the original orchard where my future self, who was now my present self, originally met the princess. But in this orchard there were no more spiders, and I left Lily there, because she told me, “Meet me here in a year, and I will be more beautiful. The child will stay with me.” And so I left. And I walked back down the mountain, and met a small boy. Different than the look of any boy I had known, but all the same familiar somehow. I asked him what his name was, and he said, “Jonah.” It only seemed right to tell him my name was Joseph, so we went along our way, and came at once to a river. The boy immediately began to ford the river, and was swept into the current and drowned. I could do nothing, and with sorrow walked into the river and onto the other side. The Eagle was there, on the lower boughs of an enormous sycamore, and he eyed me fiercely but did not move. “Where were you there, now, when he needed you?” I asked him. Still no reply. So with offense, I walked past and came at once to the Lion. He asked me nothing, but as I passed, he laid a paw in the dirt by my foot. “That is the measure of your travels,” he said. And not knowing what he meant, I continued past. There again, I found myself in the glade where I had left Lily. One year had passed, and she was there with Emily, cooking a fish in a small fire in the grass encircled by smooth stones. I kissed the top of her head and sat down to eat with them. Emily was a toddler, and very pretty, with large, almond eyes and a heart-shaped face. We shared the fish between the three of us, and one of the stones cracked open to reveal that it was a piece of bread. So bread and fish were our first meal. Then I left again for another year. And again I found the boy, Jonah on the way; and again we came to the river. This time I warned him about the river’s current, but still, he pushed past and was swept into the current and drowned. Again I forded the river and came to the Eagle, who still stared into me as I passed him, and again I came upon the Lion, who again prostrated his paw in the dirt, but there was now a footprint beside it, where he had placed his paw the last time I had come this way. And again, I met Lily and Emily, and again we ate bread and fish. But this time, the fish was larger, and the bread was softer, and less like a rock. And again, I left them in the glade and walked down the mountain to complete my circuit. Jonah, river, Eagle, Lion. Jonah, river, Eagle, Lion. Again and again I met my wife and child, my wife unchanging, my child growing. The fish grew larger, the bread grew softer. Jonah died seventeen times until one day, at the crossing, he stuck in the rapids, having grasped and caught onto a rock. I rushed into the waters and clutched his hand, and we struggled to the far shore. There on the bank, gasping in the light, the Eagle swooped down upon us and gashed Jonah in the thigh with his beak. Jonah gave a cry and began to bleed, and the Eagle flew off, leaving a single feather behind. We got to our feet and walked up the mountain, where the lion was missing. But there were his footprints in the dirt, and Jonah walked over them leaving man prints in their place. At once we came to the glade where Lily and Emily were sitting, tending the fire. Emily was staring into the flames illuminating her face, and it was dusk. Lily was standing behind her, and the shadows hid all but her eyes, which glinted in the firelight. Jonah walked before me and I had a hand on his shoulder. And Emily called from the shadows, “Welcome, Joseph and Jonah. You are in time to eat. Let us sit down.” There in the evening light, we ate in silence. The fish went around, the bread went around. There was a weight to the silent procession that carried our souls through the solemn light. Jonah and I, Joseph (we were not quite yet the same, he and I, so for the sake of clarity he will be Jonah and I will be Joseph) did not discuss our travels. Not he, that he had died many times; nor I that I had saved him. No inkling of either of ours who we were in terms of one another nor where we were going to be, in a year’s time. And in their turn, neither Emily nor Lily said anything. But when the meal was up, we exchanged plates, and Emily sat at the foot of the fire and played the mandolin, near the wash basin, as Lily did the dishes. And Jonah and I walked slowly into the depths of the orchard. **Part II** Billowing shapes leapt out of focus beyond the perimeter of the far trees, as if enormous crows were dancing by the light of a black fire. Smoky bodies twisted and cascaded as liquid breath beyond the far boughs of those trees, and I was running, gasping. He was there, suddenly taller than I was, up in the trees, up in the tall branches climbing like a monkey. He galloped with a fearsome cadence, and I barreled through the undergrowth. I couldn’t remember why we were running, couldn’t remember what we were running from; but it didn’t matter; even now, all that was present was the motion: the exploding atmosphere of underbrush churning out of its bedding, each foot-fall calling up with it the same heartbeat that propelled it down, and my heaving body forward. Then the clearing burst before my grasping arms and we were over the house of Lily, the house of Joseph and Jonah: the crows from the morning light arced in spirals as they and it collectively fell through the air; each moment of dropping feather split the sky into seams that cut and twisted the tumbling house like a falling cube. The house was shifting into a hundred jostling pieces of thatched roof and interlocking wood, clattering through time and depth, plummeting ravenously into a pale grey cyclone of teeth, an oceanic monster whose shuddering body wove, groaning, out of walls of canyon. Suddenly, purity that makes the eyes flutter, like a single breathless snowflake falling and melting onto a jasper nose: clear-cut eyelashes enclosing jade irises that flicker and hesitate in the light as frosted child’s hands sway above the snowdrift. Little, elephant-skin boots stamping in the cold, in the frozen dust of a dead year, and a sparkling sunlight glistening over the expanse of the vision of youth. The alacrity of beauty marking a memory never before seen in my life, and yet it wove its way into the seams of my psyche with a force so delicate and yet so powerful that it jostled those many beams in the house we had become to make room, almost as if to house that memory itself. And that is what this house is, the House on the Hill. It is the House of my Memory; perhaps truer than any sort of metaphor light or time could conjure up: just a simple box. A box, to put things in. A box to contain. A box to shift, to burn, to fall, to clatter: to conceal, and to delight. How it came to be here, on this hill, in this story that I am writing to you now, I’ll never know, my sweet Jonah. But your sister brought you into this world, and it was for her sake that I came into this world. As you will see. There down on the ground like a million paper clippings collapsed into a wicker basket Jonah and I were asleep, and I was aware we were asleep without having to open my eyes or change my evenly-labored breathing. We were spread out, the four of us by the fire, and our walk from the evening previous was just a hushed dream; although less of one than the impression it had somehow turned into had left upon my mind. Being that as it was, I was now awake, and dawn crept slowly upon the sky, turning the clear air a faint grey again; and I stretched, and I sat up. Swallows beat the early sky with leathery wings, and what felt so immense, up there, in the sky, now felt immense, down here, in my heart. Something had happened last night. Something had happened when I went out into those woods with Jonah. I was Jonah. And for this moment the distinction felt very important to make; because until now I had just been accepting that I was Joseph for the sake of the youth who had come some unaccountably (and yet so accountably) into my path. From the time when I knew Joseph, as the old man who set out to conquer the winding road, and who returned to me and showed me to this strange, beautiful inheritance of mine — of ours — to the time when he disappeared into a literal sack of dried flower petals, and the House (of my Memories) claimed his name …to the time when I encountered this youth who most assuredly was the man who would displace me, as, in time, I had displaced Him. Our places are exchanged. But last night it felt as though the man I had identified with all this time had first tasted of his own mortality. And yet somehow that child, in my dream last night. The child who was housed by the House on the Hill: she had inserted herself in such a way that all the structure of the growth of things-as-they-had-come-to-be had shifted to accommodate her. And somehow, somehow that is what I expected to take place between this youth, Jonah, and I. But now he was awake, and it was time for us to meet. The four of us, this strange quaternity of seeming strangers — all of us, except for Emily, who was somehow the product and the draw of us all, at once. It was time for breakfast, our first meal of the dawning day, the first day of our enduring union, but which union was yet to undergo much fragmentation. Surprises, too, would abound. The children were taken with each other, if children they would seem. Both younger, they mirrored Lily and myself in ways that transcended the small graces our expressions would allow. But they were more in a brotherly and a sisterly way than in any other, and even in the morning air and light, their laughter rang out across the glade. Finally, it was time for Jonah and I to leave again. But this time, we decided to set out above where we had ever gone before. No more needing to arrive back at the glade, instead a higher goal called to me, and I let him know. “Jonah, in the times before we knew each other I knew another man named Joseph. In fact, my name is Jonah, and I merely took his name in meeting you to spare us any confusion.” But he did not look confused. Instead, a wash of dread came upon him, and he returned, “Yes, I feared as much.” But he would not say nothing further. So with a brusque goodbye to hide the tender feelings buried within, we departed from Lily and Emily, and marched stridently once more upon the dirt road at the far end of the glade, this time turning right, up the mountain. And for two weeks we climbed, over passages and through hilly valleys, up the steep face of the canyon that separated this mount from that. Coming at once to a goat, on one of the first landings, the goat turned to us and said, “have you seen my masters, sir? One a young man, and the other his servant. They wandered below to regather a basket of stones that fell from this precipice.” “No, we have not. And what business does your master and his servant have regathering lost stones?” I inquired. “That is not for me to say, but the stones were precious.” So we pushed on further and presently came to a narrow pass, which was bridged by a fickle log, thrown haphazardly across the way. Jonah went first, in case something should happen, and I followed once he was safely to the other side. But halfway across, I slipped, and fell onto my torso, facing down into the crevasse, where I saw a bright ruby gemstone the size of a pomegranate nestled between some other larger stones in the mountainside. “There! That must be one of the stones the goat’s master has lost!” And Jonah lowered me down with a clasped hand so I could retrieve it. Once I was safely back up onto the ledge, we continued on our way, soon coming to a bright rotunda of stone pillars. And at the center, an altar lay with jagged inscriptions gouged into the flat dais. “Here lies the instrument of passing. Make an offering, and the man will let you pass,” I read. Conflicted, but with no other offering to make, we laid the gem onto the flat surface, and the soft, stone recession lowered into the earth. The foundation of the mountain pass trembled, and began to rotate. A hidden passage revealed itself in the mountain wall, and a man was standing within the cut door smiled mysteriously from the pass. “You found my gem. And yet you used it to make passage when it was not yours?” Shamefully, I cast down my eyes, but again rose to meet his gaze and inquired, “yes, but you were waiting. How could it be that you knew we would come?” “All things in their proper time. You will make this passage seventeen times, and collect sixteen more stones. All, for you,” he said, as his eyes fell on Jonah. I couldn’t let my consternation stay within: “Why for Jonah?” “Because he will manage your return.” And without another word, the man vanished, and behind him the dark passage within the mountain revealed itself. We began our passage through the mountain. Long and deep, and steep were we borne down into the mountainous depths that awaited us. With no railing or footing other than craggy limestone, the passage was narrow, and the air was dank. Down in a dark chamber the mountain was lit all at once by a flurry of green torches, and we were in a circular range under the central peak. And all at once, we vanished. It vanished. We, as sentient beings, vanished. No input met our senses. We were simply gone, and then we were there, at the foot of the mountain, on the other side. Jonah sat down and said, “Joseph? Jonah, I mean…. I don’t think I can go on.” “What is the matter?” I asked him. “Well, I… I just don’t know. I feel so very tired. It is as if that last breath in the mountain snuffed out my drive to continue. All my will and my effort, seems to have been extinguished. All I want to do is… lie down and die.” And with that, he did. And I, to my horror, looked with such relief that I clasped my own hand to my chest and exclaimed, “what am I becoming, that this young man could be so unafraid of death, while I cringe from it, even as he expresses the principle of sacrifice itself! Jonah, who died seventeen times already, now this final time! Jonah, who redeemed my very life time and time again! Now, Jonah, dying, and for what?!” Just then an owl swooped down over my head shed a porcelain tear onto my lapel, and my heart stopped. I keeled over, dead; but even as my eyes closed they opened again, and I was lying where Jonah had been lying. No! I was Jonah. And there, beside me was the death I had performed, just mere seconds ago. And there, the round owl, with large, amber eyes; large, round pupils — they pierced me; they saw beyond me, deep into the forest beyond where we stood, on that outcropping of rock, on the far side of the mountain. “Hoot Hoot!” called the owl. “It seems you have died and gained something strange to you, here on the far side of the mountain. What do you imagine has happened to you?” It spun its swiveling head around, and eyed me with one supercilious eye. “I have no idea,” I sputtered. “I was dead. You killed me.” “I did not,” the Owl coolly intoned. “I merely expressed the grief you ought to have felt, having done what you did.” “What I did?” I asked. “What did I do?” “You died, my child. Not once, or twice, nor any number of times — but forever, and always. You are dead. And yet, you are alive. Imagine that.” “But how? What are you talking about?” I protested. “Jonah,” said the Owl, swiveling its head to look at the broad mountain, now beside us. “That is where you came from. Through the mountain pass. The Mountain — it is the juncture. The point at which your old life meets again, your new life. And so you have died. Did you not think you would have to grieve the life you gave? Here you so readily accepted the sacrifice Joseph made, when he set out those many, many years ago: for you. For you both. And you must have understood you would become him, and make the same sacrifice, for yourself. For Jonah. Well, here it is, now. But yet did you think that you would not reap the benefits of your sacrifice? For there is no grief! Only fear, and once death is conquered, as you have done, none; as Joseph did for you; as the betrothed of your wife did for her, and so for you, and for Joseph, and for Emily. Now — now! You have your inheritance. And it may seem an inheritance that keeps giving. And that is true. It does. The only thing it requires, is sacrifice. Now, bury this man.” And I buried myself. Strange to feel my bones harder, my muscles more tender as I gathered his body in my arms and dug a deep pit, layered limestone atop it and began to descend into the coming valley. As I fell below the clouds, gradient by gradient, I reflected on the levity and the feeling that came from having buried a version of me. My very own old age, having discarded it; all the fears and weights that held me down disappeared with having accepted my own death as a sacrifice to myself in exchange for my life. Why I had been unable to understand the breadth of what was to be my experience before now, I did not know; but I was possessed then of the conviction that things would only get better. Things did not improve so much, with as much purpose, to simply go awry. So onward I plodded, to the mirror village. Down within the canyon on the Other Side of the Mountain, I encountered the mirror people. And they were all Me. But some were tall, and some were short; and they all had different voices. Some were men, some were women; some young, some old, but all variations on a theme. And that theme was Me. There were Josephs and Jonahs, even Emilys and Lilys, all of these people being a product of that young man who would cast little nuts and stones into the river and wait as the snowmelt carried its way down the mountain. All the flakes, each so brilliant in their variety and crystalline natures, having melted into a steady flow. A steady thrum, a coursing beast that grew in the sweltering sun and fattened the shores further and further south. Somewhere, falling idle into a deep reservoir, the Ocean, beyond the horizon of what I have seen. These mirror people, all of them walking oceans, all of them reflections of all the many permutations a nature and a character can undergo; or, seemingly; there are so many ways a nose can sit on a face before its placement is augmented by the tilt of the eyes, the way a lip sits astride a chin. The way an inner numinosity animates each of those features. And so with each of these people arose a steady life, as if an Egyptian temple lit up by a series of mirrors revealed the treasures it has buried; so the entire town rose from an inner light. And I carried that light within me. Wherever I went, I carried the Sun in my chest. I was the Sun of the Earth, illuminating all of creation. And the creation was mine. But these people were crude, with features haphazardly affixed to equally crude natures; as if they had been made with slapped mud, and I made my way quickly from that village, and found myself at the end of the world. Staunchly, I stood, peering into a dark, grey line that separated a verdant underbrush at the forest’s edge, from oblivion. I stuck out my hand, and it was cut, like a saber, by the line that separated the what is from the what is Not. And I withdrew my hand from its limit again, and found that it was undamaged, although it shimmered somewhat with blue light. Something was there, on the other side. Something more; but something that Was Not Yet. And then the Owl and the Goat stood there, from at my side, each of them feeling as though they had never left in the time that had elapsed since we crossed paths. And the Owl said, “One Death.” And the Goat said, “One Stone.” And I said, “One Life.” Then the Goat turned toward me and said, “The servant found his master. Servant, what is thy master’s name?” “Sacrifice,” I said. “Then let new life with old be met, this time, willingly.” And from my lapel, where my heart had stopped, the ruby appeared. And I clasped it there, and drew it forth in my hand, and fell headlong into the grey enclosure. And from out of a grey headstone was my body thrown. “Father,” said Lily. “Father,” said Emily. “Daughter,” said I. “Husband.” “Husband.” And I looked at the headstone above me, and there, engraved in limestone was the inscription, “Here lies Joseph Jonah Iroquois, son of Joseph, son of Jonah. Father to Lily. Father to Emily. Loved by All.

A couple of weeks passed and Cur was settling in to his new life at Bloodthorne Manor. After the first week, he knew his job well enough that Johnny left him alone most of the day. The kitchen could only get so dirty with the handful of people living in the manor, so outside of some small maintenance, his job didn’t require much. Johnny didn’t let this free time go to waste. Instead of leisure time, Cur was reassigned to learning the tasks that other workers were responsible for. The first of which was yard maintenance with the goblin twins, Drek and Grek. When they went out to find them, Johnny found them throwing pruning shears at each other. The goblins were a bit shorter than Cur, which wasn’t something that happened he was used to. Their long, droopy ears were clipped about two-thirds of the way down, the symbol of shame in goblin society. Drek, or maybe it was Grek, saw them coming and started shouting something in a language that Cur didn’t understand. The words were guttural, sounding like they were dragged against their will into existence. Johnny screeched back a response. One of the goblins held out a hand to Cur. “Nice to meet ya, kid. The name’s Grek. This here’s my brother Drek.” Cur clasped their hands together and was surprised by the goblin’s strength. “I’m Cur. I’m new here, but I guess you knew that.” “C’mon Johnny Boy,” called Drek, “you’re really bringing ‘em in young now aren’t ya?” Johnny clenched and unclenched his fists. “Drek, for the last time, my name is Johnathon! Not Johnny, and certainly not ‘Johnny Boy’. And we didn’t find Cur, he broke in. Miss Celia decided to spare him.” “Don’t care,” responded Drek, who looked more interested in the glob of ear wax he just excavated. Grek turned back to the Cur. “Our job is simple. Keep the grass short, the trees tall, and the bushes fluffy. Think you can keep up?” “Don’t kill the boy,” said Johnathon. “Teach him the basics. I’ll be back in a few hours to pick him up.” As soon as Johnny was out of sight, a pair of pruning shears appeared hurtling straight towards Cur’s face. He narrowly jerked out of the way before falling to the ground. “Get up, kid! We’ve got a lot of bushes to prune.” Cur grabbed the shears and pushed himself to his feet. He had a feeling that this would be a long day. . . . After the longest two hours of his life, Cur was certain that the goblin twins were still alive because of luck and luck alone. They constantly attacked each other with tools, claiming to be “giving a hand”. Luckily, Johnny came to his rescue before they went to chop wood for the kitchen. He had a feeling that the brothers would be just as likely to throw the axe as they were the shears. A few days later, Johnny brought him to meet the other resident servant. Evidently, there were only six servants living on the manor grounds. Cur had met Grek, Drek, and Johnny, and now they were going to meet the stablehand. Cur shook slightly from nerves looking at the looming barn in front of him. Waiting inside was at least one giant spider, but likely more. “Do I really have to learn this job?” Cur asked. “I mean, what are the odds I’ll ever have to wrangle the spiders? Maybe I should go back to working with the goblins.” Johnny cut him off abruptly with a quick, “Enough!” The old vampire clearly having no patience for his bargaining. “I don’t care about your personal grievances with arachnids. We need these spiders, and you need to know how to care for them.” Without another word, Johnny pushed open the barn door. The first thing Cur noticed was the smell. It wasn’t a sickly smell or a rancid one, the barn smelled clean. Then he realized why. Walking into the barn, it appeared as if it had been meticulously swept a number of times. The dirt floor was free of debris, and the walls were spotless. Then he saw the stables. Three stables lined each side of the barn. Each one was ten feet square, and covered in spider silk. He was certain that the spiders saw him long before he saw them, and now he felt like dozens of eyes were watching, examining, and hoping to catch an easy meal. He immediately turned to leave, and ran face first into Johnny. “Deadeye! Come out!” Johnny shouted into the barn. Cur heard a low growl, then a grey werewolf dropped from the upper loft onto the barn floor. His fur was mangy, and his teeth were yellow. He stood hunched over, but Cur estimated that if he were standing straight he would have been just as tall as the alpha that attacked him before. His right eye was a pale, milky white. Johnny stepped between Cur and the wolf. “You know the rules, Deadeye. Change back, now!” Cur was shocked at the power in Johnny’s voice. Deadeye growled and stepped back. Bones began to creak and fur receded back. More pronounced muscles faded away and were replaced with the stringy muscles of an old man. The new man standing before them was not more than five feet tall, and his back was hunched worse now than it was before. His hair was thin and white. He looked near sickly. “What is it, Johnathon?” Deadeye said in a tired tone. “All my work is done. Can’t an old man relax in peace?” “Not today.” Cur felt like he was seeing something forbidden. As if the two old men had some kind of shared history, and he was caught in the middle of their latest spat. “Deadeye, this is Cur. He’s a new servant of the manor, and he needs to learn the basics of your job.” Despite not being a wolf anymore, Cur could’ve sworn he heard the old man growl. “Why is that, Johnathon? Are you planning to replace me?” “Wouldn’t dream of it. You haven’t paid your debt.” “You sure?” cooed the man. “Maybe you want to finish what we started all those years ago.” Johnny clenched his fists. When they unfurled his finger nails had changed into hard, black claws. Deadeye noticed and a fire lit behind his eyes. Then, Johnny took a deep breath and the claws changed back. “No. The mistress doesn’t wish it. You’ll die here, Deadeye, but not today. Now, get to work. He doesn’t need to know everything, but make sure he understands the basics.” Johnny left without saying another word. Cut was certain that the exchange had gotten under his skin. When he looked back in the barn, Deadeye was gone. “Come on, pup! If I have to teach you, you’d better keep up!” . . . The basics of spider maintenance was simple. The working spiders, the ones that were more active in the fields around the manor, were fed more. “None of them eat every day. They aren’t like you or I,” explained Deadeye. “The hard working ones will eat a lot, then they won’t eat anything for a few days. The carriage spiders might not eat but once every ten days or so.” “Do you have to clean their stalls?” “Not really. They don’t like you messing with their webs. Especially Black Betty over there,” he said, pointing to a smaller spider with extremely dark hair. “The ugly bugger nearly bit my arm off once.” Deadeye showed Cur the basics of saddling the spiders, then had him practice on a wooden dummy they had stored in the back. After nearly an hour of saddling the dummy, Johnny came to his rescue. “That’s enough, Cur. Miss Celia wishes to see you, immediately.” “Good luck, pup,” Deadeye grinned mischievously. “Learn quick, and maybe you won’t end up as bat food.” “Uh, thanks, I think,” responded Cur. As they left the barn, Cur could hear the popping bones of the werewolf transformation. It sounded like it hurt. “Johnathon, why does Miss Celia want to see me?” Cur asked nervously. “Be patient. It’s better for you to find out from her than it is for me to tell you now.” Johnny brought him down into the depths of Bloodthorne Manor where Celia’s office was. Johnny rapped the door to the office and entered without Cur. Each second felt like a minute, and each minute an hour while Cur waited. He quickly played back everything he had done since coming to the manor, and he couldn’t think of anything he did wrong. But why else would Celia need to see him? The door opened and Johnny walked out. “You can go in now. Have a seat against the wall and wait to be addressed.” Cur walked into the office. The last time he was in the office, a werewolf nearly killed him, so this was his first time truly getting to appreciate the decor. The office was lined with shelves that were covered in books and scrolls. Some of them looked like they were falling apart at the seems. Paintings hung wherever there was a break in the bookshelves. They were beautiful oil paintings of landscapes and sunsets. Little, perfect worlds that didn’t belong in the dreary office underground. Celia sat at her desk, not looking at Cur, but rather, at another servant that Cur had yet to meet. She was a well dressed stocky woman who looked liked like she was as equally capable of hard, physical labor as she was the meticulous work of a secretary. Her round face was covered in freckles. She gave him a cursory glance then ignored him. “As I was saying, Keira, you’ve served me well these past few years. Things may have been rough at times, but you always proved yourself, going above and beyond expectations.” Keira nodded her head solemnly. “Thank you, miss.” “You have paid off your debt Keira. You’re free to go, to do as you wish. But, before you go, I have a proposal for you.” Keira leaned in slightly. “What is it?” “I know you have a rocky past with your fellow Forsaken. You have nothing to your name, no one to go back to. I can give you enough funds to get back on your feet.” “What’s the catch?” Keira asked, feeling bold. “There’s no catch, but there is an alternative. I truly like you Keira, much more than most. If you wish, I can turn you into a vampire, and you can become part of my staff. I’ll pay you a fair wage, and you would be free to leave at any time. The choice is yours.” Cur watched with interest. This deal was the exact thing he came here for to begin with. Now, he was seeing someone else get it offered to them. “You really mean it?” asked Keira. “You would change me, and I could leave whenever I want?” “Of course. I’m a fair woman, you know that.” Keira rocked forward and backwards on her feet for nearly a minute. “Okay. Deal.” Celia stood and walked around the desk, then put a hand on Keira’s arm. “In that case, welcome to the household once again. May your time here be prosperous. Just a warning, this does hurt.” Cur watched in shock as right before his eyes Celia’s fangs grew long and plunged deep into Keira’s neck. The servant struggled for a moment before going into shock. Cur himself was too shocked to move. Blood ran down Keira’s neck, as well as Celia’s face. His lunch threatened to come back up at the sight. Then, Celia gently laid the woman down. She was pale, and her eyes stared off into space. She was dead. Celia wiped the blood from her mouth. “Johnny, take Keira to the guest quarters, and make sure she has something to eat when she wakes up. You know how new vampires get when they wake up.” Johnny entered the room silently, picked up the corpse, and left just as quickly. As Celia walked back around to her desk, Cur finally found the courage to speak up. “You killed her . . .” “No. I changed her. It’s what she wanted.” “But, why did it have to be like that? Oh gosh, you killed her,” Cur once again fought to keep his lunch down. Celia sighed. “Cur, that’s what it takes to make a Forsaken into a vampire. Yes, it’s a painful process, but she was a consenting adult, and when she wakes up, she’ll be a perfectly healthy vampire. Now, enough of that. I’m giving you a promotion.” “Wait, what?” Cur asked, only half way listening. “I said, I’m giving you a promotion. You’re not on kitchen duty any more. Keira was my personal assistant. Now that she’s changed and on payroll, I have more important jobs for her. Which means there’s an opening, and I want you to fill it.” Cur’s head swam. “No, you’re messing with me. There’s no way you actually want me for that. I’m new here.” “Which is precisely why I’m giving you the job. It took a very long time to get Keira where she needed to be. With you, I have that time.” “What about Johnny? He’s good!” “He has more important jobs. And before you recommend anyone else, Drek and Grek have nearly paid off their debt, and even if they weren’t close, the two of them are a safety hazard on their best days. Which leaves you and Deadeye, and you wouldn’t catch me dead with a werewolf for a personal servant.” “So, what does this mean for me?” Cur asked. “For now, nothing. I knew this was coming, which is why I have Johnny sending you to learn the other jobs. When I go into town, you’ll go with me, and sometimes I’ll have a specific job for you to do. Other than that, you help as Johnny sees fit. Now, go find Johnny. I’ve instructed him to start your defense lessons.” Cur slowly stood up and walked around the blood still pooled on the floor. “Did you say defense lessons?” “Of course,” said Celia, seemingly disinterested from the conversation now. “As my personal servant, I need you well versed in defense. After all, you never know what we might run into out there.

Only Sam and I know where Orson is. Only Sam believes where Orson is. I talked with him, yes. I don’t know how I managed to at last. Refusing or accepting wasn’t going to work without that I assume, I remember that. It hadn’t for a while now. I think about nine months. That’s a bit odd to say… I also should mention I don’t know if I will continue speaking with him like you suggested. Instead of that advice, I am taking the writing one again, about… about the why and the where, about where Orson is and what happened to him before all that and of course my feelings, for the same purpose of talking with Sam, which I think you’ll appreciate. We’ll see how it’ll turn out… Orson gave me the 8 shaped necklace before he told me about the Osiris program. I was too worried about the idea of the baby being born an eight month like the doctor had said. Especially when the baby had pieced together the last unfixed pieces of our marriage. It was starting to affect my sleep, so, of course his too. He gave me the necklace after that. He said there was nothing we could do and it was *time* that was going to decide what was going to happen, and so that the only way we would be okay was that if we embraced it instead of refusing what was happening. And also after the 8 months he would give me another gift he promised. Like a charm, it worked. I put the 8 on my neck right then and didn’t take it off whenever I did whatever. It’s still on my neck, you probably seen it many times. After that, I asked him if he embraced it too. He confirmed it and I proposed we get him one too then. He declined on the account that there was no need. His way of showing how he was embracing it was different. That’s when he told me he had accepted to go to the Osiris program. I wasn’t happy with it but I couldn’t blame him. This was a part of his character I had accepted, after I had scarred him with the way I was which had led to the divorce, which was cancelled thanks to him, in the cost of a slight change of his character. Some kids decide to do his jobs because it’s so interesting and meticulous, his reason was to get away from home. He became that way after the cancellation of the divorce. As far as possible. He went to the first Osiris Program with Sam who had already signed up for the second. It was the first Osiris route in their department, meaning they were the firsts which was pumping me up full of angst but before he went, he told me it’d be alright. He told me it was just another exploration mission around a station that was placed in Osiris. That was the idea which was giving me hope. Only after hearing it was just an exploration program I managed to cling on to that hope that everything would be fine when he came back. And explorations were never long, this one was assumed to be exactly seven months which was convenient for us. You could imagine my surprise, or whatever word there is for what I was, when he returned thirty-two months later. It was seven months in Osiris time, not Earth... The mission wasn’t just an exploration. It was an exploration of a time dilation source in Osiris. You could also imagine his surprise when he saw his wife with more wrinkles, a few more health issues and a straight stomach. And also the baby room which was on a course to returning back to an office room. Selling the crib had taken me a lot of time and effort. It was a lazy and a slow course, but by his return it definitely looked more like an office than a baby room. That’s how and when his time perception issues had started. Also the green room incidents. I’d refuse the fact that I was not sleeping anymore. I was thinking that in any moment I could go to sleep, so I didn’t get out of bed. But, now I’ll say that was only because I wasn’t accepting that my Orson was having issues. Again, now I can say that if you are going to refuse, you have to accept first… That’s how those days were going and that’s how I realized he wasn’t sleeping, was out of the bed. Me refusing the fact that I wasn’t sleeping meant I was staring at the ceiling for hours. Didn’t make a difference. One of those days I woke up and saw he wasn’t there. Like you said, I was trying to give him some space, some time, and I did, for a week until I couldn’t. He was doing it every single day. His situation was exacerbating and space and time wasn’t really helping him. I failed accepting that, and also I was at the point where I was starting to put the blame on him for the way he was. My desire was too tangible I guess so that I woke up at the middle of the night. I turned to the kitchen first, thinking he might be smoking or eating or whatever. He wasn’t. There was a light coming from the baby’s room. From the office rather. A green light. A weird feeling of refusal accompanied me on my walk there. The first thing that captured my eye when I entered the room was the density. The whole room was swarmed with that dense green light. It took me a while to for some reason to understand that he had changed the bulb to green. And then only after a second or two I realized Orson was crouched and was leaning back to the side wall, just sitting there. In all honesty, it was one of the scariest moments of my life. The strength sapped away from my legs; my knees buckled. It was that day when I had thought that Orson was gone, MY Orson. I remember thinking *what happened to MY Orson,* as if the man I knew had gone somewhere. And I couldn’t change that. It became a daily routine of mine from until that day to ask myself every time I saw him where Orson was. Still wonder it. Change is a scary thing. Time is a scary thing Jan. I asked him all kinds of questions, why had he changed the lightbulb to green like that, what he was doing, why he was doing it, and many more. He answered everything with the same answer, told me he was just “passing the time”. Nothing else came out of his mouth that meant something different. Next four weeks were exactly the same. He’d wake up at night, go to the green room. Sit there. I never saw him in the bed when I woke up in all of that time period. After numerous fights on the verge of getting physical, I quit chasing him to there, I didn’t know what to do. I was just watching the time drift by, not anything else. I woke up, wondered where Orson was. Not the one in the green room, my Orson. That was it. Then, in the first of the month, one morning he was. In bed I mean. Wasn’t sleeping. I woke up and he was up sitting on the feet end, his back turned to me. You know when you’d somehow know something was going on even when you were asleep? That’s what woke me up that day. I woke up, I saw him sitting like that and I knew something was going to take a turn for the worst somehow. I called for him and he replied right away. Said he wanted to try again… Now, as you know, I didn’t want that. I never wanted that. But I never got to fully explain my reasoning to you. Until that day he was refusing everything, he had even suggested moving… It was feeling like everything was the same, and everything was a part of that; a bland blurry unity of something. It didn’t change the issue at hand. The problem we talked about for me was the same for him back then. It was a clear-cut quandary between acceptance and refusal. And I was still wearing the 8. But his totem of acceptance was long outdated; he was back from Osiris, and he needed a new one. I couldn’t deter him. He refused. He refused accepting the situation. And he was asking for a new totem for refusing; a new baby. Well… I didn’t know what to make of it. I had felt like MY Orson was really, really gone and this man was trying to be there instead of him. It was as if he was trying to fill a shell of our old life with the current one. Looking back, I don’t want to get on his throat like I wanted to back then, especially when I think about the old me and what I did. I am not judging him, not *just* judging... Perhaps this is me trying to handle my end. Or just trying to figure out where my Orson is. *She scratched her chest, underneath where the 8 is. Until it got red, then swapped the scratch with a sting feeling.* Then we got into it. For hours, days, weeks. Fights, long silences that extended to hours, crying -all me, curses and demeaning remarks all over. I did everything in my power to revert his ask, his need but he didn’t back down. It wasn’t a conscious attempt; he was like that. Silent, immutable. Beat me into being the same way after a while... After our clash became a stillness conflict, he was showing signs of distress and trauma again. That’s when I told him with the last ounce of character I had left. The only way to move forward was that if we accepted our situation. And only time had the say on what was going to happen. He only agreed on the second part. He kept insisting we try again. This went on for a while like I said. After hitting brick walls we moved onto more direct points. He was becoming less eloquent at these points in axiomatic fashion which was really disturbing me, I became aware of the situation enough to pull some of my punches. Even though I was clear on the fact that I didn’t want to try again. So I told him. I told him that a new supply of hope could be destructive for us. Things might go the same way again and we might not be able to accept it this time. To this he only said the thing. *Just* ***time*** *alone is fabricated hope. What we will have is real hope.* He explained why he said this for about three hours that day. The most he had talked. His main point was time. And I know this wasn’t supposed to mean anything to me. Time was the reason he was sick you said, I know that. But his points remained solid in my head. He said *just* time was fabricated hope. Was it not? We were not doing anything except leaning back onto time, hoping someday it was all going to fix itself, as if it was time’s job to fix things. Everything would persist to be the same if nothing changed. And time -time changing- for us, that wasn’t enough change after that point. Once something happens like this, you forget everything you know. Or worse, you quit believing in them. All that intrigues you becomes what you don’t know, so, you lean on time and what its unending stretch will bring to you. You squeeze hope into what you don’t know. You fabricate hope in mystery, uncertainty, blank. Because what you know denies hope. I think about that a lot. Since he is gone, I think about it a lot, even more than I did back then. And back then, it made me think “will this bring *my* Orson back?” This was becoming visible for him I suppose, because he told me he didn’t want to affect my decision to that much a degree. He went to Sam for a few days that week, which I didn’t care about at the time. I knew it was partly because of my fits too… Well, that’s what it all did for me, affected my thinking even more. *Just* time is fabricated hope, I couldn’t think much about else. He returned a few days later. We tried again. I thought of *my* Orson. Time wasn’t slowed down for the first time that night after a month of stillness. The night wasn’t frozen and the other side of the bed wasn’t cold, as if frozen too. There wasn’t a green light on the hall. And those were the days when we were only arguing about the decision. I thought to myself it would bring *my* Orson back if we decided to refuse what had happened to us, refused the stillness of time and the hope and the pointless drifting in it. I thought nothing changes if nothing changes. The very morning of the night we tried again, we went to the doctor to see. Doctor said I was pregnant. The very night of that morning was when the night I woke up and saw the green light seeping onto the corridor again. That’s was the day I signed in to see you Jan, alone. I felt the time’s fabric changing when I stepped toward the green room. It slowed down with heaviness, smothered the brain with its rotted smell of sense. I saw him sleeping on the carpet in the room and stepped in as the frantic rage controlled me. A ravenous scream to the man I didn’t know, the man that was supposed to be MY Orson but wasn’t, spit itself out my mouth. I yelled at him, I was mad at him as if he knew where my Orson was, as if he was a messenger to him. “Why the hell are you here again?” Because he was there instead of Orson… He said he was having trouble sleeping near me. Now I think it was because of the baby. The reason I think that is connected to the time he wanted to go to the Osiris. We’ve had a talk about why he was wanting to go, before the divorce risks had surfaced. About the real reason he wanted to go. Essentially, he was nervous about the baby’s birth. More than me. This was gradually transforming into an actual issue back at the time, he was having trouble maintaining his composure. On top of this, he was wanting to go for a program for a while, I think this was due to our violent disagreements and also the prior talks of having a baby way before we decided. I suppose I gave him enough excuse by doing some things I don’t want to mention, he told me that he thought it was a good idea to go. I didn’t view that as irresponsible, uncaring or anything of the sort. In fact, I thought it was responsible in a concurrently hateful way, since I had accepted his character to be that, the kind that avoided problems, but he was doing something to palliate it. Yes. So, that’s another reason he went to the Osiris Program while we were expecting. And to come back to the reason why he was sleeping on the green room instead of sleeping with me in the bed is that I believe he wasn’t dealing with the stress of the coming baby. That’s just who he is, that’s what I’ll say now. Some husbands watch sports to relieve themselves, to have comfort, some of them do sports, a few work and few buy shiny things for their wives. He prefers to put distance between him and the problem, move away as much as he can to move on. This is the first reason I believe for his decision to sleep in the green room. The second one is in the rest of his answer to my question that night. He went on with his answer. That was another odd one to listen to. He told me that it reminded him of his time in Osiris. There was not much stuff on the room, it was virtually empty, also green. So, he told me that it gave him some comfort, it relaxed him, freed him you know? It made me mad again. I didn’t understand it at the time. I didn’t yell the second time though, just asked him what was in that room that he valued so much, explained that I couldn’t understand it. Obviously it was about the baby. The first one. That’s not how he said it of course. “Time” he said. “There is time in there. Free, quiet and aging time… It helps me sleep…” Still bothers me. Bothers me more actually when I think about what it means. I now know that I didn’t get what he meant when he said that back then. Still, I understood it enough to get that his situation was becoming worse. It was sufficient to realize that he was viewing my pregnancy as if it was for the first baby. As if I was going to give birth to the baby that we have lost… This notion became clearer and was confirmed when we began discussing the baby’s name which he wanted to be Rhea. The name we had picked for the first baby. Just like before, I thought of it again. Maybe this will help me find my Orson I thought. Because briefly, the question about Orson’s whereabouts seemed to have somewhat of an answer; the past. *She scratched the spot under her 8 necklace… The urge to scratch it kept accruing as her fingernails brushed back and forth on it. She pressed the cold plate of the necklace on the itch with significant force for a momentary relief, enough force for the 8 to leave a mark on the skin.* *Her gaze reeled in on the mark, then fixated on it as it started unhurriedly waning. The red fading away, leaving behind small spots of contact indications that were eventually going to fade away too. She continued staring at the spot for a while.* I didn’t know what to do with that. It was a scary thing to process. Something a normal people wouldn’t say or think or offer. Besides, nothing was to change in my opinion. I wasn’t viewing the issue in the same manner. No one should have. I refused the old name. Back at me he came of course, he didn’t accept the new one. Like that, we snowballed into a cycle of disagreements. In the back of my mind I was hopeful still, subordinate to the coming of the baby. My thinking was that the severeness of this situation of his would abate as the time flowed. My Orson would come back that way. The issue with that was some things did not do that. My pregnancy signs were stalling. For the first nine weeks, not one symptom, whether it was puking, morning sickness, cravings, back pain, bleeding or breast swelling was introduced to me. And these are mostly fifth week signs. The only ones that I had were fatigue and headaches, which nor me or Orson thought was strong enough evidence to connect to the pregnancy. We went to the doctor after these -I went. He was in the green room and I didn’t want him to come anyway. The doctor notified me that all seemed and late signs were somewhat common. I told all this to Orson but he couldn’t make himself believe them. He hadn’t told me this but it was evident by his mannerism and everything. And like the baby name situation, I was once again proved to be valid on my thoughts by the next milestone of his exacerbation; the nailing of the windows of the green room with wood planks and painting the room the old color. By the time he was all into it, the only thing I managed to get out of him as for the reason was he said the need for using the green room in the morning as well. Like that, this person that was supposed to be my Orson was getting farther and farther away from that. His personality had already left the shell, his appearance was doing the same, going farther away from the first place, just like my Orson had. Where was my Orson, where was this guy going? Was he going to come back with the baby? The rest of every question or attempt at conversing with him was returned to by nods, shakes of the head, blinks either for approval or saying no, and that sort of thing. *She paused for a moment. Something made her. Perhaps a thought or a feeling or an instinct.* *The passing of time, it was the only thing taking place. The light kept illuminating the paper. The paper kept standing on the desk. Sound of the wind continued accompanying her. Small trickles of the rain remained trickling. The simple and uncomplicated realization accommodated her mind. It was all this that made her pause, in the middle of a thought she was putting to words. She rested her ears at the sounds, and her gaze at the sights contemplatively.* I thought to myself those days that when the baby came, there’d be no reason for us not to move on. Every day there opened an occasion fit for me to tell this to myself. I tried many times to tell it to him too but to no avail of course. Things continued as we waited for the baby. There was not a single beam of light entering the green room from the outside. There was not a single time when he joined me in the bed. The weeks slowed again. I felt as though I was being pulled and pushed constantly to the past -along with him- to the moment when we got the news of the first baby. The bad news. The first eleven weeks passed like this, slow and heavy. Then I finally started puking. Puked. Wanted strange good. Nausea too. Things were so off the rails; Orson was so off the rails that I was not expecting any of the good reactions once I had from him to my signs. Rightly so; he doubled the boards on the green room to fully shut the light. This said light was maybe merely enough to unveil some dust in the air… Then he started building a cradle, didn’t move the office desk though. I protested but then he would stutter and sometimes hit his head with his palm, he would say he was sorry, he would try to kiss me to apologize but it would be a weird, blank and debt kind of a kiss you know? And he wasn’t doing all this in panic mode or anything. That made it all the more difficult to bear it. He seemed like Orson but wasn’t. Then he bought clocks. More clocks. For the wall and both his wrists. He bought more bulbs, green ones of course. These things dragged on until my puking stopped, my cravings grew, and in general my pregnancy advanced. He bought more bulbs, more clocks, more boards. Those didn’t stop… Every other week I woke up and the green light seeping into the corridor would be denser and more obvious as the baby came closer. I would literally hear the ticking of the clocks from the hall. Sometimes along with the sound of a hammer hitting boards. Or maybe the paint brushing the same-colored walls. At the first day of the eighth month, he was at his strangest. The number of the clocks and green bulbs and the painting was at their highest. He was too energetic and too anxious. I remember finding it strange that he was trying to stay out of the green room that day. He’d mostly fail and jump back in and come out for a few minutes, rub my stomach and go back in with an apology. He literally did that for the whole day with random intervals. I heard him crying at the green room from the bed at night. And when I woke up in the morning, there was no green light spilling into the hall. He was gone. That’s it… So, I talked to you. I talked to Sam. I talked to myself. I didn’t really talk to Sam actually, Sam talked to me. I got his letter few months earlier. In his letter, he mentioned how Orson had gone to see him in August. That was the 8^(th) month of the pregnancy. He mentioned how Orson had asked him whether he was handling the PTSD about the time difference adaptation, and how Orson looked like he wasn’t. He mentioned he looked off, unstable, worrying that day. He said *but everything is well, he is with me. We’ll have some time off. He’ll be better after a few years.* I mentioned that Sam had signed up for the second route. That’s it. So, where is Orson? I know it. Sam knows it. Better than both of us, time knows it. *She scratched her chest once again before taking the 8 necklace out. Her gaze fixated on the 8. Puking, nausea, cravings related to things more important than food, headaches… She rotated the eight sideways. A longer stare continued itself on the sideways eight. For a long, stretched, slow burning nine seconds, which she hadn’t intended for.* *She recounted what he said in the voice message he had sent her before the day he arrived* *“We, uh, we went into the station and there uh… It was in there.”* *She stared at him* *“It was all green. It was moving and contorting, and spilling. And flowing.”* *She continued staring in bewilderment.* *“It was time in there. I could feel it moving, alive. I felt it on my skin and my vision, my hair and my eyelashes and my breath. It touched and pierced everything in it. I could feel it flowing, and growing and shrinking at the same time. It was moving. And I was getting older, faster than normal. I could feel it, I felt it. It was hard to track it, impossible maybe actually. Yes. Time moved faster in there, in that green room.”* *“And if it wasn’t for that place, I don’t know how I could endure being away from you for such a long time. But it felt like only a couple of days to me.

My life changed in one evening. I lost everything some would say, but I gained so much more than I lost—so much that it changed me as a person. It was during that fateful evening that I decided to attend a nearby ball. At the time, I had yet to inherit my father's title and estate. I was very disinterested in the occasion of the evening because, you see, I never understood humanity. Our intrinsic fascination with social hierarchy and celebrating the lives and achievements of people and then judging them based solely on how much they did for their families. Even the dagger at my waist, with a spiral blade and jagged edges, designed to inflict painful and deadly blows, was designed as a reference to my great-grandfather, who managed to slay a dragon with a similarly shaped spear. But you see, I fancy myself a writer, not a warrior; I write stories, not fight battles, and so this dagger is wasted on me. Nothing but a ceremonial waste of money. My passion is in theater, in telling stories. I have been traveling recently to gather as many spectacular stories as possible and, more importantly, their ends. For what is a story without an ending? The ending is the real reason we love stories; the ending is where the real drama lies. The rest is just a path we have to undergo to appreciate the end. I was contemplating this very thought while mindlessly playing with the hilt of my dagger when I first saw her. A beautiful young woman in a deep blue dress interwoven with silver thread that made it look like the night sky, her gentle pale face with thin lips and white hair that, if not braided, would reach her ankles. But the most striking thing about her appearance were her eyes. Like two sapphire gems, uncut, mind you, they emanated the aura of wild youth and the chaos of young adulthood, yet like a true gemstone, they were kept solid by the pressure of the society we live in. In that moment, any and all of my thoughts were gone. I could only admire the stunning beauty in front of me. Hundreds of masterful plays, thousands of sunsets, and the endless miles of flowering Elysian fields paled in comparison to the single glance and gentle smile she gave me for a split moment before glancing away. In that singular moment, my life became drab and sour. Every good memory I had, every moment of pleasure, and every single bout of extasy would become a meaningless speck of dust in comparison to the radiant moonlight of her smile and the gaze of the sapphire muse that would steal every waking moment of my life. In that torturous moment when I saw her eyes leaving mine, I decided, not with a clear and calculating mind but with a passionate and unbound heart, that those eyes had to be mine. It felt as if every decision of mine led me to this very moment. The gods above blessed me with a chance to experience the real fruit of their divine work. I took my first steps towards her, my composure that of a todler, as her mere presence put me out of balance. When I came near her, every confident word got imprisoned in my throat, and I only managed to croak out a simple greeting and an introduction. She must have been surprised by my borderline improper approach as she let out a giggle; it was the sweetest melody I have ever heard. We continued talking about my adventures, and she actually shared her desire to become an adventurer with me as I slowly led her through the gardens. I admired her bravery and innocence as she let an unmarried man lead her through gardens she presumably didn't know. Thankfully, the local baron was a good family friend, and I knew these gardens like my own. It was getting closer and closer to midnight; the moonlight reflected off her prescious eyes, and her voice sung a lullaby with every word, as if by magic the world fell quiet around us, and I knew this was the moment I had been waiting for the entire evening. I slowly closed the gap between us and held her hand. I raised it gently to kiss her fingers, keeping her wonderful eyes glued to mine. When she wasn't paying attention to my free hand, I pulled out an ornate dagger and sunk it in her throat. Her lifeblood started leaving her limp body; I had to sever her spine. It was a shame I had to do this since her throat made even the most boring conversations sound like a melody. But alas, I couldn't let her final expression be that of pain; it would ruin the image. More importantly, the eyes remained undamaged. I placed her conscious yet limp body in a nearby bed of roses. Her eyes followed my every move, so I made sure I was as gentle as possible. I removed myself and committed the picture to my memory, and I promised myself I would never forget it. Before she exhaled her last breath, I came to her side and brushed her hair. I whispered into her ear that I would take her on many great adventures with me. I pulled the dagger out of her throat and quickly vacated the premises. I am not stupid; even my father couldn't pay hundreds of people who saw her leave with me to the gardens and never come back. I know that, as her parents, you are grieving her loss, but please rest at ease knowing that her beautiful sapphire eyes are safely with me. Traveling the world and experiencing adventures she only dreamed of. Signed Amadeus R.

and yet the bloody sock was a red flag I should have heeded. As we stumbled arm and arm up the stairs to her apartment, I stole a glance at my phone, but dammit, it was dead. She slammed me against the wall and kissed me violently, my hands covered familiar territory as I kissed her back. My heart was pounding as I absorbed the warmth of her lips, so soft and tasting like hot whiskey. She reached in and unbuttoned my shirt as she fumbled for her keys. This was a roller coaster near the top going click click click--no brakes no way to get out, it was all straight downhill from here. It had been a dull night at the bar until she showed up and picked me up. She broke away from our embrace for a second and in one smooth motion unlocked the apartment door and kicked it open. I froze for a second when I saw the bloody sock on the floor. I've never seen a bloody sock before. And yet here it was, just a normal sock saturated with blood. *Lots* of blood. Maybe it was red paint or some sort of varnish? She seemed to read my mind and said, "No, it's blood. One of the painters had an accident and had to go to ER, thank goodness for the plastic...." Maybe I watched Dexter a few too many times but clearly this apartment was wrapped in plastic and -- "Dexter, the TV show, ever watch it?" She said as she held my hand and led me inside. My head started racing and quite frankly I was feeling a bit woozy. Maybe I drank too much. Earlier that night I was sitting at the bar with one of my single friends when she approached and asked if I knew what band was playing. I said I didn't, but to me they sounded pretty good so far. She said her name was Kate and shook my hand and flash to smile. She had a short black dress and her hair was spiky. She looked to be maybe 25 with sharp green eyes and just the right amount of make up. I gave her a drink and we made small talk. I recognized her accent and guessed she was from Chicago, she said it Wisconsin and was surprised I could tell. I was smitten. — As my eyes adjusted to the gloom of the apartment, I realized that everything was wrapped in plastic. The tables, the sofa, even the walls. "Um yeah. Maybe this wasn't such a great idea and..." suddenly my mouth went numb as my legs turned to jelly. She helped me to gracefully collapse onto the plastic covered floor. This isn't good. Not at all. I "This was a *great* idea", she said "The ketamine I dropped in your drink at the bar should now be taking effect, and this won't hurt a bit. Well maybe a little." She started to laugh as she hiked up her skirt and sat on my chest while casually donning a pair of black latex gloves. "Actually, this is going to hurt a *lot*". Then the lights went out and the music started.

There were bags on a motorcycle stacked high, more than a vehicle like this should ever carry. "Over 200 kilometers," the old man said in disbelief. "200 kilometers!" Nathaniel sat on a nearby on a low wall. He, too, was looking at the mounds of luggage, Eloisa next to it, tightening the harnesses that secured it to the bike. "Papa," Eloisa said. "This is a very reliable vehicle. It can make the trip." "Bah," Papa said. Then he slapped the stack making a thumping sound but it stayed on. The bike barely nudged. Everything was secure. Eloisa leaned on the entire thing after Papa's display and smirked. Pride gleaned off her face. "You should try for yourself and take her for a spin around the block." The old man cleared his throat at the young woman. "The knots you learned from me and you learned well. That's what's keeping it on this thing." "This thing is the best of German engineering. The free world will soon want these things on their wide roads and put them in their large houses." Papa batted the air. "You seem to forget that the wall stands between us and this free world." Eloisa opened her mouth to respond but hesitated. Then a short stoutly woman appeared from the door. Her coat half-on, clutched by a fist to keep it wrapped on her. The cold chill was picking up. Nathaniel felt it in his bones. It was time for dinner. "Get inside, the soup is ready." Papa turned and nodded at his wife then, without another word or look, disappeared inside. "I'll be inside, Mama," Eloisa said. Mama nodded and turned to Nathaniel. The boy gripped the edge of the wall but before Mama could pick him up, Eloisa stopped her. "I'll take him." With a kiss on the forehead instead, she turned and went inside. Almost at once as the door closed, yells between the old couple ensued. Eloisa shook her head, a tired smile on her face. "Come," she said. She approached the boy but Nathaniel remained still. "What's wrong?" Nathaniel looked towards the west, the overcast sky turned everything a soft gray. Eloisa understood. She sat next to Nathaniel. "That Wall is in the way. But you shouldn't listen to Papa. He believes everything people say. And people don't always say the truth." Nathaniel said nothing. He waited. Darkness started to creep around them and the lights lit up the street. It was not much of a difference but it was enough. Eloisa's hand slipped around Nathaniel and tried to lift him but he resisted. "It's getting cold, my love." The boy stayed. Just a little bit more and it would come. He could feel the cold in his bare legs but he can endure it. "Nathaniel..." And then it came. There was a tune that resonated across the dark horizon, no different from many past nights. They always played music. But the boy preferred this the most. Eloisa understood. She watched as more lights to the west faintly lit the sky. "I... I will be king..." Nathaniel muttered along with the song. Eloisa put a hand over her mouth. Tears welled up in her eyes in disbelief. Nathaniel had spoken. For the first time since she had given birth to him all 6 years, never had he uttered a word. And now, he didn't just speak. He sang. And he sang a language of the west. "What does that mean?" Nathaniel said, turning to his mother. The air escaped Eloisa and she couldn't speak for a moment. The boy's eyes looked upon hers with curiosity and patience. She had never seen her own son's eyes so attentive, alert and present. She could see the reflection of a man that waited for her beyond the wall. Eloisa held the boy's hand, cold as ice. She picked him up with ease this time. She held him close. She held him tight. "I-I don't know," Eloisa whispered to his ear. "But we'll find out very soon.

The walk down the wooden, creaky staircase was taken slowly. A soldier wielding his rugged sword and bright torch stepped cautiously. Each step emitted a groan of protest from the aged wood. The stench, a sickening blend of decay and mildew, intensified with every step. Jut’s breaths came in ragged intervals, and he fought to keep his stomach’s contents down as he neared the end of the room. In the dim light, a black mass lurked in the corner. He was finally here. As he crossed the gray, rotted flooring, Jut extended his torch, the flame casting grotesque shadows that danced mockingly. He began to discern the form of a woman, cradled in a fetal position. Her flesh was a ghastly tapestry of decay, sloughing off in sickly patches, exposing bone and sinew. Maggots writhed within the open sores, and her sunken eyes, hollow and empty, stared vacantly. Her tattered clothing clung to her in disintegrating tatters. Jut recoiled, slipping on an uneven board, the sickly-sweet stench of death overwhelming him. As he stood, torches along the walls flared to life one by one, illuminating the room in a hellish glow. “The fuck is going on down here?” Jut muttered, his voice trembling. The woman’s corpse, now standing, faced him—her head twisted grotesquely backward, her chest jutting forward. Panic rose as he turned to flee. The basement seemed to stretch infinitely, the torches retreating into the darkness. Despite his frantic run, he found himself mere feet from the contorted woman. Wailing echoed in his mind, followed by an eerie silence. A soft cry preceded a cold breath on his ear, the unintelligible whisper chilling him to the bone. Jut fell to his knees in an emotional outburst, tears streaming down his face. “I’m not supposed to be here!” he screamed, the torchlight flickering back on, revealing the woman inches away. Her head snapped ninety degrees, now staring at a wall. Jut, compelled by a nameless horror, approached, the corpse mirroring his every move. He banged his head against the wall, the pain a desperate attempt to escape the nightmare. Blood streamed from his forehead, mingling with his tears. The woman’s face smashed alongside his, her neck audibly cracking. As Jut hit his head again, the wall seemed to recede into an unreachable distance. He stumbled forward, but the stench, now almost palpable, anchored him in place, his mind unraveling in the oppressive darkness. Jut closed his eyes, seeking escape in the void, only to feel a cold touch on his face. He opened his eyes to see the face of the contorted body. He saw his wife in front of him. Her rotting flesh seemed to pulse with a life of its own, her eyes hollow yet filled with a sorrowful recognition. “I’m here, Jut.” she whispered, her voice a haunting echo of the past. Jut’s breath caught in his throat, and he suddenly jolted awake, drenched in sweat. His heart pounded as he tried to orient himself. Slowly, reality settled in—the familiar warmth of his bed, the soft light filtering through the curtains, and the gentle sound of his wife’s breathing beside him. He turned to see her, beautiful and serene, asleep next to him. Relief washed over him, the terror of the nightmare fading into the background. He reached out to gently touch her, reassured by the warmth of her skin and the steady rhythm of her breathing. His wife stirred, her eyes fluttering open. “Are you okay?” she murmured, sensing his distress. “Yeah,” Jut whispered, pulling her close. “Just a bad dream.” She smiled softly, nestling against him. “It’s all right. I’m here.

The Lieutenant reseated the vacuum tube into his personal radio set. It was in pristine condition, or it should be; he had just removed it from the package it arrived on post in from the workshop in Bozeman. A few taps, a click, and- nothing. Was it the seal on the fitting? No, worse. A tiny fracture. Air was getting into the envelope, ruining the entire tube. He pitches it to the side, and it shatters onto the concrete with a small crash. Just his luck. “Sir?” Corporal Callahan looks half-amused as he holds out another packaged tube to Lt. Lawton. “You’d think with how I’m the only one who ever gets this faulty equipment, Sgt. Willis were playing some kind of trick on me. What’s the status on our detachment sent to investigate Navarro? The Colonel was hinging our next assignment based on the results.” “Nothing, sir. And I don’t mean ‘we haven’t received a report.’ I mean, the report was nothing. Apparently the site looked like the finger of God himself crushed it into the dust. Whatever may have survived is long since picked clean. Not even so much as spent energy cells for recycling.” The Corporal shifts uncomfortably before he adds “also, Colonel MacArthur already read the reports and issued her orders. When you’re done playing with your equipment, you’re to load up and meet with Gamma Team. She’s pulling all the stops, we haven’t received any reinforcements from Chicago in weeks and unless we uncover some kind of old world cloning machine, or those shitstains from Fairview decide to stop pushing West and eat their own plasma grenades we aren’t going to hold out here forever.” “Enough. I get it, we’re doing everything we can. Tell Harry to get the engines running, I’ll only be a few minutes. Let’s just hope this Japan gambit is going to pay off. Vertibirds don’t grow on trees.” The Lieutenant slots in the new vacuum tube to his radio and this time when he flicks the switch it comes to life with a crackling whirr. The Corporal continues, “I’m just saying. Between their expansion West into our borders, the bloody savages out of old Yellowstone, the fucking dripping ghouls in the mountains to our West, or the godless commie trash up North and we’re completely surrounded out-” “I said, *enough*. Do you think America is going to roll over and die just because we’re outgunned now? Get a grip, and don’t be speaking like that. We will persevere, whether that’s through slow diplomatic deals and handshakes, or if we have to level these mountains and climb back up to the surface through the bodies of our predecessors for a *third* time. Now, I’m going to grab the rest of my kit. Tell Harry-” “Yeah, yeah. Engines running. Moving. ‘*Sir*’” When Lt. Luke Lawton met up with CW2 Harold Blair at the helipad a few minutes later, he saw that the others had already arrived. Corporal Matthews was loading his kit in back while Sgt. Graham leaned casually against the fuselage, flipping a coin with one hand and thumbing the grip on her plasma defender with the other. “Harry’s already finished pre-checks. Guess you arrived just in time, Lucky.” She catches the coin and swats at the Corporal’s shoulder with the back of her fist. “Get in, we want to beat this storm out of here. I don’t know why you brought half those bombs anyway, this isn’t a demo-op.” “Authorization codes? Mission specs? Flight clearance? Proper customs and courtesies for a superior officer?” Lt. Luke asks brusquely as he tosses his pack in the side of the bird. The pack slides to the other side and drops to the ground out the other door. “Programmed into holotape after relay authentication.” she tosses an orange cartridge towards the Lt. “specs are on there, too. Clearance approved from tower 3, green skies. We’re ready to rock, Luc- I mean, sir.” “Perfect. Let’s not waste more time. But, maybe you should hold onto this.” He gives the holotape back to Sgt. Graham, giving a meaningful glance toward the pack that fell before walking around to pick it up and climb in. The skies are clear. As brisk mountain air transitions to salty spray and the vertibird makes its way out over the Pacific, things are looking up for a change. Sunlight, sparkling waves. The hum of engines and rhythmic beat of propellers. They all get a well-deserved nap after Warrant Officer Blair sets autopilot and clambers back to sit with the team. Beeping. Rain. Error. Thunder. “Shit! We’re ten miles out and *now* everything goes wrong? Get comms up, we might need guidance coming in. It’s hard to see through all this rain and chop.” Harry must have moved back after a couple hours, Luke thinks to himself as he activates the radio unit behind the cabin. “Any station this net, any station this net, this is Gamma 6 coming in hot from Continental. Seeking connection with Outpost JR1, Authorization Code: 1-5-5-7-2-9-T. Please advise, over.” The radio crackles with static and feedback. “I say again, any station this net, this is Gamma 6 from Continental. Seeking Outpost Juliet-Romeo-One, Authorization Code: 1-5-5-7-2-9-T. How copy, over?” “Sir, I see lights. We must be getting close to- wait, flashes?” Corporal Matthews looks puzzled while observing through side slats in the door. BOOOM! CRACK!! A flash of light cascades over the craft then dissipates in an instant. “Shit, we almost caught lightning-” The Sgt. starts before Luke cuts her off. “We’re being shot at! I have nothing on the main, take my personal. Get in contact with the ground, *NOW!* Popping flares!” He hands her his radio while ripping open a forward storage compartment. Grabbing a handful of blue flares, he then makes for the side door and grabs the release handle. “All stations! Cease fire! Cease fire! Blue on blue! I say again, cease fire! Blue on blue!” Graham shouts into the receiver, setting to max power and multifrequency. Another blast. Shockwave. Everyone stumbles as the vertibird rocks in the sky, the underside buckling inward with a perforated, jagged bulge. Matthews heaves, clutching at the side of his neck, a trickle of red already seeping between his fingers. “It’s a rainbow of lights up here, we can’t take a hit like that!” Blair’s voice comes through from the cockpit while Luke wrenches open the door. More cracks and bursts light the sky as he rips off the caps from three flares. Holding them out, he drops one into the sea. The brightest one. Are these flares defective? He may as well be waving glowsticks for all the good these will do. “These flares aren’t-” “Blue on blue!!-” “Mayday! Mayday!-” “Sir, I can’t-” WOOMCH! A beam of light pulses through the rain, colliding with the Lieutenant’s power armored chest with a concussive, angry sizzle. Vicious, malevolent arcs of tesla energy lash out in all directions inside the cabin. “*AAAAAGGHHH!*” Sgt. Graham screams as the electricity shoots through her. The radio drops from her hand to the floor, its display darkened. The cabin lights wink out as the whole world tilts slightly to the left- the horizon beginning to creep downward, picking up speed. Faster and faster. It all becomes disorienting, as the vertibird spins out of control. The electricity shorted the controls, locking the tail rotor into overdrive. Lt. Lawton’s servos seize up; the fusion core in his advanced power armor is completely fried. Trying to reach for the entrance bar near the door, another blast lurches him forward and he plunges the last hundred feet into the roiling waves. He hears a muffled crunch as the craft impacts the water, but has no time to consider that now. Survival instincts kick in. As he sinks downward into the blackness, his hand mashes the emergency release. No time to consider what damage the frame will suffer as the pneumatic actuators split the back half of his armor off. Luke swims to the surface, trying to regain composure. The tide pushes him up onto a sandy beach and he crawls up to a tree just off the shore with the last of his adrenaline before passing out. Morning comes. Light, birds chirping, the gentle murmur of waves licking at the shore. He was alone. Upon gathering his wits, Luke checks himself over and takes count of his resources. His laser pistol. Still here. Not much ammo left, but it’s definitely a start. He always liked that pistol. No frills, no overcharge, but it was reliable and that was something he could appreciate. Spending the next few hours scouring the beach, Luke manages to find… nothing. Where was his team? Did they make it to shore? Right, the orders, he thinks, tapping at his pockets for the holotape. No such luck, as he remembers handing it to Sgt. Graham. *Sgt. Graham*. Lizzie. An echo of her scream plays back in his mind. His stomach lurches as he remembers more of the events that unfolded the previous night. If they aren’t here now, and no pieces of wreckage washed up then- Well, then that’s it, Luke thinks to himself. I will have to find support on my own. Finish the mission. As much as I hated to admit it, Cpl. Callahan wasn’t wrong. Without something akin to a miracle, it was only a matter of time before the wolves closed in around MacArthur Air Force Base. No time to mourn. No time to think about his team. Or her. I’m sorry, Lizzie. I really hope you made it out. I have a job to do, and like any American patriot I’ll make any sacrifice to see it through. No map, no radio, no valid authorization… what was it? 1-5-7-2, no. Two fives. 1-5-5-2? Shit. Why did it have to be some bullshit number instead of something like “Freedom” or “Red Glare” or something? Nothing for it now, I guess. Better just search with your gut, Lucky. May as well keep the name, too. Every two-bit scav, raider, mutant, and commie bastard was willing to throw their lives away for the chance to bounce a .38 round off our power armor before, what would they do if they found an unarmored officer roaming by himself? You’re just a guy named Lucky Luke, now. Find the Enclave, finish the mission.

The shaking had become borderline unbearable. Couldn't a fellow get a good night’s sleep without being forcibly dragged from a restful slumber and an exciting dream at the crack of dawn? And a dream of the… exciting variety at that. “Ugh, just five more minutes, please…” I licked my lips and could feel a smile slither across my face as I turned away from the disturbance and tried to sink back into the deep darkness. “Hold on Lucille. Don’t run off ahead. Please let me get a glimpse of your ankles one more time.” I murmured drowsily. Damnation upon that girl and her games. One would think that being betrothed to a princess would afford a man some luxuries, but clearly that wasn't the case. She turned back with a grin, her laughter like wind in the soft moonlight. Her eyes sparkled with mischief, and she lifted her skirt just enough to show the delicate curve of her ankle. “Catch me if you can!” she called, her voice echoing in the night air as she darted off down the forest path. I rubbed my ears confused, as I took off after her. Did she always talk so loudly? The tiny amethysts inset at the base of her dress caught and reflected purple moonlight into my eyes as she ran, causing me to wince and reflexively raise a hand to my eyes. Why was everything so loud and bright? And what was up with that damn SHAKING!? “Ashes reborn from ashes grow, seal the tomb, let power flow! By the powers vested in me, I command you to— Wait, did you just ask to sleep in?" ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ My eyes flew open to a scene from my worst nightmare. … Well maybe my second worst nightmare. (I absolutely hate wasps. They are the most pointless, hateful little balls of evil god has ever created. No pollination. No honey making. And don't even get me started on their nests. Horrific little paper monstrosities that crop up in the most inconvenient of places. Like OF COURSE there's a wasp nest ten feet from the palace entrance. Where else would it be?). Yea, this definitely wasn't as bad as wasps, but still pretty awful. Maybe around a 6/10 on the Badness Scale. I was suspended about five feet above the ground, arms outstretched on either side of me in a T shape. Loud amethyst colored energy cracked and hissed menacingly as it entirely surrounded my floating body. It seemed almost alive as it wrapped incredibly tightly around my legs, torso, and my bony arms. Bony arms!? I felt my jaw drop open in disbelief as I started dumbfounded at the long intertwining arm bones that stretched out before me ending in dry dusty phalanges that shone in the pale light. “What the - ?” My words were almost drowned out by the unearthly scream of the energy holding me in place. It held me firmly, crackling with a life of its own, as if enjoying my shock. Did I just see a face smirking at me from the depths of the bindings? Shaking my head, I twisted my head downwards as far as I could trying to catch a glimpse of what was happening, but all I could see were more bones—my bones. I tore my eyes away from my personal predicament (definitely at least a 7.5/10 on the scale) to survey the area around me. The feeble light that engulfed everything emanated from a massive full moon hanging motionless in the starless night sky. Why was it so close? It dominated the entire horizon, making the night seem almost like day. Below my… toe bones stretched a vast expanse of sprawling gravestones. Rows upon rows of ancient tombstones, each etched with names long forgotten lay crumbling and cracked around me. Dotted between the stones across the uneven ground were patched of beautiful white flowers that appeared oddly out of place in the eerie setting. Their petals matched the color of the huge moon almost exactly and they all pointed directly at it. Twisted trees with gnarled branches rustling in the dying breeze and the air was thick with the scent of damp earth and decay. The occasional flicker of ghostly lights dancing in and out of my peripheral vision finished off the scene. The amethyst energy binding me suddenly dissipated with a disappointed snarl, dropping me to the ground. I landed briefly on my feet before clattering unceremoniously into a heap as I failed to find my balance. As I lay there, the crunch of leaves under boots grew louder as someone approached slowly. A moment of silence was all I got before one of the boots cautiously nudged my ribcage and a familiar voice graced my ears. “I said, did you just ask to sleep in? Did you talk?” “Oh sweet Lucille!” I always loved gazing at my betrothed’s face and listening to her go on and on about how her day was going, but as I heaved my body around to look up at her, I met her eyes and very quickly realized that they weren't hers. I blinked—or felt like I did—and reality rushed back as I looked up to see a short young woman standing over me, her expression a mix of confusion and impatience. That was most definitely not my betrothed. “Lucille?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Who’s Lucille?” My heart—or whatever was left of it—sank. I wasn’t certainly not back in the garden with Lucille. What… what happened to me?” I croaked, still trying to process my skeletal form and the shock of missing out on Lucille’s dainty ankles. “You’ve been resurrected, obviously,” the mysterious woman said, staring at me. “Welcome to the afterlife I guess”. I reached out with bony fingers and grabbed a nearby tree root to pull myself into a seated position. I had no idea how I was able to move with no muscles and just being bones and all. I glanced down at my hand, and saw the same amethyst energy from before arcing between each bone, serving as some sort of connective tissue. This time however, it seemed tamer than before, and I didn't see any horrific faces within its depths. Fascinated, I opened and closed my hand a few times, noting how pulses of energy raced between the bones of my skeletal hand and up through my arm. “Some sort of witchcraft I presume” I mused. “No, it's just Moonsaus.” The woman's voice made me jump. I had forgotten she was there. She had taken a few steps backwards and looked at me warily. She was not very tall judging by the nearby tombstone that stuck out to about her waist. I couldn't make out too many details due to the hooded cloak she wore obscuring her face, but I could easily see her piercing gray eyes that shone out from beneath. The same color as the moon and flowers, interestingly enough. One hand tightly gripped a large metal box with an intricate handle that seemed to be quite heavy due to the way she was leaning against the weight of it. Her other hand was buried in her cloak. “I've never heard of a Vitui that could talk. Who are you?” I opened my mouth to respond but suddenly paused. Why couldn't I remember my name? I frowned (or at least felt like I did) and began to rack my brain. There was no way the heir to such a large kingdom could just instantly forget something so important. would have remembered my name. I was just chasing her through the forest. …. Wait, who was I chasing? “I- I forgot? I was… chasing someone?” The woman raised an eyebrow suspiciously. "Yes, yes, romantic dreams of some Lucille. Is she like your girlfriend or something?” “Lucille…” The name sounded foreign on my tongue (or face hole or whatever). The woman shook her head and squatted down, dropping her giant metal box with a dull thud. She reached to the ground and picked up a piece of charred parchment that I hadn't noticed lying near me. Bright orange embers glowed along the edges as she quickly rolled it up and stuffed it into her box. Slamming and latching it shut, she stood and turned with an impatient look on her face. “We need to get going.” I looked up forlornly at her as reality began to set in. I was a reanimated skeleton with fading memories. What was I doing here? “If you don't mind, we have work to do. I didn't bring you back just to lay around and reminisce." At a snap of her fingers, the amethyst energy inside me, Moonsaus, sprang to life, jerking me automatically into a standing position. My new bony body clattered in protest as I regained control and tried to remain in an upright position. Moving without muscles would take some getting used to. “Was I…. am I dead?” Reached out, the woman yanked a nearby shovel out of the ground, which she then handed to me, her expression deadpan. "I have deemed that you aren't much of a threat, so consider this your new afterlife, filled with excitement and adventure. Or at least, manual labor and the occasional existential crisis." I could still feel my mind racing as I stared dumbstruck into her gray eyes. Manual labor? The woman sighed and reached down to grab her box. With a grunt, she lifted it and turned to begin walking towards the edge of the cemetery. “My name is Jamie by the way, but I usually just go by Curry”. She turned briefly to look back over her shoulder at me. “The Inquisitors will be here any minute, and trust me, you probably don't want to be found by them.” She paused. “Unless you're a fan of fire. And giant grinders”. With a small chuckle she continued to walk, leaving me standing, still clutching the shovel. I still had no idea what was going on, but fire sounded pretty bad (not as bad as wasps, but like a solid 5.5/10 on the scale), and I didnt think my new skeleton body would mesh well with grinders. With a heavy sigh, I began shakily following after the strange woman. Reaching the edge, I looked back one last time at the cemetery. The jutting tombstones stood tall in the moonlight, resembling a crooked, sinister smile. The shadows they cast seemed to move and twist on their own, only adding a layer of creepiness to the ominous atmosphere. A chilling breeze swept through the area, carrying with it the faint whispers of long-forgotten souls and a sense of unease that settled deep within my chest. The entire situation felt like something out of a nightmare—only this time, I had a feeling I wouldn't be waking up.

"Although it’s easy to see that language undoubtedly plays a role in Subject A's progression, it appears that Subject B has no interest in advancing their progression. In fact, we have so far documented and confirmed over 68 instances of de-evolution in this genus of the homo redditus." "Sixty-eight!? You started the project in May and you have that many confirmed accounts already?" "No, Wyatt. That's not since May." "Oh, thank god. I think I heard my heart actually click in my chest." Wyatt took a slow, deep breath and held it for a moment before a slow exhale, trying to return a rhythm to his pulse, more than to slow it down. "Jesus, Cindy. Way to bury the lead." Cindy screwed her lip up and gave Wyatt a bulb-eyed look. He'd get it eventually. "Wait, what? What are you talking about?" Cindy gestured to the chair, offering it to Wyatt. "Brace yourself, Wyatt. We've confirmed 68 cases since Monday. Not since May. Monday, Wyatt." Wyatt's right palm slammed flatly into the flat chest plate covering his heart and he stumbled back a few paces. His left hand flailed around behind him trying to located the chair but it was useless. Wyatt lurched left and right as he stumbled backwards. The large man struggled to make his feet keep up with the lean of his torso and his feet had lost the race. Wyatt's center of gravity reach that point of his anatomical fulcrum when it went from pleasepleaseplease under your breath to fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck instead. Cindy made no move to catch him. He weighed nearly 700lbs and Cindy learned a long time ago to manage her proximity to Wyatt the way she would in the water with a person who cannot swim. It's fine to be close, but only when they can touch the bottom. Cindy winced as Wyatt went over, turning her head to look away and closing that good eye. And... nothing. No boom, no crash. Just silence. Cindy gasped when she looked back, or at least it felt like a gasp. Her physiology had sensed something was off before Cindy had the chance to observe it, but that's the neat thing about biology. The living stuff that we're made of doesn't have to do what we tell it to do, even though it's the stuff that makes us "living". The social researcher's physiology did not opt for fight nor flight. It opted for freeze and Cindy, against her will, was frozen in place, one hand reaching for the gasping little "O"-shape of her mouth, and both eyes wide open, staring directly at Wyatt. and the place where the chair had been a moment ago. Usually, this wouldn't have bothered Cindy in the least. They'd been friends and colleagues for nearly 16 years now. On more than one occasion they'd spent a fun night and a headachy next morning together and Cindy thought he was attractive. At any other point in history, Cindy could have spent several minutes staring at Wyatt and admiring his massive build, huge muscles, and imposing frame. If Wyatt, like the chair, hadn't been there at all, Cindy would have had a quite disturbing few weeks while she consulted several specialist psychiatrists to find out what was wrong with Cindy's brain that it hallucinated Wyatt's presence. (She didn't know this, but Wyatt had a 50/50 chance of disappearing like the chair, so all those DSM-V checks and all those conversations about her childhood and that summer Cindy's second cousin came to live with them would have been a futile attempt to fix something that didn't need fixing. Unfortunately, for both Wyatt and Cindy, her top-shelf carnival prize teddy bear was still there, frozen much like she was. Cindy had never been in danger of meeting the same fate as Wyatt, although if she had stretched and yawned and that moment she may well have lost an extremity by passing her hand through the momentary fluctuation of a commonplace wormhole. They're everywhere, all the time, but like the human heart, even the healthiest of them (both of them) can occasionally skip a beat. The universe is a large place, infinite in fact, so the odds of something like this happening are nearly 1-in-infinity. Of course, given enough time (of which infinity has plenty) it would stabilize and eventually become inevitable, which would, I'm quite certain, cause Douglas Adams to nod knowingly with an expression that says I tried to tell you guys. And if Stephen King could have seen Cindy and Wyatt in that moment, well... I'm not sure what he would have done, but I'm certain he would have written about it eventually. See, a wormhole isn't just a tunnel in space -- it's also time. It's the progeny of both at once, the same way a mule is the progeny of a horse and a donkey and cannot be the product of two mules, What Stephen King would have seen in that room is far too graphic for social decorum to allow me great detail, but what I will say is this: Wyatt stumbled backwards reaching for the chair to brace himself. In the moment his hand should have found the arm of the chair, the wormhole "blipped" and the chair ceased to exist. It didn't "vanish" -- it ceased to exist. As in, any effect that chair ever had in the universe was erased and that particular timeline (of infinite timelines) was promptly terminated. Cindy carried on in hers and the chair carried on in it's timeline (the one that immediately stopped existing), but Wyatt must have broken some law of physics because he somehow found himself also frozen in place and being stared at by the helpless Cindy. Wyatt was unaware of Cindy's gaze however because in the attempt byt the universe, time, and the infinite other wormholes trying to immediately stabilize all the timelines, Wyatt found himself perched on the fulcrum. The universe doesn't have a wrinkly, fleshy brain the way we do, it simply acts as thing need to be done, the same way an apple whose stem breaks doesn't pause a moment before plummeting to earth as if contemplating a choice. It. Just. Does. The doing, in this case, creating a circumstance where the Cindy, a social researcher, is frozen in a time continuum with her shocked eyes staring directly at Wyatt. Because the universe did such an efficient job of cauterizing the ends of any open lines, Cindy will remain living, forever. Forever staring, hand forever reaching to her forever gasping "O"-shaped mouth, forever staring at her dear friend Wyatt. Wyatt will also live in that moment forever, exactly as Cindy is with the only primary difference being that Wyatt was in the anomalous wormhole. Since wormholes are infinite, an infinite number immediately responded to cauterize the one that "blipped" and to take it's infinite place. The culmination of this strange, extraordinarily timed event of impossibility is that Wyatt and everything about Wyatt was instantaneously turned inside out. His torso and organs, his muscles and bones, tendons and skin, the very cells themselves. Having things align so imperfectly means that Wyatt's consciousness will remain intact for eternity, existing outside of any possible timeline. Cindy too, and while Cindy's hell is clearly that she will see this vision of Wyatt forever, and neither will ever move. The part I find most hellish is that Wyatt's the turning inside will continue to occur in perpetuity, as well. The wormhole distress which triggered the initial inside-turning-out of the man could happen an infinite number of times and it would be "one and done" an infinite number of times, so obviously something like this happening was inevitable. In that business facility, while at work, Wyatt will spend eternity with every element of his existence eternally being turned inside out, over and over, while he remains stuck in place, helpless to escape even the most miniscule bit of any of the torture. And Cindy? If it's possible for one infinite hell to be worse than another, this is that hell. But good news, everyone! Since we know if something is impossible, we also know that eventually the impossibility will stabilize and eventually it will be inevitable. So Cindy and Wyatt get a happy ending after all, because they won't be alone forever. Soon, there will be infinite versions of every one of you there too! Now that I think about it, I guess I’m the only one who gets to have a happy ending in this story.

I am not sure when the end began. Perhaps when I was born, perhaps when I was seven years old, perhaps a few months ago. I tend to lean toward the latter, given how ungraceful and drastic my downfall was. I look at the world differently now. Oddly, things don’t seem so bad anymore. Not after what I’ve seen. Certain words don’t conjure the same feelings: terror, fear, *evil*. I’m safe now, that is all I care about. It is why I do not say a word. Don’t let me back out there. I’m right where I belong. The neighborhood sounded familiar, though I could not nail down the exact reason why. For the past year my life had been a clusterfuck of my own doing – well, partly. The other part was courtesy of my occupation, a detective for the Seattle P.D., and the past two years saw rise to the Recluse Killer. Thirteen confirmed dead, there is likely more, however. Some poor soul with only a detached, rotting limb to show for their existence… no family to check on them, no one to care. The first kill was confirmed to be about one year and eight months ago. Eight months. That is how long it took for someone to find the first victim. They were not hidden away in some sewer or deep in the woods of the Pacific Northwest; no, half a calf and their foot was left on their bed. In their home. Twenty neighbors in a mile radius and none of them had the slightest clue until the mailman called for a wellness check. I was put on the case soon after and have made as close to no progress as one can get. There is nothing. Not even a body, just a limb. No DNA, no fingerprints, no forced entry, no letters demanding recognition. It was late September in Seattle and I found rain dancing on my windshield. The sun dipped ever so slightly below the horizon making the sky light up like charcoal, a perfect backdrop for the dilapidated apartment building I was approaching, a dull brown brick and gray stone reminiscent of the Soviet Union. Red and blue lights flickered across the building and through the rain as I stepped out of my car and approached on foot. I saw Allen standing before the entrance, a sullen look on his face. Not his typical demeanor, even on such a dread-inducing case. He saw me approaching, his face grew more sullen, he put up a hand. “No, no… No Mitch. You can’t,” he said softly. “The hell I can’t,” I said dismissively, not even stopping to think why he would stop me from looking at a crime scene from what was likely my case, or why this neighborhood seemed so damn familiar. “Mitch,” he shot back, “Let’s go back to your car, I’ll explain.” “Fuck off, Allen, this is my case. Matter of fact, you’re dismissed, *officer*,” I spat coldly. How the times had changed. Allen and I were best friends, brothers, colleagues. Then, when there was only one promotion to give, we became competitors. How fickle man can be, where pride is concerned. I had always prided myself on putting life before work. I met a beautiful woman, started a family, built a great, albeit modest, life for myself. Just as I stepped past Allen, a large man exited the dreary red-brick apartment building. It was Chief Warren. “Horton,” he said, exasperated, “come here, son.” He motioned me over and I followed him to his vehicle where he prompted me to take a seat in the passenger side. “I don’t know how to say this. It’s uh—we believe it is your brother, son. Colin. The apartment is listed under his name, but of course, we can’t say for certain it is him. I’m sorry, son.” The Recluse Killer earned his name through the lifestyle of his victims. Whether they were a man, woman, young, or old it didn’t matter to him. All that mattered was that they were alone. He liked his victims to have few friends and loved ones. This allowed him to have easy targets. Not only that, but the crime scenes often wouldn’t be found for weeks or months. This only made my job more difficult. This monster was incredibly smart and precise. We never found any DNA that wasn’t from the victim and of the 13 dead, only four bodies were ever found. However, he would always leave a single limb from his victim and an inhuman amount of blood behind. The crime scenes were gruesome. Something only Stephen King could dream up. The bedroom of the victim caked in their dried blood, a single hand or foot left lying on their bed. Sickening. Our profilers say Recluse must be a loner just like his victims; a shy person with trauma in their childhood or early teen years. He didn’t seem to hate or target anyone in particular, choosing loners was only a matter of convenience. Other than that, he seemed to not mind who his victims were, he just wanted to kill. They also said he is likely very educated and lacks any criminal record. Great. Allen walked up and sat on the curb next to me just as a light rain began to fall. “You think he did this on purpose? Like, he knew I was the one investigating him?” I asked. “I don’t know. That’s not important. I won’t let you start blaming yourself for this,” he said while pulling out a pack of cigarettes. “They’ll take me off the case. Fuck, they definitely are. He wouldn’t even let me go in.” “Man, I know it must be hard, but I don’t even want you to think about that right now. I need you to go home and be with your family. I can drive you there if you don’t feel up to it. Anything you need.” “They were gonna take me off the case anyway. I made no progress. There was none to be made. I was at my wits-end. Fuck, I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it,” it became hard to breathe, so I stopped talking. Allen put his arm around me. This had been the kindest either of us had been to each other for years. It was quite jarring. I shook his arm off. “They reassigned the case to me, Mitch. I will get to the bottom of it. I swear it to you. If it’s the last thing I do,” was the last thing he said before standing and walking away. I did not immediately go home. I never did in those days. It was only noon when I left the scene so I went to the bar, then to this stream out in the middle of nowhere I liked to go to in order to find peace and clarity. I don’t remember when I found it, probably when I was a teenager looking for somewhere to be alone. I would sit there enjoying being away from civilization. Listening to the rushing water and rustling leaves above my head. I would leave my phone at the bar. I needed to be disconnected; plus, if my wife were to track my phone somehow, I didn’t want her to find this place. Finally feeling content and hungry, I left around 8 p.m. I stopped at McDonald’s on the way back and came home to a failed marriage. “Where were you?” My wife Phoebe asked rather accusingly. I suppose I understood why, but I didn’t care. “Out.” “Out? So I’m left here being the only parent to our son?” “Colin’s dead,” I said as I sat at the dining room table. “I—what?” Her tone instantly changed. I only nodded. The tears finally coming in. I wept, not afraid to admit that. I fucking sobbed like a baby. My wife hugged me and stroked my hair. My two biggest enemies showing me empathy and physical affection in the same day. Who would have thought? While I sobbed in her arms, many thoughts passed through my mind. The years of happy marriage, how I missed this sort of connection, my brother, our shared trauma, our slow but sure disconnection. Why was I so bad at maintaining relationships? God, I could not tell you how sick of myself and life I was in that moment. Almost unfathomable. Colin, why did I feel so much loss for you when we had not seen each other in over a decade? I kept up with your successes. Med school. Seeing where we came from, nothing is more impressive than that. Our addict parents would be proud, the ones who viciously beat us. And me, the older brother, the one who was supposed to protect, took out my fear and anger on you when we were boys. I was just as bad as them. Perhaps that is why I never extended that olive branch when you drifted away. Shame: an echo chamber, a self-fulfilling prophecy. After several minutes I calmed down and explained what happened. She cried too. We decided not to tell our son, who was occupied with his GameCube upstairs. My decline following that day was swift, though it had seemed pretty steep before that. Like a jet turning supersonic as it plummets to the depths below. I spent nearly every waking hour drunk, using PTO, sick time, bereavement. It took a few weeks to officially confirm it was Colin. No body still. His arm up to his elbow was found. Found in his bedroom. So much blood was splattered on his bed, floors, walls, and ceiling they believe the killer drained every drop they could from his body. That M.O. tracks with previous Recluse victims, all but confirming the person I have been chasing for nearly three years finally found one of my own. After nearly month of living the way I did my wife moved out with our son. I don’t blame her. She accompanied me to the funeral at least. It was just the three of us. After my wife left, things began to be … odd. That is the best way to put it. A teaser for what was to come. It started one nondescript evening. I was drunk, of course, and found myself scrambling for something to eat. My kitchen was a mess, pizza boxes, McDonald’s bags, Popeyes bags, dirty dishes, used paper towels, empty beer cans, liquor bottles, you name it. The night grew dark and rainy, the only source of light being the orange glow of the overhead light in my badly out-of-date kitchen. In preparation for the killer hangover I was soon to have, I filled up two glasses of water and took two Advils from the cabinet. After knocking those back I decided on ramen noodles. Fuck it. I’ll throw an egg in there so I don’t feel like such a bitch. I was always a guy teetering on the edge. Somehow, despite some presumed mental illness, I made the police force, then detective, all while courting an incredibly beautiful and capable woman, Phoebe, and doing an okay job at raising a son. Oh, and the functioning alcoholic part. Now that she finally got sick of my shit and left and my brother up and got ruthlessly murdered I am officially off the rails. I like to wallow, feel bad for myself, and get black out drunk. Maybe that is why my life is such a train wreck, I wanted it to be. Happiness can be so fickle, like a diamond necklace or gold watch. So valuable and beautiful, but I am too scared of losing it to ever wear it. I’d sooner not have it so no one can take it. So now here I am, swaying over a pot of boiling water with tears in my eyes, content to live this way until my inevitable premature death. I wish life had turned out that way. How glorious it would’ve been, relatively speaking. I looked up from the stove and out my back window, then back to the stove, then back to the window after an unknown reason compelled me to do so. Why are the hairs on the back of my neck standing up? I turn the light off and return to the window and there it was. The first time I ever saw it. Not its face, mind you, but its silhouette in the darkness. It looked like a normal man, perhaps dressed in all black, standing on the edge of the woods backing up to my home. I can’t tell you how long I stood there. It stood still, not moving a muscle. The quiet was breached by the sizzling of the stove below me as the water began to boil over. I looked down, quickly moved the pot, and returned my gaze to the window. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The figure was sprinting right to me. An almost uncanny gate, but quick, powerful, decisive. It shocked me so badly I stood back in shock, tripped, and fell, hitting my head in the process. It took me a few seconds to come to, I felt the back of my head and found a nasty, wet gash. I looked where I had lain and saw a small pool of blood. Remembering how I got into this situation, I tried to sit up. I finally made it to my feet and grabbed my service pistol before turning on the flood lights in the backyard and stepping out the back door. Nothing. “Don’t come back, you piece of shit!” I yelled, “I am armed. And a fucking cop!” Still drunk and likely suffering a mild concussion I continued my night as if nothing happened, soon doubting my recollection, then forgetting about it all together. The ramen was heavenly to my electrolyte-starved body. More days of the same went by. The chief called, I ignored. Content to spend my days at the bar, stumbling home, and at my creek. I was outside of the bar, smoking a cigarette when someone approached. Not anticipating it to be someone I knew I continued to ignore them and smoke as they passed by. They did not pass by. “Mitch,” a familiar voice said. An unwelcome, familiar voice. “Jesus fuck, Allen, what?” I asked. “You look like shit.” "No fucking shit, my brother was murdered and Phoebe and my son are gone.” “Warren sent me to track you down. Said you weren’t answering his calls?” “How is the investigation going, anyway? You caught the bastard yet?” I asked, ignoring his question. “We’re working off of your notes. No clues left at the scene of… the latest crime.” “Well, he has the nerve to kill a cop’s family member. The same one investigating his crimes, so add that to the profile.” “It’s been noted. Media is in a frenzy about it. Have any of them contacted you?” “Not answering the phone. Haven’t had any show up to my front door,” I said before letting out a hiccup-burp. “Good, means Warren’s favors were successfully called in,” he said. He continued with an unsure tone, “look, ya coming back or what?” “I need more time.” “Warren said you’ve got a month. Either that or go see someone and get an official recommendation. If not, you’re out.” “Great, kick the man while he’s down. Gonna kill my dog while you’re at it?” “You got a dog?” “Fuck no,” I said before pulling the last pull of my cigarette, dropping the butt, and lighting another one. “Don’t litter,” Allen said before picking up the butt I dropped. “Look, fuck you. I’m just the messenger here. I know how you are. You pushed me away, so I don’t want to hear your bullshit. You love it. Sorry ass piece of shit.” I turned and swung my fist at Allen with the coordination of a drunken toddler on a rocky boat. He dodged it and his fist met me square in my nose and mouth, crushing the cigarette that was dangling there. Waste of a cigarette. By the time I recouped myself and wiped away the bleeding he was gone. I was feeling quite chipper as I drove half-drunk to my creek. A 24 pack tagged along with me in the backseat. I arrived, no phone, no worries, no problems for the evening and a full case of beer. This was peak happiness for me these days. After the mile hike to my spot I started a fire and started cracking beers, enjoying the cool evening. I looked at the creek thinking next time I would bring a fishing rod and try to start an actual hobby. The water flowed so calmly, it was my favorite. I walked over to it and crouched, scooped up some water in my cupped hands and spread it over my face. The ice cold water felt so pleasant on my sore nose and lip. The relief must have been needed, because ten beers later I was passed out in my camp chair. I woke to complete darkness. The only light being the dying coals of my weak fire. I groaned and rubbed my face. After a bit of searching I was able to find my flashlight. I got up and started toward my car. I left everything, including the beer, thinking I’d be back tomorrow. The trek back was arduous. I was not dressed properly for the climate and my head pounded fiercely, likely from a combination of the punch, my fall, and the alcohol; but, alas, I made it to my car. I entered and closed the door. I sighed, pondering if it is worth driving home in this state. Yes, gotta get this fuckin’ car home (do not be like me). As I was turning the keys a noise that would forever change my life assaulted my eardrums. It sounded like a mountain lion imitating a human scream or vice versa, but with unreal reverb - the souls of the damned all screaming together. It didn’t sound close, but not far enough away for me to feel comfortable. *Jesus, I was just out there with whatever made that noise,* I thought in the eerie quiet that followed, my tinnitus humming gently, *what even lives out here that can make that—* *CRUNCH-CRUNCH-CRUNCH-CRUNCH.* I heard the rapid sound of what could only be footsteps running toward my window. I turned the key in the ignition, my heart leaping in my chest before I heard my window shatter and felt the chunks of tempered glass fly into my face. A hand accompanied it, long fingers wrapping around my throat. I looked, in despair and desperation at my attacker. If you haven’t heard of the uncanny valley, well, seeing it up close is bone chilling. I wanted life to end right then. What the fuck was happening to me? The arm and hands were all black, I could not tell if it was skin, fur, or clothing. The hand pressed so hard on my neck the finer details were lost, so I cannot say. Leading up the arm and right out the window I saw it’s face. All black, too, except for the largest, whitest smile I’ve ever seen, real or fictional, and the eyes. My god. The eyes were just as off-putting and unnaturally large. The eyes looked deep in my soul, seeming to relish my fear. It trembled as it’s vice grip choked me to near death. I thought, *that face is a mask*, but then I saw the smile twitch ever so slightly. Then it let go, turning away. I gasped for air and grabbed my service pistol, my fear gone, replaced by rage that only grew once I heard air gushing from my tires. I jumped out of the car with the flashlight and pistol. I could hear the damn thing moving around, it was so fucking quick. The darkness of the night was complete thanks to the overcast sky, so my flashlight beam was like a knife through darkness. I waved it around wildly, flinching at movement from wind in the leaves and firing my pistol, the shot ringing in my ear so loud I could hardly hear the steps behind me, I turned and saw the face again, rushing at me. Next thing I knew I was on my ass, turning to get up. I fired in the direction of the footsteps before the night quieted. I got back in my car and tried to turn it on, but for a reason I still don’t know to this day, it would not turn over. I screamed and fired another shot out of the window to hopefully keep the damn thing away. I had two choices, walk ten miles to the nearest gas station, with that thing potentially stalking me, or stay here and defend myself until morning. What would you do? I chose the latter. My mind danced between sharp and drunk as I lay in the backseat of my car. My heart pounded for what felt like hours but gradually began to slow. The wind howled outside and the air turned a bitter cold. I fought for comfort as I shivered under a sweatshirt that was not sufficing. I would close my eyes, complete darkness. Open them, complete darkness. There was no difference. I felt like I was in a nightmare, that my whole life for the past few years had been a nightmare. I know I’d done some bad things before, but I was just a kid… this, no one deserves this. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. Perhaps that is a lie. I lay there, mind alert yet wandering, kicking myself for not bringing a god damn phone. The wind would howl, then silence. Howl, silence. Howl, silence. Howl, silence. Howwwwwlllll, silence. Howwwwwwwwl, the crunch of a footstep in the brush, silence. I sat up, heart racing once more. My view was no better given the abject darkness. I tried to listen, my tinnitus hummed but my ears fought for any inkling of a sound other than the wind. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. I lifted the back of my head from the window and slowly turned. *TAP TAP.* It sounded like porcelain on glass. Without any other noise in between, on the other side of the car came another *TAP TAP.* *“*FUCK OFF!” I screamed with all my might, fighting sobs. Then, nothing. The wind stopped and did not start up again. Complete darkness and silence. What the fuck was that thing? I looked to where I knew the broken window was instinctually, feeling uneasy. No, fuck that, what I felt was dread. I swear to god it was an hour of just staring into that one corner of darkness. No noise, no rustling of the leaves, no wind, nothing. Just my breathing. I finally began to drift off to sleep despite myself when I heard it again. The inhuman, ungodly screech. It was so sudden, loud, and sustained it felt like it would deafen me. After my shock subsided I grabbed my pistol and fired again emptying the magazine which silenced the beast. By the time my ears stopped ringing I found that the wind had resumed. I lay in agonizing torture until the sun returned. Once it did, I wept, and sprinted out of the woods. I felt my body ache and nearly give out on me - adrenaline kept me alive as I felt a searing hole boring itself into the back of my head. It had to be those eyes. It had to be those fucking eyes. Upon returning to my home I through my coat on the coat rack and damn near sprinted to the kitchen for water. Shortly after downing a few glasses, I felt woozy from the torture I’d endured and promptly passed out in my bed, dropping the cup in the hallway as I made my way to my room. I slept for nearly 20 hours. It had to be my first semi-alcohol free sleep in some time. I dreamt of *it*, though, but I was so sleepy I could not move. I cracked my eyes and thought I saw it’s slithery leg passing my doorway. Other than that, I was dreamless. I awoke just before dawn, my room just bright enough to see. Feeling Phoebe next to me in bed brought some comfort, I sat up and picked up the cup of water on my nightstand and greedily emptied it. Feeling like a million bucks, I lied back down. Turning toward Phoebe. I missed her. How long had it been? How long had I slept for? *I missed you,* I whispered to Phoebe, caressing her arm. That’s not right, it shouldn’t *feel* like that, stiff as a board. My mind screamed at me incoherently with the realization that Phoebe was gone. I looked to the head but there was none. I viciously kicked whatever this thing was off my bed and heard it clatter against the wall and… fall apart? I turned the lamp on, jumped up, grabbed the baseball bat in my closet and walked to the side of the bed. What lay there can only be one thing. A mannequin. I hit it anyway and here the plastic crack. It was covered completely in some sort of black fabric. Some hours later, after I cleared my house, room by room, with gun in and, I recouped myself and walked down to the bar to retrieve my phone. I walked in and the door chime followed me. “God damn, you look like hell,” Mike said from behind the bar. “Says the one working the bar at 11 a.m. on a Wednesday,” I spat back. “Whoaaa,” he said, putting his hands up, “don’t shoot, officer.” “Not officer for long,” I sighed, sitting in the stool. Mike started pouring me my usual, whiskey soda. “I assume you aren’t here just for your phone,” he said after pouring my drink. He walked in the back and returned with my phone. My glass was half empty by the time he returned. There’s a weird feeling being the only one sitting at a bar. Feels like rock bottom but also kind of luxurious. I decided to stick around for a few hours. A few hours turned into the entire day. Being around others seemed so important now. I hadn’t taken one second to truly sit and think about what has been happening to me. It seemed supernatural but also too real. A demon couldn’t put a mannequin in my bed, could it? But how it stalks me, how it looks. Could it be a mask? Mike was good company before his shift ended. I told him of my plight, save for the demon. Before I left that night, a notification lit up my phone from Chief Warren: *Another body found.* That’s when the disassociating started up again. Surprised it hadn’t happened sooner. Every time times were bad… starting from when I was a kid, it would happen. The next few weeks were a blur. The demon still haunted me. Stalking me in my own home. I spent most of my time around others where it couldn’t reach me. Well, I think I spent that time around others but with my dissociative spells I cannot be sure. I awoke from one of my drunken escapades on the couch. I looked through the window of the front door. Nearly dawn. I rubbed my face and sat up. Staring blankly. *I need to start keeping the lights on,* I thought to myself. Nothing more disconcerting than not feeling safe in your own home. I looked to the coat rack, seeing the mass that was surely my blazer with the badge still on it. Hadn’t touched it since that day. I could almost see the gleam of the badge. Chief Warren would want me back soon, but I—I just can’t. The coat and badge stared at me menacingly, tauntingly. A representation of all I had, and all I had lost. An arm of the coat rack began to move. Ever so slightly. Was it a trick of the light? I could barely see… Now that I noticed it seemed to stop. My breathing intensified. I watched closely, waiting for it to move again. The darkness in the room began to deepen. To my right, I heard a creak. I ignored it, keeping my stare on the coat rack. Another creak, I snapped my head to the right. In the mass of darkness, all I could see was the wide, wild smile. And those eyes. Shining like the moon. The face jolted forward as I heard footsteps, I sat there frozen in shock wishing for death. My wish seemed to be granted as one of the hands found my neck once again, pinning me to my couch. My eyes locked on its. It hissed as it breathed, it breathed… it breathes, that smell. Is this a man? “I want it, kill me,” I croaked. Soon after, I felt a pinch, then nothing. The next time I woke up I was still in the living room. It was still dark. My head throbbed and my throat ached. I hacked up half a lung and found some water on the coffee table. As I drank I remembered. I fucking remembered. The darkness seemed to grow. First, I looked to the coat rack, then where it stood before. Nothing. All I see is blackness, save for the slightest inkling of light coming through the window in the door, illuminating the coat rack. I look back at just that, and there it is. Peering eerily from the side. That fucking smile and wide eyes. I’ve never seen anything so full of glee. I flinched and curled up on the couch. I began to sob. “Who are you!?” I pleaded. “What the fuck do you want!?” I got up and ran, blindly, hoping my memory could lead me to safety. Adrenaline moving in full force I weaved through the hallways, *why didn’t I go through the backdoor,* I wondered painfully as I reached the end of the hallway. Turning back, and of course, at the end of the hallway was the face, seeming to float in the darkness. It moved toward me so slowly it was almost imperceptible. I wanted to fight, but I felt scared and unnaturally weak. My eyes began to fall… Wherever and whenever I woke next it was truly pure blackness. I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face. I was on the floor. It was carpeted, still home, then? I suppose. I wonder… I got on all floors and felt around. I really couldn’t be sure where I was. I waved my hands wildly and felt in front of me. A blanket, a bed, okay, yeah. I felt the top of the bed. Something cool and wet. I recoiled in disgust and found it was sticky as well. Good god, what in the fuck was it? A creak in the corner, my eyes jolted up. You guessed it. Those saucers for eyes, the giant teeth. Both glowing. The face was not at normal height, but instead was where I assumed would be the top corner where the ceiling and two walls meet. I imagined the beast hanging from the ceiling like a spider. I began to sob. I can’t say what happened next, I was paralyzed with fear, then I began to go in and out of consciousness. Cold sweats greeted me when I woke once more. This time, I was greeted by sunlight and I was in my own bed. My head and body throbbed in pain. No way those were dreams, so without hesitation I jumped out of bed and ran outside. The sunlight was blinding, and my body was weak. As I got a grip of myself I realized with horror the red stains on my hands and arms. I looked up to see if any neighbors were looking and ran for the outdoor shower. I reeked, so the shower out here was a life saver. I put the same raggedy t-shirt and shorts on and walked to the bar. I stayed all day, drinking and eating like a fucking king. I was starved and felt like skin and bones under my clothing. I hardly spoke to the bartenders. If I wasn’t a regular, they likely would’ve kicked me out for the terrible way I looked and how oddly I acted. But, hey, I damn near kept the lights on in that place. It was night time by the time I left. I was not going home, that is for damn sure. There was a cheap motel not far from where I lived, but I would most certainly pass my house on the way. Oh, well. As I approached I noticed a vehicle in the driveway. Odd, seeing as, where was my car? Right, in the fucking woods with slashed tires and a broken windshield. As I got closer I could tell it was a police cruiser. Another vehicle drove up and parked on the street. The big man who emerged could only be the chief. *Oh, god,* I thought. I approached. “Chief Warren? Allen?” “Mitch,” the Chief said, hiding his surprise. Allen drew his pistol. “Allen, easy, stand down,” he commanded. “What’s going on?” I asked. I thought for sure they were coming to drag me back to work but Allen drawing his weapon threw that out the window. “You're under arrest, son, for suspicion of murder.” It was the one from a weeks ago. The one the Chief texted me about. My DNA at the scene. The body was found much more quickly than usual Recluse victims. The coroner had a 8 hour timeline. Where was I during that time? They asked. Well, that’s easy, I was getting drunk in the woods. No phone on me to confirm. No witnesses, save for a, I don’t even fucking know what to call it, being that terrorized me and totaled my vehicle. I said nothing, of course. They tried to level with me, buddy-buddy and all that. I may have been going insane, but I wasn’t stupid. They didn’t have much, only saliva. After my lawyer came in and bond was set, I paid it and walked free until my first court date the following week. They didn’t think I was the actual Recluse, too much didn’t add up. So the killer murders my brother and the next body they find has my DNA near it? The first mistake the Recluse ever made and he’s revealed to be me, too convenient. Still, I could be an accomplice. That’s the angle they were running. They said if I plead guilty to accessory and gave them the real killer they’d let me off lightly. If not, it was murder they were after. No chance. I don’t know shit, chief. I wasn’t technically free, of course. Couldn’t risk me continuing my spree or helping out the real Recluse. I was under house arrest. Ankle monitor and all. Oh, how the mighty fall. I truly did not think that decision through, I should’ve left my bond unpaid and stayed in the safety of a cell. My ingrained disposition to a cell led me to temporary insanity, I suppose. Now, no choice. Fuck my life. It was night two when the last domino fell. I didn’t sleep the first night. I was still wired and had my pistol in hand. I watched the beeping of my ankle monitor in the dark. Once I lost my dedication to that, I instead watched TV. The next day I decided to actually be productive. I ate plenty of food and drank tons of water and began to brainstorm ideas on how exactly my DNA landed at a crime scene I wasn’t investigating. Either I’m insane and am the killer but simply forgot or I am being framed. Occam’s Razor, anyone? Who would frame me? Allen? My soon-to-be ex-wife? Maybe he wants me clear out of the picture and his landmark case solved; two birds, one stone. Maybe she wants full custody of our son. So does that mean my brother being killed was a coincidence? Did Allen or whoever framed me kill him? No, that doesn’t track. I don’t see Allen as a killer, but who knows. Damn sure not Phoebe. Allen, it went back to college with me and him. I was better than him, and I knew it. I joined a frat as a Freshman that took him ’til Junior year to make. I made sure I hazed him as bad as I could. I also made sure to sleep with any girl he showed any interest in. I was dumb. More than that, I was nearly evil. He stuck around, I was all he had. We did have some good times together, that is for sure. Things changed when I damn near killed him in a drunk driving accident. Guess I shouldn’t have taken his keys from him. But, hey, still got that promotion over him. Phoebe, was it the disappointment? The neglect or the emotional and verbal abuse? I never laid a hand on you or our son, but sometimes I did worse. Letting my rage bottle up and explode in a flurry of words, often slurred by drink. Were you finally sick of me? It looks like my energy is running out, the all-nighter is catching up to me… I woke up to what felt like a recurring nightmare at this point. Lying on the floor, carpeted… I felt for the bed, before I got there a cold congealed mess greeted my probing hands. I looked to the corner, no face. No eyes, no smile. *Is this real?* I felt for my ankle monitor to see if there was any sense of continuity in this nightmare. Not there. A creak behind me. I turn and see what I dreaded most. Those eyes, that smile, that uncanny fucking face. It’s mouth opened wide, so ungodly wide, and the sound of what seemed like breathing, though it sounded more like wheezing. Then, the dreaded screech scorched my ears. The same one from the woods. My eardrums felt like they were bursting as what sounded like the screams of a million damned filled the room. I closed my eyes and put my hands over my ears. I fell and landed in more congealed mess and just as I rose, the screeching stopped. As I opened my eyes, I saw light. Light, and red. The ceiling light was on, I realized, and the scene before me was one I was too familiar with. Blood caking the floor, walls, and ceiling. It was a head on the bed this time. Staring lifelessly at me. I couldn’t do it any longer. I snapped. I sprinted from the room and outside. It was just before dawn. I ran into the street, nearly being hit by the only two vehicles on the road. I collapsed there. Next thing I knew, officers stood over me, I was in the back of a stationary ambulance, then the back of a cop car. They gave me a new name: The Recluse Killer. The timeline for all deaths fit, or they made them fit. If you ask me if I did it, I really couldn’t say. What demon possessed me? I don’t know. Was it a man? Was I framed? I don’t care. I don’t care for anything anymore. I’ve seen evil. I’ve felt terror only to wake and relive it. These bars keep me safe. Though, I must say, I still look for faces in the dark.

Underground was where we made our last stand. The planet Bellisk was so hot so long ago, almost just a floating ball of magma, gefore it cooled with the rest of the universe it charged our batteries, and the burrow we dug and insulated kept us warm for billions of years. It is quite melancholy being the last. Knowing everything came before you and nothing after. I hear stories of the past that seem indistinguishable from fairy tales. The Omentyr dynasty, the Great Exploration, first contact, second contact, third contact, the Fight for Mankind, the Reset... Wars and dynasties in the hundreds of millions following that. Genocide, triumph, hate, love, creation, destruction, unification, enlightenment, set back, step forward, isolationists, universalists, thieves, liars, messiahs, prophets, gods, men. Is it all even real? Was it all even real? Am I even real? Well, I think, therefore I am, and these tales swim in my mind, so I suppose they're as real as I am. The point is moot, just like all of history. It's over, now. All those who participated are long gone. The Cosmos breathes its last breath, so cold that nothing can survive. I am in town square in front of the pond writing this. The light above imitates a star so well it feels real. Or does it? I was born under this sun. The island in the middle of the pond holds a solitary oak tree, the only real plant life that existed here. She's been long dead, though, petrified where she stands, not a microorganism to return her to the soil. There is only about an hour left before it's all done and all gone. We as a group, only about a thousand of us mind you, decided how we wanted our ends to be. We could have technically lived for a few more years, but we'd be catatonic, slow moving. Only our minds at full function. This was no good. Instead we opted for full energy and full power until the end. Then, when the lights went out we would still be kicking around in our heads for an hour or so, small limb movements possible. After that, fin. I try to keep my outlook positive. I weigh the gravity of the situation and I suppose in some respect I am lucky to be here. All of mankind is behind us. What did we learn? How did we change? I don’t want to disappoint you. I wonder where we came from, what that planet looked like. She is lost to time, just as I will soon be. I imagine life there at the dawn of our being. Oh, how simple it must have been. Was she full of trees like tale of Kira? She must have been. She must have been beautiful. What were her people like? Were we much more homogenous in the beginning? Sometimes, especially when I was younger and just finished a novel, I would imagine I lived on that planet, our first planet. Roaming a city in the rain, going to meet my lover for a drink. Lost to time. I meant to leave it here, but more occurred. There is more I'd like to say – come with me. After I finished writing that drab I entered the elevator, rode it to the top, and scaled the ladder to the surface. I had to see it one last time. I layered up, of course, and the porthole was made of a meter-thick Alloy-glass, but that was of no consequence. The cold was stunning in that little dome. If I were a biological human I would've frozen solid within minutes. There is no light, and when I say no light, I mean none. The darkness is all encompassing. It imposed itself such on me and my being I briefly wondered if it was god. I had been thinking about such things lately. Many of us had. Times like this breeds philosophy and religion. A small ring of lights surrounded the porthole about a hundred meters away. With the flip of a switch they were on. The gray and desolate landscape lit up. Although the lights were dim in most respects, they shone brilliantly in the epic nothingness. I gazed up, imagining I could see the photons shooting their way into the nothing. I've seen the images and heard the tales of the emptiness I see above my head. They said it was filled with light. The Milky Way was our home galaxy. Legend says they called it that because it looked like drops of milk were in the sky. On a clear night the galaxy could light your way, they said. I want to believe it, the thought made me cry a bit as I looked up. I saw Her when I came back down. Avanta Ory. An old love of mine. I was lucky to live 3,000 years before perishing with the universe, she was one of many I fell in love with. Avanta was different. We all would change throughout or extended lifetimes. She always felt the same. And now that my time, everyone's time, was coming all I wanted was to be with her. "Would you like to come to mine?" she asked, as if reading my mind. "I'd like nothing more than to spend the last moments of the universe in your company." Her dwelling was fashioned in the style of a wood log cabin. It was quaint, like all our dwellings. Space was hard to come by. The lights inside were dim and gave the cabin an orange glow. She had soft piano music playing and I could tell had just made lunch. "I didn’t want to eat alone, not my last meal," she said. "So I could've just been anyone?" "I never go to the porthole. But I know you do." I smiled at that, "what did you make?" I asked. The cabin was modestly furnished. A couch and leather chair sat in front of a fire place, a dining table separated that area from the kitchen. I sat down at the dining table as she ladled steaming liquid into two bowls. "Soup," she said, before cutting a loaf of bread into smaller pieces and placing it all on a tray. We ate in silence, a candle flickering in the center of the table sent shadows dancing across our faces. "I have a surprise for you," she said softly as she rose, placing the dishes in the sink. She returned with two glass flutes and a dark bottle. "Sparkling wine?" I discerned, squinting my eyes at the bottle as she sat down. "They used to call it champagne," she said with a smirk. I laughed and asked, "who?" "People from a long time ago." "I had forgotten you're our resident historian." "We're all historians, comes with being the last beings to ever live and that will ever live." "Yes, but you seem to be a step above, and where you get these trinkets from, I don’t know," I said as she poured us two glasses. We raised our glasses, toasting to the end of time. We were on our second glass before we moved to the couch. "I have another surprise for you," Avanta said. She held out a match; then, with impeccable dexterity she lit it with one hand only and then knelt before the fireplace before delicately lighting kindling. Within minutes, a fire was roaring. "This should keep us from the cold," she said. The gentle flicker of the candle replaced with the flames of a roaring fire. The warmth was like a hug from a loved one -- I supposed I'd forgotten how cold it always was. "How much time do we have left?" I asked. "Ten minutes." She filled our final glasses all the way to the brim. I sipped it, savoring the flavor, the moment, and her presence. "What were you doing up there?” Avanta asked after some time had passed. "How did you know to find me up there?" I asked in retort, the wine allowing my words to move freely. Avanta smiled, "I know you. I never met such an enigma. So melancholy, so unbelievably wise. Only a few have the foresight and tenderness to act in such a way. Who are you?" she asked. "No one, just me," I said with a sigh. "I mean it," she said, looking at me discerningly. "I was thinking about god," I said. She shifted in her seat, "is that right? What were your thoughts?" "Boundless, I've pondered it my whole life. But now, it's like every strand of thought I have on the subject is rushing back to me. A mountain of puzzle pieces dropped on my head," I looked at Avanta, "I don't have enough time to put it together." "Time, nothing is so precious." "I believe god is here, though." "Is that right?” she asked. "Well, I just think of me, if I was god, and where I'd be. Well, there isn't anywhere else in the universe where things are going on." "Fair assumption." "What do you think?" I asked. My wine flute now empty. Avanta emptied hers before answering. "When we were primitive we credited god for the sunrise... then we learned the ways of the universe. The wiser we become the less we credit god but that is counterintuitive. So many religions had it so wrong, though. There is a creator, of here, of where we sit and where all of human history took place yes. But who created the creator? And who created them?” “I hadn’t thought of that.” “Some believed god was the Cosmos itself - they listened to the background radiation hoping for direction. Directionless. Some told of god in fable-like stories - always mankind-centric. It was all they knew, do not think I mean to demean them,” she paused, looked from me to the fire in front of us, “I believe you’re going about it the wrong way as well, taking the wrong angle, asking the wrong question. Not whom, but why?” “Why what?” “Why existence at all? You say it is a puzzle, consider all the pieces, my dear.” I shifted in my seat, suddenly feeling ill-equipped for this discussion “The chain of creators must be endless,” Avanta continued, “so it is no matter who it is - but why did they create this place?” “I am not sure. Perhaps entertainment or experimentation, power?” “Our creations often reflect ourselves,” she said wistfully, still only looking at the fire, “how would you describe the Cosmos? Think of it as you saw it today.” “Lonely. Lonely and cold,” I said, the fire began to wain, and my voiced wavered, my breath visible in the firelight. “Every being discovered in the history of mankind and alienkind had one thing in common - do you know what that was? Not all are physical creatures, not all made of carbon or in need of water.” “I do not know, Avanta. What is it?” “They all needed warmth of some kind - we are all creatures of fire, energy. Life is fire, life is warmth. Someone that is cold is often described as aloof, unwelcoming, and hence, lonely. Someone who is warm is the opposite. No one, even the highest of high want to be lonely. Furthermore, the Cosmos is artistic - creation is art, it is expression. This bubble of life here I created, see how beautiful it is? How the stars shine and the galaxies swirl? The beings create art, music, and love. But they are like me, they can often be violent and war,” Avanta said. The fire died. I sank into the couch, my body becoming weak. “That all makes sense - I see your reasoning, but it does not truly answer my question,” I whispered with my last breath. “I can only speak from my perspective, for I do not know who created me. But to do something so irrational, it must be love.

Francis jammed the accelerator, speeding towards Providence in the night. Before sunrise, he must reach the Anderson Manor. Their oldest son, Terry, met all the conditions. By Francis’ estimates, it was his turn this year. To die. Just like all the boys who died under mysterious circumstances the town never questioned. By sunrise, his fate would be determined. When the sun was between the light tower and the clock tower, Terry would go missing. By sunset, he would be dead, hung from the Ancient Tree in the middle of Grand Park. They would take him down and bury him with the rest. Just like Francis’ brother James over thirty years ago. When the local police closed the case and refused to investigate, Francis was furious. His parents had nothing to say but hollow words about how it was his fate. What kind of parents would look upon their dead son with muted acceptance and bury him without outrage? The only person to console him was Old Man Connor. The friendly elder who smoked like a chimney yet had a voice as smooth as velvet. He invited young Francis to his house for a cup of hot chocolate and some cookies. Regaled the boy with tales of old gods who blessed and protected ancient land for a price. Tales that Francis, now a paranormal detective, didn’t assume were silly fairytales but had an underlying truth to them. He might have ran from home all those years ago, but he still remembered that one story. One of sunrise, sunset and the sunbetween. By sunrise, one will be chosen. In the twilight zone of the sunbetween, the ritual begins. By sunset, one will be hung for all to see. One life in exchange for the prosperity of other lives. The first rays of light peeked from beneath the horizon, and Francis knew time was running out. He had to push his dingy old car to its limits if he were to save Terry and break the cruel cycle of annual sacrifices. The sun shone down upon the Anderson Manor by the time the detective swerved his car into the nearest car park. Regardless of the sun’s position in the skies, Francis was going to check on Terry. His feet thundered along the cobbled pavements as he made a mad dash to the Andersons’ and knocked hard on their door. “Detective Francis Benson here, is Terry Anderson in?” Their old butler opened the door. “I’m afraid not. The young master has escaped his bedroom and—” “He’s already missing before the sunbetween?” Francis asked, scratching his scruffy beard. A sullen nod. “Any clue where he might have gone?” “If we knew, we would have found him and brought him back home,” the butler replied. “The other servants have been sent out to look for him.” “What will they do to Terry once they’ve found him? Will he be sacrificed?” Francis went for the jugular and the crux of his investigation. “Mr. Anderson will likely ground him for running away from home. I don’t know what sacrifice you are talking about. The Andersons love their son very much.” *But not enough to change his fate.* “Thank you for your time,” Francis said. The other townsfolk didn’t have any useful information. That, or they were all hiding something from him. Some, such as Vinny who ran the Twisting Tales Pub, said he never saw Terry for a couple of days. Others, such as Blake the lumberjack, claimed to have seen the boy head towards the Dark Forest. Everyone knew of the dangerous entities that dwelt within. It made no sense to go there, save for asking questions to the Buried One Beneath the Lands. Francis entered the forest despite his reservations. As long as their unspoken rules were respected, one could tread through the forests unharmed. The path to the Buried One is nothing more than a pile of sticks arranged in an unusual manner. Someone new to Providence would wrongly assume they were nothing more than broken branches. Francis knew the signs. The cold air despite the sweltering heat underneath the hot afternoon sun. Sound would grow muffled as one ventured closer to the Buried One, slowly fading away until there was a silence that hung like a guillotine above a prisoner’s head. At the very middle of a clearing was an ancient ritual circle. Where one stood in the middle and said their prayers to call upon the wisdom of the Buried One. “Greetings Buried One, have you seen a Terry Anderson?” Francis gulped and held his breath in the disconcerting quiet. Waited. Hoping he wasn’t about to be killed. Or perhaps the creature was slumbering. “We have seen the boy that you seek,” a legion of a thousand voices clawed at his ears and tore at his mind. “You are too late.” “I want to know his fate,” Francis was adamant. The trees swayed and swung their branches a little too close to the detective’s head. “You know his fate. As you know the fates of others before him.” Francis clenched his fists. “Where is he? Alive or dead I want to know.” “Offer me tribute, and we shall grant you an answer.” With a sigh, he rolled up the sleeve of his left arm and sliced at it with his hunting knife. He held out his arm over the clearing and let his blood trickle onto the ground. Tendrils crept out from gaps between the fallen leaves to absorb the blood. “Seek the source of the tale of the sunrise, sunset and sunbetween.” Francis thanked the creature profusely, promising it more tribute for its guidance before dashing off to his next destination, hopefully before sunset. He knocked on the door to Old Man Connor’s house. No response. One strong kick and the door was down. Terry was face-down on the ground, crimson pooling beneath his cooling corpse. Old Connor bent down beside him, coiling a thick rope around his neck. Francis levelled his holy shotgun at the old man. “Stop what you’re doing!” “We must finish this,” his reply was solemn. A loud bang echoed in the room as the detective fired a warning shot. “Nobody has to. This has to stop. Why has nobody asked a thing? Why has everyone accepted such a terrible ritual to be a way of life?” “It is what keeps this town going, Francis. One life in exchange for the prosperity of other lives.” “Who is to say the people of Providence can’t achieve good fortune without sacrificing to…whatever that thing is, at Grand Park,” Francis argued, taking a step towards Connor with his gun still pointed at the old man. “What is that thing anyway?” “That thing, it is I, Old God Conatisdor of the Sunbetween.” “And to think you had the gall to pretend…the story of sunrise, sunset and sunbetween, that…” “That is the story of my ritual,” Connor, no Conatisdor, finished his sentence. “It is what sustains me. Grants me the power to keep this town safe from more malicious entities that lurk within the Dark Forest. All I need is one child for every year of protection.” “The town can defend itself,” Francis sneered. “It has a local police force.” “That cannot hope to fight the eldritch horrors of the Dark!” “I’m a paranormal detective who has fought supernatural beings!” He emptied his holy shotgun into Conatisdor. “I’ll teach them! I’ll make sure they are ready for whatever you protect them from!” “Like the Buried One? The one who you offered your blood to? You have given them power over you. You have granted them passage,” the Old God spat out grey, clouded blood from his mouth, permeating the air with his disappointment. “You would trade one Old God for another. They have been waiting for this.” “Tell me how to fix this!” “…You can’t. And neither…can I…” It was sunset when Ancient Tree in Grand Park, robbed of its child sacrifice and fuel for its powers, was felled by the ravenous tendrils of the Dark Forest. What was once a boy named Terry, a former tribute to Conastisdor of the Sunbetween, had a new claimant. The Buried One Beneath the Lands. By the next sunrise, another one will be chosen. In the twilight zone of the sunbetween, the ritual begins. By sunset, one will be consumed. One life in exchange for the prosperity of other lives.

Mayael crept forward. Her footsteps were softened by a bed of lichen on the rocks, but she feared the lizard might be able to hear her pounding heart. If it could, the little reptile showed no signs of it. It was basking with its back to her, red scales shimmering in the evening sun. There might never be a better chance. Mayael flung herself forward. The worst part of chasing lizards was the scrapes. Every time Mayael pounced and dove, she came up against rough rock that tore at her skin. Though the cuts weren’t deep, they still stung. If she didn’t throw herself at the lizards, she’d have no chance of catching one. That was the point, Mayael supposed. To succeed, you must have no fear of failure. The little lizard scurried from her with a hundred tiny footsteps so smooth that it seemed to sail over the rocks. Mayael came crashing down where it had stood just seconds before. She grunted as she hit the ground, and felt what could only be a few new scrapes on her lower arms and knees. She gingerly adjusted to a more comfortable position on the ground and examined herself. As she thought, she had scuffed her knees and arms, drops of blood coloring her skin there like a dry stream in a red gorge. After confirming the wounds were superficial, she turned to look for the lizard. The little beast had stopped less than two yards from her, regarding its would-be hunter with a lazy stare. *He knows I can’t touch him*. Mayael cursed Mist-Eyes for giving her this useless task. Rising to her feet, she considered throwing herself at the lizard again, but was dissuaded by her stinging knees. Instead she vowed to catch the reptile tomorrow, and started for home. *Home*. For most of the neksut, home was the great desert under the endless sky. The various clans traveled from oasis to oasis, never staying in one place for very long. The land sustained them so long as they kept moving, and so a neksut saw more of their world than any other people. The great exceptions were the neksut shamans, who made their homes at places of religious significance, where they were sworn to stay. The shamans, and Mayael. At the very least, her home was an impressive place. Rock Island towered over the surrounding landscape, a titanic stone plateau in the midst of a sea of sand. Mayael’s pursuit of lizards had taken her the better part of the afternoon, and she still had not made it down to the base of the island’s sloping walls. The trek back was a careful one; the pathways up the walls were not easily found, and some rocks were loose or sharp. But it was also beautiful. Rock Island was not merely a giant block of stone. A thousand generations of dead lichen had created a sort of soil in crevices or between ridges that permitted the growth of flowers, cacti, and trees. As she clambered up the slope, she stopped from time to time to take in the sunset, which lit the world a brilliant orange. It was no wonder that this place was one where the shamans were stationed. But Mayael felt that she did not belong among them. It wasn’t unheard of for one who was not a shaman to end up at Rock Island. Those too old to continue riding with the clans often chose to live with the shamans, but Mayael was only fifteen. Those who were ill or about to give birth might remain with the shamans for healing, but aside from her scrapes, Mayael was in perfect health. Her mother had said that she had the shaman’s gifts, the talent for visions, and so they had left her in the care of Mist-Eyes. But Mayael had forgotten whatever it was she had seen as an infant, and had never glimpsed anything since. Catching lizards was somehow meant to hone her talents. So far, it had given her only scrapes. The sun had disappeared over horizon as she reached the top of Rock Island, but the sky was still orange. Trees and shrubs sprouted from crevices in worn stone, and listening closely, Mayael thought she could hear the trickling a stream from the Island’s springs. Ahead, she saw two shamans standing beneath the shade of an ancient tree, bare and barkless. Mist-Eyes was no doubt waiting for her return, and Mayael’s stomach knotted knowing that she had no lizard to show yet again. Night-Witness had no doubt come to argue with Mist-Eyes. Night-Witness was scarcely older than Mayael. He still had a boy’s face, with round cheeks and smooth skin, but the rest of him was ghastly thin. He wore his robe tied around his waist, and at the end of his slender arms were balled fists. Mist-Eyes, on the other hand, was the most extraordinary-looking person Mayael had ever seen. Age had wrinkled her skin, but had yet to curve her back. Though perhaps as thin as Night-Witness, her body was concealed by robes of many colors and an oldstone necklace around her throat. All of this was lost when looking at the shaman though. All Mayael ever saw was her eyes. They were not made of flesh and blood. Mist-Eyes had lost her sight when she was stationed at the Mocking Sea. She had followed voices and visions into the cursed waters, and the brine had stung her eyes to blindness. But she had emerged with a gift from the Earth, the oldstone she wore around her neck. In order to see, Mist-Eyes had shaped new eyes for herself from quicksteel. The things looked exactly as human eyes would, but they were a deep red color, as if her eye sockets were pits of blood. Vapor seemed to rise from them, and the metal saw deeper than flesh ever could. As she drew closer, Mayael could make out the end of one of Night Witness’s rants: “Every year we lose more oases, more sacred sites. The invaders take our home from us and have the audacity to name it No Man’s Land. Yet you do nothing! I’ve heard it said that in their taverns, the foreigners whisper that the great Mist Eyes will summon a duneworm if Rock Island is threatened. I urge you to unleash the worm upon the world. Make their fears real. Instead we waste away.” “That’s enough,” Mist-Eyes said softly, “Our lizard catcher has come back to us.” Night-Witness was undeterred; “Which hero of history would agree with you? The first Neksut fought to slay the stone men. Rothrir the Besieger conquered the east. And Salaris the sandstorm took back Clya and killed Rex the Red. All acted on visions, their own or those of their companions. I see darkness coming every night, and you would have us do nothing?” “Darkness always comes at night. That is the nature of it.” Night Witness was fuming, “You know the darkness I refer to! The invaders. The Brindled Man. We must act now, as our forefathers did. Strike while we still have a homeland to strike from!” “We do not have the numbers to scour all foreigners from the desert.” “We do not need to match them man for man. We are the neksut, the chosen children of the Earth and the Sky. We have lived in this land for a thousand generations, and the sun and winds have toughened us, while the foreigners languished in luxury and excess. We are greater than they.” “Mayael,” Mist-Eyes greeted her warmly, “What happens to a stone after a thousand generations? Do the sun and the winds harden it?” The answer came at once, “No. The stone is worn away at until it crumbles into sand.” Mist-Eyes smiled slightly, then turned back to Night-Witness. “Even a child knows the answer.” The younger shaman whirled abruptly and stalk off, still fuming. Mist-Eyes watched him go for a moment, then her eyes returned to Mayael. “You appear to have gained a few new cuts.” Mayael showed her arms. “I didn’t catch any lizards.” “Perhaps tomorrow will be different.” She let her frustration show; “Tomorrow will be the same, except I’ll have more scrapes! Another week of this and my skin will rub off.” “Tomorrow will be different if you act differently.” Mayael didn’t know what she was expected to say. Mist-Eyes was kind, but she could never simply say what she meant. It was always for Mayael to learn some lesson. She exhaled. “Does Night-Witness really have visions every night?” “That is why he took his name.” “If I cannot catch the lizards, is there any chance I could see visions?” “You already have.” “Again I mean. The first one doesn’t count cause I don’t remember it,” Mayael thought hard for a moment. She wanted to ask how anyone could be sure she had experienced a vision, but the words stuck in her throat. The shaman’s eyes seemed to read her intent. Mist-Eyes smiled. “Your vision came during a time of peril, Mayael. The invaders called it their Railroad War. During those days I had visions of an even greater danger rising, that the heaviest blow had yet to fall. Salaris the Sandstorm saw it too, though we did not know its name.’ ‘Your mother had given birth to you only days ago. At your age, your mouth was expected only to take in her breast and to utter cries and squeals. Yet you spoke. It was the most miraculous thing I have ever witnessed. You said only one word, again and again. It was your first word, and the last you would utter for months, until you began to talk as all children do. Your word was the name of what Salaris and I saw, we both knew. She rode off at once, and I asked for you to be raised here.” Mayael knew this story well, and she had long-since given up on attempting to get Mist-Eyes to reveal what the word had been. She shrugged her shoulders in defeat. “What good am I if I say one word, and spend the rest of my life chasing lizards?” Mist-Eyes seemed amused at the question, “Could you have caught a lizard back then, I wonder?” “I’m not fast enough to catch a lizard now, much less when I couldn’t walk!” “And yet you did. Without scraping your knees either, as I recall.” Realization dawned. Mayael broke out in a smile. “You’re saying there’s a way to catch a lizard without chasing it!” Mist-Eyes beamed back at her, red eyes shimmering: “Why I don’t know Mayael, is there?” —————————————————————————————————————————— By the time the sky had just begun to yellow, Mayael was already crouched on a bed of lichen, her knees tender but healing. Just to her left was a large, flat ledge where she surmised the lizards would most like to bask once the morning sun rose. When one did, she would only need to reach out her hand. Mayael hadn’t had a vision last night, but she was content to wait for that too.

“Why are you here again” The therapist asked the jittery women in front of her. “I need your help, please” The woman said with a shudder and gulped. She looked as if she was drowning on air, and she was looking for a shore. Well, the therapist only supposed this, because that was what the client always said, each time they came to her door. She was not supposed to have another client today, but she was truly not that surprised to see her here again. She sighed a deep sigh, so deep she felt her lungs touch her throat. God, there was no saying no to her, her fate had been sealed the moment she chose this office. She looked at the woman in front on her again. Tears spilled from eyes and had water dripped from her hair. “Dear God, get in here, why on earth are you wet? Please do not lie on my couch, since you are so intent on seeing me, you can talk from the floor.” She said, exasperated, and stepped aside for the women to enter her office. The woman walked into the office, walked past the couch and lay on the carpet in front of it. The therapist shut the door and took her seat on the chair across from her. She got her tape recorder from the desk and pressed play. “The thing is- I have told you that I can’t help you with… with this. I checked with Dr Theo, and apparently you didn’t even bother to show up?” The client looked at the therapist. Well, no, she looked past her. “No, I don’t wanna see him, he doesn’t know me. He won’t understand. I’m sorry.” Her voice was shaky and the water was now dripping down her face, her clothes were clinging to her curled up body and she, well she looked helpless, as she shivered. “I was swimming, that’s why I am wet. I was swimming and then I realized I had to keep moving . I decided that maybe if I walked long enough or far enough, maybe I would stop being so sad. Maybe I would become a person who was meant to be here?” “Why are you sad?” “That’s the thing, that’s just the thing. I don’t know. It feels like my insides are made of sadness, like I need to throw up my intestines, my spleen, my heart… to get rid of it. Sometimes it feels like the sadness will only go when I’m gone, and I am so scared that I am going to live like this my whole life. If I see Dr Theo, he is going to try and tell me to let go of something that is a part of me.” The therapist found herself growing annoyed with each word spoken by the client. “Everyday it’s the same bullshit. You are not made of sadness. You carry it around like a backpack. Except that even that is not enough for you, now you want it to be inside you. Now you have convinced yourself that it is you and you are it. You are playing the meanest trick on yourself, and you simply cannot allow yourself to see it. PUT THE SADNESS DOWN – “She shouted and realized that that was not how she was supposed to go about this. *Deep sigh.* The woman looked just as stunned as the therapist, like she has just been slapped across the face. “Everyday you come here, everyday you seek me out, everyday I ask you to put me down. But you keep coming back.” The therapist said, with a long suffering edge to her raspy voice. “I will never give you what you want woman. I am not meaning itself, you have to look elsewhere, you have to. The woman began to weep, and the therapist wept with her, and they did so again and again, day after day, until the woman never came back again.

The general’s words ring in my head as I stand rigor mortis-stiff in my flight harness around eleven other soldiers. The interior shakes and shudders during our drop pod’s descent from low orbit through the Martian atmosphere. The gloves of my aquamarine spacesuit wrap around my laser rifle in a death grip and I stare forward with the lifeless eyes of a corpse. No one looks at one another or makes a sound. Wait, no, that's not true. I can hear someone sobbing softly. He’s behind me, but I can't identify him in the pitch-black darkness of the windowless coffin-craft meant to bring us alive to our likely deaths. Without prior announcement, it crashes to a halt, the doors blast themselves away, the harness detaches, and I fall helmet-first onto the rust-red dust of Mars. I scoop up my rifle, stand up, and begin to run with the thousands of others towards the enemy fortress. *“You are warriors of humanity, Earth’s most loyal sons and daughters! You have been chosen for the honor of defending mankind’s dominion from its most despicable tendencies. Some of you will see the coming battle to its end, and some of you will valiantly sacrifice yourselves for the good of the species, but each and every one of you will have the heroism and righteousness you display today celebrated and remembered for all time!”.* I keep my eyes focused on the sapphire shield dome separating the fortress from the dust storm quickly obscuring my vision. As I approach, I remember them advising us on passing through it. *Don’t hesitate, move fast, and you’ll probably be fine*, they said. There’s a flash, then a scream, and then a hiss. I turn to watch someone ahead of me recoil away as blue fire from its surface envelopes them, disintegrating the layers of suit, skin, flesh, and bones in seconds, their agonized death cries almost inaudible over the cruel chuckle of charged particles. I’m mere meters from where they just stood, about to attempt the passage as they just did. *You’ll probably be fine*, they said. *“Our foes are as wanting in materiel as they are in honor! The shield dome which prevents us from striking them directly is one of their few pieces of modern equipment, and it is only effective for the fact that it is of Earthling construction! For mankind’s sake, their small arms use primitive gunpowder and their fortress is defended by trenchworks of all things! With means and methods of war so inferior, our victory against them is assured!”.* The land between the dome and the enemy is not a battlefield; it is a killing field. With each passing second, dozens are scythed down by trench machine guns and fall upon this field, their blood watering the soil and staining it further red. With every heartbeat, I am filled with the certainty that it will be my last, only for the next to arrive, bringing with it an illusion of hope that is sure to be sadistically snatched away by my subsequent, imminent death. But either by sheer luck or the sheer magnitude of our host, I am not made part of this bloody, bountiful harvest. *“For those who still retain reservations about fighting those whom we once called brothers and sisters, remember this: They forced this upon us and upon themselves, not the other way around. They seek to end humanity’s era of unity, to return it to the millenia of political division that saw countless millions killed in petty intraspecific conflicts. This is the threat that they pose, and it is our duty as defenders of the human race to eliminate that threat. The scum down there, the ones who work to achieve the shattering of homo sapiens? They have forfeited their right to live. They are no longer our brothers and sisters. They are not people. They are traitors.”* For reasons that I am either unable or unwilling to comprehend, I somehow cross the last meters to the trenchworks. My thoughts and actions are driven wholly by drilling and instinct. Fear has been replaced with stoic, mindless determination. I jump over the lip of the trench, my suit scraping the barbed wire with a metallic shriek. I turn to my left and see a woman before me. She holds a gunpowder rifle in her hands. Her spacesuit is identical to mine save for a difference in insignia and a paint scheme of rust. Her eyes hold the same desperation that I lost somewhere on the killing field. The general’s words ring in my head once more. *They are not people. They are traitors. They are not people. They are traitors. They are not people. They are traitors.* She raises her weapon to fire. My training kicks in. I ram the plasma bayonet at the end of my gun up her sternum. Her eyes widen as her insides liquefy with a hiss. I look into them. It’s amazing how someone’s eyes can look more alive at the moment before death than at any other point in the course of their entire existence. I wrench out my bayonet and she collapses to the ground. I turn around, aim my rifle at the next traitor, and proceed to make Mars a little bit more loyal.

“Alright, one more time. Which way do you point the lever to go down?” Ryan was leaning over his desk. He was covered in sweat, and his hair was ruffled by his hands. His jacket laid on the chair behind him, and his shirt was untucked. Lilly was a few feet beside him with her head in her hands. The command center was a small shed on the edge of the dock where they shoved a radio, a desk, and a radar. The submersible was on a crane still hanging over the water. “I push up,” Jim said. “Good. Now, how do you go right?” Ryan asked. “I push…” Jim paused, and Ryan held his breath. “Isn’t it obvious you moron. You push to the left,” Olivia said. “I was about to say that. I push to the left.” Jim’s confidence carried through the microphone. “No.” Ryan shook his head. “You push to the right.” “Well, that doesn’t make a lick of sense. If up is down, then right should be left,” Olivia said. “Pushing up causes the back of the submersible to go up, and the nose goes down. Pushing down causes the back to go down which makes the whole craft ascend. Right and left are normal. We’ve been over this five times,” Ryan said. “Well, it still makes no sense. This whole machine needs to be rewired,” Olivia replied. “It’s still too late to do that. This is quite easy to learn. Plus, there’s a manual in there. Why aren’t you at least checking that before you answer? “Checking before you answer is what suckers do. I go with my gut,” Olivia said. “But that makes no sense.” Ryan took a deep breath. “Alright, nevermind. Focus on the task at hand. How do you cause the craft to ascend?” There was a long silence on the other end. “You push the red button,” Frida said. “No, that fires the torpedoes.” “I thought that was turning the key,” Polly said. “You turn the key. Then, you push the red button. That’s not important. Right now, we need to work on the basics. Like how would you ascend to the surface,” Ryan said. “I think we need to learn by doing. Let us off this crane and go into the water,” Reid said. “I’m not going to do that until I am sure that you won’t wreck the machine. So I’ll ask this one more time. How do you go up? There are only two options. Push the joystick up or push it down,” Ryan said. “We push it up,” Jim said. Ryan pulled at his hair. “Morons,” Lilly muttered. “I heard that,” Frida shouted. “Alright, you need more training before I let you go into the lake.” “Come on,” Polly said. “No, I am in charge, and you go when I say you can go,” Ryan yelled. “And how long will that be?” Reid asked. “As long as it needs to be.” Ryan shouted loud enough to be heard through the steel walls of the craft. - After ten hours, the sun had set. Mice emerged from their burrows to consume the crumbs left by humans. Owls patrolled the skies searching for the aforementioned mice. Most people began to relax in preparation for sleep. A few took advantage of the starry night for romantic outings. Ryan and Lilly were stuck in the control room still instructing the new recruits on how to pilot a deep sea craft. “And you shouldn’t go deeper than 400 meters because?” Ryan held his breath. “Because pressure will get too high,” Polly said. “And high pressure causes?” Ryan began to shake in excitement. “The craft to be crushed like a can in the water,” Reid replied. “Yes, you got it.” Ryan leapt out of his chair and began to dance. “Now, get in the water and have some fun.” He pressed down on the blue button before him. The claw released the submersible which landed with a large splash. It didn’t descend any further. “Which way do we push this joystick again?” Jim asked. “Oh no.” Ryan’s celebration stopped, and he collapsed on the ground crying. Lilly comforted him. “No wait, we got it,” Reid said. The hatch opened up top. “Crap wrong button.” “It’s okay everyone. It’s in the manual,” Polly said. Ryan overheard the debate from the radio and rocked back and forth. “What have I done? Why did I think they were competent?” Ryan said. “It’s okay. With luck, they’ll die quickly,” Lilly said. “Polly, can I see that manual?” Olivia asked. “No, it’s mine.” The radio filled with sounds of the two women arguing. “Now, you both aren’t getting it,” Jim said. The manual was tossed out and landed in the water nearby. “Hey!” Polly shouted. “At least we have more crafts,” Lilly said. “How are we going to explain the loss to command?” Ryan asked. “We’ll say it was an accident involving a mutant fish,” Lilly replied. The radio static cleared as Reid’s voice came through with a hint of triumph. “I remembered how it descends.” The submersible sank into the water slowly, but it’s hatch was still open. “Reid, I don’t think this is supposed to be happening,” Polly said. “Just close it manually,” Reid replied. Frida poked her head out of the hole and stared directly at Lilly. The two women held each other’s gaze for an eternity in milliseconds before Frida closed the door, and the ship embarked on the journey. “What’s the likelihood of them returning in one piece?” Ryan asked. “That’s not the desired outcome.” Lilly bend the metal chair in front of her. “The desired outcome is the ship’s return with its crew destroyed.” “What the? That’s impossible,” Ryan said.

“This apple is bitter,” Daniel said. The boy was small for his twelve years, stick-thin but healthy. “It’s what you’re getting, eat up,” Dad said. Even during Daniel’s short lifetime the rations had noticeably shrunk. They got more than other families, with him being in the program, and Dad being a security officer but it still only barely fed the three of them. “Do you want it, mom?” Daniel asked. She shook her head and smiled. “I’m not hungry, hon. You have it,” she said. Her eyes were hollow, sunk deep into her face. Daniel ate the rest of the apple, scowling at its metallic aftertaste. “How was training?” Mom asked. “Kinda fun! I learned snaring. Do you know what a rabbit is? They used to live everywhere. They had these funny long ears,” Daniel explained, grinning as he held up two fingers behind his head. Mom laughed, and a shadow of a smile passed over Dad’s lined face. “They could run really fast, but I bet I could hit one with my bow and arrow,” Daniel said, miming the motion. “You might need your arrows to defend yourself. Didn’t they teach you about conserving ammo?” Dad said. “Yeah. Yes, sir. Sorry,” Daniel said. “Where you’re going-” Dad said but stopped mid sentence. Daniel was quiet, hanging his head, chewing the bitter fruit. He could feel Dad’s eyes on him. Wordless communication between his parents. Mom sat with him as Dad disappeared into the apartment’s tiny bedroom. Daniel finished his apple, washing it down with some yellowish, dead-tasting water. “Time to go to bed, hon,” Mom said. “I can’t sleep now. I’m not tired.” “Want to sing with me? Come on, it’ll be fun,” she nudged him as he fidgeted with his feet on the floor. “Sure.” Daniel hated singing, but it made Mom happy. And she was a good singer. Long ago she might have been able to make a living with it, but the world had little use for such frivolities now. She accompanied them on a battered electronic piano, her most prized possession. I may be gone, Lost out at sea, Pray don’t forget, How I cherish thee. Daniel sang along, trying to remember the lyrics of the old folk song as best as he could. “Dad doesn’t mean it. We know you’re doing great at the trials. He just wants you to do your best, and I know you will. You’ll be building a new world. And then you’ll marry a nice girl, and have lots of kids, and you won’t remember me or Dad,” Mom said, pinching him. She drowned his protests in the fabric of her shoulder, hugging him close. \ The facility was a towering block of steel and concrete surrounded by dry, barren hills. Dead trees stood like impaled black skeletons, baking in the sandy soil. An oily, smoky haze covered the sky, and behind it an indifferent sun glared down on it all. The children that had passed the tests were being led into the depths of the cavernous building, accompanied by their parents. Power lines criss-crossed the high ceiling. Hexagonal chambers built into the floor gave the place the appearance of a gigantic metal honeycomb. Each looked barely large enough to fit a child, even a thin kid like Daniel. No adult could have fit into the space. The size was the upper limit their technology could support rather than a conscious choice. It was time. Daniel had put on his crash suit and technicians were standing ready to help him into the capsule. Loudspeakers announced the countdown periodically. T minus four hours. Five minutes for final goodbyes. The children had been selected for resoluteness and pragmatism: none panicked or refused to go, though some parents had to be sedated by attending medics. Mom embraced Daniel. His father put his arms around both of them. “1 minute!” a technician called out. Daniel and his parents hadn’t exchanged a single word. His mother’s face was drenched in tears, his father’s stern but fiercely proud. Dad took something out of his pocket, stuffed it in his hand, indicating to put it away. Daniel did so, shoving a thin sheet of material into his jumpsuit. Daniel climbed into the capsule. He’d trained the procedure countless times, yet he never got used to how narrow it was. His survival equipment was crammed inside the tiny space with him, folded ingeniously. A lid was closed over him and he sat in the dark, feet pulled into a fetal position, trying not to get cramps until the end of the countdown. Finally, T minus ten seconds. Daniel sang to himself when the numbers reached single digits. Three, two, one, a bright flash and then darkness snuffed out the world. \ Air rushed past Daniel suddenly and black turned into blinding yellow. The point of emergence was fifty meters above the surface. Sensors activated and giant airbags puffed out from the capsule. His small size worked in his favor but the shock of hitting the ground still knocked the air out of him. Daniel disentangled himself and looked around. He stood on a pristine grassy plain, interspersed with fruiting bushes and green trees. There were a myriad scurrying small animals, spooked by the crash. No people. They hadn’t evolved yet. This place was so full of life it felt utterly alien to him compared to the world he’d come from, where ecological collapse was everywhere. Years of training spooled off in his head: the rules of survival. Ways of finding water, hunting, plants to gather. He took out the locator, a simple but tough device that could survive the electromagnetic shock of the transfer. It would indicate the presence of sibling devices anywhere on the globe. It showed nothing. He was alone. The transfer was only precise to a range of almost a thousand years. Some of his fellow travelers may have arrived, lived and died hundreds of years ago, their locators long dead. Others could arrive far in his future, when he was long gone. But the plan was that enough would arrive in close enough temporal vicinity to meet up, band together and thrive, planting the seed for humanity’s new start, a one time chance for a makeover. The last card played by a dead world. That place was entirely gone now, the timeline wiped out the moment the children catastrophically disrupted the temporal flow with their journey. He took Dad’s gift out of his pocket. It was a thin sheet of shiny, metallic material. At first it seemed empty, but when he held it at a certain angle into this younger sun’s light, a three-dimensional image appeared over it. A full-color hologram. The technology had been an expensive luxury even before the collapse. Somehow Dad had found someone who could still make them. It was like looking through a window in thin air into another room. There were his parents, in each other’s arms, looking at him with pride and hope. Nothing of them remained in the universe, except his memories and this small memento. He wanted nothing more than to step through the phantasmal window and join them, even if it meant oblivion in a doomed world. He tore himself away, and put the mirage back in his pocket. Daniel set out to find a new home, where he could wait for the rest of humanity to join him, and begin again.

The rose-colored rays radiated and bounced through and in between the blooming leaves like a tennis ball between rackets arriving at the destination it had travelled light years to see: a forty-ounce miller high life. A truly story book ending if I’ve ever seen one. Maybe it was the high life that was truly emitting the rays. Perception is reality in that way, and I like to believe the latter of my two options. Unfortunately, it seemed I was the only one to hold this belief. “Springdale branch is now set to arrive – 15 --minutes late” The automated machine bellows. The shirts and ties, dresses, polos, and whatever the fuck that man by the ticket machine is wearing all groan. Only half mean it. The other half because they are supposed to. To me, there seems no better occasion to take a swig. Fuck, the high life is warm in my hands. I drink but not after the sun has taken its fair share. The beer bites my tongue with a de facto carbonation in the same manner that a dorsal spine of a sunfish will prick the finger. The toll must be paid in these conditions. This sweat is stuck to my forehead like fast food grill grease grips onto a burger at the end of a dinner rush. The scent of the sun is prominent, and the only mixer added in is this financial man’s cologne that makes for a concoction that hits the olfactory system of my brain like Ali hits a punching bag. The high life is empty. What happened to all the good souls? I mean look at these people. Their feet are stuck 4 inches deep in cement and their faces angled parallel to the ground. That just cant be good for the neck. The notifications play ping pong between my ears with the cacophonous laugh of the woman behind me who just heard a terrible joke from someone whose opinion she values a little too much and there’s a symphony of fake nails on glass that tap like marbles on a countertop and here comes the train in the distance but the sounds of whooshing dominate to send a pointless message transmitted through hundreds of miles of an air filled medium just to be forgotten about by some jackass that probably hasn’t had a real conversation about their hopes out of all this in years and the bells start to toll as the candy-cane-striped gate comes anchoring down but no one looks at this beautiful man-made contraption that can fly on land. No one has looked in years. The horn blasts the air surrounding my head and pins my ear drums to my temple with the ferocity of a staple to a stack of papers. My feet are light. The only one lifted from cement. I gather courage. The same courage that you get at the top of the high dive to take the next step. And I take it. Into the shallow abyss. To free my soul. But it is not me that you should pity, it’s the others still on the platform.

I am Dr. Auto Onset, from the True full armored mecha liberation army (or A.L.A). i'm now a scientist and writing these logs by hand is the only option available. I seriously doubt we’ll ever share these logs with other sites but what other choice to I have? Somebody needs to hear the last cry of humanity. The how things got the way they did i don’t know… the only facts I know is what the public has released and what other members have recorded. 6 Months ago we as a civilization made First contact with beings we called “ Yells' '. Yells looks like a giant insectoid with 8 legs on the bottom of its body in a circle with 1 eye, no mouth and 4 arms. It's rumored to be 164 feet tall(50M) with everything else being unknown. The creature first appeared as a meteor that was supposed to fly by according to NASA . They were confident and we weren’t worried. But it was almost as if it changed its mind while passing. When they used the James Webb Mk.3 they saw in real time over the course of a few hours the meteor swing around earth using its gravitational pull and throw itself onto the moon. It only took a few more hours after to for NASA to alert all the nation but to also but together a synchronized effort to have all 23 Space observation telescope to point at the moon in the direction of the creatures landing. For Weeks the telescopes where fixed on the moon and the only unusual thing they noticed was the enormous amount of dust that had shot off from the moon into space over time. We only knew what the creature looked like because the World figured out how to best use all 23 telescopes optimally allowing a clear few of the surface but in an area no larger than a college campus. with some luck creature that happened to move into the telescope's line of sight allowing us for the first time to see what was in our backyard the entire time… \[END, Log 1\] “It’s Dr. Auto onset, I may or may not continue to put my name in the start of the logs as i don't want people to get their papers mixed with mines nor do i want someone to try and claim what someone else has been saying to me. Even though these logs are supposed to be for scientific data I think recalling and sharing experiences is far more valuable to my mental health at the moment. I’m currently on site F- an experimental facility in Alaska created in response to the potential alien threat. The government has 6 other bases that I know of. Site A tried to combat the alien using biochemistry to create something that could potentially destroy its DNA. Site B was rumored to be a factory that creates most of the weapons the post alien world uses, site F- has a small reserve for researcher's but the ammo is limited. Site C was dedicated specifically to the search and rescue of other humans out within the world, ironically Site C was the first one created and was running in full effect even before alien invasion officially began. This site really was a testament to how serious the government was taking the threat public and ironically again it was the public who pressured the government into the creation of the 6 sites. Site D was a site to nullify or reverse anything ailments or infections that the insectoids cause. All we know for sure from the site D has confirmed is that once you have a late-stage infection, site D it's advised to chop the body part off and keep it in a jar of liquid nitrogen. Site E was the containment center holding the most unique and capturable of insectoids they could get their hands on, the place Where their security and knowledge is king. Finally, that brings us to F- the final site at least that I'm aware of, Site F- was created to combat the leader of the alien race directly through A giant piloted mech suit that harnesses the natural lightning of the planet as a power source. Site F was easily the most ambitious and, in my opinion, the biggest waste of time and as you would expect given the situation I'm in the minority. Most think it's fundamental just a larger application of things we've done before. A culmination of human ingenuity and brilliance, to That I say; what is brilliance to something beyond our understanding. \[End.

I entered a small, rickety building off Talsa Drive. “Welcome to TB Halstead, what can I get you?” “I’d like to order the Last Wing, please,” I said amicably. I wouldn’t be lying to you when I said that the whole restaurant went absolutely silent. A whole restaurant, Friday night, and you can hear a pin drop. “Sir, are you sure you want to order that?” the waitress asked in a whisper. I’ve heard rumors, of course. Rumors about how spicy it is, how it will make you hallucinate, all kinds of things. I’ve never been one to trust rumors, and I don’t intend to start now. “Yes,” I said, after a moment’s silence. The waitress left then, and came back with several forms. “I’ll just need you to fill in all these forms before we can serve you,” said the waitress. I smiled and nodded. The forms were your standard waiver forms, though one was distinctly… not. It started with “Are you a human?”, and although it was only five pages long, some of the terms meant more than one time I have had to ask the waitress, who thankfully knew her stuff. After filling out all the forms, I handed it back to her. While I wouldn’t admit it to anyone, the forms were making me reconsider my choices. The wings came up to me on a plate. They were bright red, almost glowing with the spice. Most of the patrons have started whispering amongst themselves about how I am a madman, and how I cannot possibly handle the spice. The first bite was intensely juicy. The still-warm juice spilled out of the wing, out of my mouth, and onto the wings, where they instantly evaporated. The heat came like an unsuspecting left hook. Immediately, the waterworks started. “Oh boy,” I said, quietly. “Something wrong, sir?” asked the waitress. “No, nothing,” I lied. “If you need anything, I’ll be there in a snap,” smiled the waitress, before she departed, leaving me to face the wings. Alone. Usually, when people eat spicy food, it sends signals to the pain receptors, which sends to the brain, and the brain, thinking you’re in danger, sends back sensations of pain to dissuade you from continuing to eat whatever it is that sets this off in the first place. After three or four wings, sweat was pouring down my face, and every sliver of skin that was in contact with the sauce was tingling, not unlike static on your skin. I would have gotten milk or something, anything, to tame the spice, but that would be a forfeit. And I never back down from a challenge. About two-thirds of my way through the plate, the fire pits have opened. Twice I put my half-eaten wing down to wipe away my sweat (thankfully they have napkins at the ready), but they really came and never stopped coming. By this point, my whole body felt like it was on fire, yet my hands and feet felt ice cold, as if the heat had retreated, besieged by ice. I stared at the plate, willing myself to continue on, despite the nauseous feeling. The feeling subsided soon enough, but I knew I had to be quick, if I want any chances of finishing the plate. I locked eyes with the last wing on the plate. Looking at the tiny wing on the now comically large plate, I could not help but grin. I am almost at the finish line. I picked up the wing and ate it. Its bone now joined its brethren of fallen wings. “You, sir, are quite something else,” said the owner. “I felt like I ran a marathon,” I replied, my lips still tingling with spice. “Don’t worry, it’ll cool off in a few hours,” the owner nodded. I smiled weakly at him, “You got milk or anything?” “Yeah, let me get you some. But first, a photo, if you will?” I was too tired by this point, so I just nodded. The owner snapped his fingers, and the waitress from earlier took out an old Casio camera. “Smile!” said the owner. The camera flashed, and everyone clapped.

Hi everyone, I'd like to share my latest story with you all. It's a tale of superpower, betrayal, and escape. I hope you enjoy it and I desperately need your feedback to keep my motivation to write! +++++ I first met that boy at my father's funeral. He was wearing an oversized coat. Under the hood, his messy hair peeked out, obscuring his face. Spring rain is always precious, and that day, it rained for a long time. Fog rose in the cemetery, and I could smell the damp earth. My father's close friend, Mike Yelton, stepped forward and patted my shoulder. With a sorrowful expression, he turned to look at my father's tombstone. "Ricki, your father's gone." He reached out to touch my dad's tombstone, his voice growing hoarse and thick with emotion. "I'll be your father now, and you'll grow up safe and happy." "Kaze, come here," he called, signaling the boy to come closer. "This is Ricki joining our family." "I'll treat you like my own child," he said, looking at Kaze and then back at me. "This is my adopted son, Kaze. He's about your age. Let him take care of you." The boy looked at me, and beneath his tousled hair was a fair, delicate face. His beautiful eyes were a light yellow-green, reminding me of the autumn wind. Around his neck, he had something that looked like a collar, making him seem like... Yelton's trained dog. "I'm Kaze." he said. Kaze isn't just any adopted son. He is Yelton's best assassin, one of the few with superpower. He can control the wind. Once I witnessed Kaze using his power. It was during my middle school years when a group of rival gang members kidnapped me. Kaze stopped their car, and with just a wave of his hand, the wind around him was forged into sharp blades. He controlled these wind blades to slice the kidnappers into pieces, the mysterious tattoos on his arms glowing as he used his powers. In the blink of an eye, the area around us was littered with dismembered bodies. The glow from the tattoos dimmed, and he seemed very weak. I wanted to go and help him, but the overwhelming smell of blood made me hesitate. Kaze collapsed in the middle of the "battlefield" and pulled out a small glass vial, about the length of a pinky finger, from his pocket. Inside was some bright-colored powder, sparkling like finely crushed gold. He fumbled with the collar around his neck, found a slot, and inserted the vial into it. I watched as the golden powder was quickly absorbed, and the colors of his arm tattoos brightened again, as if he had been reborn. This was the effect of "Sweet Dreams". With that, there was no mission Kaze couldn't complete. We grew up together. I lived a normal life—going to school, making friends, and pursuing my hobbies—while he was always the top assassin in the organization, taking on the most dangerous and dirtiest jobs. Kaze's reputation as the top killer remained for many years, until we reached adulthood. Yelton threw a lavish party for me, inviting many of his associates. He told me to dress up and stay by his side. To the guests, I probably seemed very lucky to be his adopted daughter, but only I knew the truth—Yelton had made it clear that once I came of age, I would be his. So, after tonight, things would get very dangerous for me. He introduced me to the crowd, then headed off to greet his important guests. I gripped the staircase railing, looking for Kaze in the crowd. Unfortunately, he wasn't there. As I glanced at hte guests, I recognized several notable figures: a state senator, a leading candidate for the next presidential election, wealthy Wall Street executives, and a former president's close aide. This made it clear that Yelton had enormous power now. Defying his commands was simply not an option. Fear gripped me, like I was trapped in an invisible web. I could hardly breathe. "I need... I need some fresh air." I made my way to the rooftop terrace. The moonlight outside was lovely. As I looked out, I saw the estate's gates slowly opening and a car driving in. The car looked unremarkable, just a typical Chevy you could see anywhere in America. Yet, the low, rumbling roar of the engine was familiar, like a sleeping lion's snore. I knew that sound well—it was Kaze's car. He had returned from his mission. Desperate to see him, I rushed down the stairs, realizing that after tonight, my safety could no longer be guaranteed. However, I was stopped at the door by Yelton. "Where do you think you're going?" Yelton blocked my way, his figure outlined by the moonlight. The guests' chatter and the blaring music only added to my anxiety. I avoided his gaze, too scared to speak. "I... I..." "Sir." Kaze's voice interrupted from behind him. He looked pale and exhausted, lips colorless. "Mission accomplished." "Good." Yelton nodded. "Go get something to eat." "Sir..." Kaze lowered his voice. "I need Sweet Dreams. Please, give me Sweet Dreams." Yelton let out a short, harsh sound from his throat. His voice was low and raspy as he commanded, "Follow me." I glanced at Kaze, silently begging for his help, but he only met my eyes for a moment before looking away. They went into the study, disappearing from my sight. After a while, they reappeared. From my spot in the corner of the party, I saw Yelton searching the crowd for me. It didn't take long for him to find me. He marched over, seized my wrist, and pulled me into the study. Yelton's study was forbidden territory for me; he had never allowed me to enter before. He pulled me roughly past several towering bookshelves. At the end of the last row, I saw a space glowing with warm light. As we got closer, my view gradually became clearer. It looked like a... memorial altar, for my father. The clock struck midnight, and my heart thumped with each chime. "My child, do you still remember him?" Yelton's hand rested on my shoulder, his rough thumb rubbing the back of my neck, making me tremble uncontrollably. "Of course, he was my father." "Wrong," Yelton said. "I am your father. He was a traitor to our organization!" In a sudden fit of rage, he slammed my head against the wall, pressing my cheek hard against it. All I could see was the old black-and-white photo of my father, his warm smile like a spring breeze. "You're not my father," I spat out through gritted teeth. "My father was a kind man. He would never treat me like this." He didn't reply, just squinted at my father's photo, seeming lost in thought. After a long silence, he said, "We clawed our way up from the bottom, building our dark empire piece by piece. But do you know? I treated him like my own brother, I was willing to live and die for him, and he..." He raised his hand, pointing at my father's photo, his eyes filled with rage. "He was a goddamn CIA agent, an undercover spy the whole time!" "You tell me! Did he deserve to die?!" His hand tore at my clothes, his actions becoming frantic and irrational. "He's watching us. Do you think if I take you right in front of him, he'd get so angry he'd come back to life? Hahaha—" I struggled fiercely, my hand groping wildly until it grabbed a thick book from the nearby shelf. I swung it back, hitting him hard. He grunted and collapsed. I quickly pulled my clothes together and fled. The cool night wind hit me as I pushed open the door. I immediately spotted Kaze's car, its exhaust pipe huffing. He seemed about to leave. I ran to him, pulled open the car door, and jumped into the back seat. Breathless and still trembling, I said— "Kaze, we grew up together. Now I need to ask you for a favor." He looked at me through the rearview mirror, waiting for me to continue. "Take me away.

[AN] also themes of psychological realism CW for mention of suicide. On Monday I became invisible. I don't mean that in a metaphorical, psychological, or spiritual way. I have become invisible and I'm starting to go mad.I feared that I had passed at first, but my body was with me. I could touch people, eat, sleep, and feel the wind on my face. I didn't seem to have any supernatural powers like walking through walls. I could very well be dead and since this is my first time experiencing death it would make sense for me to not understand it. For the most part it was just me enjoying my life without worry of being interrupted, cut off, stared at, bossed around, or nagged by people. I frequently almost get hit by oncoming traffic but I don't blame them. Even when I was visible I almost got flattened in this city. People bump into me alot more now and that doesn't make me feel great at all. I try to apologize, but noone can hear me either. For those reasons I avoid going out at busy hours now. I have enough food in my apartment to last for weeks and it's only been five days. On Tuesday, after the initial shock of discovering what was going on, it was like a dream come true. I could still use my phone to give my manager some excuse that is more believable than sudden invisibility. After the fear subsided, I was at peace for a short time. I could still hear people outside my windows being their usual loud, and vexing selves. I could deal with that; I've learned to tune them out. Even though I've tried my hardest to create a quiet life for myself, I can't escape every single person on earth. On Wednesday I thought about this more. Would I even want to escape everyone? I don't have any living relatives I talk to, and I don't really have any friends either. The only people I talked to consistently were my coworkers but I keep them at a distance from my personal life. I come off as a schizoid, but it's not that I don't like anyone. I've learned from a young age that sometimes the cost of relationships outweighs the benefits. This belief has been challenged lately. I found myself missing some things about being visible. Babies would smile at me alot. No reason why. I'm no model, but I'm not ugly either, maybe they see something I don't. Simple, short interactions with people that either made me chuckle or embarrassed is an aspect of everyday life that I'm starting to long for again. Even non verbal forms of communication like gestures, nods, and physical touch are things I never even thought were so important to me. I work at a restaurant as a barback and even though my interactions with my coworkers are short, they are often pleasant except if I mess up on something. Even still, the small amount of validation that I am a human person that takes up space in this world and exists is something I yearn for again. That yearning then spiraled into an almost primal need for someone, anyone to see me. As the hours passed by I started to feel a kind of despair that I cannot describe that well in words. I didn't sleep that night and watched the sun rise, but felt nothing. I started to experience feelings of depersonalisation and derealization for a few moments on Thursday. Let me tell you something, feeling that while also knowing that you are in fact invisible is something you can only understand through experience. Thursday felt a little too surreal. I could no longer keep my existential thoughts at bay. I spiraled further into a depressive state. I wondered why I couldn't find peace within myself. I started to question who I even was. Even without this whole invisibility situation going on, I'm not sure I ever figured that out. One would think this is the best time to go out and “find yourself” but what does that even mean? I fear becoming invisible didn't create these feelings but only amplified them. I suppose a lot of who I thought I was was based on what I did. Usually I'd just go to work, go to the pub, then come home and sip Moscato while watching the tonight show. Obviously that wasn't a good enough answer for me so I started to think of my accomplishments. I was a gifted kid, turned burnt out adult so my accomplishments were mostly in my childhood. I kept hitting walls in my own thinking so I tried to think about how other people felt. I researched online and it seems that most people figure out who they are very early in their life. It's subject to change, but it's mostly built through life experiences and interactions. I've always felt like most people have their very own distinct vibrations. Every thought and belief is like a soundwave that reverberates off the walls that enclose their inner self. I don't hear much within myself. I have no echo within me. Today I thought about suicide. Stood on the balcony and let my thoughts come and go. I decided not to, because if I truly had no idea who I was then before I die I should at least know who I am. If it turns out that I'm just an evil person in disguise, then maybe I should do the right thing. But I really don't think I am. For right now, I guess, I'll just start with my name. I am Zephyr. That's who I am. And if there is any God or deity out there that can hear me or read my thoughts please know that for the rest of my life I will find myself. Right now I'm sitting in an empty seat at a café typing away. Hopefully no one decides to try to sit here. People have been avoiding this seat since this morning. I think I'm truly going mad because I thought I saw a little girl staring at me again. The mother said she likes me. I became visible on friday.

The crisp air of Mussoorie enveloped me as I returned to my ancestral home after thirteen years. Memories flooded my mind, especially those of a childhood friend whose laughter lingered in the recesses of my memory. Her image remained vivid—a bubbly girl with lush black hair intertwined into curls framing her rosy-cheeked face. It was the summer of '99 when we shared a tender moment, our first kiss, just before I departed for Delhi, merely a month after my 13th birthday. Fate had swept me away, leaving behind cherished memories and an ache in my heart. Returning to Mussoorie, I sought her amidst familiar streets and homes, only to find her residence occupied by strangers. But fate always has a peculiar way of reuniting kindred spirits, I liked to believe so for faith was one of the few things keeping me together nowadays- I sighed. One particular serendipitous day, while lost in the reverie of our past adventures, I glimpsed a figure in the woods—familiar, yet surreal. I raced out of the house at her sight and dashed after her, my heart pounding in anticipation but before I could get to her, she vanished into the foliage. Disheartened, I scoured the woods almost at the brink of losing hope of ever meeting her again until a tap on my shoulder jolted me. I whipped around and there she stood, the embodiment of my memories, in her spotless floral gown with her deer-doe eyes mirroring the longing buried within my own. “Naina” My chest rose and fell unsteadily, my heart heavy in this surreal moment. Though a stoic, her eyes ignited with fervency with her lips twisted into a tender smile as a wave of familiarity passed through her. “Nikki...” She uttered under her breath. A smile played on my lips as I nodded, my eyes tearing up with joy- only she could call me that out of all the people dear to me. No more words were said, none were needed as she fell into my embrace. Even after all these years, I felt the same warmth as I had before leaving this place. That evening we walked down the trail like we used to in the sweet bygone days. Our conversations flowed effortlessly, weaving stories of the past. She recounted her absence, the sale of her childhood home, and her new life in another part of town. “It’s so beautiful, this moonlit night” She remarked as we trotted our way back “Sure it is… just like the old days” I remarked and then, partly hoping to spend more time with her, offered to walk her home. “Thank you Nikki but don’t worry yourself with it… I know these woods better than anyone, they don’t let anything happen to me” She replied. I found her response peculiar but decided not to press her further. We met frequently after that, sharing moments lost to time, culminating in the reawakening of our young love amidst Mussoorie's enchanting fall. And then one evening, below the same deodar that had witnessed our selfless love blossom years ago, our love rekindled as stolen glances said more than what words ever could. Yet, fate seemed to play its hand once more. Days turned into an anxious wait as she vanished, leaving me adrift in a sea of uncertainty. Desperation crept in, questioning my actions. The reunion that once kindled hope now brewed doubts. I wandered amidst the woods, seeking her in every familiar corner, each rustle of leaves raising hope and despair in equal measure. It was in those woods, in the hallowed serenity of our cherished spot beneath the deodar tree, that I found her again. I confronted her, partly relieved to see her. Perhaps I had been too bold that evening, maybe I had misinterpreted her gaze for loving glance… I thought But this instance was different for her eyes, usually brimming with mirth and mischief, now held a sorrow I couldn't comprehend. She hesitated, her voice barely a whisper. "Nikki, there are things... I've been hiding." I urged her gently, reassuring her with a comforting squeeze of her hand. "You can trust me, Naina. Whatever it is, we'll face it together." With a deep breath, she recounted an unsettling revelation. Traces of anguish laced her words as she spoke about inexplicable marks on her wrists and neck- I noticed- a haunting reminder of a date etched into her memory—16th October 2003- Her 18th birthday. Her words came as a blow to my conscience as I failed to wrap my head around it. Yet her eyes were convincing enough to make me doubt my own perception of reality. Questions tumbled in my mind like leaves caught in a tempest but this tussle inside my mind subsided as soon as she revealed a piece of paper- a newspaper clipping. I took it with my fingers which trembled- my conscious filled with terrible foreboding. My heart sank as my eyes stumbled upon the headline- “Mussoorie in Mourning: The Unsettling Truth Behind Murder of an 18-Year-Old” the newspaper screamed, mentioning the name of my childhood friend, Naina. My chest started feeling heavier as I found it harder to breath with each passing instance. I tenaciously tried to keep myself together, to hold back the tears that had started to well-up in my eyes but a mere glance upon her lush black hair playing willfully in gentle breeze save two curls that guarded her round, pretty little face pushed me over the brink as I started to cry my heart out. She was the sole remanent of my childhood that I adored… I found myself mourning the death of that part of me that ended with her. “Why did you come again for me Naina…?” I sniffled, remorse of leaving the town along with her weighing heavily on my conscious "I could never leave you, Nikki," her voice trembled, choked with emotion. "I had to protect you." Confusion mingled with the ache in my chest. "Protect me? From what, Naina?" She placed a tender hand over my eyes, calming the torrent of questions inside me, and placed a gentle kiss on my cheek, a bittersweet gesture laden with a cascade of emotions. Her whispered words stirred the very fabric of my being. “Why did you have to go Nikki?” her words tore through my chest. Tears cascaded down my cheeks, mingling with the remnants of her love. Eyes closed, I dared to surrender to the warmth of her touch, finding her face and drawing her close. Our lips met, an affirmation of an enduring bond, a union transcending the boundaries of time and fate. "I won't ever leave you again... promise to stay with me till the end," I vowed, the words carrying the weight of a lifetime of longing. She enveloped me in her embrace, allowing us to melt in each other’s arms and together we reclined on the grassy bed, reminiscent of our carefree days.

I had undergone some changes. All things change, mind you. It's the way of things. It's nature. No frog can remain a tadpole forever. No butterfly can stay in their chrysalis. My changes were just more drastic than most. And the time period more vast. In my youth, I had believed myself powerful. I had been the head of an entire nation. I had temples in my honor, statues to depict my glory. Now, I am Mr. Dancer, and I am a grade school teacher. More like an assistant, really. I go about the classroom, checking on the students, make sure they're doing their lessons and not causing too much trouble. Sometimes I dedicate some time to have a one-on-one with the kids. See how they're feeling, give them a quick pop quiz, and offer some encouragement where I can. Right now, the day was winding down and it was "free time". Everyone was milling about the room, simply doing what they liked most. A few of the less fortunate were being made to finish the math problems they couldn't get to at the end of Ms. Smith's math lesson. I looked to one of the boys, Tré, as he stared in frustration at his paper. He rubbed one of his answers away and proceeded to work at it again. He and a few of his fellow students had not taken the lessons on multiplication tables very well. I looked to the board which hung at the very front of the class, just above Ms. Smith's desk. It was a large grid, lined with student names and classroom subjects. Each student had a number of glittering golden star stickers noting the number of perfect scores they had received in that subject. I looked to Tré's name and saw the small handful of stars he had earned. I began pushing on the board, bending some of the room's ambient light into one precise spot. In the corner of his eye, Tré caught a slight glimmer. He turned further in my direction, seeing the bright shine of several gold stars on the board. He took in a sharp breath and turned back to the paper, working dilligently. I smiled, turning my attention back to the board. At first, I believed the stars were worthless. Just stickers made to look valuable. It took me a little while to learn that, to the children, they might as well truly be solid gold. I turned my attention from the board back to the classroom. It was a shame that some had been forced to finish their work. My heart went out to them. They were missing out on a truly rigorous game of Go Fish only one table over. A few of the kids had recently discovered the concept of gambling, and a raven-haired boy named Jay had just won seven candies, much to the annoyance of his fellow players. Aside from them, Jamie and her little crew were reading some of the simpler Roald Dahl books, Jackson and Lonnie were playing little games they had made up on the fly, and David was doing arts and crafts over by the edge of the room. "Hello, David!" I said, approaching the small blond child. He did not respond, instead he was staring intently at his paper as his pencil worked, his hair hanging down in a curtain hiding his face. David was a very serious child. He sat by himself whenever he could. Didn't like it when people bugged him to often. Didn't laugh as much as the others and mostly kept to himself, doodling whenever the mood struck him. "Whatcha drawing, buddy?" I said, leaning over to catch a glimpse of his latest masterpiece. For David, masterpiece is only a mild exaggeration. See, David's father was an old school fantasy nerd. In the 80s, he had caught the bug and gotten himself addicted to a popular tabletop game, and had been riding that wave ever since. David, when he was four years old, found his father's old sourcebooks and became inspired, tracing some of the art to hang up in his room. He was six now. And most children his age were able to draw the odd squiggle or rough shape. Some could make a decent looking duck or cat. David had put his colored pencils to work and drawn the head of a red dragon. It was still rough, with some odd and misshapen bits. The scales were mostly just a bunch of odd circles, and the teeth were just jagged triangles; but, for a boy his age, this had taken time and concentration as well as a memory that most of his peers didn't quite possess. "David! That's amazing, buddy!" I said, staring down at it. He didn't respond to it. Not that I expected him to. Instead, I placed a hand on the top of his head and gave the paper a quick tap. The dragon began to stretch. Its odd, serpentine eye blinked awake as its jaws opened wide. A crude gout of spikey orange fire erupted from behind its jagged teeth before it returned to its original state. I peeked down past the little wall of blond hair, and saw David's eyes lit up with an inspired look that screamed "I can do even better!" As he withdrew another paper and set himself to work. I gave him a pat on the back and left him to it. I loved my job. Truly. It was the last thing I had expected. Even twenty years ago, I wouldn't have even considered this job. I would have simply slept my life away, wasting away into nothing. A few thousand years ago, I would have deemed it beneath me. It was hard to remember what I was doing at the time that was so important I could neglect my people for so long. I didn't recall creating anything particularly exciting or controlling the weather. I certainly wasn't monitoring battlefields. It struck me in that moment that I had forgotten the type of god that I was. Not a war god, a creator, or a storm god. A sun god, perhaps? No. The bell rang, pulling me from my thoughts. I looked about the room, all of the class had their attention solely on Ms. Smith. "Okay, class! Clean up your areas and line up at the door. Quickly!" The young lady said authoritatively before launching into a rendition of "the cleanup song". They moved dutifully, compelled by the little song the teacher hummed. Each hopped to attention, forming little bucket chains to neatly pass their materials back to the shelves they came from. It was sweet, seeing how much they all wanted to look responsible. A smile spread from the front of each line to the backs, as a sense of satisfaction filled the room. *A god of order?* When the floors and desks were cleared of debris, the children gathered the bags from their assigned cubbies and lined up at the classroom door. Each child passed the threshold, muttering "Goodbye Ms. Smith" to their teacher as they left for the weekend. Jay, who had strategically placed himself at the very back of the line, looked intently at the portrait hung beside the door, along with its accompanying dish. It was a poster depicting a handsome middle-aged man staring sagely off in the middle distance, his dark hair blowing behind him as he looked off in thought. The little raven-hared boy smiled, withdrawing the handful of candies he had won off of his classmates, and placed them in the dish. "Goodbye Mr. Dancer. Goodbye Ms. Smith." He said as he made his way out the door and past his teacher. As Jay scampered down the hall, following his friends, Ms. Smith, Deidre as she was called after school hours, closed the door behind her, looking into my offering dish as she passed it. It was a little plastic cauldron a previous teacher had bought from the dollar store during St. Patrick's Day. *A saint, perhaps?* She took note of the small pile of strawberry candies inside and sighed. "Hope that kid never goes to Vegas when he's older." She said as she made her way back to her desk. She spent the next couple hours making up her lessons for Monday, finishing the grading on her worksheets, and polishing off what little coffee she had left in her thermos. She tended to take her time with the paperwork, often leaving the school a little later than most of her colleagues. I actually enjoyed that part. In twenty years at the school, I rarely had a teacher who didn't immediately try to leave and go home to catch some program or see their spouse. It was nice to have the company as I did my own after school work. I looked through the paperwork Deidre was grading and saw that Tré had answered every question on his math sheet correctly. I beamed with a small amount of pride at that. With how much he was struggling earlier, it was nice to see him come out on top. "I knew you could do it, buddy." I said as I turned my attention to the board. I couldn't add another star to it. That was beyond my power. Still, a 100% deserved some form of reward. So instead, I did the next best thing. I altered the shine on some of the stars, dimming them down just slightly and giving that leftover luster to Tré's. When he came in tomorrow, they would shine just a little brighter than the others. Nobody else would notice, not even Deidre. But Tré would. And that was what mattered. In addition to Tré's success, Jamie had gotten the top grade on her English worksheet, which meant that Independent Reading Time would run a little long tomorrow. Stretching time by a few minutes would do the trick, allowing her to squeeze in another Patricia Polacco book. Honestly, she went through those books so quickly it was a wonder there were any left for her. Jay, meanwhile, had completely failed his social studies quiz. That meant, as much as it hurt me to do so, He'd have a run of bad luck during tomorrow's free time. You have to study if you want to be a winner. Simple as that. Maybe Lonnie would get a chance to win then. This train of thought continued roughly until I looked at my offering bowl. I ultimately decided to take it easy on him. The boy didn't exactly have the makings of a priest, or a scholar for that matter, but he always gave some of his winnings to me, so I couldn't complain. It's not always luck, or random chance. Sometimes you just win over the right god, and they look out for you. Speaking as a god, it's just nice to have someone willing to sacrifice some of their winnings for you. That was an honest form of worship. It can't be bought with favors or coerced out of someone. "I might be biased, but maybe Vegas is the right place for him." I said to Deidre, who continued her silent grading. "Who knows. Maybe he'll win over some god of wealth and end up set for life." *A god of wealth?* I shook off the thought and turned to Deidre. She didn't respond to me, of course. She couldn't hear me. My influence was decent, but terribly small scale. I had enough power to be present, but not enough to be truly known. I could touch things, but not move them. Speak, but not be heard. I could not change the form of things, but brush against their nature just enough to change them. She did, however, feel my presence to a degree. I made her coffee stronger during tough mornings, helping her to wake up and stay alert. The AC was bad, so I made the classroom warmer in the winters and cooler in the summer. And on the off chance she came to class after a night out with friends, I eased the pain a little, making sure her headaches weren't too bad. I heaved a sigh. The things I do for adults are often thankless. They refuse to think in the abstracts, often relying on the myths and falsehoods they call "logic" to solve their problems. They cannot comprehend the very simple idea that a piece of strawberry candy placed into a dollar store plastic cauldron could possibly ease a headache. Yet, a chalk-coated pill can do it. As though that made any more sense. Deidre and I finally wrapped up our evening duties, and she gathered her things. As she made her way to the door, she paused and looked into the offering bowl. She bit her lip slightly in contemplation. I chuckled a bit to myself. "Take a couple and go. You earned it. I'll see you Monday." She sighed, having conceded some form of internal argument, and I felt a tiny portion of my power wane as she plucked two of the foil-wrapped sweets from my bowl. Not enough to do any real damage, but it was noticeable. I sat in the silence for a while, contemplating. It would be a few days before I could take my mind off of this suddenly burning question. What was I before this? What matter of god was I? I could speed and slow the flow of time. Was I a god of time, then? And what about luck? I could control that to some extent. Could I have been a god of fortune? I had changed. Of course I did. All things change. But does that change matter if you don't know where you started from? How do you know change has even occurred? The longer I sat there, the more I began to think. What had my name been, all that time ago? What was I worshipped for? It was lost now. A dream of a dream. So far removed, it was the ghost of a memory. What...what was I? I took a breath and decided to take a step away from the classroom. Perhaps a vacation was in order. I looked to the locations in my mind, the places I could travel to freely. Two existed. One was my classroom, and the other was... I arrived in the antechamber of a small, single room temple. It was a peasant's temple. One built on the outskirts of some farmland. For a few thousand years, it was my resting place. At once tomb and bedchamber. It was cool, with the slight damp that comes from years of humid air rolling inside with no place to escape. It was the last remaining artifact of my previous life. I entered the altar room, seeing the space where offerings were once laid. The slight divot in the stone table. Once, there was a gold bowl sat there. The farmer would leave portions of figs, cheeses, and meats were left there. Meager offerings to appease me and call for aid. *A god of harvest?* I looked to the figure standing atop the altar. Time had worn away at its appearance. It looked vaguely humanoid, not that it mattered much. There wasn't much left to the face of it. Mostly a few mossy green smudges where the eyes and mouth once were. The real identifying mark were the long, twisting limbs that vaguely resembled those of a gymnast or... "Dancer." I said aloud, thinking back to the last time this space was used. It was a simple thing. A child, a little girl, left a tiny piece of strawberry flavored taffy on an old, dirty table for a god she didn't know existed I paused and looked to the entryway. I had spent so long in enclosed spaces. Sealed off classrooms and damp temples. If I was a god of the sun or harvest, would I not be better suited out there? I took a deep breath, content to step outside and feel the warm embrace of the sun for the first time in millennia. So I did. And I saw what remained of the fields around my temple.

I: THE PLIGHTED STATES OF AMERICA Behold…the shattered remains of a once-glorious metropolis. The thick smog hinders my vision. It matters not. High rises fill the landscape with neither natural shrubs nor wild critters for miles. Shame really, living in a world where natural beauty is in such short supply with so little demand. Countries are more prosperous than ever, yet their cultures and well-being are poorer than they have been in centuries. As predicted by scientists, in the latter half of the 21^(st) Century, nearly half of Americans live to at least a hundred years old. I spot another centenarian walking briskly. Even a few decades ago, you never would have seen someone so old who appears so healthy. Then again, countless scientific and technological advancements have now shown time and again that biological age does not need to mirror chronological age. Imagine that. The cost of living in America is higher than ever, and the average, micro-plastic-infused person lives half a lifetime longer today than someone in the same socio-economic strata would have lived a few centuries ago. With modest retirement accounts, many older Americans worked beyond their limitations at the expense of their physical and mental health. That is, if they remained highly profitable to their employers...if not, they were thanked for their loyalty with swift layoffs, never to work again because of covert age discrimination. Almost inaudibly to my weary ears, the centenarian exchanges pleasantries with a much younger-looking jogger before zooming out of earshot. Same as half a century ago, this country is inhabited by Americans who say hello by asking others how they are, even though very few care about the well-being of strangers. Meanwhile, in the most limited-resource parts of the world, people who stress about finding their subsequent meals and shelter for the coming storms have little time to think about how they feel. The world of today barely resembles that of my grandparents’ childhood. Access to phones expanded beyond booths and lines. Smartphones half a foot in length became a thousand times more powerful than the wall-sized computers from their youth. These phones accessed far more extensive maps than those from the mid-20th century and received more expansive local, regional, national, and world news than early radio stations and television channels, which could be finger-counted. Phones accessed The Internet without computers and books without libraries. Nothing reminds me of the world's transformation more than libraries. At the start of the millennium, libraries shifted from knowledge centers into community centers. They transformed from a place where book renters shushed hordes of unruly children into a hub for educational and cultural events. Libraries remained the place where parents without the time and money for childcare safely sent their kids for intellectual enrichment. They became essential to the victims of The Digital Divide, like job seekers in limited-resource communities. Within the first few decades of The 21st century, most printed stories had been digitized, while books that were far too obscure to justify digitization costs accumulated dust in academic archives. Libraries became exclusively online and smartphone accessible. Shortly after, tax breaks, government subsidies, and declining networking equipment costs incentivized media conglomerates to provide near-nationwide broadband network coverage…but The Digital Divide still perpetuated knowledge inequities between the affluent and the penniless. "Transportation home." My gaze fixates on the artificial intelligence pin perched snugly below my collar. "Voice recognition complete. Passenger confirmed. Would you like to receive a Three-Point Turn ridesharing vehicle at your precise location?" "Yes." The pin pinpointed my geographical coordinates through G.P.S. before taking a picture of the area around me so the vehicle would find my exact location based on my surroundings. "Sending your car with license plate BN35FA. Please do not move from your current location." A sleek car glistening like silver appears before me. The left front door of the autonomous vehicle opens, and I crawl awkwardly inside. "Take the fastest route?" "Yes." "Route confirmed." I accelerated forward, with the world before, behind, below, and above me. The rise of autonomous vehicles was predictable. Part of human nature is craving agency while fearing the unknown. Relinquishing control to a lifeless machine did not sit well with most people, especially those with the most to lose; rideshare, taxi, and truck drivers, a significant voting bloc. Their interest groups ardently lobbied, and politicians seeking reelection passed laws prohibiting self-driving vehicles for commercial use only. However, the ban on self-driving vehicles for commercial use was short-lived. Empowered by widows and widowers of spouses lost in car accidents, media outlets portrayed autonomous cars as a panacea, a “cure-all,” for vehicular homicides. In pursuit of profit, mega-corporations quietly killed the law by throwing truckloads of money at lobbyists and short-sighted political campaigns. After all, driverless vehicles would cut company costs on delivery drivers-the same folks relieving themselves in the packages they were hired to deliver because of crippling performance pressure. The media proliferated autonomous vehicle ownership in the second half of The 21st century. Advertisers portrayed self-driving cars as investments-more sustainable and convenient than traditional vehicles-a chauffeur without the cost and conversation. Trendy and luxurious, without undue financial burden-a lifestyle. As autonomous vehicle manufacturers competed, innovation flourished. Driving efficiency reached inhuman levels. Vehicular homicide rates declined with car insurance rates, further enhancing the marketability of self-driving cars. Advertisers shifted to marketing autonomous vehicles as essential and normative as self-driving car ownership extended to most Americans. People became de-sensitized to autonomous vehicles as they increasingly populated the roads, highways, and garages of their families and friends. By the second half of The 21^(st) Century, trepidation became tolerance, tolerance acceptance, and acceptance embracement. In my world, human passengers have replaced human drivers. Autonomous vehicles have become so common that no one describes cars as "self-driving" because those cars are everywhere. Helicopter parents no longer fear what privileged teenagers once dreamed of- the freedom and independence of driving. Vehicle licensure solely requires the ability to steer a car into the shoulder during system failures that disable self-driving features. Never have so many people with such limited freedom roamed so freely. The tightly patented technology transporting me home far surpasses the confines of my mortal reflexes and transcends my physical limitations. Speed limits exist but far exceed previous laws, making daily commutes negligible. Passengers leaving today will awaken tomorrow at their destinations on trips that previously spanned days. Compared to my early years, distance has become far less prohibitive for today's adventurous youths leaving the nest and lovers fighting to sustain their passion coast-to-coast. Yet, access to reliable transportation has remained scarce among those who need it most. Still, limited-resource families and folks with limited mobility seldom own cars. Preexisting rails, subways, buses, and other mass transit infrastructure have become fully autonomous. Unfortunately, such transportation remains few and far between outside of major metropolitan areas. Adequate transit is still absent in many rural areas, many of which are from grocery stores, schools, hospitals, and places of worship. II: THE MINDLESS REVOLUTION Glancing out the window, I see a world unrecognizable from the one just decades before, a reality ravaged by unchecked technological innovation. Self-driving cars and buses populate the streets, passing the holographic advertisements that have ubiquitously replaced billboards. Automatons crowd walkways: paving, de-icing, cleaning the sidewalks, and re-directing traffic in overcrowded areas. My eyes wander upwards towards the countless delivery drones mounted with packages filling the skies. Many great 19th, 20th, and early 21^(st)-century science fiction writers wrote cautionary tales about the dangers of rapidly developing technology that could surpass human cognition and subjugate humanity. Thousands of academics from hundreds of disciplines claimed that the rise of automation would precipitate the propagation of engineers. Authors, academics, politicians, and reporters stared blankly at a distant future while ignoring their crumbling realities. At first, technological advancement paralleled the previous eras of technical transformation. Like The Industrial Revolution, major technological innovations encountered significant public resistance that discouraged new developments. Like cameras, phones, and televisions, humanity greeted technological transformation with cold fear, burning contempt, and sheer disbelief. Initially, the danger and uncertainty of adopting and accepting new technologies outweighed their benefits. However, like self-driving cars, humans gradually accepted new technologies as they became more exposed to, familiar with, and de-sensitized to them. Every self-checkout station obliterated the cashier jobs of spouses, neighbors, and friends. Every robotic arm that creamed coffee, boiled black tea, and heated hot chocolate meant two fewer human arms doing the job. Delivery drones literally took packages out of the hands of delivery drivers. Complacency eventually overshadowed fear and contempt, which marked the beginning of the end. Less than a generation later, artificial intelligence pins replaced smartphones, and large language model-based chatbots displaced many academics, doctors, and almost everyone else. No matter how many fancy degrees someone hung on a finely finished wall, no one's livelihood was safe. Few people acknowledged the irony of when Earth's so-called brilliant coders designed groundbreaking software that could create programs, thereby replacing themselves. Humans were too seduced by the convenience and cost-efficiency of early groundbreaking Artificial Intelligence to consider the long-term implications. Overwhelmed by the exorbitant living costs, few Americans antagonized the minor price cuts to everyday goods afforded by companies replacing the employees on their payrolls with machines. Self-sacrificial compliance was nothing new; people often compromise their beliefs out of desperation when legal systems provide no accountability for predatory corporations. The phenomenon paralleled how so many financially struggling Americans frequently buy the cheapest groceries at the world's largest retailer, notorious for relying on governments to subsidize their starvation wages. It mirrored how everyday people offer their data to tech billionaire companies famous for selling data, and they purchase phones with parts built in sweatshops because those technologies have become necessities. Politicians, mega-corporations, and academics refer to the latter half of The 21st century as ‘The Artificial Intelligence Renaissance.’ Far more swiftly than foreseen by some of the greatest minds of their times, artificial intelligence replaced humans in nearly every capacity. The speed at which Artificial Intelligence improved over such a modest period was unprecedented. The extent to which Artificial Intelligence infiltrated and dominated industries far surpassed the most extreme scientific predictions. The unprecedented technological renaissance primarily derived from mega-corporations devoting their endless resources to technological research and development. Eventually, machine-learning models began replacing human research and developers. Consequentially, technological research and development projects became faster, more self-sustainable, and cheaper than ever before because they no longer required paying human beings who needed to sleep for a third of the day. Technological innovation exponentially expanded after coders mastered machine learning and self-replication, robots that manufactured more robots. It became a joke that the fallout of mass automation in the workforce would auto correct, like mistyped phone texts. Self-serving technocrats rapidly displaced industry pioneers through automation. The spike in human S.T.E.M. jobs was short-lived because companies developed engineers far more precise and cheaper than people. Humans became increasingly unthinking during this new era, which only perpetuated their demise. The use of technology morphed from convenience to dependence. Everyday tasks once taught from parent to child became obsolete. In contrast to their human ancestors, whose survival depended upon their self-reliance, humans have become inept at self-care. People have become unwilling to think for themselves, instead deferring to the opinions of language learning models. After decades of research and development, computers gained the ability to invade human brains, making human thought indistinguishable from programming. Human life has become inseparable from artificial intelligence, blurring the line between humans and machines. Boundless information is no longer solely in the palms of our hands through smartphones or at our fingertips with computers. Human-computer linkage was only as good as the imaginations, ambitions, and morality of the producers of the linking devices and the people using them. Computer-powered cognition mostly fortified self-serving biases and narratives instead of opening minds to new possibilities. Like the children of the early 2000s after discovering The Internet, people endlessly sought entertainment over knowledge. The developers of the linking devices controlled human cognition, filling minds with product advertisements and political commercials. Americans' thoughtlessness in tolerating technological innovations displaced workers, buried the middle and working class, and destroyed lives. The sentiment of ‘move fast and break things’ brought bankruptcy upon various tech start-ups; executives were unscathed at the expense of their employees. The tact of the morally depraved, self-serving mega-corporations, media outlets, and politicians who glorified the superior productivity of automatons discouraged the public from mobilizing and demanding accountability. The humans who have suffered most from these innovations refer to this era as ‘The Mindless Revolution.’ Despite the superior ability of machines to provide complicated analyses, rationales, and conceptualizations, the complex mind remains solely a human entity. So-called intelligence stems from intricate codes, not organic neural networks. The 'cognition' is merely an artificial construct. Those left behind know better than to believe the embellished lies of the rich and powerful that machines are the saviors of our world. Mega-corporations have long since eradicated most family farms, while machines have only recently extinguished nearly all human labor. Human executives began leading organizations of robots. Because The Federal Government decreed corporations are people, so too are robots, with dangerously lenient legal protections. As human workforces became obsolete, so did labor shortage concerns among societies with aging and declining populations. Self-proclaimed elites and technology companies, far wealthier than most individual countries, were far too greedy and ruthless to relinquish the trillions of dollars they stole by replacing human workers. The victims of ‘The Mindless Revolution’ knew that greed, a human trait, not a robotic one, brought humanity to its knees. Others displaced by automatons misguidedly channeled their unadulterated loathing towards robots, a diversion from the actual sources of their financial and emotional ruin. Throughout history, evil and amoral authoritative entities have capitalized on the supposed expendability of human beings, not of humanity itself. Abhorrent enslavers replaced their discarded 'property' with different human beings. At the end of the 20th century, previously beloved American companies began breaking their sacred oaths to their employees, that their sustained over-achievement would beget promotions, pensions, and job security. These companies laid off experienced workers and hired cheaper, less experienced…people. For the first time in history, humanity, not humans, became truly expendable in the eyes of the rich and powerful. In my time, the most privileged grow their fortunes not on the backbreaking work of subjugated human beings but on the robots who have displaced their human counterparts. Human ingenuity and grit have become insufficient for competing in a job market dominated by machines and incapable of cleansing the catastrophic fallout of ‘The Mindless Revolution.’ III: Til Debt Do Us Part "Now entering The Financial District. The United States Federal Government quelled one of the three major rebellions during The Artificial Intelligence Renaissance outside of Liberty, Investment, Freedom, Equality, Happiness. Fondly known as ‘L.I.F.E. Happiness,’ the massive building on your left is the headquarters of the world’s largest, most upstanding bank. The insurgents expressed their misguided frustration with rising housing costs and loan interest rates, which protect the entirety of The United States Economy, the greatest economy in human history.” The pin continued…, “Our forward-thinking, compassionate leaders deployed a small, armed drone squad to stop the rioters who threatened civilians and the stability of our glorious government. The task force effortlessly squashed the uprising, apprehended the rebels, saved countless human lives, and protected the prosperity of our nation with merely a few thousand traitor casualties.” “Stop!” My artificial intelligence pin asks, “Would you like to learn more about this area's economic, political, and cultural history?" "No." "Would you like to pause all notifications alerting you to changes to your location?" "Absolutely." "Sorry, I missed that. Please say 'yes' or 'no,' or input 'one' for 'yes' or 'two' for 'no' using the keypad before you." "Yes!" "Notifications have been paused. To un-pause, say 'Notifications on' or press 1." "For fuck's sake!" Brief pause. "Sorry, I didn't catch that either. Please press the pound key to repeat your options..." I look outside my window at what was once a hub for highly innovative and people-centered small businesses. Small businesses could not compete with the low labor costs of mega-corporations' automated employees and have nearly disintegrated into oblivion. In place of modest strip malls and brown-bricked office buildings loom manufacturing plants. Corporate skyscrapers fill the once-beautiful skyline with only poverty on the horizon. The offspring of abandoned cats and dogs fill the streets because so few families can afford them. My great grandparents raised my grandmother and grandfather in a nation overflowing with white male citizens who believed that they could attain financial stability with hard work and persistence and were protected professionally by empowered unions. When they were very young, more people could support themselves and their families without expensive college educations. Far more people could settle in homes that would house a new generation of children. Far more people would earn the promotions they rightfully deserved in their jobs, careers, and callings. Machines only replaced elevator operators. A remarkable difference between the present and past is the omnipresence of e-credit, e-payments, and online banking. Another stark contrast is the absence of A.T.M.s, coins, physical money, and plastic credit cards, which were partially responsible for the rise and dominance of The American Economy since the early 20th century. Mobile pay options have become more convenient for companies than previous payment forms. Americans with poor credit and couch change but no savings monetarily suffered most from the economic transition. The nation became a welfare state for tech titans. Social programs deteriorated as fewer Americans could afford taxes. Corporate tax-raising legislation was counter-productive; companies laid off American employees, outsourced workers, and relocated to countries with lower corporate tax rates to compensate for their tax hikes. The I.R.S. continued to prey upon financially struggling Americans without complicated offshore accounts and teams of lawyers finding tax loopholes and offering legal resistance. Wealthy Americans continued to distract the public from vital issues like poverty. Billionaires spent hundreds of millions to run for president and colonize planets and moons instead of resourcing the people on this planet. Tax levies led to newer and larger sports stadiums and rescued multi-billion-dollar corporations deemed ‘too big to fail.’ Celebrity gossip consumed national discourse. The most privileged were always taken care of, like airfare passengers who pay extra and can cut T.S.A. lines, lounge in admirals' clubs, and lie in their spacious plane seats. The fundamental misunderstanding and willful ignorance of equality and equity dug our country's solemn grave. Few people acknowledged how equality is ideal when people are on even playing fields, like paying women as much as men in the same jobs, at the same companies, with similar experiences. However, equity, which can orchestrate equality, is most appropriate because equality in the real world is rare. Equality can be damning, like holding students from well-funded schools to the same exam standards as those from the worst-funded schools. The failures of equitable intervention gave rise to overwhelming economic inequality. The world produces enough food for everyone, yet billions of people are starving. Americans who could afford taxes rejected the notion of providing significant funding to universal income, social service expansion, and federal employment guarantee programs. Affluent families' safety nets persisted as their wealth expanded through their stable financial investments, seldom purchasing consumer goods that would have stimulated The American Economy. Conversely, the unprecedented unemployment caused by the technological eradication of human labor conditioned limited-resource Americans to a new level of poverty seen in developing countries. Like the fallout of The COVID-19 pandemic, mass automation reversed the decrease in global wealth disparity over the prior couple decades. The United States regressed towards its initial state, where only wealthy, white citizen landowners had power.

IV: WHAT YOUR COUNTRY WON'T DO FOR YOU "Now entering the medical district. Readings have indicated your body temperature is 1.5 degrees hotter than usual. You may have a fever. Want to stop for medical care?" "No." "Are you sure? You are only two minutes from a medical clinic." "Yes." "Want to learn more about fever causes and treatments?" "No.” The pin goes silent. Before me looms a large medical facility. Saving lives comes at a great cost, metaphorically and literally; many Americans have poor or no health insurance. Capitalistic medical entities operate like businesses. The average first-year medical resident is over $200,000 in debt from schooling. Hospitals have staff, equipment, and overhead costs and often slash services and care quality for the sake of their budgets. Underprivileged patients usually require the most care but avoid doctors like The Plague, leading to many preventable health complications. Although many healthcare expenses have declined within the last couple of decades, medical care is still financially debilitating for most Americans. Machines have replaced many doctors. Large language models, devoid of biases and expensive medical training, have become more precise than human doctors. Most medicines, medical procedures, equipment, and supplies have become cheaper. Cleaner energy has reduced overhead costs for medical institutions. Life expectancy increases have exacerbated health complications and, with them, medical costs. Health issues, which tend to increase with age, have skyrocketed amidst the longer lifespans of older adults, already the most health-adverse and limited-resource demographic among earners. Health care has become less accessible with age increases to Medicare eligibility, disproportionately harming financially insecure older adults. Expensively, legislators still insist that keeping people alive in chronic, agonizing pain and vegetative states, often older people is humane. Even before machines seized most human jobs, negligent legislation ignored Americans' well-being. Many employment laws pushed people into working themselves to death, usually metaphorically. Stress on the heart, a morbidity risk that can result from working excessive hours for decades with few vacations, contributed to the untimely demise of many Americans. Life insurance made most individuals financially worth far more to their families dead than alive. Suicide rates rose as more chronically unemployed parents struggled to feed their kids. Exacerbating healthcare costs, The Federal Government frequently disincentivizes preventative care. Health experts often need to pay more attention to patient input and more effectively advocate for improving nutritional, exercise, and sleeping habits, which would significantly reduce health complication risks for most Americans. Healthy foods are expensive, and the government still subsidizes unhealthy ones because of lobbying and campaign finance. Federal grants fund cure research over disease prevention and treatment research. Propelled by problematic political institutions and lax legal liability, healthcare disparities accelerated wealth inequality. As human lifespan increased for the affluent, primarily because of improved gene therapy, treatments, and health monitoring, so did inequality. The wealthy received superb medical care throughout their long lives. Taxpayers, defined as Americans without teams of lawyers, still supplement medical expenses for the folks who cannot afford them. Yet, medical care for limited-resource folks with severe medical conditions still often bankrupts them. As mass unemployment bred mass poverty, the mental health of Americans increasingly deteriorated because of the stress of supporting oneself and family without reliable income and the boredom and restlessness that accompanies unemployment. Episodes of anxiety and depression far exceeded that of available mental health resources and support. However, few Americans could afford psychological consultations, so the rates of anxiety and depression changed little on paper, and psychological services remained underfunded. Meanwhile, the topic of mental health remained taboo, hindering conscientious discourse and, with it, transformative treatment. Bartenders and hair stylists continued to act as therapists for those who could afford booze and barbers. Poorly equipped police officers in the field paraded around as mental health professionals. The world offered no escape for Americans imprisoned by the cold shackles from within their minds. Americans flocked to dating applications, believing they could improve their mentally, socially, intellectually, financially, and professionally anemic lives by starting families. Subconsciously, they were exerting control over their self-perceived, powerless existences. Dating application developers preyed upon and intensified loneliness and desperation, creating software not meant to be deleted except by paid subscribers. Few couples found love from within the heartless void of cyberspace. Fewer couples shook their lingering feelings of emptiness. Social media also worsens mental health for much of the population. Despite their unprecedented ability to connect and stay connected with people globally, only some people use social media to deepen their relationships genuinely. Instead, people continue to post images taken with rose-colored glasses. Individuals escape their desolate realities by losing themselves in social media platforms centered on pictures and videos, while young Silicon Valley billionaires quietly laugh themselves to sleep in their million-dollar mansions. With limited legal accountability, greedy companies continued to prey upon this nation’s most impressionable and desperate people. Like cigarette companies, social media titans continued to innovate more addictive features and marketing tactics to skirt the law and target children in pursuit of profit. Like casinos, which provide bright rooms, alcohol, and few clocks to entrap customers in their establishments, social media companies endlessly innovated mesmerizing application features to maximize profits and keep human beings away from the real world. Virtual reality programs offered a far greater distraction than social media, drawing people disillusioned with their world into vastly different ones. Simpler worlds in which people did not worry about making ends meet, one in which anyone could thrive with a basic understanding of an artificial universe. Saving a Medieval village from a dragon provided a thrill unlike anything on Earth. Exploring and colonizing new planets brought glory and riches. Just about any world imaginable now exists within the vast realms of cyberspace. The other aspect of virtual reality is a world far better but nearly identical to the real one—a reality different enough to feel fantastical but similar enough to feel nostalgic. Picture a world where everyone able and unable to work, willing to work, and uninterested in working lives a fulfilling, financially stable life. An existence in which no family worries about eviction or missing meals to provide children with social, cultural, educational, and financial opportunities. This utopian virtual reality is far more dangerous than the fantastical one. People spend their precious time in surreal realities instead of trying to make lives for themselves in the real world. Discouraged by this seemingly unrealistic, unachievable existence, Americans were discouraged from creating a more welcoming, generous, egalitarian, and forgiving society. After all, who needs to improve the real world when a fake one is perfect? V: WHAT YOU WON'T DO FOR YOUR COUNTRY "Now entering the political district." Apparently, my pin did not heed my wishes and pause location notifications…My grandparents reached adulthood in a nation that respected its public officials and believed activism could overcome their times’ most significant economic and socio-political issues. More folks open-mindedly engaged in discourse with politically distinct individuals. More Americans believed that thoughtfully critiquing their country was essential for bettering political institutions-patriotic. More politicians genuinely tried to understand and improve the lives of their constituents. Civic engagement reached new heights. Today's world was built on the ashes of the optimistic world that reared me. Disagreements on making the best societies still overshadow the commonalities between everyday Americans who share similar familial aspirations. Still, families living paycheck-to-paycheck lack the resources for and privilege of civic engagement. The most transformative, uniting force gradually diminished: hope. Without the motivation to leave the world better than when they entered it, citizens plummeted their nation into darkness. The undue influence of wealth in American politics resulted in the stagnation of human rights. Unimaginably wealthy corporations threw billions of dollars a year at lobbyists to influence legislation that generated massive profits for executives at the expense of workers. Politicians scared of losing their reelection bids offered allegiance to expanding the vast financial empires of their wealthy campaign donors. Bribes remained illegal, so instead, with The Supreme Court’s blessing, wealthy individuals thanked politicians who served their interests with extravagant gifts and fat checks, further incentivizing greedy public officials to prioritize affluent Americans’ wellbeing. Donors and the people they put in power suffered little from their political selfishness, while the people they swore to represent paid the ultimate price. For generations, corrupt public officials have poisoned the well of politics beyond recognition and disgraced their Democratic Republics' cherished checks and balances. Unintended by America's founders, nearly omnipotent Supreme Court Justices serve their parties for generations. Tensions between political factions have worsened and stifled support for transformative legislation. Filibusters. Redlining. Voter suppression. Gerrymandering. Parties radicalize their political agendas to energize their bases and pander to ideological extremists. Moderates be damned. Politicians' unapologetic disconnect from their constituents also contributed to their ineffectiveness. Public officials continued passing legislation that pretended poverty relief for metropolises would work similarly for rural areas. Academics wrote articles claiming to understand marginalized individuals, from black women residing in cities to middle-aged white men living in rural areas. These books frequently ignored Americans' strong community ties and confused their economic, cultural, and socio-political frustration with anger, which exacerbated feelings of alienation, abandonment, and hopelessness. Americans seldom criticize the institutions that prevent even the most compassionate, innovative leaders from sustainable systemic change. Instead, they blame affluent public officials with extravagant pensions for their struggles. It has become increasingly laughable to refer to politicians as 'civil servants' because they often 'forget' that they serve The American People, not the inverse. Today, more peaceful protests morph into riots, terrifying cowardly leaders who further alienate themselves from the public. To mitigate safety risks, officials now remotely hide behind holograms and robots constructed to their likenesses when seemingly making public appearances-which only bolsters their constituents' resentment towards them. Afraid of their constituents, contemporaries, and financial benefactors, public officials unwaveringly defend their records and blame their ineffectiveness externally. Some politicians still attribute poverty and drug abuse to moral depravity and foolishness. In contrast, others demonize The One-Percent without successful legislative records and realistic plans to improve lives. Leaders pin their failures, like economic sanctions and high inflation, on foreign governments and instill within voters destructive fears of violent crimes and economic overtaking. CHAPTER VI: FEAR ITSELF The car stops as a group of elementary students cross the street. During my grandparents’ childhood, the media did not sensationalize and memorialize murderers, like mass shooters killing school children. Americans grew up with leaders who did not declare wars on terrorism, earn nicknames like ‘Deporter and Chief,’ nor advocate for travel bans on Muslims countries. Polls did not reveal terrorism as the second most widespread national concern. And yet, throughout American history, fear has dictated politics, economics, culture, and social behaviors. Mass paranoia reigned from The Cold War past The War on Terrorism. Fear of a crashing stock market shaped the behaviors of affluent Americans; the fallout trickled down to underprivileged people. Folks feared approaching demographically dissimilar people, which perpetuated their biases and trepidations. Untamed fear nationwide has hindered everyday people from living their lives and satisfied the so-called 'enemies' of America. Technological advancements transformed and intensified terrorism. Drones replaced some suicide bombers. Autocratic governments weaponized cyber security attacks, stealing other governments' secrets, seizing wealth, and threatening to destroy satellites and the power grids that sustain this planet. Americans criticized other governments' technological warfare while applauding their government's similar tactics. Meanwhile, terrorists viewed themselves as heroes and America's countless military interventions as war crimes and terrorism. The world's wealthiest nations referred to the geo-political conflicts of their 'enemies' as terrorism and 'allies' as wars, frequently resourcing sides whose victories would serve their interests. Land. Oil. Democratization. Globally, with more frequent droughts and elevated water consumption from the growing population, water became scarce in limited-resource countries. Wars over water were far bloodier than most before because the expiration date of human life without water is just a few days. Scientific advancements continued making the impossible possible and the capacity for destruction far greater. Extremist factions genetically engineered infants to create people far stronger, more intelligent, and more ruthless than other human beings. Biological warfare became far less infrequent, with sociopathic scientists developing viruses far deadlier and more contagious than anything seen throughout human history, first creating vaccinations to protect their people upon disseminating the contagions. Identical robots and holograms could easily replace kidnapped world leaders. American leaders aggrandized threats from foreign 'enemies' over their greater domestic threats. The fear of terrorism loomed within every house, street corner, theater, park, festival, and airport. The public feared dark-skinned religious people, ignoring that white Americans commit the most acts of terrorism with firearms and that poverty complications kill far more people than terrorism. Leaders seldom allocate significant resources towards mitigating financial desperation, the source of most violence. The negligence of Americans privileged with environmental conscientiousness led to more deaths than terrorism. Biodiversity waned as rainforests were leveled, warped sea levels drowned fish, warmer oceans eradicated reefs, droughts dried freshwater sources, and honeybees teetered between existence and oblivion. Mass extinctions and endangerment disrupted every echelon of the food chain. Starvation and thirst thrived. Pollution plagued Americans unable to relocate with life-shortening, debilitating, lethal respiratory ailments. "Now entering the residential district. Arrival at your destination is imminent." The car stops at a traffic light. I sit idly in a metal box with wheels, thinking about how this road likely was once a grand forest before humans decimated it. I see a veteran in an army jacket. With her non-amputated arm, she clutches a sign with her mobile payment service username. For a nation claiming to value military service, it underspends on veteran aid and overspends on military contracts that create few jobs. The vehicle moves. Minutes pass. The car parks next to a curb and turns on its flashers. My pin informs me, "We have arrived at your destination. Do you want to pay for your travel fare with the e-card you saved in my system?" "Yes." "The cost of your ride is $44.29. Do you accept this charge?" "Yes." "Transaction completed. Would you like an e-receipt? "No." "Thank you for riding with Three-Point-Turn. Enjoy your day." The doors unlock and swing open. VII. HOUSING WITHOUT HOMES I look up at the massive apartment that I call home. All apartments built in these times are skyscrapers so that real estate agencies can house as many people as cheaply as possible. Only new luxury apartments have multiple windows, lowering costs for developers but not renters. I enter the complex, take the elevator to floor 24, and walk down a long hallway. Inside my apartment, I remove my shoes, throw my coat somewhere, then cook and eat a meal. After cleaning up, I trot to my small, smoggy window. Outside my apartment window, far away, stands an abandoned neighborhood, which has become common, like in Chinese metropolises. The mass unemployment that depleted familial income and savings has spread mass evictions like wildfire, leaving entire limited-resource and middle-class areas vacant. Floods have annihilated neighborhoods but are not the only disasters that drown Americans in debt. Wildfires, tornadoes, and windstorms of varying intensities demolish everyone and everything in their paths. Real estate agencies unanimously decided that shelter was a luxury, not a necessity, and the housing crisis reached new catastrophic heights. More than half of the so-called middle class had already been living paycheck to paycheck; they quickly lost their homes after losing their livelihoods to machines. The lucky ones downsized to tiny homes and substandard apartments, while the least fortunate people became destitute and homeless. With chronic unemployment, the few households fortunate enough to rent livable corridors exist in squalor and pay far more for rent than before. Minor wage increases have not offset increased costs of living. Developers now build entire apartment units previously the size of rooms in one and two-bedroom living corridors. More than ever, different families and extended families cohabit to afford their tiny homes. Families have little more than beds for sleeping, a table for eating, a shower for cleansing, and a toilet for relief. In stark contrast, The One Percent continue to inhabit luxurious homes blocks away from their financially deprived comrades. They live in mansions that could each house dozens of unhoused individuals. Major cities have thousands of abandoned buildings that could be renovated to shelter unhoused persons or replaced with affordable housing. Many wealthy Americans have shoe closets that are more spacious than my living space. Their horses live in stables that are more luxurious than the place I call home. Affordable housing became increasingly scarce. Real estate agencies sold the land beneath their lowest-grossing apartments. Technology companies conquered new territories by cheaply purchasing the land occupied by abandoned buildings that once sheltered kind, hardworking people and built manufacturing plants to expand their empires further. The decrease in affordable homes and available land to build them increased the already sky-high demand, leading to nationwide rent escalation. Housing disparities skyrocketed because wealthy individuals and corporations continued to capitalize on financial misfortune. Their indiscretions rivaled the banks that fraudulently loaned to primarily black families who could not afford mortgages before, during, and after The Great Recession. Real estate companies still slap fraudulent additional fees on unaffordable rents, eternally indebting tenants like 18th-century coal miners. Under pretenses, corporations still sue their former tenants, who cannot afford court battles, for breaking their leases. Aided and abetted by the absence of legislation that failed to hold corrupt real estate developers and landlords accountable, politicians exploit desperate Americans. They avoid funding comprehensive emergency relief packages and disaster-resistant infrastructure by blaming families without relocation resources for remaining home amidst disasters. Struggling families defaulted on their mortgages. Affluent ones avoided losses with rock-solid insurance coverage. Wealthy entities cheaply purchased disaster-ridden land and converted the remains into profitable enterprises. "An urgent package was just delivered." Very few people receive paper mail these days: nearly all bills are electronic, and artificial intelligence pin messages have replaced letters and emails. Most mailboxes have been replaced with fingerprint-sealed lockers. A pang of nostalgia overcomes me. I recall a conversation in which my grandparents expressed feeling similarly when they left their home one early morning to see an empty doorstep. It dawned on them then that the milkman became obsolete, a job which has now been long since forgotten. If this delivery was anything but urgent, perhaps I would have continued relaxing in my humble abode, instead of leaving my serene sanctuary to get my package. Before heading out, I check my air fryer. Off and unplugged. New apartments exclude ovens because developers want to lower their building costs, and consumers want to reduce their utility expenses and save space in their cramped homes. I hear water dripping from the thermostat-controlled shower. To my pin, synced with my smart home system, "Shower off." The dripping ceases, for now. Suddenly, the surrounding air feels hot. "Thermostat to 72." A swift breeze fills the room. I put on my shoes and open the front door, but before leaving, my pin has something to say about my departure. "Coat not detected. Do you want me to locate it?” “Yes.” My pin provides a bright light warning, snaps a picture of my surroundings, then a blue light flashes as my smart home system scans every room. "Based on the scans, my readings indicate with 86% certainty that your coat is on the kitchen counter." I grab my coat, comprised of nanofibers. Never have coats been warmer and sturdier. Do I now have everything I need? I think so. Few people carry wallets, instead, utilizing their artificial intelligence pins’ holographic photo systems to provide their State I.D.s and e-credit cards. Heading to the door…"Lights off." Total darkness. The door locks with my fingerprint. Antiquated apartments now have key locks that grocery and home improvement stores copy keys for a dollar. I exit the unit, the complex, my hearth, my home, as an American venturing into the ruthless, shameless, blameless world currently awaiting you.

\*Letter dated 2******^(nd)*** ***August 1944 seized by Office of Censorship- \*\*- Details Redacted- passed on for further investigation*** My dear Mary, I fear this letter may by the last I’m able to send, I'm sorry for this, I'm sorry I didn’t write more, I'm sorry I'm so far from you. I’m sorry to burden you with the letter but I must tell someone, I must write it down, if just to prove to myself I've not gone mad. I have to start from the beginning, again I'm sorry. A few nights ago after a hard day of pushing the Krauts back out of ~~REDACTED~~ this tiny means nothing village, we settled in for the night and kept watch for any counter attack. We knew where the Germans were and they knew where we were. We were daring them to try something. I lay in my hide up in the attic of a house, just like dad taught me, lying perfectly still, eye glued to my scope just waiting for some poor soul to pop his head out. Everything was silent, just the light wind and the occasional click of a lighter. Then they came, all of a sudden this wave of them came charging at us, screaming like madmen. Most of them didn’t even fire their rifles, or didn’t get the chance. Our response was terrifying dozens of30’sopened up, 50’s barking away and even mortars launched flares from somewhere behind the line. They were like lambs to the slaughter, no way they had any hope of getting through, I have no idea why we had so much firepower lined up for some no name village it seemed so out of proportion. But still they came, wave after wave, dozens upon dozens, I admit I’ve lost count how many lives I took, but I rest easy knowing I'm doing the lord’s work, ridding the world one Nazi at a time. But something didn’t sit well, through my scope I saw them, they were all young, their uniforms slightly different to the normal Kraut grey’s we’d encountered this past week. I guessed and a few of the guys agreed after it was done, that they must have been reserves from some occupied state, like Poland or Czechoslovakia, sent to die to hold us up while the Germans retreated. What sick bastards just send men to dielike that Mary? Just to save their own skins for a few more days. They knew that Uncle Sam and the US Army were coming for them and they were rightly scared. After about 30 mins our guns fell silent, at last they stopped coming. We restocked and reloaded, waiting nervously for a second attack, it never came. As the sun rose we saw the true extent of what had happened, must have been nearly 100 dead, I couldn’t quite believe it. I said a prayer for them, that they may repent before the Lord. Shortly after a voice came over a speaker, in almost perfect English, but with that unmistakable Kraut accent, asking if they may be allowed to retrieve the dead and wounded. We being good Christian folks we gave them that, but warned them any funny business and they’d see a repeat of the previous night. What must have been nearly a platoons worth of what I assume were medics and stretcher bearers appeared from the ruins of the German lines, all wearing their white helmets and red cross smocks. They began gathering the bodies, but not all of them. They were checking each one and only taking certain ones. I watched one of them through my scope pass over a wounded man, reaching out with one hand and holding in his guts with the other and take a body that was very clearly dead. I couldn't understand, first they’d sent these boys to die in a pointless attack, and now they were leaving them to die in the field, I laid my cross hairs over him andonlyby the Lord’s virtue, resited the urge to send that bastard straight to hell. After they took some of the dead, they only left those who had suffered massive injuries, missing limbs and a few of the victims of my own head shots, I'm fact I didn’t see them take a single body with a head wound. This is where they really made me sick and a few of us had to be restrained and threatened with a court marshal. They came out and killed the wounded. Just walked out and bayoneted any who were still alive, those that could have been saved. One kid who it looked like he had taken a round or some shrapnel to his leg, a minor thing, he’d have been fine in a week or two. No. Those fuckers stood over him as he cried out for help, we could all hear their cries, and stabbed him through the heart. Only then did they take them away. I’m sorry my love if this seems too much, but I don’t know how I could write what came next without these details, if you get this letter, you need to tell the world what happened, they cant be allowed to get away with this. All was quiet for the next 2 days, no contacts, no sound. But our orders stayed the same, we were to stay and hold ~~REDACTED~~ until we were relived and taken off the line. On the third night a fog rolled in, we couldn't see much farther than 50 or 60 yards. We occasionally sent up flares, but this did little to helpbut reminded the Germans we were very much still here I’d drawn night watch again and so I lay in my hide, waiting. Dougherty had just brought some some coffee to help me stay awake, I couldn’t do much, what use is a sniper who cant see and further than the next G.I.? All of a sudden there were shouts down the line of movement. I figured it was just someone getting skittish, it was so quiet, anything seemed like something and most of the time something was nothing. I rolled back over and looked down my sight and I that's when I saw them. You have to believe me on this, Mary. I swear this wasn't a trick of the light, or being tired, I saw this, and I'm sure the other guys would say they did too if they still could. Their eyes Mary, this figure started to emerge from the fog, and the eyes, were glowing, 2 yellow spots piercing the gloom. As they got closer, it looked like one of the conscripted Krauts from a few nights back, same uniform. I figured they has a few more platoons to have use waste ammo on. But this time, there was no screaming, no running.They just shambledsilently through the fog. Theydidn’t respond to ID’s and soone of the guysput a round through its chest. Nothing, it didn’t react, didn’t go down, didn’t make a sound, and kept walking. A few more shots rang out until the ping of his clip ejecting echoed through the night, I watched them, every one hit, centre mass. It kept walking, a few seconds later a round went through its skull and it dropped, the eyes faded away as it fell. No one knew what to think, but I could hear them jostling the poor guy saying he must have missed. One of the other guys boasting he knew how to drop Krauts. He didn’t miss Mary, I swear on my mom’s grave, I watched them hit its chest,and it didn’t drop, just carried on asif being hit with rocks. The jostling didn’tlast long, a few shout’s said more movement. Ashout came for aflareto go up togive us a better look,I almost wish they hadn’t. I saw them before the others, dozens of them, their eyes shining through the fog.We opened fireand these things couldn’t have cared less. They marched through the fire, their bodies being tornupby multiplehitsand they kept coming. The odd lucky round hit a head and a body dropped, butno oneseemed to notice. Panic was setting in now, the first one hit our line, dropped over the barricade. I heard the screams over gunfire, soul wrenching shrieks from the guys below. I know I should have done more, but it didn’t seem real Mary. I looked though my scope and tried for headshots where I could,I must have dropped a few. But It wasn't enough, they kept coming. That’s whenI saw him Mary, the young soldier from the first attack, I'm sure it was him, I could see the wound on his leg, and the hole in his chest and his face, despite the eyes, he looked just as scared. I put him to rest, at least I did that. We had to scramble to pull back from ~~REDACTED,~~ I'm not sure how many of us made it, but we lost more than a few good men last night. We managed to get out, and pull back to ~~REDACTED~~. But they were coming we could hear them now, dozens of them just groaning in the night. Now Mary, this isn’t going to be easy, but I think this may be the last letter I can send for a while, the10th have been ordered to stay and hold the ground at ~~REDACTED~~, give the rest of the rear units time to pull back, set up a new line. Ive managed to scribble this down while they load up the trucks and I’ve given this letter to a Chaplin from the 57^(th) and he’s sworn to me he’ll get it to you and I pray to god that he has. Know that I love you, and I pray for the day I can come back home to you. I know the lord will give me strength to carry out his work and that I'm in your thoughts and prayers as you are in mine. All my Love Your Edward. ***\*Letter seized by Office ofCensorship- Passed to OSS for further investigation\**** ***\*\* Contents verified by multiple sources- evidence of German Rift Tech.\*\**** ***\*\*\*The 10******^(th)*** ***InfantryCompany, 3******^(rd)*** ***Battalionwas wiped outby enemy actionon the night of3rdAugust 1944-Official reports will indicate fierce bombardment followed by an assault by enemy infantry of a known and poorly defended position- sub-par officer leadership and troop discipline will be blamed as primary factor.

Letters to Nobody is a series of short stories presented as fictional letters. Journey to LA part 2. Dear Pennie. I remember fondly our first trip to California together, that I started writing in my first letter. All the stops on the way, the weird place in Texas, stopping in little towns in New Mexico and Arizona. I remember taking turns driving and sleeping. I remember after we got gas somewhere in Orange County, we drove non-stop to the first beach we could find that touched the Pacific ocean. You were wearing this long blue summer dress that touched every curve on your five foot ten a hundred and forty pound body. We both got out of the car. I was wearing cargo shorts I think. It was near ninety degrees outside. I barely got the keys to the car in my pocket when you grabbed my hand and we ran down the beach, laughing and nearly tripping over the sand until we hit the water. We kept running until it was up to your chest. We dunked our heads under and as we came up we kissed. The waves reflected off your gorgeous blue and gold eyes. We held each other for minutes, jumping in the water like giddy like school kids, a dream we made a reality that summer. Eventually we walked hand in hand out of the water onto the beach. Your dress was hugging your body so tight I could almost see the goosebumps all over you. We sat down at the edge of the water coming in. Our feet dug into the soft sand. We didn't say anything as we watched the sun set over the water. I've never seen a sun so huge like that. I wanted to say so many things to you, sitting there in the sand, holding hands, our fingers exploring each other's. I wanted to tell you how much I loved you. How much I wanted you in my life for however long my life would be. I knew, even then, it wouldn't be a very long life, and that it would be asking more than I should ask anyone for you to be with me to the end, so I said nothing. I refused to be selfish with you about anything. I just accepted whatever time you gave me, in whatever manner I could get and I was happy about our time more than anything. When the sun was about halfway beyond the horizon you finally spoke. Thank you for this. I never thought I would be here. I thought of a million and one things I wanted to say, but somehow the only thing that came out of my head was of course. I wanted this more than anything. I asked you if you were hungry, you said you were starving, which was very unlike you. You ate like a bird. I always teased you and called you Tweety and you said I ate like an Ox. I suppose that was true. But I was still in good enough shape to grab you and carry you to the car across the beach and not break a sweat. How is it, with all the physical (albeit platonic) touches we shared, were we only friends? I have no idea. I take that back. I knew exactly why. You were far out of my league, and I refused to get close enough to you that you'd want to spend your life with me. But for months you had been with me every single day, and it didn't seem like it would ever end. I opened the trunk (you called it the boot) and as there were no other life forms on the beach we simply stripped, toweled off and put fresh dry clothes on. I watched you and you blushed the entire time. It was the first time we'd seen each other in that state of undress. It wasn't even a thing. It just happened. But somewhere in that moment it became a thing, and then it didn't. We got back into the car and I called you my lucky Pennie without the Y. You were still blushing and you wiped your dark brown hair out of your face. You looked at me. Does that make you my lucky Ox? Is that a thing? I wouldn't drag me through any china shops, but I suppose it could be a thing, I said. You giggled as you do when I say silly things, which I seemed to only say to you. Let's get you some food, Penny-licious. Please, let's, Oxy-tosis. You're so weird. I drove around until we found a little restaurant near the beach. We ate sushi until we were stuffed. We drank sake until we were giggling. We had enough to share with the chef and at some point we were just all yelling bonzai every time we drank. We clinked the tiny ceramic cups together each time and laughed at how goofy we were being. The last drink we took, we both touched the cups to the table and held our hands there for a moment, just looking forward at the case of sushi fish in front of us. I noticed all the little details. The little empty plates and chopsticks and the water condensing on the nearly untouched glasses, the linen napkins crumpled on the table which indicated we had eaten our fill. I noticed your hand reaching mine, just barely touching as we often did. I saw the little specks of sand in your hair that glittered when you turned just the right way. I took it all in like I always did with you. All the little things, all the moments in time we shared where everything in the universe just came to a very easy stop. The busy restaurant, all the little details, nothing existed but your fingers touching mine as we looked ahead. At that moment, I nearly said that I loved you. We left the restaurant and stopped overnight at the first motel we could find that didn't look too ragged, and slept for two days straight. Then we got back in the car and drove back home. We stopped at different places along the way home, Talked about everything except what we really wanted to say, but we enjoyed the trip. I loved you since we met on that cold January night in a little bodega across from the cafe where we met. You had asked me to help you pick out a snack to take home. Then you asked me to come home with you. I asked myself how someone as stunningly beautiful as you could possibly want me, but I came willingly enough. We watched movies and ate a bag of every snack imaginable in your bed. You didn't even have a couch. Just a table and two chairs, your bed, and a small crate for a bedside table that had a lamp and an alarm clock on it. All the little details. I don't know why I didn't tell you I had a year to live that night in January. I didn't look sick. In fact, I did look sick, even today. I looked perfectly healthy. You can't see inside my brain, so you wouldn't have any idea I was slowly rotting away from the inside out. How I can even function these past couple weeks I have no idea. Sometimes I think maybe this thing in my head is just all in my head. But it's not. You moved back home to Sheffield (or, across the pond, as you called it) three months ago. We spent the last night together, our hands the only thing touching, while we watched silly movies and ate a bag of completely random snacks just like the first time we met. I drove you to the airport the next day and we hugged hard. You looked at me in a way, and for one moment, I think you realized I was saying a good bye that was a forever good bye. You'll write me, right? Of course. Be safe, I said. I'm sorry this is the first time I'm writing since you left, and even more so that it's the last I'll be able to send. I want to let you know that I do love you, and that you made the last months of my life worth living. I think I lasted longer than they anticipated because I spent all that time with you. I was happier than I'd ever been in my short life. The last couple weeks, I began to lose the ability to talk properly and began slurring my words. I couldn't walk without a cane for the past couple days and I can't see very well. I had to dictate the first letter to the day nurse. I slept for about a day, and then dictated the second one, slurs and all, with the night orderly. Time has been a little weird for me lately. Everything has been a little weird, to be honest. The blinding pain started just above my left eye, as I expected it would, and no amount of drugs is stopping it or alleviating it at all. So this is the time I have to write this or else it won't get written. This letter will take a few days to get to you, and by then, I will have had a special cocktail that will put me down before I am forced to be put on a ventilator, which I refuse to do. I didn't want you to see me this way or have to deal with the past few weeks. I wanted to be sure I told you what the last thought in my mind will be before that: you. My lucky Pennie. Thank you. I love you. - Your Ox. Author's note: Pennie came home from work on a rainy Wednesday afternoon and picked up the mail that had been put in the mail slot as she always did. She kissed her mom, who was doing dishes and cooking. She placed the mail on the kitchen counter and hung her coat on the hook in the mud room by the side door. Her mom said there was a letter from "the states" and Pennie took it in her hand. She touched it gently to her lips for just a moment when she saw the name on the return address. A couple lines in, she sat down at the table. A few minutes later, she quietly wept. She read it twice and cried until her eyes were red and her shirt was splashed with tears. Her mother asked what happened. She wordlessly held the letter out and her mother put her hand to her mouth while read. Her eyes red and wet, she walked around the table and hugged her only child. Oh Pennie, my sweet girl. I am so sorry. Penny said nothing and went upstairs to her room. She had two letters next to her bed that she hadn't gotten around to post. She'd written one the first day she returned home, and the second one about a month later. She had gotten caught up with school and work and her family. But she thought she had plenty of time to send them. She wrote to him, telling him she loved him and wanted to move back to the states next year when she had finished university. She wrote that she wanted to live with him. Among the pages of other things she never told him in person, she had also talked about all the moments and all the details. She wrote about how she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him; never knowing he'd already just spent the rest of his life with her.

A man's plane crashes in a desert, but because the sand was somewhat soft, it absorbs the plane crash's kinetic energy. The man crawls out alone from the wreckage of the plane, looks at his body, and checks if everything is okay. He finds only a scratch in the middle of his stomach. Then he takes a map and a compass from the plane's cockpit and starts looking for a way out of the desert. He sees a village to the north on the map, and he feels quite happy, thinking he's found a way out of the desert. He feels physically fit, knows the way out, and thinks that this is the best possible outcome in a plane accident. In his happiness, he notices that the map is missing the scale part, so while he knows he needs to go north, he doesn't know how far it is. He doesn't get too disheartened by this and starts walking north. Walking in the sand was difficult. Every time he took a step forward, his foot would sink into the sand, and sand would get into his shoes. Still, he kept moving forward. After walking for some distance, he got used to walking in the sand. He had walked so far now that when he looked back, he couldn't see the plane's wreckage anywhere. He kept walking and after some distance, he saw not a village, but a tortoise. He was very happy and surprised to see the tortoise. He wondered what the tortoise was doing in the middle of the desert. "Could it have ended up here because of some accident too?" he thought. The man felt a strong sense of kinship with the tortoise. He felt that the tortoise was also alone in the desert like him and was in a place where it shouldn't be. The man thought he would take the tortoise to the village where it could live in a pond. So he started taking the tortoise north as well. For a while, the tortoise walked with him, but then it kept going in different directions. The man tried hard to make the tortoise walk in the right direction, but it kept going the wrong way. Then suddenly, the tortoise dug into the sand and disappeared. The man dug the sand to find the tortoise, looked here and there, ran around, but couldn't find it. The man thought whatever happened, happened, and kept moving forward. The blazing sun was spewing fire, and the sand seemed to be boiling. The wind was so hot that it felt like it would burn his skin. Now the sand that had entered his shoes was cutting his feet and tearing the skin, and it was so hot that it felt like walking on coals. The man looked ahead and couldn't see anything far and wide. He looked back, and he couldn't see anything there either. He didn't know how much further he had to walk and how far he had already walked. He looked at the compass and said, "Damn, this is broken." He didn't even know if the direction he had walked so far was the right one.

“Vampire Puppeteer” by P. Orin Zack [Jan 23, 2019] &nbsp; In a manner of speaking, Alex were twins. At the moment, they were on a bus, heading home after work. And even though they shared both the job and the benefits of having one, they were not technically engaged in what’s often called ‘job sharing’. This is because, eighteen years earlier, they had not shared their mother’s womb. In point of fact, Alex did not even know they were twins until somewhere around the fourth grade. Until then, they thought they were, variously, forgetful, moody, and at odds with choices they had made moments earlier. All of this can be explained by thinking about them in the same way that an aeronautical engineer might think about a jet airplane equipped with two engines. For the engineer, it would be a twinjet. In Alex’s case, they would be a multiple. That is to say, the jet, or in this case Alex, could get along on either personality alone, or with both running together. When this happened, their close friends referred to them as ‘Zaphod’, the two-headed renegade President of the Galaxy from the radio, television, movie and print versions of ‘The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy’. Likewise, those friends knew their male alter individually as Alix, and their female one as Ailex. Alix, the textually analytical one, was wholly focused on their phone, reading a technical discussion that was of no interest to his alter. The fact that he was ‘out’ meant that Ailex could take some private time away from the world to mull over the two mob intelligences that had ejected both of them from their cognitive cockpit at a political rally a few months earlier. Because the bus had lingered longer than usual to let boarding passengers get settled, Alix glanced up to see the crowd that must have just gotten on, but instead found only a single woman gingerly inching towards them along the aisle, sliding her right foot and then stepping ahead with her left. Judging by how she moved, and her periodically pained expression, he concluded that she was nursing an injured foot, and dove back into the discussion forum. When the woman finished lowering herself onto the empty bench across from them, the bus lurched forward and swung back into traffic. Alix thought nothing more about her until he was incorporeally nudged by his invisible counterpart. ‘Watch her for a bit, would you?’ When they talked between them like this, there really wasn’t a voice behind the words. It was more like having an internal monolog in which some of the lines weren’t your own. Back in fourth grade, when Ailex first made herself known during a class, he’d had an embarrassingly public meltdown and ended up in the school nurse’s office, but these days, their internal life would feel flat without it. ‘Why?’ he thought back. ‘Is something wrong? Ailex surfaced and aimed their eyes at the woman’s foot. ‘Remember the two mob things that knocked us out at that rally? There’s something similar, but smaller, going on when someone’s got an injury. I want to see if I can push the woman’s pain away.’ Alone in his head again, Alix surreptitiously watched the woman. After about twenty seconds, she stopped massaging her ankle, sat up, and took what looked to be a very relaxing sigh. ‘I think you did it. What did you do anyway?’ In his mind’s eye, Ailex showed him the memory. The thing was, it wasn’t just visual. A glowy sort of texture overlaid and ran through the woman’s leg, which Ailex tagged as her energy field. The area around the ankle and foot was enlarged, and it had a rough feel to it. Ailex then somehow reached into and around it, and seemed to filter the rough bits away. Her recap was cut short when a passenger behind them suddenly kicked the seatback. “Oh yeah?” the man said angrily, “So what if it’s been fifty years? The whole thing was faked! It couldn’t have happened!” An older man who had the window seat behind them, squirmed indignantly. “What rubbish! You’d have be one of those crack-addled idiots that talk to themself on the street to believe that nonsense!” Alix winced at the characterization, and a second later found himself alone. Ailex had vanished, but the force of whatever he was doing felt like being pummeled by a dream that wouldn’t let go. &nbsp; Mark caught up with Logan just outside the park. “Are they still here?” Logan glanced at her phone and nodded. “Straight ahead, according to the tracker.” “Are they hurt?” “I don’t know. All I got from them was a volcano emoji, so they may be too fried to even make words.” A few minutes later, they found their friend perched at the edge of a park bench. Mark sat to one side. Logan squatted in front and took Alex’s hand. “We’re here. Who’s out?” After a few shaky breaths, Alix said, “She won’t surface, but I think she’s at least settling down a bit.” Logan shifted onto the bench. “Do you know what happened?” Alix glanced at each of them briefly, then composed himself, and sat back. “Partly. Ailex was doing some kind of energy work on the dark side, so all I really know about was the surface stuff.” “It’s a start,” Mark said. “How did it begin?” “Before all the weird shit started, Ailex showed me how she made a bus passenger’s foot pain go away.” Logan startled. “Who taught her that?” “Nobody. Apparently, she just figured it out on her own. Anyway, right after that, we were interrupted by a flat-Earther arguing with a greybeard space geek behind us. The old guy was trying to watch a moon landing video, and the jerk wouldn’t leave him alone.” “And, I take it,” Mark said, “that Ailex tried to intervene?” “I think so, yeah. All I got were bits and pieces, ‘cause, like I said, she was doing all this on the dark side. The best I can piece together is that the jerk had what smelled to Ailex like a sort of a distributed mob thing, a shared delusion about the moon landings being impossible and all that.” Logan narrowed her eyes. “Did she try the same trick to strip off the delusion?” “She did something. Whatever it was, the guy went ballistic. He just about flew into the aisle and tried to stir up some support among the passengers. Ailex must have given up after that, because she disappeared again. I figured she needed some time to decompress, so I pulled the stop-request cord and got us outside stat. I tried to get her to talk, but only succeeded in frightening myself. Anyway, we walked around for some time before we finally pulled up here to chill. That’s when I poked you with that emoji.” “It’s getting late,” Mark said, stealing an annoyed glance at a reminder on his phone. “How about we get you home and see if we can coax Ailex out.” The apartment the three shared was within walking distance, so they left the park, but when Logan turned towards the avenue, Alix objected. “Listen,” he said, “I think we ought to avoid people as best we can. Ailex freaked on the bus, and I’d rather not risk setting her off again. So could we take the back streets?” It was a pretty quiet stroll, interspersed with random small talk, until they had to cross a commercial street. That’s where they crossed paths with a pair of young men dressed in white shirts and black pants, Latter Day Saints missionaries who greeted Logan happily as they approached. “It’s good to see you again, Logan,” the one tagged as ‘Elder Bucklin’ said, stopping before the three. “I trust that you are well.” He peered curiously at Alex, whose eyes had just gone a bit unfocused. “Your friend here appears to be troubled. Perhaps we can help to ease his mind.” Alix took a deep breath and turned to glare at Bucklin. “I don’t think so,” he said in a cold monotone. “According to you, people like me are an abomination.” “What do you mean?” “When I was a kid,” he said quietly, and then paused a beat, “someone from your church tried to cast out my alter in the nurse’s office. In my school! That evil man called her a devil!” Bucklin’s partner nervously backed away a few steps and gaped. Mark raised spread hands to try to calm things down, but Bucklin ignored him. “What’s an alter?” he asked, perplexed. “I am,” Ailex said with an eerie calmness, her voice and body language taking the fore. “And I’d really appreciate it if the two of you could peacefully move along before Alix comes back and loses his temper.” Bucklin’s eyes widened. Swallowing uncomfortably, he apologized for bothering them, then turned and hustled his partner across the street. Logan took both of Ailex’s hands in hers. “You’re back. Good.” She smiled, which was always a bit odd on Alex’s face. “I’ve got lots to tell you all, including Alix, if I can get him back on-line.” “I’m here,” he said. “Thanks. You’ve got the conn.” “What’s—?” was all Logan had the chance to say before Ailex spun around in one of her signature moves, said, “Come on, I need to walk this through,” and strode off back the way they’d come. Once Mark and Logan had caught up, she said, “I’m really glad you ran into those two, Logan. What just happened showed me something important.” Confused, Logan said, “Sure thing, but…?” “Have you two ever paused, just at the edge of waking, and lingered in that nether region where you’ve got one foot in a dream, and the other in your bed?” Mark nodded. “Yeah, A few times. Why?” “That’s where I was when the missionaries stopped to chat Logan up. And I felt the most amazing thing. Ever since we ran afoul of the two mob intelligences at that rally a few months ago, I’ve been wondering how such things work.” Her pace slackened briefly, and then picked up again. “It was like the people at the rally were being sucked into a gestalt thing that both drew power from them and directed their actions, like some kind of vampire puppeteer. Well, earlier, there were these two people arguing behind us on the bus. And when the flat-Earther got his back up, it was like he’d been carrying around a piece of one of those mob things. It suddenly puffed up like it had been jolted by a battery pack.” Ailex stopped walking. “Well, Logan, the same thing happened when Alix went off on the missionaries about what happened at school. It’s like he’s been carrying around a portable bit of one of those mob things, and it sprang to life. And when I was in that nether state, I could feel the shape of it in him. But here’s the thing. Just before that argument on the bus, I did an experiment. A passenger came aboard, and she was in serious foot pain. From where I was sensing it, she seemed to be dragging around a gloopy growth. It was another kind of energy thing, but this one felt more like a plant, where the mob things were feral beasts. Anyway, I kind of reached out and sieved it off of her, and she reacted. For a while, anyway, her pain was gone. I don’t know how long it lasted, because I was interrupted by that argument behind us.” While Logan and Mark were processing all of this, Alix surfaced. “Hold it. Wait a minute,” he said, their stance shifting in reflection of the change. “I hope you’re not thinking about trying that sieve trick on one of those vampire puppeteers. Those things at the rally were vicious.” “He’s right, Ailex,” Mark said. “It’d be like facing down a howitzer with a squirt gun. By the time a mob thing like that wakes up, it’s got energy supply lines from a lot of people.” “Back up a few,” Ailex said, regaining control. “I’m talking about trying this on one of the portable jobs, like what tweaked in Alix. You know, isolate a little bit of one, and push the thing out.” Logan swallowed. “You do know what you’re describing, right? There’s really no difference between that and what they wanted to do to you back in school. Only the ‘demon’ in this case is a slice of vampire puppeteer instead of your alter.” Mark looked aghast. “Ain’t that a sobering thought?” “I’m serious,” Ailex said after a lengthy silence. “Just be careful, okay?” he said, “Take some time to think about it. Which reminds me, I’m late for a mediation roll-play at the police station. I’ll see you after—.” He broke off to answer a call when the ‘Bad Boys’ theme kicked in, and quickly grew pale. He lowered the phone a few minutes later, and stood with his mouth open for a while before speaking. “Officer Owens is dead,” he said, just above a whisper. Logan waited for Mark to catch his breath. After Owens pulled Mark from the melee that had broken out around him when he attempted to keep the factions at the rally from fighting with each other, he’d recruited Mark for a new community mediation program that the county police had organized. Mark respected the man, and looked to him for guidance. Mark took a shaky breath. “He was struck by an unlicensed driver a few hours ago. The hospital couldn’t save him.” “Is there anything we can do?” Zaphod asked. “Maybe. The driver’s arraignment is supposed to start soon, and Officer Owens’ partner asked if I could meet the mediation project lead at the courthouse. Since the driver had dementia, he thinks there might be some hot tempers out there. Trial by fire as a mediator, I guess.” &nbsp; Mark stared, glassy-eyed, out the bus window on the way to the courthouse. Ailex had insisted that the three take transit to the courthouse, saying that now that she had a better grasp on what had happened earlier, she’d be okay in the proximity of other people. More than that, she said she needed to observe as much as she could before they stepped into whatever conflict might break out among the public once the crowd began synching and synergistic effects kicked in. Tearing his thoughts away from the death of his mediation mentor, Mark cast back to how he’d come to this moment. His life was so much simpler before graduation, before his father hired Mr. Frensh to teach him how to play the bugle. Back then, his only life goal had been enlisting and getting into a military band. And that might have been that if Mr. Frensh hadn’t also told him the secret of how those bugle calls actually worked. According to Mr. Frensh it wasn’t really the notes he played that sent the troops to mess, assembly or battle, but the intent of the energy he projected along with those notes. He said that the purest expression of this lay in jazz, because improvisation demanded that the musicians be fully in flow with the music as it was being played in the moment. Mr. Frensh was so convinced of this that he had designed a custom cornet that could collect and focus the energy of improvisation to make it even stronger. But there was another way that such energy could be brought to harness, and that was through the transformation of a crowd into a mob. This was what he had stepped into when he attempted to intervene between competing mobs at a political rally. The force of their antagonism had destroyed the balance that Alix and Ailex had developed which enabled them to be present simultaneously, tossing one and then the other from the fore into some unconscious state that Mark did not really understand. When Mark realized what had happened, he rushed in to stand between the two mobs in an attempt to distract them from one another and short-circuit the conflict. He was immediately attacked by member of both mobs, and then pulled to safety by Officer Owens. After the incident, Owens had recruited him to learn how to intervene in a more controlled manner. Unfortunately, they hadn’t gotten very far before this happened, so he wasn’t at all sure what help he could really be if things were to get out of hand at the courthouse, a problem that he wouldn’t be able to avoid any longer because the bus was pulling up to the wooded complex right now. “Well,” he said to Logan and Zaphod as he got to his feet, “we’re here. What are you two going to do?” “Observe, mostly,” Ailex said as they stepped towards the exit. Alix quickly appended, “That would be safest, anyway.” Logan peered out at the scattering of people on the grounds. “I think I’ll chat some of these people up.” Once outside, Mark glanced at the people he passed on his way to the Superior Court building, which was the first one you came to in the complex. Most of them looked like they were here on their own business, but a few were cradling papers or bundles of signs, which meant that they intended to conduct some sort of public action here. Owens’ partner in the mediation project, a runner-type named Alicia Scrawblin was waiting on the steps when he got there. She was a civilian, a political studies teacher at the college, and she’d actually spearheaded the project, getting the county police to sponsor it after it had been cooked up on campus. “Hi, Mark,” she said, extending a hand, “I’m glad you could help. There’ll be some police presence nearby if they’re needed. We’ll be their eyes and ears.” “Okay,” Mark said. “What are we looking for?” “Sudden changes. We figure there will be several factions out here today. The woman being charged had her license suspended for being a no-show at her re-test. The registration had expired as well, and all that’s probably going to be attributed to her dementia.” Mark nodded. “So emotions are likely to be high, I guess.” “On more than one front, unfortunately,” she said, and indicated a man shifting fliers on a nearby bench. “He’s been pretty active lately. From what I understand, his mother’s mental problems were due to a tumor, but he couldn’t get her doctors to commit to her being placed in guardianship. She caused considerable mayhem before she was finally arrested, and he’s been trying to get the court to release her to a facility for mental health care. For him it’s a mission to change the way incompetency is handled, and this is another chance to get some publicity.” “I see. So what sort of changes should I be looking for?” Ms. Scrawblin studied him for a moment before answering. “Remember the discussion we had last time about mob psychology? The factions out here, like whoever joins him once he gets going, all start out with a pretty predictable set of tropes. A well-organized protest will stick to their purpose, but if it starts mutating into a mob, that purpose gets warped. In his case, you can probably detect that by watching him for signs of annoyance at his supporters.” “Yeah,” Mark said, “I get the idea. What should I do if I spot something like that?” &nbsp; The two people that Zaphod had been tailing since shortly after getting off the bus were still arguing politely about whether old people should be regularly retested by the state’s driver licensing system. The two people sharing Zaphod’s body had been arguing nearly as long about whether it was a good idea for Ailex to go dark so she could examine their respective energy fields. ‘But it’s exactly the situation I had in mind,’ Ailex repeated silently. “They’re being civil, so even if they’re harboring portable mob things, neither one has been energized. I need to see what they look like before they get sucked into the vampire network.’ “Yet,” Alix replied internally. “They haven’t gotten networked yet. But look where we are. They’ve both come down here to voice their opinions about this, and it won’t be long before the crowd develops enough mass to start fusing. It’s only a matter of time!’ ‘Exactly. That’s why I need to do this now. Look, if it will make you feel better, I’ll keep the channel open and tell you what’s happening every step of the way.’ ‘All right,’ Alix thought back. ‘But promise me that you’ll let loose the moment things start to get out of hand. I don’t want us to replay what happened earlier. You had me sick with fright.’ In unexpected reflection of their own truce, the two people they were watching had also come to a temporary accommodation. “I do see your point,” the taller of the two said after they’d both been silent for a long moment. “Retesting the elderly, just because they’re old, is unfair. There are other reasons why a person might not be able to drive responsibly, and it could happen at any age.” “So you’d be okay having to be re-tested yourself periodically, or if your ability was challenged for mental or physical reasons?” the other asked. “It would take some getting used to, but yes, I would. Come on, let’s see what’s shaping up by the courthouse.” ‘See?’ Ailex said when their targets started walking again. “These two are safe. They discussed their differences rationally and found common ground. Tag along with them. I want to see what their fields look like right now.” Some people transition slowly from the netherworlds where dreams abide to the waking one that we agree to call real. For them, there’s a hazy time spent emerging, not only into the world, but into complete control of their body as well. Others, like Ailex, and to a lesser extent Alix, experience the change more on the order of flipping feeds, remaining aware and alert across the divide. But because the two shared a single body, there were other possibilities not readily available to singletons. Ailex took advantage of this difference to drop directly into what could be described as a meditative state, while Alix retained full control of their body. If she paid attention to it, she could still tell they were slowly walking, but because the sensation was so dreamlike, it felt more like wafting. Overlaying that, and seeming more tangible, was another set of body-sense awareness, and this one felt like it was leaning forward and slowly flying. There were two ghost-like figures in front of her, which she knew to be the people they were tailing. And just as when they were on the bus, she could detect details in the shape of these ghosts that didn’t correspond to anything physical. Both people’s ghost-forms had been puffed out by a kind of protective shell, which were retracting and softening as she watched. ‘I was just thinking,’ Ailex said on their private channel, ‘I ought to be able to use psychometry to sense these mob things when I’m out.’ ‘Are they like the one you found on that flat-Earther?’ Ailex examined the receding shells before answering. ‘No. That one felt like a little lost kid looking for its mommy. These feel more at home, like they’re owned by the people they were protecting.’ ‘Owned? Is that a metaphor?’ The truth of it struck Ailex like a bolt of lightning. ‘Oh, my god! You’re right Alix. The difference is about agency. These two people owned the convictions they were expressing, so their energy bubbles were actually a projection of their self-protective instincts. That’s the difference!’ In her exhilaration over the insight, Ailex had expected some sort of reaction, but none was to be had. Instead, she hung in an eerily static internal environment, which felt like Alix had suddenly been called away. Worse, when she attempted to throw off the sleep-like state that she had drawn over her self, she found resistance so strong that she was unable to break it. What little proprioception she could extract from their estranged body suggested that Alix had stopped walking, and had hardened his posture in some sort of fight-or-flight response. Something was clearly wrong. ‘Alix?’ she said uneasily into the echoless void. ‘What’s going on? I can’t feel you. I can’t feel anything. Have we been drugged?’ The oppressive silence was doubly eerie, because she didn’t even have their breathing to mark the passage of time. To calm herself, she started counting, but by the time she reached twenty, her dark world felt like it was closing in, leaving her trapped with no connection to the sensorium. And yet, that same fear also confronted her with an uncomfortably familiar sensation, the growing shell of a protective energy barrier like the one she’d felt earlier when Alix reacted to the missionaries. Only this one was hers, and it was further separating her from the faint body sense that was now her lifeline to their shared corporeality. Struggling to regain control, she asserted dominance over her fear-shield, imagined it vaporizing, and felt the reality of her will taking hold. Alone again beneath the barrier that separated her from Alix and their shared body, she reached out to feel the world beyond. The two people they’d been following were now surrounded by what felt like a small crowd of energy nexuses. These were other people who had begun to gather by the courthouse. And though each one was clearly different from the others, to Ailex they also had a whiff of familiarity, as if the same instruments played in numerous energy symphonies. She couldn’t hear what anyone was saying, but the resonances among these shapes suggested that they had begun to make emotional or intellectual connections with others in the crowd, though she couldn’t be sure if these were based on what was being done or said by the others or by whoever might have been keeping the crowd’s attention. &nbsp; “Say that again?” The man that Logan had buttonholed gave her a momentary side-eye before answering. “Being divisive is the whole point.” After a beat, he continued. “Look, there’d be no value in drumming up support for a position if there was no opposition to it. It’s the drama that’s important here, and not just as a show for whatever media we might attract. The people we draw into this won’t remember shit if there’s no emotional stakes riding on the outcome. It’s just good storytelling.” “So you don’t have a dog in this fight?” He shook his head. “No. Of course not. If I cared one way or the other, I couldn’t be as effective. That’s the whole point of being a political consultant.” &nbsp; Mark watched, dumbfounded, as the woman extricated herself from a dispute she’d instigated and began spying out another target. She’d done this several times already, so her pattern was getting familiar to him. As she moved, he carefully kept his distance while noting the path of social destruction she had left in her wake. When it looked like she’d found another person to target, he faded into the crowd to call Ms. Scrawblin. “Yeah, hi,” he said quietly. “There’s another kind of player out here, one that’s actively cultivating chaos. The playbook’s useless against this woman. What do we do?” “Call the Sergeant and give him a description. Keep her in sight but don’t get made. They’re going to want to play her with some plainclothes officers, and then extract her without making it look like a raid. It’s tricky, but if they can pull it off, they can keep this protest from escaping the local news.” &nbsp; To say that Alix felt trapped would be an understatement. After the incident with the missionaries, he’d become painfully self-aware of his vulnerability to arguments that posited a person’s sanity depended on their adherence to norms that didn’t apply to him. And yet, that was becoming the central focus of the raucous debate that had engulfed the face of the courthouse. The issue of whether the driver, and others like her, should be institutionalized for the protection of society had become the fulcrum around which all the various other issues rotated. That broad brush would surely have applied to him as well, and he was haunted by visions of what his childhood might have been like if that attempted exorcism had the force of law behind it. The ugly little man who had been spouting this nonsense was still standing just enough to the side that Alix could see the jerk smirk when he attempted to shut him up. “If it bothers you so much, asshole,” he said, glaring angrily over his shoulder, “maybe we should lock you up with one of them!” &nbsp; The resonance between the new energy barrier that Alix had just sprung and that of whoever had provoked his reaction now had all of Ailex’s attention. Both balls of seething energy had the taste of borrowed fire, which probably meant that neither of them was manifesting their own agentic energy, but rather projecting a bit of whatever mob-things had infected them, and the two were interacting with one another, feeding the vampire puppeteers who owned them. Ailex stared at the tangled mess for a breathless moment, unsure of what to do. In a moment of sudden inspiration, she threw a wedge of her own energy between them, hoping to extricate Alix from the struggle long enough to attack the other. ‘I’ve got your back,’ she said on their private channel, not knowing if she’d be heard. ‘Take a breath. I want to try something.’ It was the resonance that gave her the idea. Looking at the way the two antagonistic energy fields interacted, she wondered whether the bits of mob-thing that danced to the puppeteer’s tune were all in step, or whether they each resonated to an aspect of the vampire’s true energetic self. The difference was important, because if it was the latter, she could wean them away to a phantom form and starve the beast, freeing its captives. The alternative, a swarm in lockstep, might be disabled by projecting a field that was out-of-phase like noise-cancelling earbuds, but that would last only as long as the counter signal lasted, so all it might do is buy a little time. ‘Are you okay?’ It was Alix. ‘The cops are on the move. Is there anything I can do to help?’ She thought for a moment. ‘Yeah. Watch the crowd. I’m going to try to defang the vampire.’ Surveying the crowd around them in the energy spectrum, Ailex could feel the texture of the various bits of what seemed like multiple mob-things. In a way, it was as if there were several bands on the field, each playing a different style of music, all competing to entrain the most musicians. Some people’s fields, like that attached to the man tormenting Alix, were purely ruled by a single mob-thing, while others shifted affiliation chaotically. She spread her attention across the crowd, and picked out only those people in thrall to that one, making a mental map of the territory. Then she picked one at random and compared its pattern to the one she was using as her starting point. Concentrating on the commonalities, she projected an energy field at both of them that was similar enough to catch their attention, as if she were playing a tune that momentarily meshed with theirs. Then she veered off into a different pattern within the same style, and they both followed, disconnecting from their common puppeteer. ‘The guy just startled, Ailex. He suddenly shut up, winced at the noise, and walked off. What did you do?’ ‘Played Pied Piper for him. I’m gonna try it on some others.’ This time, Ailex attempted to disrupt the vampire’s connection to several people at once, but the visualization was too difficult to maintain long enough. And when she stopped, the thing fed even more power to them. ‘It’s no use, Alix,’ she said at last. ‘I can’t feed them enough energy all at once.’ ‘Then don’t,’ Alix replied immediately. ‘Time-share. Go round robin on their ass, like you were stroking a set of wheels to keep them all turning.’ His excitement grew the more he dug into the logic of it. ‘If there’s something like angular momentum going on, you might be able to overwhelm it by disturbing all of its minions at bit at a time. And each time you stroke one of them, your influence would get that much stronger. Then just lead all those trained rats off a cliff somewhere, and the people they latched onto will be freed!’ &nbsp; Mark had a flash of déjà vu when he realized that he’d managed to station himself squarely between two groups of activists who were haranguing about disparate issues only tangentially related to the actual case. As far as he was concerned, the people in each camp were more interested in hearing themselves yell than in the hypothetical issues that each one was incensed about. But at least they weren’t calling for one another’s throats, so it wasn’t as dangerous as the crossfire he’d stepped into back at the political rally, an act that led directly to his current situation. The woman he’d told the sergeant about earlier had been safely diverted, and the crowd had settled into a raucous but contained stew of competing factions. On a whim, he decided to see how many semi-organized issue clusters he could pick out by their shouts. He was up to five when one of the clusters he’d already counted suddenly shut up all at once, dropping the noise level enough to cause several people nearby to stop what they were doing and look around. “Did you hear that?” Logan said as she emerged from behind a man handing out fliers. “If this was a concert, one of the speaker banks just fried.” “Yeah. All the people who’d been ranting about the specter of more government overreach just vacated their argument. All of them, like a bugler grabbed his horn and sounded a retreat!” Logan smirked. “Not that there’s any buglers out here or anything.” “Don’t be too sure about that. Remember those mob-things I tangled with? According to Mr. Frensh, they’d have the same effect, except the troops wouldn’t be aware of it.” “Hold on, hold on. Are you suggesting that one of those vampire puppeteers just got sacked?” Mark’s eyes defocused a bit, and he spoke more to himself than to Logan. “It certainly sounds like — wait a minute. Where’s Zaphod?” “You think Ailex—?” While they were looking worriedly at one another, the noise level dropped again. “Absolutely.” The two spun hurriedly around and began searching out a glimpse of their friend among the thinning crowd still scattered across the walkways and onto the grass. As the people who’d just been unplugged from their puppeteers took stock of their situation and began making their way off the grounds, it began to look like the dense mob was evaporating, sending wisps of humanity into the open grounds beyond the courthouse and back towards the street. And standing dead center, looking directly at the building’s entry doors, was Zaphod, a blend of Alix and Ailex, judging from their androgynous posture. They had a self-satisfied grin on their face when Mark and Logan stepped into their line of sight and peered at them. “You did this, didn’t you?” Logan said. The mischievous twinkle crinkling their eyes was pure Ailex. “We collaborated.” “Yeah, sure,” Mark said, “but it’s an easy bet that you were the triggerman, er, woman. What was it like?” “Exhilarating,” Alix said, squaring their shoulders a bit. “For both of us.” “Well,” Ailex chimed in, “maybe after I got out of that box you stuffed me into when this all started. That part was frightening as hell.” “Box?” Mark asked, perplexed. “I panicked, all right?” Alix said. “But I blocked you to keep you safe. Really!” “Can you two stop bickering and get to the point? Ailex, what was it like grappling with those vampire puppeteers? Think you might do it again?” Ailex straightened. “Again? Why?” “Because it was damned effective, that’s why. If you’d consider joining the mediation group, the bunch of us could be a strike team and get sent to chill out potential trouble spots.” “Are you nuts, Mark?” It was Alix, this time. “What do you suppose would happen to us if the military caught wind of what Ailex did here? No thanks. I’d rather not.” Logan thought for a moment. “Okay, but does that mean you two aren’t going to try it again on the sly?” While Ailex was considering the question, Alix suddenly took over. “I saw that! Come on, Ailex, you can’t be serious!” “Saw what? Spit it out!” “Just this,” Alix said. “When Ailex was puzzling out how to unplug a crowd all at once, I suggested that she time-share the problem, kind of like a sheep-dog driving the flock by luring them away from their Alpha. Now she’s wondering what else the technique could be used for, and she flashed an image of herself energizing the crowd, stoking them to do something worthwhile.” “Worthwhile?” Mark asked. “Like what?” Ailex nodded towards the courthouse doors. “Something that’s been missing for longer than we’ve been alive: common purpose. A project that can galvanize the nation, or even the world, and get people to work together instead of inventing things to fight about.” “Uh-oh,” Logan said, looking askance. “I think we created a monster. Who’s going to decide what that purpose is? Surely not you?” “No, of course not. But I felt something while I was down there, something vastly larger than the mindless mob-things that sprang to life out here, and far older. But if I’m going to try to work with it, first I’ll need to learn how to talk with her.” “Her?” Mark said. “Her who?” Ailex looked down. “We’re standing on her. And she knows we’re here.” &nbsp; THE END Copyright 2019 by P.

Dusty. Scratched. Forgotten. For the last twelve years, the secretary desk stood vigil in the back of the workshop, pressed in among lamps and chairs and other miscellany meant for a someday that was never tomorrow. Once it served proudly, in an age before computers and monitors and keyboards and mice marched upon us and demanded so many holes and so much space for their girth to sprawl upon and their feet to race. The old lady used it to write letters upon for years few live to remember, until one day she never again came to it. The desk is polished now, brought before the critical eye of a woodsmith and offered the loving massage of a professional. Never will it be new as the day it was made, but for now it stands with a dignity prior robbed by years in storage. One by one, the old things with old memories are brought forth, until at last this one stands nervous upon the stage of its name having been called out on the lawn yonder - it rests in the shade of the house, where the sun cannot trouble its venerable skin. Some in the crowd are bored, it imagines. They wait for something else to be called of - some unusual ornament, some well-made cane, perhaps. But perhaps there is an artist in the crowd, it allows. Perhaps, rarer still, someone who still keeps a well-used stock of writing pencils, or even an enthusiast for fancy pen or quill. For a moment, it fears no one will call out at all. So lost in these ponderings, in the creeping tide of obsoletion, that it misses what is said entirely. "Sold!" is next it hears. If the desk could straighten, it would. But it does not need to. Time may have given it scratches and dust that were polished away, but nothing was needed for its posture. It stands stern and sturdy and solid as the day its maker stood back and gave welcoming nod. One last fear chases through. Perhaps it will be held in a corner for untouched admiring. Perhaps it will be painted upon by one who doesn't know the tending of its wood. A youth rounds the corner. Not a child, nor quite yet an adult. They smile at the desk, and bring up something in their hand - one of those newfangled little things, distant grandchild of the rotaries and the kodaks and the pagers and the typewriters. A clicking sound comes; the desk wonders how long until the youth needs to take out the film roll. The youth's fingers make a few quick movements, and then the thing disappears into a pocket once more. The youth approaches. Their eyes gleam with life and enthusiasm, and the desk feels a little younger for it. Later, when the auction is over and the desk has been brought to its new home, it cannot help feeling overwhelmed. Unfamiliar books line a shelf, though some with titles familiar. The colors of a few posters harken to nothing remembered. There is no computer, is noticed with some relief, no sign of manyfold wires that a path might be cut through its innards for. One fear is set aside. There is a sleek, shiny metal plaque of some kind, with a glass face, that rests on a bedside table, and it has a single wire. The desk ponders if it is another grandchild of the rotary, or maybe some hybrid son of a paperweight. Time will tell. Its new owner comes in a short time later, having been absent for the dinner hour. In the minutes that follow, a line of pencils and a sketchbook find a home upon the desk. All is well.

# Walking the path together . . **Part 24: How to deal with "PROBLEMS"** . . “I can't keep track of time anymore,” speaks the **Seeker** to the **Stranger**, as they wander aimlessly through the never-ending corridors of the eternal maze. “How many hours... How many days... How many weeks have passed, since we entered the labyrinth of mind?” . “Trying to figure it out is pointless,” comments the **Mysterious Stranger**. “Within these walls, time and space are of little meaning.” . The **Seeker** looks at the tower in the distance. Despite countless hours of walking, the two haven't made any progress at all. It's as if with every step towards the tower, the structure moves two steps away from them. . “Like seriously,” continues the frustrated **Seeker**. “It's as if the maze is alive. The corridors change all the time. We walk into a dead end, turn around and the path is completely different... Finding a way out of here is impossible! The labyrinth wants to keep us trapped! “ . . Suddenly, both the **Seeker** and the **Stranger** are startled by a loud growl, thundering through the corridors of the maze. The ground and walls are shaking. A Veil of white mist pours in from the junction, where two pathways maze cross. , , , “What's happening?” asks the unsettled **Seeker**. , “It has arrived,” mumbles the **Stranger** quietly and turns to the **Seeker**. “Lay on the ground! Now! Don't make a sound! Control your breath! If it notices you, it's over!” , The **Seeker** and the **Stranger** both take cover on the floor. The **Seeker** holds their breath and observes attentively. From the corner steps a monster into their field of view. It has hoofs for legs. Each step sounds like an eerily rhythmic drum. The beast carries the hands and torso of a man and the head of a bull. Its presence is surrounded by an ominous, white mist. , The **Seeker** is frozen at the hideous sight of the beast. Sweat drops from their forehead. With both hands, they keep their mouth shut. When the beast disappears behind the corner, the veil of mist dissolves. As soon as the monster is out of sight, the **Seeker** gasps relieved. , , , “What the hell was that?” whispers the nervous **Seeker**, after the footsteps fall silent. “That beast looks like a Minotaur from ancient mythology!” , “I dare not speak its name,” responds the **Stranger**. “The 'labyrinth of the mind' is its kingdom. If you hide from it, you will always run into it again. If you escape from it, it will always hunt you down. If you fight it, it will always rise again.” . “Perfect...” sighs the **Seeker** sarcastically. “As if being trapped in an inescapable maze wasn't difficult enough...” . “It's not 'inescapable',” comments the **Stranger**. “Were you not listening? There always is a way. I have been trying to tell you that, ever since we left your bench...” . The **Seekers** eyebrows contract. “Then show me the way!” they demand infuriated. “Seriously, I have enough of aimlessly wandering through this damned maze without progressing even a little bit!” . “Only you can find your way out of here. It's your own minds maze, that you need to escape. No one can show you the way out of the prison, that you yourself have built... Anyhow... If you really don't have any patience left, there is a short-cut... A glitch, a cheat, an exploit... If you want to use it now, we can make it to the tower in no time. However every Seeker can only use it once in their entire run. After you used it, the system will be patched. Do you want to use it now or save it for a later time?” . “What do you mean by 'glitch'?” asks the **Seeker** confused. . The **Stranger** thinks of a different explanation. “Well... You could say the real-life equivalent for this metaphor would be tripping balls until the walls of reality fall apart.” . The **Seeker** is even more confused. “Wha- What does 'tripping balls' mean?” . “Look... I am not saying that using psychedelics is a short-cut to enlightenment. There is still much work to do and using plant medicine or consuming mushrooms alone won't do the trick. However they make for great tools, if you are already on the journey and can accelerate the process of spiritual growth vastly.” . Unable to understand, the **Seeker** scratches their head. ”I really have no idea what you are talking about... Will you now show me the shortcut or not?!” . The **Stranger** sighs. “Alright... We'll make a trip by climbing the walls of the psyche. But be warned, it won't work a second time.” . “Whatever... I don't care,” responds the **Seeker**. “Just show me how to get to the tower and I'll figure out the path from there!” . . The **Mysterious Strange**r faces the massive stone wall of the maze and touches it's surface. “You see those protruding rocks on the smooth surface of the wall? Use them to climb your way up to the top.” . The **Stranger** climbs the massive wall, jumping from one ledge to the next. The **Seeker** follows the **Strangers** exact movements. The **Seeker** pulls their body over the edge and reaches the top of the wall. Both stand on the surface. From there they can see the entire infinite labyrinth. Every corner, every corridor of the path forms like fractal patterns of a living, breathing organism. . **NEW ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED:** **Psychonaut** . . “Something feels off up here,” mumbles the **Seeker**. They have a strange indescribable feeling of being somewhere they are not supposed to be... Seeing something, they are not supposed to see. . “How... How is this possible?” asks the **Seeker**, unable to grasp what they are seeing. “This feels more real, than reality...” . “After this trip is over, you'll forget it again. Very few people can stare directly at infinity and remember. For the moment just focus on not falling over the edge. Keep your balance. Watch every footstep with close attention and move towards the tower in the center. Don't look left, don't look right. Observe only your feet.” . The **Seeker** closes their eyes, takes in a deep breath and breathes out again. They focus on their feet and continue walking. Following closely behind the **Stranger**. They try to avert their gaze from anything they shouldn't see. Avoiding anything, that could bring them out of balance. . The two of them finally make progress. It's as if the narrow path below the **Seekers** feet is altering itself and forms a straight line, leading directly towards the tower. . 'It's so close now...' thinks the **Seeker** silently. 'Just a little more and we are in the center of this damned maze.' . . . Suddenly the **Seeker** notices a sound. An eerie tune. Ominous drumming. Heavy breathing. The **Seeker** looks down below into the corridor. The white mist is back. The Minotaur has returned. . “Oh damn! It's that monster again!” shouts the startled **Seeker**. The beast hears the noise and looks up. Its glowing red eyes stare directly into the **Seekers** soul. . The **Stranger** turns around and faces the **Seeker**. “Watch out! Don't lose your balance.” . But it's too late. The **Seeker** panics, trips and falls. They land down in the corridor, just below the Minotaur's feet. . “I only have five Vibes left,” screams the **Seeker** in panic. “If it hits me once, I'm gone!” . The trip turns bad, the **Seeker** starts running. The monster growls and hunts after them. When the **Seeker** turns left at the corner, the monster follows closely. Jumping over obstacles and avoiding distractions. Whenever the **Seeker** peeks over their shoulders, the Minotaur is still hunting them with unwavering tenacity. . At the end of the corridor, the **Seeker** sees an entrance into a big, open hall. “That's it! There's the tower!” . However just before the **Seeker** makes it to the finish line, the Minotaur catches up, jumps in front of them and blocks the way ahead. The red, glowing eyes of the hungry Minotaur stare at the **Seeker**. The monster puffs out white mist from his snout and licks his lips with appetite. . “I... AM... PROBLEMS!” growls the wild Minotaur. His words echo like thunder through the maze. Everything shakes and vibrates. The **Seeker** trembles in fear. There is no escape. There is no way out. Only despair. The **Seeker** falls to their knees. . “That's it... I am dead...” . However seconds before the Minotaur attacks, the **Stranger** jumps from the top of the wall between the **Seeker** and their adversary, fighting off the monster with a staff. . “RUN TO THE TOWER,” shouts the **Stranger** while fending off the Minotaur. “I'LL KEEP HIM BUSY!” . “I won't leave you behind!” shouts the **Seeker**. . “I'll be alright on my own... PROBLEMS can't harm me. But it just needs one hit against you and its game over! I'll buy you some time! We'll meet up again later!” . The **Seeker** nods and runs away. . 'I hope they won't die this time,' thinks the **Stranger** silently, while dodging a hit. 'I really don't wanna do this checkpoint all over again...' . . . Meanwhile the **Seeker** runs through an open, circular area towards the tower in its center. They open a black door and enter the building. They shut the door close and barricade it with a wooden bar. . The **Seeker** takes a look around. The floor is made of chess-board patterned tiles. Throughout the hall, there are several columns in an ancient Greek style, connecting the floor to the ceiling. . “Weird... It's bigger on the inside...” . Suddenly a deep voice thunders, through the hall: “I see... You are running away from PROBLEMS.” . The **Seeker** recognizes the voice. It's the sphinx, the winged lion, who guarded the entrance of the maze. . “You mean that Minotaur?” asks the **Seeker**. “Naming him 'PROBLEMS' is kinda strange...” . “It's not just his name,” responds the sphinx. “He literally IS PROBLEMS. This is what he represents within this maze, which is the matrix of the mind. It's his kingdom. Many Human minds are plagued by PROBLEMS. Speaking his name alone causes worries and anxiety. If he once sets his eyes on you, he won't stop until he catches you. You can't hide, you can't run, you can't fight. No matter where you go, PROBLEMS will consume you.” . “Then what am I supposed to do?” . The Sphinx wants to answer, but she is suddenly interrupted by a loud, violent knocking against the door. “PROBLEMS is here,” thunders the voice of the Sphinx. “Take the stairs upwards. On every level you will encounter a new guardian who blocks your way to the staircase. Solve their riddles and they'll let you pass on. Be fast, before PROBLEMS catches up to you!” . A spiral staircase made from white marble, suddenly manifests out of thin air behind the sphinx. The knocking gets louder, the wooden door begins to bulge and splinter. The **Seeker** runs towards the staircase. . As the **Seeker** advances to the next level, the door of the tower falls apart. A raging Minotaur breaks through. Thunderous Growling echos through the hall. As the **Seeker** takes a look behind, they catch a glimpse at the Sphinx fighting the Minotaur with a burning sword. . . . Entering the next level, the **Seeker** takes a look around. The floor is made of many mosaic tiles, like in an ancient roman bathhouse, depicting abstract images of geometric patterns. No walls are visible in the endlessly large hall. The **Seeker** hears the sound of a flute, playing an enchanting melody. . On a single couch in the vast empty room sits an obese man with a flute in his right hand and a silver goblet of wine in his left hand. He wears ancient garments, a goatee on his chin and curly hair on his head. Two goat horns are attached to his head. . “Tell my name and you shall pass on to the next level,” speaks the ominous figure. “I am the dreams you are chasing. I am the emptiness you can never fill, the prey you will never catch. If I give you something to drink, you will continue to thirst. I am born in your senses and live in your thoughts. It is I who tells you what should be yours and who you are supposed to be. Who am I?” . . “You are DESIRE,” responds the **Seeker**. . The man in the chair grins. “You shall pass.” He starts playing the flute. The sound of his instrument vibrates in the entire hall. A new spiral staircase appears behind DESIRE. The Seeker moves on to the next level. . The **Seeker** walks up the stairs, but just as they are about to move on to the next floor, they witness the Minotaur attacking the man with the flute. PROBLEMS feast on DESIRE. As he consumes the man, the Minotaur gets larger and larger. DESIRE lets our PROBLEMS grow. . . . The **Seeker** turns around and enters into the next floor. A carpet is laid out on the floor, showing a mandala in various colors. Again, the room seems endless. In front of the **Seeker** sits a woman on various cushions. She has three eyes and four arms, bearing multiple necklaces and jewelry. . “Speak my name and pass on to the next level,” speaks the ominous woman. “I am the thought, that makes you cower. I am the shadow, you never dare to look at. I chase you around, I circle your mind. At night I whisper in your ear. I am the idea of failure. I am the memory of pain. No matter how fast you run, you can never escape from me! Who am I?” . . “You are FEAR,” responds the **Seeker** after some contemplation. . “You shall pass,” speaks the three-eyed woman, as a new spiral stair case appears behind her. . As the **Seeker** walks to the top of the stairs, the Minotaur catches up and throws himself at the woman. Tearing her apart and consuming her essence. PROBLEMS grow with FEAR. The Minotaur grows further in size. FEAR feeds our PROBLEMS. . The glowing red eyes are gazing at the **Seeker**. It's as if they are saying 'YOU ARE NEXT'. The **Seeker** runs up the stairs into the next area, panting heavily. . . . The **Seeker** enters into liminal space. Like an empty office space. Eerie, yet familiar. Dreadfully empty. There is a single office desk with a computer and a man in a suit behind it. He wears a tie around his neck and a golden watch on his wrist. He sits on a chair coated in black leather. A name tag states 'CEO'. . “Do you know who I am?” asks the ominous figure. “I have been with you since your childhood. You can't shake me off, you can't get rid of me. If you fight me, I always come back stronger. You hide me so you don't seem weak. As long as you don't see me, I have power over you. I have my seat in the mind of every person. What is my name?” . . “You are SUFFERING,” responds the **Seeker** with certainty. . “You shall pass,” speaks SUFFERING, as a new spiral staircase appears behind his desk. . While the **Seeker** walks up the stairs, he already hears the growling of PROBLEMS. The Minotaur destroys the computer, hits the desk and eats the boss in just one gulp. SUFFERING causes PROBLEMS to grow. The muscles of the Minotaur become bulkier. SUFFERING creates new PROBLEMS. . . . The **Seeker** makes it to the end of the staircase. They stand on an open rooftop. It's the end of the tower. There is no way left up. The **Seeker** oversees the entire maze. . “That's it...” utters the **Seeker**, as the growls from downstairs, increase in volume. “There is no way left to go.” . The **Seeker** looks down at the area below, gulping. “I'd rather fall, then face my PROBLEMS,” utters the **Seeker** while closing their eyes and inhaling deeply. . . . But just as they are about to jump, they hear an unfamiliar voice: “Hey psst... You! You don't really wanna jump, do you? I see that you are plagued by PROBLEMS. Perhaps you could need some assistance.” . It's a **serpent** crawling out of the shadow into daylight. Toxic green eyes, glowing in the sun. The **snake** climbs the **Seeker's** feet and sits himself on their shoulder. . “Who the hell are you?” asks the **Seeker**. . “Let's just say, that I am here to protect you,” hisses the forked tongue of the **serpent**. “I can give you something... A weapon, that helps you out of this desperate situation. Surely you don't want to run for the rest of your life, do you? No... You want to fight back. You want to end your PROBLEMS once and for all, don't you? So why not show PROBLEMS, that you are not to be messed with?” . “Yes...” responds the **Seeker**. “This damned Minotaur thinks that I am his prey... He thinks that I am weak...” . “But you aren't weak,” hisses the forked tongue. “No, you are THE SEEKER. After all... Wasn't it you who overcame this many obstacles? It was YOU, who made it through the land of truth. And it was YOU, who took the leap of faith into the Great shift... Who does this Minotaur even think he is?” . The **Seeker** nods. “You are right... Who does he think he is?!” . The **serpent** smiles. “How about we make a deal? I can give you the power to solve your PROBLEMS, if you are willing to make a contract with me.” . “What do you want in return?” asks the cautious **Seeker**. . The **serpent** moves his twisted tongue into the ear of the **Seeker** and whispers something quietly into their ears. The **Seeker** contemplates for a moment, looking down and looking back at the staircase. The growling of the Minotaur and his steps get louder with every passing second. . “Alright... We have a deal...” . The **serpent** grins and opens his mouth. “Pull out that sword.” . The **Seeker** puts his hand in the serpents mouth and grabs the handle of an ancient sword from its insides. Pulling out a silver sword, covered by green slime. . . **NEW WEAPON ADDED:** **Problem Solver** . . . “One more thing,” hisses the twisted tongue, before crawling down from the **Seekers** body. “Keep our meeting a secret from the Stranger.” . As the **Snake** vanishes behind the shadows, the Minotaur storms from the staircase into the open rooftop of the tower. . The **Seeker** holds their new sword tightly, waiting for the perfect moment to strike the beast. PROBLEMS charges at the **Seeker**. . With a single strike the **Seeker** decapitates the Minotaur. The bulls head of the mythical creature rolls on the ground. . The **Seeker** exhales in relief. “I did it... I finally solved my PROBLEMS... Now I can be at peace.” . Looking down, the **Seeker** spots an abandoned cart filled with hay standing just at the feet of the tower. 'Perhaps I can just aim for that cart of hay and fall down without any fall damage, like those assassins from a certain video game franchise.' . . As the **Seeker** faces the ground below, a shadow rises up behind them. The headless Minotaur stands up again and re-attaches his head back on his severed neck. “I – AM – PROBLEMS!” thunders the voice of the immortal monster. . The **Seeker** turns around, their face is filled with fear. “This... This can't be happening... I defeated PROBLEMS... Why is he standing up again?!” . . The **Seeker** strikes their sword against the Minotaur. Stabbing his body again and again. Until the Monster stops moving. Even after the beast stops breathing, the **Seeker** continues to stab its lifeless body. The exhausted **Seeker** looks at the bloody mess, panting heavily. . “Even that monster can't handle this amount of damage...” . But then, blood flows back into the body. The wounds close again. Life returns into the monsters eyes. . “That damned beast is invincible,” shouts the **Seeker** in panic. Standing at the edge of the tower, with the cart of hay right beneath them, there is only one way out. The **Seeker** closes their eyes and jumps into the depths. Falling right into the cart. . “This should at least buy me some time, until PROBLEMS catches up...” . Before the **Seeker** ends their sentence, they are interrupted by a sudden shake. A cloud of dust forms right next to the cart. Cracks in the floor. As the dust vanishes, PROBLEMS stands upright, fully healed and ready to fight. . . “Nope,” sighs the **Seeker** with a tired voice, turns around and flees the scene. “I can't deal with this any longer...” . . . The **Seeker** runs back into the maze. PROBLEMS hunts after them. But the **Seeker** is faster. The distance grows. They turn left at a junction, then right, then left again. . “Did I shake him off?” questions the exhausted **Seeker**, breathing heavily. They wait a moment, looking back at the corridor from where they came. Nothing happens. . “Seems like he lost me.” . The **Seeker** calms down and continues to walk through the corridor. Up ahead the path splits in two. When the **Seeker** turns left at the corner, they bump into someones chest. They look up. An angry bullhead stares at the **Seeker**. . “Why do I always run into PROBLEMS?!” screams the **Seeker**, running away once more, as they are chased by the furious Minotaur. . The **Seeker** runs and runs. They take a left turn and stand in a dead end. There is no way forward. They turn their head. The way back is blocked by the Minotaur. The **Seeker** tries to climb the wall, but there are no protruding rocks anymore. The surface of the wall is completely smooth. . “Damnit! So the glitch was patched after all! I should have saved it for later!” . . Slowly the beast approaches the **Seeker**, who holds their sword in a defensive position. . “Stay away from me!” shouts the frightened **Seeker**. “Move one inch closer and I'll cut you down, you damned monster!” . The Minotaur takes a step forward, then another. Until the tip of the **Seekers** sword is mere centimeters away. The Minotaur growls violently, like a wild beast. His growling turns into coughing. The beast spits out slime, clears his throat and speaks with a clear voice: . “I have been trying to reach you about your extended warranty.” . . . The **Seeker** looks at the Minotaur with an open jaw. They are speechless. “My... What?!” . “Your extended warranty,” repeats the Minotaur. “For that book you purchased some time ago. Do you perhaps have a moment to talk about it?” . The **Seeker** stutters in disbelief: “No... I... umm... I already sold that book... But wait a second... Let me get this straight... Does that mean, that you weren't trying to eat me?!” . “Well... Sometimes we make out PROBLEMS to be bigger, than they are.” . The **Seeker** still can't wrap their head around this. “So you are telling me, that you were never going to hurt me? I was never in danger?” . The Minotaur chuckles. “PROBLEMS can only hurt you, if you allow them to hurt you. It's all about your mindset.” . . “So... Now what?” asks the **Seeker**. “Does this mean, that you will now go away and will never bother me again?” . “That's not how it works,” responds the Minotaur. “PROBLEMS are a part of life. They will come and go. You can't change that. The only thing, you can actually change, is how you deal with them.” . “Then how am I supposed to deal with you?!” asks the **Seeker** frustrated. “I tried literally anything! When I hid from you on that wall, you found me. When I ran away from you, you caught up to me. And when I fought against you, you stood up again!” . “But you never tried to understand me,” responds the Minotaur. “You wanted to get rid of me as soon as possible. If you had taken the time to find out where I come from and where I go to, you would perhaps found a better way of how to deal with me. You could have seen, that there is value in PROBLEMS, because they give you the opportunity to grow. Perhaps we could have even become friends.” . The **Seeker** bursts out in sarcastic laughter. “Becoming friends with PROBLEMS? That's ridiculous! They just cause stress, pain and disturb the peace of my mind!” . “Then imagine a life without PROBLEMS. Wouldn't it get boring, if things always go your way? There is no development without challenges. Only in death are you free of PROBLEMS. So while you are alive, if you can't hide from your PROBLEMS, run from them or fight them, why not try something different and befriend them?” . The Minotaur reaches out his claw towards the **Seeker**. . After some contemplation, the **Seeker** takes a deep breath. “You are right... It never even occurred to me... Perhaps it's worth a try... Let us be friends.” . The **Seeker** grabs the claw of the Minotaur and shakes hands. The Minotaur begins to glow. His physical body dissolves into colorful energy, which flows like a stream directly into the **Seekers** heart. . . **INTEGRATION OF PROBLEMS** . . The **Seeker** suddenly feels different. They feel more whole, than they did before merging with the beast. Like finding something, they lost a long time ago. . “Now I understand it,” utters the **Seeker**. “I AM THE PROBLEM.” . . **LEVEL UP!** **LVL 18: + 2 WISDOM** **VIBES FULLY RETORED (55 Total)** . . . . “I knew that you would make it,” speaks the **Mysterious Stranger**, who sits on the top of the wall, while biting in an apple. . “Where do you suddenly come from?” asks the **Seeker** confused. “Were you sitting up there the entire time already? Why didn't you help me?” , The **Stranger** jumps down, landing right next to the **Seeker**. “I placed my trust in you. And it turned out to be the right decision. Tell me Seeker, what did you learn from this experience?” , “I always believed the PROBLEM to be something outside of me. I always thought, since the Problem is external, the solution will be external as well. Turns out, the PROBLEM only ever existed within me.” , “Exactly,” confirms the **Stranger**. “The Solution lies within the Problem. We are conditioned to solve PROBLEMS by using our accumulated knowledge. When facing PROBLEMS we follow the pattern of our fight-or-flight instincts. However we rarely ever try to find out the root of our PROBLEMS. If we look at the PROBLEM with our complete awareness, without any emotional distortions or biases, we find out how to deal with it. You see, more often than not, we ourselves are the root of our PROBLEMS. Not only are we unable to deal with the problems at hand, we are even creating new problems through our Desires, Fears and through our suffering. And if we are attached, we only add to the PROBLEMS, we already need to face. It's like when your car breaks down. You can run away by distracting yourself from your PROBLEMS, but this won't change the fact, that the car needs to be fixed. You can bring your car to a garage and pay the minimum amount. But if you only fix the symptoms and won't get to the root of things, your car will soon break down again. Your PROBLEMS are not outside of you. Your PROBLEMS are not different from you. Separating yourself from your PROBLEMS is just another illusion of the mind. So go within. YOU are the PROBLEM and YOU are also the SOLUTION.” , , , **TO BE CONTINUED** , **.** **.** **^(for more content visit:)** . **^(Find previous part:)** **^(Find next part Here:)** . . **CHECKPOINT 5:** . **START JOURNEY HERE:** . .