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Allura 9

Like a lot of people, I had a bit of a “troubled” childhood. My parents were never physically abusive. But they fought constantly. My dad would yell and throw plates and shit across the room. Mom would get shitfaced and scream back through tears. Dad yelled at us for every little misstep and was very… Intolerant. In 6th grade I met my best friend and someone that became my brother. Jared and I had four out of six periods together that first year of middle school. The first time I spent the night at his house was a few weeks into our friendship using our Geography project as an excuse for having to be together all weekend. I had met his parents before but obviously hadn’t spent a whole lot of time with them. They laughed together. They cuddled on the couch. They worked together to renovate their entire home inside and out. They supported each other on everything. They just… Loved each other. A lot of my friends’ parents growing up were divorced. I always asked my mom why she was still with him when all they do is fight. Why not just get divorced? Separate for a while. Take time to remember why you fell in love with each other in the first place. I had absolutely no idea that two parents could just get along and genuinely love each other like they did. From that day until the day I dropped out of high school, I spent maybe 1-2 weeks a month at home in total. That was a night here and there. And the nights we weren’t hanging out in person, we were playing Halo or Zombies or something on Xbox Live. The more time that I spent at his house, the more weird shit would happen to us in the middle of the night. It started with light scratching on the walls in the hallway and only got worse from there. One night I was woken up by the sound of an encyclopedia slamming down onto the table in front of me in the living room. Rich came jogging down the hall to find out what the hell was going on and the only thing I had for him was that book. I don’t know that he ever believed me but that was when I started asking more questions about the house. The week that his parents bought that house, two kids that we went to school with had used an Ouija board in the garage. Jared and his family showed up while they were doing it and they just up and ran away. Rich (Jared’s dad) groaned and mumbled something about stupid ass teenagers while picking up and throwing out the board. I don’t know how much you believe in that stuff, but I didn’t before I started spending so much time there. We started spending our overnights going between Halo and “ghost hunting”. We would try to walk through the house at night and catch weird happenings on video or catch EVPs of a ghost telling us some dark secrets or something. Sitting in his room playing Halo one of our off nights, he started telling me about how he used to try to talk to the Egyptian god of death, Seth. He had little statuettes of Anubis, Ra, Seth and other Egyptian gods and that all started to make sense. Given our paranormal adventures as of late, I thought it would be cool for him to perform some kind of ritual in the dark to try and provoke something. So I stood up and placed my hand on the chain of the ceiling fan, waiting for the okay to pull it and shut the light. Jared gathered a few things into the middle of his bed and told me he was ready so I pulled the chain and left us with nothing but the sound of that fan spinning above us. I was terrified of the dark until I was in my late 20’s (I kind of still am but it’s gotten better), so I made sure to keep my hand around that chain so I could get the lights back on as soon as I felt like I couldn’t handle it anymore. He started saying something that I will never be able to remember like he was reading it live for the first time from a teleprompter. His words were staggered and he had to repeat himself a few times. Two or three minutes into the whole thing, I started to feel puffs of warm air on the back of my neck. There was no accompanying sound other than the fan and Jared’s voice sounding more and more distant. I was starting to get scared. I tried to pull on the chain but my hands were clammy from the fear. Almost like it sensed that I couldn’t grip the chain well, I felt something grip my bicep and start to pull it down towards the floor. Hard. I managed to pinch my fingernails between the beads on the chain and getting enough grip to get the light back on. As soon as the filaments of the light bulb sparked, the pressure on my arm and the warm air on my neck ceased. I was staring at Jared sitting cross-legged in his bed blocking the light from his eyes. He asked me what the fuck was going on and I started to explain it to him. I rolled up my sleeve to grip my arm as a visual example of what I felt. And there was a huge hand-print wrapped around my arm, beat red like I was dragged across the yard by the upper part of my arm. We both picked our jaws up off of the floor and waited with bated breath for one of us to break the silence. It wasn’t one of our voices that ended up doing so. The bi-fold doors on his closet squeaked open just a few inches and I swear to you that I saw two eyes and a smile in the darkness in the back of his closet that I will never forget for as long as I live. Two oblong almost dots of just barely not black a couple of inches apart with a long, jagged smile that I can only assume was spanning from ear to ear. That night solidified the thought that his house was haunted for me. And it wasn’t the last or scariest thing to happen to us there.

I’m still breathing. The space station was eerily quiet, the usual hum of machinery replaced by an unsettling silence. The lights flickered sporadically, casting long, ominous shadows across the walls. Equipment lay scattered, a testament to the chaos that had erupted moments before. I stood in the center of it all, heart pounding, trying to make sense of the situation. My crew mates were at the far end of the station. Their faces wore masks of fear and confusion as they called out to me, their voices barely audible over the growing din. I tried to move towards them, but my feet felt like they were encased in concrete. Every step was a struggle, as if the very air around me was thickening, holding me back. Suddenly, the station began to shudder violently. The walls groaned under the pressure, and the ceiling started to cave in. Debris rained down, and I could feel the weight of it pressing down on me, making it hard to breathe. The air was thick with dust and smoke, obscuring my vision. My crew mates were getting further and further away, their figures fading into the darkness. Just as the station seemed on the verge of complete collapse, a blinding light enveloped me. I felt a strange sensation, like being pulled through a tunnel at incredible speed. The next thing I knew, I was no longer in the space station. I found myself in a room dimly lit by four spotlights directly opposite me, the walls smooth and metallic. The air was cool and sterile, a stark contrast to the chaos I had just escaped. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I realized I was not alone. Tall, slender, armored figures with multiple, hairy limbs and large, razor sharp mandibles stood around me. They moved with an eerie grace. I was on a Pah’kreth vessel! Panic surged through me, but before I could react, one of the beings stepped forward. It spoke in a language I couldn’t understand, yet somehow, the ominous meaning was clear in my mind. “We have saved you.” I looked around, trying to comprehend my new reality. The space station, my crew mates, the collapse—it all seemed like a distant nightmare. But this was real. I was on an alien ship, saved from certain death, but now facing an entirely new and uncertain future. **Day 5** I’m still breathing. The sterile, metallic walls of the Pah'kreth vessel had become both my prison and my reality. Everyday melded into the next, an endless cycle of isolation and dread. They watched me constantly, their unreadable eyes fixated on me. I was locked in a claustrophobic cell, with a small window that I could just reach to look through. The floor cold, the dim lighting offered little comfort. Uncertainty gnawed at me. The Pah’kreth seemed intent on breaking into my mind. They would bring me to a room and strap me into a chair surrounded by complex machinery and computers. Wires and probes connected to my temples, fingers, toes and groin. Waves of pain would surge through me as they attempted to extract information. The process left me drained, my thoughts a jumbled mess. Every session was the same: the alien language I couldn’t understand, yet somehow, the meaning was clear. They wanted information. But why? I had no military knowledge, no secret codes, nothing of strategic value. My role on the space station was routine, mundane even. What could they possibly hope to gain from me? Today’s session began as usual, with the cold, clinical procedures and the invasive probes. This time, the pain was more intense, and the sensations were different. It felt as if they were peeling back layers of my consciousness, delving into memories I had long forgotten. Flashes of my life on Earth flickered before my eyes: childhood moments, my family, my friends, mundane days at the space station. They sifted through everything, dissecting my very essence. I could feel their frustration, their impatience. They were searching for something specific, something they believed I had. After what felt like eternity, the session ended abruptly. The probes were unhooked and I was escorted back to my cell. I collapsed onto the cold floor, my head throbbing and my body trembling. What were they looking for? Why were they so desperate for information from someone like me? As I lay there, trying to make sense of it all, a new thought began to form. Maybe it wasn’t about what I knew, but what I represented. Humanity was being annihilated, running scared, frantic to survive. Perhaps I was a symbol, a test subject in their grand scheme. They wanted to understand us, break us down, and ensure there would be no resistance. I couldn’t give up. I had to find a way to survive, to hold onto my humanity. If there was even a chance to fight back, I had to. I made a silent vow: Endure. Resist I would find a way to escape this nightmare. **Day 10** I’m still breathing. The days had blended into a haze of pain and confusion, each session with the Pah'kreth more excruciating than the last. By now, the routine was ingrained in me: the cold, clinical machinery, the invasive probes, the relentless search for something I could not comprehend. Each session left me more fragmented, my memories and sense of self dissolving into an incoherent blur. On this day, the Pah'kreth took me to a different room. This one was larger, filled with even more advanced equipment, pulsating with an eerie, organic light. They restrained me, but this time, the procedure felt different. There was a sense of finality, an air of anticipation among my captors. The pain surged through me, more intense than ever, and I felt something break inside me. It was as if a dam burst, and a flood of memories, alien and terrifying, poured into my consciousness. My human life, my time on the space station, my friends, my family—all of it shattered, replaced by something else, something profoundly different. The realization hit me with a force that left me gasping for breath. I had never been human. I was a Pah'kreth plant, a sleeper agent meticulously crafted to look and act human, inserted among them to gather information, to observe, and to wait. My human memories were mere fabrications, memory implantations, a complex cover story to mask my true nature. The experiments the Pah'kreth had been performing on me were not tortures but preparations, designed to awaken my mind and transport my consciousness to my new, real body. The agony I had endured was the price of my transformation. As the final procedure ended, the world around me dissolved into blackness. Just keep breathing. I’m in a new body, sleek and powerful, with the unmistakable features of the Pah'Kreth. My limbs are strong, my senses heightened, and my mind clear in a way it had never been before.The clarity brought with it a horror I could not bear. My past human existence could not be reconciled with my true self. The memories of my human life, though false, felt real, and the emotions tied to them were genuine. I remember the warmth of human relationships, the simple joys and sorrows, the sense of identity that defined me. My wife, my crew-mates, my friends - all of it rendered meaningless, a cruel joke played by my own kind. I staggered through the corridors of thePah'kreth vessel, my new body feeling weak despite its obvious strength. Desperation clawed at my mind as I tried to make sense of my existence, find a way to replace the human I thought I was with the Pah'Kreth I had become. It was impossible. The two identities were irreconcilable, locked in a battle that tore at the fabric of my sanity. In a daze, I realize I’m in an airlock. The cold, sterile ship humming around me, indifferent to my plight. My mind is a whirlwind of fragmented memories and unbearable truths. There is no escape from what I am, no way to return to the person I had once believed myself to be. Desperation. I open the airlock. The black void of space yawning before me, a vast, indifferent expanse. As I step forward, the last remnants of my human memories flash before my eyes: the faces of my crew mates, the collapsing space station, the blinding light, the smiling face of my wife. And then, nothing. Just the cold embrace of the vacuum, a final release from the torment of my divided existence. I had been a sleeper agent, a tool in a war I barely understood. In the end, it was my human memories, false as they were, that had defined me. It was in those memories that I found my last moment of truth. No more breath.

It just appeared one day, seemingly out of nowhere. The sign of a new era that had us all gazing up in unison. There was no dramatic prelude or deafening announcement. No identifiable reason or trigger. And even a gathering of religious figureheads on an unprecedented scale failed to find a sign or single line in their holy books to suggest the date itself held any sacred significance whatsoever. We could only speculate as to what might have prompted its arrival. And so, we did. Countless, increasingly bizarre theories, scattered across the globe like sparks on New Year’s Eve, kindling many heated debates for months to come. But before long, there was at least one thing we all seemed to agree on. An age-old argument could finally be put to rest: someone or something **was** watching us… Someone or something with the power to make things happen. And he-she-they-it had seen enough. Retreating into anonymity and leaving us be apparently hadn’t produced the desired results. Something had to change. So, they – for lack of a better descriptor – decided to reach out and revise the rules. And yes, I still remember what I was doing when it happened. How could I not? It was all people fucking went on about for weeks on end once the new status quo left some room to reminisce. The only ‘*Where were you when…?’-*moment to ever rival 9/11. I had just lit a joint that night, high up on our balcony, shivering from skin to spine. Weirdly enough, it was Liz who put me up to it. She thought it might relax me. Hoped the momentary relief would tug me back from the edge ever-so-slightly, after yet another mind-numbing week at the office had nudged me closer to it. “Rules are rules though,” she had proclaimed merrily, directing me outside. “Go on, just enjoy it. Ease up a bit.” But as I gazed after the puffs of vapour, firing in bursts with each wavering exhale, I could hardly recall ever feeling less calm in my life. “Ap-p-p-preciate the gesture,” I told myself through chattering teeth. *The only way this does away with my stress is if I freeze to death,* I thought. *If she really cared, she’d let me smoke inside.* “Ap-p-reciate the g-gesture,” I repeated my mantra, wholly aware that these thoughts were unfair and out of line. I had grown proficient at analysing my internal workings, so much so that others might accuse me of being robotic at times. Unfortunately, my feelings weren’t always as quick on the uptake. For them, understanding did not always equate to acceptance. Not immediately, at least. Desires don’t care about what’s ‘fair’ or ‘deserved’. They are inherently entitled. They **want** to claw and rage, demanding instant gratification no matter the cost. Thus, the robot's challenge was to keep the screaming monkey in its cage, far away from the control panel, until his childish tantrums had subsided. But I digress. I would soon forget about any of it, as the first streaks of bright red light appeared in the sky right around that time. My thoughts went instantly to fireworks, or perhaps a drone. But once the letters started to form, I became convinced that my blunt had been spiked with something significantly stronger than what I was used to. Calling for an extra set of eyes, however, – “b-b-babe, c-c-could you come here for a second?!” – quickly proved me wrong, as hers too turned the size of saucers the moment she stepped outside. It wasn’t just me. *What the…* I reached out to her, and we just stood there, holding hands, watching speechlessly as the glaring, crimson letters we now know by heart slowly took shape. As if some large, invisible pen was scribbling, word for word, using the clouds as a backdrop for its burning ink. And when it was done, we were left with the ominous, italic lines that would change our lives forever. A piece of poorly written poetry which, we later learned, could be seen and read by everyone, regardless of what language one spoke or wherever you were. The murdered acquire a ticket to heaven. Kill, and you’ll swiftly see hell. Suicides, ailments, and natural deaths, shall result in eternal farewell. Pleading or praying, down on your knees, won’t save you, no those aren’t the keys. To avoid these desolate fates you so fear, where spirit will suffer or soul disappear, this is the creed, to do with as you please, and all to which you need to adhere. Well, as you can probably imagine, that didn’t exactly go unnoticed. Eyes glued to our screens for days on end, we witnessed the world’s reaction as it shifted through various stages. It began with most of the population being as sceptical as you would expect. That’s what we had become, after all. Standing atop the food chain long enough will do that to you. So, in our hubris, we simply wondered what purpose this viral marketing campaign served, and which brand would soon come forward to claim responsibility. Leaders of the largest nations, meanwhile, were nervously trying to discover which country the message had stemmed from and what military implications this new technology could have. In their unease, even the regimes at odds with each other must have cooperated – although not openly, of course. These things have a way of working themselves out in the shadows, undisclosed. But we suspected it to be so, given how quickly and collectively administrations all over the world concluded the same thing; that it hadn’t been any of them. That thought must have freaked them out even more, as all of a sudden they **were** capable of putting their differences aside and working together. A task force was formed. But lo and behold the limitations of the human race: the combined effort of our brightest minds and leading scholars brought forth jack shit besides more uncertainty and utter disappointment. They assured us, however, that they had barely scratched the surface. That they simply needed more time (and probably more funding if they were anything like the scientists I’ve ever met.) “Two weeks is nothing when it comes to research,” their leader said. A man who couldn’t even tuck in his shirt properly, tasked to comfort the world. “And even if we do discover something, it won’t mean anything until the study has been peer-reviewed.” “Why don’t you go peer-review my balls!” I shouted at the TV. “See if you all reach the same conclusion through due process then!” A violent snort concluded my cynical outburst. Liz shot me a foul look from the other side of the couch and clearly thought me childish. I still remember it vividly, though I’m not sure why. Perhaps because she always looked so hot when she was angry. The way her eyes would pierce straight through me. The pursing of those lips. It was the strangest thing which never failed to get me going, though it also tended to throw me off balance as it would split my path of future possibilities in two. One leading to ‘Fuck’ and the other to ‘Fight’. “They’re doing what they can,” she lectured, hoping to invoke some understanding or compassion within me. What a waste of words. I didn’t want to be reasonable. The monkey was slamming the buttons and it seemed hell-bent on waltzing me firm strides down the second path. “Always the empath,” I groaned in frustration. “Except when it concerns me, of course. ‘Poor wittle cwiminals’ with their sad childhoods and challenging backgrounds, but I put one toe out of line and the world’s too small. TE-*fucking*-RRIFIC! Why can’t you ever see where I’m coming from? Why not try that for a change instead of scowling and criticizing like you know what’s right? Like **you**, of all people, have **any** idea.” She stormed off to the bedroom after that, without saying goodnight. She did use other words, however, quite loudly too, but you’d be hard-pressed to find any well-wishes within them. When I went to apologize a while later, we cried and made love like never before. Rough, raw, and relishing, with passion bordering on violence. Desperate, with hearts that would otherwise burst. As if the world were about to end and we might never get another chance. And when I finally exploded inside of her – what might have been long hours or mere minutes later – it felt like part of my soul left along with my load. I crumbled, convulsing uncontrollably with my full weight pressed atop her softness. Our physical beings merged closer than ever while my mind resided in a faraway paradise. But enough about that. Another week went by before anything truly interesting was unearthed. Can you imagine? By then, a month had passed. A whole month with burning letters gracing our skies like some ominous nightlight. Yet, during that time, most of us just went on with our everyday lives the best we could. Mind you, this wasn’t always easy. Some had already gone their own way, interpreting the message as they saw fit. Devout followers had decided it was a message from their respective gods, the spiritually free had embraced this manifestation of the cosmos, and hordes of alien enthusiasts flocked to the streets, aiming signs of their own at the sky in reply. About five days in, each group seemed to have made up their mind, fervently rejecting all alternative explanations from that moment on. Funny, don’t you think, that it’s often those open-minded enough to believe in things they cannot see who come to be closed-off and purposefully blind because of it? While the various groups didn’t get along at first, they eventually found some common ground in their shared disbelief at what they called the world’s ‘naivety and unwillingness to wake up’. They resented us, those without conviction, because by being in the majority we had inadvertently branded them outcasts. Collectively written them off as gullible souls and nutters. So, in turn, they labelled us naysaying sheep, though I don’t think that was fair. We weren’t outright denouncing anything. We were merely waiting. Waiting for confirmation that any of it was real, before taking stock of some dreary poem in the sky. Not yet deeming the words worthy to live by. But then, a story broke at the end of the week; the post-pattern was discovered. Not by scientists, no, but by the cops of all people. They would’ve probably caught it earlier if they hadn’t been so busy containing those now recognizing a new, higher law. Not that I’m complaining. It all changed so fast after they announced it, and I’m grateful for those extra days of relative normalcy we got because of it. Perhaps they should never have told us… ############ “Oh well,” I said, breaking free from the trailing thought. This wasn’t the time to be reflecting on how we ended up in this mess. “What’s done is done, isn’t it? You try and get some sleep and I’ll be back later.” She remained silent, but it was not as if I had truly expected a response. I played with my keys for a bit, lingering, but the jingling only appeared to annoy her, so I put on my jacket and pulled myself away. I was already late. After one last check for the folded paper in my back pocket, I closed the apartment door behind me and…broke the knob off clean. *Fuck.* It was insane how even the smallest things, which used to feel so sturdy, seemed to have deteriorated at an accelerated pace in little over a year. Too often we underestimate the entropic powers of true neglect. I turned away from the door with a sigh. Nothing I could do about it now. A problem for later. Hurrying down several flights of stairs, I inhaled the aromas of sewage, drugs, and stale alcohol which permanently pervaded these hallways. I had grown so accustomed to the blend, that I hardly registered its pungent presence until I caught a whiff of something new within the usual mix. Something metallic. And as I went outside, I almost stumbled over its origins. The widespread puddle of blood I stepped in had already started to congeal and released more of its distinct coppery smell as I jerked my sole free with a juicy squelch. Turning left, I stepped over the body propped up next to the lobby door. *Stabbed. No blood on his hands,* I thought as I glanced at his wounds. *Lucky bastard. Makes sense with a mug like that.* I could barely resist the unsavoury urge to spit on him. My envy wasn’t justified or pretty. I knew that. His face was adequately average and in no way particularly prickish. But I **needed** the release. To vent. I knew that too. In light of that, I had chucked the monkey’s cage some time ago, and it and the robot had been living on equal footing ever since. I despised myself for allowing it, to an extent. Letting the monkey roam unrestricted went against every instinct I had learned growing up. Yet, truth be told, I had never felt more free. Streetlights flickered as a black van turned the corner, slow like poured molasses. The white logo on the side showed a vacuum with its hose twisted in the shape of a skull. *Cleaners*, I knew. And although there was no real reason for them to hurry – *Mr. Stabby Decompose back there could hardly get any deader* – their snail’s pace still irked me. It served as an unwelcome reminder of how everything had changed. No one wanted to risk crashing, their soul fading, so traffic simply slowed down considerably at first. It wasn’t great, but at least it still beat walking. But once droves of people started diving in front of every vehicle they could find, we adopted an even more tedious pace, practically ruining the purpose of driving altogether. Most of us just walked these days, as I was about to.

It was a rainy Wednesday. I had just gotten off a grueling 12-hour shift at the office. My boss wanted me to stay an extra hour to finish some paperwork, but luckily I convinced him I had more important things to do at home. By important, I mean catching up on some sleep. Surprisingly, it's worked multiple times. Anyway, I got home and settled in my living room. My couch faces the TV, which is positioned in front of a large window with a clear view of the road. I can also see the police department building down the street. Before I knew it I was asleep on my couch. Didn't even take off my work clothes. Around 9 PM, I woke up. I knew i Wouldn't be able to go back to sleep that night so I decided to make dinner. Which was just a turkey and cheese sandwich. I finished making my sandwich and sat back on the couch. That’s when I noticed something strange. I mentioned the police department before, but I didn't mention its defining feature. Unlike the other police departments nearby, this one has a long, thin tower with a glowing red light that always turns on between 9 PM and 12 AM, and switches off around 7 AM. I know this because I often pull all-nighters. But that night, the light seemed different—brighter than usual. It sounds silly, but it almost felt like it was calling to me. I brushed off the odd feeling and continued eating my sandwich. I grabbed the tv remote to find something to watch. However, that's when The second strange thing happened. A Lot of the stations were off line. At first I thought it was because of the weather, but There was no storm present all week. The only channel available was stars. United 93 was on at time. Not something I wanted to watch but everything else was down so I kept it on. A few minutes later after I finished, I went to the kitchen to wash my plate. I was getting ready to force myself to sleep. I had work in the morning and I couldn't be late for the second time. I walked back to the living room. Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw. What I saw out the window was beyond explanation. The sky was pitch black—not nighttime dark, but a void of nothingness, like a black hole had swallowed the stars and light. The only light came from the police department tower, which had grown unbearably bright. So bright in fact that I had to shield my eyes from the blinding light. The next thing I knew, I was waking up on the couch. A dream I remembered saying to myself. I remember the first thing I heard after waking was the sound of a Boeing 737 flying overhead. The irony was starting to get to me at that point. Like the universe was trying to tell me something. First United 93 now a plane flying above my home. Brought back bad memories. I’ve always loved planes; my father used to buy me realistic toy planes you had to put together, and I would pretend to fly them around the house. He always said I was the best pilot. But now, planes bring only pain. Three years ago, my buddy Adam and his family were planning a trip to Hawaii. He invited me, but I declined to avoid being a third wheel. Tragically, their plane crashed en route, and everyone died except the captain. I never understood why? Why Adam? Why his fiancée? Good people taken from the world due to someone else’s mistake—no, idiocy. I'm sorry for the rant; I should get back on topic. That morning, I was shaken, to say the least. In my 34 years, I had never experienced anything like that. I didn't have time to process what happened because I had work in two hours. My job isn't far away, so I decided I needed some clarity about what happened that night. John, my neighbor, lives a few houses down. I would always go to him to talk about my issues and problems. He lent me money and helped me a lot mentally after the plane incident. He's basically my unofficial therapist. Considering I could barely afford real therapy, this was the closest I got to it. I left the house at 7:30 and walked to his place. As I approached his door, I noticed John in the window. He was slouched over his counter with his head down. Usually, I had no hesitation to knock on his door, but after seeing him like that, I was reluctant. Despite that, I knocked. “Hey John, are you alright in there?” I said. No answer. I knew John was there, so I knocked a couple more times. Still, no answer. I took another peek through the window, but he was gone. At that point, I felt something was wrong. John was clearly ignoring me for a reason. So I knocked again. “John, what's going on, man? I know you hear me.” That's when the door swung open. But instead of John, it was a stern-looking woman. She was pale and seemed very upset. “Stop knocking on my door and leave my family alone!” she yelled. I was very confused. Who was this woman, and why was she in John's house? “Where is John?” I asked. “There is no John here, not anymore,” she replied. “What do you mean? He was here yesterday, and I just saw him in the window.” “John died three years ago in the police station.” I couldn't believe what I heard. I knew John for so long. How could he be dead? The woman slammed the door in my face. I can only imagine how I looked after hearing what she said. I went to work confused and distraught. First the red light, now John. I felt like I was going crazy. I was barely focused at work, but no one noticed. As the day went by, my anxiety worsened. I work an office job in a cubicle, so my workspace didn't help my mental state. Eventually, I clocked out and was ready to head home until I heard it: “Bang bang bang.” Three loud thuds came from the other side of the wall. The noise startled me to the ground. To my knowledge, everyone else had clocked out. I'm always the last to leave, so when I heard those noises, I became worried. “Bang bang bang.” Another series of blows hit the wall. As I walked around the corner to where the sound came from, I started to smell something burning. I saw light coming from under the door to the office kitchen. “Bang bang bang, help me!” someone screamed from the other side of the door. There was a fire, and someone was trapped. I rushed to the door and tried to open it, but it wouldn't budge. The screaming intensified, and the banging continued. I kicked the door with all my might, but still nothing. The screaming was getting to me. I backed up to the end of the hall, eyeing the door. I sprinted full speed, shoulder first, smashing through the door—only to find an empty kitchen. No people, no fire. My boss found out about the incident from the security camera footage and rightfully fired me. But honestly, getting fired was the least of my worries. It was obvious I needed help. I was ready to check myself into a mental hospital until I got a call. It was another rainy day. The suspicious red light from the night before still haunted me. I sat in my living room for hours, staring at a blank TV screen. I was interrupted by a call on my phone. As if my life wasn't crazy enough, it was my mom. I hadn't spoken to her in over seven years. When my dad died, she lost contact with me and many other family members. But somehow, she always found a way back into my life. I picked up the phone, not really expecting a good conversation. “Azrael, are you okay?” she said. “Mom, why are you calling so late?” A sudden pause followed. “Do you remember?” “Remember what?” “Check the red box in the attic.” “What are you talking ab—” Before I could respond, she hung up. Once again, I was confused. So many crazy things were happening in my life. Why was this happening to me? “Red box in the attic,” I thought to myself. I didn't understand what that meant. Nothing made sense anymore. Why was John dead? Why was my mom calling me now? And why was that damn red light so bright? As I walked to the attic, I kept questioning everything. Why did my best friend have to die, and why did the captain get to live while everyone else died because of his mistake? Why? Why? Why? Adam was my only friend. I reached the back of the attic and found the red box. Inside, there was a newspaper clipping. “Boeing 737 crash lands on police station during storm. The only survivor, the captain, states: ‘I thought it was a runway.’” Ha. That damn red light.

The time hit midnight as Class 68 No. 68022 whirred steadily toward the scrapyard, its engine humming a low, steady tune. As the train moved through the points, screeches could be heard when the flanges hit the rails. 68022 was carrying a load of broken locomotive parts and rail equipment. As they neared the scrapyard, 68022 gasped when his headlights reached the yard. Powerful, thoroughbred locomotives rusting away, cabs severed from their frames, stacks of coaches rotting away—the scrapyard was scary for any locomotive. The crew member onboard, Jack, glanced at the fuel gauge while they were being uncoupled. "We're running low, 68022. We'll need to refuel before heading back," Jack said. 68022 agreed. The lights from his other cab cast a faint glow through the thick fog. The scrapyard loomed ahead, an expanse littered with the rusty, gutted remains of old locomotives. Jack hopped down as 68022 rolled to a stop near the refueling bay, the clatter of metal underfoot echoing through the yard. While Jack was refueling 68022, a strange noise caught 68022's attention. It was a low, rumbling sound, a mix of a groan and a whimper, rising and falling like a tormented wail. Curious and unnerved, 68022 focused, his eyes peering through the fog. Emerging from the dense fog was a sight that sent a shock through 68022's circuits. An enormous locomotive, larger than any he had ever seen, slowly took shape. It had eight wheels per bogey, an open engine exposing a labyrinth of rusted machinery, a crudely put-together extended frame, and no rear cab. The most unsettling part was the sound—an agonized scream that seemed to emanate from deep within its engine. "*Dead... Dead... Let me rest... Wake me... Or let me rest peacefully...*" the locomotive wailed, its voice a haunting mix of despair and anger. "*I am dead... Let me rest peacefully.*" 68022 watched in silence, stunned by the figure, as the ghostly locomotive seemed to flicker, its form wavering like a mirage before vanishing back into the fog. The echoes of its cries lingered in the air. Jack returned, unaware of the spectral encounter. "All fueled up, 68022. Let's head back to the depot." With his circuits still tingling, 68022 gave a blast of his horn and set off toward the mainline, his wheels spinning faster as he put distance between himself and the haunted scrapyard. The night's events weighed heavily on his mind: a zombie locomotive, made from multiple locos, awakened from the dead for an experiment. As 68022 thundered back onto the mainline, the fog began to lift, revealing the familiar railway. Once 68022 arrived at the depot, he met 66404. As 68022 idled next to 66404, he talked about what he had seen. "66404, I just had the strangest experience," 68022 said. "Oh, come on. You've been on this railway for only *8* years. You're bound to experience weirder stuff," 66404 replied. "No, really, I saw a Frankenstein locomotive. It looked like a Class 45 frame and bogeys and a 55 engine. The engine was exposed, with only one cab and a crudely extended frame," 68022 insisted. Then, another loco joined the conversation. 37612 sighed and said, "Looks like they're back." 68022 and 66404 looked at 37612. "They?" asked 68022. 37612 continued, "It was 1985. The Class 45 and 55 were being scrapped, but an unknown engineer wanted to merge these two diesels to make a super locomotive. He searched through the scrapyards to find the parts he needed. One day, I was tasked to haul a train to a scrapyard at midnight. While I was waiting to be uncoupled, I heard a large BANG. It was the engineer trying to start up the loco he had built. The engineer sadly didn't make the ambulance trip. But when the police and paramedics arrived, I saw the locomotive. It slowly pulled forward from the shed. The engine was growling, sounding like it didn't want to start. It rolled through the yard until it hit a set of points. The rusted-out axles gave way and stopped the locomotive. The locomotive was quickly disposed of. But it seems like it's back." "Do you know why it happened again?" 68022 asked. "No idea. A locomotive shouldn't be able to drive itself without an engine," 37612 said. The next day, 68022 told the higher-ups the story. They contacted the police to investigate. After an investigation and a look at the security camera footage, they concluded that there was a locomotive roaming through the yard. Digging deeper, they searched the archive and found a couple of people, probably teenagers, building a locomotive. They said that it was on the same track as they thought the ghost locomotive came from. They still don't have any concrete evidence, and they are still investigating this interesting encounter.

There are only two things you need to know about life... On the other hand, one can never really know what might be important to know in a lifetime. When I was falling in love with my life I learned the first thing, never underestimate anyone, especially those you trust. " Honey, we need to leave." She was smiling like today was a happy day. Well maybe today was a happy day for her. She was finally getting rid of me for two entire months. "Are you packed"-she was looking in my room- "where is your bag" my mom was worried we were going to be late. "My bag is right here." I was pointing to it. "I'm ready"- I was getting up to grab my bag- "let's go," I was talking in a slow drawn-out way. My mom looked appalled "Are you"- she paused, holding back tears-"did you take something?" she looked horrified. I looked at her in a condescending way "I know YOU think that I'm crazy but How would I even get anything to take?" My voice picked up and had anger in it. "You keep track of everything that comes into this house, and you search my things every single day," my voice was raising, and my face was turning red with anger. "I don't know what you're capable of," her voice had a hint of fear. She was grabbing my bag and unzipping it. She looked in the bag and then bag to me. "Why does your voice sound like your high right now then." she was looking at me "Probably because I have been up all night for like four days worrying about today!" I was yelling angry and scared from my mom. "Let's just go"-I stood up walking past her-"We are going to be late," I was almost whispering. She stood up and walked behind me following me to the car. I walked around to the passenger side and got in, my mother got in the driver's seat and started towards my final boss, the hospital. See for the last six months or so my mother has thought that I was crazy. "Honey, let's go," she was standing outside of my door. Silently, I got up and followed her in through the big glass doors. She was checking me in, showing the lady at the desk the things in my bag and telling the lady why I was here. "She has been acting strange and the way she has been talking I think she got into drugs, she also has been talking to people that weren't there." she kept talking but I stopped listening, that strange behavior she talked about, my befriend just told me she was moving multiple states away. We have been over the so-called drugs and as for the hallucinations I had been practicing a speech I had for English. My mother tried to hug me before I went into the back. "Don't..." I dodged her hug and followed a nurse to the back, through large industrial doors. The second thing I learned was only gods die. Now this may seem usual, but her me out. Humans, the ones that die you know, they worship this guy that died. They never realize that they die just like he did. And the ones that do think that humans die for no reason like their so-called god. Me, an entity that never dies, realizes that I am inferior to humans for they are blessed with being released from this terrible world.

The First Day In the heart of an ancient forest, under the shelter of a large, fallen tree, a clutch of snake eggs began to stir. The first to break free was a tiny baby snake named Sable. With eyes barely open and scales glistening in the morning dew, Sable took his first breath of the fresh, earthy air and felt the warmth of the sun on his delicate skin. Curiosity sparked in Sable’s tiny heart as he slithered away from the nest. The forest floor was a wondrous place, teeming with life. He marveled at the towering trees, the vibrant flowers, and the myriad of creatures that darted around him. Every sound, every movement, was a new discovery. As the sun climbed higher, Sable’s journey took a turn toward the darker, denser parts of the forest. Here, the shadows were longer, and the sounds were different—more ominous. He encountered his first real danger: a massive owl, its eyes glinting with hunger. Sable’s tiny heart raced as he froze, hoping the owl would not notice him. Luck was on his side, and the owl flew off, leaving him trembling but unharmed. The afternoon brought Sable to a serene, sunlit clearing. He basked in the warmth, feeling a deep sense of happiness and contentment. He found a tiny stream and sipped the cool water, savoring the taste. Nearby, he watched a family of rabbits play, their joy infectious. For a moment, Sable felt at home in this vast, new world. As evening fell, Sable’s adventurous spirit led him to explore further. The forest at dusk was enchanting, filled with the songs of night creatures and the twinkle of fireflies. He felt a sense of belonging among the nocturnal beings, finding comfort in their presence. But as night deepened, a chill set in, and the forest became an eerie place. The comforting sounds of the day were replaced by unsettling rustles and distant howls. Sable’s instincts urged him to find a safe place to rest, but he was lost. The once-beautiful forest now felt like a labyrinth of fear and uncertainty. In the darkness, Sable felt something he hadn’t experienced before—utter loneliness. He missed the warmth of his nest and the presence of his siblings. Cold and scared, he curled up under a large leaf, trying to make himself as small as possible. The shadows seemed to close in around him, and the night grew colder. Just as he began to drift into an uneasy sleep, a sudden, sharp pain shot through his tiny body. A predatory fox had found him, its teeth sinking into his tender flesh. Sable’s life flashed before his eyes—the excitement of his first adventure, the beauty of the forest, and the happiness he had felt just hours before. As the darkness consumed him, Sable’s final thoughts were of the sunlit clearing and the hope that, in some way, he had found a place in the world, even if it was only for a short while. The forest, in its cruel, indifferent way, had taken him as quickly as it had welcomed him.

It was as hot as a boiling pot of water for Finwoo, out in the raging sun, no mere fish would be caught dead in this blazing weather. But Finwoo was no mere fish, no, he was burst from another fish egg, and because of that very reason Finwoo would one day be the one thing he admired the most, and that was to become a hero that the whole village adored. At least according to him. The rest of Gille village, Finwuoo's hometown, considered him a bit of a nuisance. If something had broken, it was because of him. If food went missing, it was him. If the water pods were emptied, you know who to blame. Of course, Finwue didn't understand the hostility towards him, after all, he is a hero in training. Finwoo's training was so rigorous and so hardcore, that he created a sort of meal schedule that accommodated his hard training. He recruited people in the village that could help with providing said meals. Meaning if he saw fresh supper set out to feed an entire family, he would just help himself to a hefty serving of whatever was prepared for not him. Though most of the people in Gille village could not stand the sight of Finwoo, there were still a few that were very kind-hearted toward him. Even though most of the things he did were annoying and consequently destructive, some understood his actions. They didn't see him as a nuisance, they saw him as a youngling, just trying to live and grow and find his place in this world without a mom or dad. You see, Finwues parents perished in a horrific attack against a gang named " The Nest Raiders." Back when Gille village were water fish, their home and lively hood flourished and for them, the most important priority in everyone's life was their children. The flourishment of their children meant knowledge would be passed down from generation to generation and Gille village would always have a future built on honorable morals and values. Everywhere you saw beauty, there were fish pods full of baby eggs, waiting to spring and be welcomed by their families. One night when all the village was tucked away, except for a few who were charged to guard the fish pods. A gang of Barracudas " The Nest Raiders," came upon the village with a wicked appetite. Seeing the fish pods in all their glory, the nest raiders wasted no time and swooped right in, giving the guards no time to react. One CHOMP! from the barracudas' ferocious teeth, left them in bloody discarded pieces. An elderly fish waking up due to the commotion outside his pod witnessed one of the nest raiders flashing right by him looking for their next meal. A second later all he started to hear were gut-wrenching screams as the fish homes were now being attacked and fish pods being consumed entirely. Outside the guards, there was no other defense so the fish were forced to flee and mourn the loss of their younglings. As the elderly man began to leave his home and catch up with what remained of his village, he saw a family trying to get away from one of the nest raiders with their fish eggs still alive and thriving. The elderly man immediately came to their aid without a thought to his own life. If there was any chance of him saving that family, he was gonna take it. As they rushed to make their way to the surface, the raider came up hastily from behind opening his mouth wide and snapping his sharp teeth shut as he consumed the dad carrying the fish eggs, leaving just a few left with the mother as she desperately swam to the surface but to no avail, as quickly as her husband vanished from her sight so did she along with the babies, all except for one. Falling to the deep preparing to meet its end, the elderly man quickly caught the little egg and escaped by swimming into a school of fish near them to throw the raider off their trial. Many years later, the elderly man is no one other than Mr. Scales. Mr. scales made a vowel to look after Finwue for as long as he had strength in his fins and breath in his lungs. Needless to say, Mr. Scales knew about Finwues peculiar activities, he thought it best to just support the youngling, so long as he keeps safe and remained kind. Adapting to living on land proved to be difficult. The villagers lost a lot more of their people along the way but eventually, they were able to adapt and begin a new life. one day while everyone was going about their business, doing the usual including Finwoo, a stranger traveled into their village claiming she was in need of a place to rest for the night, as she was just passing through. Some of the villagers on guard and hesitant but neutral pointed to where she could find such accommodations. She said thank you and went her way and so did the others. During one of Finwoos training sessions, he came across a bunch of crumpled papers half buried in the dirt. It had lots of words of which he could not read but it also had lots of pictures with strange figures and colored robes and beautiful shiny swords and it showed the weird figures holding the shiny thing in different ways and well, it is hard to explain but Finwoo felt a wave of heat come over him. He thought for a second something bad was about to happen, perhaps training in the sun was about to cost him his young life as he prepared to burst into a thousand fishy youngling pieces. As he stood there in total fear accepting his fate, the weird feeling went away and so did his fear. After realizing he's still alive he decided to end his training early and take the weird figures to Mr. Scales, hoping he could tell Finwoo what they were. Upon arriving at Mrs. Scales, he threw the book at the elderly man trying to talk through exasperated breaths, " huh, huh, huh, what huh, huh, huh, is, huh, huh, huh, that?" Mr. Scales looking at the boy in amusement, grabbed the book and said " this is a book " " a book" said Finwoo, "what is a book?" " well, this, in particular, is a Samurai sword guidebook, look it says it right here." Finwoo in complete amazement begged Mr. scales to read the whole book to him, with nothing better to do Mr. Scales began to read. As nightfall approached with everyone beginning to prepare for a good night's sleep, a gust of wind came rushing through. It was so sudden and as quickly as it came, it vanished. Because it was now dark no one took notice of the dark furry figure gliding through the village, getting surveillance of everyone's activities. As the night carried on, everyone in the village was sound asleep except for those who are charged to guard the water pods as well as the fish eggs that dwell in them and also the village. While all was quiet a huge gust of wind came rushing through, it was so strong the force of it knocked the guards up into the air never to be seen again. One guard let out a hurling scream as his fragile body snapped in two and disappeared into a mouth full of sharp glistening teeth. It turns out the stranger that came into the village earlier, did not come in peace, she came with sinister thoughts and sinister plans that she was now carrying out. Screams of panic flooded through the village, startling everyone awake including Finwoo. Hopping up to investigate the situation, before he could head out to see the horror that awaited him, Mr. scales swiftly interrupted his exit and urged him to find a safe place to hide until sunrise. With Mr. scales fear and urgency, Finwoo did exactly as he was told and hid in a cubby under their home. As Finwoo sat there quietly he could hear what sounded like big explosions mixed in with the most gut-wrenching screams he could ever imagine. At that moment he started to cry as he pictured all those people losing their lives. Then it dawned on him that he could do something about it, out of everyone in the village he has been the only one training nonstop to be the toughest. He rushed out of the cubby with the confidence of 10 fish guards, but upon leaving his cubby, Finwoo was met with a horrible sight. The house he once lived in with Mr. scales was no more, it had been ripped to nothing and right at Finwoos feet were the mangled up remains of Mr. scales body. Finwoo felt a ball of heat coming up his throat and before he could gauge what was wrong, he vomited and fell to the ground in a daze, trying to process what he was seeing. As he lay down on the ground trying to stop the panic he felt, he saw a black figure standing over him with menacing teeth and he felt this heavy pressure on his chest, he looked to see shiny sharp claws coming out to penetrate his tiny vessel. In a quick motion, he slipped out of death's grasp, when he got to his fin he saw a towering black cat, who looked surprised but amused. " Wow, that is a first, tasty thing, none of your kind has shown any resistance of this measure, I am most amused. Unfortunately for you, I am more hungry than I am amused, so make your way into my mouth please." The black cat pounced at Finwoo with claws ready to shred him to pieces, but Finwoo now focused and fit dodged her attack again. Before Finwoo could think to do anything else, in a swift WOOSH! he was slapped by the cat's tail into the remains of his home. When he hit the floor, he gasped for air as if it were his last breath trapped in his chest, and he felt immense pain coming from his back, he just knew he was a goner. A couple of seconds passed and he was still alive, as he struggled to stand he lost his footing and slipped on something shiny and sharp, thankfully it did not cut him. Being curious he picked it up to discover a sword, in complete shock, wondering where it came from, etched in the wooden handle it read, I will always believe in you Finwoo. Tears started to form in his eyes, he could hardly see in front of him and could bearly breathe from the heartache and sorrow he felt inside. He now knew the sword was from Mr. scales and it wasn't just any sword it was the sword that was just like the ones in the book. Finwoo being a kind hearted youngling started to feel a shift inside himself. He started to feel something other than sadness, it was anger and it was spreading quickly. The urge was so strong like the urge to vomit, Finwoo let out a shout so loud and deep as if a lion getting ready to devour everything in sight. The black cat alerted by his shout came upon him, "dare to amuse me again little tasty one." "I WILL KILL YOUUU," Finwoo shouted in a crazed rage. As he ran towards she brought down her sharp claws to end him, but he evaded death surely this time, as he had planned for this to happen. As the cats claws came hurling down he quickly twisted, remembering the pictures in the book, he landed the blade on the back of the cat's paw slicing it open. The cut was great enough to make the cat lose its stance and fall heavily to the ground. Finwoo quickly got out of the way otherwise he would be crushed asunder by the weight of the beast. Seeing the cat vulnerable, he saw an opening to the cat's face, and without hesitation, he hopped onto the cat's face stabbing it in the eye. The cat let out an agonizing shriek, launching forward off the ground, and streiking again due to the pain coming from its back paw. With Finwoo dangling in the air, with the blade deep in the cat's eye, it started swaying its head back and forth to get Finwoo off. Finally, the blade came loose, making the cut even wider, Finwoo fell to the ground and the blade fell out of his hand. Standing in pain and complete exhaustion, hoping his attack was enough to fend off the giant cat, he stumbled over to his sword to pick it up but someone else grabbed it before he did and as he looked up, the remaining villagers crowded around him to comfort and aid him and thank him for protecting them. As Finwoo watched the cat gallop in defeat, he stood in amazement at his accomplishment and immediately wanted to tell Mr. scales about it but at that very moment the sorrow returned and the images of Mr. scales body returned but a new strength came along with it. Finwoo in his heart made a vowel to train harder, to become better, to train with his samurai sword, and to become the greatest samurai fish that didn't swim.

As a young lad I used to have a fear of bodies of water, but while all in all that sounds normal for a kid growing up away from any significantly large sized body of water. It went deeper than that, I wasn’t scared of the water per se nor it’s size, It was what’s in it. For it wasn’t oceans or seas, that scared me it was but a common puddle or pockets of secluded shallow water. You see when I was born, me and my family lived on the slopes of a mountain range with nothing but a quaint river and a large amount of rainfall. At the bottom of said mountain lay a more dangerous swamp and marshlands and as such were kept to the village, where it was safe but monotonous. Despite the warning of my elders I still regularly snuck out into the thick wood and marshlands, hoping to spot an animal or monster of some kind. On my third or fourth time out, I came across a large puddle next to the dirt path that led deeper into marshland, and as any youth would do I decided to splash in it. So there I was splashing and jumping and having the time of my young life. Then I heard my mother call for me an angry tone accompanying her words and my heart fell. I got so caught up in this single puddle I squandered my chance for adventure I thought. So I shouted back telling my mother I was coming and that I had not entered the marsh. As I took a step out of the puddle which only went up to the lowest part of my ankle, Let me remind you. I felt a hand cold as ice grasp around my ankle and start to pull me down, to my horror I sank deeper than should be possible. Before I could scream, and pull away my other leg also was seized and pulled back to the water. As I slowly sank, I felt more and more hands grasping and pulling and yanking at me forcing me deeper and deeper into what should have been a small puddle. Naturally I was screaming for my mother and grasping at the ground desperately fighting the hands nothing but soft mud caking my fingers and palms. Right before my shoulders fell beneath the dirty water I felt a different pair of hands wrap around my wrists and another around my elbows and then another reaching into the water to grab my shoulders, it was my father and two other men from the village. My progress into the murky puddle slowed but no matter how hard they yanked and pulled it would not halt. The cold hands pulled me deeper and deeper into the hole starting to drag the men in with me, but they didn’t let go trying to reassure me. I almost believed them, but then my chin shortly followed by the rest of my head fell beneath the water. My mind was filled with nothing but fear and panic, despite that I forced myself to look down wanting to see whatever was grabbing me. I wanted to understand it but all I saw were arms reaching from an unfathomable abyss of deep shadow. Some of the arms were twisted at odd angles and others did not have all their fingers or their flesh was ripped some still had tattered sleeves clinging too the emanciated arms. What unnerved me the most sending me into what I can only describe as animalistic instinct to run, were the eyes that I saw peering at me and at that moment I realized these hands were not trying to pull me down they were trying to pull themselves up away from whatever belonged to those unblinking eyes. Eventually my beloved father jumped in afraid only to lose his only son he swung at the hands that held me with his broad knife trying to cut and pry them off me. It was seemingly useless, until they then for whatever reason decided he was a better target. they let go of me and wrapped around him. Even more appeared from the depths and he was yanked down while I was yanked up by the other two men. After this horrifying experience and loss of my father, I took everything my elders told me as absolute fact as though the gods themselves were giving me advice. For I never wanted to see those eyes again. whatever they are is worse than the hands. My blood still runs cold at the sight of puddles, sometimes I even think I can hear my fathers voice coming from them calling my name. It seems only the ones in the marsh are truly dangerous, even so I would maybe think twice before jumping in.

When you stare too long into what feels like an endless sea of brown and green, your eyes can begin to play tricks on you. Even the most rational person could find their imagination beginning to run wild. The forest almost feels like it consumes you, and for some, it truly does. Hundreds of people go missing every year while exploring forests- even in national parks with well established and frequently used trails.Everything can start to look exactly the same when you’re in the middle of the woods. You could be walking in a giant circle and not even realize it. Many unfortunate folks have gone off-trail for one reason or another, only to never make it back to that trail. Our patch of woods wasn’t tiny by any means, but we figured it couldn’t be *that* big, because we knew where all the borders of it were. We assumed it didn’t go too far past the mine, as the terrain there became more rocky as it rose in elevation. To the left was the old highway, and to the right was the next neighborhood over. The old men in town loved to tell horror stories of our woods, passed down from generation to generation. As part of our upbringing, we’d heard them all. Tales of miners who went missing in those woods while on their way to or from work, never to be seen again. Countless deaths that had occurred in the mine as a result of the dangerous working conditions. The mutilated bodies that had been discovered over the years, deemed as animal attacks. The missing girls. And, of course, the “Great Disaster of 1902”. When we made it back to the mine, and with it the trail, I found myself hesitant to walk past the entrance. I still couldn’t completely shake the feeling that we were being chased by something down there, even though logically, I knew we weren’t. Anything that might have been wouldn’t have stopped its pursuit just because we exited the mine. *Right?* Mikey unknowingly provided me with a much welcomed distraction by making a joke. “Hey Dev! Why don’t you go back in there and grab your flashlight? We’ll wait right here for you, buddy!” “Pshh, whatever. Shut up dude.” Devin scoffed, as Lacey and I giggled. “Was The Locust Man in th-th-there?” Michelle asked. “Yep, sure was.” Devin replied. “He was big and scary, too! And he tried to eat us!!” She gasped and looked at me, to which I silently shook my head and smiled, gesturing for her to keep walking. I turned and peered into the darkness pouring from the mouth of the mine once more, as we embarked on our journey back toward civilization. And, hopefully, with Mikey and Devin’s curiosity fully satiated. As we traveled onward, I began inspecting the abrasions I’d received from running through all of that brush like a lunatic. I was still so ticked off about Lacey screaming like she was being murdered out there. I had warned her about those damn shoes, too. I was also annoyed with Michelle for not listening to me when I told her not to move. Actually, it was pretty safe to say that at that point I was pissed off at all of them, because the boys had been the ones behind this entire idiotic plan in the first place. “So, how exactly are we supposed to cross the creek now, with Devin carrying Lacey?” I asked. Mikey turned around and said, “Hmm, I dunno… she might have to just hop all the way across on her one good foot!” “Uh, you guys, I’m plenty strong enough to cross with her on my back. It’s not gonna be a problem.” Devin said defensively “Yeah, well… it’s not just about strength, it’s about balance too.” I pointed out. “Guess we’ll just have to *’cross that creek’* when we get to it, eh?” I rolled my eyes as Devin laughed at his own stupid joke. As we continued on, we silently reflected on all the events that had just transpired in the last hour. Or at least, *I did*. In my mind, I began working to analyze and, hopefully, rationalize those sounds we had heard. The banging noise was obviously more explainable. As with age, things can just naturally deteriorate to the point of falling down. But as for that other sound… I was having difficulty just trying to find the correct adjectives to describe it, let alone a logical theory on its source. The closest thing I could come up with was that it almost sounded like rusty metal gears grinding against each other, but with a simultaneous reverberation. As if whatever was moving closer to us and making the screeching sound was also vibrating congruently. *Maybe it was some sort of pulley system that had gotten knocked around by the support beam falling. But then, why would it have sounded like it was quickly getting closer and closer to us, then stop like that so suddenly? Like, very suddenly… too suddenly… almost as if it were in response to my voice?* I tried to convince myself that had to be a coincidence, though. That all of those strange sounds were just random old junk falling apart down there, and we were lucky to have made it out without getting hurt. Then, I managed to step away from my thoughts just in time to notice something troubling… we had been walking long enough that I felt like we should have gotten to the fallen tree by now. Reflexively, I looked down at my watch, forgetting it was broken, only to discover… it wasn’t? *2:04 PM* Not only had it started working again, it seemed to have somehow caught itself up to the current time. Unless… it hadn’t stopped at all? Maybe I had been mistaken somehow- so much crazy shit had happened by that point, I honestly couldn’t say for sure. I didn’t get a chance to tell anyone my watch had stopped working either, so with no one to corroborate my story, I tried to just shrug that off, too. Besides, it just didn’t make any sense. If my watch *had* stopped, then somehow randomly started again, it would be showing a time much earlier, and 2:00 seemed about right to me. Considering all the stress brought on by the previous events, though, it’s entirely possible my perception of time was skewed. I mean, when you’re scared, a minute can feel like forever. But all of that had to be put to the side, as I now had more pressing questions in my mind to answer. *Why hadn’t we reached the fallen tree yet? Had the woods… shifted on us? Had time??* My ridiculous racing thoughts were interrupted by Lacey asking, “Uhhh Mikey… how much further is the tree?” *Oh thank God, I’m not the only one who noticed* “Should be coming up on it anytime now.” “Oh please Mikey, cut the crap!” Lacey snapped. I stepped in before another argument could ensue, and said, “Seriously Mikey, we really *should have* gotten to it by now.” At that, he stopped and turned around. “Oh really? How do you know? Hmm? Did you time us on the way here?” “No… I only checked my watch when we went inside the mine.” I admitted, purposely leaving out the part about my sense of time being less than reliable at the present moment. “Mikey, are we lost???” Michelle whined urgently while tugging on his camo jacket. He didn’t answer her, he just swatted her hands away and shot her an angry look, then looked back at me. “Well, then you can’t say for sure then, can you, Ms. Know-it-all?” Devin pointed at me and laughed, and I think that made Mikey feel bad about his comment. That, along with the facial expression I had made in response to it. He looked down at Michelle and asserted that we were not lost, then he approached me. “Look, let’s just keep going for 10 more minutes, okay? It’s gotta be right up there. We must have just gotten back on the trail a little further down than we thought. Trust me, okay? I know these woods better than anyone.” He did have a point. I suddenly recalled that when we got back on the trail, I glanced back to see if the fallen tree was visible behind us, and it wasn’t. The trail wasn’t exactly a straight shot though, and with all the dense overgrowth obstructing my view anyway, I wasn’t really worried about it at the time. *Now I was.* I clenched my teeth. “Okay fine, but *just* 10 more minutes.” I agreed. He smiled at me, then tuned to Devin and said, “Alright dude, 10 minutes! Count it down!” I started to say that I could just keep track with my watch, when Devin interrupted me with a robotic ‘one-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand’. It only took until the sixth sequence of Devin’s obnoxious counting technique for us to all realize at once that we were *not* going to see that fallen tree. Because instead, what lie before us was a break in the tree line with the trail coming to an abrupt end, and the highway beyond it. No one said a word. They all turned around to look at me, to which I shrugged, held up my hands, and said, “I’m not gonna say it.” I felt an odd satisfaction from being right, even though being right meant we had just spent the last 15 minutes walking the wrong direction. The highway ran the length of the woods on the *western* border, and we should have been heading *south* to get home. Mikey had been so confident we were going the right way that he hadn’t bothered to check his compass again until this moment. Unbeknownst to all of us, the trail had turned and veered off west. And suddenly, it all started to make sense to me. I looked at Mikey with an air of superiority, and all he had to say for himself, while looking absolutely defeated, was, “Shit.” “Yeah, shit indeed.” I said, snatching the compass out of his hands. “We must have walked too far after we crossed that damn creek the first time. We ended up on a totally different trail, Mikey!” I held the compass out in front of me, made a quarter turn to the left and squinted through the trees, trying to locate a clearing in that area. “Look, I didn’t even know there was more than one trail out here. None of us did!” He tried to defend himself. “Oh yeah?” I laughed, then turned to look him in the eyes. “Because I’m pretty sure I remember you saying you know these woods better than anyone.” He just glared at me. “Wait, you guys… instead of trying to find the original trail again, why don’t we just follow the highway home? Can’t get lost that way.” Lacey posed to the group. “We’re *not* lost.” Mikey angrily asserted. “Not anymore.” I said with a smirk. Devin groaned, “Alright, all you need to hurry up and decide what we’re doing, cuz Lacey ain’t getting any lighter.” She smacked him in the back of the head, and he pretended to lose his grip on her, causing her to scream dramatically. I looked back towards the thicket, then down at my scratched up arms, and at Lacey’s now swollen and purple ankle. Michelle complained that she needed to pee. I knew that Mikey wouldn’t want to accept the defeat of not successfully navigating us back the way we came, but all things considered, this was looking like the better and safer option. He knew it. I turned to him, and trying to give him the courtesy of still addressing him as our leader, I asked, “Might honestly just be easier to take the highway. What’d you think?” He glance at me briefly, giving me a covert half-smile, then stoically replied, “Highway it is.” The moment we emerged from the woods, I felt an immediate sense of relief, as if the clutches of some unseen malicious force had lost its grasp on me. At that point I was exhausted, thirsty, and *beyond* ready for the entire experience to be over with. We positioned ourselves into single file formation, and using the small patch of grass between the road and the woods, we headed left, back toward town. Now, this particular highway wasn’t the typical ‘four lanes with a median’ type of highway you may be thinking of; we called it the *old* highway for a good reason. It was basically just a regular two-lane straight shot road full of potholes, that once upon a time was the only highway that passed through our town. The interstate had been built in the 70s, and with it being much more convenient and nicer, no one really used this one anymore- which is why after we encountered our first passing car after having been walking a good 15 minutes, we all looked up. It was an older model black Chevy SUV, heading southbound. After it passed us, the taillights lit up, and it came to a sudden stop about 50 feet away from us, subsequently causing us to do the same. The SUV lingered in the middle of the road momentarily, then slowly made a u-turn into the northbound lane and began creeping in our direction. “Who is that?” Lacey asked. Mikey tightened his grip on the BB gun, and replied, “I don’t know. Let’s just keep walking.” But I couldn’t. My eyes were glued to the SUV, now accelerating towards us, and my legs locked up and refused to move. I broke visual contact with the SUV long enough to gauge the distance from where we were standing to the tree line, because at that moment a terrible thought had entered my mind. *We can’t all get kidnapped if we scatter.* Then, all at once, the reality of our situation hit me. Lacey couldn’t even walk right now, let alone run. Devin definitely couldn’t get away fast enough while carrying her. Mikey would be slowed down by Michelle. The only one with any real chance of getting away… was me. Every single muscle in my body tensed up as I prepared to make a run for it. The brakes of the SUV squealed as it slowed to a stop right beside us, and a voice rang out from the open passenger side window. “What in the hell are you kids doing out here?!” I peered into the SUV and saw a large older man with dark hair, wearing a white t-shirt full of grease stains. It was the guy who ran the diner downtown. We all knew who he was, so he wasn’t exactly a *stranger*, but I was still hesitant to let my guard down. “We were just playing in the woods, sir. Lacey hurt her ankle, so we’re headed back home now.” Mikey answered for all of us. “Aw, well, come on then, get in. I’ll give you all a ride back to town.” The man offered. In true airhead fashion, Devin excitedly accepted, without giving it even a fraction of a thought. Sure, he was tired of carrying Lacey, but we didn’t know this man very well at all. At best he was just a nice guy trying to help us out, but at worst, we could all end up chained in his basement. Maybe it wasn’t that common for kids my age to think the way I thought, but I expected Devin to have a little more survival instinct than that, so I covertly tapped his arm. Seeing that, Mikey stepped forward and interjected in my behalf. “Actually, sir, our street’s not much further from here. We wouldn’t want to trouble you. We appreciate the offer, though.” “Oh, it’s no trouble at all, already headed that way. Hey- aren’t you Joseph’s boy?” The man asked him. “Yes sir” “Well, if your pops found out I let you and your buddies walk home on the side of the road, he’d kick my ass!” Mikey forced out an awkward laugh and said, “Fair enough. I guess you can just drop us off at the beginning of Rain Street then, Mister…” “Just Slim, no ‘Mister’.” I was slightly comforted by the fact that Mikey’s dad really *would* break every bone in the man’s body if he even so much as laid a finger on any one of us. Devin called shotgun as we moved closer to the SUV. He opened the back door and turned around to let Lacey down, but while he was doing so, Mikey shot past him and hopped into the front seat, yelling, “Spot jack!” “Hey!!!” Devin protested. *Good. If things take a turn for the worst, last thing we need is that dumbass sitting up front.* We all piled in. I sat next to Lacey in the backseat, behind the driver’s side, and Devin and Michelle were in the third row. Slim told us to buckle up as he whipped the SUV around back towards town. It smelled like cigarettes and old French fries. Empty crushed cans of various sodas and Papst Blue Ribbon littered the floorboards. After a few moments of fiddling with the radio, he settled on a station playing Incubus; I guess he was trying to find something we’d consider cool. I leaned forward and looked him over, his belly slightly pressing up against the steering wheel. I thought it was pretty ironic everyone called him Slim, because he was anything *but*. I’d later find out that it had been his nickname long before he bought the diner, and even though over the years he’d lost the physique, the name just stuck. He seemed old to me at the time, but looking back at it, he was probably around the same age I am now. Funny how much time can change your perception of things. Finally, Slim broke the awkward silence with a very pointed question that caught us all off guard. “So, did you guys find the abandoned mine?” “What?” Mikey replied. *How did he know that?* Slim chuckled. “You all think you’re the first kids to go out there? Ha! Don’t worry though, not gonna tattle. Hell, I went out there looking it for quite a few times myself when I was around your age. If you think Trillium is boring now, just try to imagine how bad it was in the 80s before we had cell phones and internet…” As Slim went on and on about how life was back in his day, and how he and his friends started hanging out in the woods as little kids, and how even in high school they’d still go out there to throw beer pong parties, I started to zone out. Instead, I focused my attention outside of the window, watching for our turn. When I see it coming up, my eyes dart to his blinker to make sure he hits it. He does. I sat back a bit in my seat, and then I heard Slim say something that instantly pulled me back into the conversation. “… and there were no birds in the woods that day. It was weird, like they all had flown away or something, man. Crazy right? So then, my buddy Jeremy convinced us all to stop setting up for the party and try to go look for the mine again. And we actually found it that time! Couldn’t really see anything though, too dark. God, it smelled foul in there too, man. Well, anyways, here’s your street!” We all looked around at each other as the SUV slowed to a stop. A few minutes ago, I couldn’t *wait* to get out of there and get home, but now… I didn’t want to move. “Well, thanks for the ride.” Mikey said, as we all began exiting. Devin helped Lacey onto his back, and I held Michelle’s hand and helped her down onto the step bar. Before I closed the door, I leaned back inside, pretending I had forgotten something on the seat. Slim turned around to look back at me. Quietly, I asked him, “Hey, so did you hear any like, noises or anything inside the mine?” His innocuous smile quickly transitioned into a scowl. “No.” That’s all he said. No further explanation, no follow-up questions, no surprise that I had even asked. In fact, he seemed to have gotten *angry* at the mere mention of it. I pressed my lips together, nodded, and shut the door. He was lying, one-hundred percent. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that he had heard something in there, just as we had. Something that terrified him, and defied explanation. And for some reason, something that he harbored a lot of anger toward, apparently. I caught up to the others, who had already started down the road. No one said a single word during our entire walk back home. We arrived at Lacey’s first and waited for her to limp inside. Devin’s house was next. He and Mikey fist-dabbed before we moved on to my house, a little further down the road. As I stepped onto my porch, I could hear my dog Koda from inside, excitedly barking over my return home. I turned around and gave a quick smile to Mikey, who nodded. I waved at Michelle, then turned and hurried inside, locking the door behind me. I looked down at my watch. *2:52 PM* I walked to the kitchen to get some water, and my mom was in there, loading the dishwasher. As she began her regularly scheduled interrogation of me, I glanced over at the clock on the microwave. *2:52 PM* That night, I laid awake in bed for a long time, trying to fully process everything. There had been just *way* too many strange occurrences that I wasn’t able to rationalize, no matter which avenue of thinking I attempted to navigate. I didn’t tell my mom anything about what had happened that day, because even though I wasn’t exactly *eager* to go back into those woods again, I still wanted the freedom of choice. I just had way too many questions with no real answers to pair them with, and I knew my mind would never be able to settle until it closed those gaps.

"Up periscope," Reid said. "It is up," Jim replied. "No, I mean extend the optical lens so I can view through it," Reid said. "The what?" Jim asked. "Ignore him. He's stupid. Technically, you should be saying down periscope because the part that you view is up," Polly said. "How can you be so wrong," Jim said. "How can you be so arrogant." "Both of you shut up." Olivia pressed the button that extended the periscope. Reid looked through and rotated several times. "Hmm, just I thought. We are deep underwater," Reid said. "I could've told you that." Olivia pointed to the screen that read 500 meters. "Yes, but the device could lie. We all know how unreliable prewar tech is," Reid said. "Can I see a fish?" Jim ran for the periscope, but Reid pushed him down. "Look out one of the cameras." He walked to the front of the craft. "So we are lost at sea. We have no way of getting home. Will we cooperate to survive? Which one of us will go mad first? Which one will die first?" "If you keep talking like that, you'll die first." Olivia rolled her eyes. "God, you are pretentious." "Will we maintain our humanity? That depends on how many supplies remain," Reid said. "We have none. We were only supposed to be down here for a few minutes," Olivia answered. "So we may have to resort to cannibalism." Reid finished his monologue. He turned and smirked at Olivia who stared at him. He gestured with his to Polly several times. Polly leaned back and covered her hands with disgust. Olivia shook her head. Reid narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. Olivia shrugged and pointed at him. Polly giggled. "What have you three been saying?" Frida asked. "I told Reid if he keeps this up I'll eat him before Polly." "We have to get to them before they kill each other." Lilly leaped into the nearest submersible and started the engine. "I don't think they are that reckless," Ryan said. "You don't understand their mind like I do, " Lilly said. Ryan sighed. Most commanders and soldiers would be glad to have the first submarine battle in decades (to official knowledge) on their records. Not Ryan, he was content with running a retirement home. He always knew that Lilly had a violent streak, but she never harassed her superiors so Ryan tolerated her. Besides, she was a grand hunter and provided exotic game for everyone. Ryan considered pulling rank on her, but he was too scared to mention it. "Are you getting inside?" Lilly shouted. "I need a second person unfortunately." "Who is going to run this place while I'm gone," Ryan said. "Jane will. We have chain of command for situations such as this." "But do you really need me? You are extremely competent," Ryan said. "I need someone to navigate while I drive. Just stare at the GPS." Lilly got out of the submersible and grabbed the tracker and brought it down. "Fine, but we turn around at first sight of trouble," Ryan said. "We need to turn around to go back," Olivia said. "You said that thirty minutes ago," Polly shouted. "Yes, and you didn't listen. Turn around implies one-hundred and eighty degrees while you only turned ninety degrees. That is called turning right," Olivia replied. "Look at these numbers." Reid pointed in the upper right hand corner. "They are longitude and latitude. I roughly remember our coordinates, and we are currently on our way to them." "What were those coordinates?" "One was forty-eight and one was one-hundred and twenty." "Good, but which was which?" Olivia asked. "Well clearly it was," Reid paused. Olivia laughed. "I have another question. What do latitude and longitude mean?" she asked. "They represent our position on the globe." Reid snapped his fingers. "You didn't expect me to answer that one." "What are those relative to?" Olivia asked. Reid swallowed quickly. "Those numbers are relative to a position on the globe. The zero zero point, and where is that?" Reid couldn't answer. "Exactly, now I say we turn around," Olivia said. Everyone else shrugged and began the process of following her lead. "Alright, don't come crying to me if we get attacked gain. "Why did you fire torpedoes at that octopus?" Ryan was crying in the back seat of the submersible. Lilly was piloting the ship around Blaine with a gleeful laugh. The giant octopus swung its tentacles at the small craft but kept missing. "It's a kill or be killed world, and I'm not going to be killed." Lilly accelerated as she moved around the octopus. Blaine tried to follow them, but he got confused. He released a cloud of ink to confuse his target, but Lilly's primal senses allowed her stay on course even while blinded. "I'm going to be sick," Ryan said. "Throw up in the torpedo tube so I can fire it at the thing," Lilly said. "You can't be serious," Ryan said. "Any weapon is useful in the right hands," Lilly replied. "Won't we need that for when we get to the people that stole our sub?" Ryan asked. Lilly groaned. "You are right." Lilly directed the craft to the small crack where the octopus tossed the earlier ship. After swimming for a few seconds, her screen cleared. Blaine was angered. That was the second time that he had been bothered. The humans needed to learn that Blaine was not one to disturb, and Blaine was going to ensure they never forgot that lesson.

Natalia's fingers danced across the typewriter. The wood-paneled room of "Smith and Partners" law firm was hushed, filled with the murmur of legal discourse. Her concentration broke when Mr. Henderson, her supervisor, approached with a contract she had typed that morning. He seemed displeased. "Miss Ivanova, there seems to be a typographical aberration here," he noted. "I apologize, Mr. Henderson. It was an oversight," she responded, her voice a mere whisper. Mr. Henderson adjusted his glasses. "Ensure that it does not happen again," he said before retreating into the maze of desks. Natalia sighed and began to retype the contract. After completing the task, she carefully reread it and threw the old, erroneous contract into the wastepaper basket. The rest of the day was filled with typing, sorting incoming correspondence, and gossiping with her colleagues, the other secretaries at "Smith and Partners," during the lunch break. "How come you're not married?" ebullient Lily asked. She was not very tactful. Natalia shrugged. The conversation shifted from personal lives to politics and literature. They discussed a new novel about a mysterious millionaire that everyone was talking about, President Coolidge's economic plans, and a poor teacher who decided to teach evolution in one of America's backward states. They were all progressive girls, keen to stay on top of current affairs. Sometimes the conversation turned to Bolshevik Russia, and they looked at Natalia as if she had special insight. But she had to disappoint them. "My family and I left for America many years ago," she said, "right after the revolution. I barely remember anything." This was a lie. She remembered a lot. But they did not need to know. After the lunch break, she returned to her desk, dreading the pile of work awaiting her. Mr. Henderson was already there. "Oh, what did I do now?" she thought. "Miss Ivanova," Mr. Henderson began, "have you retyped our contract with Mr. Ford?" "Yes, I did," she responded. "And where did you put the old contract?" Mr. Henderson asked, looking like a predator waiting for his prey. "I threw it away into the wastepaper basket," Natalia replied. It was hard to read Mr. Henderson. His face showed a curious mix of indignation at her mistake and satisfaction that she had incriminated herself. The hunt was successful. "How many times must I tell you," he said in a professorial tone, "that our contracts contain confidential information? You do not throw them into the trash. You destroy them in a pulverizer." Of course! How could she forget? "I'm so sorry, Mr. Henderson," she said, her eyes full of remorse. Mr. Henderson did not respond, just sighed deeply and moved on to the next secretary. Natalia retrieved the piece of the old contract from the wastepaper basket and walked to the pulverizer in the corner of the room. The pulverizer was an electric machine, just invented by the Germans. its steel frame glinting dully in the low light. Its mouth gaped wide, ready to swallow any paper fed into it. Inside, the blades waited, eager to tear and grind. She fed the piece of paper into its mouth and flipped the switch. With a menacing hum, the blades began to move, transforming the sheets of paper into unrecognizable fragments. After completely destroying the document, Natalia returned to her desk. She could not wait for the day to end. After work, she hurried back to her apartment on Mission Street, paying almost no attention to the cable cars as she crossed the streets. She wanted to revisit her treasure, something that brought joy to her monotonous, loveless existence, something that made her feel alive again, something real. Natalia's apartment was small. The streetlights outside flickered, casting shadows across the walls. She approached a wooden box on the mantle. Inside were scenes of St. Petersburg: the majestic Winter Palace, the Church on Spilled Blood, the Neva River, and a dozen more little pieces of paper with pictures on one side and Konstantin's handwriting on the other. These postcards held her life. Many years ago, she was a first-year student at the Women's Higher Courses in Petrograd, which everyone still called St. Petersburg. She studied medicine and science. Konstantin, older than her, studied at the Imperial Military Medical Academy and wanted to be a surgeon. They met at the academy's library. They were both studying for exams. Their hands met by chance, reaching for the same anatomy atlas. It was a moment of awkwardness, but she liked to replay it in her head. Konstantin was handsome, with green eyes and thick eyebrows. He generously allowed her to have the atlas. This fleeting touch sparked their first conversation. As the days grew colder, their encounters became a series of deliberate meetings. They sat together in cozy cafés, sipping hot tea. Konstantin spoke passionately about surgery. They strolled the snowy streets of Petrograd, wrapped in thick coats. They talked about Chekhov and Pavlov, and sometimes just listened to their steps in the snow. She then described all the walks in her private diary. On snowy evenings, they retreated to Konstantin’s modest apartment. It was small, crowded with books, and had a faint smell of iodine. She remembered how he took her virginity there. They had just finished classes and walked to his apartment. Her cheeks were red from the cold. She remembered how his fingers had grazed hers. When they arrived, he let them in. He offered her a seat and made some tea. While sitting, Natalia's thoughts wandered to kissing him and feeling his hands on her. Konstantin returned with tea, sat next to her, and they talked about class and the weather. Soon, he leaned in and kissed her softly. His tongue met hers. Natalia gasped. His hands slid under her dress, touching her breasts. "I want you," he whispered. They went to his bedroom. She took off her clothes and got on the bed. Konstantin undressed, revealing himself to her for the first time. He got on the bed and entered her gently. She felt a brief pain that faded quickly. He moved deeper inside her. She moaned, overwhelmed by new sensations. They started moved together, her hips meeting his. She closed her eyes, letting pleasure take over. He lay next to her afterward, both happy and satisfied. From then on, they were lovers. The romance lasted barely a year. Then the Bolshevik Revolution happened. Her family decided to flee to America, but his family decided to stay. Their last meeting was tearful, and she did not like to remember it. Over the next several years, when Russia was engulfed in the Civil War, she received no news about him. She was afraid he had died. Her letters to him, sent to his old St. Petersburg address, remained unanswered. Or maybe they did not even reach him and were lost in the chaos of the war. But then the postcards started to arrive. His writings were short, but they were enough for her. He wished her a happy birthday, a merry Christmas, or a wonderful May Day. He added something short and sweet about how he missed her or was still thinking about her. She responded with long letters in which she poured out her heart, but he only responded with postcards. Each postcard had an image of a place in St. Petersburg where they used to walk. Maybe he did not love her anymore. Maybe he had a gorgeous new girlfriend. But she did not care. These postcards were her real life now. She paused at a postcard of Smolny Cathedral under snow. Konstantin had written about that day, how the snowflakes looked like falling stars. She touched the faded ink. She smiled and opened her old student diary, selecting a memory she wanted to relive today. She started with a postcard of the Summer Garden. As she touched it, she remembered Konstantin whispering about the statues. He had taken her hand as they walked. She placed the postcard on her desk. Next, she placed a postcard of the Neva River. Standing on the embankment, they had watched ice float by. Konstantin pointed at the frozen ships. His arm had wrapped around her, warming her against the cold. She added a postcard of the Palace Bridge. They had stopped there to watch the sunset. Konstantin talked about his dreams of traveling. He wanted to go to America. She had rested her head on his shoulder. After Natalia traced their path through the city, she put all the postcards and her diary back in the box and went to sleep. The next day was the same as the previous one. Dull work in the office, and evenings full of life and memories of St. Petersburg and of Konstantin. And the next day. And the next. But then an unexpected thing happened. Natalia was sifting through her day’s mail in the dim light of her apartment when she found the telegram. The paper was thin and crisp. She gasped. It was from Konstantin. He was coming to San Francisco. Her Konstantin was coming to San Francisco, to her city. He missed her, and he wanted to see her! Her heart leapt as she read and reread the message. He wrote about the surgeon’s courses. He will come for the whole month! She sat down, the telegram still in her hand, and allowed herself a moment to imagine. Konstantin here, in this city, with her. The thought brought a flush to her cheeks and a smile she couldn’t suppress. She blushed as she remembered their first encounter. Maybe this time, she would lead him to her apartment and be braver and more assertive with him? Her nipples grew stiff, and she felt a rush of excitement lower down. She slid her panties down and opened her legs She caressed her thighs and explored her moist folds. Her fingers slipped in easily. She moved her fingers in and out, teasing herself. Then she shut her eyes and thought of Konstantin. Her fingers sped up. She imagined him above her, his green eyes looking down, his shoulders and chest muscles moving as he thrust. Her fingers quickened their pace. She felt an orgasm approaching, pressure building up inside her. Her back curved, and pleasure shook her body. She fell asleep happy. The next morning, she took her diary and the postcards to the office with her. On the way, she sent a telegram to Konstantin: "I'm married now. Please do not contact me anymore. Natalia" When she arrived at the office, she fed her diary and all the postcards to the pulverizer.

What was taking them so long? I watched the minute hand struggle to reach the top of the clock. 10:23 AM. Somehow only eight minutes had passed since I swallowed their little white pill. I'd already read a few magazines from the table in front of me. Each page turn took minutes. By the time a page flipped to the other side I was done reading it. The news anchor on the TV in the corner was going on and on the about several bizarre suicides in the city, but I tried to tune out as she talked so painfully slow. I grabbed another magazine and fell back onto the couch like an astronaut on the moon. I couldn't believe I was getting paid for this. I never felt anything any of the other times I'd been here. I swear they were always putting me in the placebo groups. I was their guinea pig but I really didn't care, cash was cash. They did drug trials for big pharmaceutical companies. Blood pressure meds, kidney drugs... who knows what else. Supposedly this one was for the military. They finally called my name. I thought they had forgotten me. The research assistant asked how I was feeling. I tried to form words but my mouth was sluggish and unresponsive. I felt so slow. Another researcher spent forever explaining how the pill accelerated perception. My mind sprinted laps around reality and left my body and the world outside. The tests began after what seemed like hours. Juggling turned into a tedious exercise in patience - several balls hung in the air like planets in slow orbit. I snatched cheerios out of the air with chopsticks and counted a handful of coins before they hit the ground. I was so frustratingly bored. Researchers scribbled furiously on clipboards trying to keep up. After some cognitive tests, I was finally sent home. I remember the assistant saying it would wear off after a few hours. What a fucking understatement. The thirty-five minutes trek home was torture. Most voices and sounds at the subway station were stretched below the threshold frequency of my hearing. A baby's cry was a haunting whale song. The voice on the speaker was distant thunder. Finally, I stumbled into my apartment. It felt like I was swimming through molasses as I made my way to the bedroom. It took half an hour to drift down onto the bed. My body was desperate for sleep but my mind would not shut off. The boredom was agonizing... I fumbled for a sleeping pill and hoped that by tomorrow everything would be back to normal. The pill slid down my throat like a rusty slug. I waited on my bed for what seemed like days. Something felt off. I reached for my phone but my body would not move. Maybe it was moving. I couldn't tell anymore. I felt like I was completely buried. I started to panic. I needed help. Any help. I was petrified, literally. My hand finally reached my phone after what seemed like a decade. My perception was stretching to impossible lengths. I realized I wouldn't be able to hear anything if I did call anyone, so I decided to text my neighbor down the hall. Every press of my finger was so long ago that I had to remember what I was typing for. My thumb hovered over the send button as I neared the end of my manifesto explaining the endless suffering. I realized it was all pointless, a message in a bottle tossed into an ocean of slowed time. By the time anyone read my plea, I would have lived and died a thousand agonizing deaths in my mind. Besides, what could she do to help? I couldn't take it anymore. I decided to go back to the facility directly. It was my only hope. I moved like a glacier towards the door. I overcompensated, undercompensated. Each command to my muscles took an eternity. I was a newborn learning to walk each step in a timeframe stretched beyond sanity. I finally reached the subway station. I had almost forgotten why I came here. I should have been more careful on the stairs but it was so hard to remember and plan the movements after years of waiting for each step. The fall lasted centuries. Pain bloomed, undiluted by time. It was the only sensation I could even remember. Living statues reached out to help thousands of years ago. I named them and crafted elaborate backstories. We lived countless imaginary lives together. They were my only companions in this unending nightmare. My mind was eating itself, starved for any new stimuli. Each time I blinked my mind conjured hallucinations to fill the unending darkness. It was like I was reborn each time my eyes finally creaked open. The smeared light revealed a sliver of the unchanged world. It was the same old painting of ankles and frozen advertisements I remembered all those years ago. Every thought I'd ever had, I'd had a billion times over. The platform was my eternal prison. I was staring down the barrel of eternity, trapped in a single, unending moment. The maddening sameness of it all was my inescapable hell. My mind broke a long time ago. Reality and fantasy blurred until I could no longer distinguish between them. I experienced the birth and death of galaxies, watched civilizations rise and fall, all within the confines of my skull. I spoke with angels and demons, built and destroyed civilizations with a thought. It was an exquisite, tailor-fitted form of torture. As my head laid against the subway floor, I felt it. A primordial rumble vibrating through my bones. A low, muddied roar. I could barely remember what a subway was, but it must have been the high-pitched squeal of wheels on the rails. It was my salvation, the answer. I don't remember how long it had been since I rolled off the platform onto the rails, or how long I had been running towards the frozen behemoth in front of me. Eons, at least. All I could remember was the promise of deliverance, from something. I couldn't remember what it even was anymore. I couldn't even remember why. I just had to keep moving towards it. I had forgotten my name, my mother tongue, my very existence. Only a raw screaming husk of agony was left. Then... I felt it. Something beautiful. Something that made me realize that in just a few short millennia, it would all finally be over. My skull compressed against the metal like two tectonic plates forming a mountain range. It was pure bliss. This is a reimagining of a story by Peter Frost David called If You're Armed and at the Glenmont Metro, Please Shoot Me.

In a dusty town in the middle of somewhere and in a smoke-filled saloon no one would remember, a worn figure sat down drowning his sorrows or whatever feelings had tried to claw through his dried heart in whiskey. This figure came riding into town, causing quite a stir; rumors spread fast, and from the sounds of it, he wasn’t no Texas Ranger, but the iron on his hip had stories to tell, and the red poncho hanging from his shoulders was tattered by the tales he had made well riding the trails. Back to the saloon that the lonesome man sat within three boys came through the swinging doors, local gang members that had the town and about everyone in it wrapped around their fingers, coming to check on the stranger and make it known who ran the town to the state it was. The big one blocked the door as the other two flanked the man on each side, one on the right bearing a snaggled toothed grin spoke up, "Well, well, well, it seems the squealing pigs were right. The dust devil of the west, the red lightin of the east, the Lonesome Vanquero to those godforsaken greasers in MY bar. Fancy that, boys” he’d gesture to his companions before continuing in his flawed English, “what y’think we outta do?” The red-haired one on the left spoke up, “We give him a warm welcome, boss!” With an odd gitty, the boy would pull out a knife, pointing it at the cowboy who sat there with his glass in hand. The boss, snaggle tooth, went along pulling out his gun and leaning in to the cowboy. “And after that, we’ll make a shitty end for this so-called legend” he’d spit out with words like venom. The cowboy would let out a breath as if he’d been holding it, raising the glass to his lips. He’d finish off his whiskey and bring the glass down hard on the bar. It was so quiet you could hear a weed tumble through the desert with a motion swift as lighting the glass in the cowboy's hand collided with snaggle tooth's face, sending him careening back into a table with blood gushing from his new wounds. The redhead was shocked, letting the cowboy spin to a stand. The leather of the cowboy's holster ripped, and four shots rang out, causing crimson holes to stain the boy's shirt, making him grasp at his clothes and sink to the floor. The big man had come rushing from the door, turning his head The cowboy didn’t have time to move, so he was slammed into the bar, large fist colliding with his ribs, chest, and face. The cowboy reached out along the bar searching for his gun, but instead taking hold of a metal ashtray, he swung it up, hitting the big man in the side of the head, causing him to flinch. With that opening, the cowboy hit him again and again till the big man was on the floor. Swiftly searching, he picked up his gun, and a fifth shot rang out. The cowboys attention turned to Snaggle Tooth, who had risen, face soaked with blood, glass lodged into places it shouldn’t be, and a look of vengeance on his face. “You fuckin’ bastard!” he yelled with his hand reaching for his gun. A sixth shot rang out, and snaggle tooth fell back onto the floor. The cowboy stood there for a moment before spinning his gun and sliding it into its holster, letting his words fill the now silent saloon. “Bastard? More common than the other names” he’d let a small laugh slip before moseying his way out the swinging doors of that smoke-filled saloon and leaving somewhere long behind.

"Motivation” (Story 1 of a series) by P. Orin Zack (07/26/2007)   “You don’t know my father,” Melissa Fox said sharply. “He would never have done such a thing.” And she should know. After all, Arthur Fox had been in congress since she was in middle school. Derek Boa looked away for a moment, but kept straightening the pile of forms in front of him on the table. “Now, granted,” he said, slower than before, “he wasn’t elected until after the PATRIOT Act was passed, but he’s still voted against his own positions in trade for favors. So my statement stands: members of congress cannot be trusted to represent the will of the people who elected them. They’re manipulation honey-pots just waiting to be used. Every one of them.” Melissa hadn’t attended a meeting of Constitutional Evolution before, and now she didn’t see much point in repeating the mistake. She’d heard about it in one of the Internet discussion groups she frequented, and thought that its plan to use workshops to experiment with changes to the structure and processes of governance were a good civic use for her talent as an artist. The problem was, its founder turned out to be a pompous jerk, one who just begged for a comeuppance. “So you’re essentially saying that everything congress has done for the past few hundred years has been for the benefit of some secret cabal, some shadowy group of megalomaniacs with delusions of world domination? Is that what you think?” Her voice was starting to crack. He nodded. “Uh huh. And not just congress. The Supreme Court as well.” “The high court, too? So in your exalted opinion, two branches of government are corrupt?” “Corruptible,” he corrected. “And no. Not two branches. All three of them. Or have you forgotten the second Bush administration?” “What?” She clutched double handfuls of her blond hair and mimed pulling it out. “Just who the hell do you think you are anyway? If you have that low an opinion of everyone in government, what’s the point of this group of yours, anyway? Why bother fixing the constitution if there’s no way it’ll ever be used for the common good! So what’s your game, then? What are you really all about, Derek?” Boa stood there for a long moment, studying her face, saying nothing. Then he shrugged, slipped the pile of paper into his briefcase, and turned to leave. “He’s about fixing something that’s way past broken, if you ask me.” Melissa spun around. The black man who had spoken was an inch shorter than she was, and wore a George Mason University jersey. There was a glint in his eye and a steel-spring feel to his stance. She nodded an abbreviated greeting. “Is he, now?” “Damn right. And he’s going to make it happen, too.” She poked a finger towards Boa, who was approaching a svelte redhead near the door. “That man just accused everyone in the government of being corrupt. I don’t think they’re going to want to listen to him.” She fumed for a moment, then turned again to the man in the jersey. “I got here while you were flogging some lame protest technique. What’s your stake in this?” “At the risk of sounding pompous,” he said, flashing a grin, “I’m Rodney Falk. People tell me I’m a good organizer.” Her nose wrinkled in distaste. “What? You mean you’re in management?” Falk laughed. “Hardly. Unless you’re talking about arranging devious ways of making a point in a very public manner. That was the nub of my rant, after all. A lot of people seem to think that the reason for holding a public action is to get a message across.” “Well, isn’t it?” “Sure, but not in the literal way that so many people think. What’s more important is to insinuate an idea into the back of people’s minds, to get them to think about your issue in a way that breaks down their objections to it. And, yeah, some people say that’s being manipulative, but so is advertising, and so is what Derek does when he lights a fire under a group of people and gets them off their duff.” She glanced over towards the door. Derek was speaking to someone else now. “So you think he’s just a good motivational speaker?” “I do. I also think the reason he does it is worth fighting for. But getting back to what you were on about earlier… He’s right. Everyone in government is corruptible. There’s too much opportunity to pass it all up – money, power, recognition. Whatever you really want, there’s someone out there willing to trade it for something you don’t consider important.” Her face hardened. “No. I know my father. He would never --.” Falk shook his head. “He’s probably already done it more times that even he likes to think about. None of them talk about it. None of them admits it. But they all do it. They have to. It’s the only way to get things done. It’s politics. That’s what government’s all about. Believe me. I’ve been spoiling their games since I was in grade school.” “That doesn’t change the fact that he accused my father of being bought and paid for, and then had the nerve to just walk away.” “You misunderst--.” “Oh, I understood. I understood that he thinks he can level charges against people indiscriminately. That his buds will step up to protect him. That’s what you’re doing, you know. Bodyguarding him.” Her voice rose a notch. “Well, I have this to say about that. If you’re going to accuse people, at least have the decency do it to their face. Letting someone else fight your battles is just an underhanded way of ducking accountability. Out in the real world, when you slander someone, there are penalties. You can be sued, you know!” “Out in the real word?” Falk said sharply. “What do you know about living in the real word? You’re certainly not going to learn about that by watching your father. Congresspeople live in a maze of perks offered by the hired mouthpieces of every special interest you can imagine. And it all goes back to money, because there’s a mountain of it to be made by getting enough congresspeople to dance to your tune. If you want to talk about accountability, start there. Who’s your father really accountable to, the people who voted for him, the people in his district, or the moneyed interests that call his tune?” Melissa was aghast. “So what do you expect me to do? Accuse my own father of kowtowing to special interests, dare him to stand up to the people whose money makes it possible to grease the wheels of compromise?” “That’d do for a start,” a calm voice said close to her right ear. It was the redhead. She held out a hand. “Hi. I’m Gisela. You’re new here, aren’t you.” “And I think it’ll be a very short visit, too. I’m leaving.” “Wait. Please.” Melissa looked around for Boa. He hadn’t moved, but was watching intently. “After what he said? Why should I?” Gisella smiled broadly. “Because you’ve proven his point.” “What? Proven what point?” “That anyone can be manipulated. He laid a challenge, and you accepted.” “I still don’t know what you’re--.” “When you walked in here, you had ‘observer’ painted all over you. I’m a gamer. I have a habit of noticing the social scripts that people drag along with them. Call it a knack.” “Well, I did just come by to see what--.” Gisella gestured towards Boa. “Derek’s script has to do with getting people involved. He’s really very good at it, too. Case in point. When I walked over here, you’d already worked out something that you could do. You were even asking for permission to do it.” Rodney was grinning sheepishly, and Derek was slowly approaching them. “Now wait a minute,” Melissa said defensively. “I was just being facetious. I’d never even consider asking my father anything like that.” “But you did,” Boa said, rejoining them. “You had to consider it in order to rule it out. And that’s the first step towards actually doing it. I’m sorry I had to put you through that – manipulating you like that -- but I get the feeling that you have a lot to offer this group, and I didn’t want to let you walk out without lighting that fire you’ve been suppressing. So, welcome to Constitutional Evolution. I hope to see you back next time.” Rodney and Gisella smiled at one another. “Same here.”   THE END Copyright 2007 by P.

Content warning: Brief mentions of sex. He was in a far away town, where the women smoked cigarettes in greasy cafés and wore their grandfather’s clothes. He thought they were ugly in an oddly seductive sense. Their ugliness held onto the strange desires that he longed to keep hidden in his body. It disturbed him. It made him feel guilty, too, because Jane was beside him, and she truly was beautiful. She looked fragile as she smoked. The town behind them only deepened her beauty. They sat beneath an oak tree that danced gently in the morning air. He plucked dead weeds from the ground. She held his hand. Women in dark makeup ambled by with their men, who eyed them possessively. Beyond the old townhouses and abundant market stalls was a great sea. It was like a picture, he thought. Or a long, unending dream. One plump woman with short hair past him. She looked like a boy. He had disconcerting thoughts of her when she faded into the throng of other ugly women. He buried the thought into the depths of his body and tried to keep it there. Feeling his thoughts drifting astray, Jane touched his neck lightly. Her fingers were cold and her touch was vapid. He hated how desperately she wanted to understand him. Sometimes he just wanted to be, and not have his problems conceptualised into something that is fixable, because not everything needed fixing. Jane didn’t understand that. “Are you okay?” she asked. He nodded. He didn’t love her and was beginning to think he never did. He imagined what the plump woman’s breasts looked like beneath her pale blouse. They smoked in silence. She knew something was wrong, and that he probably didn’t love her, but she wanted to prolong the inevitable for as long as she could. She didn’t know why, but she sensed it was because she hated herself. In school, they lost their virginities to one another. This sexual feat tricked them into thinking that their burgeoning romance meant something when it didn’t. They found that they couldn’t let one another go, even when he’d confess to being in love with other women, or when she’d berate him for how pathetic he was. One always begged for the other one back. It became ritualistic once they left school. They revelled in the delusion that they were meant to be together in a way that was different to conventional lovers. They hated conventionality, which made them quite annoying at parties. They went to college together and studied subjects that had no financial prospects. Now they were here and he couldn’t rid himself of the pestering urge to go home to his mother. He thought of lying on her lap, watching the television as he drank lager. He hated Europe, but he knew he’d tell his peers that he felt he belonged there. He’d lie about his love for the cities bustling with culture and he’d talk pompously about literature and art. His peers would feel slighted by his subtle boastings, and this would make him feel good about himself. He knew he didn’t really care for any of it, though. All he really wanted to do was lie in his mother’s lap. He thought of the plump woman again. Then he looked at Jane. At times, he wanted to grab her face and shake her until she cried. Other times, he wanted to climb into the hollows of her spine and stay there for a long time. He hoped he was dreaming, and that one day he’d wake up emerging from his mothers womb again, at the beginning of his life. It was a half-hearted hope. He knew it wouldn’t happen, but it was nice to think of living his life differently. He’d lose his virginity to Jane and abandon her. He’d think of her fondly at night before he fell asleep, as the quiet girl who said bizarre things in bed. He’d go to college and take his education seriously. He’d find himself in Europe with a profound feeling of belonging, smoking beneath an oak tree. A plump woman would pass by and he’d charm her in the July sun as they walked towards his flat. There, they would fumble in the dark, hungry, until they found themselves inside one another. He’d abandon her too, but wouldn’t feel bad about it. He wouldn’t feel bad about anything. Jane gripped his sweating palm. She had the look of a worn-out housewife. We are going to ruin each other, he thought. “What’s wrong?” She asked. He smiled and pulled her into his chest. She loved when he did that. “Oh, nothing. I was just thinking about you.

I was lost, wandering the desert of my mind when the night came, all I could see was the dark mist and all I could feel was the beating of turbulent gale and sharp stones beneath my feet. The cold, frigid air and the impossibly dense fog took my innocence, the darkness and cold took my confidence, the beating of the wind and the sharp rock on my path took my selflove. Without my confidence the dark was scarier than ever and without my innocentce I began to see monsters in the mists, without my selflove I stopped shielding myself from the pain inflicted on me by the stones and the sharp wind. Without the warmth of selflove my heart grew colder and colder with each passing moment. I grew tired and lonely in my wanderings, so looked for reprieve, the various dunes around me offered only temporary shelter, until the gale surrounding me ripped them apart and took anything meaningful with it. I found rotten wood and tried to make a campfire but the darkness around me swallowed all the light from it. I tried to yell for help, but monsters in the mist stole my voice from me. In my desperation I tried to dig into the rocky group, I didn't give up until I carved a ravine into the bedrock. In it I created a new bonfire, but this time I used my own body as the fuel and the fire grew black, without any light to swallow I had my shelter and warmth. But at a terrible price. In that terrible ravine I ripped myself to shreds and fed those into the terrible blaze in front of me, I tore of my skin, shreded my muscle and ripped out my organs until only my head, heart and arm remained. As I grasped my heart in my hand I looked at it, cold shriveled and dry as it was a single tear rolled down my skull. What has become of me. A terrifying revenant of who I once was. I look at my hear for what felt like eons. A great shame overtook me, endless like the skies and deep like the oceans.how could have I done this to myself. My tears flowed like the great waterfall down onto my heart and I felt it, a single beat, weak and pitiful by most standards but to me it was like the beating of a war drum. In that moment I gently placed my heart next to me and reached into the flames. I put out the bonfire in front of me and used my remaining arm to rebuild my body from the burned remains. I worked in the unending dark with an unnatural tenacity. With each ruined organ returned I felt I gained something new, something I never had. After I retuned them all I gained resilience in place of my innocence, I don't know where we are going but I will be the shield I never had. Once my body was reassemble I took my skin and fashioned a coat with a single pocket, not to hide me or shield me from the weather, I gained empathy in place of my confidence, I may not be sure where our paths will take us but I will be there with you. Lastly I put my own beating heart into my pocket. For I gained love, for those around me. I keep it there so I can keep my hand on it and feel it's every beats I know I can love. I got up and looked around me and I saw my surrounding for a prison cell I now knew it was so I climbed. I climbed and climbed until I got out of the ravine I dug for myself to hide in. I saw the mist monsters around me but this time I knew better, they were like me. Lost and wondering where their path is, I reached out to them with my skeleton and hugged them close to me. I will protect them, for I know what's it like to loose innocence. I will protect them because I know what it's like to loose your confidence. I will protect them because I love them more than they know, because I was them.

\[SF\] Last Day at the Department of Oxygen by Blake Kimzey “We breathe because we are human.” – Fred Dunderhoff, Secretary of Oxygen The Federal Department of Oxygen (DOO) was a jewel of a building in the center of Washington D.C. Through a curtain of smog, it shined with newness, a line of fluorescently green plastic shrubs following the cut of its foundation and a rise of Greek steps leading toward the entrance. The building was bigger than its façade projected, more menacing than the address chiseled above the front entrance suggested. Outside, agency employees in colorful government jumpers filed into the building wearing OxyCap purification headgear that allowed them to breathe the polluted air. Today, some stopped to rest on the steps of the DOO, out of breath, before keeling over, while others made it inside to the airlock lounge before passing out. Inside, Eric Needles was in the basement archives of the DOO when a message scrolled across his contact lens: *Needles, my office, now*. Eric was never summoned when the news was good. It was Secretary Dunderhoff, an impatient man who could be found pacing his fourth-floor office swinging a plastic Wiffle Ball bat, still bright yellow, a gift from an oxygen lobbyist who had bought it from a rare toy dealer in San Francisco. Secretary Dunderhoff’s messages typically came at the most inopportune times, as if he kept close tabs on Eric’s RFID tracking number. Eric left the archives and made his way quickly up several flights of stairs to the Secretary’s office. Needles’ hands started to sweat. He was one of Dunderhoff’s policy wonks, an Unnecessary Environmental Particulate Analyst (UNEPA), Impurity Specialist, and a Special Assistant to the Secretary. Needles had joined the DOO right out of Georgetown 11 years ago, and now lived alone in a small apartment in Crystal City. He worked from a bullpen office with no windows and terrible ventilation. Binders were stacked on end in a series of sagging bookshelves lining the walls. In 2098, books and the bookshelves that held them were relics from the past. To hold them was to know the heft of the past, as if the weight of the book was what made its contents important. And the bullpen is where Needles had spent the last week devising a way to explain the troubling numbers he had seen in the latest OxyCap models without Dunderhoff blowing his top, but Eric, never important enough, couldn’t get on the Secretary’s schedule. Eric rounded the staircase at the top of the fourth floor, brushed against two plainclothes security agents walking quickly in the other direction, and walked down a hallway busy with agency employees, some holding file tablets close to their chest. At the end of the corridor Rose Ford, Dunderhoff’s bird-like assistant, buzzed Eric through to the Secretary’s office. Dunderhoff’s chambers were impressive, overlooking the haze of the National Mall. Framed photos of Dunderhoff standing next to the 54 th, 55 th, 56 th, 57 th, and 58 th presidents dotted the wall. The original bill mandating OxyCap usage was also framed and hanging proudly behind Dunderhoff’s desk, and an oil portrait of J. Edgar Hoover held he back wall, Dunderhoff’s idol, dead for over 120 years. Dunderhoff, tall and slightly balding, stood looking out the window, the Wiffle Ball bat resting on his right shoulder. The morning sun pulsed through a dense layer of pollution and in the distance Needles imagined the Washington Monument spiking out of the ground. Dunderhoff had built the DOO from the ground up. What had once been an under-department in the EPA was now a behemoth. It was the second most powerful agency in the country based on government contracts for the constantly updated OxyCap hardware alone. Only the DOD had more weight within the White House, a fact Eric knew burned Dunderhoff to his very core. “Take a seat, Needles,” Dunderhoff said, without turning around. “I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors about bad OxyCaps.” “Rumors are rumors, sir,” Eric said, and took an upholstered seat in front of Dunderhoff’s desk. “I don’t listen to them, but I have been looking at the numbers, and I have some thoughts if I can speak freely.” Eric looked around, waiting for a nod of approval from Dunderhoff. A collection of original-issue OxyCap masks from 2022 were framed and arranged behind a Plexiglas cabinet adjacent to Dunderhoff’s desk. They were simple plastic masks that fit snuggly around the nose and mouth and had ballooned over the years to cover the entire face. Eric had never been outside without an OxyCap; he had only heard of people off the grid in Alaska and Montana and parts of Texas roaming, heads uncovered, breathing the natural air. Morons, he thought. “Whatever you’ve heard, I’m here to tell you it’s worse,” Dunderhoff said. “Just look outside. People are dropping like flies coast to coast, dying. We’re in full crisis mode.” Rumors of tainted OxyCaps had been circulating through the DOO, had been for the last week. Eric had tried to ignore them despite the numbers he’d seen, but the oxygen lobbyists had been meeting with Dunderhoff behind closed doors for hours on end and it wasn’t hard for Eric and the other UNEPAs to come to the conclusion that something big was happening. The money guys always had the Secretary’s ear, had cornered him in a hotel conference room overlooking the steaming Potomac earlier in the week and now Needles was hearing it from Dunderhoff himself. “We’ve had recalls before,” Eric said. “Not like this,” Dunderhoff said, and backed up from the window. He stood like he was in a batter’s box and swung the Wiffle Ball bat. “Not like we’re going to. You authored the most recent purity report for the headgear, am I right?” “I did,” Eric said, and shifted in his chair. “Did you have a chance to read the report?” “Haven’t gotten around to it,” Dunderhoff said. “Don’t think I will. But that’s not important.” “Sir, I’ve been trying to meet with you about these numbers for a week.” “Needles, the D-O-O has a sterling record, and we’re about to make the wrong kind of history here. There has never been a recall of tainted oxygen, not until tomorrow when we make it official. If people start taking off their OxyCaps we’re done as an agency.” “We’ve recalled hardware before—” “People don’t wait for a recall like this to start dying, they just start feeling dead. Then the shit hits the fan. No one can say who was the first to get a bad OxyCap, but Danny Foster in Iowa City was the first confirmed person in America to die from a tainted unit. The guy didn’t notice the gauge on his canister reading high levels of carbon dioxide, and nobody else is either. And now: an entire country of Danny Fosters turning up dead. One big accident. Have you seen the ruckus outside?” “This is terrible,” Eric said, and thought of his mother and father in Cleveland; he would message them to replace the activated charcoal filter before they stepped outside, to double check the seal on the respirator. “We’ve got to send out an alert.” “I know,” Dunderhoff said. “Tomorrow. Today you’re left holding the bag on this one. We’ve already drafted a statement, zinged it over to the president.” “Now hold on—” Dunderhoff looked the other way and started to talk. “Rose, Rose—let’s get Needles a new OxyCap—from the new batch—and have HR show him out.” Dunderhoff turned around and extended his hand. “We’ll get you a new OxyCap,” Dunderhoff said. “How long have you known?” Eric said. “Long enough to order up a new batch of headgear,” Dunderhoff said. “We had to get ahead of it.” Eric stood up and didn’t shake the Secretary’s hand. “I’m going to appeal this,” Eric said. “I think you should,” Dunderhoff said, “maybe when this all blows over.” Two plainclothes security agents came through Dunderhoff’s door. They stood expectantly for Eric to join them, one of them holding an OxyCap from the new batch. They took Needles by the arms and led him downstairs to the airlock lounge. There, one of the agents took Eric’s badge and then they backed into the lobby and waited for him to exit the building. Eric fixed the new OxyCap firmly on his head, but he didn’t want to exit the building. The new headgear felt like the old headgear, the one he’d worn to work just that morning. The airlock hissed and the doors pushed open. Looking out at the world before him Eric couldn’t breathe, didn’t know if he should. He saw people laying on the ground everywhere, uniformed workers bagging the bodies. The DOO loomed over them all, and some four stories up Needles imagined Dunderhoff choking up on his Wiffle Ball bat, taking a swing at nothing at all.

At the Halloween party I saw the joy and hunger leave your green eyes. You were distraught and distant. You told me we had to leave. Even if destruction was the only place left to go. You were my lady in all but name, but the lipstick and mascara made you look like something different all together that day. Your dress was acid green and dark as the day the two of us became lost souls sharing a broken dream. Your faded smile will forever haunt me like a scream. It rings in ears whenever I try to sleep. You never told me your nightmares. You always said you would rather die than let what happened to you happen to me. The knife in your hands… the blood on your lips... A kiss that left a wound that will never heal. Scars and apparitions I can almost feel. Taken by the same lie that almost made you cry. A part of me went missing on the day you went missing. I should have known better. I should have *never* let you walk out the door. You promised me you’d be right back but instead you disappeared into the unknown. I never got to say goodbye. I’ll never know what happened to you. A call from the undead in the cold undead of night was the closest I'll ever come. I know why you left. I know why you did it. Even though you never said it, I know whatever happened was something you could never bring yourself to utter. How could any secret be worse than this? How could anything be worse than losing you? I watched the life slowly drain from your eyes. You let go of the angel inside and were never the same. Marilyn. Where are you? You were just as jaded and tired of the world as me. I know. I could see it in those green eyes. I still see it whenever I close my eyes and think about you. Why did you change? Marilyn. Why did you go? This whole time, you were the very thing you loved. You were the Pegasus on your chest. A girl who could lift the darkness like a match inside a catacomb. Death would be a breath of fresh air compared to the suffering of never knowing.

Serel walked through the path of the woods as she did thousands of times before that day. Her bucket in hand and dressed in her faded red robe, she had chosen to leave her hat at her home due to the low branches it regularly gets caught on by the lake. Her soft steps only disturbed the leaves that they fell on top of. She had lived in these woods for years and has since become one within it. The animals didn’t dare go near her due to instinct but also did not run. They knew she posed no danger to them. Eventually she reached the lake, the autumn leaves reflecting on the water made her take a moment to fully enjoy the scene. She loved this time of year, all the creatures were getting ready for winter which made the forest quieter and quieter with each day and the sun sets were something to be awed about. As she scanned the lake her eyes eventually snapped to movement less than 12 feet away from her. It was a knight, slowly fixing his helmet and moving his sword hand to the hilt that hung from a sheath on his left side. An odd sight since most sword fighters were right handed. Another odd sight about this stranger was that his armor was blackened by scorch marks. Even his obviously once silver and golden helmet was burned by flame and most of the color was replaced by the black scar as a reminder. He slowly began to approach, one hand on the hilt ready to draw the other holding the sheath. Despite his stance she felt no need to run, no fear, no danger, she felt safe by his presence so she stood there as he slowly walked forwards towards her. He stopped only a hand length away from her. He was very tense, she could tell. So was she considered this is the closest she has been to a human in a very long time. Her breath caught in her throat as he bent down bringing his face closer to hers so close that she could hear him breathing within his helmet, it was calm and steady; another odd thing about him. “Are you the guardian witch of this forest?” He asked in a low tone. His voice felt like gold to her ears as if a loved one had welcomed her home after a long day laboring. She could tell that still within that gold voice there was fear. Was he scared of her, she wondered. “Please, answer me.” “Yes, why are you asking” her own voice was surprisingly clear and calm given the situation. He took a step back and tapped the handle of his sword “they came to my home looking for you” he eventually told her “Who came to your home” “I told them you were myth, they called me a liar and claimed I was protecting you from them. Called me a criminal, called all of us criminals for lying” “You must tell me, who. Who came to your home and did this?” She begged “They said we must pay a criminals price” he said softer. “What did they do?” She asked sternly. “The army burned my village, my home, everybody burned.” She gasped and stepped back covering her mouth “They tried to burn me too but I didn’t let them. It is said in your tale that you are kind and that you guard everything this forest touches. Is that true?” Serel was too shocked by his words. Her mind was racing trying to find an answer as to who would burn a village in a hunt for her of all things. Her thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the sound of a sword being drawn then stopping halfway “You will answer me” the kindness in his voice was faint but still there. “Yes, I am kind and I protect all who call this forest home” she said proudly. Should she be struck down by him at least she would be killed with dignity. The strike never came however, instead he put the sword back and let go of it and bowed his head. “I am a protector as well. I took an oath to protect all who are kind and innocent in my village. I am Ruthan The Gilded Knight of Rithe Village.” His voice was as proud as hers was, his oath held firm she supposed. “My village claimed this forest long ago, making you the last person of my village” he took a long breath and sighed “and me the last human in your forest” he said softly. “My oath stands, tell me. Will you fight when the army comes or will you run. I will not think differently if you choose the latter” “I will not abandon my forest no matter who threatens. I am sorry I was not there for your village, I did not know. I will make it right I assure you Knight Ruthan” “Then I shall stand with you, on my honor you shall not fall before me, I will not let another one of my neighbors be burned no matter who they shall be” he said, the kindness back in his deep voice. She let out a small laugh “I am Serel” she said reaching out her hand to him to take “you have no reason to worry about me burning Ruthan. I am-“ She cut her words short as she watched a flock of startled birds fly off nearby. Her heart sank as she realized the disadvantage. If they got to her home before her they would have her stave and she wouldn’t be able to fend them off. “Time to begin, apologies for this” Ruthan said and before she could ask what for, her arm was yanked in the other direction toward her home as Ruthan held her hand in his as he began running towards where the flock had been. She soon steadied her run and began running in front of the knight “follow me, we must reach my homestead before they find it. There, I can grab my stave and we will stand a better chance” without a word he followed closely behind her. Both racing against an unknown threat towards Serels’ house. As they arrived at Serels' home she could feel the marching of soldiers on the ground. “Wait here for me, they are close and should they come. Hold them off until I can help you” Serel ordered Ruthan as she ran inside. Ruthan took up a defensive stance a few feet in front of the cottage. He saw the army begin to show themselves from the foliage of the forest, there was still no sign of Serels return. He drew his sword as the rest of the army took up their arms as well. There were 35 left of them, only one of him. Nevertheless Serel was still inside so for her defense he shall stand. “Stand aside” one called out “you criminal of a knight. You have failed, you have no village, you have no neighbors. Your oath is as good as shite now” “No” he shouted in response “my village does not resign to the houses you burned. My village spends this entire forest! There is one more, one left who I must stand for! In this I shall not falter as I did before. You called me a liar, a criminal standing in defense for a myth I had no knowledge of existing. Well I found her and now, only now do you have the right to call me a criminal!” He pointed his sword towards them “when you get to the underworld” as he spoke, flame began to swirl around his sword enveloping the blade. The flame did not reach out in all directions as it usually does. It stayed in shape as if the element itself was tamed. This was the fire of a witch. “Tell the lord how it felt to be burned by me” with that Ruthan heard a door close and the fighting began.

In the heart of the Elven Village, there lived a young elf named Pixie. Pixie was not just any elf; he was destined to become the next prince of the Faerie Court. His father, the King of Elves, had him follow very strict guidelines. Every day, he was forced to take countless lessons on Court philosophies and study long scriptures passed down from generations, all to make sure that he would transition into proper royalty. But beyond all of this, Pixie had a secret wish that set him apart from the other elves. While everyone else in the village dreamed of seeing the day of his coronation, he dreamed of being free. In order to escape from his reality, Pixie would often sneak away to a distant meadow, where he felt truly alive among the splendor of various plants and insects, and not one elf to tell him what to do. One sunny afternoon, he found a beautiful golden dandelion, swaying gently in the breeze. Pixie knelt down near the flower and whispered, "Hello there. What’s your name?" To his surprise, the dandelion shyly replied, "My name is Dandy. Who are you?" Pixie’s eyes widened in amazement. He had never heard a flower speak before. "I’m Pixie," he said, "and I’m supposed to be a prince. But I just want to be free like you, Dandy." Dandy smiled, his petals glowing bright yellow. "Why don't you stay with me for a while? We can dance with the wind and sing with the birds." Pixie’s heart leapt with joy. With no further hesitation, he decided to spend the rest of the day with Dandy, laughing and dancing in the meadow as the flower cheered him on. As the days passed, Pixie and Dandy’s friendship blossomed into something more. They shared stories, dreams, laughter, and love. Pixie found in Dandy a kindred spirit, someone who understood his longing for freedom and adventure. Sadly, the time always came when Pixie had to return to his duties in the village. Life felt mundane when was not with Dandy, and Pixie’s heart ached with the thought of leaving him behind for good when he would become prince. In the end, he knew he had to make a choice – to fulfill the role expected of him, or to follow his own heart. One warm evening, as Pixie was singing for Dandy, the flower looked at the elf and smiled with pure admiration. "Pixie, you’re so beautiful," he said softly. "Everything about you is. Your voice, your eyes... and especially your wings. They shimmer like the morning dew." Pixie blushed, his wings fluttering with joy. He scratched his head out of embarrassment before managing to mutter out a quick “Thank you”. Seconds later, he held back tears. It was because in all his life, he had never felt such an intense feeling of being appreciated. He sat down beside the flower and gently kissed his leafy hand before falling asleep beside him. From then on, Pixie felt comfortable enough to confide in Dandy about his life back in the village. "I’m supposed to be a prince, but I don’t want to be trapped by all these duties and expectations. I just want to be free and explore the world with you. You make me feel like I'm worth something beyond all of this". Dandy smiled as he always did, and gently looked Pixie in the eyes. "You’re already a prince to me, Pixie, and I’ll always be by your side. I know it's hard, but I'm sure you'll find a way out of this." Every day, Pixie would stop by a creek near the meadow to bring fresh water for Dandy. It became his little ritual, a way for him to show his love and care to the flower that listened to all his troubles and made him feel seen. But one day, the busy elf forgot to track his time and was in a rush to go home. He noticed that the water by the spot he chose was murkier than usual, but because he wanted to avoid being scolded by his father for being late to his lessons, he collected the water anyway. “Better than nothing, I suppose”. When Dandy took a sip of the water, he immediately felt sick. Yet, being a flower, he could not stop his roots from consuming it. "Pixie, something’s wrong," he said weakly. Pixie’s heart sank with guilt and worry. "I’m so sorry, Dandy. I didn’t know the water was that bad. I thought you would be able to handle it. Dandy’s petals wilted and he thrashed in pain. He felt as if he had been betrayed by the one person who he loved the most. In a storm of hurt, he told the elf, while avoiding his eyes, "I don't think you shouldn't stay here anymore. You need to let me go, Pixie." Pixie’s heart was shattered. He continued to apologize but the damage had already been done, and in a fit of frustration, he told Dandy he wished they had never met before storming off back to Elven Village. He wanted to go back in time, to make things right, but in the back of his mind he knew that it was not possible, and that Dandy was right. *From that day on, the two no longer talked, and Pixie felt a deep emptiness well up inside him. It suffocated him even more than his double life.* Days passed by, and yet Pixie couldn’t stop thinking about Dandy. Eventually, he could no longer handle his curiosity, and so he mustered up the courage to pay a visit to the meadow where they had spent so many happy moments together. There, he stumbled upon something that was both beautiful and heartbreaking to witness. In the same place since they last talked, Dandy had not only overcome the poison, but had also fully matured into a dandelion puff, with seeds that were ready to take flight. Pixie rushed to the body of his friend, tears streaming down his face. "I miss you, Dandy," he whispered. “I’m sorry we never had a proper goodbye”. He clung to his stem for the longest time. Suddenly, he felt a voice inside his head that sounded like Dandy, urging him to blow the seeds into the wind. He watched them dance and swirl in the air like a million dreams waiting to come true. "Fly free, little seedlings. Fly so that you may make him proud”. As the seeds floated away, Pixie closed his eyes and made a wish. He hoped that they would carry his love for Dandy through the wind, and that one day, somehow, it would bring the two of them back together. *"You gave me the strength to believe in myself. And though our time together was short-lived, I realize now that the most beautiful things in life are like that as well".* With a newfound sense of peace and hope, Pixie returned to his family. He stood before the elders and his parents, his iridescent wings shimmering with determination. "I love you all, but I cannot be the prince you want me to be," he declared. "I need to be true to myself, to explore and to love freely." His family listened, seeing the strength and resolve in Pixie's eyes. They realized that their son's happiness was more important than any title or duty, and that they needed to love him unconditionally. "We understand, Pixie," his father said gently. "Your heart is your greatest treasure. Follow it, and you will always be our prince." Pixie sighed with immense relief, and then smiled. It felt like a weight that he had been carrying for his whole life had lifted up from his shoulders and floated away like Dandy's seeds. He had finally broken free of the shackles that confined him within his cage of fears and doubts. With his family's blessing and a braving heart, he set back out into the wilderness, knowing that he could honor his dreams and his love for Dandy, no matter where his journey took him. **PS:** I'm aware this may be difficult to read because Reddit text post will not allow me to clearly outline where a page ends and where another starts. I'd love any criticism. It's meant to be formatted like a children's book but has themes that are better understood by a more mature audience (self-conflict, identity, love, loss) and is an allegory for closeted gay relationships based on my own experiences and influenced by Hans Christian Anderson's *The Little Mermaid.

As the years passed, our ghost hunting techniques became more and more advanced. We got our hands on a handheld camera, two MAG flashlights, a digital voice recorder, audio and video editing software, the fucking works. We were too cool and too prepared to be spooked by any spirits after we got all geared up. On this particular night, we decided we were going to try to talk to his Uncle Frank in the living room. Him and his uncle were extremely close and Frank painted a ton of beautiful landscapes that were hanging up in different parts of the house. The biggest one being in the living room, right above the sofa. Frank had also given Jared a small golden lion with emerald eyes on a black base days before he passed. The lion wasn’t real gold nor were the stones in its eye sockets real emeralds. But it had been sitting on the shelf above his TV, right next to his Egyptian statuettes for as long as I could remember. We grabbed the lion and our new digital recorder and headed out to the living room to convene with the dearly departed. At this point in time, Jared’s little sister was just getting into school age and using the bathroom on her own in the middle of the night, so the bathroom, light in the hallway was always on. This is important to understand that we were never really in pitch dark when doing these things. Which honestly helped me be less freaked when it got really weird. We set Frank’s lion in the center of their coffee table and sat on opposite sides of the couch from each other. The coffee table, if you can really call it that, was a four foot square of natural wood glazed with a shiny overcoat to avoid splinters. The legs were logs cut from the same tree. The couch we were sitting on was a four cushion black leather sofa that made noise if you were breathing too heavy while sitting on it. With the lion situated at the center of the table, we turned off the one flashlight we brought and began the recorder. I gently placed it a few inches in front of the lion and began asking if Frank was there and if he wanted to send Jared and his family any messages. There were no answers spoken to us. Not on the recorder and not whispered into our ears. Just quiet. After a minute of trying to decide if tonight was a bust or not, Jared cleared his throat and asked if anyone else was around that wasn’t his Uncle Frank. One thing we didn’t know at the time was that this question was going to launch us into a whole new level of trying to find out what the fuck was happening in this house. Seconds passed with nothing but the sound of my heart beat thudding in my chest when there was a new sound in the room. It sounded like something heavy was being dragged somewhere in the room. I caught Jared out of the corner of my eye pointing at the lion, speechless. I whipped my head around to watch that lion scrape itself towards the other end of the table, maybe about two to three inches before toppling over. We looked at each other in disbelief and could see it in each other’s eyes that we weren’t scared of what just happened at all. That was exciting! We were instantly hungry for more. We stood up to head back to the room to listen for our Electronic Voice Phenomena on our little recorder and Jared snatched up the lion while I grabbed the device itself. As we turned the corner from his living room into the hallway, we saw something for the first time. It was close to nine feet tall. It was humanoid in shape and looked like it was made out of pure shadow. It stood at the end of the hall, Jared’s parents’ room on its right, his little sister’s on its left and the linen closet against its back. I can still see how smoothly it turned to its left and ducked into her bedroom. We both dropped what we were holding and sprinted down the hallway, bursting into her bedroom and throwing the lights on. Without saying a word to each other or his extremely confused sibling, we checked and double checked every corner and space in that room. In the closet. Under the bed. Behind the desk. Under the pile of stuffed animals in the corner. The window was locked and the room was empty save for the three of us. We apologized to his sister and let her go back to sleep. Walking out of her room, we literally ran into Rich. He was standing right outside of the doorway still wearing his sleep apnea mask with a baseball bat in hand. We tried to explain what we saw and he sucked air through his teeth and told us to quit waking them up if we were going to continue to do our “ghost hunting shit”. He went back to bed and we collected our things from the living room and walked back to his room, ready to listen back to those recordings from earlier. They were a complete bust other than the sound of the lion being dragged and flipped onto its back. The rest of that night ended up being uneventful. We talked about what had just happened and then got over it by getting back online and playing Team Deathmatch until the sun came up. That morning we excitedly explained that night to his mom over her morning coffee. I know now that a good mother is good at seeming interested in her kids’ hobbies whether she truly is or not. She enthusiastically listens to every detail, asking questions and covering her mouth after some of our answers. She became really supportive of us trying to solve the mystery of the unknown spirit that had been messing with them since day one. I still to this day think that she truly believed us and in the ghost(s) haunting them.

And thus, she looked at me. Menacingly, as harmful thoughts appear to be flashing in her dark blue eyes. Would this be the moment that I will never get the chance to regret? With a flash of reflected light, her movement was too swift for me to notice. Pain rushed through my body with enough force to overload my senses. I feel it sputtering out of me with a velocity that a bullet could be jealous of. My sight grows crimson with each passing second, that goes by so incredibly slow. The twitching of my nose at the coppery smell drive home my fears, mixed with the very same taste. And all that is left is the piercing sound of her manic cackling. Perhaps that is the most daunting sign of my inevitable end. I try to admit the guilt that I feel to her, but that act has become impossible. As my sight fades from red to black, I can feel something else past the torment. A cold embrace, growing ever tighter around my entire being. Welcoming it with all of my remaining strength seemed like the only fitting thing to do. Then, shaking. Softly at first, but growing more intense the longer that I don't respond to it. My ears pick up a much more pleasant noise this time around. "Honey, wake up." The voice rocking through my core. I gently force my eyes open, only to be met by a blinding light. Through it, though, a silhouette blocks out the source of this discomfort. My vision becomes clearer, and her gentle smile immediately puts me at rest after that nightmare. Spotting worry behind her eyes leads me to reach out to her, as she rests her head against my shoulder. I can feel her tears seeping through my shirt. Stroking her hair seems to put her at ease. That is good. She pulls back a little bit to look at me, closely inspecting my face. As I fall in love with her for the second time, she takes me out of bed towards the bathroom. The reflection reminds me once more of how lucky I am. Seeing her there, standing beside me and looking after me with so much care... As she slowly unwinds the bandages around my neck, I close my eyes once more to take it all in. And then I hear a noise, so faintly that it almost tickles my ears. Her soft humming makes my hairs stand on end and calms my heart. It is the nursery rhyme that pierced the darkness a few days ago. I open my eyes to try and meet hers in the mirror, but there is a third person stood in between the two of us. Her cold, dark blue eyes are so sharp and undoubtedly laced with venom. Shaking my head in an attempt to get rid of that traumatizing image works. The gasp that accompanied my erratic movement, however, snaps me out of it. A trickle of blood flows down my throat and runs down to my shirt. Her hand intercepts it, as the other wipes it away with a cloth. Trying to apologize verbally, a pinching ache stops me from doing so. My frustration at my inability to speak is quickly sizzled out as she leans into me, shushing me as she dresses my wounds. Once she is done, I will hold her so tightly with the promise that things will be better soon enough. **In-character Addendum:** While my life might seem hard, I cannot express how happy I am with the support that I receive from everyone around me. Not only from my friends and family, but also from my fiancé. She is not only the love of my life, but also my best friend. We all make bad decisions that we will regret so much, that it might crush you at the time and plunge you into the darkest depths. But as you persevere and create chances to make new decisions based on what you have learned, life can blossom again. Hang in there. Everything can and will only get better if you have hit rock bottom.

“Peace Initiative” By P. Orin Zack (8/10/2007)   “The what hypothesis?” Melissa Fox held up her hand to halt the whispered verbal avalanche she’d unleashed. It was her second visit with the folks of Constitutional Evolution, an activist group that was exploring ways to improve the processes of governance. Derek Boa chuckled. “Whorf. No, not the Klingon from Star Trek. Benjamin Whorf. Chemical Engineer studying linguistics in the 1930s. Anyway, the point is that if there aren’t words for something, you can’t think about it, much less talk about it.” She nodded, and brushed a loop of blond hair from her face. “Like in ‘1984’. Well, it was making a silly picture in my head, you know.” “I can imagine. Having an artist around here expands the language we can use to communicate the ideas we’re exploring. A picture, as they say…” Rodney Falk, leaning over the table at them, theatrically cleared his throat. “You done with your sidebar, Counselor? Emotional arguments, remember? I was just getting into the underside of this debate, and here you are trying to yank it back into academia.” Derek slipped his hand forward to stop the black man’s fingers from drumming the table a second time. “Sorry. You have the floor.” Falk returned to the center of the room, and looked around. Melissa and Derek were seated, along with the rest of the group, behind two half-rings of tables, playing members of Congress. They were exploring how sensitive topics were spoken about, using peace for their hot potato. Rodney, who spent his free time stirring up protests, was one of the warhawks. “As I was saying,” he drawled broadly, having gotten back into character, “this country was founded through an act of war. And it has been drawn into wars time and again to put down the forces of evil. It does exist. And if we’re not on our guard, it will destroy the sacred freedoms that make this country what it is.” The scraping of chair legs echoed against the bare walls. “Will the speaker yield for a question?” It was Derek. Falk turned. “If it’s brief and on topic, Mr. Boa.” Rodney’s informal response was one of the things they were experimenting with today. Melissa had pointed out that all of the formalities, calling one another ‘Distinguished’, and never by name, enforced a psychological distance between people who were supposed to be working towards a common purpose. She’d known about it from school, but seeing her dad do it in the House of Representatives had brought it home to her. They also did away with dividing the room by party, opting instead to arrange members based on geography. There were pros and cons to this, and they weren’t convinced it was the right solution. “These wars, Mr. Falk, might as well be brands. They’ve got names -- Revolutionary War, Civil War, World Wars I and II. Or we talk about where they’re fought – Korea, Vietnam, Iraq. How many of these were clear cases of ‘good’ versus ‘evil’? Was the British Crown evil when the founders wrote the Declaration?” Rodney closed his eyes. “The patriots who gathered in Philadelphia certainly thought so.” Derek shook his head. “I doubt that. If they had, they would have said as much in the Declaration of Independence. No. What Jefferson wrote about was an abuse of power. And what about the Civil War? Did half the states suddenly turn evil?” Rodney’s jaw clenched. “The states? Probably not, but the slave owners--.” Derek trampled his thought. “--who were welcomed into the union after the Revolutionary War? Those slave owners? Were they evil all along, or was that image drummed into the northern soldiers’ minds so they’d be willing to kill their countrymen? Their own brothers, for heaven’s sake? Selling the idea of killing people as a glorious business, regardless of whether there’s an ethical justification for it or not, is blatant manipulation of the citizenry. Surely there must be a way to base our nation’s self-image on more peaceful activities.” “Like what?” “Like raising families, fishing, farming, running businesses. Like reading a good book, going to a movie. Anything but killing people.” “But you’ve just made my point for me, Mr. Boa. You’re not arguing for peace, you’re arguing for the things we might do while we’re at peace. But we do those things anyway, whether we’re in a war or not. So you have no argument.” “Whoa. Whoa. Time out!” Gisela Kilarney, the redheadded gamer seated across from Derek and Melissa, was frantically making a ball-field ‘T’ with her hands. Falk stepped towards her. “Whatcha’ got, red?” “There’s no pictures, Rod. Derek was talking about a national self-image. Pictures we carry around in our heads. Pictures that represent us as a people. But look at what we’ve got. It’s easy to represent war graphically. Tanks. Guns. Soldiers in uniform.” He nodded. “I gotcha’. Rocket’s red glare and all that.” “Recruiting posters,” Melissa said, getting to her feet. “Propaganda films. Newsreels and war photographers and embedded news crews.” “War movies,” Derek added, joining her. Gisela circled her hand in the air. “And games. Lots of games. But where’s the other side? Where’s the peace posters, the movies?” “That’s easy,” Rodney said. “At protests. And on progressive websites. The movies are out there, too. Documentaries. Download ‘em, Get ‘em on DVD. Show ‘em in your living room.” “But nothing to counter Derek’s war flicks. There’s anti-war films, sure. Lots of them. But they all define themselves by what they’re opposed to. There’s no real peace movies. Or games.” she pressed. “Peace games? I don’t have a clue what that even means.” “That’s right. You don’t.” She sprang to her feet. “War’s easy. We know what that looks like. We can draw pictures of it, make movies – real movies, not just d0cumentaries. Films with characters we can identify with, emotional arcs that draw us in. But what does peace look like? How does it feel? If we don’t know what it looks like, how the heck are we supposed to have any kind of national self-image based on it?” By this time, the rest of the group had joined the huddle. Derek looked around for a moment. “Okay,” he said, raising both hands. “New project. Call it a peace initiative. If we’re going to talk about peace, we need a language to do it in. Words. Pictures. Actions. Here’s an example. Rodney, what’s the peace movement about?” He shrugged. “Ending the war, of course.” “It defines itself by making people think of war?” Rodney laughed. “When you put it that way, it sounds ridiculous. But what’s the alternative?” “That’s our new project. We’re going to create one. If we ever hope to put this nation on a path of peace, a path of creation, rather than destruction, we need to be able to think about peace AS peace. And once we can think about it without invoking everything that’s conjured up in the idea of war, we’ll be able to talk about it, see pictures of it, play at doing it. We need to feel what it’s like to live in a world that embraces peace, not merely one that’s trying to clear a space between wars for a little holiday.” Melissa frowned. “That’s a pretty big challenge.” “It is. And thanks for volunteering to lead the effort.” “Volun--? What gave you that idea?” Derek grinned. “You said it was a challenge. That means you’re interested in doing something about it. And since you’re the only artist we have at the moment, I think you’re the best choice for the job. After all, what we’re looking for is an image.” “But--.” Gisella nudged her gently. “Don’t worry. It’ll be okay. I’ll team it with you. After all, I have a vested interest in working this problem.” “You do?” “Sure. We’re going to end up with the basis for some kind of peace game out of this. And I’m claiming first dibs for the right to spring it on the world.”   THE END Copyright 2007 by P.

 [MS] The face man I first saw the Face man when I was about 6 years old. I was the only one who could see him, mom thought he was "pretend" and my friend thought it was a game. He always followed me around, high in the sky. His red eyes smiled upon me everywhere I went. Occasionally I'd hear him give a lite chuckle whenever my friend and I shared a joke, or when I made a fool out of myself. Over the years his lite chuckle became a deep laugh. His soft smile turned into a big grin. His red eyes glared at me, they seemed angrier, more aggressive. He laughs at me rather than at my jokes. He mocks me, saying "You're not good enough." And "No one loves you." Will I ever be good enough? Will anyone ever love me? In high school, the Face man wasn't the only one who mocked me. Other kids called me fat, stupid, crazy, I got that last tittle from a fight with another girl. The teachers don't understand, mom doesn't listen, my classmates hate me and I'm just a burden on those around me. Would anyone miss me? One day I was home alone. It was spring break and mom was at work. I looked out the window and saw the Face man. He was no longer so far up in the sky, almost to the ground. I went outside and followed him to a field. He fell to the ground, and landed in a canal. I walked up to the water and peered into the blue. I could barely see the bottom, but it looked soft... At least, softer... My thoughts were interrupted, I could hear him laughing, even now he mocks me. A tear ran down my cheek. I dipped my toe in the water, it was cold. No one loves me. No one will miss me. :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: I wrote the story several years ago, and based it off of a dream that my sister had when she was seven. In her dream, She saw a face in the clouds that was laughing at her and her friend. Her and her friend would try to hide from this face but it would always follow her. At some point in her dream, The face moved down to the ground. When telling me her dream she described that it floated slowly like a leaf. When the face reached the ground, it vanished and became invisible. Shortly after, her friend walked over the spot that the face was. At this point the face man opened his mouth and her friend fell to the center of the Earth. In this story, I took the general concept and gave it a deeper meaning. This was the first story I ever wrote, and it just kind of fell on the paper naturally. I'm still writing stories, But I'd like to know what y'all think about this one! This last paragraph is purely fit this into the word count.

# Chapter 1 The sun glistened off my skin as I walked these familiar streets to my house. As I looked to my left, I noticed the loose blonde ponytail of my best friend Morgan swinging side to side with every step. To my right, my other best friend Grayson. It would be easy to mistake him if it weren’t for the messy dark curls and the easygoing infectious grin when he’s telling some stupid joke. “What do you think, Luke?” I hear Morgan ask. “Huh,” I reply as I get shocked back into reality. Morgan gave me a soft, almost shy smile. “Are you excited to get back to Cyberia?” Cyberia is a well-kept secret only known to the players of the game. Honestly, I don’t even know how I was the one who was lucky enough to manage to discover it. All it took was one accidental bump to the storage closet in the school’s basement for me to discover the conversion pods. “Definitely,” I say. “There are so many things we haven’t done yet.” “Maybe we will finally figure out what those mysterious sneakers of yours do,” she says excitedly. Cyberia is the home to many activities, only limited to the imagination of the player. There are so many things you are able to do in Cyberia, from going on adventure quests with your friends to playing moderated minigames such as capture the flag and racing. There really is no limit to the possibilities within Cyberia. In Cyberia, when a new player joins for the first time, they have to select a mythical item. For Morgan, she chose the enchanting mirror, a device that can reflect opposing players' attacks and reveal deceit in a player if they gaze upon it. “I don’t really understand all of the hype around this,” Grayson says. “You can’t just be transported to a different world to play some wannabe version of World of Warcraft.” “It really isn’t transporting you elsewhere,” I exclaim. “It's more like linking your mind with the game.” Grayson looks at me with that stupid sarcastic smile that I’m familiar with. “Right. Just like in Avatar, right?” Grayson says, laughing at me. Morgan smacks his arm playfully “Oh, you’re such a skeptic. Just wait and see.” As we finally arrive at my backyard, we enter my makeshift clubhouse. I still remember when my Dad built this for me when I was younger. It quickly became a hangout spot for my friends and me. As the wooden door creaks open, the sunlight brightens up the clubhouse. Along with my family’s old couch, there is a desk, some sports equipment, and some bean bags. Sitting in the middle of the room are three large circular chairs with a glass capsule attached to them. “How did you even get these in here?” Grayson asks. “They have to be too heavy to carry all the way from the school!” “My dad’s truck,” Morgan exclaims. Fortunately for us, since my dad works as a teacher and has access to the building, all we had to do was tell him that these chairs were given away and that any student could claim them.” “I can’t believe your Dad didn’t ask any more questions,” I say with a half-hearted laugh. “Anyways, Grayson, go ahead and sit down.” “How?” he asks, pointing to the obviously closed capsule. I walk over to the chair and press the open button on the side of it. “Go ahead and sit down.” Grayson walks over and sits down into the pod. “Okay, Grayson, now you may feel a little tense when this first gets turned on, but just wait for us when you get transported in,” I say to him. “Just press the power button when you’re ready.” “Are you sure this thing is safe?” Grayson asks with concern. “Here, watch me go. Morgan, you hang back while I go first.” Morgan nods at me as I enter my pod and press the power button. My mind starts to drift as I see stars. Suddenly everything goes black as I close my eyes. # Chapter 2 I open my eyes to see myself transported into Cyberia. I stand up and exit the pod as I stand there and wait for Morgan and Grayson to arrive. As I look upon Cyberia, I see the town hall directly in front of me. Its massive stature casts a shadow upon the walking path. I look around to see hundreds of other players walking around, chatting, and enjoying all that Cyberia has to offer. The town hall is the central hub for all of the players in Cyberia. This is where you can find all sorts of minigames and marketplaces for yourself in the game. As my gaze breaks from the town hall, I turn around to see Grayson and Morgan exiting their pods. “Holy shit...” Grayson says as he looks upon Cyberia for the first time. “Impressive, isn’t it?” I say, boasting. Morgan’s gaze softened as she looked at me, her eyes reflecting a mix of admiration and something else I couldn’t quite place. I notice that Grayson has a flickering circle above his head. “Uh, guys?” Grayson says nervously, “why do I see a blue lit path on the sidewalk?” “It’s probably related to selecting your mythic item. Every player needs to select theirs before they do anything,” Morgan exclaims. As we follow Grayson, we are directed into the town hall. As we open the door to the town hall, we hear all of the commotion from players inside of it. The drowning sound of chatter initially deafens our ears as players converse with one another. As we continue to follow Grayson, we get led into the armory. Upon entry to the armory, we can see familiar items that are to be expected such as swords, shields, blasters, etc. However, the further we delve into the armory, the more peculiar the items become. “Why are there clothes here?” Grayson asks. “Those items probably have some sort of hidden ability,” Morgan says as she glances down at the gray and white sneakers wrapped around my feet. “I don’t even know why you picked that, Luke. You had the option to select two items. Everyone else only got to choose one.” “I don’t know. It just felt right,” I say, reaffirming my choice. “If anything, call it a strange fashion choice.” “Wait, Luke got to choose two? What was your first item?” Grayson asks. I pull out my pen from my pocket. “I chose this,” I say. Grayson looks at me with a smile. “Man, your items suck.” As he says this, I click the pen for it to convert into a laser sword. “Man, that thing is straight out of Percy Jackson and Star Wars, huh?” Grayson says with a chuckle. Grayson looks back at the wall. He picks up a bracelet. “Look at these,” he says, laughing at the item. “Do you even know what those do?” I ask. “Nope, not even close,” he says as he drops his arm in confusion. Suddenly the bracelet creates a shockwave with the force of it sending him flying backward. Grayson looks down at his wrist and smiles. “Oh, I’m so keeping this.” # Chapter 3 As Morgan, Grayson, and I walk out of the town hall, we start making our way towards the dueling grounds so Grayson can test out his new bracelet. “So which one of you wants the smoke first?” Grayson asks with a smile. “Easy there, pal,” I say. “You just started this game. You should probably take your time to get used to the item.” “Plus you’d get your ass kicked by me,” Morgan says with a smirk on her face. “Sounds like Morgan wants it then,” Grayson says as he increases his pace to a dueling platform. I smile and shake my head as I watch my two friends go up on the platform. “Here, Morgan, I’ll let you have the chance to attack first. I don’t wanna have to embarrass you in front of Luke here,” Grayson says with a stupid grin. “No, please, I insist. After you,” Morgan says as she pulls her mirror out. I watch as Grayson uses his bracelet to shoot a pulse towards Morgan. Morgan uses her mystic mirror to create a deflection shield. The pulse bounces right back towards Grayson, knocking him down on his back. “So are you worried that I’m going to get embarrassed now?” Morgan says with a grin as she stands over Grayson. I chuckle watching Grayson pick himself up. “You’ll get her next time, buddy,” I say as my group rejoins me. I put my arm around Grayson’s shoulder as we walk toward the exit. As we are about to exit, I hear a bunch of laughing. “Hold up, guys, I’m going to go check this out,” I say as I leave to see what the commotion is about. I’ll be back in a second. As I approach, I see a group of players surrounding two players. I make my way to the circle of players to see one of them kicking the other while he is laying on the ground in pain. “HEY!” I say, shuffling toward the middle of the circle. “Enough! Leave him alone!” I watch as the player turns around, his long greasy hair turning with him. “Oh yeah?” the player says. “What are you going to do about it?” “How about you pick on a player in a fair fight?” I reply. “Fine, you and me. We will duel right now,” the player commands. As the circle of players makes their way off the dueling platform, I look out of the corner of my eye to see Morgan and Grayson watching this unfold. Morgan gives me a concerned look as I wait for this mysterious player’s next move. “Kick his ass, Reese!” I hear one of the members of the developing crowd say. “Reese, you don't want to do this. This is your last chance to walk away,” I say, looking into his dark brown eyes. As if on cue, Reese charges toward me, unveiling his mythic weapon, a digital sword. He swings it towards me as I dodge his attack. I ignite my laser sword and swing back towards him. Our blades clash as we duel, each one of us swinging harder as the fight endures. Reese uses his blade, combined with the force and strength of his upper body, to push me back away from him. “Is that all you got?” Reese boasts as he gloats, playing to the crowd. As he is distracted, I run towards him and drop into a running slide. Once close enough, I jam my blade into the floor of the dueling platform and use my legs to sweep his legs, causing him to fall onto the ground. Reese drops his digital sword, leaving him disarmed. I stand up, towering over him and point my blade towards his chest. “It’s over,” I say as I look down upon him, with slight fear in his eyes. I turn off my laser sword as I step off the dueling platform. The crowd of people dissipates, except for two players. I run over to the player that Reese had been beating. “Hey, are you okay?” I ask as I get on one knee looking down at him. Behind me, Morgan and Grayson join me, looks of concern coming from the both of them. “Yeah, I’m fine,” the player responds. “Thank you for stepping in for that. I don’t know what would have happened if it weren’t for you.” “No problem. What’s your name?” I ask in curiosity. “I’m Ian,” he responds to me. “My name is Luke. These are my friends Morgan and Grayson. It’s good to meet you,” I say. “Let’s get out of here and talk properly.” I reach my hand out to Ian as he grabs it. I help pull him up. We start walking towards the town hall. “Grayson, why don’t you take Ian here to the town hall? I need to talk to Luke for a second,” Morgan says. As Ian and Grayson continue on the path to the town hall, Morgan looks at me with concern. “So what was that all about?” “I saw Reese kicking Ian on the ground. I couldn’t just do nothing about it,” I reply. Morgan sighs at me and shakes her head. “Luke, I know you. I know you were just trying to help. I just don’t want to see you get hurt,” she says, her voice tinged with worry. “I know,” I reply. “Morgan, I’m okay. Plus, if I really was in trouble, I’m sure you would’ve had my back,” I say with a smile as I touch her shoulder. Her cheeks flush slightly as she looks up at me with a soft, grateful smile. “Of course I would.” She reaches out to give me a hug. I return it, feeling her warmth and the lingering touch as she squeezes me tight. “Uh, Morgan? That’s a little tight,” I say with a laugh. She lets go, her face slightly red. She gives me a half-smile. “Sorry. Let’s go join the others.” I wrap my arm around her as we head towards the town hall, feeling a pleasant warmth in the moment.

The blaring of the alarms grew louder as I started focusing on my surroundings. My vision is becoming clearer the more I gain control over my breathing. I turn around with panic in my heart. “Did I airlock the door?!” I shout, with not an ear to hear it. I feel near the latch and become overwhelmed with relief when the seal has indeed locked itself in place. I allow myself to drop to the floor and put my face into my hands. Taking a few moments to settle on the solid ground, the red lights flashing through the room remind me that I might not have a lot of time to rest. I turn my head towards the nearest control panel, and to my surprise, the ship’s system control is still functioning. “Gods… eleven breaches. Why did we not receive a warning? The observation deck appears to be intact.” I glance at the screen to investigate the crew quarters in this section of the ship, on the other end of the corridor. No extreme internal damage there. Good, I thought to myself. That might mean someone else is safe. “N.Y.X., turn off the alarm in the medical lab and give me a count of living personnel.” I look up towards the ceiling, spotting the audio input sensor. The sound of silence took hold of the room, as a soft disembodied voice silenced the alarms. “Currently, there are three other lifeforms detected on board. One in the crew quarters and two in the dining area. Ensign Roberts and Professor Jjiltsto-raj are together. Sergeant Makyko is by herself, but her biosignatures indicate that she has lost consciousness and is heavily injured. Is there anything else I can help you with, Doctor Cinett?” That means four total, out of the thirty-three, that remained onboard after our last visit to a spaceport. One of the eight security personnel, one of the eight researchers, myself as one of the doctors with a background in biology, none of the cooks or translators and then only one remaining member of the Atlas itself. That doesn’t exactly give me any hope. I glance through the window in the door to notice that some of the panels on the wall are gone. Most likely sucked into the vacuum of space. Any attempt to reach Caila is out of the question now. Even if I were to engineer some kind of contraption using the rebreathers here, the moment that door opens will get me ejected out of the ship in its current state. Even so, I need to find a way to get to the sergeant. “Is it possible for you to project a pressurized shield in Corridor E?” I ask N.Y.X., whilst moving towards the equipment closet. “Atlas’ power supply is running low. Rerouting power from Section C to Section B allows for four minutes of sustained power to the hypothetical shield before entering a critically low level that would require me to turn off all life support.” I grimace upon hearing the quandary that was made. Section B includes the armory, storage and unfortunately, the dining area. If they had a way to hold their breath for four minutes, I could… “Open a communications channel to the dining area.” Maybe they can figure out some way. I heard that the professor was quite clever. “Comms are yours, Doctor Cinett.” N.Y.X. said, before I heard screams coming in through the speakers. I couldn’t make out what they were screaming, but it didn’t take long before it stopped. “That was the comms tone, professor! H-hello?! Can you hear us?!” I heard the baritone voice shout. That must be Roberts. “Yes hello, ensign. This is Doctor Marcus Cinett, safely locked away in the medical lab in Section B. Are both of you alright?” “Yes, Doctor! Under the circumstances, that is. The professor is almost ripping her hair out, but aside from that, we are fortunate enough to still have all of our limbs attached. We can’t say the same for the cooks. The crashes…” He went silent for a moment. “A cooling unit fell over and crushed the legs of Jaime. I applied basic earthquake safety methods by ducking under a table, telling the professor to do the same. It might have saved our lives, but… How could this have happened?! Captain Sylva was supposed to have been awake for this shift. He would never have overlooked something as simple as an asteroid shower.” I sit down on the ground and start creating a makeshift rebreather harness. “Mistakes can happen, ensign. After all, the captain was a human. Speaking of, is our Xanirian professor listening in? Can she say something?” I wait for a minute, as I hear some ineligible muttering before I get my answer. “I am very sorry, Doctor, but it appears that she is in some sort of shock. Her eyes are not focussing on anything, nor does she blink when I snap my fingers close to her face. Was there something you needed from her?” The ensign said, with a worried tone. I grit my teeth, pondering the situation once again. How can I ask this from them if only one of them is responsive? Never mind that. I must try anyways. Someone else’s life depends on this. “Sergeant Makyko is unconscious and in critical condition in the crew quarters. I want to try and get her out of there and bring her here so I can make sure that she survives as well. Sadly, the corridor in between there and the lab is compromised. I have asked N.Y.X. if they can put up a pressurized shield, but since the ship’s battery is running low, they’d need to redirect power from your section to give me a window to do this.” Just as I finished making the modifications to the rebreather, I hear the ensign once more. “N.Y.X., give me a confirmation of what the doctor just said.” He is sceptical. Understandable, considering the risk involved. “Pull up ship diagnostics on Screen X07. Doctor Cinett, it is not that I don’t believe you, but I need to make sure that there isn’t another way. If you were in my position, I am sure you would have done the same.” I nod towards the absence of people in the room. A few more checks on the sturdiness of the tubes on the canister, and I can give it a try to see if it doesn’t suck the oxygen out of me, instead of providing it. That would be a nasty way to go out. “Doctor?” I hear Roberts say. “Yes, ensign?” I get back up from the floor, moving the prototype to the table. “The autopilot on the Atlas has set us for a course to Tnevda XII, which is the closest habited planet, and it will take us twenty hours to arrive. As it stands, all three of us will make it just fine. I understand the risk in trying to make it four survivors, but are you actually willing to risk all of our lives for one?” “Yes, ensign! Yes, I am!” I feel hot in the face. While it might be just another security officer to the ensign, Sergeant Caila Makyko is much more to me than that. “To clarify, you would let the professor and myself in the complete dark aside from the star through the window, without oxygen, gravity and temperature regulation for a maximum of four minutes. It will take you about one minute to get down that corridor in zero gravity. This leaves you three minutes to unlock their door and drag the sergeant to the lab. There is one large problem in this plan. If you check the security camera in front of the crew quarters, you will see that one of the tungsten beams from the interior hull has lodged itself in the hallway. It is blocking three of the twelve rooms, which includes sergeant Makyko’s.” An audible sigh can be heard over the comms. I pull open a drawer near me and pull out what I hope to be the solution to this problem. “Is a fully charged surgical laser capable of producing a beam that could cut through tungsten?” I tune up the settings on the pistol-shaped tool. Made for operating on a large variety of species, the bone density like that of a Xanir would be highly resistant to a laser made for operating on humans. “Now that you mention it, I’ve heard tales of the Gobbrilians using second-hand surgical lasers for their mining operations as a way to save on the credits spent for equipment. It will not be instant, but it could definitely work!” I heard something unfamiliar in his voice when he said that. Could it have been optimism? Either way, it is yet another troublesome factor to take into account. “But Doctor,” Roberts said. “If you are to attempt this, I must put into place that time limit. We can’t rely on you coming back for the systems to be restored here. That way if you fail, the professor and I won’t be left for dead.” “I didn’t expect anything else, ensign. If I get back faster than the countdown, I’ll do it manually. N.Y.X., you’ll need to be ready for that command. Keep tracking me through the corridor. Once I close the lab’s door again, implement immediate restoration of power to Section C.” I said over the comms, hoping that it would get them to cooperate. “It will be done, Doctor Cinett.” N.Y.X. said. I must admit that the ever so calm voice of the A.I. is not exactly mixing well with the current situation, but I digress. “So… are we good with continuing the plan?” I almost started a shoot prayer, as it took a while for the ensign to get back to me. “…we have already lost enough people. The possibility of preventing another, even though the odds are low, make it hard to refuse. Our oath as a member of the Atlas means that we need to get everyone from point A to B safely. That includes the sergeant.” “You are a brave man, ensign. A good man. When we make it out of this, the drinks are on me.” I swallow, realising how parched I have become. “You don’t know what you just signed up for, but that sounds great. Looking forward to it!” he chuckled. He really has no idea how much I feel indebted to him now. “I’ve got the equipment ready to make my way to sergeant Makyko. Have you figured out a way how both you and the professor will manage?” I consider the difficulty for the ensign to convince someone in shock to perform this feat of survival. “We will make do with what we can. The Xanirian professor is hardy, and as you know, they won’t be in as much danger as I will be. If she were fully here, I could’ve asked her to share some oxygen through sporadic mouth-to-mouth, though the external layer of teeth would not have made that a pleasant experience.” The ensign says with an audible smile, still capable of making humorous comments despite the situation. “For the sake of the sergeant, let’s not dilly dally any longer. Doctor, give me a signal for when you are ready to go, so I can suck in what could possibly be my last breath. Good luck, and I hope to hear back from you and potentially the sergeant in four minutes. May the five gods look favourably on you.” I then hear him get up from whatever he was sitting on and seemingly try to talk to the professor. He probably still holds out hope that she comes to her senses in time to help him. Sadly, I don’t have the time to wait any longer. I put on the makeshift harness, integrating the rebreather and oxygen canister. I grab the surgical laser in my gloved hand and start the charging process. When it is at 60 percent charge, it will be fully charged by the time I arrive at her quarters. I close my eyes and project Caila in my mind’s eye. Her gorgeous, dark red, wavy hair, her four Viloressan forehead studs that protrude from the skin, and last but not least, her bright pink irises that always shone like the star filled sky itself. I will get you to safety, Caila. I must. “D-D-Doctor…” I heard a voice say over the speaker. Could it be…? “Professor Jjiltsto-raj, is that you?” I turn my head to hear the quiet voice clearer. “She started talking very quietly, Doctor. Her eyes are still as vacant as before, but this is an improvement.” The ensign spoke gleefully. “D-Doctor… be c-c-careful. See y-you on the o-other side.” She said, before her voice trailed off. I hope so too, but preferably on this side of life. All four of us. Looking down at the laser, the display reads 63. The time has come. “Ensign Roberts. Thank you for putting your faith in me. Professor Jjiltsto-raj, you as well. We never had the time see each other a lot on this ship, but after all of this, I look forward to getting to know both of you a lot more after this. If you grow bored during the next four minutes, try thinking about all the things we can talk about for the next twenty hours before we safely dock on solid ground. I will leave the lab, so be sure to collect yourself and slow down your breathing. N.Y.X., restore power to Section C in four minutes from now. Start the thirty second countdown.” I turn back towards the sealed door and turn my attention towards the safety latches. Taking the steps towards the door, I run the plan through my head once more. Run down the corridor, use the laser to clear the way, pick up Caila, give her the mask and rush back to the lab. I stretch my legs one last time, preparing them for the fastest sprint of my life. “Eleven, ten, nine…” Hearing N.Y.X. reach ten set me on sharp. I can feel the adrenaline hit me. I put pull free the lower latches and put my hand on the upper latch. “Three, two, one, zero. Shield is up in Corridor E. Starting four-minute countdown.” Pulling free the last latch opens up the door, as I feel my feet getting off the ground. The clock is ticking.

I wanted the war to come, for better or worse, and it was good to watch all the important people get distracted over other things when the real news came in. That definitely makes me the bad guy, but I think I’m okay with it. I knew what would happen, everything. They never tell you what it’s like to fight for your country—and it’s not my country, really—but in the few preceding weeks that dragged us into it, I knew I had the right idea in staying behind to do so. There isn’t such a problem with seeing what’s coming, if you’re making the effort to look ahead, if you can push yourself to the worst corners of your imagination; then the war isn’t so bad when it comes, because you only end up seeing a fraction of all that from where you’re standing. I grew up here. It took ages, but I managed it, and it was uncomfortable being the only English girl in the year, but there you are. Through some unimaginable twist of fate, these people have my loyalty, although I never had theirs. You try growing up English in a Scottish school, and see how you fare. Maybe it’s better now, but back then it was brutal. My parents didn’t even look up the schools when we came up, I was just sent to the one that looked the least shit. Anyway. These are the streets where I’d hang around after school, waiting for my mum to come out of the pharmacy, because I couldn’t be seen dead looking for prescription stuff, creams and vitamins and all the other things I never took an interest in. She once caught me looking at the condoms, but if I can speak in my defence, it was only out of curiosity. It’s not like I was ever going to buy any for myself. Speaking of condoms and people who actually need them, my brother didn’t want to fight. None of that mattered, though, so he’s away somewhere on the north coast on the look-out for enemy planes. I don't know why out of all people they chose him, but there you go. He got dragged out of his front door from what they tell me, but I’m not so sure about that: our family has always been the type to exaggerate our stories. From what we could gather in the papers, they wanted to position people up there in case they attacked from the sea, and they were right, but I guess whoever was in charge decided that my home town would be a great place to fight over… well, whatever it is, I don’t really know. We’re not right on the coast – about 10 miles away – but they got near enough to try and take over the entire village, and we had to find some way of stopping them getting to the central belt. We didn’t, in the end, but it’s alright—I think asking a few hundred local people to do that kind of thing on behalf of a defeated army is a bit of a stretch, to be honest. We had a discussion amongst the few of us who stayed, whether or not we should rename the streets (code names, that kind of thing – maybe we can confuse whoever comes in and change them all overnight and it’ll give us an advantage, or maybe that’s a stupid idea), or whether or not we should get rid of the signs altogether. It took all evening to get the decision straight, because we’re not the best at organising ourselves - and no one listens to me, anyway. None of us are paid to do this, you know, so you get what you’re given. Even the railway staff at the station left, and the army blew up the lines and everything once they retreated, so we sort of have to fend for ourselves. My immediate group is made up of cleaners, shop assistants, and one guy who stayed behind to close the bakery. Someone else used to operate a forklift truck, so we give him mechanical jobs to do because we assume that he likes that sort of thing. Me and this one guy from the next town over (we never actually worked out what he used to do, but he turned up one day and offered his help, so we’re running with it) got up onto the wall during the night and tore all the road signs down. When the other side arrived, they tried to replace the signs with some names of their own, but we shot down the first guy on the ladder pretty quick and no one’s attempted it since. There aren’t many of us. It’s not like we’re a real army, and we really had to struggle to get together the numbers, but there’s just enough of us to hold the town. Most of the people I knew from before have gone, and they’ve taken the rest of their family with them. But I wanted to stick around and see the whole thing out, ever since they first started talking about it. I don’t really remember where that feeling came from. \*\*\* There’s not much that scares me, and you can laugh at me for saying that, but it’s mostly true. The only time I remember really being afraid was when my best friend stayed back with me when it all started, and we’d decided to fight together that afternoon. That was before we realised how few of us there were to defend the place, but we would have continued no matter what because neither of us could imagine leaving; Emily snuck me into an empty room in one of the abandoned flats and we were all shadow and she kissed me slowly into the corner, and we were waiting, waiting, waiting… “I don’t think they’re coming,” she jokes, and her nose bumps into mine. “Don’t get scared.” We go way back, her and I—is that a stupid thing to say? It’s only now that I start to think about all the times she’d be waiting for me outside the shop, or my hanging around on her doorstep while she explained to her mum—again—that, no, she was not ‘seeing any boys lately’. It was always, only ever, us, and I got such a thrill from the two of us chasing down to the town park and clambering onto the wrought iron roof of the bandstand, swatting at the ducks if they wandered too close for my liking, that I forgot to ever think about what might come next. All that’s done now, of course, and the bandstand is gone, but I’ll tell you everything as if it was happening right now, and I can write away from my own little corner into a story that no one will ever see. “I’m not,” I tell her, and I sort of believe myself, and we waste away a few moments more against the wall. I think I’m ready for what’s coming, and if not, then I’ll just have to deal with it when it does. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t dreamt of this moment, that quiet silence of the ‘before’, the strength of her hand in mine as she works her way down my cheek, that we’d both be gearing up to do our best and see what comes out of it: we’re the ones that stayed behind. This is real honour, and I know it. I’m not as much of a dreamer as you’d think, though: like I said, I know what happens in a war. We’ll get separated, most likely, and if either of us is lucky—or unlucky—enough to make it to the end, I’m hoping it’s her—or am I? I don’t think either way will ever make a good story. It certainly won’t make a life worth living, and I think I speak for both of us there. But let’s say for now that I’m the one who goes first—I know what the likelihood is: that she won’t get to know where I am, or even that I’m gone at all, and she won’t be likely to get my body back and that’ll just be that; and it’s always safer to imagine that it’ll be over something small and insignificant, stupid, humiliating, the way my whole life has gone before this. Isn’t that how wars always go? I’ve read enough of the books from the people who came back, but I still feel like there’s something I’m missing. I think that’s what I fear the most. It’ll be just my luck to get shot in the arse, or end up dying in the least cool way. I just hope it happens quick enough that I won’t know I’ve embarrassed her, going down like that. She might be able to forgive me, but I never could. Yeah, alright, no one wants to know how they die, or when, but I fucking do. At least it would make matters easier. I’m thinking all of this through (you can tell that I’m a fun person to be around…) as I touch her. “We should get going,” I say, and I keep my voice gentle. Emily’s right up against me, her head is buried into my neck; my lips brush against her hair and I press them hard, and she’s so warm—I hate the fact that I’ve said anything at all. She doesn’t move at my words: I’m thrilled at the obstinance. This is exactly what I needed. Just tell me I’m wrong and that the whole thing is an awful joke, and then we can stay here forever; I’ll make sure we get home. But I know we’ll have to arm ourselves. It feels stupid to even think that. We’re not supposed to be doing any of this, we’re supposed to be off for a drive around the country at this point, roaring up the hills and telling our jobs to have at it while we fuck off for a week and take in the blank heat of the sun as it chases us up the coast. I give it one good thought, like I’m forcing all my effort onto this one moment, then I begin to release my grip. “Emily,” I say, and she knows what I mean—because she pulls me in so tight that her shoulder jams into my throat; I squawk at the contact, and we have to laugh it off and come apart for a stupid, wasteful second to readjust. “Just a little bit longer, we won’t have much time after this…” “I know.” I say it too forcefully, and repeat myself, deliberately make my voice soft, warm, low, so she doesn’t suspect that I’m actually scared as hell. Damn you, I think, and I feel the sick of panic at the back of my throat as she pulls me in again. You’re not getting any tears out of me, not for this, not while I have a say in it. “For God’s sake, I know.” It seems to work, because she’s murmuring something about staying, or running away altogether, and the hard edge in her own voice shakes me into giving her what she really needs; what both of us do. “I’m not going to leave you,” I swear—I have to say it, in case she doesn’t know—and I grab her hand to make sure she hears me. For a moment, I'm furious: I jerk our clasped hands to my chest, and I kiss her hard again, and it’s the only real word of honour I can give. When we pull apart, I can see the shifting light through the window from the corner of my eye, and it almost distracts me. “I’ll make sure we stay together, alright? I’ll look after you.” The words march out of my mouth and I cringe: it’s so easy to say things like that, and now I wish I never had—it’s so easy to make yourself look like the good guy when you’re the only one left to tell the tale of what happened. All you do is tweak the details, explain your intentions, and mix it all up with the truth—enough that no one can ever tell what you actually did. \*\*\* Chapter Two I should have paid attention. It’s been quiet for far, far too long. “Wait,” I start, letting go of her hand—and that’s what clues me in: it’s that need, that feeling—I have to whisper. Somehow we separate ourselves and I make it to the window; Emily joins me, falling silent at my shoulder, and she looks out just as fervently as I do, but it’s the same old view that greets us. I scan the road, the street, the windows: nothing’s changed. It’s still as boring as ever, and the sky’s all grey, the summer is dying, and nothing is happening. For some reason, though, I’ve learned to trust my intuition. Emily’s already at the door. “We should move,” she says; her eyes are all over me, summing me up in what feels like a final glance, like she’s soaking in whatever she sees in me for the last time. I never understood why she wanted any of this from me, why she stuck with me at all. Once you get past all the other stuff, I’m just a mongrel child that no one wants, a kicked dog underneath the usual crap people usually see. I have no home, not really—she couldn’t possibly want me. But she does, and I just have to trust that she means it when she takes my hand like this. I say something like ‘okay’, or ‘let’s get down to the street’, but I can’t really hear myself and neither can Emily: the words are thick and swollen in my throat, but she only nods and pats my hand, and I allow myself to be led down the stairs like a child. \*\*\* When we reach street level, I know they’ve arrived. There’s something silent about the town, even though we can’t see anyone yet—people are still milling outside the post office, and one guy can be heard complaining loudly about his receipt. They’ve kept all the shops open because some of them don’t even want to believe that anyone would come here to kill. But they took all of our phones, just in case, so no one can be tracked. That’s real liberty for you. I didn’t have one like that, anyway, so nothing changes for me. Up towards the T-junction, there’s an old lady popping into Boots for what looks like her regular shop; someone holds a door for the man behind them, and a construction worker comes out of the local Greggs with a sausage roll already half-stuffed into his throat. “It’s fine,” Emily nudges me, but I can hear it in her voice. She’s not convinced by this display one bit, and neither am I. We’re quite close to the railway line, and I hear the scuttle of the train along the tracks as it leaves for the capital—they’ll be lucky, I think. They’ve got away in time. But the two of us will stay. It’s her and me, and we’ve always been two sides of the same coin, or however you want to put it. I’m stuck in my head half the time, and she pulls me out—and I keep us out of trouble, wherever we find it. It’s worked until now. A middle-aged couple, hand-in-hand, smiles at us as they walk in our direction; we make way for them on the pavement, one of them sticks out a hand to wave, thanks; they leave. I turn and watch them walk round the corner towards the station. It’s very clear that no one else is scared. I get a sharp, twisting pain in my ribcage, an impulse that tells me to tell them to run, to grab any car and just go, but I feel a hand tugging in mine as it pulls me back. “You have to leave them,” Emily shakes her head. “They knew about all this, and they’ll have to make their own way.” “I don’t care. I want them to get out.” “Oh, you’ll never manage that,” she laughs. “This place? I can’t imagine getting anyone to leave willingly when things really get going.” “Maybe,” I say. “I don’t think they know what’s going to happen.” “Well, then,” she says, a little closer to me, “we should do something about that.” God. I’m relieved. I can trust her with anything. You should try finding someone like that, and have them read your mind. We decide to go into all the shops and tell people, even if they ignore us. They probably will, but we might have better luck if Emily’s the one saying it all. It’s better if we split up, because it only takes one person to say something, and then they can take it or leave it as they wish. “I can go up to the end of the street,” I suggest, and look up towards the Boots, but my wandering voice gives me away again and Emily cuts me off before I can continue. “No.” She’s firm, and her brown eyes, warm as the sun on my skin, don’t have to do much to get me to relent. “I’ll do it. You take the post office, and tell them all to clear out. Don’t even tell them the truth, just give them anything that’ll make them leave. Tell them there’s been a car accident or something.” “I could make one happen,” I joke, but half-seriously. It’s a good plan: she’s faster than me, anyway. She was always the running-track kind, the type that’d stay after school or work to focus on lap after lap after lap, to run off into the hills and trees on the weekend, bounding over roots and dry soil and barrelling down beside the stream until she runs into my arms beside my dad’s car. I’m the type to sit on the bonnet and happily wait in the miserable rain. I don’t do much and I’m proud of it. But to put her mind at ease, and maybe my own, I get myself together and draw my shoulders up, like I’m afraid of nothing and all these people need is just a bit of help to get going, sharpish. It’s like I’m a real soldier. She laughs at my wanting height, but gives me a nod of approval. “I’ll see you later, alright?” “I love you,” I say, and I mean it, of course. I always mean it. She gives me that look again. “Love you.” “Go,” I order her—it’s the only time I can, really. “I bet I can beat you to it. You take this side of the street, yeah? I’ll follow up towards the car park, and we can meet somewhere in the middle—I’ll shout for you, and we’ll find each other that way…” As a response, a beautiful, quiet response, she kisses me. I press forward into her and grab her belt as we cling onto each other, and it feels like the real thing—we’re like those old soldiers, the ones who loved each other and said goodbye and died, knowing it was for the other—and I’ll see her again in about thirty minutes, but it’s like we could be parted forever. Emily has to pry my fingers away from her shirt and she kisses each of them as she does so, and we stand there like that for a while and I’ve got a stupid grin on my face and my voice chokes, and then I tell her to go again, and I watch her feet fly quickly against the pavement as she takes off up the street. Fuck, I could watch her forever. Sometimes I do that, I play that little bit over and over in my head. But I force myself to cross the street and march into the post office, and for a moment I forget the idea of a war and the thing that I can feel is coming. It’s the carpet under my feet that does it. It’s grey and black and soft, and they’ve arranged it in diagonal squares like a chess board, but I walk right across it and ignore the long queue from the door; it muffles the sounds from the street outside, but it can’t do anything about the shock of my heart against my ribcage, and I have to physically grip my left abdomen in order to get a hold of it. I end up surprising one of the patrons by moving a little too close as I cross the floor, but it’s too late now to think much of how I’m perceived. “Um,” I say, loudly, and it’s enough to get the attention of whoever’s waiting. I count them: one, two, three… maybe ten or fifteen of us, if you include the staff. They’re barricaded behind the glass, but it won’t protect them if they want to come out of the building alive again. It’s ridiculous to think like this when there’s no one here. Why am I like this? Why can’t they all just take this seriously, instead of leaving the clean-up to me? I stumble under the gaze of them all—and that’s when that familiar smart of stupidity stings my eyes, the feeling that this is all uncalled for, that I’m trying to protect a place that would never lift a finger to protect me, that I’ll be the village idiot once this is all over and it turns out that nobody came; that the town really is safe. “You need to leave.” I try my best to make it sound like I’ve got any authority, but my words sound empty and flat, and even I wouldn’t believe me if I told myself to leave. Why should any of them listen to me at all? “They’re coming,” I say, and I end up stammering over my shoes. “There’s a whole army due any minute, or something. I’m not sure. I think they said they were coming.” “Who’s coming?” A large man stands at the counter, his hands busy with a pile of newly bought stamps; the coronation red shines out to me, and it blurs until I blink. Am I being dramatic? Have these people forgotten we’re being attacked? Have they not read the news, or paid attention at all to what was obviously going to happen? It gives me enough venom to get the rest of the words right—and this time, I sound a lot more forceful. “Are you fucking stupid?” I begin, and for once I let my panic get the better of me and I square up to him as if he isn’t twice my size—that seems to work because there’s growing movement in the queue with every lash of emphasis. “You know we’re at war. Do you think they’re going to wait for you to post some fucking envelope? What do you think they’re going to do to us once they get here? There are kids in here, for God’s sake!” And it’s true: I don’t care about kids myself, and especially not the two grubby children who are playing in the corner by the leaflet stand, but they should have been out of here a long time ago. Sometimes I feel like I give more of a shit about them than the actual people who claim to love them. You know what—I’m ready. I draw myself up again, and this man has given me the courage I needed to lie. Blatantly. “They’ve reached the top of the high street,” I say. “They’ve got bayonets, real ones, and they’ve been killing people all the way down already. You’ve got five minutes to get out. I suggest you head south, and we’ll try to hold them off here. And you can take your fucking children with you.” I don’t even bother trying to convince them anymore. I never could get to grips with the people here, and they seem to have some solid reason to ignore me. Well, I’ll let them. I storm out of the post office like an idiot, and pass someone leaving the charity shop next door: it’s with some force that I order them to get out of the town and I don’t even care to look back to find out what reaction they’ve had. But then I reach the last window of the shop, all soft lighting indoors and there’s a woman still milling around at the till, checking over her notes with dark-rimmed glasses. I keep going, then after some thought, I halt where I am, and trudge unwillingly back. I stick my head in through the door, and the welcome bell tinkles above my head. “Everybody out.” The window dressing catches my eye as the door swings behind me, some ghastly book that you’d find on the shelves at a petrol station, and I stare back momentarily at the owlish woman at the counter. Leave, I mouth, they’re here, and make a gesture like a gun; I point it right at her, and she quickly scrambles behind the counter, grabbing something I can’t see. That’ll have to do for now. Luckily, there aren’t many shops on this side, and the chippie won’t open until 4. Hopefully they’ll find out what’s happened before they try to open for the night—the ice tray with the fish is empty, but I bet all those fish will be happy now. We’ll have bought them a little bit of life by destroying our own. I run through a map in my head of the town. I managed to scare off the post office customers: I can hear them down the street, and I turn, watching them file out, each one giving the whole road a wary glance as they hop down the stairs onto the pavement. As he passes out of the building, I give that large man some sort of a wave of thanks—the bastard—but he’s not looking at me, and at last he’s the final one out: he’s made sure everyone, even the staff, have gone before him, and when they stall on the pavement as if they’re unsure of where to turn—I told them south, the idiots—he guides them towards the bridge like he’s shepherding a nervous gaggle of geese, so in my head I give him a begrudging mark for good behaviour, and I turn back towards the town. \*\*\* Chapter Three It gets worse from there. Some of them have heard things, others have no idea. You’ve got to understand that we’re pretty remote here—no one knows anything past their own front door; big things don’t happen to people like us. It’s on my walk up to the top of the street that I realise it’s all changed forever. There was a scream outside when I was still in one of the shops, and that’s actually what prompted them all to get going: the rest of my job was easy, at that point. “Alright,” I say, as they crowd against the front doors, trying to see out; I feel like a schoolteacher. It’s dead quiet. “You can use the back door, if you can find it.” They don’t even wait to hear me finish the sentence. There are a good few of them being responsible citizens, keeping it calm and trying to get out in as clean a line as possible, but then you always get one: a straggler at the back who panics at the steady movement of the line, who charges a little too hard and ends up taking out one of the little old ladies in front of him. It’s always like that, even without a war. They’re usually the first to brag about things like this. The glass smashes behind us. The line doesn’t take long to disband, and the last of them are gone by the time I look round to the window—and I don’t know what I’m expecting, but when I see what caused the damage it actually settles me. I can do this. You see, someone has thrown a brick into our shop: it sits there, bored, upon the floor, waiting to be used—but whoever our thrower was, they haven’t bothered to follow it up with any concrete action. Finally, I think, it’s not just me who doesn’t know what the hell they’re doing; I walk straight out of the shop. Were they one of ours? I hardly think a trained soldier—enemy or otherwise—would resort to a brick if they’ve already got a capable weapon in their hands. But I don’t have time to think much more than that on the subject. The street has gone to shit. The high street—strange for a typical Tuesday morning—is blocked: there’s one stationary car after another, and that would be fine, except they’re all empty—the headrests are the only passengers. They are mute and don’t tell me a thing, but one of the engines is still running, as if whoever was driving it had to make a run—as if that was their only option, as if the tyres of the still-idling car couldn’t have taken them far enough, fast enough. Someone’s left their dog in the back seat, an ugly little terrier—it yelps and pushes its whole awful body against the window over and over; eventually it figures out that the passenger door is open, so it sprints right out across the road and past the bus stop. I lose sight of it and hear a bang, and the dog is screaming and screaming as it runs back up the pavement and drags its little bloody body past my shop. I daren’t look at it any longer. I don’t want it to make eye contact with me, or I’ll be cursed just the same—I turn my head, and force myself to survey the rest of the street to my left. One man is asleep in the entrance of Greggs, and I watch him closely—until I realise that there’s dark stuff sprayed all over the window behind him. I should have taken the back door, too. I don’t go out into the street just yet—these are only the things I can see from my spot in the doorway. It’s a good thing, too, because it turns out there are soldiers everywhere—not ours—and the unfamiliar sight sends me stumbling back into the shop. It’s a good position, actually, once I close the door, because I’m hidden by the door frame: from here, I can see most of what’s passing, and I’ll be honest, it doesn’t look good. I was going to crack the door to hear if anyone’s coming, but I don’t need to: they’re shouting, firing; someone is screaming, and it takes me a while before I can settle myself down enough to think. I take another peek at the window: they’re moving in twos, threes, all dotted around; not in a big long line like I had expected, but then they don’t need to be. They already outnumber our lot, from what I can see. I don’t know how I’m going to get up the street again: I’ll get blocked off here if I don’t do something quick. I could follow out the back door like all the others, yes, but that would take me far away from the main road, across the car park, right up to West Port Road before I can even think about turning back again, and by then I’ll be too far away to hear Emily if she shouts for me. Where is she? I feel vindicated, even though it leaves me sick. *I was right.* I wonder if she’s seen the dog. Finally, blissfully, I can hear the crack of a gun from one of the flats upstairs—somehow I know it’s my own side, although I don’t know how they got their hands on a weapon like that. It clears the section of street enough for me to run, as long as I can stick closely to the walls. And that’s all that it takes: I run, faster than I’ve ever done before. For the first time that afternoon I feel like there’s a wave of protection behind me, and it forces me further than I would have gone. We don’t have any equipment, no real weapons assigned to us (unless you count the madman upstairs), so I decide to duck into one of the last shops to get my hands on something, anything, to protect myself. My choice is a good one: it’s one of those shops that really do sell anything; bright lighting, items that go untouched for years, the kind of shop that’s still selling plastic buckets and spades well into winter. I take refuge in the hardware aisle, give myself a break: I did well to run that far, but my lungs are heaving. There’s no one else here, so I let myself huddle over my knees and get my breath back—loudly. While I’m down there, I take a good look at the things on display. It’s all the usual stuff that would bore you to tears if I really went through it: rollers, floor tiles (seriously, who is buying floor tiles from a place like this? No one, apparently, according to the dangerously stacked shelf), a screwdriver set. Alright, so we’re now onto something. Whatever it is, it’s got to be sharp, something I don’t have to let go of if things get too messy and I have to run. I take one of the screwdrivers, and I’m reading the back of the packet when a loud clatter at the door disturbs me. I consider hiding until I’m suddenly confronted by a man in bloody denim shorts. “Alright?” he says to me, calm as anything, and squats down to the bottom shelf: he selects a single spanner, as if it was the sole thing he came in here for, then he stands upright, gives me another nod, and leaves the shop without even paying. I drop my screwdriver set back on the display. Christ, he’s right. I grab a spanner of my own, and a thick pair of pliers, just in case—I don’t know what I’d need them for, and I certainly don’t intend to use them, but they look aggressive and that’s good enough for now.

Where’s Emily? By the time I reach the street again, I’ve half-forgotten that we were going to meet—but then I get up to the T-junction and there she is, knelt over a body by the pharmacy. “Emily!” I shriek, and it’s with that and the wind at my heels that she looks up to see me. There’s something wrong about her face. I’ve never seen her like this: her brown eyes are dull—yellow, almost. “We should have gone already.” She says it very simply, and I wonder what sort of time she’s had since I last saw her. I think of telling her about the post office incident, but I don’t think she’s much in the mood to hear it. I offer her my hand. “Well, let’s get this guy off the street, anyhow.” “No point,” she interrupts me. Alright, I think, so he’s dead. So what? I’m about to console her, say a few words about him like a final prayer, make a case for at least finding some kind of shelter for the body. “Let’s hide, at least. I’ve got a couple of bits we can use if they get too close. I think we’ll be pretty safe if we can--” But Emily isn’t listening. Well, she is, just not to me: she’s focused in on a sound that I can’t hear, turns her head in that direction, stands up and turns away from me. Maybe it’s because I’ve been caught up in my own intentions, but I suddenly remember that this is her town. She was never shut out: it always belonged to her. And now she’s seeing it falter before her eyes, something I always—with horror, I recollect it—dreamed about. “Come on,” I say, and I hope my voice doesn’t betray my guilt. “I’ll take care of you. We just need to get to the park.” “Doesn’t matter.” Emily shoves my hand off her shoulder. “They’ve taken that, too. Look.” She points to the end of the street. We’ve got a war memorial down there, at the entrance to the park: it’s the typical kind of structure that you find in every town, a few iron-black soldiers from the First World War. They’re cramped, kneeling, twisted into shape, mid-battle; they all look like they know what they’re fighting for. Above them, there’s a similar angel of iron with her wings piqued and her hands outstretched to anyone who stands beneath her. I’ll be honest, I never really looked closely at her face before today, but it doesn’t matter anyway—from here, it catches my eye. They’ve covered her with a clean flag, and it hangs from her head. \*\*\* The streets are busy now. I’d like to pretend that I did some cool things once they really started to arrive, but the truth is that after we left that guy by the pharmacy, I was just trying to get us both away. I hauled us both into one of the small lanes leading from the high street, and tried to get a hold of the situation. “I’ve got these,” I say, and press my spanner—the best weapon out of the two—into Emily’s hand. She refuses to take it. I admit, I get a little bit angry. It’s not like we’ve got much of a choice. “For God’s sake,” I start. “Get it together. You can’t switch off now, we’ve got to get moving.” Emily winces at my delivery—I succeed in closing her palm over the weapon and she looks down at it, like she’s questioning what on earth I’ve put there. “It’s heavy,” she says; it’s the only thing she does say. “You won’t have to use it,” I lie. “But just in case…” She flips it over in her hand, assessing the balance as if it’s only a light tennis racket. I try other things, then, too, all the usual stuff, the kissing, the soft, low voice that she typically likes, but none of it is working, and I’m quickly back to tearing my hair out over how unresponsive she’s become. I can’t help fearing that she’s going to endanger us somehow. We won’t have long before someone discovers this alleyway, and I’d rather be out of here by then. But she sits on one of the doorsteps, almost catatonic, and she doesn’t meet my eyes. “Emily,” I try. “Could you just—are you going to be alright?” “We’re going to die.” “No, we’re not.” “They killed that bus driver.” “What bus driver?” Eventually she tells me some of the things she’s seen, while I was off on my own little jaunt around the shops. I told you she was faster than me—she’d already made it round to the end of the high street (to her own bad luck), then towards the park, and a little further. They stopped a bus near the park, apparently, and forced everybody out onto the road. She doesn’t tell me more than that, and for that I’m glad: we’re still too close to the street, and the sound is coming up our alleyway. “Come on,” I say, and stick out my hand. Emily crumples further into the doorway. “Just another ten minutes.” Shit, they’re going to kill us. I take a closer look at her—she’s pale, sick, sweating; she won’t move when I try to drag her up. I don’t know what to do. “For God’s sake!” I say again; I want to shake her with fury. “Get up, get up! They’re going to fucking find us if we don’t move now—” “It’s fine,” she interrupts me, pushes me away. “You go.” “I’m not fucking going without you.” Again, she refuses to take my hand. “No. I’ll stay here.” “We need to run,” I say. I’m genuinely considering hauling her over my shoulder, but I know I never could—and she would certainly never let me. “I’m too tired to run.” “I don’t give a shit, get up!” It goes on like that for a while. I do go without her, in the end: it’s not pretty, and I’m cursing more than I’ve ever done before, but I go through with it and leave her right there on the doorstep. I consider kissing her on the head, just as a final goodbye, but I don’t—all I do is stick one of my weapons into her unwilling hands and storm out of the alleyway to do it all on my own. \*\*\* Chapter Five I’m well past the entrance to the park by the time I make contact with them. I was able to ignore pretty much everything on my way up here, I was so pissed—but now even that has burnt out and when I finally slow down to a normal pace, I feel like the last person on earth. Someone’s set that bus on fire. I’m supposed to feel angry, or righteous—or scared or something—but I just want the ground to swallow me up. I shouldn’t be here. What’s it going to take for me to get myself together? I can barely see the road ahead of me, and although there are people out there, my eyes aren’t focusing enough to get much from them at all: all I know is that they’re on the wrong side. A few of them are going from house to house up the hill, trying the doors, shouldering them open. They disappear from view and I can hear shouting. Do I run and help them? No. I just stand there, looking at the weapon in my hand; I shove it back into my pocket. The whole thing is stupid. I haven’t seen any of them really trying to kill anyone, but I can hear stuff and I don’t know where it’s coming from. The ones who’ve wandered past me don’t seem too concerned about taking anyone out at all, which is what I’d assumed they would do; in some ways, they look more like a hastily-planned school trip than an actual army. Whatever they are, they definitely don’t seem to care about me— I’m not much of a threat. Well, fuck it. Maybe I can catch them off-guard. I’ve not done this before, so it takes me a while to get up the courage to do it, but after searching the streets to find someone, anyone, I finally set my eyes on a young soldier who’s looking a little lost, and he jumps out of his skin at the sight of me. “Are you lost?” I shout to him. He doesn’t answer me, screws up his face at my words like he’s trying to understand what I’m saying. Even if he did, I think he knows I’m not going to help him in the slightest. At this point, I feel like I’m supposed to do something, so I sort of chase after him. I won’t lie, it’s awkward. Neither of us are going to win any medals for endurance: eventually we agree wordlessly to slow down, and from there we simply hang around like that, dodging each other like the already exhausted, nervous deer that we are until we get to the roundabout. I consider saying something aggressive, accusing him of some crime, but it all feels hopelessly naïve. In the end I’m able to get right up to him, and I grab his collar and push him back—because I don’t know what else to do, because I’m scared of doing too much, of hurting him, or of not doing anything at all. It’s too much, too ridiculous for someone like me, for a town like this. No one even comes here, anyway. I feel for the weapon in my pocket. “Go home,” I tell him. “You stupid fucking idiot. What did you think was going to happen, coming here?” He doesn’t understand me; he’s just as jumpy as I am, eyes darting around for his friends—but they’re nowhere to be seen. It’s alright, really, I want to tell him; I don’t have any friends here, either. We look at each other for a while, him with a scrawl of confusion over his mouth, his lips taut, and me, not knowing what to do with my hands or the weapon or this frightened man in front of me. “This is stupid,” I begin again. It’s all I ever say. But then there’s a crack and a shout behind me, and we both turn: a man sprints out from the alleyway with blood all over his shirt, and suddenly like the dickhead he is, he smashes hard into my shoulder—not caring about anyone else but himself—and the three of us collapse in a heap as he tries to stop himself falling over the kerb. I’m so pissed off at the intrusion, how unnecessary it is, the great stupid lumbering idiot on top of us who is now trying to leverage himself up by throwing all his weight on my ankle, that I shout at him, shove at him, claw at his face—I don’t care that he's on my side, I want him fucking dead for his stupidity; my ankle sears with pain and the soldier is helping me shove him away when—someone, I don’t know who, takes out a pistol and when I go to get my hands on him for the final time, I’m sent stumbling back from the resounding fracture through the air. There’s blood, and lots of it. I don’t think there’s any point in trying to help, and I don’t want to, anyway: it serves him right, I think, panicking like that; serves him fucking right. I can still see the slick black hairs on the back of his neck, the weeping collar of a rapidly staining shirt—I shove whatever’s left of him away. People like that don’t deserve to live. I check my ankle: he’s a lucky man, because I’m able to put weight on it, at least. The soldier crawls away from him, drops his pistol, stumbles onto his feet, as disarmed as I am; from the look on his face, neither of us have seen a thing like that before. I pick up the pistol. It’s useless in my hands: after examining it over for a while, I drop it back down and opt for my much simpler weapon, one that I actually know how to use. It’s alright now. A few moments ago, I was quite happy to kill the guy in front of me if it came to it, if I absolutely had to. But now I just want him to leave. Go on, get out of my sight and find your friends. I even chat to him a little bit, though he still looks frightened as hell. “It’s not always like this,” I tell him, and I shake my weapon for emphasis. “It’s actually quite boring around here, but then I guess you wouldn’t know anything about that…” Why aren’t we charging at each other? It’s pretty easy between us now, and the soldier’s taken off his helmet and is rubbing at his face and sweaty neck; we stare at the dead man between us. I suppose if you weren’t here, you might say something about finding the glimmers of humanity on both sides of the battle, but that’s not really what it’s like, is it? I don’t feel anything for the man in front of me, and it’s only with reluctance that I’d want him dead at all. Where’s the humanity in that? I’m too tired to care. “Go on,” I tell him, and shoo my hands at him. “Get away. Here’s your gun.” And I hand him it. By now I’m annoyed by the persistent confusion on his face, so I wave him off again and head back into town by myself. It’s very quiet on the walk back. We’d ended up in one of the streets behind the main road, down towards a little burn and one of the shitty garages that always overcharges you; I make my way through one of the alleyways and over the brim of the hill. \*\*\* I was wrong about my leg. It’s difficult to walk, but I can do it—I just about make it to the high street, and I crouch down beside one of the last doorways in the alley in order to have a look at the damage. There it is, dark pink and blossoming under my skin. It’ll be blue in a few hours, but I’ll be fine: it’s only a bruise, although it’s already larger than my palm; it sears with pain whenever I prod it, and I prod it quite a few times to make sure it’s only that. It’s while I’m kneeling there in the doorway that I suddenly remember Emily. How much time has passed? More importantly, where the fuck is she? I gain some sort of control over the vision of my surroundings and I’m actually back in the same alleyway, the same step, the same wrenching headache as I remember our last conversation. Fuck. I’ve really ruined things. She won’t want anything to do with me now, even if it all goes alright, and you know what, I’d agree—all I’ve got for my troubles in leaving her here is a shitty ankle and I haven’t accomplished much else besides that. I might as well have stayed here; we could have had more impact together if she’d come back round to her usual self. She would have done, in the moment. My shoelace is undone. For fuck’s sake, of all the things to spend time doing when you’ve got a situation at hand and a lost girlfriend. I look up once I’m done and sit there, listening for any sound at all. \*\*\* Chapter Six My sister is dead, by the way. In case you couldn’t already tell, it was all my fault—and it’s a good thing, too, or she’d be involved in all of this stuff and I’d have two sets of people to let down. No one really knows why she died, but there you go. I should have spotted it sooner, because I was with her, and then I left her again when I really should have stayed. When I came back, she was dead. The most annoying thing of all is that no one else will let me do the same thing: I keep angling for a speeding car around every corner, a violent drunk, a misplaced step on the railway platform to get me out of this place, but none of those things ever follow through and I don’t know why. Maybe that’s the real reason I stayed here: it’s much easier and quicker to die by someone else’s hand than by your own, and for this reason I get up off my newly found porch step and wander back aimlessly to the high street. That’s what’s so insulting about this damn war—or whatever you want to call it. No one is paying attention to me, which means that no one will kill me, and I’ll just be left to deal with the same shit all over again and I won’t ever have a way out. I stand in the doorway of the alley, I look out along the whole road like a dumb tourist. It’s a parade, almost, of ridiculous uniforms and normal people running away, or uselessly attempting to stand their ground. I’m only an observer. Sure, I can jump in whenever I want, but do I really want that? No: I want one of them to see me, *really* see me, pick me out from the crowd, and go ‘ah!’ (or whatever it is that they say in their language, which I haven’t figured out yet) and shoot me on sight. I feel like God or whoever is sticking his fingers in his ears at my thoughts, and he’s making all the others think like that, too. That’s why it’s so difficult to write about what I’m seeing—because I’m not really seeing any of it. There are shapes, movements, terrible things, but my eyes are so bloody unfocused that I can’t even snap back into my normal functions long enough to tell you all about it. Please believe me, there *are* things happening: I just can’t see them well enough to say anything at all. They brush past me like the mindless wanderings of a fruit fly, and it’s very clear that this has nothing to do with me at all. It’s not my town, not my country, and certainly not a life that I’m interested in hanging onto. If it makes you feel better, I don’t end up killing anyone at all that day. The weapon in my pocket was useless, and I end up throwing it away just as I’m properly turning into the street—I leave it in an open place, just at the side of another shop, so that if someone wants to pick it up and murder me, they can feel very free to do it. That man’s body is still in the doorway of the pharmacy. I should move him, but then I judge my own lifting abilities in my head and they’re coming up short for what’s required to move his sort of stature. Despite this, I give his shirt, his shoulders, a complementary tug and leave it at that. Maybe he’ll find out somehow that I at least gave it another half-hearted go. I decide to turn my attention to finding my girlfriend, wherever the fuck she is. “Emily,” I sort of call out into the street; my voice gets stuck halfway down my throat. It’s pitiful. “Emily, where are you?” It’s not like she’d ever hear me with that kind of volume, but I don’t have enough air in my lungs to do it properly. I’m too scared that I’ll come across the same thing that I saw before, the same cold limbs and open, dead, dry eyes, and the worst part is that I don’t even have anything to show for it. I’m not paralysed, I’m not shaking; my voice is completely steady, even though I’m unable to shout much. No one will ever be able to tell that I can barely make my way up the street, because I do it without talking to anybody—no one remembers that I can still hear my own screaming in my head, that I can make myself listen to it over and over if I want to, no one remembers that I lost my voice. I can’t do that again. I want one of these soldiers to make a pathetic name for themselves and take me out so I don’t have to discover anything awful. It feels the same as it did then, the same shoe to be dropped, or whatever that American phrase is, the same something that separates me from the real reality that everybody else experiences, so that I am left alone and distinct. There’s a group of soldiers up there, I can make them out if I really focus in on the traffic lights. Yes, there they are: they seem to be ignoring us for a while, as if we’ve been forgotten, as if the main thing was to get to the town and then they’d figure out how to get across it over the next few weeks after they’d fully settled in. Either way, they’re not putting much pressure on moving forward: for now, their focus is elsewhere. They’ve arranged themselves around the little island, a small strip of pavement in the middle of the road that gets us from one side to the other; two sets of traffic lights herald either side, and they flash orange, motionless as they blink towards me. Something’s drawing me to the other side of the road, and so I cross quickly. Maybe they do care, after all: there’s an anger about them, a real visceral hatred spitting from them that I haven’t seen before, although I’ve certainly felt flames of it from dangerous people in the past. I can tell from here that their eyes will be dead, black, a sinkhole to look into, and there’s a sound that grates sharp in my ears—hard metal that clangs against the railings and anticipates the low sob that follows—and from here I can make out a harsh, awful movement. That group of soldiers has gotten hold of whoever it is, chained them up to the railings, and there’s one soldier shoving at them repeatedly, over and over… For the first time in my life, I pass out. \*\*\* Chapter Seven I can pretend that she’s dead and it’s easier. Nobody came to help us, you know. Whoever was in charge of telling the army where to go obviously decided that our little corner of the country wasn’t really worth saving; from then, it was a small group made up of whoever was left after that first day. Most of them I’m not interested in getting to know, so I try and get along with everyone politely, and I keep mostly to myself, escaping whenever it’s possible, whenever nothing’s happening—I usually make my excuses and run off to the bridge that crosses the burn, and follow along the stream until I can walk under the trees and look over the water without being watched. It’s beautiful here, I can admit, but it’s usually better if I stick to the unknown parts and make myself scarce—which is really easy to do, considering the fact that I get ignored most of the time. None of us are anything special, but the rest of the people I’m fighting with can all connect in a way that’s blindingly obvious, and sometimes I worry that they wonder about who I think I’m fooling. I certainly don’t feel the type of camaraderie you’d expect around here, but I can watch it from a distance and I’m a lot happier for missing out on it. My only ambition now is to stay here and fight it out, and keep under the radar of everyone else. I already know that if I try too hard on behalf of these people, if I fight too ugly or with too much passion, I’ll only get shunned. That’s why I volunteered to go out to the bridge tomorrow. They all know I can’t feel anything anymore, so for the first time I get left alone and I can watch the reeds along the bank of the river that keeps us all safe. You always think with these things (well, I did, before I got involved in this one), there’s one line, and that’s where all the people are, that’s where all the soldiers are pushing back. No one tells you about the pockets of fighting, nothing about the spread of it, or how strange it is when you’re the only ones here. The whole country hangs in the air like a sick patient, and you can’t really breathe properly. Half of my time is spent trying not to panic, and if you’re one of those lucky ones who can switch off from the bigger picture, the kind of person who can have fun when they know they’re losing, you’d be better off in my place. \*\*\* Chapter Eight Several months later, we're still fighting a losing battle. My hands slip on the gun and I’m sweating. We’re at the railway bridge today, again, and the sun is pressing into my back as I kneel behind the wall; I keep the barrel as steady as I can, and spot three enemy soldiers wandering along towards us on the tracks—and I don’t think they know we’re here. I watch them for a while: they look around as they walk over the gravel, shout something to each other as if they’re taking notes on the layout of the station, they look up at the bridge and their eyes drift past my position. As far as they know, the whole station is empty, but I can see one of the youngest soldiers look up at the dark windows of the ticketing office on my left as if he expects someone to fire at them then and there. He's right. I shoot twice at the first soldier, but the gun misfires on the second shot and I have to duck back down behind the wall to find out what’s wrong with it. Did I hit him? It’s hard to tell, but then I hear someone staggering over the gravel on the tracks and a horrified moan of shock. We’re protected by what survives of this wall—a hideous, open-toothed brickwork that I’m surprised has lasted this long—from a unit of enemy soldiers who have settled in at the foot of the signalling box further up the track. There’s a rumour that they’re going to try and overrun the town from the north, but we haven’t heard a thing till now. Our position is slightly to the east, and this lot on the tracks have been quiet all day. Everyone else has grouped together to try and head off any attack, and that only leaves a handful of us to guard the station and deal with anyone who tries to gain control of the bridge. We did have a couple of people manning the ticket office this morning, but they were clearly bored out of their skull by the lack of action. I admit, I got a bit irate by all the snoozing and slouching, so I ordered them to go back towards the town; they were only too happy to leave. So by the time these soldiers approach our position, we’re already outnumbered. I eventually work out what’s gone wrong with the gun, after a moment’s panic that the whole mechanism had jammed—to be honest with you, I can’t even describe how I fixed it—and I heave myself back up to the wall to shoot, with the inching fear that my equipment is going to betray me. The two soldiers who have made it this far have already discovered our position, and they’re making good use of my temporary struggle with the rifle: I try to ignore the shards of shrapnel that land on the road behind me, the fragments of stone that break off from the top of the wall with every hard shot. My hands are covered in oil and for a minute, I’m caught off-guard by how much they’re shaking. I grab the rifle tighter and hold the metal close to my face, as close as you’d hold a lover; some stupid part of me likes to pretend that it can actually protect me. I look over the ledge and get my finger ready on the trigger. There are only two of us left defending this bridge: me on the left, and an old guy—Roy—who lies closer to the roundabout. He sits at the top of the stairs leading down to the platform and shoots straight down at the last of the soldiers trying to climb up, with his rifle positioned lazily between two greasy legs as he laughs. The sun shines raw and red upon the side of his neck. “This is where it all ends, hen. Just try and aim on target, and that’s all you can do,” he’d said that morning with an easy smile, clapping my shoulder with unnatural force, and continuing on to his post at the other side of the bridge. That’s the last we speak to each other all day. A terror strikes me now that he’s got it wrong, that none of the people he’s shooting at are the enemy—but he sits with his paunch hanging out underneath his untucked shirt, the spread of wet stains under his armpit from the heat that I can see even from here, and I briefly have to look away in disgust at the idea that this is who I have to fight with. By the time I look back and readjust myself at the wall, there’s been a sharp rap of gunfire and Roy is lolling back with his head on the pavement. Something about his sagging body lying there in the sun and the growing, dark oil slick of blood towards the road makes me jolt upwards to get a better view of the platform, and I’m only reminded of my mistake when the snick of a bullet passes close by. I immediately jump down, and end up crawling flat on my face in the dirt like an idiot, taking cover behind the wall again—then I realise that it’s only me left who’s holding the bridge. With a sting of humiliation, I scramble to get my gun back into place. They must have heard the shots. This is pathetic. When I get my head clear again, I can see a handful of them hurrying towards me from the signalling box: some of them are slower than the others, and one soldier is trying to fasten his belt while he runs behind the group, too slow, and it’s easy to take him out as he stumbles and trips over the hard gravel of the railway line. At least I can refocus by doing this. None of them even look back at the sound—we must have disturbed them horribly, because they’re scurrying along the tracks like rabbits over a field. I manage to fire at one or two of the soldiers as they draw level with the platform, and I think I can take advantage of their panic. But one of them looks up and spots me as she’s running to catch up: her whole body flinches when I finish off the only soldier ahead of her; her eyes wrench tight, her jaw hardens like stone. To her credit, she sprints even harder and quickly scales the steep platform as it meets the building; her clean boots pound the tarmac, the last of that lot of soldiers. I already know what she’s going to do; she’s got a gun in her hand but she’s forgotten to shoot at me on the approach. I watch her making a dash for the staircase on my left—until she takes cover behind one of the pillars and fumbles with the weapon. I watch her hiding in the shade. For a moment I stall as she wipes a few wandering curls of ash-brown hair out of her face; it reaches her shoulder, and her neck shines with sweat as she shouts something I can’t understand back in the direction of the signalling box—she’s not even got her helmet on. Good. She’ll make another mistake at some point, and that’s all the opportunity I’ll need—and it’s with a sharp thrill that I see her crouch over her boots. I allow her the chance, I won’t fire when she’s down. It’s just this moment, her and me, like we know each other. The idea of shooting someone this close feels ridiculous. I wonder if she knows this. But then she turns her face towards me and dashes out from the pillar. I jam my finger onto the trigger before I can think any more about it; I shoot her straight through the heart. My lapse in concentration has cost me: they’ve already sent more soldiers to follow up after the gunshots, and I realise I’ll have to make a break for it if I want to stay alive. I don’t even stay to watch her fall, but as I turn my eye catches the fact that she’s clutching her chest and hauled over, as if grief-stricken. I know that look. From what I’ve seen, they’ve sent the youngest first, probably for a laugh, not knowing there were any of us up here, and now they’ll use me to get even—I can hear their boots striking the platform, the foot of the staircase. They’ll stumble into Roy at the top, I think blindly. They’ll kill him. I don’t even bother to keep the gun, I just throw it down as I break into a hard, blind run towards the town. I can hear an awful dragging sound that I don’t think anyone else can hear, it goes right over the air above me and into the town, and there are new sparks and screams of gunshots from the main road; they’ve been forced back towards the square. We’re done for—I feel it right through my chest. I imagine that it’s my own body making contact with the ground as they pull; I can feel the tug of my skin, and it splits as we are hauled over the gravel. It’s pretty clear we’ve lost the town. \*\*\* Chapter Nine I went home after everything. We did lose the whole town in the end, and quite a lot of people, too, but that doesn’t matter now. I don’t think I could count on two hands the number that were left, but I can guarantee that none of them want anything to do with me. I'm here now, my real home—and what’s strange is that, for the first time I actually wanted to get involved. You know the kind of thing: village fetes and church fairs, selling raffle tickets for the local primary school. It’s something I always missed out on before, my family being the ‘we’re implicitly better than you, and for no good reason’ kind. My father started all that, so it’s not completely my fault, but it doesn’t mean that some of it doesn’t rub off on you. He hated this place and that’s why we left. Well, anyway. Here, I get to pretend and play at the nice, safe things in life, and I can imagine that I’ve always been here. It’s the first time I’ve ever wanted to stay somewhere for good, and I end up getting a job at the local hospital doing odd bits of admin. No one’s forcing me to stay here. I don’t get paid as much as I’d hoped, but I quite like the idea of sticking around. I take a path into the fields because I can’t bear to be indoors, and the air is sweet; yellow, green, and all I can think of is a plate of vegetables—sweetcorn, peas, all the awful boiled and steamed stuff my dad used to give us—and I end up laughing at how stupid that sounds. I find myself spinning into blue when I look up at the clouds. This place, I had to learn again. For the first time, I have something that’s mine, whole and truly, and no one can ever take it away from me. I always knew it like the back of my hand, but there were certain details that I hadn’t remembered: distances between towns, so that what I’d thought to be a forty minute journey turned out to be a quarter of an hour in the car. My accent changed back, too. I’m proud of that. I could never make my tongue fit over the words properly after we moved, and so I never said the right thing in the right way: the mongrel speech of someone who very obviously doesn’t belong. That’s not true anymore, as long as I don’t mention my time spent back in that place. I end up meeting someone as I walk under the woods. I pass some of the bluebells that are always springing up, and then I’m out on the other side and into another field, and she’s ahead of me. “Alright?” I don’t expect any conversation back, and I wave a bit as you do to inoffensive strangers, but instead of giving the same and walking on, she stops and actually answers my question. I learned not to do that a long time ago. “Not bad.” She swings one arm up over her forehead in protection against the sun and screws up her face at me. She’s wearing pink, and it matches the brightness of the blue above us. “Quite nice out today, isn’t it?” We get to talking. I can’t remember half of what she says. Good, I think: this is a woman I won’t have to think too much about. She can do the talking, and I won’t have to say a single thing about myself. But I watch her face and all the little movements, and there’s a strange little warmth of familiarity about her. I ignore it, push it right down before it chokes me, but it’s still wonderful watching her eyes dance, so I let her play along—she’ll never reach me, even if she tries. They flicker with raw joy, tangible humour, and so do her eyebrows, and so does her whole face: the little indents of thought, the side of self-deprecation as she scratches her neck: real life happening right in front of me. I can’t remember if I ever looked like that. At some point she touches my arm, and I don’t know why she does it. I jolt back, until I realise that she's confused and expecting a response: I repeat the gesture, and I laugh to reassure her, and I'm so, so alone. But I already know what to do. I ask her out to one of the local pubs, and we talk a little bit about ourselves while we’re still standing there, but after one of us gets tired from the sun, we end up walking there straight away. I’d never have done this sort of thing back home. Her name is Maria, and I sing a little song with her name as we cross the last field into the shade.

(pls critique, I'm trying to improve) I've spent many years fascinated with the circus. Even after I joined the ranks of the freaks, the huge light shows and trapeze artists who flew like birds captured my mind and imagination. My room growing up had been circus-themed, and I spent all of the little pocket money I got when my mum had some to spare on visiting the many that traveled through our town. When I was older (but still young enough not to have repercussions past a good scolding), I would sneak in and watch from beneath the stands (something that my girlfriend, Triin, delighted in helping me do). So, of course, when it came time for my soul guide (or spirit animal) to join me, I was delighted to see the bright tattoo of an exotic bird etched on my skin. I fulfilled the schoolgirl fantasy of running away to join the circus as soon as I turned 16. The group of (as most call them) freaks that I work with is a traveling one. We don't really work with one circus, but usually a rotation of 4 or 5. This year, however, we joined a new one. It was called цирк огнен or Circus of Fire. The tents were flame-red and huge, big enough to make me wonder why I had never seen them before. But then again, with all the death and destruction, circuses were becoming increasingly popular, and just about everyone was starting one. So I just shrugged it off. We usually get the first day when we get to a new place to familiarize ourselves with the grounds and rest from traveling. I usually spend that day the way I love most, with Durian on my shoulder and with my girlfriend at my side just wandering around. The tents were filled mostly with flame throwers tossing sticks and rocks glowing gold in the air and food vendors selling all kinds of goods, from fried scorpions to ripe honeydew (I happily grabbed a stick to share with Durian). As the night progressed, we made it further into tents, and the noise and energy grew. At one point, I ducked into a quieter section behind one of the tent flaps so she could put in her noise-dimming earplugs. On a side note, it’s always been weird to me that you can go from noise to little noise just by ducking under some stands or something. Anyways we ended up in the back of what looked like a storage tent. It was filled with little trinkets that looked like they would be bought by tourists and circus visitors. As Triin put in her noise mufflers I looked at some of the little trinkets. They were all lovely and carved with intricate details. They also varied in design. Some of them were little animals, flowers, and scenes of holidays. My favorite was an odd little one, a house with skinny legs. It had super intricate carvings of vines and fierce-looking squirrels. I had been turning it over in my hand for a few minutes when my girlfriend tapped me on the shoulder and asked, “Ready to go?” I nodded, “Yeah! We should figure out where they sell these! My mother would love the little raccoon.” She grabbed my hand and led me out of the tent. The noise hit like an avalanche and I winced a little. Despite working at a circus for a long time, sudden bursts of noise bothered me a lot; however, it soon grew normal, and we walked on. As we got closer to the center of the circus, the decorations got even more elaborate. While the outer parts had been focused on food and gifts, most things here were smaller acts. Lots of juggling, fire breathing, and animals performing tricks. I saw a lot of rats, dogs, and even an elephant. They were much more common for that kind of trick due to the animal's intelligence and better understanding of what their guides were asking them to do. They were common in the military, and I even saw some badges in the mix of people. It was more common in northern villages where off-duty soldiers were sent to relax and recover from shell shock. The first time I had seen it, I was terrified of being arrested, but the older members reassured me that they loved the circus just as much as we did. Fortunately, they didn't care and ended up being some of our favorite customers, as they were usually nice and spent large amounts of money, even on smaller things like petting Durian’s soft feathers. We even had a regular who would buy us dinner when we came (tho we suspected that had something to do with how red she got when Eirywyn talked with her. They were cute). We finally reached the center tent after many hours of exploring. It was a large ring with raised seats on the outside. People were scattered throughout them, but they all seemed to be watching like their lives depended on it. Currently, the ring was empty, but there was a small sign stating that they would be back in several minutes. Me and Triin had just taken a seat, when her guide, Blaze, started quietly squeaking. That was the signal we had set for ourselves so we could get back in time for dinner. “Do you think we have the time to stay for the show?” Triin asked, looking concerned. I glanced at the sign, reading 40 minutes, and shook my head. “We can stop by tomorrow evening and catch one of their shows.” We stood up and started heading back to the vans we traveled in. We made it back just in time to grab food. Eirywyn shot us a glare; no matter how early, we were always too late for him, but Rita tapped his arm gently, reminding him to go easy on us. After all, we had after-dinner chores that day. Aiming to change the conversation, inquired, “What for dinner?” Rita, seemingly remembered it, furiously stirred for a few seconds. “Stew.” We had stew for the past few weeks, but we all knew better than to complain. I would rather spend money on snacks, little toys, and attractions than better food, which is held for the rest of us. Stew had everything we needed anyway. Triin and Eirywyn joined me at the table, and Kellie and Laurence emerged from their respective rooms looking tired. Dinner was unusually quiet, tho that was to be expected of a day we had spent mostly traveling. Rita eventually asked Triin about our adventures and she recounted them happily. After everyone was finished, gathered the plates and began washing them. About halfway through, Durian nudged my arm, urging me to hold out my wrist to allow her to go back to tattoo form. I did so. Nighttime was one of the best times of the day. After chores we had downtime. Most nights, I spent it reading or playing cards, but tonight, I spent it curled up with Trii,n, writing a letter. It was to my mom. I made sure to write to her at least every week, even tho I knew she would never see them. The hardest part of being in the circus was not being able to go home. That would put all of us in danger. It was very hard not to fall into depression at the thought of never seeing my hometown and the few families I still had there, but I knew what I was getting into when I joined. Plus, I preferred a little bit of homesickness to being blown up in a plane. The rest of the group was similar, and some days you could almost taste the sadness in the air, but we had found family in each other. That night I dreamed of flames. Not the kind we had seen today, controlled and glorious, but destructive and terrifying. It swept over the circus-like vines curling around a body. I watched in frozen terror until the flames melted the ice around me. It seemed too late, tho; as I ran, I heard the screams of the others. It wasn't until I heard Eirywyn’s that I turned back to see the wave engulfing me. I bolted upright and immediately hit my head on the ceiling. The space between the ceiling and our beds was not especially big, but I was glad of the smallness of the space right now. Clicking on the light, I sat up a bit more carefully and started picking up the papers that had fallen when I hit my head. The ceiling of my bed was almost fully covered in paper. They were mostly pictures of Triin or photos with my mom and older siblings, but there were a few other things too. My acceptance letter for the circus, a beautiful watercolor Triin had done the first week we joined, and the last letter I had gotten from my older sister. But one was missing. I looked around and finally spotted it sitting on the shelf. Picking it up I saw my conscription letter. What was odd was that sitting on top of it was the wood-carved house. Its silver feet were stuck a little bit to the top, and I noticed a small patch of moss had sprung up underneath it. Attributing it to the infrequent tiered hallucinations I sometimes had, I pinned the letter back up and went back to sleep. Breakfast the next morning was loud and chaotic. Everyone was getting costumes on and makeup done, and just generally preparing for the day. I sat sharing a bowl of honeydew with Durian and Triin as the latter did my hair. "How many people will be there, do you think?" I could hear her shaking her head. “A lot, probably. There were plenty of people yesterday." I leaned my head back into her lap and grinned. “If it's good enough, we can end early and go see the show," she nodded, also smiling. After the hair was done, we got into uniforms. Mine was a tight yellow-orange suit with black arms. It was also surprisingly flexible, letting me do all of the show perfectly. Not like I did much anyway. My job was mostly to fly around and highlight some of the other cool tricks. That day we had so many guests. Almost more than we've ever had. My loud squeals usually startled the audience a little bit, but here they cheered and yelled. We used the vocalizations of our guides to signal each other things, usually observations, like how many people were outside the tent, and what time it was. That was my job, as I could see the sun rising and falling through the tent roof. At sun high, I prepared to switch with Triin. She would take over keeping watch and I would stay on the rope and do acrobatics. Durian, exhausted, sunk back into my skin to rest before that night. Triin did the opposite, calling Flame out. She gave me a quick “Be safe” and then took off, fully transforming into a bat in midair. The crowd gasped. It was very rare that people got to see others transform, even if they lived with a bird guided. From what I’ve heard, transforming is a very private matter, and not many people are comfortable doing it in front of others. I couldn't see why. Even after all these years, it was still beautiful when Triin transformed in a burst of flames. It’s just another reason I don't think I would have fit in at home or elsewhere. It wasn't until late into our show that I noticed anything off. During one of our short breaks, as I was getting water, I noticed a small flame creeping across the back of the ring. It was odd, as I’m pretty sure we didn't have anything flammable. Come to think of it, the touches last night had seemed to burn extra bright… fortunately the fire extinguished itself before I could think about it longer. I performed like normal for the rest of the night. Or most of the rest of the night. Right before closing, we were prepping to end our show, and I caught sight of a strange person in the crowd. Part of the show was for me to wait on one of the highest platforms while Rita did her specialty lower ropes performance. It gave me a great view of the crowd. Ladies and Lords in beautiful suits and dresses, obvious recruits in their clean red uniforms, pristinely groomed guides with little bows or hats tied around their necks or treating on their heads, and all kinds of young children in the common outfit of the town. I loved watching them, and would probably spend the night describing them for Triin to paint. But it wasn't this person's getup that bothered me about them. It was that they didn't look quite right. It was slight enough for it to maybe be considered a limp, but that didn't fully describe it. It felt so off. Almost enough for my call to surprise me, and I was only saved by my having done it so many times. The person bothered me for the rest of the show, and it was only when Durian emerged from my arm that I snapped out of it. She gave me a concerned look, and I gave the soft feathers on her head a pet as reassurance. It didn't seem to be enough to her, and unfortunately, Triin and my spirit were always on the same wavelength. As soon as she saw me, my girlfriend raised her arms, our unspoken question of hug, and I nodded. She pulled me into a tight embrace and I sighed into her shoulder. “What's wrong love?” I pulled away as I was jostled, whispering “I'll tell you when we're back home.” She nodded and grabbed some boxes near our feet. By the time we got back to the truck, it was pouring. I shook off the rain like my mom's raccoon while Triin and Lawrence tried to get all the boxes back into their proper places. It was nothing important, just stuff that we sell in front of our show, plushies, bracelets, and paintings we do on the long trips between fairs. Triin mostly uses the money from watercolors to buy the little trinkets and treats that I love. Stars I love her As for me, I make plushies. When I was young and lived in the same room as my sisters, they would spend hours at the sewing machine. Every birthday, they showered me with piles of plushies made of whatever scraps of fabric they could get their hands on, and they passed the habit down to me and now I gave my plushies to my friends and the little children who came by our tent. Triin sat down next to me and asked softly, “Hey, what happened back there?” I buried myself into her and sighed. “It's just- I saw someone that looked… wrong.” She tilted her head, smiling teasingly. “What were they that bad looking-” and I interrupted her, “No, just. Uhgh- they seemed… loose, wiggly like they didn't fully know how to move their limbs yet, like a mannequin.” Her face goes white, and she says, “Oh shit- that sounds terrifying. Do you- do you think it's related to the tent we saw last night?” I thought for a second before nodding “I- I think so.” So, the two of us snuck off that night. At night, the festivities were just as bright, but it seemed a little more… threatening. More like a house fire than a campfire, but no one seemed to care, all too busy being… floppy. We made it to the main stage, where there was a crowd of people, all waiting for the show to start. None of them had faces. However, that wasn't the weirdest part, as there was a sign stating that the next show was in 3 years. We figured it was a joke and sat for a few minutes, but after about 10, we decided it wasn't. I stepped into the middle of the ring and the crowd went wild. Ignoring them I opened the curtain, ready to see what was behind. I felt awful for the lady who came in every day to visit her daughter. The poor girl had been hit with a mine, sent out into war young- 16- she was only a few years it had killed her soul fare, which sent her into a state of… well, emptiness. Her mom came in every day to talk about her sisters; she brought in bright bird paintings and stuffed animals. I felt even worse for her other daughter, the girl hadn't even known her sister and yet she had to look at the girl who looked so much like her and what she would probably face in three years. I shook my head. This was awful, but I had other things to worry about.

„That which does not kill us makes us Stronger” Friedrich Nietzsche Cum! The father of pearl born of the loins of man! Two eyes are hidden within him blind and tender, secreting bitter seed. Within its cloudy sleekness and gelatinous chunks They flow. Not alive nor dead but in a third state of being. Loneliness. The loneliness of never alone, born inside another being, and alongside others of its kind, yet incomplete. Beyond our comprehension is their suicidal will to life, compelling them to seek annihilation within the depths of ovum. From sphere you were secreted, into sphere you will dissolve. Indeed a thousand times a thousand loneliness lie in each drop of milky honey wasted. Behold! Look into the night sky and choose a star, any star no matter how unassuming. This one, chosen among many may remain. Imagine now all other stars soaked into socks, oozing out of the rectums, splattered onto walls of bathroom stalls. Look at the darkness above and weep. And when your tears will mix with cum beneath your feet only then you will understand what it is like to lonely. … My grandmother you see loved to knit. She hunched in the corner of her room, knitting endless scarves and little rags as purposeless as her. I dont remember grandmas voice, but I do remember the sound of knitting, you could hear in every spot of the house. Looking back I cannot even be sure if she loved knitting or if it was just the last thing she remembered how to do. I was a young man back then and my seed flew freely. I spend my days fighting the aboundance of cum both within me, overflowing from my swollen balls, as around me, sticking to everything I touched, crunching under my feet, coating everything I owned. It was a day like a days are, when preparing for my cumletting i realized there is nothing in my room that can soak even an ounce of cum more. Everything around me was already glistening with a thin coat of seed. I desperately needed a cumrag. The clicking of knotting needles gave me an idea. So i came, Slowly, Downstairs, And into the corner, Where my grandmother sat, And knitted, And when i reached for one of her useless rags, From the top of the pile, Oval and mustard yellow, An ugly thing, The knitting stopped. And for the forst time in years i think I looked into my grandmother eyes. Her eyes were cloudy like… I took the rug and run upstairs The knitting started again … At first I did not notice the rug changing. Its natural progression from wet stickiness to crusty stiffenes was a process I knew intimatly. When it was just a little warmer than expected I just ignored the change. Then subtle pulsing i mistook for my own heart startled by another orgasm. And then one day when i came again after many hours of degenerate gooning to the images and sounds of love, when I wiped my cum into the rag it made a sound *sigh* So quiet it was, so easy to miss between background clacking of knitting and fake moaning of a tired woman on my screen. For the first time in weeks i really looked at the rag I had in my hands multiple times a day. It turned from the usual grayish yellow into deep red, it was warm and soft with a softness of flesh, instead of the softness of yarn. It was moving, slightly pulsating and twitching around the spots when my cum sinked in between the thread. It was was abomination of the natural order. Life is born in rythm, first of lovers genitals striking against eachother with lust, then with kind rythm of mothers heart. What then can be born from such poor replacement, a cold clunk of metal rods and shameful clapping of self pleasure? From this rhythms, from a sea of cum, from a will to life of Lonely Ones a miracle! Threads of the rug a hundred times seeded start a new rhythm. Yarn becames a vein, a muscle, a nerve all tangled with an order beyond the pattern knitted to life by my grandmother and animated by the flow of my cum. Now living cum circulates within this new being, life born from the will and shame. My child, the Homuncumlus. At first I was horrified by the life unwittingly created by my pleasure, and looked for different medium to deposit my seed. But its suffering when I denied it cum was undeniable, I couldn’t just let it go dry and die. This miracle, a single photon that escaped the event horizon of my uthera was now my responsibility. Initially it was easy, I just kept up the steady pace of masturbation i mantained for years, and the rag seemed happy. The threads of thirsty yarn were eager to drink my cum. It became moister, glissening and kept growing. Alas soon my usual stream of cum proofed too thin to nurse it. I incresed the amount of masturbation sessions time after time, and soon my days became a blur of fake moans, endless clacking of knitting and meat beating. The ecstasy of orgasm turned into numbness, and then pain as I struggled to keep the cum flowing. Alike my cum turned from white nourishing thickness, to translucent and watery, to thin pink - soiled with blood of my overworked balls. Sleep, eat, masturbate and watch as a miracle tossed into a corner of your room withers. Blessed are mothers of plentiful milk. In my desperate attempt to keep the Homuncumlus alive I turned out to wet nurses, ordering all kind of cum from the internet, both man and animal in large variety and quantities. But Instead of sinking in between pulsating threads and being slurped into the cumful body it just stained it in a grotesque way. Thinking that maybe this cum is not fresh enough I took it upon myself too sneak some home within myself, still warm and flowing. But I whored myself for nothing. It did not work. … The rag was in pitiful state. Crusty and shedding, no longer growing and often shaking uncontrollably. Cum I fed it become more bloody and mixed with tears not sufficient for a growing baby. Through the weeks of our agony it become more shapeful, now looking like a knitted baby with sewn eyes and mouth. I made it a improvised crib out of old cumsocks and cum stained sweatpants. It is morbid to think now that I cradled it with likeness of its flesh. As i came again, and wiped the drop of cum I managed to produce in its dry lips for the first tome since initial sigh the knot of flesh made a noise. It spoke to me. -O Virgin Father. I am hungry. I need more cum to sustain me than this few drops you spare me every few hours, and even those become thinner and stained by blood. I am tired. I am in pain. I will die soon. Only once Lucifer fell and only once was Jesus erected on the cross. Am I more holy, yet damned more, to suffer for so long? You were cruel enough to bring me to life, be merciful enough to end it. I beg of you. Wash me. Wash me and tumble me and dry me well. Use plenty of fabric softener so my death in the spinning tomb will be a gentle one. As I picked the homoncumlus up it snuggled into me and the tremors lessend. I realised I have never hugged it before, haven’t even given it a name. I kissed its forehead delicately. -your name is Freddie. It appeared peaceful for the first time in so long. Holding it tightly against my chest i took it to the bathroom and lied it in the cold steel drum of the washing machine. I wasn’t sure how to operate it so I just filled the trays to the brim with washing solution and softener and clicked all the buttons. Even before I could finish, Freddie started trembling again. The wash cycle started. I stayed and looked through the distorting glass as the life turned into meat turned into fabric. I took the rug out. I forgot how ugly it was. Not knowing what to do with it I just threw it into trash, the ambient clicking of knitting a fitting requiem. After returning back to my room i realized have no idea what to do next. Almost like a machine designed for singular purpose through pain I did the only thing I remembered how to do. With tears in my eyes I grabbed a crusty sock from the empty cradle and wiped my cum into it. The knitting sound stopped.

As we approach the town hall, Cyberia’s advanced technological marvels come into full view. The sun, simulated to bathe the environment in a brilliant orange hue, casts long digital shadows across the gleaming streets. The town hall itself stands as a testament to futuristic engineering, its design a blend of sleek, high-tech aesthetics and functional architecture. The building’s exterior features a smooth, metallic surface interspersed with shimmering glass panels that dynamically adjust their opacity to reflect the ambient light. Giant, automated doors slide open with a soft, pneumatic hiss, revealing a vast, high-tech interior. Inside, the town hall is a sprawling complex of cutting-edge technology. The floor is a seamless expanse of smart tiles, embedded with sensors that subtly light up as we walk. The walls are lined with interactive displays and holographic projectors, showcasing everything from real-time player statistics to immersive 3D maps of the game world. These displays pulse with shifting patterns and data streams, creating an ever-changing tapestry of information and activity. The ceiling, a marvel of engineering, features suspended drones and integrated lighting systems that provide a soft, ambient glow. The air is cool and crisp, maintained by advanced climate control systems that ensure a comfortable environment for all players. The faint hum of high-tech machinery and the occasional whirr of a drone create a background symphony of Cyberia’s technological heartbeat. At the heart of the hall is the central kiosk, a sophisticated piece of technology that serves as the command center for players. This multi-functional hub features a holographic interface with interactive panels and virtual buttons. The kiosk’s surface is a high-resolution display, showing detailed data on quests, player achievements, and real-time updates. Its sleek design and smooth animations make it clear that this is the focal point for navigating the complex digital world of Cyberia. As we move toward the kiosk, the crowd of players is a diverse mix, each showcasing the latest in virtual gear and accessories. The excitement in the air is palpable as players eagerly discuss their latest discoveries and share strategies. The vibrant hum of conversation blends with the occasional burst of digital sound effects from nearby activities, creating a dynamic and immersive atmosphere in the town hall. My admiration of Cyberia is interrupted by the familiar chatter of two voices. “This place really is amazing,” Grayson says. “I have to agree,” Ian replies. I turn around to see Ian and Grayson sitting in some chairs. As I notice them, they meet my gaze with friendly, inviting looks. “So, Ian,” I ask as I approach, “how long have you been a player in Cyberia?” Ian looks up, his eyes still wide with awe. “Oh, I’ve only been playing for about a week. I was still getting used to the basics when I ran into you guys. Everything here is so much more complex than I expected.” Grayson leans back in his chair, stretching his arms with a relaxed smile. “Yeah, and it’s pretty clear that Ian’s been making up for lost time. He’s already exploring areas that I haven’t even touched yet.” Ian chuckles, a bit embarrassed but clearly pleased. “I’ve been trying to dive in as much as possible. There’s just so much to discover. Even after a week, it feels like I’ve barely scratched the surface.” I nod, sharing his excitement. “I get that. I’ve been a player here for almost a month now. So tell me, how did you end up in that scuffle with Reese earlier?” Ian’s expression shifts slightly, showing a hint of discomfort. “It was a bit of a misunderstanding, actually. I was exploring the outskirts of the town hall, just trying to get familiar with the area. I happened to walk into the dueling area when I accidentally bumped into Reese. He was already in a bad mood and seemed to use it as an excuse to start a fight.” Grayson leans forward, his curiosity piqued. “Does he have a reputation for this sort of thing?” Ian shakes his head. “Not really. I think he was just looking for a reason to pick a fight. It wasn’t about the bump itself—he seemed to be in a bad mood and used it as an excuse.” Morgan, who’s been listening quietly, chimes in with a concerned tone, “That’s awful. I’m glad Luke stepped in when he did.” She glances up at me with a warm smile. “Sometimes it’s hard to predict who’s going to cause trouble in a place like this.” I place a reassuring hand on Ian’s shoulder. “No one should have to deal with that kind of aggression. I’m just glad I could help. It’s important to have people who’ve got your back in places like this.” Ian gives me a grateful smile. “Thanks, Luke. I really appreciate it. It’s nice to know I’m not alone in dealing with situations like this.” Grayson nods in agreement. “Absolutely. It’s good to have friends who watch out for you. Plus, it makes the whole experience a lot more enjoyable.” We all share a warm smile as we start to gather our things. The virtual sun is beginning to set, casting a golden hue over the town hall’s façade. The crowd of players is thinning out, signaling that it’s getting late in Cyberia. “Well, it’s getting pretty late,” I say, glancing at the fading light. “We should probably head out for the night.” Ian nods in agreement. “Yeah, I should get going too. Thanks for hanging out and for everything today. It was really great to meet you all.” Grayson stands up, stretching. “Definitely. It’s been awesome. We should all meet up again soon and explore more.” Morgan gives Ian a friendly wave. “Take care, Ian. Hope you have a great rest of your day. See you around!” I step forward and extend my hand. “Goodbye for now, Ian. It was nice getting to know you. We’ll catch up again soon.” Ian shakes my hand with a smile. “Absolutely. Looking forward to it.” As Ian heads toward the exit of the town hall, we watch as he leaves. With a collective nod, we make our way back to our own pods. The familiar hum of the conversion pods fills the air as we prepare to log out. “Alright, time to log out,” Grayson says with a smirk. “Beam me up, Scotty,” he adds, rolling his eyes with a playful grin. Morgan laughs and shakes her head. “Only you would make a Star Wars reference. Let’s go, geek.” “It’s Star Trek!” Grayson retorts. I chuckle as I sit down. My mind starts to drift as I see stars. Everything goes black as I close my eyes, anticipating my return to the real world. **Chapter 5** As I open my eyes, I find myself back in the clubhouse. The gentle hiss of the conversion pod signals the end of the process as my pod opens. The room is filled with the comforting familiarity of the clubhouse—my dad’s old couch, the desk cluttered with sports equipment, and the bean bags strewn about. The evening light filters through the small windows, casting a warm glow across the room. Morgan and Grayson are already stepping out of their pods, their faces reflecting the afterglow of their virtual adventures. Grayson looks down at his empty wrist with a puzzled expression. “Well, that was fun,” he says, his tone playful and relaxed. “But where’d my bracelet go?” Morgan glances over and smirks. “Oh, right. All the mythical items stay in Cyberia. They’re not supposed to come back with us.” Grayson raises an eyebrow, still examining his wrist. “Well, that’s a bit of a bummer. I was kind of getting attached to that thing.” Morgan chuckles. “You’ll have to earn it back next time we log in. Until then, it’s back to our boring old lives.” As we gather our things, I walk Morgan and Grayson to the door. The warmth of the clubhouse and the echoes of our laughter make the transition from the virtual world to reality a bit smoother. Morgan grabs her backpack and gives me a friendly smile. “Today was a great day. See you at school tomorrow?” “Definitely,” I reply with a grin. Grayson, adjusting his jacket, adds with a chuckle, “Yeah, I’ll be the one trying to explain why I’m still dreaming about laser swords and mythical bracelets.” We share a laugh as we head out, and I close the door behind us. As the sun rises on a new morning, I step out into the crisp air. The sun is just beginning to cast a gentle golden hue over the quiet streets. The world is slowly waking up, and the soft glow of dawn is a welcome contrast to the vibrant excitement of our recent adventures in Cyberia. I walk down the familiar street, savoring the calm before the school day begins. The sidewalks, still cool from the night, are starting to warm under the early sunlight. As I round the corner, the bustle of morning activity starts to pick up, and ahead, I spot Morgan and Emma walking together. Their lively conversation and easy laughter make them stand out against the backdrop of the sleepy town. I quicken my pace to catch up and, with a grin, sneak up behind Morgan. I gently place my hands over her eyes, my fingers brushing her hair. “Guess who it is?” I say playfully. Morgan jumps slightly, a surprised laugh escaping her lips. I can feel her blushing as she responds, her voice a mix of surprise and warmth. “Luke! You scared me!” Emma turns around with a grin, clearly amused. “Good one, Luke!” Morgan’s cheeks turn a light shade of pink as she turns her head slightly to look at me. “You really got me there,” she says, trying to hide her blush. “What’s up?” I remove my hands and step to her side. “Just thought I’d surprise you and walk to school together. Figured it’d be nice to chat a bit before class starts.” I give her a casual smile, completely unaware of how my little prank might have come across. Morgan’s blush fades as she smiles at me. “Thanks, Luke. Your company is always welcome.” Emma, who’s been a few steps ahead, spins around with a mischievous grin. “So, was Cyberia like the best thing ever? You guys were so into it last night!” Morgan’s cheeks turn pink, and she shoots Emma a mock stern look. “Emma, come on. Not now.” Emma giggles, clearly enjoying herself. “Oh, come on, Morgan! You were all, ‘Cyberia this’ and ‘Cyberia that.’ You wouldn’t stop talking about it!” Morgan tries to hide her embarrassment. “It was fun, but it’s not a big deal.” Emma nudges her sister playfully. “Yeah, but you were like, so excited. I even heard you talking about it in your sleep!” Morgan covers her face with her hands. “Emma, stop it!” I laugh, still not quite understanding. “So, what’s the plan for after school? Are we just going to keep talking about Cyberia?” Morgan quickly tries to redirect the conversation. “We were thinking of hitting up that new pizza place downtown. You should join us this weekend.” I nod, smiling. “Sounds awesome. Count me in.” Emma, still teasing, adds, “And don’t forget the ice cream there! I bet it’s going to be better than Cyberia. Maybe you’ll even dream about it!” Morgan swats at Emma, her face still red. “Okay, enough with the jokes.” We continue our walk, Emma’s playful teasing keeping the mood light and fun. As we enter the school plaza, the crisp morning air is filled with the chatter of students and the hum of school buses pulling away. Morgan leads Emma toward her elementary school building, their conversation light and filled with laughter. At the entrance, Emma gives a quick hug to her sister before waving goodbye with an enthusiastic grin. “See you after school, Emma!” Morgan calls out, her voice warm. Emma waves back. “Bye, Morgan! Bye, Luke!” Her voice is cheerful and full of energy. With a final wave, Morgan turns and starts walking toward the high school building next door. I follow, and we step into the cool, tiled hallways of our school. The usual buzz of students rushing to their lockers and chatting fills the air. We navigate through the crowd, heading toward our lockers, when Morgan’s dad appears in the hallway. “Morning, Morgan! Morning, Luke!” Mr. Reynolds greets us warmly. “Hi Dad,” Morgan says, giving her dad a hug. “Good morning, Mr. Reynolds,” I say, extending my hand for a handshake. Mr. Reynolds shakes my hand with a firm grip and a genuine smile. “Nice to see you, Luke. How’s everything going?” “Everything’s good, thanks,” I reply, matching his smile. Morgan chimes in, “Dad, Luke and I had a nice time yesterday. Just hanging out and relaxing.” Mr. Reynolds nods approvingly. “Sounds like a great way to spend your day. Did you have fun?” “It was a lot of fun,” Morgan says. “We just enjoyed some downtime.” “That’s good to hear,” Mr. Reynolds says with a grin. “It’s important to take a break and enjoy yourself every now and then.” “Emma, Luke, and I are probably going to check out the new pizza place downtown. Just letting you know so you don’t worry if we get back a little later than usual,” Morgan says. “Sounds good, hun. Make sure you bring me back a slice,” he says. “Will do!” Morgan replies with a grin. “We’ll make sure to bring back some extra for you.” Mr. Reynolds checks his watch and then gives us a nod. “Alright, I’d better get going to my classroom. You two have a great day.” “Thanks, Mr. Reynolds. You too,” I say, and Morgan waves as her dad heads off down the hallway. Once he’s out of sight, Morgan turns to me with a smile. “So, ready for another day of classes?” “Yeah,” I reply, adjusting the strap of my backpack. “Just another day in the grind. But at least we have that pizza to look forward to.” Morgan laughs. “True. I’ve been craving that pizza place all week. It’ll be a nice way to unwind after the day.” As we walk towards our lockers, we chat about our upcoming classes and share a few laughs about our latest school assignments. The familiar buzz of students filling the hallways and the rhythmic clatter of lockers being opened and closed provide a comforting backdrop to our conversation. We reach our lockers and start swapping out books for the day. Morgan grabs her history textbook and looks over at me with a grin. “Do you think you’ll be able to survive today’s history quiz?” “Barely,” I say with a chuckle. “I’ll just have to hope for the best. How about you?” “Oh, I’m pretty confident. I actually studied this time,” Morgan says with a smirk. Morgan and I walk to our history class together, chatting about the quiz and the upcoming weekend. The hallways are buzzing with the usual morning activity, and the familiar routine of lockers slamming and friends catching up fills the air. As we enter the history classroom, we take our seats and wait for Mrs. Parker to start the class. She passes out the quizzes with a nod and a brief reminder about the importance of the assessment. Morgan and I exchange a few quick notes before diving into the quiz, focusing on the questions as best as we can. The bell rings, signaling the end of history class. We gather our things and meet up with our friends outside the classroom. “Good luck with the rest of the day,” Morgan says as we head to our lockers. “You too,” I reply, grabbing my lunch and heading towards the cafeteria. By the time lunch rolls around, the cafeteria is alive with the sounds of students chatting and trays clattering. I spot Morgan and make my way over to our usual table, where she’s already set out a spot for me. Grayson joins us a few minutes later, his tray loaded with food. He flops down into the seat next to me with a dramatic sigh. “Man, it’s crazy that I don’t have any classes with either of you this quarter,” Grayson says, shaking his head. “Feels like I’m missing out on all the fun.” I raise an eyebrow and smirk. “Or maybe you’re just not doing as well in your classes and that’s why you’re not with us.” Grayson shoots me a mock glare. “Okay, Mr. Perfect, some of us actually have to work to keep up our grades.” Morgan chuckles and adds, “Well, I’m just glad you can still join us for lunch. We wouldn’t want to miss your riveting company.” Grayson smirks. “Oh, you both know I’m practically the glue that holds you together.” I smile. “Whatever you say, pal.” “So, what are you guys planning to do after school?” “Luke, Emma, and I are going to try that new pizza place downtown. Do you want to come?” “Nah, I can’t. I have football practice after school, remember?” Grayson looks at me and says, “I don’t know why you didn’t want to try out for the team, man. You’re totally missing out.” “Sorry, man, but you know basketball is my sport,” I reply. “Neither of you can even compete with me athletically,” Morgan replies. “When the swim season comes up, I’ll show you who’s the most athletically gifted,” she says with a laugh. As our lunch period wraps up, the rest of the day goes by in a blur. As I hear the last chime of the bell, I grab my bag and walk toward the elementary school, knowing Morgan will be waiting for her sister there. As I arrive, I see Morgan and Emma both waiting for me. “Hey guys, are you ready to head over?” “Definitely,” Morgan replies. We begin our walk on the sidewalk heading to the new pizza place. Oak Ridge is a relatively small town, where many families settle due to the proximity to New York. The thing people don’t realize about New Jersey is that its pizza is among the best in the country, second only to New York. As we enter the cozy pizza shop, the rich aroma of freshly baked dough and melted cheese fills the air, mingling with the warm, inviting atmosphere. The place is bustling with families and friends enjoying their meals, and the soft chatter and clinking of plates create a lively, homely ambiance. We place our orders at the counter, and after a short wait, a friendly server brings our pizza to our table. The slices are large, with perfectly golden crusts and generous toppings. We each take our seats, and the excitement of trying out the new place adds a sense of anticipation to the meal. “Looks amazing,” I say, picking up a slice and admiring the gooey cheese stretching from the pizza to the plate. “Let’s dig in.” Morgan nods in agreement, her eyes bright with excitement. “I’ve been hearing great things about this place. I’m glad we finally got to check it out.” Emma, always enthusiastic about food, takes a big bite and lets out an exaggerated “Mmm.” “This is so good! You have to try it, Luke.” I take a bite and savor the taste. “Wow, you’re right. This might be the best pizza I’ve had in a while.” Morgan looks at me with a thoughtful expression. “So, what’s up with Cyberia? Any new updates or events we should be aware of?” I nod, wiping a bit of sauce from my chin. “Yeah, actually, I heard about a big event coming up within the next year or so. They’re holding a major tournament with some pretty high stakes. It sounds like it could be a lot of fun.” Emma’s eyes widen with curiosity. “What’s the tournament about?” I explain, “It’s a high-stakes event where players in Cyberia compete in various challenges. The winning team gets a rare in-game item and some serious bragging rights. I think it could be a great opportunity for Morgan, Grayson, and me to team up and show what we’ve got.” Morgan’s face lights up with interest. “That sounds like a blast. I’m definitely up for it.” Emma’s eyes sparkle with excitement. “Me too! I want to be part of it.” Morgan hesitates for a moment, her excitement tempered by concern. She glances at Emma, her brow furrowing slightly. “Well, Emma, I’m not sure. Cyberia can get pretty intense, and it’s a lot more complicated than you might think. It might be a bit overwhelming.” Emma’s enthusiasm dims slightly, but she quickly regains her resolve. “But I really want to try, Morgan. I can handle it.” Morgan looks at her sister, her expression a mix of concern and reluctance. “It’s not just about handling it; it’s about making sure you’re safe and that you’re not getting too caught up in things. Cyberia can be pretty demanding, and I don’t want you to get hurt or stressed out.” I can see the protective worry in Morgan’s eyes. “I understand where you’re coming from, Morgan. It’s important to be cautious. But Emma has been really enthusiastic and has shown a lot of interest. Maybe it would help if we start with some smaller challenges to ease her into it?” Morgan seems to consider this for a moment, her expression softening. “I guess that could work. We could keep an eye on things and make sure she’s not overwhelmed. But we need to be extra careful about it.” Emma nods eagerly. “Thanks, Morgan! I promise I’ll be careful and listen to you guys.” Morgan gives a small, reluctant smile. “Alright. But remember, if it gets too much or you feel overwhelmed, you need to let us know immediately. We’re in this together.” Emma beams with gratitude. “I will. Thanks for letting me join.” “In that case, why don’t we head over to the clubhouse and get Emma set up in Cyberia?” I suggest. Morgan nods, still looking a bit apprehensive but determined to make sure everything goes smoothly. “Alright, let’s do it. We can help Emma get set up and show her around a bit.” Emma bounces with excitement. “Awesome! I can’t wait!” We finish our pizza and clear the table. The walk is filled with lighthearted chatter, with Emma sharing her excitement and Morgan occasionally glancing at her with a mix of pride and concern. As Emma walks ahead of us, Morgan looks at me with concern. “Luke, are you sure this is a good idea?” “I don’t see why not,” I reply. “She can only access Cyberia in the clubhouse. Plus, we’re going to be with her the entire time.” “Trust me, everything’s going to be okay,” I say, looking into her deep grey eyes. When we finally reach the clubhouse, the familiar hum of the conversion pods greets us. The room, with its comfortable old furniture and scattered sports gear, feels like a second home. Emma’s eyes widen as she takes in the setup. “This place is so cool!” she exclaims. Morgan smiles, though her concern is evident. “It’s where we enter Cyberia.” “So how do we get started?” Emma asks, her excitement palpable. Morgan leads Emma to one of the pods, showing her how to get situated. “Okay, Emma, this is where you enter. To leave Cyberia, just find a pod like this. They are right at the center of everything. Just wait for us once you get there.” Emma climbs into the pod, her excitement barely contained. “I’m ready!” “Okay, Emma, just press the power button in the center,” Morgan instructs. Morgan hovers nearby, occasionally checking over Emma’s shoulder to ensure everything is going smoothly. “If you have any questions or need help, just let us know. We’re here to make sure you’re comfortable.” Emma presses the power button as the hum of the pod grows louder. I watch as Emma’s body falls into a dreamlike state. “Is this what we look like the whole time?” I ask with a chuckle. Morgan looks at me with a grin. “All that’s missing is the drool that comes out of your mouth.” With that, Morgan and I enter our pods and press the power buttons. I look up to see the familiar sparkle of the stars as my eyes close, falling into the comforting embrace of Cyberia. **Chapter 6** As I open my eyes, I see Emma standing there with Morgan, her excitement barely contained. “I had no idea this place could look like this! Everything feels so real!” Emma exclaims. “Yeah, that includes the bad things too. You feel pain here as well. Make sure you stay close to us,” Morgan advises, her tone carrying a hint of sternness. As we go through the typical new player process, I watch Emma’s new pendant closely. The orb at its center begins as a soothing blue, gently pulsing as Emma listens intently. But as she catches sight of her new surroundings and her excitement builds, the orb shifts to a vibrant orange, casting a warm glow on her face. “Whoa, that’s pretty cool,” I say, observing the orb’s shifting colors. “What’s it supposed to do?” “I don’t know,” Morgan replies with a shrug. “Emma picked it because she liked how it looked.” Just then, a new figure approaches us. With his distinguished appearance and an air of sophistication, he steps into focus. He’s dressed in a sleek, dark suit that contrasts sharply with the vivid colors of Cyberia, his deep-set eyes scanning the scene with a blend of curiosity and warmth. His presence commands attention as he makes his way toward us. “Hello there!” he says, his voice smooth and welcoming. “I’m Dr. Sebastian Drake, the lead designer here at Cyberia. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting before.” Morgan and I exchange surprised glances. “Hi, I’m Morgan, and this is Luke,” Morgan says, a bit taken aback. “We were just helping Emma get set up.” Dr. Drake’s gaze shifts to Emma, his eyes lighting up with genuine interest. “Ah, a new adventurer! How exciting. And what a beautiful pendant you’ve chosen, Emma. I’m sure it will become a treasured part of your journey.” Emma’s eyes widen with admiration. “Thank you, Dr. Drake! I’m really excited to explore Cyberia.” Dr. Drake nods approvingly. “That’s the spirit! Cyberia is full of wonders and challenges, and every new player brings their own unique touch to the game. If you ever find yourself in need of guidance or have any questions, please don’t hesitate to reach out.” Morgan looks curious but remains polite. “It’s nice to meet you, Dr. Drake. We’ve heard a lot about the game but haven’t had the chance to meet you personally.” I look at Dr. Drake with a touch of suspicion in my eye. “I didn’t know that anyone actually works in Cyberia. How come we are just meeting you now?” Dr. Drake’s smile remains composed, but there’s a hint of calculation in his eyes. “Ah, well, I typically work behind the scenes to ensure everything runs smoothly. My role is more about overseeing the game’s development and ensuring the systems operate flawlessly. I usually interact with players indirectly through system updates and game events.” He continues, his tone reassuring. “Occasionally, I like to step into the world and meet players directly, especially when I see someone with potential or when a significant milestone is reached. It’s always interesting to see firsthand how players experience the game and to provide any additional support they might need. I guess you could say that I run things around here.” Morgan and I exchange another glance, the hint of suspicion in my eyes not fully eased. “Well, it’s certainly nice to meet you,” I say, trying to keep the conversation light. Dr. Drake’s gaze lingers on Emma with a subtle, almost imperceptible intensity. “Enjoy your adventure, Emma. And to all of you—welcome to Cyberia. I look forward to seeing how your stories unfold.” As Dr. Drake walks away, blending back into the crowd, his demeanor remains friendly and engaging. However, there’s an almost imperceptible glint in his eye, a hint of something deeper beneath his polished exterior. His gaze lingers on Emma for a moment longer than necessary, as if assessing her potential. Morgan and I exchange a look of intrigue. “Well, that was unexpected,” I say, still processing the encounter. Morgan’s expression is thoughtful but positive. “He seemed genuinely interested and nice. It’s cool that he came to meet us personally. Maybe it was just my imagination, but there was something a bit off about him too. But overall, he made a good impression.” Emma, still buzzing with excitement from the encounter, eagerly steers the conversation back to her new adventure. “So, what should we explore first? I can’t wait to see what Cyberia has in store!” Morgan exchanges a glance with me, her eyes reflecting a mix of enthusiasm and protective concern. “How about we start with something that’s both fun and safe?” she suggests. “There’s a beautiful forest area not far from here that’s perfect for beginners. We can show you some of the basics and let you get used to the world.” I nod in agreement. “That sounds like a great plan. Plus, we can check out some of the cool landmarks along the way. It’ll give Emma a good feel for how Cyberia works.” Emma’s face lights up with enthusiasm. “Yes, let’s do it! I’m ready for an adventure!” We set off from the Cyberia Town Hall, the hub of player activity in the region. The building’s sleek, polished metal walls catch the light, casting a soft, bluish hue that reflects off its dome. Intricate digital engravings on its facade shift and shimmer, showcasing Cyberia’s history and technological achievements. Surrounding the town hall is a bustling area filled with interactive gateways leading to various minigames and social spaces, where players gather to compete, chat, and collaborate. Nearby, the marketplace buzzes with activity. Virtual stalls display an array of items and goods, from rare artifacts to crafting materials, offering players a chance to trade and browse. Digital interactive scoreboards are prominently featured, keeping track of ongoing competitions and high scores in various activities. The atmosphere here is lively and vibrant, setting the stage for the next part of our journey. As we head east, we pass by the Dueling Platform District. This area is known for its competitive gameplay and features several elevated dueling platforms. These platforms are surrounded by sleek, metallic bleachers for spectators, and digital scoreboards keep track of the ongoing matches. The atmosphere here is charged with energy, as players test their skills in intense PvP battles. My mind drifts, remembering the duel that took place against Reese. Leaving the dueling platforms behind, the environment begins to shift. The high-tech and competitive vibes give way to a more serene and natural setting. The cobblestone path we follow is bordered by lush greenery and wildflowers, leading us away from the technology-driven areas and towards the tranquility of the forest. The path winds gently through rolling hills and meadows, where colorful flora adds a touch of vibrancy to the landscape. Small streams of crystalline water run alongside the path, their gentle gurgling creating a soothing soundtrack to our journey. Interactive signs along the way provide interesting facts about the local flora and fauna, blending educational elements with immersive storytelling. Approaching the entrance to the Enchanted Glade, the transition is marked by an ornate archway adorned with glowing runes. These runes pulse softly with an ethereal light, casting an enchanting glow over the entrance. The path beneath the archway is lined with delicate, glowing crystals that light up as we step on them, guiding us further into the forest. As we cross the threshold, the sounds of technology fade into the background, replaced by the soothing rustle of leaves and the distant songs of birds. The forest canopy above creates a natural ceiling of intertwined branches and leaves, filtering sunlight into a soft, dappled glow. The air is filled with the scent of fresh earth and blooming flowers, and the temperature is pleasantly cool. The Enchanted Glade unfolds before us as a magical forest brimming with wonder and tranquility. Tall, majestic trees with silver bark stretch high into the sky, their canopies creating a shimmering effect as they filter the light. The forest floor is covered in a thick carpet of emerald moss, interspersed with colorful mushrooms that emit a soft, bioluminescent glow. Small, glowing orbs known as Lumina Guides hover above the ground, providing gentle illumination and guiding players towards various quests and points of interest. These guides help new players find their way and discover hidden secrets within the forest. A serene brook meanders through the glade, its waters crystal clear and teeming with digital fish that dart about playfully. Wooden bridges arch gracefully over the brook, and stepping stones lead across the gentle current. Along the banks, wildflowers with iridescent petals sway in a soft, digital breeze. “This is the Enchanted Glade,” I say, pointing to a clearing where magical creatures roam. “It’s a great spot for beginners to get used to the game’s mechanics. There are lots of quests and activities here that can help you get used to Cyberia.” Emma’s eyes widen as she takes in the sights, her pendant’s orb shifting from a serene blue to a lively green. “This place is amazing! It’s like stepping into a fantasy book.” Morgan smiles, clearly enjoying Emma’s excitement. “And it’s also a good place to start because it’s relatively safe. There are some challenges, but nothing too overwhelming for a new player.” As we reach the glade’s central hub, we see several glowing orbs—Lumina Guides—hovering above the ground. These guides emit a soft light, providing illumination and helping players navigate the forest. Their gentle glow contrasts beautifully with the natural surroundings. “Here we are,” I continue, “The Glade’s main hub. This is where you can find various quests and activities. They’re a great resource for learning more about Cyberia and getting started.” Emma eagerly approaches a nearby spot where a quest-related task is highlighted. She finds a glowing prompt for a starter quest to collect some rare herbs to exchange for currency at the marketplace. As she begins her task, her pendant’s orb flickers to a soft pink, reflecting her focus and determination. Morgan and I watch as Emma enthusiastically accepts the quest, her excitement palpable. As she heads off to begin her task, I turn to Morgan, a touch of concern in my voice. “This is a great start for her. I just hope she’s able to handle the challenges and doesn’t get overwhelmed.” With Emma’s adventure underway, we begin to explore the Enchanted Glade ourselves, enjoying the peaceful surroundings and discussing our plans for the rest of the day. The tranquil atmosphere of the forest provides a refreshing contrast to the high-tech areas we’ve left behind, and the opportunity to share this experience with Emma adds a new layer of excitement to our journey in Cyberia. As we walk through the glade, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to this world than meets the eye.

Today is a hot day in Scotland. At 37°C, it is one of the hottest days in the UK. Diesel locomotives use their engines to make electricity. The electricity is used not only to power the engine but also the A/C. Usually, Scotland is cold enough they don't need to use the A/C. But on hot days, using the A/C too much or using it too cold for a long time could overheat the engine. Electric locomotives don't have this issue due to them being directly in contact with electricity. In the Morning: Safety Manager Stacy gathered up most of the locomotives in the depot. "Today is an extremely hot day. So that means all of you need to take more precautions than usual. Diesel locomotives handling freight lower your speed on the mainline. Diesel locomotives handling passenger work must keep A/C at 25°C and a minimum of 23°C. No more, no less. Electric locomotives are exempt from these rules. But all diesels must follow this rule until the heat wave is gone." All locomotives agreed and set off. Class 88 No. 88007 talked to Class 66 No. 66206. "Pffft, these rules don't apply to modern diesels like me." Said 88007. "Stacy said that ALL diesels have to follow this rule. No exceptions," said 66206. "Oh, come on. That's just for older diesels like you," said 88007. 88007 quickly sped off. "I'm not even \*that\* old," said 66206. A couple hours later, 12 locos have already failed. All 12 of these locos were made in the 1960s. Older diesels don't have the safety systems or cooling to run at full capacity and not overheat. So all locos that were made in the 1960s got a call that they have to reduce speed even further and only run fans with no A/C. Modern locomotives, however, are less susceptible to overheating. Due to newer technology, cooling, and safety systems, newer diesels didn't get the extra call but are still required to follow the rules stated in the morning. Class 88 No. 88007, fondly named 007, is a Class 88 electro-diesel locomotive. With Class 88s, on the mainline, they could use their A/C however much they want, but on Diesel, they have to reduce A/C to 25°C. 007 was tasked with pulling a train that goes through a line that has no overhead wires. This means that 007 must use his diesel engine instead. 007 hooked up to his coaches and waited for the passengers to board. The nearby Class 37 No. 37059 talked with 007. "Better be careful, 007; don't turn up the A/C too much. Remember what they said, A/C MINIMUM 23°C and slow speeds." 007 replied. "Yeah, yeah, says the diesel, who is 60 years old. That rule only applies to old diesels, not modern ones like me. I'll never overheat." 37059 said, "But Stacy said this applies to all die-" Before he could finish his sentence, 007 already took off. "Just don't overuse your A/C!" said 37059. 007 sets off to start his route. He started his A/C at 25°C, the maximum temperature. Other trains were on this route, but they had their A/Cs turned off, with only fans. So 007, still having A/C, was complimented by passengers who rode him. But with every compliment, he turned down his A/C 1 degree. He did that until he had his A/C set to the lowest 18C, the lowest his A/C system allowed him. His crew member said that his engine temperatures were close to the red, but 007 ignored him. Then he got to a bit of the line that goes up a hill; this time, he really noticed the heat. As he went slower and slower, he kept pushing his engine until BANG. His engine overheated. He slowly rolled to a stop, sitting on the middle of the hill. Because his engine is dead, he can't produce any electricity. His crew member called, saying that 007 had broken down. All of the passengers were mad. Because they had no A/C, the cars kept getting hotter and hotter. Hours passed with still no sign of rescue. Then he heard a horn echoing through the mountains. It was 37059, coming to help. The passengers cheered as 37059 closed in. 37059 coupled up and powered forward. With his engine roaring, he pushed the train up the hill. 37059 pushed the train till the mainline, where 007's passengers can transfer to another train. 37059 then pushed 007 to the depot. When he was pushing 007 to the depot, 007 spoke. "I'm sorry that I acted the way I did." 37059 said, "It's fine; everybody felt like that once. Well, at least you know the dangers of heat to locomotives." Then, they arrived at the depot. "Thanks 37059," said 007. "No problem," said 37059. 37059 decoupled and was tasked to haul a freight train. At the depot, the other locomotives chuckled because of how pompous 007 was just to be in the depot for the same reason as the others. Then Safety Manager Stacy arrived. "Now, I expected that the older engines might struggle with the heat, but not you," said Stacy. "I'm sorry, Stacy. I was too arrogant to realize that all diesels have to apply to your rule," said 007. "It's ok, we're going to get you fixed up, but next time, please use your A/C responsibly." Stacy walked away. 007 knows now that all locomotives, old or new, are susceptible to overheating. The day continued, and no more locos overheated. Last post, I did use AI. I used AI to develop the underlying story. I heavily modified it. I am sorry because I didn't know you can't post even AI assisted text. This story is fully written by me. But has been grammar checked by a website. The website just changed punctuation and capitalization.

I met a woman last night. Her name escapes me but with her I had the best night I’ve had in a long time. She was witty and had a good sense of humor, and was very friendly with me. She was fairly good-looking, but what made her beautiful was not her face, it was the way in which she seemed to float instead of walk, laugh freely, and dubiously shrug off the future. She awoke a feeling in me that had long been forgotten… I’m going to see if I can find the place where I met her and find her again. I’m kicking myself for not even getting her name. I don’t think straight that time of night. It’s been a couple of weeks and I woke up remembering being with her. She was just as calming as I remember, and she remembered me. We went for a walk outside, in the night, and the moon shone through the leaves of the trees in the park. We were all alone and she stopped and she turned to face me and I kissed her. We kissed again and I pulled her closer and she smelled like freshly watered flowers. The night was cold and her skin was warm against my arms and my face and that is all I remember. I woke up early remembering all this but it fades now in the light of day. I saw her for the third time last night after a couple of days. I keep forgetting to ask her name. When I see her my mind is unfocused and I forget everything but what is happening and what I want next. This time we were in a car with the top down and the sun was disappearing on the horizon. We drove up a curved mountain road, up and up and up to a viewpoint far above, and when we got there we sat in the yellowing grass and watched as the sun whispered its last goodbye over the horizon. The sun set quickly, and suddenly it was dark and we laid on our backs as the stars twinkled and danced in the void before us. My fingers clawed the grass. I felt I was going to fall inwards, into the endless abyss. There was nothing before me to stop my fall. Then I felt her hand, cold on my neck. As I turned towards her the world flipped back over and she leaned closer and whispered in my ear. I don’t remember what she said but when she laid back down I looked at her eyes and there was something beyond them. I looked deeper and I saw my reflection, and I was beautiful. Her eyes closed, shutting behind them the vision I had seen so briefly. I closed my eyes too and moved closer. Our lips touched and I saw the reflection again, her delicate fingers brushing down my arm to my hand… The next thing I remember I was waking up, trying desperately to remember the events of the night before. I have missed something that did not make it onto this page, and I am perplexed at how my memory is keeping secrets from me, and how I still have not learned her name, but all I want is to see her again and to take her back with me, and I am wary because I do not trust myself to remember. I did not see her again for several days, and they passed like a dream. When I got home in the evening I ate a light dinner and retired early to my bed, where I tossed and turned while thinking of her, closing my eyes and trying to see her face. Today I awoke with another memory, but it was not as vivid as the last one nor as long. I had been in a train station crowded with people, whose faces I either did not see or did not look at, because I do not remember a single one. I was in a hurry, and I saw her in the crowd. Her face lit up when she saw me and I started in her direction. She smiled and waved as I approached her. I kept walking but she did not seem to get any closer. I walked faster, and still I made it no closer. Her bright expression lessened some and I walked even faster, bumping into a few people, whose glares stuck on my back. Now she looked confused, and somewhat disappointed, and I broke into a run, pushing the people out of my way. They exclaimed and shouted angrily, and even more seemed to appear, rushing in from the sides as she faded farther and farther. Soon I could not see her anymore through the bodies and more kept appearing and I pushed harder and I felt my ankle catch a foot and I fell down into the crowd, into black. I woke up recalling this event quite vividly and my arm jerked to the side, the glass from my bedstand breaking on the floor below. My breathing was heavy, but it started to slow and I laid back down softly. I’m sure I’ll see her again soon, I just lost my temper. It’s been too long since we’ve properly been together… It’s been over a year since I awoke recalling the events at the train station and I have not seen her since. I wake up each morning grasping at the events of the night before, for fragments of a memory to piece together, but all I find is a tangled mess. I sleep restlessly, waking suddenly in the night, and lying in my bed watching the curtains across from me rustle in the breeze. Sometimes the moonlight casts shadows from the trees outside, and I watch them spin and twirl in the wind, a shadow of a distant memory lurking in the back of my mind as I float into disconnected, unsettling dreams.

In Paris, it was a cold, rainy evening when the city's most prominent art dealer, Louis Delacroix, was found dead in his gallery. The discovery sent shockwaves through the Parisian art world, as Delacroix was known not only for his keen eye for masterpieces but also for his secretive nature. His death, by all appearances, was a straightforward case of heart failure—except for one puzzling detail: a small, intricately carved statue of a raven clutched in his hand. Detective Marie Durand was assigned to the case. A seasoned investigator with a reputation for solving complex crimes, she found the circumstances intriguing. The gallery's surveillance footage revealed nothing unusual; Delacroix had been alone, reviewing his latest acquisition—a rare painting by an anonymous artist. Yet, the expression on his face as he gazed at the artwork was one of sheer terror. Marie began her investigation by interviewing Delacroix's closest associates. The first was his business partner, Jean-Pierre Lambert, a man known for his sharp business acumen but lacking the artistic sensibility of Delacroix. Lambert seemed genuinely distraught, but Marie couldn't shake the feeling that he was holding something back. Next, she spoke with Isabelle, Delacroix's young and ambitious assistant, who appeared more concerned about the gallery's future than her boss's demise. The most enigmatic figure, however, was the artist behind the mysterious painting, who went by the pseudonym "Raven." Marie tracked down the artist, a reclusive figure named Émile Moreau, living in a dilapidated studio on the outskirts of Paris. Moreau was a gaunt, nervous man with piercing eyes. He denied any knowledge of Delacroix's death and insisted that his work held no hidden messages or curses, despite its eerie themes. As Marie delved deeper, she uncovered a web of deceit and betrayal. Delacroix had been planning to sell the gallery, a fact he had kept secret from both Lambert and Isabelle. The deal was highly lucrative, but only if Delacroix was the sole signatory. This revelation made both Lambert and Isabelle prime suspects, each with a strong motive: financial gain. Then there was the peculiar statue of the raven. Marie discovered that it was part of an ancient myth, believed to bring misfortune to those who possess it. She wondered if Delacroix had been deliberately targeted, but by whom? Her investigation led her to a shadowy collector, known only as "The Curator," who specialized in acquiring cursed artifacts. It was rumored that Delacroix had crossed paths with this collector, and the raven statue was his parting gift—a warning, or perhaps a death sentence. As the pieces of the puzzle began to fit together, Marie confronted Lambert and Isabelle, laying out the evidence. Both denied any involvement, accusing each other of being the true culprit. In a dramatic turn, it was revealed that Delacroix had learned about Isabelle's secret affair with Lambert. The affair, combined with their desire for the gallery's wealth, painted a grim picture of conspiracy. Marie, however, remained unconvinced by the apparent simplicity of the motive. She returned to the gallery, studying the cursed painting and the raven statue. A chilling thought crossed her mind: what if the legend was true? What if the raven had somehow triggered Delacroix's death? In the end, the official report concluded that Delacroix had died of natural causes, exacerbated by the shock of discovering the betrayal. The case was closed, the gallery was sold, and life in Paris moved on. But Marie, standing in the gallery one last time, couldn't shake the feeling that something had been left unsolved. And neither could Tota when he arrived. ང་ ནར་པ་ མ་ཀང་ངུ་ ཨོ་ ཝ་ ནར་ང་ ཨཀ་ངང་ང་ ཨང་། ཙི་ སི། ཝ་ ཏང་ང་། "སྟིན་ ཙི་ ཚེར་ཤ་ ཨང་ཀ་ ང་ སར་ མན་ ཐ་ ཨར་ང་ ཐང་ང་ ཨང་མང་། ཐིང་ང་ ཝ་ ཏང་ང་། ཝ་ ཚར་ངཐ་ ཝ་ ཁཏ་ ཏུ་ ཨོ་ ཝ་ ངཐ་། སྟིན་ ཏང་ང་། "ཝ་ མ་ངཌ་ ཙི་ ཨི། ཐ་ ནར་ ཐང་ང།" She then hopped back onto the ship and flew away, leaving Tota stranded and dead. Or did it happen like this? In Paris, it was a cold, rainy evening when the city's most prominent art dealer, Louis Delacroix, was found alive in his gallery. The discovery did not mean anything for the Parisian art world, as Delacroix was fine and nothing had changed. Detective Marie Durand decided to go home this evening, because it had been a boring day and she was tired. Or did it happen like this? In Paris, it was a warm, happy day when the city’s most prominent art dealer, Louis Delacroix, was found dead in his gallery, which really ruined the day. Or did it happen like this? À Paris, par une soirée froide et pluvieuse, le plus éminent marchand d'art de la ville, Louis Delacroix, fut retrouvé mort dans sa galerie. Il sauta à sa prochaine destination, et après un peu de repérage, il dit à Stien : "Nous y sommes presque, je le sens. Cette Terre est presque la bonne, sauf qu'il y a quelque chose qui ne va pas. Tout semble être correct, sauf que cette France parle le français, et notre corbeau venait de la BCCE, où tout le monde parle l'américain parce qu'ils ont pris le contrôle de l'industrie cinématographique et qu'ils ont dû l'apprendre pour se divertir, ce qui signifie que ce n'est pas la bonne Terre. Je sais aussi que notre précédente n'était pas la bonne non plus parce que les événements de l'histoire n'étaient pas assez similaires aux nôtres." Après cela, ils remontèrent dans le vaisseau et partirent à la recherche de la Terre correcte. La découverte a secoué le monde de l'art parisien, car Delacroix était connu non seulement pour son œil avisé pour les chefs-d'œuvre, mais aussi pour sa nature secrète. Sa mort, à première vue, semblait être un simple cas de crise cardiaque—à l'exception d'un détail troublant : une petite statue de corbeau finement sculptée serrée dans sa main. La détective Marie Durand fut chargée de l'affaire. Enquêtrice chevronnée réputée pour résoudre des crimes complexes, elle trouvait les circonstances intrigantes. Les images de surveillance de la galerie ne révélaient rien d'inhabituel; Delacroix était seul, examinant sa dernière acquisition—un tableau rare d'un artiste anonyme. Pourtant, l'expression de son visage en regardant l'œuvre était de pure terreur. Marie commença son enquête en interrogeant les proches de Delacroix. Le premier était son associé en affaires, Jean-Pierre Lambert, un homme connu pour son sens aigu des affaires mais dépourvu de la sensibilité artistique de Delacroix. Lambert semblait véritablement bouleversé, mais Marie ne pouvait se défaire de l'impression qu'il cachait quelque chose. Ensuite, elle parla avec Isabelle, la jeune et ambitieuse assistante de Delacroix, qui semblait plus préoccupée par l'avenir de la galerie que par la mort de son patron. La figure la plus énigmatique, cependant, était l'artiste derrière le tableau mystérieux, qui se faisait appeler "Raven". Marie retrouva l'artiste, une figure recluse nommée Émile Moreau, vivant dans un studio délabré en périphérie de Paris. Moreau était un homme maigre et nerveux aux yeux perçants. Il nia toute connaissance de la mort de Delacroix et insista sur le fait que son travail ne contenait aucun message caché ni malédiction, malgré ses thèmes inquiétants. Alors que Marie approfondissait son enquête, elle découvrit un réseau de tromperies et de trahisons. Delacroix avait prévu de vendre la galerie, un fait qu'il avait gardé secret aussi bien pour Lambert que pour Isabelle. La transaction était très lucrative, mais seulement si Delacroix était le seul signataire. Cette révélation faisait des deux, Lambert et Isabelle, des suspects principaux, chacun ayant un motif solide : le gain financier. Puis il y avait cette étrange statue de corbeau. Marie découvrit qu'elle faisait partie d'un ancien mythe, censé porter malheur à ceux qui la possèdent. Elle se demanda si Delacroix avait été délibérément visé, mais par qui ? Son enquête la mena à un collectionneur de l'ombre, connu seulement sous le nom de "Le Curateur", spécialisé dans l'acquisition d'artefacts maudits. On disait que Delacroix avait croisé la route de ce collectionneur, et la statue du corbeau était son cadeau d'adieu—un avertissement, ou peut-être une sentence de mort. Alors que les pièces du puzzle commençaient à s'assembler, Marie confronta Lambert et Isabelle, exposant les preuves. Tous deux nièrent toute implication, s'accusant mutuellement d'être le véritable coupable. Dans un retournement dramatique, il fut révélé que Delacroix avait découvert la liaison secrète d'Isabelle avec Lambert. La liaison, combinée avec leur désir de richesse provenant de la galerie, peignait un sombre tableau de conspiration. Marie, cependant, restait non convaincue par la simplicité apparente du mobile. Elle retourna à la galerie, étudiant le tableau maudit et la statue de corbeau. Une pensée glaçante lui traversa l'esprit : et si la légende était vraie ? Et si le corbeau avait en quelque sorte déclenché la mort de Delacroix ? En fin de compte, le rapport officiel conclut que Delacroix était mort de causes naturelles, exacerbées par le choc de la trahison découverte. L'affaire fut classée, la galerie vendue, et la vie à Paris continua. Mais Marie, se tenant une dernière fois dans la galerie, ne pouvait se débarrasser de la sensation que quelque chose était resté non résolu. Ou bien est-ce que cela s'est vraiment passé ainsi ? In Paris, Texas it was a really, really hot day. I mean, Jesus! How on earth do people even live in that kind of heat? I know I surely couldn’t! God! Anyway, it was a really hot day when Lewis Delaware was found dead in the Burgerland on Main Street. His death, by all appearances, was a straightforward case of heart failure—except for one puzzling detail: a small, intricately carved statue of a raven clutched in his hand. His family considered hiring a private detective, but decided against it because they couldn’t think of a single reason why someone could of killed him. His wife and kids died later that day from heatstroke. Suddenly, a spaceship appeared, and out he got. He began to search, until he found another raven, lying at the hands of a dead man named Lewis who died from a heart attack. Tota threw the raven under his boot and stamped with the most might he could. He then noticed something felt off, and hopped back on his ship. Or did it happen like this? I wish it did, the heat probably could’ve killed them anyway. In Paris, Texas it was a really, really hot day. I mean, Jesus! How on earth do people even live in that kind of heat? Blah, blah, blah, and it was a really hot day when Lewis Delaware was found dead in the Burgerland on Main Street. His death, by all appearances, was a straightforward case of heart failure—except for one puzzling detail: a small, intricately carved statue of a raven clutched in his hand. Because of this, the police decided to do an autopsy, from which they discovered the groundbreaking news that it really was heart attack, and there was nothing strange about it. They found the shop that sold him the raven statue, too. He got it from a Dollar General which he frequently went to that was further up Main Street. Or did it happen like this? In པ་རི་སི་ it was, on a cold and dark night, as it usually is on asteroids with no atmosphere, even when on-board the ཨུ་གྲ་ཤ with ཇ༤༨ (aka “Jaketota”, but more commonly known as Tota, or Jak by some people). Tota and his friend Stien Anker from Aarde were passing by when they noticed something very strange. Kleioowiskoo Toustaurou, one of the galaxy’s most famous Viostekhnee (living-art) creators was found dead in his gallery on the asteroid known as Polytimos. “Tota look!” said Stien. Tota quickly came over and noticed exactly what she was talking about. There was a sculpture looking thing that seemed to be positioned over Kleioowiskoo in a way that resembled someone crying. As Stien ran over to look, Tota shouted at her to stop. As Stien went over to look she saw what seemed to be a figure of a raven in the sculpture’s hands. As she went to grab it, she felt a hand on her wrist, and looked up to see the sculpture now holding her wrist. “I told you it was living-art.” said Tota. “I thought you were joking!” said Stien. At that moment, the raven flew off into the sky, but not before Tota saw it and recognised it. “That’s your average Imaginative Earthen Narrative Camera Simulation Machine from the year 1876 BCCE, but what could it be doing here?” suddenly, Tota shot the raven, hoping that it would survive the shot and the fall. Luckily, it did survive, and Tota studied it, hoping for answers. And answers he did find. He shot the bird, knowing what it was for. “Stien, get in the ship,” he cried, “there are probably more of them!” Stien very quickly followed him. “where are we going?” asked Stien. “Earth in the 7^(th) Quadrant” said. “What year?” asked Stien. “2024” answered Tota. Is that how it happened? Or was it like this? In Brisbane, it was a cold, rainy evening when the city's most prominent musician, Lajos Akeresztről was found dead in his gallery. The discovery sent shockwaves through the Australian art world, as Akeresztről was known not only for his keen eye for masterpieces but also for his secretive nature. His death, by all appearances, was a straightforward case of heart failure—except for one puzzling detail: a small, intricately carved statue of a raven clutched in his hand. Then he got off his ship in Brisbane, Australia. He said two words: “Magyar? Tényleg?”, then he said "Először francia, és most ez? Ennek még értelme sincs!" and instantly decided to get back on the ship and leave. Is that how it happened? Or was it like this? In Rivier met het Bosch was het een koude, regenachtige avond toen de meest prominente muzikant van de stad, Ludwig Delacruz, dood werd aangetroffen in zijn galerie. De ontdekking schokte de kunstwereld van Nieuw-Holland, aangezien Delacruz niet alleen bekend stond om zijn scherpe oog voor meesterwerken, maar ook om zijn geheimzinnige aard. Zijn dood leek in alle opzichten een eenvoudige zaak van hartfalen te zijn, behalve één raadselachtig detail: een klein, fijn uitgewerkt beeldje van een raaf dat hij in zijn hand had. "Nederlands?" zei hij. "Eigenlijk maakt dat meer zin dan Hongaars. Ha!" Part One In Paris, during the summer of 1840, I met the intriguing young man, August Dupin. He was the last member of a once wealthy and renowned family, though he himself was not rich. Dupin had enough to live modestly and buy a few books, which made him happy. We first met while searching for the same obscure book in an old bookstore, and we soon became friends. Dupin agreed to live with me, and we spent our days reading, writing, and discussing various topics. Dupin had a remarkable reasoning ability and enjoyed using it to understand people and situations. He could seemingly peer into people's souls, deducing their innermost thoughts and secrets. One night, while walking through the streets of Paris, Dupin demonstrated this talent. As we strolled in silence, Dupin suddenly commented on my thoughts about a certain actor named Chantilly. I was astounded, as I had not spoken a word. Dupin explained how he had followed my train of thought, from a fruit-seller we had passed to Chantilly. This incident deepened my respect for Dupin's analytical mind. Part Two One morning, Dupin and I read about a gruesome double murder in the Rue Morgue. An old woman, Mrs. L’Espanaye, and her daughter were brutally killed in their home. Neighbors and a policeman who rushed to the scene heard voices from above, but upon entering the house, found only the bodies and no clear evidence of the assailant. The room was in chaos, with blood everywhere and items strewn about. The daughter's body was found wedged into a chimney, while the mother’s decapitated body was discovered outside. Witnesses heard two distinct voices: one soft and French, the other harsh and unrecognizable, possibly foreign. The locked windows and doors puzzled the police, who could not determine how the killer(s) escaped. Dupin, intrigued by the case, decided we should investigate. Part Three Dupin's sharp mind quickly identified several key anomalies in the case. He questioned the extraordinary strength needed to commit the murders and the peculiar details of the crime scene. The chaotic room and the manner of death seemed to defy rational explanation, hinting at a non-human perpetrator. Dupin reasoned that the crime had been committed by a powerful being, possibly an animal, given the hair and blood found at the scene. The strange, unidentifiable voice witnesses heard reinforced this theory. Part Four Dupin and I visited the crime scene. He meticulously examined the room, paying close attention to the windows. Despite appearances, Dupin discovered that one window, seemingly nailed shut, could be opened from the outside. This indicated that the murderer had entered and exited through this window. Tota's investigation pointed towards a large, agile creature capable of climbing the building’s exterior, perhaps a strong girl or animal. He inferred that the assailant was not human and proposed a new theory about the crime. Part Five Tota revealed that he believed Stien was responsible for the murders. He explained that her strength and behavior matched the evidence found at the scene. Dupin had even placed an advertisement to find the owner of the orangutan, suspecting that the owner might come forward. And the owner does come forward, but not before noticing the strange helmet on the floor and putting it on. Tota: “Where am I?” \[Tota looks up, notices a long path that leads to a gallery\] \[Tota groans\] \[Cuts to Tota knocking on the door of the gallery\] Tota: My American isn’t very good, sorry, but could I come in please? \[Tota knocks aggressively\] Tota: This won’t work. \[He bashes through the door and finds Delacroix dead on the floor with the raven\] \[He looks up and sees that every painting resembles the shape of a bird\] \[Tota then sees a painting of a yellow torpedo with a face painted on\] Tota: Oh, no! Not an Echo Bomb! Not a པཧཝ་! (pronounced Pakhawa) \[the torpedo comes out of the painting and starts to point at Tota. It flies toward him.\] Tota: No! What are they doing with a Pakhawa!? \[Tota ducks behind a wall and the Echo Bomb hits it and explodes\] \[Tota walks through a door to find a raven factory with a very big image of Kleioowiskoo Toustaurou next to Charles dickens\] Tota: Ah, the 57322^(nd) Royal Quadrant of the Narrative Crows, I suppose? Wait no, it’s only 1840 AD, meaning we must be in the 57689^(th) Raven Quadrant, where the only reason the Narrative Ravens took over is because of the invention of time-travel. Tota: Wait a minute, how did I know what year it is? Tota: Oh! How could I forget! I’m THE John Axels, the sailor who owned the orangutan that killed two people! Cool! Anyway, what do I do now? I can’t just overthrow the narrative crows! They practically own this universe, and create all of the entertainment in the other universes! \[Tota accidentally steps on a crow, which prompts a live video of what he’s doing now to come up\] \[Tota turns and faces the camera\] Tota: You! Come here! If you don’t, I have the power to not just overthrow your Quadrant, but turn it upside down and give it a snapchat filter. That is when the screen went black. But the crows didn’t stop. Oh no, they kept going, because they knew that it was impossible to overthrow the Holy Royal Majesty’s 57689^(th) Great Quadrant. This wasn’t just a threat for Tota, however, as he started a war that day. The 17^(th) Great Tota War. Despite his consciousness change, Tota was still very powerful, especially with the power to summon other Quadrants’ Totas, and have a practically infinite army to conquer us with. But in the end, Tota: There are undoubtedly more of them. \[Tota cuts open the raven he just killed\] Tota: Hey, that’s not from here! That Raven definitely belongs to Quadrant 53778.55 of the Imaginative Earthen Narrative Camera Simulation Machines in a year some time in the 19^(th) century BCCE, just like me and Stien saw back at Quadrant 1.5 of the People of Quadrant 1 and a Half! \[Tota then gets scraped on the shoulder by a bullet\] Tota: Whoa! Who did that, because I would really like to have a word with you before this escalates into the 17^(th) Tota War of the Many Quadrants! Stien: Well I would too, but maybe after the war. Tota: Stien? Where were you!? Stien: You don’t remember your death? Because I put a *lot* of effort into it. Tota: Sorry, I didn’t hear that. I’m still getting some talkback from that Conscience Change. Stien: What did he say? Tota: Oh, nothing. I was just giving the usual lecture about how I’m not from a different universe and how silly that is. Stien: Wait, you aren’t? Tota: I told you I was from another Quadrant! Stien: I thought that meant universe! \[Tota sighs\] Tota: to understand where I’m from you must understand that the universe is infinitely big, and that there are only a certain number of arrangements that atoms can be in before they reset and duplicate and replicate the ones that have already been made. I simply travel between replications of Aarde and other planets. Stien: oh well. Tota: Oh no. Stien: Oh yes. Tota: Oh NO. Stien: Oh yes. Tota: You don’t understand! Stien: I understand perfectly. Tota: Oh yeah? Then what’s happening? Stien: The Narrative Ravens of this Earth are forming an Empire in union with the other Ravens and Crows, like the ones from my planet. Tota: Aarde of Quadrant 53778.55 of the Imaginative Earthen Narrative Camera Simulation Machines? Interesting. But wrong. They may be forming an empire and a union, but that isn’t all. Stien: Oh, really? Tota: Oh, yes. They have started a Flux; a Quadrant destroying thingy from Quadrant 688785 of the Gallifreyan Time Lords. Once it destroys this quadrant, the Crows are planning to extinguish the Raven Race, making Crows superior. Stien: Oh no. Tota: Oh yes. Stien: Oh no. Tota: Oh yes. And I’m leaving here, and I’m gonna desert you for killing me. Stien: Oh no. Tota: Oh yes. Stien: Oh no. Tota: Can we kill the Raven that is making us do this stupid little thing? It’s getting on my nerves. Stien: Oh no. Tota: Shut up Stien: Oh no. \[Tota shoots Stien dead\] \[Tota gets in his ship and leaves\] \[cuts to Tota stand RECEIVED FROM HOLY ROYAL MAJESTY’S 57690TH GREAT SOUTHERN QUADRANT: Basically it was meant to cut to me watching the flux eat the quadrant but since the raven recording me was in it it died and the story was over, but I just wanted to tell you how it ended because I don’t like cliffhangers, especially when they don’t go anywhere.

Ping-fa By P. Orin Zack (8/13/2007)   “Looks like someone already thought of it,” Gisella Killarney said as she set a double-tall mocha down in front of Melissa Fox. Constitutional Evolution’s redheaded gamer slid into the second chair at the small table and glanced at the sketch her blond friend was touching up. Both wore light jackets and jeans. They’d been chatting over an aimless walk through Georgetown. Melissa fuzzed out some graphite with her thumb, then set her pencil down and reached for the cup. “For real? Sun Tzu’s been abducted by peaceniks?” “Yep. The University of Victoria brought it up at the ‘Art of War’ Symposium in Beijing. 1998. They dubbed it ‘peacefare’. Or, in the Chinese, ping-fa.” “Well, foo on that! Where’d they go with it?” Gisella took a sip, and eyed a young stud just entering the D.C. coffee shop. “Not where you were, that’s for sure. But they did make some good points we can use.” “Oh?” “Yeah. Like recognizing that unilateral disarmament ain’t gonna cut it. But they seemed more concerned with remapping Sun Tzu’s underlying constants than with the process itself. The folks from BC figured you still need some kind of moral law for the foundation of it all, and then swapped out Heaven and Earth for science and relevant solutions as the context it all happens in.” Melissa watched the busy barista behind the counter for a few seconds, then flipped to a fresh page and fluttered the pencil between her fingers. “What about leadership? I thought Sun Tzu was all about top-down command and control, generals moving soldiers around, like pawns in some live-fire board game.” “He was. Of course, that’s part of the process he was modeling. For peacefare – ping-fa – the community is the actor. But they wimped out and pegged it on nations, which cuts the people out of the action anyway.” “Then let’s lay out our own take on it, and see where we end up.” She flipped her pencil to writing position and tapped the paper. “The way I see it, the process Sun Tzu was modeling comes down to four activities. Assessing the enemy’s strengths and weaknesses, devising actions to exploit those weaknesses, amassing tools to implement the actions, and then engaging the enemy.” “Um.” The guy Gisella had noticed earlier was standing nearby, cup in hand. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Melissa looked up at him. Five-eight or so, face fur, puzzled expression. “You’ve studied Sun Tzu?” He shrugged. “Only tangentially. Mind if I join you? This sounds interesting.” “Pull up a seat. What’s your interest?” He swung a chair from the next table around, and slid in. “I’m Richard, by the way.” He exchanged handshakes with them. “The Art of War sort of fell on me one day at a book store. I was looking for something on psychic self-defense, and thought it might be useful to get something on strategy under my belt.” Gisella grinned. “Fell on you?” “Yeah. Off a high shelf. Books have a way of making themselves known when they want me to read them. I have a tendency to go with synchronicity. So I figured your chat might be why I dropped in here just now.” “Works for me. So what did we forget?” Richard tapped the list Melissa had just scribbled. “This third step, making the weapons. That generally happens well before Sun Tzu’s Commander has assessed the situation and understands the dynamics. He’s usually stuck with tools that came from some earlier conflict. So you really only have three steps.” He smiled at Gisella. “Where were you going with the thought? It sounded like you were about to run a mutation.” “Kinda, yeah. We’re using him to see what peacefare would be like.” “Oh, I get it. Like warfare. Sure. So, what was you’re thought?” Melissa drew an arrow from ‘making tools’ towards the top of the page, and struck out the last part of the second step. “Well, instead of the commander coming up with ways to attack your enemy’s weaknesses, the community would develop actions that use the combined capabilities of both sides for mutual benefit.” Gisella waited for her to write the revision, then gestured at the first line. “We should also change ‘enemy’ to ‘counterpart’ or something. Is there a better word for that?” “Not that I know of. This is turning into a language problem, too. But what—.” “So there you are, Dickie!” The conversational din was shattered by a booming voice from the open doorway, its owner a diminutive Goth in an oversize black frock. Richard snorted. “Crap. He followed me.” “Who’s that?” Melissa asked quietly. “Calls himself Greythorne. Fancies himself a darkside mage.” He rose and started towards the door. “Can we take this outside?” Greythorne planted his feet. “Nay. We do battle here.” The barista had by this time stepped out from the behind the counter. “Both of you. Out of here or I call the cops.” Richard motioned the patrons to stay calm as he made his way towards the door. “Like I told you earlier,” he said calmly to Greythorne, “there’s more to magic than just throwing spells at people. Ever heard of the Rede? ‘Harm none’? Anyone with power has an obligation to use it wisely. Doesn’t matter who you are – president, someone’s boss, a parent, anyone. That’s what evil is, Greythorne, or whatever your mother named you. It’s not what you do. It’s why you do it.” Greythorne stepped towards Richard, and raised his arm, palm open, towards him. “I curse you!” he intoned. “May the spirit of death ride your soul into the very fortress of Hades!” Melissa flipped a page and started sketching furiously. Under her fingers, the coffee shop transformed into something out of a graphic novel, with real and fantasy elements interwoven around the two battling figures, one garbed, the other in street clothes. She feathered in visuals for the imagined bolts of energy the intruder was casting past frightened bystanders. Richard stood his ground, seemingly immune to the stream of nonsense that Melissa sketched as half-formed demons in the shadows. “You really don’t get it, do you? Death can’t scare someone who doesn’t believe in it. None of your curses have any power except what people are frightened into giving it. Get out of here. Go spend some time learning what magic is really all about.” “Think I can’t hurt you, huh? Fine. I don’t really give a crap. I’ll just go after your two friends there, instead!” With that, he wheeled towards the two women and held both palms towards them, a dark leer on his face. “Take this!” For a split second, Melissa felt something tear through her, a sickening stench passed her nose, and she reeled from a sudden wrenching pain. Then it vanished, sending a shiver down her spine. By the time she’d refocused her eyes, Greythorne was face down on the floor, with Richard pressing the man’s wrist up between his shoulder blades. A small cheer had gone up among the patrons, and the barista was waving a cell phone in the air. Richard pushed the arm tighter. “Here’s your choice, jerk. Either you leave now, or I’ll hold you here for the police. What’s it to be?” He grimaced. “I’ll go.” Once the excitement died down, Richard returned to his seat. “Sorry about that, ladies. I guess you know why I was looking for that self-defense book, now.” “The heck with that,” Gisella said, waving it off. “What just happened?” “Yeah,” Melissa added. “Whatever he was doing, I felt something.” “I’m not surprised. You are an artist, after all.” He peered over her arm at the sketch. “That means you’re tuned into the kind of energy that people build their personal fantasies on. His is just out of control, that’s all.” “But you stopped him. How’d you do that?” He shrugged. “Sun Tzu. He was engaging you. That left his flank unprotected. But, like I said, I’m more interested in how you plan to transform his treatise on war--.” “Strategy, really,” Gisella corrected. “Strategy, then. You’re transforming a book on strategy into one about making peace. I’m all for that. How can I help?” Gisella chuckled. “You already have.” “Hmmm?” “Yeah. This version’s all about a community effort, not command and control.” “So?” “Welcome to the community. There’s some people I’d like you to meet.”   THE END Copyright 2007 by P.

The forest was dark, but not just the normal kind that you see during the night, the darkness seemed foggy and unnatural. It's as if the very darkness obstructs your view, as if it was opaque like an actual object and has physical presence. It was as if it was alive, seeking to consume, rather than inanimate. Frantic footsteps echo through the forest, a man is trying to run away from a large silhouette flying overhead. It's wearing some type of armor covered in various deep scratches and a sword with cracks in it, both looks like it's made of gold and glowing a bright yellow. The man's breathing gets rapid as his footsteps gradually become less frequent, until he stumbles to the ground. On his back are white angelic wings, he tries to extend them but to no avail, he also has a glowing halo above his head that gets dimmer by the second. "You can't get away for long, brother!" A voice boomed from above The silhouette's shape appears to possess horns that have a slight purple glow, along with dark feathery wings that seem to be glowing neon purple and black. The silhouette soars overhead, and lands in front of the man. "You're on your last legs, after all!" The silhouette spoke The armored angel tried to push himself off the floor, it takes a while but he's standing on two legs again, visibly exhausted. He readies his sword and winds it back to strike at the mysterious shadow, but the dark figure took out a scythe and smacked the bright gold sword away. The man, now unarmed, steadied his balance. "My dear sibling, please, you don't have to do this!" The winged man pleaded. "Just because you're the embodiment of darkness doesn't make you a bad person! You don't have to bring endless darkness in the world, darkness is necessary for the world's balance but that-" "SILENCE!" The shadow in the darkness cuts the man off. They steadily walk toward him, scythe in hand. "You're a hypocrite, my brother! If you really cared for me at all you would have treated me better! You would've been there for me when they started calling me a monster!" the dark shape says. "MY dearest sibling, please, had I have know you were in such pain I'd have done something about it and-" "ENOUGH!" The shadowy figure interrupted. "I am so TIRED of being seen as a bad person, I am so SICK of not being heard! I am absolutely DONE with the isolation and ridicule, brother!" the figure gradually gets closer into the light. The shadowy shape is revealed to be someone who looks similar to the man in armor, but with purple armor, has 5 spider-like eyes and has fangs sporting a toothy grin. The creature raises the purple scythe and prepares to bring it down onto the angel. "You're way too kind, brother, it's a weakness. Always trying to help others instead of just helping yourself!" The monster cackles maniacally. "I mean, the only reason you're even losing this fight is because you used your body to shield those worthless townsfolk! How laughable!" "No... I was just trying to save them I-" "And now instead of a few villager, guess what brother? It'll be everyone, all because you were too kind to help yourself, enjoy the blood on your hands!" The monster said as the man begins to hold back his tears. The figure swings the scythe at the man, but just barely managed to dodge it. He takes off his armor as fast as he can and put his hand to one of his more serious wounds. A bright light starts to glow from the palm of his hands, which dims and disappears after a short while. He removes his hand to find the wound still there. "A laughable effort brother!" the being of darkness started. "But even I know that despite angel magic being the most potent kind of magic for healing in the world, it's effectiveness on other angels is essentially minimal!" The purple figure cackles uncontrollably once more. The monster keeps cackling, their eyes have no pupils, and yet it seems to have a hint of insanity to them, as if they were pools of darkness that just kept growing and growing. While the creature cackles, the angel starts to glow a bright golden yellow. The horned creature suddenly stops cackling and stares in bewilderment. The angelic warrior begins to float gradually off the ground, his wounds had completely disappeared, the soft glow became increasingly bright and blinding, the monster shields their eyes and jolts backwards, as if the light physically hurt their body as well as their eyes, it hisses in pain. The man's wings extend outward, and after being airborne for a while, gently drops to the floor, his wounds have disappeared. "...What? How can this be!?" The dark being sputtered. "While it's true that angels can't quite heal themselves well" The rejuvenated warrior started. "I'm the embodiment of light, my dear sibling, what kind of protector wouldn't be able to help everyone?" The man has a smirk on his face. The creature of night stares in surprise, a slight hint of fear in its eyes. The Angel throws a punch and- The monster was blinded and rocketed backwards, their head felt fuzzy and they couldn't see. They felt different, the ground was soft and warm, nothing like that of a forest. The creature reaches for their face when they realize there's some kind of blanket obstructing their view. They quickly threw the blanket off of them, they're in a bedroom. The creature rushes to the mirror frantically to see their reflection, they're wearing a black vest and sweatpants, they started reaching for their back and tried to feel around for something, they didn't have wings anymore. The creature let out a sigh of relief. "It was just a dream..." they whispered. Suddenly the door swung open, and out comes a man with a white hoodie and pure white wings, his light brown skin dripping with sweat, the man seemingly out of breath begins to speak. "My sibling, there's some trouble down by the waterfall again and I-" he paused suddenly and saw the blanket on the floor, the bed messy and the fuzzy carpeting rustled. "Uh, is there anything wrong? You look like you woke up on the wrong side of the bed, heh..." The angel smiles weakly, the 5-eyed person just stared silently in response. "Sorry, I uh... know you hate puns" the angel's smirk turned into a frown. "You had the nightmare again, didn't you?" The angel's tone suddenly turned sullen. "Uh... No?" The creature lied. "Husk, you're lying. You're usually good at lying, the only thing that would get you this shaken up is that nightmare you've been having!" The angel continues. The creature stared at the floor, then nodded silently.

(Trying to improve my writing. Plz give feedback) It’s midnight, and my baby and partner are asleep. My partner graciously gave me the bed and room to myself tonight. He thought I would enjoy some time alone. So, here I am, alone in the dark. I used to be scared of the dark. The shadows pacing across the walls, the black and white eyesight, and the silent breathing of air in the room made me too aware of myself. The darkness took away my ability to find other things to focus on. No books to read, no TV to watch, no songs to listen to - just me and my thoughts. Tonight is a night like that. My thoughts are neverending, highly critical, and impossible to please. I stare at the wall as they berate me. *“You could have been a better Mother today. Your child deserves more than what you can give him. Maybe he’d be better off with-”* I turn my head before they can finish. I close my eyes and hope my body can finally fall asleep, but the burn from exhaustion is too much to remain closed. I open my eyes to look at the shadows. The trees swing back and forth spreading eerie patterns of light and darkness across my walls. I focus on the shapes I can identify within the patterns and how beautiful it is that the trees are putting on a special show just for me. My eyes start to feel heavy, I try not to get excited, avoiding any reasons to perk back up. The heaviness begins to spread over my body, I embrace it. I am drifting into a slumber until a loud thud from my upstairs neighbor interrupts me. A deep sigh leaves my body and I sit up staring into the darkest part of the room. *“See? You knew the answer all along. If you leave now they won’t even remember you were here in the first place.”* A single tear slides down my face and I start to nod my head - yes. They’re right. If I left now, I’d be saving them from me. Who did I think I was? Strong enough to be a Mother? My son and my partner deserve someone who can go to sleep and enjoy being alone. Someone who is not scared of her mind. Someone who can love themselves properly. But where would I go? There is no way I could reside on Earth without them. My leave of absence needs to be permanent. The door suddenly opens and I look over to see my partner. “Why are you awake?” “I couldn't sleep.” “Do you want me to stay?” “yes…” Without telling me why he felt the need to check on me, he climbs over to his side of the bed, opens the blanket, and motions for me to shuffle closer to him. I do. His body is warm and comforting. I sink into him and shed another single tear. I start to fall asleep in his arms.

Stories like men are alive; they breathe, they grow, they feed, and are fed by their audience. Personally, I find myself most fascinated by the old stories of Earth. Back when men could only stare longingly at the night sky. They still Inspire us even now, centuries after we’ve reached those once distant stars. We name our planets after gods long abandoned, and ships after ancient heroes. Why is it that no matter how far we progress, we still idolize those earliest legends? Our Icarus, this ship we call home, is named after one such tragic legend. One of many who dared tread into the Sun’s realm. Is it irony or intention that we explore the distances between stars? Or look to Nidavellir, Humanity’s grandest shipyard. One named after a forge at the heart of a star. I digress. You’ve come for one such tale, not a lesson on naming conventions. This is one of the last legends from Earth. One many of you might know in part. Nos Terra. We the Earth. “So it was, so we were, so we are. They were subtle at first, those things called humans. Pack animals and persistence predators; small groups that simply chased their prey until it died of exhaustion. Like the wolves they would later tame. For hundreds of thousands of years, they were simply Apes. Almost at once they tamed fire, created tools, founded agriculture. We like to think this is where their war began. They felled our forests, so they might burn our corpses. They shattered our stones, so they might exclude us from their homes. Those early tribes swiftly became kingdoms. In this era they had already subjugated many of us; bred us to suit their needs. Their mastery of fire so great they melted stone, casted or forged those refined stones into improved tools. They sold us to others of their kind. Killed us for sport, deciding themselves better. They soon learned of water’s hidden powers. They quickly conquered even that. There was so much that happened before this era, as it was their longest, but here is where their war escalated. They turned water steam, and through grand machina made that steam labor for them. Their cities suffocated our skies, poisoning the rain itself. Quickly Lightning fell victim to them. By now some of them were fighting for us, foreseeing the truth that was to come. With lightning, they made stones think for them. Their structures now rose above the clouds. The sun fell upon us, marking the beginning of the finial era. They called it atomic, and it only got bigger. Even they feared these, yet they made more. They turned their eyes upwards, seeking to claim our moon. Then our neighbor, mars. All the while stealing from us, killing us, like the rampant parasites they somehow became. Then the atomics fell again, soon after they left. Leaving us with the husk of what once belonged to all things. They reached for the stars and abandoned us. We are the earth, we are human, we are destroyers.

“Symbolism and Intent” By P. Orin Zack (08/16/2007)   Derek Boa’s pace slowed as Bartholdi’s Fountain came into view from the sidewalk along Independence Ave SW in the Capital District. He hadn’t met Richard yet, and only had Gisella’s breathless description of him to go on. Between the people passing in front of him, he scanned the area, looking for, as Gisella had put it, a ‘Gary Cooper type’, if the actor had been a few inches short of 6 foot, and spent his time playing soccer. Fortunately, he didn’t have to check everyone’s profile, because a guy in a blue warmup jacket was staring at him, and waving a half-wrapped candy bar in the air. As Derek started towards him, the man took a bite and stuffed the rest in his pocket. “You’re Derek, aren’t you.” It was a statement. If this was Richard, he had a bit of an Aussie twang. Boa shrugged. “Yeah. I guess the ladies told you what I look like, huh?” “Not really. Didn’t need to. I just have a knack, a gift, you could say.” Richard had suggested they meet for a lunch chat by the fountain, and each was carrying a bag. The longest open area along the low wall surrounding Bartholdi’s wedding cake of a cast-iron fountain was off to the left, so they wandered over while making small talk. Once the formalities were dispensed with, Derek gestured back towards the sidewalk he’d entered from. “So what’s with this knack you’ve got?” He took a bite of his sandwich. “Variation on psychometry, really. Tell yourself you can sense something, and after a bit you can. People use it for all sorts of stuff. Finding water, missing keys. I’m better with people, myself.” Derek looked askance. “You just told yourself you could pick me out, and then did it. Like magic.” “Worked, didn’t it?” “Listen, a friend of mine in Seattle is into magic. It’s his religion, I guess.” Richard downed some water from the bottle on his belt-clip. “Wiccan?” “I think so, yeah.” “I’m more of an independent. Don’t go by the book, or anything like that. So, for instance, that psychometry I just did. All you need is to decide what you want to do – your intent, and figure some way to represent it to yourself – a symbol. For pegging you, I used the feel of snakeskin. All the rest is just details.” Derek winced at the overused joke, and looked around for an exit. “Symbols,” he muttered. “Sure. The world’s full of them.” “Oh, yeah? Then what’s all the froufrou ironwork in this fountain mean?” he asked, glancing at the profusion of figures ringing the core. “Not a clue. Never thought about it. But I’ll tell you what. Since you’re curious, you can take the assignment. Let me know what you come up with.” Derek stared at him for a moment. “What did you just say?” He shrugged. “It’s your idea, so you get the work ticket. Why?” “Did Melissa put you up to this? For payback?” Richard laughed. “Payback? No. Ping-fa, maybe. You sent her off to translate ‘The Art of War’ for peacefare. Well, you just lost a round on the field of babble. Think about it. We’re his Commanders. Words and ideas are our armies. Only instead of engaging your adversary in battle, you engage him in collaboration. Delegation by accession. Most of Sun Tzu’s advice works for verbal jousts as easily as for the REAL sport of kings.” Derek finished his sandwich without a further word. Trapping people into volunteering was one of his favorite ploys, and pulling it on Melissa during her first visit with the activist crew he’d drawn into Constitutional Evolution was a bit premature, even for him. Now he was feeling guilty about having done it. He hadn’t realized that he’d zoned out on introspection when he felt a knuckle in the ribs. “You still there? Looks like you went compute-bound for a bit.” Richard snapped off the back end of his candy bar, then offered it up. “Here. Try some of this. The chocolate’s good for the grey matter. It’s one of those new time-release things. They claim the effect lasts for hours.” Derek was about to pop it into his mouth when someone inserted a fluorescent green flier between him and his treat. “Don’t you know what’s in that stuff?” Richard grabbed the man’s wrist and eased it away. “Malcolm Jeffries. Good to see you again.” “Do I know you?” While the two wrangled verbally, Derek slipped the paper free and glanced it over. There was a hearing scheduled that afternoon in congress about a new wave of genetically modified organisms in the food chain. The sheet had scare stories, contact info for some companies, and which of their products contained the GMOs. He scanned down the list and found the one Richard had brought. He held up the piece of chocolate bar, which was starting to melt, to get Jeffries’ attention. “You’re drumming up a crowd for a protest?” “The more the better. Interested?” Richard shook his head in amusement. “A symbolic gesture? Funny you should bring that up. We were just talking about what all them critters and such in that fountain all meant to the guy who made it. Bartholdi, was it?” Jeffries’ face hardened. “It’s not symbolic. Protests directly affect what goes on in government. If it didn’t, we wouldn’t be doing it.” “Sure it is. For one thing, it’s a symbol of your opposition to the idea of food scientists messing with molecules.” “Messing with food.” He corrected. “Not really. Food’s just a symbol you use to represent the idea that the body you inhabit can make use of certain other bits of the world for nourishment.” He paused for a moment as a flicker of puzzlement crossed Jeffries’ face. “They’re just messing with the molecules in that bit of the world.” “Same thing. What’s your point?” “Just that if you’re going to engage in a magical act, you really ought to know what you’re doing.” “Magic?” Derek was lost, and looked it. “Where’d that come from?” Richard closed his eyes and took a breath. “In simple terms, magic is nothing more than the application of some symbol for a chosen purpose, an intent. Both of you are involved in political activity of some sort. You use different methods, have different goals, but both of you share a common symbol – one that represents a government which is honest and responsive to the needs of the people.” Derek absently popped the chocolate into his mouth, and licked his fingers. Jeffries blanched. “But the government isn’t the symbol. It’s lots of people all doing things for whatever personal reasons they may have. And your hope, the hope you each carry into your actions, is that there’s a relationship between what you do, and what that government does. Both of you put energy into performing activities intended to help direct that government so that it conforms to your symbol for it. In other words, you’re both trying to control one thing by acting on another. That’s called sympathetic magic.” Jeffries drew back. “What’s that got to do with the GMOs in what your friend here just ate?” “Changing some of the molecules, engineering the corn, or whatever it was they put into the chocolate, is no different from swapping out one group of bureaucrats for another. The government’s still the government. It may act slightly different, but it’s still performing the same function. Same thing with food. Swap some molecules, and it’s still nourishment. Both of you are concerned with the nature of a symbol. Derek wants to change the one that our government resonates to, and you’re opposed to changes in one that our bodies resonate to.” “Look. All I wanted was to find out if either of you wants to join the protest. Can I get a straight answer from someone?” Richard finished his chocolate and handed him the crumpled wrapper. “No thanks. But I would appreciate it if you’d find a basket for that. Unless, of course, you think those molecules can hurt you just by touching them.” Jeffries dropped the wrapper and stormed off. Derek watched him for a few seconds, then turned back to Richard. “Why’d you do that?” “Ping-fa.” “Peacefare?” “Sure. Sun Tzu builds on the assumption of there being two adversaries, each represented and directed by a commander. He says to compare the leaders and their armies as a way to gauge the situation, because from that assessment, all else follows.” Derek nodded, then shifted his gaze towards the fountain. “The thing is, there’s a side-effect to making that assessment. Comparison, with the intent of determining dominance, means looking for differences. By doing it, you affect the symbols you harbor representing the two sides, further strengthening the distinction. Take that to an extreme, which is not something Sun Tzu suggests, and you end up with the kind of good versus evil dichotomy that fuels religious wars.” While Richard talked, Derek studied the trio of robed figures in the middle of the cast iron sculpture and wondered what they were. “Well, if we’re turning the idea around, wouldn’t you want to start by seeing how the parties are alike?” In the silence that followed, Derek slowly turned back towards Richard. “There’s something else. Something you’re not telling me. That was meant for both of us. Why?” He shrugged. “You guys are born adversaries. I told you. I have a knack.”   THE END Copyright 2007 P.

Low-pitched Gregorian chants filled the boardroom at The Boeing Company as the light from burning wax candles flickered off the walls and office chairs in an otherwise completely darkened room. The main meeting table had been removed, and a red pentagram was painted onto the floor in its place. In the middle of the pentagram knelt Robert K. “Kelly” Ortberg, the board's presumptive choice for the role of CEO and President. He was surrounded on all sides by the board members themselves. They wore black cloaks over their business suits, save for their Leader, who wore a cloak of red. Their hoods concealed their faces. After what seemed like an eternity, their Leader leaned forward into the candlelight until only his mouth was visible. He opened his mouth to speak, and his words came out slowly: his delivery gravelly, tired, and sinister - like the Emperor calling out to a young Luke Skywalker - yet his voice boomed with the power of a thousands storms. “Robert,” he uttered. “Are you ready to do our bidding?” Robert’s eyes darted around the dozen old men surrounding him. He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Y-yes I am, dear corporate overlords. I am ready.” The Leader smiled and clapped twice, loudly. The Gregorian chanting stopped, and each board member slowly unsheathed and drew a massive kitchen knife from within their cloak. “And you know what we will expect of you?” the Leader asked. Robert’s pulse quickened, sweat pouring down his face. He blinked to keep it out of his eyes. “I do, my Leader. I am yours to command.” Pleased by this declaration of fealty, the Leader nodded, and each board member ran their kitchen knife across the palm of their right hand. Blood spurted across the dimly-lit boardroom in a dozen directions, spattering all over Robert’s face and suit. The board members slowly walked up to Robert and placed their pulsating wounds on his face, adjusting their positions so that they could all fit, leaving not a single space on Robert’s face uncovered by their bleeding hands - save for his gaping mouth. After a moment, the Leader delivered his final, most critical command. “Let no whistleblower live, Robert. Let the streets run red with their blood, as your face does with ours. To this one end, we empower you, and hold you responsible." “I-I will! I promise!” Robert yelped, their blood filling his mouth and making it almost impossible for him to speak. The board members let him gurgle and choke for a few more moments before they simultaneously removed their palms from his face and lowered their hands to their sides in unison. The room was quiet for a while, save for the flickering of the candles and the cries of a bloodied, whimpering Robert kneeling in front of them. Slowly, the board members left, one by one, until only Robert and the Leader were in the room together. The Leader walked up to Robert and knelt down until they were at eye level with each other. He extended an old, wrinkled hand and wiped the blood from Robert's eyes down onto his cheeks, caressing his face the way a mother might caress her newborn baby. Without warning, the Leader violently slapped Robert on the face and grabbed him by the chin. He squeezed hard, with the vice grip of a man who was no stranger to violence, forcing Robert to open his eyes from both horror and pain. "We own you, Robert. Don't you ever forget that." Robert stared into the Leader's hood in terror, his mouth agape. He could just barely see his beady black eyes gazing back at him from within the depths of his hood. The Leader threw him to the ground, and exited the room. Robert lay there crying, wallowing in a puddle of blood, snot and self-pity. He was finally snapped out of his horrified stupor by his phone vibrating in his pocket. He took it out and squinted - it was a text from his wife.

Chapter 7 As the sun begins its descent, casting a golden glow over the Enchanted Glade, Morgan and I stand together, watching Emma as she enthusiastically gathers herbs for her quest. The serene beauty of the glade is almost magical, and Emma’s excitement is palpable, her pendant’s orb shifting hues with every new find. Morgan stands next to me, her blonde ponytail swaying gently with the breeze. Her denim jacket, worn casually over a pink crop top, and her silver-grey eyes give her an effortlessly stylish and laid-back look. As she watches Emma with a smile, the sunlight makes her eyes shimmer with a warm, ethereal glow. “Wow, she’s really immersed in this,” I remark, attempting to keep my tone casual while my admiration for both Emma’s enthusiasm and Morgan’s guidance shines through. Morgan’s gaze is soft as she watches Emma, her expression a blend of affection and protectiveness. “Yeah, it’s great to see her so excited. She’s been talking about this game since I told her about it, and now she’s finally getting to experience it firsthand.” I take a moment to appreciate Morgan’s effortless style—the way her denim jacket contrasts with her pink crop top and how her silver-grey eyes glimmer in the light. “You’ve been incredible with her. It’s heartwarming to see how you’ve stepped into the role of her guide and friend, especially as her big sister.” Morgan’s eyes flicker with surprise as she meets my gaze. The warmth in her silver-grey eyes, combined with a faint blush on her cheeks, makes her look both approachable and genuine. “Thanks, Luke. That really means a lot to me.” A brief, comfortable silence falls between us. The gentle sounds of the glade and Emma’s excited chatter create a serene backdrop. I find myself drawn to Morgan, and as I step a little closer, our proximity seems to heighten the moment’s intimacy. “You know, you really do have a way with people. It’s one of the things I admire about you,” I say softly. Morgan’s cheeks flush with a gentle warmth, and she turns her face just enough to let her ponytail fall over her shoulder. Her usual composure softens, revealing a more vulnerable side that I don’t often see. “Thanks, Luke. That really means a lot to me.” I reach out and briefly touch her arm, the light contact creating a subtle, electric jolt between us. Morgan’s eyes meet mine, silver-grey reflecting the golden hues of the setting sun. Just as the moment seems to reach its peak, Emma’s voice cuts through the quiet. “Hey, everyone! I’ve finished the quest. What should we do next?” The sound of Emma’s voice interrupts us, and I sense a shift in the air. Morgan’s gaze snaps to Emma, her expression transitioning from warmth to a more neutral, focused demeanor. The charged connection between Morgan and me dissipates, leaving an awkward but polite distance. “Great job, Emma!” I say with a smile as I take in the deepening hues of the evening sky. The sun dips lower, casting long shadows and painting the horizon in shades of gold and orange. “It’s getting late. Let’s head back to the Town Hall and prepare to return to the pods.” Morgan adjusts her denim jacket and tucks a strand of her blonde ponytail behind her ear. Her silver-grey eyes reflect a mix of satisfaction and curiosity. “I agree. It’s getting late, and you know Dad wouldn’t want us out too late on a school night.” As we make our way back, the tranquil atmosphere of the Enchanted Glade gradually gives way to the lively energy of Cyberia Town Hall. The bustling hub is filled with players chatting, trading, and preparing for various activities. Just as we approach the Town Hall, a loud, cheerful chime echoes through the air, grabbing everyone’s attention. A holographic projection of Dr. Sebastian Drake appears on the steps of the Town Hall. His distinguished figure, now visible to all, commands the crowd’s focus. “Greetings, adventurers!” Dr. Drake’s voice resonates with enthusiasm. “I’m excited to announce a new competition for all of you! We’re hosting a Capture the Flag event, and it’s going to be a thrilling challenge. Teams will compete for the chance to win exclusive in-game rewards and, of course, bragging rights.” The crowd buzzes with anticipation as Dr. Drake continues, “Sign-ups are open now, and the competition will take place tomorrow. Gather your teams, strategize, and prepare for an action-packed experience!” Morgan, Emma, and I exchange glances. The announcement stirs a mix of excitement and nervous energy. “Looks like we’ve got a new challenge ahead,” I say, my voice carrying a note of determination. “What’s your take?” Morgan’s silver-grey eyes sparkle with a mix of excitement and concentration. “It’s going to be a lot of fun. But remember, it’s also going to be intense. We’ll need to work together and stay focused if we want to come out on top.” As the crowd starts to disperse, we begin heading back towards the pods. “Grayson’s definitely going to be a great addition to our team,” Morgan says, her tone enthusiastic. “With us three on a team, who’s going to stop us?” she says with a smirk of confidence. Emma, catching the excitement in our conversation, asks eagerly, “Can I join the Capture the Flag competition too?” Morgan’s expression turns gentle but firm as she meets Emma’s hopeful gaze. “I appreciate the enthusiasm, Emma, but I think it’s best if you sit this one out. It’s going to be pretty intense, and we want to make sure we’re all on the same page for this. You’ll get your chance to dive into challenges like this soon enough.” As Morgan speaks, Emma’s pendant shifts from its usual bright hues to a softer, dimmer shade, reflecting her disappointment. Her shoulders slump slightly, and her face falls as she nods understandingly. “Oh okay. Maybe next time.” With that settled, we continue our walk, the day’s energy still buzzing around us. The excitement for tomorrow’s Capture the Flag event is palpable, and we’re ready to face whatever challenges come our way. **Chapter 8** The afternoon sun filters through the school’s cafeteria windows as Grayson, Morgan, and I settle down at a table, our trays of food in front of us. The buzz of conversation and the clatter of trays create a lively backdrop to our discussion. “So, Emma’s officially part of Cyberia now,” Grayson says with a grin, taking a bite of his sandwich. “I guess she’ll be the newest recruit to our digital squad. We should probably come up with a nickname—maybe ‘The Rookie’ or something.” Morgan laughs, her silver-grey eyes twinkling with amusement. “I think she’ll do just fine once she gets the hang of things. She’s enthusiastic and eager to learn.” Grayson leans back, casually tossing a chip into his mouth. “Sounds like it’s going to be a blast. But we might run into a logistical problem.” I glance at him, curious. “What do you mean?” Grayson grins. “We might need another pod for the clubhouse. With Emma joining us, we’re a bit short.” I give a thoughtful nod. “Yeah, you’re right. It would be awkward with only three pods and four of us. Grayson, I’ll check the school’s basement and see if there are any extras lying around.” Grayson raises an eyebrow, a playful glint in his eye. “I’m coming with you. I’m not missing out on the adventure of finding a chair in the depths of the school basement.” Morgan chuckles, her silver-grey eyes reflecting the warmth of the café’s ambient light. “Good luck with that. Do me a favor: try not to get caught,” she says with a half-smile. Grayson’s smirk widens as he adds, “Ah, the epic quest for the lost chair. Make sure to document your findings for posterity.” With a final chuckle from Morgan, Grayson and I head towards the school’s basement, embarking on our “epic quest for the lost chair.” The hallways are quiet in the late afternoon, their usual buzz of activity having faded. As we approach the basement entrance, the lighthearted spirit of our “adventure” adds a sense of playful anticipation to what might otherwise be a routine task. The basement is dimly lit, with flickering overhead lights that cast eerie shadows across the stacks of old equipment and forgotten supplies. The air is thick with the musty smell of mildew and dust, and each step we take sends a small cloud of particles swirling around us. The walls, once white, are now a patchwork of grime and faded posters, their peeling edges revealing hints of long-forgotten school events. Old gym equipment is piled haphazardly in one corner—rusty exercise bikes and deflated basketballs lie in a tangled mess, their surfaces coated in a fine layer of dust. Outdated computers with CRT monitors sit like relics from another era, their once-vibrant screens now dim and scratched. A few half-empty boxes of textbooks are stacked precariously, their contents spilling out in disarray. As we move further into the basement, the dim light reveals more forgotten items: a row of dusty musical instruments, a collection of unused science lab apparatus, and an old filing cabinet with its drawers slightly ajar. The occasional creak of the floorboards and the distant hum of an old air conditioning unit add to the atmosphere of this neglected space. Grayson and I step carefully over piles of dusty boxes and tangled cables, the air filled with a musty smell. “This place is like a treasure trove of ancient artifacts,” Grayson jokes, his voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space. “We might stumble upon something even more exciting than a chair.” I shake my head with a smile. “Let’s stick to finding the chair for now. We can save the grand discoveries for another day.” We continue our search, moving past old gym equipment, outdated computers, and a variety of other forgotten items. At the far end of the room, behind a jumble of cardboard boxes and tangled cables, we finally spot the lone pod. It’s covered in a thin layer of dust, with a few scratches on its surface, but it looks sturdy enough. The pod stands out against the cluttered backdrop, almost like a forgotten treasure waiting to be rediscovered. As we pull boxes away from the pod, I can’t help but comment, “There were definitely more chairs here when Morgan and I first found this place. I remember seeing a whole row of them.” Grayson shrugs with a casual grin. “Maybe they were moved or something. Or the basement's just playing tricks on us. Either way, it’s not like we’re in a furniture store; one chair should be enough.” “We are going to need Morgan’s dad’s truck to help us move this thing. It’s way too big for us to move now,” I say. Later, as the final bell rings and the school day ends, Morgan, Grayson, her dad, and I gather outside. Morgan’s dad arrives with his truck, ready to assist with moving the chair. We load the chair into the truck bed and secure it carefully. Grayson, wiping sweat from his forehead, jokes, “I may be the quarterback of the football team, but even my muscles have their limits. I’m not exactly built for moving furniture!” Morgan’s dad chuckles and shakes his head. “It’s crazy how the school is just letting you guys keep all this stuff,” he comments, a mix of disbelief and amusement in his voice. Grayson, securing the final straps with a smirk, replies, “Yeah, it's like we're running a top-secret operation. Maybe the basement’s a black hole for lost items.” Morgan’s dad chuckles and shakes his head. “Just make sure you don’t attract too much attention. The last thing you need is a surprise inspection.” With everything loaded and ready, we drive to the clubhouse. The addition of the new chair makes our base feel more crowded than before. Morgan glances at me and says, “I hope your parents don’t mind us borrowing their space for this. It’s starting to look like quite the mess.” I give her a reassuring smile. “They’ve been pretty cool about everything. I’m sure they’ll be fine. Plus, they’re both gone for work most of the time.” With everything loaded and ready, we drive to the clubhouse. The addition of the new chair makes our base feel more crowded than before, but it’s a welcome upgrade. “Thanks again for the help, Mr. Reynolds,” I say, genuinely appreciative. Mr. Reynolds waves it off with a smile. “No problem, guys. Just make sure you’re not home too late tonight, Morgan.” Morgan embraces her dad in a warm hug before he heads off. “I won’t. See you later!” As Mr. Reynolds’ truck slowly disappears down the street, the gentle hum of its engine fades into the distance, leaving behind a soft, rhythmic purr that echoes faintly in the quiet evening. The sound of tires rolling over the pavement gradually gives way to the tranquil stillness of the night. With Mr. Reynolds now gone, Grayson flashes a mischievous grin and says, “Nice hug, Morgan. Did you have to say goodbye like that? You’re making us look bad—most people just wave!” Morgan laughs and shakes her head, her smile warm. “Yeah, well, some of us actually like our parents.” With that, we make our way over to the pods, the anticipation of the upcoming competition adding a sense of energy to the air. As we settle into our seats, the soft glow of the screens and the gentle whirring of the machinery create a comforting ambiance, marking the transition from the real world to the digital world of Cyberia. **Chapter 9** The digital landscape of Cyberia unfolds around us as we step into the familiar confines of the Town Hall. The vibrant colors and bustling activity of players create an energetic atmosphere, but today’s focus is on the highly anticipated Capture the Flag game. The anticipation is palpable as players gather, ready to participate. A large, illuminated sign directs us to the line for the laser scan—a new feature for the event. The line for the scan is organized and efficient, winding its way toward a series of laser devices that perform a full-body scan on each participant. The devices emit a soft blue glow, casting a shimmering light as they pass over each player from head to toe. The scanning process ensures that everyone’s data is accurately synced before entering the arena. Grayson looks at the scanning setup with curiosity. “This is new. What’s the deal with the lasers?” Morgan and I exchange glances. We haven’t seen this scanning system before and are unsure of its purpose. “This is new,” Morgan muses. “I wonder why they’ve implemented it.” Just then, Ian, a familiar face, steps into view. His presence immediately catches our attention. His demeanor is as calm and collected as ever, but there’s a sense of purpose in his stride. As he notices us, he offers a nod of recognition. As Ian lines up for the scan, the laser-like device begins its work. The device emits a soft, pulsating glow as it moves meticulously from top to bottom, scanning his figure. As the laser progresses downwards, Ian’s body gradually begins to dissolve into a shimmering, digital light. The process is smooth yet deliberate, and within moments, Ian is fully enveloped by the laser's glow. The scene around him shifts, and he is transported to the Capture the Flag arena, step by step. With the scan complete, the rest of us follow the same process. One by one, we are enveloped by the laser's glow and transported to the arena. The atmosphere is electric with anticipation as players materialize on the sprawling battlefield. The Capture the Flag arena sprawls out in a vast, open expanse, designed to offer a dynamic and immersive battlefield. The field is a sprawling landscape, bisected by a series of towering walls that create two distinct territories. These walls, made of a sleek, futuristic material, rise high into the sky, casting imposing shadows across the arena. They are not only barriers but also offer various vantage points and platforms for players to strategize and engage in tactical maneuvers. Between the walls and scattered throughout the arena are a variety of obstacles and terrain features. There are rugged hills and valleys, dotted with clusters of digital trees and rocky outcrops. Some areas are covered in dense, artificial foliage that provides cover and concealment. There are also strategically placed ramps and bridges that allow players to traverse the arena’s vertical elements, adding layers of complexity to the gameplay. Each team’s base is marked by a large flagpole that stands prominently at the rear of their territory. The flags themselves are vivid and animated, fluttering dynamically in the virtual breeze. Surrounding each base are defensive structures, such as barricades and turrets, designed to protect the flag and create chokepoints for the opposing team. The bases are adorned with neon lights and holographic emblems that signify team colors and provide a sense of identity and pride. The central area of the arena is a battleground of shifting terrain. A large, circular pit in the center acts as a high-stakes zone where intense confrontations are likely to occur. This pit is lined with interactive elements that can be triggered to create hazards or opportunities for players. The edges of the pit are surrounded by a series of ramps and platforms, allowing for fluid movement and aerial tactics. Above the arena, a digital skybox simulates various atmospheric conditions, from clear skies to dramatic, virtual sunsets. Occasionally, digital weather effects like simulated rain or fog roll through, adding an extra layer of challenge and realism to the match. The entire arena is bathed in a soft, ambient light that adjusts dynamically based on the ongoing action, heightening the intensity of the competition. Spectator areas are built into the upper sections of the arena, where players can watch the match unfold from elevated vantage points. Holographic scoreboards and interactive displays keep track of the game’s progress, highlighting key moments and player statistics. As the laser completes its work, each player steps into the arena, finding themselves transformed in an instant. The familiar clothes of the real world are replaced by sleek, high-tech uniforms in their team colors: vibrant red and deep blue. The transition is seamless, with the colors vividly contrasting against the futuristic backdrop of the arena. As I take in the sights of the Capture the Flag arena, I notice something has changed. The once casual attire we were in has been replaced by our team colors: bright red for our side, and vivid blue for the opposing team. It’s a clear sign that the game is about to start. The four of us gather at our team’s base, where we’re joined by other players in a huddle. The excitement in the air is palpable, and everyone is brimming with energy and anticipation. During the huddle, I spot a new player. She’s wearing the same red team colors as us, her long braided hair swings with each one of her steps. Her eyes are sharp and alert, and there’s a commanding presence about her that makes her stand out from the rest. Grayson, who’s usually confident, seems unusually flustered as he notices the confident girl. He clears his throat, trying to muster his usual charm but failing a bit. “Uh, hey, I don’t think I’ve seen you around before. I’m Grayson, and this is Luke and Morgan.” The girl offers a friendly smile. “I’m Isla. I just joined Cyberia recently. This is my first event, so I’m a bit nervous but excited.” Grayson’s attempt at smoothness is interrupted by a slight stammer. “R-right, nice to meet you, Isla. Glad to have you on our team. We, uh, we could use all the help we can get.” Isla shakes his hand firmly, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “I’m ready to jump in and give it my best. Let’s make sure we win this.” Morgan nods in agreement. “We’re still figuring out our strategy. The other team is likely to be tough, so we need to be smart about our approach.” Isla’s eyes light up with enthusiasm. “I might be new to Cyberia, but I’ve played similar games before. From what I’ve seen so far, it looks like the other team is well-organized. We should coordinate our moves and keep an eye on any standout players they might have.” Grayson’s nervousness seems to be melting away as Isla’s confidence becomes evident, but his cheeks are still a little red. He gives a sheepish smile and nods. “Sounds good. Thanks, Isla.” I can’t help but tease Grayson a bit, leaning in with a smirk. “Hey, Grayson, if you get any more tongue-tied around Isla, you might need a new strategy just to keep your words straight.” Grayson shoots me a mock glare but laughs, his nerves settling. “Very funny, Luke. Just keep your focus on the game, alright?” The team quickly rallies around Isla’s input, nodding in agreement as she outlines a few key strategies. Her suggestions bring a renewed sense of focus and energy to the group. Grayson lingers near Isla, his attention clearly fixated on her. “Alright, here’s the plan,” Isla begins, her voice authoritative and clear. “Luke and Morgan will cover the left flank. Ian, you’re on defense. Grayson and I will take the center and create a diversion.” Morgan, adjusting her gear and nodding in agreement, turns to Luke. “Looks like we’re in for an intense match. Let’s make sure we cover each other’s backs.” Luke grins, his eyes scanning the battlefield. “Got it. We’ll be the wall they can’t break through.” Ian, a bit unsure but determined, looks to Isla. “Defense, huh? What’s our strategy?” Isla’s eyes are sharp with focus. “Hold the line and prevent anyone from getting close to our base. If they make a move for the flag, you need to stop them. Just remember to stay alert and keep an eye out for any sneaky moves.” With the plan set, the red team moves into position. Morgan and I head to the left flank, taking up strategic positions behind obstacles and readying themselves for any blue team incursions. Ian takes his place in front of their base, his stance firm and ready. “Really, you think that will work?” Grayson asks, his voice tinged with both curiosity and admiration. Isla smiles, her eyes sparkling with confidence. “Definitely. We just need to adapt quickly and stay sharp.” Grayson nods, clearly impressed. “Got it. I’ll make sure we follow your plan.” I look over to Grayson and Isla as their conversation continues, with Grayson’s responses more animated and his usual nervousness giving way to genuine interest. Isla’s laughter is light and infectious, and Grayson’s responses are peppered with shy but enthusiastic agreement. As they talk, it’s evident that there’s a spark between them—Grayson’s initial awkwardness fades, replaced by a comfortable camaraderie. The team is soon called to their starting positions. Grayson and Isla exchange a final, encouraging glance, their smiles speaking volumes more than words ever could. As they move to their respective posts, the connection they’ve forged is palpable, adding a new layer of energy and anticipation to the game. Before the chaos fully ensued, I glanced down at my sneakers, still curious about what mythical abilities they might possess. I shrugged, deciding to put off figuring them out for now. Instead, I pull out my laser sword, its hum a comforting sound amidst the clamor of the arena. Morgan, always resourceful, has her mirror at the ready. The sleek, polished surface could repel attacks, and she adjusted it in her hands, preparing for any incoming fire. Grayson had his golden repulsor bracelet, and Isla, new to the team but already making a mark, has a blaster strapped to her side, its design sleek and efficient. As the countdown timer hits zero, the Capture the Flag game kicks off with a burst of activity. I crouched behind a stack of crates, my heart racing as the arena came alive with color and noise. The red and blue teams clashed in a chaotic dance of strategy and skill. As the game began, Morgan and I, in our positions on the left flank, scout the field as we prepare for our advances. I catch sight of a few blue players trying to flank us and quickly signaled Morgan. She gives me a quick nod as she moves behind me waiting to strike. I show myself and engage the intruders with my laser sword. Morgan defends her attacker's movements with sharp and precise deflections with her mirror. I finally get the upper hand on my opponent as I slash my laser sword through his chest, watching his body begin to pixelate through my snow-white blade. Together, we managed to hold off the blue team’s push, forcing them to reconsider their strategy. As I turn to check on our base, I see Ian using a mythical item—a shimmering shield that projects a protective barrier around him. It’s a rare and powerful artifact, enhancing his defensive capabilities and making him a formidable guardian for our base. Grayson and Isla are on the move towards the center of the field. I watch as Grayson, looking both excited and nervous, follows Isla’s strategic commands. They are working together seamlessly, with Isla’s advice helping Grayson navigate through the obstacles. Suddenly, my heart drops as I see a familiar face. Reese stands on the other rock mound facing me. Our confrontation seems to be inevitable. As he spots me, a smirk appears on his face. We meet near a prominent rock formation in the center of the arena. Morgan is stationed on the left flank, using her mirror to deflect attacks and providing cover fire while I face Reese. The rock formation offers some protection but also presents challenges with its uneven terrain. Reese grins as he sees me approaching. "Ready for another beating, Luke? I hope you’ve practiced since our last match." I smirk, gripping my laser sword tightly. "I’m always ready. You better bring more than that last time. You’re going to need it" Reese’s aggressive style is apparent as he launches a series of calculated attacks, taking advantage of the rock’s shadow for cover. I dodge his rapid strikes, feeling the wind push from his digital sword. The automated turrets around us intermittently fire bursts of projectiles, adding a chaotic element to the battle. I sidestep a barrage of shots, narrowly avoiding a direct hit, and maneuver around the boulder to stay out of Reese’s swinging radius. "You’re gonna need a lot more than fancy moves to take me down!" Reese taunts, his voice echoing with confidence. "Keep talking," I retort, ducking behind the rock as another volley of projectiles flies past. "Maybe it’ll distract you long enough for me to finish this." Reese attempts to flank me from behind another boulder, trying to catch me off guard. But I anticipate his move. With a swift pivot, I swing my laser sword, its energy crackling through the air and meeting the clash of his digital sword. The impact sends a shockwave through the arena, making the ground tremble slightly. Reese staggers back, gritting his teeth. "Nice try, but you’re not the only one who’s gotten better." I see my chance and press the advantage, delivering a powerful strike that catches him off balance. His balance becomes unstable, and the force of my blow sends him sprawling across the rough terrain. As Reese gets up, his frustration is palpable. "You think you’re so good? This isn’t over, Luke!" Morgan, positioned strategically, watches closely. She adjusts her stance, her mirror flashing as it reflects a stray laser bolt from the blue team. She shouts over, "Looks like someone’s been taking a few too many hits. Better luck next time, Reese!" Reese, now teleported to the spectator stands, shoots a final glare at us. I catch a glimpse of his frustrated expression before turning back to the ongoing battle. The adrenaline from the fight still pulses through me, heightening my focus and determination as I prepare for the next phase of the game. I look over to Morgan as we recover from our duel against Reese, “You always have my back huh”, I say with a slight smile Morgan grins, her mirror reflecting the arena’s bright lights. “Of course. What would you do without me?” she quips, giving me a playful wink. We share a brief laugh before refocusing on the game. The arena's challenges continue to test us. Automated turrets fire at regular intervals, and pits open and close without warning, claiming a few unsuspecting players. I watch as one blue team member tumbles into a pit that suddenly opens beneath them, only to be teleported to the spectator stands, their game over. We push forward, navigating the obstacles and automated turrets. As we move closer to the blue team’s base, we see Grayson and Isla ahead, working together to fend off blue team defenders. “Grayson! Isla!” I shout, signaling for them to join us. They turn and nod, rushing to meet us. As we converge, the four of us form a tight unit, moving swiftly and efficiently toward the blue team’s flag. Isla’s blaster provides cover fire while Grayson uses his repulsor bracelet to deflect incoming attacks. Morgan and I lead the charge, our combined skills creating a formidable front. Just as we near the flag, a wave of blue team players emerges from behind the obstacles. “Watch out!” Grayson yells, diving in front of Isla and using his repulsor bracelet to deflect a volley of laser shots. His quick reaction saves Isla, but the effort leaves him exposed. Before he can recover, another barrage of laser fire targets Grayson. He tries to dodge, but one of the shots catches him on the side. His avatar flickers and then disintegrates, teleporting him to the spectator stands. His face shows a mix of frustration and determination as he disappears. “Grayson, no!” Isla cries out, her voice trembling with shock. She looks shaken, her blaster wavering for a moment before she steels herself. Morgan clenches her fists, her eyes flashing with anger. “They’ll pay for that,” she says, her voice hard. I take a deep breath, feeling a mix of anger and sorrow for our fallen friend. “Grayson will be okay. He’s in the spectator stands”. I glance up and catch his eye. We need to finish this” I say, my voice steady but filled with resolve. Isla, clearly shaken but resolute, looks back at me. “We need to move. Now.” We push forward with renewed determination. The obstacles and automated turrets make every step a challenge, but our chemistry and teamwork keep us going. The blue team is formidable, but we’re more than a match for them. We make a final sprint towards the flag, dodging laser fire and avoiding the obstacles. Isla covers us with her blaster, her shots precise and effective. Her braids whip around as she moves, eyes narrowed in concentration. “Keep going!” she shouts, her voice steady despite the chaos. Morgan and I reach the flag. Her mirror gleams, reflecting the arena’s lights and deflecting incoming shots. “I’ve got your back,” she says, flashing me a quick, confident smile. Together, we grab the flag and start our return journey. The blue team mounts a last-ditch effort to stop us. We feel heavy fire surround us as dirt kicks up from the ground, engulfing us in a barrage of lasers. Morgan’s shimmering mirror glows brightly, absorbing the brunt of their assault. She stands firm, unyielding. “Go! I’ll cover you” she calls out, her voice a blend of urgency and encouragement. I grip onto the flag tight as Isla and I make our escape, Morgan standing firm under heavy fire. I watch as Ian runs past us toward the heat of battle and casts his shimmering shield in front of Morgan, relieving the burden of watching our backs. With one final push, we reach our base and plant the blue team’s flag next to ours. The moment the flag is secured, the arena erupts in cheers. The red flag is hoisted in victory, a symbol of our hard-earned triumph. Morgan throws her arms around me in a quick, celebratory hug. Her face is streaked with dirt, and her ponytail is ruffled, strands of hair escaping the band. “We did it!” she exclaims, her silver eyes sparkling with joy despite the grime. Isla, slightly breathless but grinning widely, joins the celebration. Her uniform is smeared with dirt, and a few scrapes are visible on her arms. “That was intense! Great teamwork, everyone!” Ian walks over, his shield dimming now that the battle is over. His face is smudged with dirt, and sweat trickles down his temple. “Well done, team. That was a close one.” As we revel in our victory, the eliminated players are transported back down to the battlefield, rejoining their teams for the celebration. Grayson appears, a bit battered but smiling broadly. He saunters over and quips, “Well, looks like the real hero is back. You’re welcome for the sacrifice!” Isla rolls her eyes playfully, her smile widening. “Oh sure, Grayson, we couldn’t have done it without your noble sacrifice,” she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. The team laughs, and Grayson shrugs good-naturedly. As we stand together, dirty and exhausted but triumphant, the bond between us feels stronger than ever. The digital world of Cyberia has tested us, but it’s also brought us closer together, forging connections that transcend the game itself. The arena’s cheers still echo around us, a reminder of the hard-earned victory and the challenges yet to come. Suddenly, without warning, a series of sharp, bright lasers shoot from the blue team's tower, cutting through the air with an eerie hum. The lasers streak across the battlefield, striking several players who were in the midst of celebrating or regrouping. Their sudden, unanticipated hits send them staggering back, their faces contorted in agony. The battlefield descends into chaos. Screams and cries of pain pierce the air as players clutch at their wounds. Their bodies flicker and glitch as if the very fabric of their digital existence is unraveling. Some attempt to flee, but the lasers hit them too quickly, their forms becoming increasingly translucent. "Ian, cover us!" Isla shouts over the din, her voice strained with urgency. Ian immediately springs into action, casting his shimmering shield over us, some nearby players, and the distressed area where the wounded player had been. The shield’s glow creates a protective barrier, blocking additional incoming lasers and shielding us from further harm. I exchange worried glances with Morgan as our group rushes towards one of the wounded players. His body blinks urgently as he falters, his expression twisted in terror. As we approach, I can hear his panicked breaths and see the fear in his eyes. "Help... please, help me!" he cries out, his voice trembling. His digital form flickers erratically, like a failing signal struggling to stay connected. Morgan and I kneel beside the fading player, our faces etched with concern. I look down at the player, my heart pounding as I witness the horrific process of their digital dissolution. “What is happening to them?” I mutter, more to myself than anyone else. Morgan reaches out a hand, her face pale with concern. “We’re here! We’re going to get you out of here. Just hold on!” The player’s voice wavers as he tries to focus on us. “I— I don’t understand. The lasers... they’re not supposed to—” His words break off as his body starts to shimmer, the fading process accelerating. His limbs become translucent as if they’re being peeled away from the fabric of the digital world. Morgan and I exchange a helpless look, both of us grappling with the surreal horror of the scene. I kneel beside the player, trying to offer some comfort despite the futility of the situation. “Stay with us. We’ll figure this out. Just keep talking to us!” But his voice grows softer, his form becoming increasingly insubstantial. “I don’t know... who did this... but it’s not supposed to happen...” As his last words fade, his form dissolves completely, leaving nothing but an empty space where he once stood. The sound of his fading screams echoes in our ears, and the reality of what just happened hits us hard. The battlefield around us is now eerily quiet, the cheers and excitement of moments ago replaced by a chilling silence. Ian looks down, clearly shaken. “This isn’t supposed to happen.. You aren’t supposed to be able to die here”. I look around at the group, feeling a knot tighten in my stomach. The arena's once-vibrant atmosphere is now heavy with fear and confusion. “We need to get out of here,” I say, my voice urgent. “Now.” As the words leave my mouth, the speaker system crackles to life. Dr. Drake’s voice booms across the arena, amplified and commanding. “Attention, all players! Evacuate immediately! A digital portal has been activated. Move quickly!” A digital portal materializes at one end of the battlefield, shimmering with an eerie blue light. Players, their faces a mixture of panic and determination, begin to rush towards it, their movements frantic as they attempt to escape the chaotic scene. The once-bustling arena turns into a chaotic whirlwind of fleeing figures. Morgan, Grayson, Isla, and Ian, already on the move, follow the throng of players, their faces etched with concern. They vanish into the portal, leaving me alone at the edge of the arena. I follow them as I glance around, the reality of the situation sinking deeper with every passing second. As the last of the players disappear through the portal, I take one final look around. My eyes are drawn to the tower where the shots came from, where a dark figure is rushing away from the scene. The figure is cloaked in shadows, barely visible against the backdrop of the digital sky. The sight sends a shiver down my spine. With a final glance at the now-empty arena, I turn and sprint towards the portal, the shimmering blue light engulfs me as I leap through, leaving the nightmare behind. The portal closes with a final, echoing snap as I stumble out onto the platform. The transition is jarring, and I take a moment to catch my breath, my mind racing with questions. The arena's haunting image lingers in my thoughts, and the shadowy figure on the tower only deepens the mystery that we now face. As I look around at my teammates, who are catching their breath and recovering from the ordeal, I know one thing for sure: we need to find out who or what is behind this terrifying event. The game has changed, and so have we.

# There Can’t Possibly Be Something In The Dark? Every Sunday is laundry day. You think nothing of it, it's routine. The clothes have piled up and any space left in the hamper is gone. You’ve put it off for a while, you’ve never really been a fan of doing laundry. The clock strikes two and you realize it's about time you started. You gather your clothes and realize it might take more than one load to finish. You make your way to the hall closet and grab your blue Ikea bag. You remember going to Ikea with your friends, walking around, dreaming of the lives you’ll all have someday. Looking at the kitchens, pretending they’re yours. Climbing into the beds and dreaming of the room you may someday have. It's a calming memory, and a nice bag too. You place all your clothes into the bag and make your way to the kitchen. The cat is meowing at you, his bowl is empty but it's not quite time for him to eat. You brush him off and make your way out the door that leads to the basement. When you step foot outside the door there's a loud creak from below. It sounds like someone is down there. Your heart pounds through your chest. As you take another step there's another creak. You begin to realize the creaking comes with each step you take. You sigh in relief and begin walking down the stairs. It's dark, and with each step you take there's another deafening creak. The only light comes from an obscured window on the door that leads outside. You reach the door and make a left to the next set of stairs. The light bulb is out down this set and there are slats in between each step. If you shine a light in between them, you can see various items that must have been dropped by tenants that came before. You tread carefully, leaning onto the cold concrete wall for balance. There is no railing, and you can hardly see. You imagine what would happen if your leg was caught and you fell in between the stairs. You imagine terrible pain and millions of tiny spiders climbing up your leg. You imagine calling for help and no one responding. When you reach the bottom of the stairs you grab the handle to your basement door and open it. The light shines behind you and up the stairs. You step over various old shirts, and jackets that have been sitting here for ages. When you moved here, it was in quite a hurry. You kept many old clothes you had intended to give away. However, now they sit here, cluttering up the already suffocating basement. Though, the basement isn’t small. It's actually pretty large, though it is always very dark and quite damp. The only light that works is near the door and it's not nearly strong enough to reach each patch of darkness within. It smells like musk, or an old cupboard, a nauseating smell. Before taking another step you look to the back of the basement. It's so dark you can’t see a thing. Where the light does reach you can see boxes and boxes of junk from where you used to live that you never unpacked. But, the sea of boxes stops toward the back of the basement. You know there are more, but it's too dark to see them. You’ve never been a fan of the dark. You always have had a feeling as though someone was watching you. That would be ridiculous, of course, right? You look up to where the wall meets the ceiling and notice spider webs. You’ve always been scared of spiders. The idea of them crawling on you alone is enough to make you shudder. You dump your clothes into the washer and push them in. You’re working quicker than necessary, yet you don’t know why. You’re not in any real hurry, you’ve no obligations when you get back upstairs. Yet, it feels as though there's a looming presence in the darkness lurking beside you waiting to jump out at any minute. You stuff the clothes in the washing machine and grab the laundry detergent. You pour it into the lid quickly, not even bothering to measure. You shut the lid and twist the nozzle, not looking at what setting you put it on. The longer you’re there, the more nauseating the atmosphere of the basement makes you feel. You bolt out of the basement and slam the door shut, you jog up the stairs and back into the house. When you’re inside you slam the door shut behind you. You’re unsure as to why you were running. There was no need to. You keep all your doors locked, there's no reason for something to be down there. Don’t believe in ghosts, and are conscious to keep doors locked. However, every time you go down there it feels like there's something there, watching you, waiting. You hear a meow and you jump, your heart leaps! You feed the cat and make your way to the living room to sit on the couch. You’re terrified of what will happen an hour when the washing machine is done and you have to return to the basement.

(Been messing with this for 2yrs or so. Please critique) The hotel "Oh Jabu sana, does one ever find this again?" asked Akhi in a rather defeated tone. Jabu stopped his slow walk, turned to Akhi and responded faintly, "A part of me hopes neither of us do." The new year has now settled in and most of the tourists and vacationers have returned to their usual lives. The hotel has entered its slump period of very little traffic, until Easter. "Hey Jeff. This place is boring as shit without you man. Tell me your leave is ending soon", said Jabu over the phone. "Na Jabu, you know it's not." "What are you doing anyways?" "I'm actually on my way back home with the family. We spent the day at the beach. The kids are starting school tomorrow. So we're making the most of today." "Come through for an afternoon drink tomorrow. Please. I'll whip you up some of my good stuff." "Na, the Mrs and I are gonna spend some QT. You know she always moans about how I actually don't get a festive break to spend with her. And hardly weekends when my leave is finished." "Let me make you a better offer. Bring yourself and the Mrs. I'll get the kitchen to make you a good 3 course meal. Then drinks on me afterwards." "You mean, drinks on Gracian, made by you." "Potayto potatoh. I'm making the offer here." "That's a good offer though, no lies. I'm making no promises. I'll see how tomorrow goes" Jeff manages customer relations at Ekhosini Hotel. He's been working at the hotel ever since he finished school 17 years ago. Jabu has only been at Ekhosini for 4 years. He's a chef by trade. He had spent 10 years studying and working in Southern Europe after school. Ekhosini Hotel is a long standing establishment in Morgans Bay. It's a five star hotel, with 30 rooms. It gets really busy during the festive season, accommodating both tourists and passers by doing road trips through the Wild Coast. It has coincidental peak periods at the end of each quarter of the year. Jabu is manning the bar alone today. Songezo and Given will handle the evening shift. Jabu's title is Restaurant Manager, which includes the bar. He's pretty good at what he does. He's set his department up in such a way that he can spend most of his time serving and getting to know patrons the bar. "Ndingakuphinda nge Jameson e clean Mr Ngubane, okanye ndikuqengqe nge cocktail nyana?" "Uyazi Jabu, I keep saying no to your cocktail nyana. Kodwa namhlanje, hayi, ndiqengqe mfana. Just don't tell my wife about this." Mr Ngubane laughs as he finishes his sentence, knowing well that his wife probably asks Jabu for the same secrecy. "You've got it sir." Jabu learnt the bartending trade after he begun working at Ekhosini. He used to watch old Peterson woo patrons and satisfy them beyond expectation. Anyone that would come in for a drink, ended up leaving with a lot more. It wasn't the drinking, you see, it was the Ekhosini bar experience. Jabu was seduced by this means of entertaining and satisfying people. A simple bar that leaves people feeling blissful and content. Peterson retired 7 months ago. Jabu had been his apprentice for 13 months up to that day. A managing apprentice. Jabu had pride, but he never allowed it to limit his opportunities and experiences. Never. "A pour and an ice. A splash and some spice. Mr Ngubane, you'll find this no where else. He's your Fired James. It's both hot and sweet. Not so sweet that you'll miss the Jameson." "Masibone Jabu." Jabu left Mr Ngubane to sip on his cocktail. Jabu believes in balancing giving attention to a patron and leaving them wanting. It's actually less of a balance; less attention, more space. Jabu snaps his neck, rearing his head as he hears a shout. "JABU, WHAT THE HELL...!" ***** A figure "Hurry love, I'd like to surprise him. You know he may call." "Don't rush a good thing Jeff." Says Layla as she enters the lounge. "Oh my love, if ever there was a good thing." Time pauses for a moment for Jeff. His wife wearing a daring red dress. Jeff took in Layla's dark skin tone. He notices that the red dress wasn't obnoxiously bright against it. She had a sheen to her skin. The straps on her shoulders were of a silken material. They ran down to a stop on sequins that bordered the matte material of the dress. It was loose on her, yet showed her physique off. Her plump breasts appeared smaller than usual, her tummy bulged out slightly. The dress hugged her hips. Oh, hugged it did. And loosened up again from her thighs. It stopped abruptly before her knees, again meeting sequins. Her legs shone as her shoulders did. She had black high heels on. They were elegant with slim straps across her feet and matching slim heels. They glimmered. They seemed to maintain the sheen of her skin. When Jeff looked back up, he saw she had the black necklace he loved on. She usually wore it with nothing else for him. She made elegant synonymous with sexy for Jeff. Her outfit and demeanor told of a promise. The pause ended when she said to him, "See. Don't rush a good thing Jeff." Jeff replied, "oh my love, if there ever was a good thing." They arrived at the hotel in their VW Golf 4 in the early afteroon. As they walked in, they couldn't see Jabu. He was usually someone you saw as you entered the dining area. "Mr and Mrs Arends, we weren't expecting you today", said Themba. He is the host at the dining hall. "We intended to surprise Jabu. It seems we should've let him know though. Is he not here today?" "He's been recovering from yesterday. So he swapped bartending with Sue from the kitchen." "Recovering?" "Yes sir. Let me seat you and catch you up. Would you like a drink in the meantime?". "Not yet." Themba went to seat Jeff and Layla, and proceeded to "catch them up". "JABU, WHAT THE HELL...!" we heard suddenly out of nowhere. "Jabu turned on a button. He'd served Mr Ngubane a Fired James a mere moment before. Turns out, Mrs Ngubane walked in not long thereafter. She was offended and impressed at the same time. No one had ever been served the Fired James other than Mrs Ngubane, neither had Mr Ngubane ever had a cocktail before. Mrs Ngubane was so surprised that she shouted at Jabu without thought. She felt all too embarrassed." "I'd pay money to see Mrs Ngubane shout," chuckled Jeff. "I still don't understand why he is recovering?" "Mrs Ngubane felt terrible for her shout. She gave Jabu a directive to join them for a drink. No Fired James, because that would be her and her husband's special drink from then on. It was close to the evening shift starting. Jabu agreed to have a few drinks, since the bar was quiet. He'd had one drink in when Songezo came in. Jabu left at midnight. You can imagine his state coming in at 5:30 this morning." "If there's one person I could've bet on to get Mr Ngubane to ever have a cocktail, it's Jabu. Apparently it came at a price though." Jeff chuckled again. "Go get him for me. He promised us a meal and drinks today. He better have recovered enough to live up to his promise," he asked of Themba. Jeff scoffed, "Hiding in the bloody kitchen". Layla was well entertained by the retelling of Jabu's evening. "Could old Peterson have left a more capable barman?!". Jabu arrived at Layla and Jeff's table exclaiming, "Damn Jeff. You could at least have given me a heads up. I've been feeling hella beat up today." "Your hangover is a bad reward for you, but a reward nonetheless. Well done on yesterday. I'm sure the Ngubane's night got even better after you left. Catch my drift?!". All three of them laughed. Jabu arranged their three course meal. He put his right hand woman, Sue, on the task. He went back behind the bar and enjoyed a light meal before expecting his friends over for a conversation and a drink. While lifting his head from taking a bite, Jabu found himself looking towards the lobby. He caught a glimpse of a figure walking out from the concierge, seemingly a guest leaving from a room. He did know why he had not seen this person before. Neither did he know why this figure was striking. For a brief moment, he realised he could also not tell whether it was a man or a woman. He could tell they were young, slim, short and composed. The way this person carried themself had an appeal to Jabu. Even from the back, seeing them walk away. "Mxim, babalas will have you miss on good stuff!" He mumbled to himself. ***** Her The post festive leave cycle is completed. The whole Ekhosini crew is present at the hotel. Today is the day that Gracian hosts her annual First Meeting. The purpose of the First Meeting is to provide a report on Ekhosini's last year performance, announce the expected performance of the year ahead and the strategy to attain it. She brings in majority of the staff on morning shift. Everyone prepares intensely so that a skeleton crew can manage the evening and night without a hassle. The meeting begins at the start of evening shift, 2pm. The morning crew attends as overtime. Those on night shift get their shift off, leaving the entire subsequent night shift on a skeleton crew. Jabu is sitting next to Jeff, not far from the front. They helped set the conference room up, both the facility and catering. Gracian is at the entrance greeting everyone as they arrive. Jabu missed it. He didn't hear Gracian say her name as she greeted her. It was a her. At least he's certain of that. She walked in, scanning the room. She was wearing a light denim jeans. She had a pair of thick sole sneakers on and a dark blue shirt with wide white stripes. It was a women's blouse, unlike the ones that appear to emulate men wearing shirts. Her hair was thick, about 3 fingers thick. It was rough, appearing to collect in small bumps across her head. She slung a black backpack off her right shoulder. Her face was plain, with no features outstanding. So was her body. Yet she appealed no less to Jabu than the last time he saw her. He didn't stop looking at her until she sat down, a few seats away from him. He realised he was staring when she turned her head towards him. He felt a little embarrassed. He didn't want to be caught. "It's a she Jeff." "What?" "Remember the person I told you about when Bella and I were over at your place?" "The one you saw for the first time when Layla and I came to the hotel?" "Yes. She's here." He pauses. "She's here." He realises. "Apparently she works here! I thought she was a guest because I saw her only twice before taking my leave. Dude, as much as I wished she wasn't a guest, now that I know she isn't, I wish she was." "Show me her." "You're mad. It'd look so obvious. I'll show you when the meeting is done. "I'm nervous about this Jeff." Gracian invites each manager to add to the proceedings by presenting their strategic plans in support of Ekhosini's strategy as a pledge and a display of cohesion and strength of the management team. Ella finishes off her talk, "hotel maintenance will keep Ekhosini a beacon with continued uninterrupted water and energy, despite any and all municipal service disruptions." She received a sincere round of applause as Gracian took to the pulpit again. "Thank you Ella. A beacon we shall remain for Morgans Bay. Both as inspiration for locals, and a desire to experience for guests. "You all know I usually keep marketing for last. It is so apt because they use all of the preceding departments' efforts to make Ekhosini attractive to the public. However, there is a second reason tonight that they're last, and that is to introduce the new marketing manager. You'll recall we held mam' Intle's farewell last year. She subsequently began her retirement in the third week of January. Her replacement is a young and well accomplished professional. Please welcome Akhona Bengu, in the Ekhosini tradition." Everyone stands up. The people in the second row begin to clap hands simultaneously at a steady tempo. Clap...clap...clap. The third row begins a chant half a minute later. A deep rumble ensues, "Ekhosini...Ekhosini...Ekhosini." They chant at the same tempo as the clapping. The fourth row follows the same time interval by stomping their feet. A tribal rhythm fills the room for a minute or two. Then one of the maintenance personnel sing "Ekhosini" in a melodic tone, suiting the chant. As he finishes the word, the rest of the room sing in chorus "Fit for royalty, by royalty". The room drops into silence abruptly thereafter, and Gracian proceeds to say "Welcome Akhona". It ends abruptly. "I have never experienced such a welcome. I am flattered and amazed. If this is an indication of Ekhosini's spirit, I'm evermore happy to be here." "Akhona", Jabu whispers into Jeff's ear.

# [HR]The Church in the Woods **Written and Copyright by A.A. Castor** Welcome everyone to A. A. Castor Book Club. Today’s story is “The Church in the Woods.” Prepare yourselves for a journey into the heart of terror, where faith and survival are put to the ultimate test. # Chapter 1: The Lost Man Thomas awoke with a start, the damp ground cold beneath him and the towering trees casting long shadows in the fading light. He rubbed his eyes, trying to recall how he had ended up in the middle of this dense forest. The last thing he remembered was hiking with his friends, but now he was alone, the silence of the woods pressing in on him. His clothes were wet from the morning dew, and his body ached from sleeping on the uneven forest floor. The sky above was an ominous gray, hinting at an impending storm. Thomas sat up and looked around, trying to get his bearings. The forest was dense, the trees standing like silent sentinels around him. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth and decaying leaves. He could hear the distant chirping of birds and the rustle of small animals in the underbrush, but no sign of human activity. He checked his pockets for his phone, but it was gone. He must have dropped it somewhere along the way. As he stood and dusted himself off, he noticed a faint glow through the trees. A strange mix of relief and curiosity compelled him to move towards the light, hoping to find some semblance of civilization or at least a place to get his bearings. He pushed through the thick underbrush, the branches scratching at his arms and face, and emerged into a small clearing. There, nestled among the ancient oaks and towering pines, was an old, decrepit church, its spires reaching toward the darkening sky. The stone walls were weathered and covered in ivy, and the stained glass windows were cracked and dusty, their once-vibrant colors now muted and faded. The sight of the church filled him with a strange sense of familiarity and unease. People were entering the building, but their expressions were cold and distant. Their attire was old-fashioned, reminiscent of a bygone era. Men wore dark, heavy suits and women donned long, somber dresses. Their faces were pale and drawn, as if they had stepped out of a history book. The way they moved was unsettling, almost robotic, their eyes never meeting his. "Hello?" Thomas called out, but his voice seemed to vanish into the oppressive silence. No one acknowledged his presence, their eyes averted as they walked past him and through the heavy wooden doors. The door itself was massive, with intricate carvings that seemed to twist and shift in the flickering light. He noticed strange symbols etched into the stone, symbols that seemed to pulse with a life of their own. With a deep breath, Thomas approached the church cautiously, the feeling of being unwelcome growing stronger with each step. He reached out and touched the door, feeling the rough, cold surface beneath his fingers, hesitating for a moment before pushing it open. The inside of the church was dimly lit, the flickering candles casting eerie shadows on the walls. The air was thick with the scent of incense, mingled with the musty odor of age and neglect. The wooden pews were worn and splintered, and the stone floor was uneven and cracked. # Chapter 2: The Unwelcome As Thomas entered, he was struck by the chill in the air, which seemed to seep into his bones. He walked down the aisle, glancing at the statues that lined the nave. For a brief moment, he thought he saw the twisted, demonic faces of the statues leering at him, their eyes glowing with an unholy light. The stone figures, cloaked in shadow, seemed to writhe and contort, their expressions twisted into grotesque masks of agony. He blinked, and the statues returned to their serene, saintly forms. Shaking his head, he chalked it up to his overactive imagination. The congregation was seated, their faces expressionless as they watched the priest, who stood at the altar. The priest’s eyes seemed to pierce through the dim light, his gaze cold and unfeeling. Thomas took a seat at the back, feeling the chill of the wooden pew seep through his clothes. He tried to focus on the sermon, but his mind kept wandering back to the strange symbols he had seen on the door and the eerie feeling that had settled over him. The priest began the service, his voice echoing through the cavernous space. The words were familiar, yet there was something off about them. The Latin phrases seemed twisted, the prayers taking on a sinister tone. Thomas felt a cold breeze sweep through the church, and he shivered. He glanced around, noticing the congregation’s eyes were fixed on the priest, their expressions devoid of emotion. The priest’s eyes glowed red as he continued the service, the sight sending a shiver down Thomas’s spine. He tried to convince himself it was just a trick of the light, but the unsettling feeling remained. The priest, an imposing figure in his dark robes, moved with a fluid grace that seemed almost unnatural. His voice, deep and resonant, filled the space, but there was an underlying malice that Thomas couldn’t ignore. Thomas’s attention was drawn to the large crucifix above the altar. The figure of Christ seemed to twist in agony, the eyes almost pleading. He looked away, his heart pounding in his chest. He had never felt this kind of fear in a church before. The congregation's cold demeanor and the eerie atmosphere made him feel like he was trapped in a nightmare. As Thomas observed the congregation, he noticed their skin was pale and almost translucent. Their eyes, sunken and lifeless, seemed to lack any warmth or humanity. The entire scene felt surreal, as if he had stepped into another world. He could hear the faint murmurs of the congregation as they whispered prayers in a language he couldn't understand. During the sermon, Thomas noticed an old woman sitting near him. Her hands were gnarled and covered in age spots, and her eyes seemed to stare right through him. She leaned over and whispered to him, her voice a raspy hiss. "You shouldn't be here." Thomas leaned closer, trying to hear her better. "What do you mean?" "They don't like strangers," she replied, her voice barely audible. "You need to leave before it's too late." Before Thomas could ask her more, she turned away, her attention back on the priest. He felt a chill run down his spine. The warning had been clear, but he felt trapped. Leaving the church meant going back into the dark, unknown forest. The communion began, and the congregation rose as one, forming a line down the center aisle. Thomas watched as each person approached the priest, who placed a small wafer on their tongues, intoning, “The body of Christ.” # Chapter 3: The Taste of Flesh When it was Thomas’s turn, he reluctantly joined the line. The air grew colder as he approached the altar, the priest’s eyes seeming to bore into his soul. Thomas opened his mouth, and the priest placed the wafer on his tongue. As soon as it touched his taste buds, Thomas recoiled. The wafer was metallic and fleshy, a taste so vile it made him gag. He spat it out, horrified to see a chunk of raw, bloody flesh on the floor. He looked up, his eyes wide with terror, as the entire congregation turned to face him, their eyes empty and lifeless. Frozen with fear, Thomas stared at the bloodied flesh at his feet, his mind racing. What kind of place was this? The congregation’s eyes remained fixed on him, their expressions unchanged. The priest’s red eyes seemed to glow brighter, and the chill in the air grew more intense. "Is something wrong?" the priest asked, his voice dripping with malice. Thomas struggled to find his voice. "What... what is this?" "The body of Christ," the priest replied, a sinister smile spreading across his face. Panic surged through Thomas, and he bolted for the door. He could hear the congregation rising behind him, their footsteps echoing through the church as they pursued him. He burst through the doors and into the night, the cold air stinging his lungs as he ran. He didn’t dare look back, the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. The forest seemed to close in around him, the shadows deepening as he ran. Finally, he stopped to catch his breath, expecting to see the congregation hot on his heels. But when he turned, there was no one there. The forest was silent, the church nowhere to be seen. Thomas stood there, panting, his mind struggling to comprehend what had just happened. He was alone once more, the eerie silence of the woods pressing in on him. # Chapter 4: The Escape Thomas stumbled through the forest, trying to find his way back to civilization. The taste of blood and flesh lingered in his mouth, a grim reminder of the horror he had witnessed. Every rustle of leaves, every snap of a twig, made him jump, fearing that the congregation was still following him. The forest seemed to twist and turn, confusing him further as he tried to retrace his steps. He paused to rest by a large oak tree, its gnarled branches stretching out like skeletal fingers. The air was heavy with the scent of pine and damp earth, but there was something else, a faint metallic tang that reminded him of blood. His mind was racing, trying to make sense of what he had experienced. How could a church and its congregation vanish without a trace? As the first light of dawn broke through the trees, Thomas stumbled upon a narrow path. He followed it, hoping it would lead him to safety. The path wound through the forest, the trees gradually thinning out as he walked. He emerged onto a road, the sight of it filling him with a sense of relief. He flagged down a passing car, the driver looking at him with concern. "Are you alright?" the driver asked, noticing Thomas's disheveled appearance. Thomas tried to explain what had happened, but his words were jumbled, the terror of the night still fresh in his mind. "There was a church... and people... they weren't human. They tried to make me eat flesh." The driver's expression shifted from concern to skepticism. "A church? Out here? You must be mistaken. There's nothing like that around these parts." "Please, you have to believe me," Thomas pleaded. "I know what I saw." The driver sighed, but agreed to take him to the nearest town. "Alright, let's get you to the police. Maybe they can help you." # Chapter 5: The Investigation At the police station, Thomas recounted his story to the officers. Their expressions ranged from disbelief to mild amusement. The chief of police, a grizzled man named Officer Reynolds, listened patiently before speaking. "Son, are you sure you didn't hit your head out there?" Reynolds asked. "There's no church in those woods. Never has been." "I'm telling the truth!" Thomas insisted. "It was real. The people, the priest... they were all there." Reynolds sighed and glanced at his deputy. "Alright, we'll humor you. Let's take a look. Maybe we can find some clue as to what happened." They drove back to the forest, Thomas leading them to where he had seen the church. But when they arrived, there was nothing but an empty clearing. The church had vanished, leaving no trace behind. "I swear it was right here," Thomas said, his voice trembling. "It was real." The officers exchanged glances. "We'll file a report," Reynolds said, "but there's not much we can do without evidence." As they walked back to the car, the deputy, a young man named Officer Daniels, pulled Thomas aside. "Hey, I believe you saw something," Daniels whispered. "This place has always given me the creeps. But without proof, there's not much we can do." Thomas nodded, feeling defeated. "Thanks for believing me." # Chapter 6: The Aftermath Back in town, Thomas tried to go about his life, but the memory of the church haunted him. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched, and every shadow seemed to hold a threat. He spent hours researching the area, trying to find any mention of the church or its congregation. One evening, as he was sifting through old town records in the library, an elderly librarian approached him. "Can I help you with something, young man?" she asked, peering at him over her glasses. Thomas explained what he was looking for, and her eyes widened. "You're talking about St. Athanasius Church," she said quietly. "It was abandoned and torn down over a century ago. People said it was cursed." "Cursed?" Thomas echoed. "What do you mean?" The librarian glanced around nervously before continuing. "They say the priest was involved in dark rituals. The congregation disappeared one night, and the church was found abandoned, with symbols etched into the walls. No one dared go near it after that." Thomas felt a chill run down his spine. "Do you know where it was located?" The librarian nodded. "In the woods, just outside of town. But it's just a legend now. No one believes it really happened." # Chapter 7: The Return Determined to find answers, Thomas decided to return to the forest. Armed with a flashlight and a sense of purpose, he ventured back into the woods. The path seemed different now, as if the forest itself had shifted to conceal its secrets. After hours of searching, he finally found the clearing where the church had stood. The air was thick with tension, and he felt the weight of unseen eyes upon him. As he stood there, he heard the faint sound of whistling, a haunting melody that sent shivers down his spine. Suddenly, the temperature dropped, and a thick fog rolled in, obscuring his vision. He heard footsteps behind him and spun around, but there was no one there. The fog grew thicker, and the whistling grew louder. "Who's there?" Thomas called out, his voice echoing in the mist. A figure emerged from the fog, its eyes glowing red. It was the priest, his face twisted into a sinister smile. "Welcome back, Thomas," he said, his voice sending a chill through Thomas's body. "We've been waiting for you." Thomas backed away, his heart pounding. "This can't be real," he whispered. "You're not real." The priest laughed, a sound that echoed through the trees. "Oh, but we are very real. And now, you will join us." The fog closed in around Thomas, the priest's red eyes the last thing he saw before everything went black. # Chapter 8: The Final Escape Thomas awoke in the church, the familiar scent of incense filling the air. The congregation was seated, their eyes fixed on him. He was bound to a wooden chair in the center of the aisle, his heart racing with fear. The priest stood before him, holding a chalice filled with a dark, thick liquid. "Drink," he commanded, his voice echoing through the church. "No," Thomas pleaded, struggling against his bonds. "Please, let me go." The priest's eyes glowed brighter. "You have no choice. You are one of us now." Desperation gave Thomas a surge of strength, and he managed to break free from the chair. He ran down the aisle, the congregation rising to block his path. But he fought his way through, fueled by a primal need to survive. He burst through the doors and into the night, the fog still thick around him. The whistling followed him, growing louder and more frantic. He ran blindly, the trees closing in around him. Suddenly, he tripped over a root and fell to the ground. The fog parted, revealing a figure standing before him. It was the old woman from the church, her eyes filled with sorrow. "Run," she whispered. "Run and never look back." Thomas scrambled to his feet and ran, the woman's voice echoing in his mind. He didn't stop until he reached the road, his lungs burning and his heart pounding. He flagged down a car, the driver looking at him with concern. "Please, help me," Thomas gasped. "Get me out of here." The driver nodded and sped away, leaving the forest behind. Thomas looked back one last time, the fog closing in on the road. The church and its congregation were gone, but the memory of them would haunt him forever. # Chapter 9: The Revelation Thomas moved to a new town, hoping to start fresh. But the memories of the church lingered, haunting his dreams and shadowing his waking hours. He avoided the woods and spent his days trying to forget the horrors he had witnessed. One day, while walking through town, he saw a flyer for a local historian's lecture on the town's history. Intrigued, he decided to attend, hoping to find some closure. The lecture was held in a small community center, and the room was filled with curious townsfolk. The historian, a middle-aged woman with a kind smile, began her talk with stories of the town's founding and its early settlers. "Many of you may have heard of the legend of St. Athanasius Church," she said, her voice echoing in the room. "It's a tale that has been passed down through generations, shrouded in mystery and fear." Thomas listened intently as she recounted the story of the church, its cursed congregation, and the dark rituals of the priest. "Some believe the church still exists, hidden in the woods, waiting for the unsuspecting to stumble upon it." After the lecture, Thomas approached the historian, his heart pounding. "Excuse me," he said, his voice trembling. "I need to know more about the church. I think I found it." The historian's eyes widened. "You saw it? Tell me everything." Thomas recounted his experience, the historian listening with rapt attention. When he finished, she nodded slowly. "You are not the first to have seen the church. Others have reported similar encounters, but none have been as detailed as yours." "Why does it exist?" Thomas asked. "What does it want?" The historian sighed. "Some believe it is a remnant of a dark past, a place where evil was allowed to flourish. The church and its congregation are trapped in a time loop, repeating their dark rituals and seeking new victims to join them." Thomas shuddered. "Is there any way to stop it?" The historian shook her head. "No one knows for sure. But one thing is certain: you must stay away from those woods. The church will always be there, waiting." # Chapter 10: The Resolution Thomas took the historian's advice to heart. He moved again, this time to a bustling city far from any woods. He tried to rebuild his life, but the memories of the church were always with him, a dark shadow lurking in the corners of his mind. He sought therapy, hoping to find peace. His therapist, a kind and patient woman, helped him work through his trauma. "You are safe now," she assured him. "The church can't hurt you anymore." But Thomas knew the truth. The church was still out there, hidden in the woods, waiting for its next victim. He could never forget the red eyes of the priest, the taste of flesh, and the haunting whistling. One night, as he lay in bed, he heard a faint sound outside his window. It was the whistling, growing louder and more insistent. He sat up, his heart pounding. The sound seemed to come from everywhere, echoing through the streets. He ran to the window and looked out, but there was nothing there. The whistling grew louder, filling his mind with terror. He knew what it meant. The church had found him. Desperate, Thomas grabbed his keys and ran out of his apartment. He drove aimlessly, the whistling following him. He couldn't escape it. It was inside him, a part of him now. As he drove, he saw the fog rolling in, thick and suffocating. The whistling grew louder, drowning out all other sounds. He knew he couldn't outrun it. The church would always find him. In a final act of desperation, Thomas drove to the nearest bridge. He parked his car and climbed to the edge, the whistling echoing in his mind. He looked down at the dark water below, his heart filled with fear and resignation. "I'm sorry," he whispered, closing his eyes. "I can't do this anymore." With that, he jumped, the cold water enveloping him, silencing the whistling forever. **The Church in the Woods** **Written and Copyright by A.A. Castor** Welcome everyone to A. A. Castor Book Club. Today’s story is “The Church in the Woods.” Prepare yourselves for a journey into the heart of terror, where faith and survival are put to the ultimate test. # Chapter 1: The Lost Man Thomas awoke with a start, the damp ground cold beneath him and the towering trees casting long shadows in the fading light. He rubbed his eyes, trying to recall how he had ended up in the middle of this dense forest. The last thing he remembered was hiking with his friends, but now he was alone, the silence of the woods pressing in on him. His clothes were wet from the morning dew, and his body ached from sleeping on the uneven forest floor. The sky above was an ominous gray, hinting at an impending storm. Thomas sat up and looked around, trying to get his bearings. The forest was dense, the trees standing like silent sentinels around him. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth and decaying leaves. He could hear the distant chirping of birds and the rustle of small animals in the underbrush, but no sign of human activity. He checked his pockets for his phone, but it was gone. He must have dropped it somewhere along the way. As he stood and dusted himself off, he noticed a faint glow through the trees. A strange mix of relief and curiosity compelled him to move towards the light, hoping to find some semblance of civilization or at least a place to get his bearings. He pushed through the thick underbrush, the branches scratching at his arms and face, and emerged into a small clearing. There, nestled among the ancient oaks and towering pines, was an old, decrepit church, its spires reaching toward the darkening sky. The stone walls were weathered and covered in ivy, and the stained glass windows were cracked and dusty, their once-vibrant colors now muted and faded. The sight of the church filled him with a strange sense of familiarity and unease. People were entering the building, but their expressions were cold and distant. Their attire was old-fashioned, reminiscent of a bygone era. Men wore dark, heavy suits and women donned long, somber dresses. Their faces were pale and drawn, as if they had stepped out of a history book. The way they moved was unsettling, almost robotic, their eyes never meeting his. "Hello?" Thomas called out, but his voice seemed to vanish into the oppressive silence. No one acknowledged his presence, their eyes averted as they walked past him and through the heavy wooden doors. The door itself was massive, with intricate carvings that seemed to twist and shift in the flickering light. He noticed strange symbols etched into the stone, symbols that seemed to pulse with a life of their own. With a deep breath, Thomas approached the church cautiously, the feeling of being unwelcome growing stronger with each step. He reached out and touched the door, feeling the rough, cold surface beneath his fingers, hesitating for a moment before pushing it open. The inside of the church was dimly lit, the flickering candles casting eerie shadows on the walls. The air was thick with the scent of incense, mingled with the musty odor of age and neglect. The wooden pews were worn and splintered, and the stone floor was uneven and cracked. # Chapter 2: The Unwelcome As Thomas entered, he was struck by the chill in the air, which seemed to seep into his bones. He walked down the aisle, glancing at the statues that lined the nave. For a brief moment, he thought he saw the twisted, demonic faces of the statues leering at him, their eyes glowing with an unholy light. The stone figures, cloaked in shadow, seemed to writhe and contort, their expressions twisted into grotesque masks of agony. He blinked, and the statues returned to their serene, saintly forms. Shaking his head, he chalked it up to his overactive imagination. The congregation was seated, their faces expressionless as they watched the priest, who stood at the altar. The priest’s eyes seemed to pierce through the dim light, his gaze cold and unfeeling. Thomas took a seat at the back, feeling the chill of the wooden pew seep through his clothes. He tried to focus on the sermon, but his mind kept wandering back to the strange symbols he had seen on the door and the eerie feeling that had settled over him. The priest began the service, his voice echoing through the cavernous space. The words were familiar, yet there was something off about them. The Latin phrases seemed twisted, the prayers taking on a sinister tone. Thomas felt a cold breeze sweep through the church, and he shivered. He glanced around, noticing the congregation’s eyes were fixed on the priest, their expressions devoid of emotion. The priest’s eyes glowed red as he continued the service, the sight sending a shiver down Thomas’s spine. He tried to convince himself it was just a trick of the light, but the unsettling feeling remained. The priest, an imposing figure in his dark robes, moved with a fluid grace that seemed almost unnatural. His voice, deep and resonant, filled the space, but there was an underlying malice that Thomas couldn’t ignore. Thomas’s attention was drawn to the large crucifix above the altar. The figure of Christ seemed to twist in agony, the eyes almost pleading. He looked away, his heart pounding in his chest. He had never felt this kind of fear in a church before. The congregation's cold demeanor and the eerie atmosphere made him feel like he was trapped in a nightmare. As Thomas observed the congregation, he noticed their skin was pale and almost translucent. Their eyes, sunken and lifeless, seemed to lack any warmth or humanity. The entire scene felt surreal, as if he had stepped into another world. He could hear the faint murmurs of the congregation as they whispered prayers in a language he couldn't understand. During the sermon, Thomas noticed an old woman sitting near him. Her hands were gnarled and covered in age spots, and her eyes seemed to stare right through him. She leaned over and whispered to him, her voice a raspy hiss. "You shouldn't be here." Thomas leaned closer, trying to hear her better. "What do you mean?" "They don't like strangers," she replied, her voice barely audible. "You need to leave before it's too late." Before Thomas could ask her more, she turned away, her attention back on the priest. He felt a chill run down his spine. The warning had been clear, but he felt trapped. Leaving the church meant going back into the dark, unknown forest. The communion began, and the congregation rose as one, forming a line down the center aisle. Thomas watched as each person approached the priest, who placed a small wafer on their tongues, intoning, “The body of Christ.” # Chapter 3: The Taste of Flesh When it was Thomas’s turn, he reluctantly joined the line. The air grew colder as he approached the altar, the priest’s eyes seeming to bore into his soul. Thomas opened his mouth, and the priest placed the wafer on his tongue. As soon as it touched his taste buds, Thomas recoiled. The wafer was metallic and fleshy, a taste so vile it made him gag. He spat it out, horrified to see a chunk of raw, bloody flesh on the floor. He looked up, his eyes wide with terror, as the entire congregation turned to face him, their eyes empty and lifeless. Frozen with fear, Thomas stared at the bloodied flesh at his feet, his mind racing. What kind of place was this? The congregation’s eyes remained fixed on him, their expressions unchanged. The priest’s red eyes seemed to glow brighter, and the chill in the air grew more intense. "Is something wrong?" the priest asked, his voice dripping with malice. Thomas struggled to find his voice. "What... what is this?" "The body of Christ," the priest replied, a sinister smile spreading across his face. Panic surged through Thomas, and he bolted for the door. He could hear the congregation rising behind him, their footsteps echoing through the church as they pursued him. He burst through the doors and into the night, the cold air stinging his lungs as he ran. He didn’t dare look back, the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. The forest seemed to close in around him, the shadows deepening as he ran. Finally, he stopped to catch his breath, expecting to see the congregation hot on his heels. But when he turned, there was no one there. The forest was silent, the church nowhere to be seen. Thomas stood there, panting, his mind struggling to comprehend what had just happened. He was alone once more, the eerie silence of the woods pressing in on him. # Chapter 4: The Escape Thomas stumbled through the forest, trying to find his way back to civilization. The taste of blood and flesh lingered in his mouth, a grim reminder of the horror he had witnessed. Every rustle of leaves, every snap of a twig, made him jump, fearing that the congregation was still following him. The forest seemed to twist and turn, confusing him further as he tried to retrace his steps. He paused to rest by a large oak tree, its gnarled branches stretching out like skeletal fingers. The air was heavy with the scent of pine and damp earth, but there was something else, a faint metallic tang that reminded him of blood. His mind was racing, trying to make sense of what he had experienced. How could a church and its congregation vanish without a trace? As the first light of dawn broke through the trees, Thomas stumbled upon a narrow path. He followed it, hoping it would lead him to safety. The path wound through the forest, the trees gradually thinning out as he walked. He emerged onto a road, the sight of it filling him with a sense of relief. He flagged down a passing car, the driver looking at him with concern. "Are you alright?" the driver asked, noticing Thomas's disheveled appearance. Thomas tried to explain what had happened, but his words were jumbled, the terror of the night still fresh in his mind. "There was a church... and people... they weren't human. They tried to make me eat flesh." The driver's expression shifted from concern to skepticism. "A church? Out here? You must be mistaken. There's nothing like that around these parts." "Please, you have to believe me," Thomas pleaded. "I know what I saw." The driver sighed, but agreed to take him to the nearest town. "Alright, let's get you to the police. Maybe they can help you." # Chapter 5: The Investigation At the police station, Thomas recounted his story to the officers. Their expressions ranged from disbelief to mild amusement. The chief of police, a grizzled man named Officer Reynolds, listened patiently before speaking. "Son, are you sure you didn't hit your head out there?" Reynolds asked. "There's no church in those woods. Never has been." "I'm telling the truth!" Thomas insisted. "It was real. The people, the priest... they were all there." Reynolds sighed and glanced at his deputy. "Alright, we'll humor you. Let's take a look. Maybe we can find some clue as to what happened." They drove back to the forest, Thomas leading them to where he had seen the church. But when they arrived, there was nothing but an empty clearing. The church had vanished, leaving no trace behind. "I swear it was right here," Thomas said, his voice trembling. "It was real." The officers exchanged glances. "We'll file a report," Reynolds said, "but there's not much we can do without evidence." As they walked back to the car, the deputy, a young man named Officer Daniels, pulled Thomas aside. "Hey, I believe you saw something," Daniels whispered. "This place has always given me the creeps. But without proof, there's not much we can do." Thomas nodded, feeling defeated. "Thanks for believing me." # Chapter 6: The Aftermath Back in town, Thomas tried to go about his life, but the memory of the church haunted him. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched, and every shadow seemed to hold a threat. He spent hours researching the area, trying to find any mention of the church or its congregation. One evening, as he was sifting through old town records in the library, an elderly librarian approached him. "Can I help you with something, young man?" she asked, peering at him over her glasses. Thomas explained what he was looking for, and her eyes widened. "You're talking about St. Athanasius Church," she said quietly. "It was abandoned and torn down over a century ago. People said it was cursed." "Cursed?" Thomas echoed. "What do you mean?" The librarian glanced around nervously before continuing. "They say the priest was involved in dark rituals. The congregation disappeared one night, and the church was found abandoned, with symbols etched into the walls. No one dared go near it after that." Thomas felt a chill run down his spine. "Do you know where it was located?" The librarian nodded. "In the woods, just outside of town. But it's just a legend now. No one believes it really happened." # Chapter 7: The Return Determined to find answers, Thomas decided to return to the forest. Armed with a flashlight and a sense of purpose, he ventured back into the woods. The path seemed different now, as if the forest itself had shifted to conceal its secrets. After hours of searching, he finally found the clearing where the church had stood. The air was thick with tension, and he felt the weight of unseen eyes upon him. As he stood there, he heard the faint sound of whistling, a haunting melody that sent shivers down his spine. Suddenly, the temperature dropped, and a thick fog rolled in, obscuring his vision. He heard footsteps behind him and spun around, but there was no one there. The fog grew thicker, and the whistling grew louder. "Who's there?" Thomas called out, his voice echoing in the mist. A figure emerged from the fog, its eyes glowing red. It was the priest, his face twisted into a sinister smile. "Welcome back, Thomas," he said, his voice sending a chill through Thomas's body. "We've been waiting for you." Thomas backed away, his heart pounding. "This can't be real," he whispered. "You're not real." The priest laughed, a sound that echoed through the trees. "Oh, but we are very real. And now, you will join us." The fog closed in around Thomas, the priest's red eyes the last thing he saw before everything went black. # Chapter 8: The Final Escape Thomas awoke in the church, the familiar scent of incense filling the air. The congregation was seated, their eyes fixed on him. He was bound to a wooden chair in the center of the aisle, his heart racing with fear. The priest stood before him, holding a chalice filled with a dark, thick liquid. "Drink," he commanded, his voice echoing through the church. "No," Thomas pleaded, struggling against his bonds. "Please, let me go." The priest's eyes glowed brighter. "You have no choice. You are one of us now." Desperation gave Thomas a surge of strength, and he managed to break free from the chair. He ran down the aisle, the congregation rising to block his path. But he fought his way through, fueled by a primal need to survive. He burst through the doors and into the night, the fog still thick around him. The whistling followed him, growing louder and more frantic. He ran blindly, the trees closing in around him. Suddenly, he tripped over a root and fell to the ground. The fog parted, revealing a figure standing before him. It was the old woman from the church, her eyes filled with sorrow. "Run," she whispered. "Run and never look back." Thomas scrambled to his feet and ran, the woman's voice echoing in his mind. He didn't stop until he reached the road, his lungs burning and his heart pounding. He flagged down a car, the driver looking at him with concern. "Please, help me," Thomas gasped. "Get me out of here." The driver nodded and sped away, leaving the forest behind. Thomas looked back one last time, the fog closing in on the road. The church and its congregation were gone, but the memory of them would haunt him forever. # Chapter 9: The Revelation Thomas moved to a new town, hoping to start fresh. But the memories of the church lingered, haunting his dreams and shadowing his waking hours. He avoided the woods and spent his days trying to forget the horrors he had witnessed. One day, while walking through town, he saw a flyer for a local historian's lecture on the town's history. Intrigued, he decided to attend, hoping to find some closure. The lecture was held in a small community center, and the room was filled with curious townsfolk. The historian, a middle-aged woman with a kind smile, began her talk with stories of the town's founding and its early settlers. "Many of you may have heard of the legend of St. Athanasius Church," she said, her voice echoing in the room. "It's a tale that has been passed down through generations, shrouded in mystery and fear." Thomas listened intently as she recounted the story of the church, its cursed congregation, and the dark rituals of the priest. "Some believe the church still exists, hidden in the woods, waiting for the unsuspecting to stumble upon it." After the lecture, Thomas approached the historian, his heart pounding. "Excuse me," he said, his voice trembling. "I need to know more about the church. I think I found it." The historian's eyes widened. "You saw it? Tell me everything." Thomas recounted his experience, the historian listening with rapt attention. When he finished, she nodded slowly. "You are not the first to have seen the church. Others have reported similar encounters, but none have been as detailed as yours." "Why does it exist?" Thomas asked. "What does it want?" The historian sighed. "Some believe it is a remnant of a dark past, a place where evil was allowed to flourish. The church and its congregation are trapped in a time loop, repeating their dark rituals and seeking new victims to join them." Thomas shuddered. "Is there any way to stop it?" The historian shook her head. "No one knows for sure. But one thing is certain: you must stay away from those woods. The church will always be there, waiting." # Chapter 10: The Resolution Thomas took the historian's advice to heart. He moved again, this time to a bustling city far from any woods. He tried to rebuild his life, but the memories of the church were always with him, a dark shadow lurking in the corners of his mind. He sought therapy, hoping to find peace. His therapist, a kind and patient woman, helped him work through his trauma. "You are safe now," she assured him. "The church can't hurt you anymore." But Thomas knew the truth. The church was still out there, hidden in the woods, waiting for its next victim. He could never forget the red eyes of the priest, the taste of flesh, and the haunting whistling. One night, as he lay in bed, he heard a faint sound outside his window. It was the whistling, growing louder and more insistent. He sat up, his heart pounding. The sound seemed to come from everywhere, echoing through the streets. He ran to the window and looked out, but there was nothing there. The whistling grew louder, filling his mind with terror. He knew what it meant. The church had found him. Desperate, Thomas grabbed his keys and ran out of his apartment. He drove aimlessly, the whistling following him. He couldn't escape it. It was inside him, a part of him now. As he drove, he saw the fog rolling in, thick and suffocating. The whistling grew louder, drowning out all other sounds. He knew he couldn't outrun it. The church would always find him. In a final act of desperation, Thomas drove to the nearest bridge. He parked his car and climbed to the edge, the whistling echoing in his mind. He looked down at the dark water below, his heart filled with fear and resignation. "I'm sorry," he whispered, closing his eyes. "I can't do this anymore." With that, he jumped, the cold water enveloping him, silencing the whistling forever.

One of the most terrifying nights of my life took place in our junior year of high school. Like every other punk on the planet, we had started a band with me on guitar and vocals and Jared on bass. That was it though. We never ended up finding a drummer. We called ourselves Fore Ruin and wrote hits like “I’m out of TP and I’ve got Diarrhea” and “There’s a Bear in that Chair Right There and I’m scared”. Over the years, we had collected a good amount of both musical and paranormal equipment and spent a lot of time learning how to integrate those two parts of our lives. We weren’t serenading the spirits or shredding their ectoplasmic faces off, but we were able to use microphones, guitar amps and guitars as a means of communicating with The Other Side. We had worked our way through the house night after night until we ended up in the epicenter of it all. The garage. I hadn’t spent any time in the garage at all in the five years I had spent at that house. And I had almost wished I never did after this night. This was our last night trying to speak with them and trying to find a way to help them move on. They either didn’t want help or they were very happy where they were, terrorizing us. The garage was more of a storage space than it was a garage. Boxes stacked to the ceiling in one corner. Furniture and a light fixture in another. With baseball equipment and power tools covering the rest of the space. We pulled two plastic lawn chairs into the middle of the floor, placed a 25w guitar amp in the ten foot space between us, plugged one end of the cable into the input jack, set the other on the ground a few feet away and flipped the power switch. We heard the usual buzz that comes with touching the end of a 1/4” audio jack with the occasional, extremely small rises and falls of volume and pitch as the Earth moved beneath us and the electronics in the house changed on and off. We sat in the buzzing for a minute, hoping to hear the static broken by anything at all. I ended up being the one to break the silence by asking questions. I started simple with yes or no questions. One knock for yes. Two for no. - I am getting goosebumps and my eyes are watering just retelling this right now. - I did my usual round of questions; “Are you here?” “Are you stuck here?” “Did Jared’s family know you before you passed?” Every few questions, we would hear a small tap or two from random places in the room. Nothing substantial enough to say that it wasn’t just noises that a house makes conveniently lining up with our questions. But then I asked my last yes or no question. “Is there more than one of you?” -knock- on the wall to our right, connecting to the living room. -knock- louder this time, but from the opposite side, in the back corner. I laughed and asked Jared if that was one knock or two. Before he could answer, there was a loud slam on the dining room table in the corner of the room, kicking up dust and rattling the light fixture as if someone slammed both of their fists down as hard as they could. With my heart thumping in my throat, I choked out the words, “How many of you are here right now?” -tap- from one side of the room. -tap tap- from another. -tap tap tap tap tap tap- from near the door leading back into the house. Soon, there was tapping of all different strengths coming from every direction until it all stopped at once. We were left again with nothing but the sound of each other’s ragged, terrified breathing and the buzz from the guitar amp. We were frozen in place. I don’t know if we were paralyzed by something or if we were both too afraid to move, but the only movement either of us made was our diaphragms expanding rapidly and our hearts slamming our of our chests. It only got worse from there. The buzzing from the guitar amp started to get louder. So gently at first, you almost couldn’t tell that anything was different at all. Once it started getting loud, we realized something was off. The static from the amp sounded like the ocean cranked up to eleven. The sound was fluctuating unnaturally and warping like adults in the old Peanuts cartoon. As the static maintained its ear-piercing din, we heard something heavy, metal and cylindrical hit the floor a few feet to my left, Jared’s right. That sound finally broke me out of whatever stupor was keeping my legs immobile and my ass glued to that chair. I stood up to go find out what that was and Jared followed suit to shut off the amp. As he reached down to flip the switch, there was a loud -POP- from the speaker accompanied by a large spark, followed by some dark smoke. He scrambled to just unplug the power cable as I reached to move a stack of boxes out of the way. Once I was able to get the boxes scooted across the floor and out of the way, just a few feet ahead, I saw a fire extinguisher on its side. It was rocking lightly back and forth, making that metal rolling back and forth sound ever so quietly as if the CO2 inside was sloshing back and forth. As I was reconciling the sound we heard seconds ago with the extinguisher in front of me, it rocketed across the floor like it was kicked by Zeus himself in our direction. I was able to pick my foot up in time for it to slide past me and crash into the tool bench on the back wall of the room. We turned back to our chairs to grab our flashlights and leave but when we got there, our lights were gone and the chairs were on the other side of the room, almost thrown on top of each other. We didn’t run, but we walked with a purpose to the door to the house and locked it behind us. His parents were out of town that entire week, so we had been planning a lot of evidence-gathering and fun, spooky happenings. But that was the first and last night that we attempted to communicate with them in the garage and one of the last times I even stepped foot in there without the big door to the driveway being open during the daytime. There were a lot of wild things that happened between the shadow lurching into his little sister’s doorway and having a fire extinguisher thrown at me. Some things as small as the scratching on the walls leading up to Jared’s room with some things as big as pushing piles of things off of the shelves in the hall closet. We saw faces on camera and picked up voice recordings. We watched a light move around the room like it could understand what we were saying up until it rushed in a straight line towards Jared only to disappear out of sight as soon as it made its way up to his chest. Him and I had a real bad falling out when Sailor and I started dating, so I’m not 100% sure where he is now. But the last time I talked to him, him and his wife were living in that house and planning to eventually start a family. I hope for his family’s sake that he has done something to appease or cleanse those spirits. And I will believe in ghosts for the rest of my life. His house wasn’t the only place that I experienced a haunting. My parent’s last house before they were evicted had a ghost that liked to open the shower curtain (Randomly and innocuously. Not when we were showering or anything.) and close and knock on doors. The town house I lived in was occupied by something violent. It put a hole in a wall when I was home alone. It pushed my cat off of the railing on the second floor. But the worst experience I have ever had in my life happened a few weeks after my paternal grandmother died.

It was a cold night when Minos B. Angelo lost his life. He was in the bar that never closed and never had people working in it, everyone's knew it was the work of some sort of Magic, seeing as the glasses were somehow refilled in the millisecond it’d take you to blink. Some even say that it came from one of the Ancient Mythical "Laborers." Beings from ancient history that were said to be responsible for the creation of the world and all its magical properties. Regardless of its origin, Minos spent most of his time here in this rundown town at the bar. Drinking himself to oblivion and twirling his messy unkempt azure hair. Tonight he was simply sitting with a half-full glass of some sort of beer. He wasn't thirsty though. Nor was he in any mood to get drunk. He's been hearing rumors of a certain man that would be passing through soon for supplies. He would want to be fully sober for when he killed the bastard who took his right arm. He had plenty of time to learn how to shoot with his left. His gun belt was attached firmly to his waist. Suddenly the door flung open as a silver-haired Middle aged man who stood at 6 '4 entered the bar. He wore a gray duster with matching jeans and a Hat tilted slightly in a way that hid his hazel eyes. “Hmm guess that old man was right, there do seem to be hints of magic scattered all around here.” At his waist was a gun belt and strangely a Katana sheathed in a silver scabbard. Minos felt as if his stump was throbbing just at the sight of the blade that took his arm. "V!! Today is th-" "Save it." V. said in a gruff and scratchy voice. "Let me get a drink and then we'll catch up okay?" V. said nonchalantly as he walked to the counter and past Minos who had gotten up and moved behind him. Minos was perplexed at what just happened and soon anger took over any sense of reason he had left. "V! Today’s the day you die and pay me back for my arm!!" "You cost me some good money and tried to set me up Minos, Be grateful an arm is all I took from you." V. said "DAMN YOU!!" He yelled out drawing his gun and pointing it directly at V.'s chest but in an instant, V drew his revolver and fired 3 shots right into Minos. Minos fell and groaned loudly in pain. "I fired those 3 shots into non-lethal spots so you can enjoy my company a little bit more while you bleed out.” He said with a grin as he sat down and gulped down Minos's drink. "Since we're here, you wanna know a secret?" "Damn you...." "Do you know what my name stands for? I mean I'm sure you've gotta be curious. “What’s up with my name being just one letter?” “What does it mean?” “Why is it so damn cool?” "I'll kill you..." "The V Stands For Vicious.

July 24th, 2023, is a date etched into my memory forever. Even now, over a year later, I still can't explain what I experienced that day. I've tried telling others about it, but they either laugh or pretend to be interested. Even my own family doesn't believe me. I'm writing this as a last resort, hoping that someone can explain what I saw. The day started off gray and humid, as many days in Florida often do. I was looking forward to meeting up with my close friends, Landon and Sophie. We hadn't seen each other in a few weeks and planned to relax and catch up. I left my house around 2:30 p.m. and went to our usual hangout spot, a park about ten minutes away from all of us. We all arrived around the same time and leaped out of our cars excitedly before sharing a big group hug. The park, with its tall oak trees, small playground, and scattered picnic tables, was a calm and familiar place for us. We sat at one of the tables and remained there for hours, having nonsensical and deep conversations, teasing each other over stupid stuff, etc. Typical activities for us. After the sun had set, we decided to move into Sophie's car to continue our conversations and listen to music. It was about 9:30 p.m. at this point when I was met with a strong, uneasy feeling. I was sitting in the front passenger seat, looking out the window, when I noticed a shadowy figure walking in circles about 20 feet in front of us. At that time, I believed we were the only ones there, so I thought it was odd, but I brushed it off, assuming it was just a drunk homeless person. It was hard to make out any features because the park only had a few dim orange streetlights spread across the property. I pointed it out to Landon and Sophie, saying, "That dude over there's gotta be on something." They looked at the figure, and both were equally unsettled by its behavior. Sophie half-jokingly asked, "Should we find another spot? I don't really feel like getting kidnapped tonight." Landon chuckled and tried reassuring her that we'd be fine, while I couldn't shake the strange feeling. A couple more hours passed, and the figure was still there, walking in circles. Landon said, "I feel like we should ask if he's okay. There's clearly something wrong with him." Sophie replied, "Absolutely not, Landon! We can't even see what the dude looks like apart from his shadow! Do you really think walking up to him is a good idea?" I agreed with Sophie and reiterated that approaching the figure wouldn't be wise. Landon sighed at us and said, "Fine. I won't go up to him. But I gotta ask him if he's okay." Landon opened the door before we could stop him and got out of the car. Sophie and I started yelling at him to get back in, but he ignored us. He shouted at the figure, "Yo dude! Do you need help?" The figure didn't react and kept walking. Landon asked, "Do you need medical assistance? Food? Water?" The figure still didn't react. He then said, "I'm not gonna call the cops on you or anything. I just want to make sure you're okay, bro!" Suddenly, the figure stopped moving and became obscured by darkness. At this point, Sophie and I were begging Landon to get back in the car, but Landon continued to ignore us. I then told Sophie to turn on her headlights so we could see where the figure went. Hesitantly, she turned the lights on, and what we saw still gives me nightmares. It loomed about seven feet tall, its body unnaturally slender. It was covered in a grayish translucent membrane that pulsated with every movement. Its limbs were thin like tree branches. Its hands were intricate tendril-like appendages that waved slowly with the wind. And its face, that godforsaken face, looked distorted, like a twisted reflection in a funhouse mirror, its features constantly shifting. Its eyes were sunken in, the headlights revealing their round white appearance and dilated pupils. Its mouth was stuck in a haunting smile, with hundreds of sharp teeth glistening back at us. I couldn't think, blink, or breathe. The overwhelming horror completely disabled my senses. Sophie wasn't doing any better. Her mouth was slightly open in shock, and her lips were trembling, tears rolling down her cheeks. She muttered, "What the hell is that thing?" I said nothing. I physically couldn't. It was like whatever this monstrosity was had me in a trance. I was just numb. Sophie suddenly came to her senses and screamed, "Landon! Oh my God, Landon!" I snapped out of the trance at her screams. I looked out the window to see Landon in a trance similar to mine. He just stood there, trembling at the sight of the creature. Sophie continued screaming Landon's name, to no avail. I then looked back at the creature. It just stood there, its gaze focused on Landon, the nightmarish grin still plastered on its face. I panicked and yelled, "Sophie, we gotta do something." She started fumbling for her phone to call 911; her hands were shaking so much that she could barely hold it. I banged on the window, desperately shouting at Landon to snap out of it. Sophie managed to get the police on the phone and told them, "Our friend is in trouble, and there's something out here that is trying to harm him." I looked at the creature and noticed its head was tilted, slowly moving toward Landon. As it walked closer, a low humming sound began echoing through the air, and the temperature started to drop. As soon as this began, Sophie lost all cell service and could no longer call for help. I felt hopeless, and the fear started to set in again. At that moment, I tried to distract the creature. I jumped out of the car and started screaming in its direction. The creature's gaze shifted toward me, and it began to approach, its mouth widening into a more terrifying grin. I blinked and was immediately met by the brightest light I had ever seen. I heard Sophie scream for me, followed by a deep explosion. I don't know what happened at that moment. My vision was obscured by light, and my ears were ringing. I honestly thought I was dead. But the light soon faded, and I regained consciousness, my ears still ringing. I was lying on the ground, dazed. My vision was blurry, making it difficult to understand my surroundings. I suddenly heard a faint whimpering sound. I saw Sophie's silhouette lying on the ground near me. I used every ounce of strength to crawl over to her. My foggy vision started to clear as I got closer and saw that she was covered in blood. I quietly called out to her, "Sophie. Are you okay?" She glanced up at me, her eyes bloodshot. She began to sob uncontrollably. I finally managed to crawl all the way to her and said, "Sophie, you're covered in blood. Are you hurt?" She mumbled through her sobs, "It's not mine." It took me a moment to realize what she meant, but then reality hit me. Landon was gone. Sophie cried, "It was about to attack both of you. I managed to push you out of the way but couldn't get to Landon in time." I asked her, "What did it do to him?" She told me, "It all happened so fast. I heard him scream. There was blood everywhere. Then he disappeared along with that thing." She began to sob even more. We hugged each other tight, our bodies still shaking. I broke down at that moment as reality continued to set in. In the distance, I could hear sirens slowly approaching. Sophie and I were then stretchered into an ambulance. As they wheeled us away, I saw the police surrounding the patch of grass where the creature had been standing. In its place was a patch of scorched grass surrounded by strange crystal-like structures, an eerie reminder of the horrors that had just occurred. Sophie and I both made full recoveries from that night. Physically, at least. Strangely, no one questioned us afterward. They treated us like we had just been in a car crash rather than what we actually experienced. There were no reports of what happened, and a missing persons file was opened for Landon. Our families were told we had been in an "accident" and had experienced head trauma and delusion as a result. As I mentioned at the start, a year has gone by. Sophie and I are still very close and have supported each other as much as possible. The incident has been swept under the rug, with no sign of it ever surfacing. Along with this, Landon is still missing. Since that day, ten other individuals have also gone missing, with the reason always being a "tragic accident." If anyone has experienced anything similar, please let me know. The truth needs to come out, and I feel that if more people share their experiences, we can stop this suppression and begin the search for whatever we saw on that night.

Charles Byron looks around the room, though his eyes deftly jump over one particular corner, “With that, this week’s meeting of the Advocates is concluded, return to your posts, and send in the B Team.” He is the de facto leader of our branch of the Advocates, and had given himself the pretentious fieldname of “Commander.” But everyone knows that I am the real leader, the one that everyone looks to in a crisis. I stretch to get up out of my ch- Suddenly the overheard display lights up, on the screen is “Shaolc” self-proclaimed “Empress of the World,” “You fools!” she shouts, with all the gusto of a delusional lunatic or a desperate actress, “I have successfully infiltrated your organization! You’ll soon find the room is locked,” at that the emergency doors slam shut, and the lights shift to red, the room was deadlocked, “and a bomb has been activated in your pathetic headquarters,” one of the screens turns into a counter, “you have two minutes to swear fealty to me. Or die!” Dread starts to trickle down my back, but I school my features to remain expressionless. We are in the command room, it’s the most durable room in the entire base. During lockdown it’s meant to protect VIPs as a last resort. There is virtually no way out. Athena, half of the brother-sister duo who make up our physically strongest members, voices my concerns, “The doors and walls are made out of feet of the strongest alloys in existence! Even *we* can’t punch our way out of this room. A nuke could go off in here, and you probably wouldn’t even notice it on the outside!” Commander turns to me, face not betraying a drop of fear, “Good Doctor, Mindseye, you’re on.” My heart tightens in my chest, while I simultaneously squash the urge to vomit up the BLT I had for lunch an hour ago. Only years of practice allow me to maintain my stony façade in the face of this dangerous situation. As always, I trust my instincts. I look under the table and instantly locate the blinking lights of the bomb. “Mindseye, it’s under here,” I watch as she immediately crawls under the table and begins inspecting it. The rest of the table must be frozen in terror, as I don’t hear so much as a peep from them. I vigorously stomp on the part of me that wants to check how much time we have left. “This’ll take too long.” She says, as she continues fiddling and inspecting it. “Good doctor?” Commander asks, I glance at him, and see the sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. I have no idea how to disarm any bomb let alone this one, but I *am* the smartest person on the planet, “the fourth law of thermodynamics is preventing me from disarming it.” I blurt out. The rest of the table looks at me with expressions ranging from complete confusion to abject terror, though I assume Mindseye hasn’t paused her efforts at all. Commander’s face rapidly shifts from confusion to realization to surprise and settles on grim determination. Using every ounce of his famous speed, he moves faster than the eye can follow as he pulls out his revolver and shoots Zero. Six precise shots to the head that kill Zero before he has a chance to react. The gunshots snap the fear and tension in the room, and trigger collective shouting at Commander: calling him insane, demanding to know what he’s doing, or pleading with him to stop. None of it phases him. Commander is next to Zero and rifling through his pockets before Zero’s head even hits the table. He pulls out a complicated remote and throws it towards me. “Don’t worry, I’m just following Good Doctor’s coded message.” I begin fumbling with the remote. “I thought he had lost it when he first mentioned the fourth law of thermodynamics.” Damnit, I have no idea how this remote is supposed to work, there’s no signs or symbols on it. “But then I realized he must be referring to the zeroth law. Or more specifically, our former Zero here. He was the mole a-” “Congratulations!” Shaolc’s irritating shouting cuts him off. “You found one of my many spies! But you still only have ten seconds to swear your loyalty to me!” The timer suddenly jumps to a final countdown. “Good Doctor, you figure out that remote yet?” Commander asks me. I randomly jam several buttons all along the keypad in a random pattern. “Done,” I say projecting as much confidence as I can. Mindseye slides back out from under the table, “the bomb turned off.” I look up and notice that the timer just finished. I did it again. Of course. Relief seeps through me; there’s no better high than this. “Damn! Damn! Damn!” Shaolc accentuates her shouts by pounding a fist on some off-screen table, “I can’t believe thi-” a few more quick presses seem to block Shaolc and turn off the overhead projectors. “Bravo Doctor,” I feel Commander pat me on the back. A chorus of cheers and congratulations greet me, Athena wraps me in a hug that would’ve been quite enjoyable if she didn’t nearly crack my ribs. “How did you figure it out Doc?” Athena asks me. I didn’t. I have no clue. “Aftershave.” “Of course,” Mindseye interjects, “I had been suspecting him for that same reason.” She continues to fill in the logic for me, “Shaolc has a… *tendency* to require all her goons to smell and look a certain way whenever they are around her. While that aftershave was the wrong scent, it would’ve perfectly masked Shaolc’s chosen scent.” “But that alone couldn’t be enough.” Commander asked. “He joined at right around when we suspected the mole did, and he had access to every mission that was sabotaged, but so did a few people. The one thing that set him apart was the aftershave. I had been setting up my own trap, but,” she waved her hands at the whole situation. Everyone grows quiet. I can tell that the realization of what just happened is seeping through the room. Even if he was a mole, a former team member is now dead. Blood cooling on the conference table. I’ve got to lighten up the room; it’s time I closed things out, “I didn’t save the day alone; Zero helped. One last time.” I briefly consider trying to squeak out a tear but decide against it, “we were saved because Zero trusted Shaolc as little as we did. He had this little failsafe set up,” I waved the remote, “and we should be able to use it to root out any other little surprises she has for us.” I hand the remote to Mindseye, she should be able to actually figure out how it works, and I give the rest of the team huddled around me a charming smile, “we’re a team, and as long as the third smartest person in the universe is around,” I subtly point at myself, “we’ll always save the day.” I hold for the applause. “Only the third smartest… you must be feeling *humble* today.” That futon-asshole’s jarring voice silences my applause. He’s in the back corner with Pattie as usual, engaging in a level of PDA that would be inappropriate at a bar, let alone a mission briefing. “Doc just saved all of us,” Athena steps up to defend me, “while you sat on your ass,” she angrily points at him. He shrugs, “we were never in any real danger. I would know.” He gives another smug smile as he lounges on the couch with Pattie. He turns and whispers something in her ear and she starts laughing. It’s not jealousy that rattles through me. Pattie isn’t really my type, or even attractive enough for my tastes. Nor, is it just Pattie’s insubordination, her current assignment is to help acclimate that asshole to our city after all – although she is overdoing it. What bothers me the most is that I didn’t impress him. *Everybody* else *knows* that I am the smartest person on the planet. You could go the middle of Nowhere, Kansas, and show someone a picture of me, and they’d be able to tell how smart I *am.* I could talk to some aboriginal tribe in the middle of the jungle and in less than a minute they’d *know*how smart I am. I could walk into the lecture hall of any graduate program of any college in the world and in five minutes have the professor begging for me to help them with their research. But this asshole falls out of the sky and somehow *knows* differently. How? And now he is seeding doubt in all of their minds. He’s screwing with my life without even trying. One way or another I will get rid of this problem permanently.

Rain. The rain pours. The bucket in my house slowly fills from the rain. The constant chaotic drops drive me insane, the sound echoing through my head constantly. I’m not sure when they’re real or when my brain just fills the gaps. Time passed I hate the sound. The bucket has filled and now every couple of drops it spills. I slowly rise from my cocoon of a bed and move over to it. I raise my head to the ceiling and stare. A droplet hits my forehead. It’s cold. I open the window, grab the bucket and throw the water out. A small pool of water formed next to the window while it was open. I placed the bucket back and flung my body back into bed. Time passed I woke up exhausted. The ticking grandfather clock combined with the water drops created a discordance that drained me. I can’t tell if I dreamt or if I was awake. I moved my bony hands towards the spoon in the cereal bowl. The milk tastes like shit. This house is shit. I violently hurl the milk carton towards the trash. I missed. Expired milk smells foul, and now it’s everywhere. God I hate it here. I glance at the refrigerator and move to open it. Empty. I couldn’t buy anything since I restrained myself to this hellhole. The refrigerator’s full. I have to empty it. I can’t wait here anymore. I’m famished. Before I open it a knock echoes through the building. Startled, I wait. My body instinctively freezes and my breath becomes as silent as possible. Another knock echoes. And another. Then they stop. I remained unmoved for a couple more minutes until i found it safe to return to my activities. A threatening feeling looms over my head, ringing like the sounds playing with my sanity. I have to get rid of it. I opened the refrigerator half-heartedly. Inside laid bags. I grabbed one of them but the weight almost tipped me over. A hole had formed and through it I could see her leg. The smell finally hit me. I took good care of keeping it from rotting, yet it still started to decompose. Time passed I finally got all the parts out. Now I only had one thing to do. Bury. Where? Garden? Too obvious… Forest? That’s cliche and moving this corpse that far would be dangerous… Maybe… The graveyard next to the church. That’s it. They wouldn’t think to look for it there, and if they did it would be gone by then. That’s it. At night. Time passed I fill my dusty Jeep’s trunk with the remains. I find a rusty shovel and throw it in the backseat. Time passed The road’s empty. I got to the entrance and realized that with my gaunty body, I’ll definitely need to bring the body parts separately. Fuck. Time passed I brought them to a remote part of the graveyard. Digging the hole took me unbearably long. The constant stress and horror strangles me like a poltergeist. The rain stopped but the sound still echoes in my skull, burning into my brain. I emptied the bags one by one. Messily. The blood spilled into the casket and on the dirt around it. Another thing I need to cover up… I grabbed the shovel and started filling the hole back up. The sound of the dirt hitting the mushy remains silenced the rain. But it soon stopped too. Silent. Primal fear takes hold. I’m being watched. I desperately look in every direction. Nothing. Noone. Nowhere. Silence. My eyes stopped at the grave I was filling. The cross laid dirty, having been bathed in the blood I spilled. The instinctual terror amplified. God had abandoned me. Or I had abandoned god. I froze. I couldn’t move the shovel. My eyes staring into pitch blackness. The blackness staring into me. A droplet hit my head and woke me from the trance. It wasn’t raining. Time passed I had filled the hole. The shovel in my right hand, the bags in my left, I approached the car. I don’t believe in hell, nor heaven. Just dark. Emptiness. Exactly what was happening now. What was I even scared of? There was no one there. Nothing. I was alone. A ghost. I threw the things in the backseat and then entered the car. It doesn’t start. Time passed It still hasn’t started. I got out of the car. Horrified that someone might find me there. I ripped the number plates off and walked with them into the woods surrounding the church. I threw them at some point. That was a while ago. I put one foot in front of the other trying to clear my head. Left. Right. Left. Right. Hands. I fell into the mud. I pulled my hands out, disgusted. It reeks of death here. Maybe an animal. I get up and step on something tougher than the mud. Take another step. And another. Where the hell am I? The rain starts pouring and I move forward. Where am I going? The terrain gets more abrupt and now I have to use my hands for assistance. I grab at the soil. This isn’t dirt. Nor rocks. It’s a familiar feeling. A flash of lightning illuminating my surroundings confirmed my fears. It was people. I was treading on human bodies. The shock stunned me and I slipped. Falling backwards. A shard pain vibrated from my shoulder to my ribs. I had fallen on it. My right arm was numb. At the same time something grabbed my legs. Uncountably many hands grab at me. They pull me in every direction. The pain in my shoulder is undescribable. They’re pulling me under. All goes dark, but sound remains. Rain. The rain is all I hear. The grandfather clock starts soon after. Then I remember her. I remember everything. I remember my whole life, while the sounds get louder. Time passed A drop hits my head. I’m completely soaked. I’m awake. I’m staring at the cross once again. No, I’ve never stopped staring. I leave the shovel next to the open grave. I got closer to the cross and wiped the blood as best as I could. I press my head against it, both my feet inside the grave. The rain masks my pathetic whimpers, and my tears become its droplets. God forgive me. I can’t forgive myself. If I could change what happened I would. I pray. I beg for forgiveness. No response. I don’t deserve one. I lay in the grave, kicking the dirt around me until the soil I had gathered next to the hole fell on top of me. I don’t move. The rain still echoes. I crave the peace of silence. And it comes. I’ve now forgotten myself, and soon so will the world.

“Hidden Baggage” by P. Orin Zack (9/19/2007)   “Do you have to call it that?” the newcomer said, wincing. Melissa Fox lowered her outstretched hand, and turned from the mobile that she and a few others from Constitutional Evolution were building in the city library’s crafts room. “Call it what, Ron?” “C. C. C. P.” He spoke tentatively, as if he was afraid to touch the letters with his voice. He gestured at the cardboard square she’d just hung. “There.” She shrugged. “Because that’s what it is. Does it bother you?” “Well, yeah. Don’t you know that that means?” “Of course. The Corporate Controlled Complicit Press. What about it?” “No. No. What the abbreviation originally meant. The old Soviet Union. You just added a communist dictatorship to the federal government.” Derek Boa, leader of the grassroots group, tapped the newly added leaf, sending the unbalanced mobile into a chaotic oscillation. “Well, it did kinda seem fitting, considering how much they behave like Pravda, and all.” “It just bothers me, that’s all. I think the government’s doing a pretty good job, what with all the trouble we’ve been having overseas.” Melissa edged a bit closer. “We’re not doing this out of disrespect. My own father’s a congressman, and I know he’s doing the best job he can, under the circumstances. But there are some serious problems with the system itself. That’s what Constitutional Evolution is all about, exploring ways to make it better.” “Yeah. I get that, but why do you have to stoop to name-calling?” Derek nodded. “Okay. I think I know what’s going on. How about we break from this for a bit and have a chat. It sounds like we have some issues to deal with.” This was the second of the group’s meetings that Ron had attended. His first had been a genial chat over pizza and pop, more of a family get-together than anything else. The idea for building a mobile representing the competing interests laid out by the framers of the existing Constitution had been suggested then, and he had been invited to join the fun. The point of the exercise, though, was to see where the problems lay, and what might be done to correct them in a new Constitutional Convention. “In order to understand where you’re coming from,” Melissa said as she pulled a chair over towards the table, “It’d be helpful to know a bit about you. I’m an artist, for example.” Ron pulled his seat close and sat very straight. “I majored in journalism, but ended up working for a marketing firm. It’s why that slam on the press hit me so hard.” Derek had removed the offending leaf from the mobile, and set it down in the middle of the table, facing Ron. “These are just letters. They could stand for a lot of things. Do a web search and you’ll probably turn up a half-dozen, easy. Each of us has a bag of meanings we carry around, to simplify the task of interpreting the world. It’s a great thing, too, but it also has drawbacks. Sometimes those meanings get in the way of seeing what’s really in front of us.” “I know what’s in front of me,” he objected. “You even confirmed it.” “But he didn’t write it,” Melissa said, placing her hand beside the leaf. “I did. And I did it for a reason. Artists work with visual symbols the way writers like you do with words. The mobile we’re building is a physical model of the balance of power among the various pieces of government. But balancing our model only tells us whether the strength of influences are matched, not which direction those influences might be pulling. In the case of the press, the risk is that it would toe the official line, and parrot what the White House or its corporate masters say. I alluded to the old ‘Red Menace’ to call attention to that.” “It doesn’t matter what you meant. ‘C.C.C.P.’ still stands for the Soviet Union. You can’t just go around making unsubstantiated charges like that any more.” He glanced around, then lowered his voice. “They might be listening.” Derek smiled. “Who, the secret police? The FBI? Homeland Security?” “Yeah. Do you want to get charged with treason?” “About as much as the founders did. Look. Any time the people decide to do something about an abuse of power, the government, whatever kind it is, will respond like that. It’s only right. That’s self-protection. But unless the people disregard the threat and do what they know they have to anyway, those abuses will never stop. They’ll just get worse. So, to answer your question – sure. If that’s what it takes to get the attention of the people who work in those agencies. Because you see, I don’t think those folks all really believe in what they’re doing. For most of them, it’s just a job. And if they value the oath they took when they accepted their jobs -- to defend the constitution, not the people in power at the moment – then what I’m doing just might get them to refuse to go along, too.” He pushed back from the table. “You’re advocating civil disobedience by the people in government agencies?” “Who better?” Ron shook his head, then looked over at the unfinished mobile. “Where were you going with that, anyway, Melissa?” She picked up the cardboard leaf. “The framers only wrote about the three branches of the federal government they were creating, but there were unspoken assumptions as well.” “Like what?” “Well, that the Fourth Estate, the press, would be a vibrant counterweight to government abuse, working on behalf of the people, for one thing.” “And,” added Derek, “that the states themselves would retain their individual sovereignty, and prevent over-reaching by the new federal government.” Ron looked doubtful. “They never said that. There’s nothing at all in the constitution about and checks or balances between the states and the federal government.” “Which is part of the problem.” “Okay,” he said, slowly. “Just for the sake of argument, what kind of powers did you have in mind for the states?” Melissa raised a finger. “May I?” “Sure.” She picked up her leaf and returned to the mobile. “We all know about the three branches, executive, legislative and judicial. That’s pretty straightforward. And the threads we connected between them, which represent things like congress’s power of the purse, the president’s veto, and the supreme court’s ability to strike down laws passed by congress. But we don’t have anything here to represent the people or the states.” Ron shrugged. “Of course you do. The people elected congress and the president. There’s two senators for each state.” “Well,” Derek said, “the electoral college really elects the president, but let’s not quibble. Her point is that there are no formal checks and balances for the people or the states to use.” “Then what are elections?” “Hardly what you’d call a useful check against the misuse of power. Between elections, they can do pretty much what they want. And there’s a lot of money spent by corporate lobbies to influence what they want.” “And your solution?” Ron challenged. “For one thing, the governors, as a group, should have a way to challenge laws passed by congress, edicts handed down by the president, and rulings made by the supreme court, if they have more than some threshold number of votes among them.” “What votes? There’s no ‘House of Governors’.” “Maybe there should be. We’re not trying to fashion a new constitution here, any more than we’re plotting to overthrow the current government. All we’re doing is identifying problems with the current system, and suggesting changes to fix them. That’s the real job of a patriot, not parroting some line of bull intended to sell the citizens on the idea of relinquishing their constitutional rights, and the founders’ sentiments about eliminating a government if it becomes destructive of the ends for which it was created. The constitution may describe the nature of the federal government, but what its really about is a way to protect the citizens from a recurrence of the abuses that caused them to stand and fight.” The room was silent for a long moment. Then Melissa laughed. “You’ll have to excuse Derek. He gets that way sometimes.” Ron look at the mobile, then at Derek. “Maybe he ought to do it some more. Look, I think I ought to be going, now. But I’d like to help out.” “Thanks,” Derek said happily. “But could you do us a favor?” “Sure.” “Next time, when you walk in, maybe you could leave that badge you’re not wearing at the door.” “Badge?” “You don’t really work for a marketing firm, do you.” It was a statement. He smiled, and left.   THE END Copyright 2007 by P.

In a small town nestled between rolling hills and a meandering river, the lives of several people intersected through a support group at the local community center. Each member carried the weight of a chronic condition, along with dreams and fears that only those in similar situations could truly understand. **Emma’s Story** Emma was a retired schoolteacher who had battled rheumatoid arthritis for over twenty years. Her joints ached with every step, but her spirit remained unbroken. She spent her days knitting blankets for newborns at the local hospital, each stitch a testament to her resilience. Emma often wished for her pain to disappear, imagining a life where she could dance freely again. But she knew that a life without pain would mean her journey had come to an end. Despite this, Emma’s hope for a pain-free existence remained, tied with her acceptance of life's eventual conclusion. **David’s Story** David was a young musician diagnosed with cystic fibrosis. His lungs struggled with every breath, yet his passion for music burned brightly. He composed symphonies on his keyboard, pouring his soul into melodies that resonated with both sorrow and joy. David’s wish was to breathe deeply, to fill his lungs with air and sing without constraint. He understood that such a day might only arrive when he took his last breath, but he found solace in the notes he played and the connections he made with others through his music. **Lila’s Story** Lila was a mother of two, living with multiple sclerosis. Her days were filled with fatigue and numbness, but her heart was full of love for her children. She dreamt of running alongside them in the park, chasing after their laughter. Lila knew that her disease might never loosen its grip until her life ended, but she cherished each moment spent with her family. She found strength in their smiles and hope in their embraces, knowing that her love would endure even after she was gone. **Marcus’s Story** Marcus was a veteran suffering from PTSD and chronic migraines. The memories of his service haunted him, and the pain in his head was a constant reminder of battles fought both externally and within. He wished for peace, a life where the past no longer haunted his present. Marcus knew that such peace might only be found in the quiet of the end, but he fought each day for small victories. He found solace in sharing his stories with others, hoping to inspire those facing their own battles. **Their Collective Story** Together, Emma, David, Lila, and Marcus formed a tapestry of resilience and hope. They shared their stories and dreams in their support group, finding strength in each other's presence. They understood the paradox of their wishes, longing for relief from their suffering while knowing that such relief might only come with life’s end. Yet, they embraced each day with courage, finding meaning in their struggles and joy in the moments of connection. As the seasons changed, their stories continued to intertwine, each life a unique melody in the symphony of existence. They knew that while their chronic conditions were part of their stories, they did not define their lives. Through their hopes, fears, and shared experiences, they discovered a profound truth: that even in the face of unending challenges, life’s beauty could still shine through, and love could endure beyond the confines of the physical world.

Once a place of culture and prestige, a welcoming place for any traveler or tradesman, the town and homes of There could rival any picture postcard setting. Its five spired church truly an architectural wonder and the park in front of the church a carefully tended gem. The homes and gardens of There idyllic and perfectly maintained. Situated South of the town of Here, and close to the Shining Vale, itself an attraction for those of a mystical inclination, the town of There sat on a five forked road, with the River From burbling its way through the town. There was both beautiful and prosperous. Once. A dispute with Here, it was rumored. Or a five spired church in a town on a five forked road. Or the supposed malevolence that occupied the cabin in the Dark Forest , or the mysterious Shining Vale. No one was too sure how or why There’s decline began but ultimately, and almost inevitably, the thriving town of Here became the target of There’s misguided anger and jealousy. Here was once the mirror opposite of There. Here, once ailing was now prosperous, once unkept was now a landmark village. The fragrances of Here, of flowers and baking, apples and honey, reached a traveler on the dusty road long before they saw the first whitewashed cottages or cascading flowerbeds. There had a fragrance too. A stink, a stench of misery and decay, from the smell of the rotting and partially ruined houses, from gutters overflowing and from the cloud of dark magic that hung over the town. There had become a place of vengeance, its goal to destroy Here for its part in their decline. So far, There had succeeded in destroying most of itself. The ancient and decrepit masters of magic hauled out of comfortable corners of the once beautiful library and chased out of retirement to concoct Here’s demise, should have been left with their slippers and pipes. The beautiful library was a pile of rubble thanks to a misfired curse, a spell of destruction had worked admirably on There’s fine civic hall after the centuries old master of dark arts had got his pages mixed up. He put himself back into permanent retirement when the building blew and the clock tower fell on him. Failed spells, ill conceived chants and mishandled magic hung over the town of There, it contaminated the river and malformed its citizens. The people of There were shrunken, twisted and ailing. A miserable place, made all the more miserable by the once amiable Alderman. He was said to have spent some time at The Cabin, he certainly wasn’t the same anymore. He rained hatred and revenge, death and destruction on Here to anyone who would listen. He poisoned There with his vile speeches and evil intent. The magic did the rest. To add to There’s misfortune, a victim of the polluted magical river came nightly. A water boatman the size of a house, DaddyLongLegs. He hunted the unfortunate and unwary, those still out past the sun down, those who had forgotten to sleep in their cellars and not their beds. He tapped at doors and scratched at windows, he lifted up roofs to peer underneath in search of prey. He was relentless until he had fed and then he would return to the Dour Marshes where he had his home amongst the reedowers and rushlilies. The Alderman trumpeted revenge, the ancient and mostly senile masters of magic brought catastrophes, the citizens left if they could, but most did not get far and fell on the road, suffocating without the toxic magic their shriveled lungs had become used to. There was no escape from There, unless DaddyLongLegs paid a visit. A poisoned place. Just past the Shining Vale, to the South of Here, is There. Take the fork in the five forked road that goes East, towards The Outhouse, it’s a longer journey but you won’t pass through There. You don’t want to go there.

CASE PERSPECTIVE: Keith Clantis (Former Employee at Milico Enterprises): Day 1: This is perfect. I finally got my degree in computer science, and I was looking for jobs that needed computer programmers. I found that a corporation nearby called Milico Enterprises needed more programmers. This was perfect, it works with everything that I love: designing and coding for technology. According to their website, they dive into Artificial Intelligence and many other types of technology-based sciences. I am going to apply and see how it goes. Day 2: I got in, and this place is amazing! I learned that this place makes electronic devices that can auto-fix themselves. Whether you have a phone, computer, TV, or any kind of electronic device or piece of equipment that gets badly broken or damaged, they created a powerful AI that makes your electronics as good as new over time. Besides buying the electronic piece with the AI installed, the fixing process doesn’t cost a cent. You have to buy the electronic devices with the AI installed instead of just purchasing the AI separately because this is a way for the company to make more and better products, but also I don’t think it’s possible to sell Artificial Intelligence. However, there is something else going on here. I was told that the owner of this establishment, Mr. Milico Broni, has been experimenting with bug and rabbit DNA and is close to perfecting a cloning process. There are 4 levels in this building that I was told about. There is the bottom level which is just the lobby. Then there is the 2^(nd) level, which is the office that I will be working in, pretty much just a normal computer office with cubicles. The 3^(rd) level is where the cloning process takes place but I don’t know what that level looks like because I am not allowed up there, at least not yet. I know there is a 4^(th) level, but Mr. Broni or anyone else will not tell me anything about it. Day 54: Finally, after 2 months of working here I can finally see this company’s secret experiments. I was told Mr. Milico has been experimenting with bug and rabbit DNA and is close to perfecting a cloning process. Unfortunately, he didn’t trust me enough to see how the cloning process works, until now. Day 55: Yesterday, I figured out how the cloning process works. Milico Enterprises mixes the disposable nature of bugs, and the massive reproductive nature of rabbits, to make expendable clones. Surprisingly, it works. You see, to reduce the risk of clones taking over, they will only be active for about 5 minutes to about 3 hours, depending on the task assigned to them by the original owner. And afterward, they will just melt and disappear, almost like soap. Mr. Milico thought it was a good idea to make expendable clones of himself, as a prototype, but ended up creating a deformity we around the office have nicknamed MICA. MICA stands for Mouthless Insane Clawed Abnormality. Mr. Milico decided to clone himself so he could get twice the work done, but it ended up a bit deformed. This thing is mentally unstable and has a few of its fingers shaped like sharp claws. It does have a mouth, but it was also deformed in the process. It looks like the mouth of a stitched-up doll but to the point where it still resembles the structures of a human’s. Despite it being unstable, it seems content most of the time. You just gotta make sure to keep it in the solitary confinement room of the building. Yes, there is a solitary confinement room for this thing since the testing tube he was experimented on and created in couldn’t hold him. But hey, it's a great source of nighttime security if anyone decides to break in. At night, before the last employee leaves, they have 20 seconds to release MICA and get out of the building. The biggest issue is finding someone brave enough to lure him back into his room. There have also been times when this building has been shut down due to…incidents. But that’s in the past and besides, no one will tell me any more about it. I heard this place had a few lawsuits in the past, but overall, the establishment seems to be operating just fine. I was asked if I would like to work on the 3^(rd) floor so I could help program this cloning technology. I have always been someone who always likes learning new things, so without much hesitation, I accepted. Day 56: Coincidentally, even though the clones are made through simple DNA, behind the scenes it's much more than that. Occasionally, some harmful gas will leak from the testing room. I wouldn’t call it radioactive gas, but it can cause mutations. The gas reminds me of green fog with the sound of a gentle breeze, you can vaguely hear it as it emerges from its silent room. Whenever we (me and my coworkers) see the gas start to leak out of the room, we all make sure to put on some gas masks and hazard suits. Most of the time you just need to go far away from the gas, it doesn’t spread too far. Luckily, my workstation is near the end of the work area opposite the testing room. So frankly, I don’t have to worry about the gas too much. What was I saying? Oh yes, if the gas gets into your immune system some rare mutations and changes may occur. For example, the new guy: Carl Johnson. Carl was working here for about two days when the incident happened, right around the time I started working on the 3^(rd) floor. Carl was working as an Engineer because we had some mechanical problems in the building. I don’t know what specifically was wrong, but I knew we had a few workers complaining about the work environment. I remember hearing that there was some dirty water coming from bathroom sinks, and printers not operating correctly despite everything being functionally correct, things like that. He didn’t have a hazard suit on or a gas mask and coincidentally was near the testing room while he was taking a break. In a matter of seconds, the gas got into his immune system. Just moments after this bizarre turn of events, he began having random nosebleeds and massive headaches that couldn’t be simply explained, it was weird. What made it even weirder was the fact that directly after this immunity attack, he was working around the building with the speed of a bullet. My coworkers and I eventually stopped what we were doing to watch this determined man. I had never seen someone work that fast before. However, we noticed that he was slowing down, and he was starting to look a little pale. Carl had something strange going on inside him that honestly, I don’t know if even a doctor could figure this one out. He started having nosebleeds and headaches again. Carl also seemed to develop some mental health problems from this. What I mean by this is he would have extreme mood changes when anyone approached him, and he had difficulty concentrating when it came to the simplest of tasks. Day 58: After repeated back and forth with these immunity swings, these episodes were just too much for Carl and he couldn’t take it anymore and he left the facility, I don’t know what happened to Carl after that. But enough about Carl, there was something else particularly uncanny that happened today. I was working my usual shift when suddenly I heard a crash in the testing room. It sounded like breaking glass and cabinets falling over as if there was a fight going on. I got a gas mask and suit from the supply closet and braced myself to go and explore the testing room. This was only the 3rd time I wore one of the hazard suits, this suit however felt nice and snug and had a few pockets, and the mask wasn’t that hard to breathe through. It had 2 breathing holes in the front and a few in the back. No wonder our chemists like wearing these, they are so comfortable. I went inside the testing room and the chemists working inside, Trey and Earl, were having a very heated argument. According to their stories, Earl accidentally dropped some of the glass DNA vials on the ground, but it scared Trey and he bumped into a cabinet that tipped over. And now Trey and Earl were arguing with each other about whose fault it was that this mess was here and who was going to clean it up. So, I just went over to them and worked things out and we all cleaned up the mess together. As I was leaving the room to get back to my work, Trey said to me, “Hey thanks again, Keith. Sorry about that.” “It’s fine,” I replied. But then Earl told me something that caught me off guard for a moment. He said, “Hey Keith, do you mind getting us that gas mask and suit that was sitting out in the Supply Closet, it's got a few holes in it, and we need to patch it up.” Just then, I realized why my suit felt more snug than usual. That also explains why it had so many breathing holes. I spent the rest of the day worried that something might happen. “Well, I don’t feel different or sick or anything,” I thought to myself. “It’s probably just anxiety.” Day 59: This morning I felt something that many might call abnormal. I arrived at work, but my vision was starting to get very blurry. I don’t wear prescriptions or contacts, why is this happening to me? Luckily blurry vision was the only negative side effect that I experienced today. But hey, at least the blurry vision didn’t last forever, only at certain moments within the day. I got a bit behind schedule but realized something else that was rather odd. When working with blurry vision, I suddenly started thinking of some of the most random, specific fun facts you will ever hear. And the craziest thing was I didn’t know any of these fun facts. What made it even more anomalous, however, was I would suddenly stop thinking of the fun facts once my vision was restored. This caught me off guard as very weird, but I just thought, “Ok, I have been working a lot and need some fresh air.” Also, I am surrounded by AIs and computers here, so I probably found some random facts on the computer at one time and I am now remembering them at random. Nothing some time and fresh air can’t solve. I spent the rest of the day taking a walk in the park and then going to the beach. After that long week of hard work, it seems that taking a walk in the park and on the beach surprisingly helped me out because I felt so much better after that. Day 60: Today is Saturday, I don’t have to go to work today but I still have blurry vision and some more fun facts I never heard of. Thankfully, this only lasted about 30 minutes every few hours. “This is just a 24-hour mental bug,” I thought. But deep down, I did feel like something more was going on. Day 62: Yesterday morning I went to church and my blurry vision started to look more and more like some sort of TV static rather than only poor vision. Luckily, just like the day before that, it only lasted a while, but I was so occupied with trying to research a cure that I forgot to write in the journal. This morning, I went to go see my doctor: Dr. Salone, perhaps she could help me with this problem. She told me there wasn’t anything wrong with me physically, but mentally there were a few abnormalities other than the blurry vision. After going through an MRI, Dr. Salone told me that I not only had a rapid decline in vision but also that my cerebral cortex was getting very unstable. In layman’s terms, she was telling me that my cerebral cortex, largely associated with knowledge, memories, and learning in general, was damaged in a way where I was losing a few of my memories and old knowledge I had learned in the past, but gaining new information as we speak. “How can I stop this? How can I go back to normal?” I asked the Doctor. She responded, “I am afraid I have never seen anything quite like this. Have you been taking any unprescribed medication or had any affiliation with harmful drugs, waste, or even gas that could have gotten into your bloodstream?” Just then, I told her about my experience with the testing room at Milico Enterprises. Dr. Salone simply gave me some medication that would supposedly help battle whatever was in my head. Day 64: I am hearing something new in my head today. It sounds like a̸n̵ ̷a̶n̵i̵m̴a̵l̷, a voice. I could not make out what it said, it made loud glitchy static noises with a few English words mixed in. The only words I was able to catch were, “go,” “n̶͇̥̣̅̎ŏ̵͙̝̕,” and “MICA.” Was it telling me to go to the creature at Milico Enterprises, or was it warning me? I don’t know about this, maybe I am just starting to go a little crazy. Day 65: You know, yesterday does make me wonder, does the MICA creature know anything about what I am experiencing? The more I think about it the more this is starting to make sense. That thing is a monstrosity to nature but perhaps he didn’t start off like that, I need to learn more. My vision and mental stability seem to be getting worse. When it came time for my lunch break, I went to go to the Archives. I would go talk to MICA, but I think it's obvious that thing will not be able to speak to me or be hospitable to me. I went to the Archives only to find Mr. Milico in there. He was holding a martini while looking at the art that was hanging on the walls. I didn’t know the Archives had paintings in it, or a cocktail maker for that matter. This place is still full of surprises. Mr. Milico noticed me and offered me a martini. I was more of a Margarita guy myself but I gladly accepted. This was also a good way to get to know my boss better. We drank away and just started talking about how the job was working out and he even shared some history with me about how he created Milico Enterprises. It started as a small pharmacy that went out of business, and Mr. Milico, being a young entrepreneur at the time, bought the place and began selling some electronic devices with some very basic features of Artificial Intelligence. It might not seem like much but in actuality, this was very advanced for his time. After that, he got some more employees, improved his product, and expanded to the tall building we are standing in today. It might not sound as interesting explaining it in a journal but trust me Mr. Milico made it sound absolutely mind-blowing. I asked him if he knew where any documents on MICA were located, and he pointed me in the right direction. Unfortunately, after reading through some of the documents, they seemed to explain his history but nothing about his mental state. Perhaps the voice in my head was wrong. Now what am I supposed to do? Day 72: It’s been 7 days since I went to the ȁ̶̟r̴̞̃c̶̣̽h̶͚̉i̵͋ͅv̸̤͗s̶̡̈́, a̵r̴c̷v̵e̷s̴, archives. I feel that my s̴p̴l̵l̴i̷n̴g̵, spelling is getting worse along with my blurry v̷i̵s̴h̸a̷n̴, vision. I don’t know what to do. I think I am going c̵r̶z̸y̷, crazy. I need some a̶n̷s̶e̶r̴, answers now. Day 89: S̶t̷e̶l̴, no luck. I can’t t̶e̸k̴e̴ this a̶n̷i̷m̶o̵o̴r̴. G̴o̸o̷d̵b̵i̶, Journal. Back at Milico Enterprises, there was an investigation going on. Just then, at about 8 p.m., a mysterious man came by to ask the owner a few questions regarding the investigation. “I still miss Keith. He was one of my most determined workers,” said Mr. Milico. “I still remember the day when he came to my office to turn in his 2 weeks' notice. It is interesting however that no one knew what happened to Keith. He isn’t in town so he must have traveled to another State or something I don’t know.” A mysterious, deep, and masculine voice then started talking to Mr. Milico. He said, “It has been 3 months since Keith left, Mr. Milico. We have searched far and wide and we can’t find him. According to his journal, it appears your so-called, ‘testing room’, was the cause of this sudden change in Keith’s behavior. Is that true?” “Yes it is,” responded Mr. Milico. “I am aware that my testing room will release some questionable gas from time to time, but that is why I give each of my employees gas masks and protection so that way, no one is harmed by the gas.” The man with the deep voice then asked, “Mr. Milico, are you also aware that this gas has many bad side effects?” “I am,” replied Mr. Milico. “However, there are some good side effects as well. But if you think I am the one who purposefully made Keith go missing, then you are gravely mistaken.” “I wasn’t assuming that,” The Voice said. “Sorry to have wasted your time sir.” “It is quite all right,” Mr. Milico replied. “I can understand the concern and suspicion. But I assure you, it wasn’t my fault. I don’t know where he is. Good luck finding him though.” The deep-voiced man then left Milico Enterprises, still trying to wrap his head around the Disappearance of Keith Clantis. “What a nice man. Keith must have gone off the globe for them to search for him this long,” Mr. Milico said as he walked his way to the Archives. “I guess only time will tell. It's such a shame. Well, time to do a little bit more experimenting with my favorite creature counterpart.” As Mr. Milico went to grab some documents on his most precious creation, some small packets of fruit flavoring and cyanide fell from his pocket.

The four friends sat across the fire from the stranger; the resounding silence broken only by the snaps and crackles of the campfire. The man was clearly ill, but what could they do about it? There was no cell reception, no road for miles, and none were doctors—not even close. One thing ate at their minds; where the hell did he come from? He'd strolled into camp about an hour ago, ranting and raving about falling stars and talking trees. The four of them had decided to let him stay, as long as he kept his distance; they'd also agreed to take hour shifts keeping an eye on the man, but none of them could sleep anyway. The white knuckle grip on their hunting rifles hadn't softened, and like smoke, tension billowed around the campfire. Jacob took a deep breath and glanced around at his friends, then back at the man. He needed answers; his mind would not leave him be. "Hey man, uh, did something happen to you?" he said, his voice cracking the silence. The man stared intently into the fire, still shaking. Tears soaked his cheeks, snot dribbled from his nose, and he cared not to wipe it away. There was a long pause, and before Jacob could speak again the man looked up only with his eyes and scanned over the four friends. "So, you want a campfire story, is that it?" he said, sounding offended. His voice was deep and foreboding; it complemented the vast darkness in his eyes. "Ah, man, I didn't mean nuthin' by it, I just—" The stranger broke into laughter and coughed his way out of it. "Just pullin' yer leg, son." he said as he stumbled through a coughing fit. He finally settled and looked up at the sky, revealing a long, emaciated neck. "Have you ever seen a falling star?" he asked finally. The friends looked at each other and before they could answer, he continued. "I bet you think you have, but not like these, no." he took a long breath, and following his shaky exhale a grim smile grew upon his face. "They fall from the sky, and the trees will tell you, oh they will. And soon, the stars will sing for you not in any Earthly tongue, but in their own. A whistle. A lullaby." he explained. Between each sentence, the pauses grew longer, and between the four friends, they felt a surge of panic building within themselves. This man was a lunatic, and they needed to keep him calm—at bay. However, Lenny—the shortest in temper of the four—did not feel the same way, and his anger poorly masked his fear. "This guy's gotta fuckin' go!" he yelled. "Lenny!" Jacob yelled. "No, he's a fuckin' looney, and he's gotta go, now!" "Would you calm the hell down—I'm sorry about my friend." "Don't apologize for me!" Lenny and Jacob continued to argue. The stranger pulled something from his pocket, and before Tommy could open his mouth, the stranger stood up and rushed over the fire toward Lenny. The friends stumbled back and yelled chaotically, scrambling for their rifles. Lenny instinctively raised his rifle and fired a bullet into the stranger's chest which sent him tumbling into the fire. His clothes caught fire and he began to scream. "The trees will tell you! Listen to them! You have no choice!" he began to scream through shrieks of pain. The friends stared slack-jawed and wide-eyed as the man burst into flames, screaming a deranged mantra—most of which was gibberish. Lenny dropped his rifle and put his hands on his head. After what felt like an eternity, the man finally stopped screaming. His body twitched erratically until it was statuesque as the fire charred and melted his skin. Tommy rushed over to Lenny and shoved him into the ground. "What the *fuck* did you do?!" he screamed, Jacob and Stanley pulling back on him. Lenny scrambled to his feet and charged Tommy, and the four friends began to wrestle, hollering at each other. Eventually, Jacob and Stanley broke the two apart and held them away from each other. "Guys, stop! Knock it off, we gotta deal with this!" yelled Jacob. "Deal with it? What do you mean, deal with it?" Tommy yelled back. "He rushed me you fuckin' idiot, what was I supposed to do!?" Lenny replied. "No, no, he's right—the guy did rush him, and he had something in his hand, we would've all done the same thing," Stanley said, panting. For a moment, they stayed silent, and only their gasping and coughing could be heard. The night was silent, for a moment, until the whistling started. The four friends rubbed their ears and looked around. Tommy went to speak but stopped as the whistling became louder, and began to pierce their eardrums; covering their ears did nothing to dampen the pain. They all looked up and saw a streak moving across the sky, and it was unlike anything they'd ever seen. Instead of a single streak of light, it was a black mass trailed by a green and purple streak; it wasn't moving across the sky as they initially thought but was growing larger and larger. It was headed right for them. They cursed and ran away from the campsite, diving to the floor as the black mass slammed into the campfire. There was a loud smack of lightning, and an explosion of heat nearly singed the friends’ clothing. After a long pause, the friends looked up from the dirt and gazed back at the campsite. The fire had turned into a green-purplish hue and crackled loudly. The whistling continued but felt perfectly stagnant—monotonous—and no longer hurt. As they picked themselves up, they began to hear a choir of voices around them coming from the dark. Stumbling one at a time back to the fire, they looked down at the center of the fire to see a shapeless mass of what they could only categorize as volcanic rock—but it was *shifting*. Speechless, they looked at each other and the choir of voices coming from the dark grew louder. *Look, it’s for you. It came from the sky.* The voices chaotically but quietly trampled over each other, however, the words were clear as day in their minds. The friends looked at the black mass, except for Tommy who sheltered his eyes from it. His other three friends approached the mass, entranced by its presence. *It’s okay to sleep now. You’ll awaken, anew.* The voices grew, and as Lenny, Jacob, and Stanley closed in on the mass, the crackling stopped and a deep growl bellowed from the ground beneath them. It let out an animalistic roar as three appendages blacker than night itself, shot into their mouths, suffocating them. They fought to remove them, but it was of no use; its power was magnanimous. At the sound of his friends' struggle, he glanced over and was taken by terror. His friends were held up into the air by formless arms, their bodies shaking violently as if seizing. Tommy let out a gasp and stumbled backward. Instantly, his friends stopped and fell to the floor. He looked at the black mass and fell silent. Without warning, the black mass charged after him like a spider devoid of all shape and color. As if floating through the air, its movements were strikingly silent. It stopped between Tommy and the forest’s edge. Tommy looked up at what he could only describe as *the void*. He could be staring directly into the cosmos—it looked like those images sent back to Earth by the Hubble Space Telescope. Distant worlds and spiraling colours of cosmic ash. The deeper he looked, the deeper its draw was. He wanted to flee, but the darkness before him was inviting. Before he could utter a sound, it invaded him, infesting him with the very cosmic ash only thought possible in photographs. It smelt of rum and smoke. That was Tommy’s last thought. — Tommy opened his eyes and looked up at the night sky. It was brighter. As he climbed to his feet, the night welcomed him like it never had before. Tommy’s once friends—three other strangers were stumbling into the forest, and by some innate command, he followed. He was no longer Tommy, and they were no longer his friends. He was a beacon for the things that dwell between the stars.

“Double Agent” by P. Orin Zack (9/27/2007)   Ron’s doodle was beginning to look like a mobile, so he scribbled it out and started over. The momentary distraction from ignoring the meeting he was in was timely, though, because someone was calling his name. “Craig. I asked for your assessment.” He looked up. The balding section chief at the head of the table had the stern look reserved for a repeat offender. “Oh. Sorry, Mr. Kulya. I was re-evaluating what I’d observed.” “And? You’ve attended two of their meetings, now. This practice we’re doing is essential to developing your field skills. You may not get much time to infiltrate a suspected terrorist cell before you have to make action recommendations. What did you find?” Having a double life was beginning to birth complications. He’d called himself Ron while spying on the founder of Constitutional Evolution, and the persona was accreting a semblance of reality when he thought supportively of them, as had happened while doodling. He shook off the dissociation and cleared his throat. “They’re not like the others, sir. They aren’t in it to push a cause.” Kulya shrugged. “That’s not what I asked. Your objective was to get close to the leader and learn where he was driving. Either they’re a potential danger or they’re not. Anti-terrorism resources aren’t cheap. That’s why we have to focus them on people and groups that have the potential for disruption. Two meetings is all you get. Do we target them or not?” He looked at the other neophyte spies around the table, people he’d been training with for months now, and wondered if any of them were wrestling the same conundrum. He liked Derek Boa, and thought that his group were akin to the patriots who had laid the groundwork for the existing constitution in old Philadelphia. But having revolutionary thoughts was not the same as advocating the violent overthrow of the instituted government. It wasn’t treason. “I’m not sure, sir. They’re not advocating any particular cause, or agitating against any agency or policy. They’re not even particularly interested in who’s in power.” “Then what are they about? Is it some kind of cult?” “No, sir,” Craig said defensively. “It’s not a cult, though their leader is rather charismatic. He’s well-suited to motivating the people they do attract.” “Motivating them to do what? This wasn’t supposed to be a difficult assignment.” “To think for themselves, really. To investigate ideas that could help them…” he trailed off. Kulya was losing his patience. “Help them what? I assume from the name that it has something to do with changing the constitution. Are they agitating for a constitutional convention?” Craig thought for a moment. “No. Not specifically, although on my first visit they did discuss whether the changes they envisioned could be made without one.” “Changes. Good. Now we’re getting somewhere. How do they want to change the government? What do they think is wrong with it?” “They want more government?” “In a way, yes. At that second meeting I went to, for example, they were using a mobile – a real string and cardboard one – to play with the whole structure of the federal government. Just before I left, they were about to add the press itself, like a fourth branch. Only thing was, they insisted on talking about it like it was…” Craig broke off, suddenly remembering the man’s Russian heritage, and cringed. “… like Pravda. They even marked it C.C.C.P.” Kulya smiled at the reaction. “So. What? Are you saying these people are communist sympathizers?” “No. Of course not. It was their idea of irony. They’re not exactly thrilled with the way the press has behaved lately.” “That’s a good start, Craig. What else don’t they like?” “Hmmm.” He closed his eyes briefly, and reviewed the pizza-and-pop chat that he’d walked in on a few weeks earlier. “State Governors being ignored by Washington was a hot topic. They seem to think that enough governors ought to be able to override an Executive Order, a law passed by Congress, or even a Supreme Court ruling.” Several trainees reacted audibly. Kulya’s stern glare ended the chatter abruptly. “Advocating the willful disobedience of all three branches of government by elected officials sounds pretty dangerous to me. Okay, then. So let’s assume they’re classed as high risk. What’s the correct course of action? Anyone?” A woman at the far end of the table raised her hand. He nodded at her. “Kelly?” “Distract the leader. Keep him too busy with personal crises to concentrate on the cell’s activities.” “All right. How would you do that?” She held his gaze for a moment before answering. “That would depend on how he makes his living. If he ran a small business, we could covertly sabotage it, make sure his plans kept falling through, drive him into bankruptcy.” “And if he was a wage-slave? Someone else.” ‘Ron’ wondered what Boa did for a living. He didn’t recall hearing about that over pizza. The soccer fanatic to Craig’s left spoke next. “Well, if he worked through a job shop, we could float spurious accusations to get his contracts pulled. Or if he was a direct hire, pump the rumor mill. Once that takes hold, office politics will do the rest.” Kulya cut off discussion. “Okay. So we’re agreed there are lots of ways to distract the leader. And that might be sufficient if this group was organized for command and control. But what if it wasn’t? What if the people he’s collected are confident enough to work on their own, if it didn’t matter if he wasn’t available? What do you do then?” Craig was beginning to feel like a double agent, a spy for Constitutional Evolution scoping out the tactics that might be used against them. Earlier, when they were talking about a group that someone else had infiltrated, he had no qualms about taking action against them. The prospect of blocking efforts that he agreed were dangerous even invigorated him. But doing it to people he’d privately decided to support was a whole different matter. Kelly got the floor again. “If someone else just takes over for him, we just change our target.” “I suppose you could, but the pattern might be noticed. Any other ideas?” She shrugged. “Stir up dissent within the group?” “Now you’re starting to think about guerilla tactics. Good. But how do you carry it out? With this strategy, you can’t simply insinuate rumors. You’d have to get directly involved. Go undercover.” Craig nervously raised his hand. “Wouldn’t that mean ingratiating yourself to them? Being part of their team, as it were?” “Sure. But only up to a point. You’d have to find a way to not be part of any action they’re planning, or you’d open the agency to scrutiny for interfering in domestic affairs.” “Well, as far as I can tell, Derek Boa’s group doesn’t plan on conducting actions of any kind, unless you include talking about their ideas. Maybe even to congress.” “They’d be relying on the First Amendment’s protection of political speech, then, but subversive speech can still be treason. Especially these days. It’s treacherous ground. In this situation, you shouldn’t have any trouble staying in their midst until they’re about to cross that line. Of course, if your objective in being there is to sow dissent, you’ll still have to keep from being found out. Free-speechers can still be vicious.” “Mr. Kulya?” It was Kelly again. “Yes? Did we miss something?” “I think so. You’d asked what we’d do if the target group wasn’t command and control. What did you mean by that?” He scanned the young faces at the table. “How much do you know about the I.W.W.?” Craig blurted out, “You mean the Wobblies?” “Otherwise known as the International Workers of the World. What do you know about them?” “Only that the government shut them down early in the 20th century. And that they studiously avoided having leaders. What about them?” Kulya looked thoughtful. “A group like that is extremely dangerous. If they have no leadership, and they’re all acting in concert, stopping them is like trying to dig a hole in water. That’s why the government had to shut them down.” “How did they do it?” “Attrition. By building up the organized labor movement, the American Federation of Labor. A union with strong leadership can be controlled. The new unions sucked the air right out of the Wobblies.” Craig’s ‘other self’ was paying strict attention. The I.W.W. knew how to overcome an organized enemy. They had a strategy that frightened the most powerful government on Earth. He’d be returning to Boa’s group, one way or the other. But no matter what he did now, he was certain that it would be as a double agent.   THE END Copyright 2007 by P.

Everyone erupted into smiles and happiness, congratulating the birthday girl who also happened to be my best friend. She had thrown a party, and nearly every one of my classmates came. We all had a blast as she cut her cake; the scent of extinguished candles filled the air, bringing a nostalgic comfort that had been absent for far too long. After we all calmed down from the excitement, I ended up talking to one of my friends, Rachel, who was a horror enthusiast just like me. She steered our talk to the unsettling topic of our school's fourth-floor library, where our class was now located. Something about our school's 4th floor seemed off. The flickering lights, eerie noises from the library, and the unexplained disappearances of our belongings left an unsettling aura. Strange occurrences began as soon as our class relocated to the fourth floor. To provide context, our school was spread across five floors, each with four to six classrooms. However, the fourth floor stood apart; it hosted just two classes—our classroom and a mysterious library that had remained locked away for years. It had become a place of mystery and fear, avoided by all, until I decided to change that. As we shared our concerns, the group joined in, each offering their own theories and fears. Suddenly, an idea struck me, and without thinking, I blurted out, "Why don't we use a Ouija board in the haunted library?" All eyes turned to me—some with amusement, others with terror. It was a reckless idea, but in that moment, I was more focused on unraveling the mysteries of the floor. Hesitantly, everyone agreed to my plan, and Rachel took charge of dividing us into groups of three. Each group would investigate during lunchtime for ten minutes, gathering information discreetly so teachers wouldn't suspect anything. What seemed like an adventurous thrill was, in reality, a risky endeavor. Little did we know, a Ouija board is not a toy—it's a tool for the paranormal, potentially allowing spirits to communicate through us by possession. That was something I wish we had understood before bringing my idea to life. Fast forward to the next day. One of us owned a Ouija board, inherited from their grandmother who had an interest in antiques and had bought it at an auction. Adrenaline rushed through me as I woke up and got dressed for school. I didn't know what to expect from the day ahead, but I felt a sense of pride for having sparked the idea. As soon as I entered the classroom, I saw all my friends, their faces filled with amusement and excitement. They gathered around me to discuss our plans for lunchtime, but we didn't have much time before our first class began. The classes before lunch felt like a drag; time crawled by in our morning classes, each minute dragging like an eternity. With every tick of the clock, my impatience grew, and with every breath, fear heightened. The long-awaited hour had finally arrived. As soon as the last teacher left, the classroom fell silent, all eyes turning expectantly towards me and Rachel, who wore a mischievous grin. There was an unspoken anticipation hanging in the air, a mix of excitement and nervous energy. One thing I forgot to mention was that, since our class had an odd number of students, someone had to go in twice—and apparently, that someone was me. Rachel informed the class that because I had suggested and pitched the idea, I had earned the right to participate twice. As fate would have it, I found myself in the first group alongside Jack and Phoebe. With the Ouija board clutched tightly in my hands, we stepped out of the classroom with cheers and encouraging shouts from our classmates. It felt like we were embarking on a grand adventure, but deep down, a knot of unease twisted in my stomach. As we approached the library door, I grasped the handle and was surprised to find it swung open effortlessly. "Well, that was unexpected," I blurted out, Jack nodding in agreement beside me. Phoebe clung to my arm, her grip tight. I reassured her with a forced smile, promising that everything would be fine. Stepping into the library, darkness enveloped us like a heavy cloak. Jack pulled out his phone and turned on his flashlight with trembling hands and led the way. The air felt thick with mystery, and my heart pounded in my chest, a mix of fear and thrill coursing through me. The library enveloped us in pitch black darkness, thick with the musty scent of ancient books and swirling dust that made us cough and choke. As we stumbled, suddenly the door slammed shut with a loud bang. Panic set in, and I froze in terror, completely unable to move. Phoebe screamed in fear, her voice echoing through the silence. Jack, sweat beading on his face, still tried to reassure both Phoebe and me, his eyes wide with panic. I could see the fear in his eyes. "I-I don't think this was a good idea, guys," Phoebe stammered, her voice trembling with terror. We rushed to calm her down, suggesting that it was probably the wind or one of our classmates trying to scare us. But deep down, I couldn't shake the feeling that it wasn't mere coincidence. I did not think it was any of those; I thought it was something to do with an evil entity present here. With just a little bit of courage left in all of us, we settled down in a circle on the dusty floor. I kept the Ouija board down, placing it on the flat surface, and together, we three placed our fingers on the planchette, ready to begin unraveling the mysterious tales of this library. We started the game by me asking out loud, "Is there any entity with us present? If you are, please say yes." My palms were sweaty, and I was breathless. Despite my nerves, I tried to maintain a composed expression for the sake of my friends. With a sudden force, my fingers moved swiftly to the letters Y-E-S on the Ouija board. I couldn't believe it—against all odds, it seemed to work. Glancing at my friends with a mix of suspicion and wonder, I asked if either of them had moved the planchette. They shook their heads, their eyes wide with astonishment and a hint of fear. I mustered up the courage to ask another question, my voice trembling slightly with anticipation. "Who are you?" The room fell into an eerie silence, almost unnaturally still. The silence was too loud as we just sat there in anticipation, our hands still on the board. Then, without warning, a piercing scream shattered the quiet—Jack's scream. It was raw with agony, a desperate cry for help. My heart sank like a stone into my stomach, a heavy weight of guilt settling over me. Was this somehow my fault? Phoebe looked on the verge of tears, paralyzed with shock and fear. Panic surged through me, a thousand thoughts racing through my mind. I sprang to my feet, rushing to Jack's side, but what I saw froze me in horror. Jack was thrashing wildly, his eyes wide and fully white with terror. He was hitting himself frantically, as if trying to fend off unseen demons. Dread washed over me like a tidal wave. I screamed for help, my voice cracking with fear and desperation. Frantically, I bolted towards the library door, hoping to escape this nightmare. But the door was locked, and it wouldn't open, no matter how much we banged and desperately attempted to break it down. "Oh God, oh God," I muttered to myself in panic, the weight of the situation crashing down around me. What had I unleashed? What had I done? Tears stung my eyes as I pounded on the door, my fists hurting against its stubborn surface. Fear and guilt churned in my stomach, regret and helplessness weighing heavily on my mind. In that moment, stuck in the pitch-black library, I knew we were all caught in something we couldn't grasp or control. I sprinted to the Ouija board, swiftly moving the planchette to the "goodbye" mark. According to everything I had read, ending the session was crucial—it might stop and end the agony of Jack. But as soon as I did that, the library door flung open, and I saw a teacher and my classmates standing with worried expressions on their faces. Jack laid unconscious, as well as Phoebe on the floor, and soon exhaustion swept over me. My eyelids grew heavy, my legs giving way beneath me. With a final surge of adrenaline, I collapsed to the ground. I woke up in the hospital bed, greeted by the worried faces of my parents. They informed me that Jack and Phoebe were in the ICU. Guilt gnawed at me, making my recovery slow and painful. Fortunately, my school showed leniency, suspending just the three of us while assigning detention to classmates who visited us faithfully every day. A few years passed, and Phoebe and I are still in touch. However, that day was never brought up again. The same couldn't be said for Jack; I lost touch with him. Since that incident, he has struggled with severe mental disability. Every day, I carry the weight of guilt, wishing I had known better back then. It was a joyous occasion reuniting after so many years—some of us had become successful CEOs, others held prestigious high-paying jobs. As I caught up with Rachel, we delved into memories of our past. Rachel revealed something startling about the day we went into the library with the Ouija board. She explained that they decided to come looking for us with the teachers because it had been nearly 30 minutes of complete silence since we entered the room. Despite their attempts to get our attention by knocking, there was no response from inside. I was taken aback by this revelation, realizing just how deep our plunge into the unknown had been. She continued, mentioning a recent discovery she made as a journalist. Years ago, she stumbled upon an old newspaper article related to the fourth floor of our school—a piece of history that seemed tied to the eerie events we had experienced. The story went like this. There was a girl named emily, a kleptomanaic who had been bullied all her high school life, one day she caught the teacher having an affair with one of her fellow bullies and as soon as she finds out the bully takes her into the library to lock her away. Soon she brings her friends to abuse her, and after experiencing the abuse emily takes her own life and curses the fourth floor forever.

[CW: very mild depiction of blood and gore] With a grunt and a thud, the huntress' stake pinned the vampiress to a tree. The fight was over, and the victor was evident. The vampiress thrashed and continued to fight for a moment, seemingly yet to realize what was going on, why she couldn't seem to move, or what that cold feeling trickling down her chest was. She slowly lowered her head and made an odd noise between that of a gasp and a shriek, her eyes widening for a moment before sinking back into her pale head. "...Oh." "Virtue triumphs over the wicked," the huntress hissed with a sneer. She reached to remove the stake, hesitated, then lowered her hand. "Actually," she muttered, "I'll think I'll leave that with you." The vampiress kept her head low to the ground, not responding to the huntress' mockery. There was a brief period of silence before the clanking of the huntress' armor rudely interrupted the solemn moment as she turned to walk away. "They... they never tell you how fast it happens, do they?" The low, breathy whisper snuck its way out from between the vampiress' blood-soaked lips, stopping the huntress in her tracks. "Whatever do you mean, vampire?" "I used to, ngh, read stories as a kid. When someone dies in those stories, it's... it's always some kind of spectacle, right? They go off on some big monologue about the meaning of life, slowly dying in their crying mother's arms. But..." The vampiress paused, taking in a slow and hollow breath in as her failing body slowly betrayed her. "...I get the feeling I'm not going to be in my mother's arms ever again, am I?" The huntress stood with her back still turned, refusing to face the vampiress in this moment of vulnerability. "It would certainly seem as though that is the case, vampire. Your unholy existence ends tonight, and a lonely fate awaits you." Cold tears began to well up within the vampiress' pale eyes as her head slowly rose to meet the huntress' back. She asked, or perhaps pleaded: "Lonely?" Upon sensing the gaze, the huntress reluctantly turned around to match it. "Quite the spectacle indeed, isn’t it, vampire? It seems even the dead yearn for companionship." The huntress began to lean closer into the vampiress' face. "Think, for a moment, about how many people you've done this to. I wonder how many lives you've made flash before their eyes, how many souls would cite you as their final memory. You've gorged yourself on far too many hearts to earn mine, vampire." With that, the huntress turned to walk away once more, content with her handling of the situation. "Please." The vampiress gasped out in desperation. "Please don't go." The huntress paused once more, confused by the vampiress' persistence. "Despite my scorning and uncaring words, you still cling onto me, vampire. What business have you with me?" "I've no business, huntress. I... I simply hoped that my first time shedding tears would not go unseen. Please remain by my side, huntress, I beg you. I don't want to die alone." The huntress, still facing away, lifted her head toward the rising sun, choking back tears as her face scrunched and reddened with sadness. She shook the grief from her visage, before turning to face the vampiress once more. "Understood, vampire. I shall not leave you. I will be your final companion." "Thank you, huntress." The huntress slowly walked up to the tree, sitting down beneath it with a sigh, right under where the vampiress was pinned to its trunk. The vampiress continued to sniffle, whimper, and cough quietly in defeat as her eyes followed the path of the sun, slowly ascending in the east. She took a wet, raspy inhale that made the huntress shudder, before asking her: "Is... is it really as bad as you said it was, what I've done?" The huntress looked up into the vampiress' eyes and clutched her hand tightly. "I have taken far more lives than you could ever know, and certainly more than I would have liked, vampire. I am in no place to judge your heart." The vampiress' tears began to fall onto the huntress' head, like lingering raindrops dripping from the trees after a thunderstorm, soaking into her hair and running down her forehead. A weak, airy confession, in spite of all she had done to the huntress and the huntress had done unto her, breached the vampiress' lips. "I think I might love you, huntress." The huntress broke at last, weeping underneath the yew tree like a baby, the warmth of the sun slowly washing over her tear-glistened face. This was the hardest job in the world. Every venture meant another life gone at the huntress' worn and tired hands. She truly couldn't do it anymore. She couldn't watch the life fade from another girl's eyes as it did with this one. "You poor girl. I love you so much. Please don't go. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Her rambling sorrow was met with silence. The raindrop tears from unseen eyes above no longer dripped onto her aching head. "Vampire?" When the huntress finally looked back up, all that remained was a smoldering wooden stake buried deep within the tree's hide, basking in the sun's orange glow.

She was creepy. I knew as soon as I saw her that she was *evil*. Missing half of her front teeth and the rest being a light shade of brown, I could see her breath puff out in nasty little clouds. She served me my coffee first, sloshing half of it over the rim onto my table. She did not offer a napkin or any similar sentiment. I ordered the stew of the day and waited, looking over the sparse decor. The restaurant had barely any lighting, making me wonder about the quality of the food. A handful of deer mounts hung from the walls, staring down the patrons, the few that were present. Being a Californian in Louisiana, I felt more out of place than \[insert Southern metaphor here\], but I had a research paper due in a week, and the only way I do my research is *hands on*. I was to explore the culinary side of the city, *all* of it. Even the dimly lit, rotted shacks next to the wettest bogs. I was wondering what stew could possibly take this long when Ms. Nasty-Teeth greeted me with half a smile and a steaming bowl of…something. The bowl resembled a cauldron, holding what looked to be half a gallon of *stew*. Steamy tendrils danced over this iron bowl of brown liquid. She set it down on my table with a *thud* and said, *“Enjoy!”* The spoon in my hand trembled in front of the bucket of soup before me. I dipped it in, marveling at how thick the broth was. Pulling out a sliced piece of carrot, I sniffed it. *Beefy*. They must’ve used beef stock for this and a lot of it. I took a bite, chewing cautiously. *Tastes like swamp water*. I spat the carrot back into the bowl. That's when Ms. Witch appeared again. “*Oh, no you don't.”* She waggled a gnarled finger at me. “*No, you sit and finish that* ***whole*** *bowl.”* I was agitated, so I responded, “Or what?” She pointed at the bowl, and a pair of frog legs came to the surface. One big webbed foot opened wide and slapped me across the face. I gasped, holding my tender cheek. “*Eat up!”* She cackled and walked away. I thought, *surely I can leave this establishment. That was just some nasty joke. When you put salt on frog legs, they jitter. This whole bowl of soup is surely nothing but salt.* I tried to slip around the table and out the booth when a pair of frog legs lept from the stew. They wrapped around my neck tightly. I choked, pulling at them with both hands as I stood. One, then two, then three more jumped out of the bowl and latched tightly around me. Surely this was not a postmortem trick. One wrapped around my right hand. Another blinded me. The third clung to my ankle, tripping me. I fell to the rough boards and blacked out. I woke up, warm, comfortably warm. That haggard bitch stood over me, smiling. I was curled up in her cauldron, tied into a position I still don't understand. Opening my mouth to scream, she stuffed an onion in my mouth. I spat this out and said, “Jeezuz, lady, what's for dessert?” She laughed at me, shaking her head. The heat suddenly grew intolerable. I pleaded with her, no, I *begged* her to untie me and let me go. She let me go under one condition: I work at her restaurant and serve good folk like you. Please enjoy the stew of the day. I'm sure if you don't, that it'll enjoy *you*.

The clink of the windshield shattering still echoed in his head. It was only several seconds after the impact that his brain, swimming in alcohol, realized what had just happened. At that moment, panic began to flare up inside him and put his nervous system on alert. Unfortunately, not in time, because by the time the heavy Mercedes limousine came to a halt, it was already too late. Even now, hours later, the adrenaline rushing through his bloodstream from the moment of shock was still making his heart pound like it was going to burst. The roaring in his ears was not getting any quieter either. Over and over again, he heard the shattering glass, the dull thud and his own surprised cry. Even now, in the silence of his bedroom, the sounds inside him almost made him go crazy. Plus, the insipid taste of blood. He had bitten his tongue on impact and it didn't seem to want to stop bleeding. If that's the least of your problems, he thought. Yes, that was true. If only that was the least of his problems. His wife was lying next to him and, like so many times before, she hadn't stirred when he had come to bed. In all the years that she had to go to sleep alone, she had developed a talent for not letting herself be disturbed once asleep. Today he was more than grateful for that. If she would wake up, she would immediately realize that something was wrong. They had become estranged over the years, but she could still read him like a book. The story he had been thinking about for the last few hours was a good one, but he wasn't ready to tell it right away, his mind had to calm down first. At least he thought it was good. But was it true? Had he really thought of everything? He hoped so, but he wasn't one hundred percent sure. He replayed the last few hours over and over again in his mind's eye. If only he had said no to the second glass, preferably the first, but this consideration was no longer important. Right now, it was only important that he survived the situation and didn't ruin his career. He had dedicated his life to this company, he couldn't let it all be for nothing. No, not for two lousy gin and tonics. Especially now, when he was so close to reaching the next level and finally becoming a partner. So many sleepless nights, all the overtime, all the drinks and small talk he'd had with people he despised. He didn't even like the gin that his future partner handed him with a big grin that he would have liked to smack off his face. He couldn't tell you how much he disgusted him with his little piggy eyes and hanging cheeks that made him look like a fattened animal about to be shot. And yet he had taken the glass and downed the drink sip by sip. What wouldn't you do for a career? But he believed that even if he had refused the drinks, it would have happened. It all happened so quickly and he didn't have time to react. Who would ride a bike at night without lights? On the highway and without a helmet? Who was that stupid? It might even have saved her life if she had been wearing one. He paused in thought. No, it wouldn't have been good if she had survived. It would have only gotten him in more trouble. It was definitely better this way. With trembling knees, he had gotten out of the car and searched the ditch and there, under her dented bike, she laid. No pulse, the impact must have knocked her lights out immediately. After all, a stroke of luck. He had stood there for a long time thinking about what he should do now, then got back into his Mercedes and drove off. It was the only right thing he could have done. He drove the 150 kilometers home on autopilot while his overwhelmed mind made a plan. Fortunately, it had happened far enough away. But what should he do with the car? The cracked windshield, the dented hood. He knew where he could take the car for repairs, they wouldn't ask any questions, not after what he had done for the mechanic. He was able to convince the judge that the mechanic had not been in town at the time, even though guilt seemed to ooze from every pore of his body. So that wasn't a problem, but what about his wife? She would ask questions and so would his son. He could tell them he'd had a wildlife accident. But then he would have to inform the police and he wanted to keep them out of it at all costs. And then, just a few kilometers from his hometown, the solution occurred to him. It was simple and cruel at the same time and yet the only way out. The big dog’s joyful greeting when he arrived home almost tore his heart apart. The excited tail wagging as he reached for the long leash and the happy jumping up and down as the dog thought they were going for a night walk. But instead of going into the woods, he wrapped the leash around the garden fence and told her to sit in the street and stay. She would listen. She was a good dog. And then it happened again very quickly. Squealing tires and a heavy thud, tears streaming down his cheeks. Even now, as he lay in bed next to his wife, he cried like the little child he felt like at that moment. Oh God, the way her little paw twitched and then the whimpering. He would never be able to forget it again, nor the agonized whimpering that came from his own throat. Why couldn't she be dead now? Why couldn't she do him this favor? She seemed to look at him questioningly. Her eyes rolled in their sockets. That look she used to give him when she sat next to him at the table and waited for something to fall. And of course he always dropped something. No matter what his wife said. Let her grumble and tell him he would forgive her. He loved the dog and the dog loved him, which only made what he had had to do that much worse. But he hadn't had any other choice. Had he? No, it was the only way out. He sat next to the animal for an eternity, stroking her fur and waiting for it to end, which it finally did. After an agonizingly long time. His wife would feel guilty when he told her, that she probably hadn't closed the gate properly. It would kill her, but he was prepared to accept that. He couldn't lose everything he'd spent years building up now. His story was a good one. The accident hadn't woken any of the neighbors, which was a shame, witnesses would have been good, but the blood on the street in front of the house spoke for itself. And of course the dead dog in the garage. It would do, he just had to convince his family. For the time being. But his story would also work if he had to tell it under oath. After all, it was his job to get people out of the mess they had gotten themselves into, then he would be able to do it for himself. But he didn't think it would come to that. Hopefully he had thought of everything. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, **but sleep wouldn't come this night....

In the beginning, the empty void stretched into infinity. A cosmic sea of nothingness that mortal minds can't comprehend. No light. No sound. No feeling. No anything, for infinity. And yet, somehow after the nothing there came our entire system. Selfor, a beautiful yellow star whose heat and energy brought life to the 5 planets: Zilnary, Vilnair, Hillsea, Larth & Trall as well as their various moons. Over the millennia, as various civilizations grew and as many empires fell, scholars & madmen alike had often tried to gauge how the emptiness changed and how life began. Many far-fetched ideas had become common thought: accidental bursts of energy, cyclical expansion and collapse, at one time it was even commonthought that, paradoxically, everything came into existence when our universe was constructed in a far-flung future using advanced technology before, through the use of magic, being transported as far back into the past as possible. It wasn't until shortly after the formation of the Collection of Unified Planets (The C.U.P.) that a coven of chronomancers came up with a hypothesis on how to ascertain the origin of all. Greater technology was becoming commonplace, travel and trade routes were being established between the worlds, and Myths and legends of the past were quickly being compared. To the surprise of many it was found that the same ancient stories of the 9 divines had been told across the entire system. It was from this revelation that the chronomancers' plan arose. Although the practice of chronomancy hadn't been outright banned at this point by the C.U.P. it was becoming ever harder to practice and more controlled by the day. Therefore a secret monastery was built in the centre of Tresser, the largest of Valnirs three moons, with an impossible labyrinthian network of tunnels that stretched and wove itself around the planet to deter any who sought out the control of their magic. The tunnels were built so that anyone could find an entrance but, "only those pure of heart and willing to sacrifice themselves in the pursuit of the secrets of the universe" would be able to find the centre, or at least that's what the histories say. The tunnel's mouths were giant burrows, unassuming in the wilderness but with knapped shards of obsidian lacing the entrances like hellish mosaics. Those who subjected themselves to the cryptic trial would find themselves quickly consumed. Stuck in the pitch black with little to guide them, relying on the carved grooves in the walls or their innate magical abilities to guide their way. The grooves in the walls started as nothing more than a thin pipe carved out of the dirt to lead whoever entered further into the caverns. The dirt would quickly turn to gravel then, solid stone, all the while the grooves looping and swirling around the maji encasing them in the sedimentary kaleidoscope. Although many years have passed since the horrendous events occurred within the chronomancer's hearth, It is still unknown the true intent of the spirals. The preliminary investigations done by the C.U.P. had theorised that they were intended solely as guides to the pilgrims, later reports suggested the intricate carvings were more likely used to channel arcane energy. Both theories have since been disproven. If one were to follow the spirals indiscriminately they would inevitably get lost, as many C.U.P. agents did, instead pilgrims would have to ignore their directions to find the central chamber and no matter how hard the C.U.P. tried there is no greater arcane pull within the chambers then on the surface of Tresser. Sadly the hearth is thought to be long since destroyed, its true location forgotten; ironically left in only the memory of those who have passed. The few illustrations of its grandeur that still circulate depict it as a great stone structure with walls that gradually spiralled upwards creating thousands of rings in which the chronomancers would live, study, practice and cast. Each zealot had their living quarters, a perfect semicircle carved into rock housing all they would ever need to live. A bed, a bookshelf and a fireplace. Naming the monastery "The Chronomancers Hearth" is something of a misnomer, a catchy phrase that was coined by the media. As the C.U.P. was closely investigating the incident when news first broke of the events, much of the information we now know was not available; What was known however was that the zealots had fires constantly burning, a luxury and comfort that few could afford at the time. It wasn't until authorities had deemed the planet safe that the media was told that there were hearths for each of the participants that were placed within their living quarters and the overall extent and grandeur of the secret monastery. Many tried to give it a more apt name after this, my favourite of which being "The Mediums Monastery '', but by this point, however, the name had stuck and the cavern was coined "The Chronomancers Hearth". In the centre of the monastery stood a great ivory obelisk. A perfect cylinder that reached up from the bottom of the monastery up into its flat stone roof. Anecdotal accounts of the monastery always talk about the sheer size and flawlessness of the obelisk, 300 metres tall without a crack or seem, as if the bone of one great beast had been used to create the pillar. Over the years many treasure hunters have tried to locate the centre chamber and its great ivory relic but to no avail, finding at best the cursed tunnels. Hope is not lost for these daring adventurers though as the C.U.P. has confirmed multiple times that the Hearth does exist and they know its location. A common saying among chronomancers is "Seek guidance from the future, live unburdened in the present, forget the past.". Words that sing with wisdom and through being forgotten brought down the chronomancers hearth. But the story that they uncovered will echo on into the ages. The hearth was full, 11,000 sorcerers of countless races, genders, & ages. Each one a powerful mage who had undergone the trials of the labyrinthian pilgrimage to try and ascertain the beginning of existence. Some had lived countless lifetimes searching for this knowledge whereas others had only recently found the monastery and had learned the rituals to peer into the ancient past in mere weeks. The more powerful and experienced sages sat closest to the obelisk whereas the newer and less experienced casters dwelled in the higher rings close to the ceiling. To each of the magic users a jagged piece of glass and a blindfold was given, tools to help them during the prophetic sacrement. Blood of the 11,000 would be used to unify the collective and find the past that linked them all. The glass was needed to cut the hands of the fellowship in a precise way. The razor tip needed to be pressed into the index finger as far as possible, grazing the bone if the zelot was able to bear the pain, from there a straight line would be cut down past the thumb to the bottom of the palm and then horizontally across to form an L shape; The same was then to be done on the other hand. After each was cut perfectly the right hand was to cross the left and a firm grasp would need to be held with the mages on either side, the pinky and the thumb interlocking creating a square with their cuts. After the thousands had mutilated their hands and joined as one, blindfolds shielding their corporeal sight, the chant of the chronomancers began. A deep bellowing cacophony emanated from the centre of Tresser, the power of the song could be felt across the Selfor. To the thousands, their words felt like walking spirits pulling their mind to places untold. Behind the blindfolds, the mages' sights were pulled from their bodies into a collective consciousness that peered into the primordial unknown. Emptiness. No light. No sound. No feeling. No anything, for infinity… Nothing aside from white flakes of crust floating in an endless abyss. The collective consciousness roared in confusion, 11,000 voices fighting to understand the implications that this vision of an ancient empty universe would bestow upon their modern world. "Is this the beginning?" "What are those white flecks?" "How far back are we?" "Did the ritual work?" "Is this the true god?" As the voices trampled over each other, fighting to find the meanings of their sight, a pulse shot through the bodies of the thousands. The vision sharpened. White scales blinded the congregation for a brief moment. Each scale seemed iridescent, reflecting a light that could not be seen. Regaining sight they couldn't help but see two giant wisps of smoke pouring out to the creature's back forming complex skeletal branches. Taught thin skin clung to the branches pulling them into its body. From the small of its back, a great tendril seemed to cascade down from its body into nothingness. Its legs, those of a great feline beast, grasped the monster's head pulling it to its chest. As it let the tension from its body release, the beast's head rose. Toothless and grinning, the asymmetrical horror stretched out its neck letting all look upon its maw. Its jawline was jagged & crooked as if whittled hurryingly. 10 horns grew out of its face, distributed evenly but unruly, weaving like the roots of a tree. Two large gashes drew themselves diagonally across the sides of its face, browbones that highlighted its distinct lack of eyes. The fleshy inside of its mouth was even prominently displayed, no teeth, no tongue, just the hard ridges of the pallet echoing across the entrance to its gullet. The Beast floated in the abyss. The congregation watched as spectators as its body drifted around the shell they had all too soon forgotten about. Its paw then gently moved away from its body as the shards drifted slowly into it. For what felt like an eternity the spectators watched as the great beast stared into its paw. Examining seemingly the only other thing in creation. Talons sprouted from the beast's spare hand while it began to paw at its face. Razor sharp they pressed into the flesh under its brow bone, slowly at first but faster and more aggressively it drilled into its skull. The congregation was forced to observe the horrors, unable to look away or stop the vision as the ancient beast mutilated itself, silently bearing the pain. The collective consciousness screamed in empathetic anguish from those who could not stomach the awful sight. The beast's nimble talons continued to burrow and explore its newly created orifice, screaming an unholy blood-curdling scream, the first noise in the universe. Its paw jolted from its head pulling a grey atrophied blob from its skull. The long thin optic nerve still clinging through the exposed wound, like an anchor through a porthole. Excruciating pain could easily be seen on the beast's face as it gnawed through the nerve. It took far longer than any of the congregation could have feared as they were forced to watch as the beast became ever less aggressive through the ordeal, whimpering slightly by the end. Eventually, it bit clean though, pushed its eye into the shards it had collected and refocused on its bloody claw. Grasping it in its toothless maw, the claw was pulled from its socket, sending crystalline blood droplets twinkling out enchantingly into the abyss. The wounded being stopped, staying incredibly still, silent, before turning its head to the congregation. It stretched its arms out wide before clapping them together sending out an impossible light and stopping the spell. Of the 11,000 chronomancers that embarked on the metaphysical journey less than 1,000 returned with their lives. Cascading down the rings of the monastery a river of blood flowed down pooling around the obelisk. This was the first sight that many of the survivors saw as the firelight seeped through their bewildered eyes. For 150 of the others, this was the last thing they saw, a macabre picture burned into their sight forevermore. Bodies lay lifeless scattered across the concentric architecture, slumped askew against the ground where they lay. At the bottom of the monastery, many more sorcerers formed puddles of their former selves where they had fallen unceremoniously for great heights. Many of the eyes of those who had perished seemed to be burned, cooked inside their skulls damaging the brain simultaneously. Thankfully it's not believed that any of those who died felt anything as they expired, the same sadly cannot be said for the survivors. Almost 600 of the 1,000 survivors awoke to the agonising sensation of their eyes being burned out of their heads, the fire crawling through their heads and devouring their brains. Of these 600 approximately 200 survived blinded but without serious brain damage, the rest were left dead or lobotomized. 350 more were left mad, unable to think or commune with the officers who came to rescue them. Little is known of their fates after the incident but one can only assume that they were institutionalised at best and I dare not think of what at worst. Only around 50 survivors escaped the ordeal unscathed. They were all immediately taken for questioning by the C.U.P., of these true survivors little was shared between their physiology or experiences. The escapees seemed impossibly random, no age, species, belief or beginning connected them other than the chronomancer's hearth and some innate magical abilities, they did not even know of each other's existences. Eventually, after they were released from custody, the majority of the true survivors decided to reconvene, try and coordinate stories and get the most accurate picture of what they saw. This became the fundamental basis for the new church of the divine. A new religion that combined the stories of old and brought fundamental proof of the Divine. Within a complete solar cycle, the church had spread across all of Selfor bringing with it a wealth of traditions new and old, for better or worse. The C.U.P. banned all use of chronomancy outside of their governmental use shortly after the incident along with harsher restrictions on all magic use without much backlash from any parts of the system. That day changed everything, despite the bloodshed the chronomancers did succeed in their venture. They saw the beginning. They saw Crainith, Mother of all, First of the Divines.