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Mielikki

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Erebus-87k

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Mielikki 2

Dragonflies and fireflies.

The stale air tore through his hair as he leaped across an alleyway. Angry cursing followed behind him. He couldn’t help but spare a glance behind him. The dolts looked ridiculous, wearing neon skin tight uniforms that only accentuated their lack of optimal physique. Not to mention they glowed, some stupid thing about them being the physical representation of ‘the light to follow’ or whatever. He looked back ahead of himself and slipped back down to the ground. Even though the enforcement down here wasn’t the most disciplined, what they lacked in talent they more than made up for with numbers. After winding through a few blocks he slunk into an alleyway with constellations peaking out on the walls. It was dark, but he had done this so many times it was ingrained into his memory. Under the dumpster, move the wet and moldy cloth, then move a few bricks and voila. He opened the bag and donned the brown bomber jacket inside, removing his mask and goggles and putting them in the bag. He hurried to put it back then rushed out the other side, slipping his hood up and taking a pack out of his pocket. As he leisurely leaned on the cold brick, enforcement ran past on the other end of the alleyway. Most of the footsteps and yelling went on by, but he could hear two pairs of footsteps approaching him from behind. He tensed as they got closer and closer, praying they would simply pass him by. His hopes were smashed as two gaudy uniforms found themselves in front of him. The first one's flabby cheeks bounced with every word, “You, civilian, did you see Apis pass by?” Cheek’s was breathing so hard that he could hear a faint whistling coming from his throat. While his friend kept fidgeting with his long pale fingers so hard he was worried they’d snap like twigs. He gestured towards his pack, and the stick in his hand, “Sorry, m’havin a bit of a break tonight so my brain’s a little muddled.” Cheek’s partner held out a pouch that delicately clinked with the movement, “Would this help clear it?” He blinked, did this guy think he was trying to haggle him? He inwardly smirked, well, may as well milk it. He waited a bit, seeming to contemplate, then put his hand out. As the enforcer put the bag of goods in his hand he pointed around where the rest of the guards had gone. “I believe he was headed in that direction, good luck officers.” Stick guy nodded, headed in the direction without question. Cheeks bounced along behind him. He let out a breath and set off in the opposite direction. As he went to put the stick back in its box, he realized why Sticks had assumed he was haggling. Both ends were pristine. He thanked the lord for their stupidity and hurried on in case they suddenly wisened up. As he walked, the sky gradually turned from a reddish black to a rusty orange. The pollution rising from the grates, that weren’t completely covered in filth, only added to the already hazy air and smokey clouds from the production plants. “Well that was close.” He jolted as a figure jumped down in front of him, punching them in the face. They reeled back clutching blackened hands to their nose. “Ow, jeez Caelum, you didn’t need to hit me that hard.” He stared back incredulously, “Yeah I did, I mean I didn’t mean to, but you definitely deserved that Nox, what were you thinking?” Nox guiltily curled his tail around his leg, “I wasn’t, I should know by now not to do that.” He shook his head and began walking forward, folding his hands behind his head, “Naw, it’s alright, at least I’m wearing gloves, so now you don’t have to deal with a face full of venom.” Nox nodded, yellow eyes firmly rooted to the ground. They walked through the ruddy streets in awkward silence. Caelum cleared his throat, “So, how's our little dragonfly doing?” Nox immediately perked up at the mention, though he warily glanced around before speaking. “She’s coming along nicely, I was able to do a few test runs and she was having a little trouble but other than that it’s running smoothly.” As he talked, his hands began moving alongside his endless rambling. “Although there is this problem with her energy conversion, a new converter would probably do the trick, but I don’t think there’s much else we can do with our current materials.” Nox sighed, “At least everything else is going smoothly, we won’t know for sure until we actually test her in the field, but I have a good feeling about this.” Caelum thought for a second, if the energy converter was the only problem… Nox quirked an eyebrow at him, “You’re planning something, and I’m not sure if I should be worried or excited.” Caelum grinned, bringing out the pouch of glasswings he’d gotten from Sticks earlier. “Well, I may or may not have run into a couple of enforcers earlier.” Nox gasped, taking the pouch and rustling through the bag with his talons, “No, this is-wait, you were caught?” He shrugged, reaching to climb the ladder to enter their home. “Technically no, Apis escaped the enforcers, I just happened to run into a few.” Nox followed, lashing his tail in irritation. “Please don’t tell me you stole from them, I really don’t want to have to shake them off our tails. Again.” “No, they actually gave it to me,” He shrugged off his hood and let his antenna spring up into the air, “For the cheap, cheap price of misdirection.” “So you were almost caught, lied to, and haggled with officers.” “Yeah, although I highly doubt Cheeks would’ve been able to put a finger on me if they did figure me out.” “Cheeks?” He snorted, “Oh yeah, one of them was so round I nearly mistook them for a bowling ball, seriously I don't know how they even passed the exam.” “Yeah well, enough money can get you anything in this world.” Nox huffed, flopping down onto the pile of fabric that was their bed. “Do you think we’ll reach them, the fireflies?” Caelum plopped next to Nox, “Of course we will, we have enough glasswings to get a new converter and anything our dragonfly will need to blast out of this hellhole.” He pulled his bag over near him and pulled a few cans of paint out. He walked over to one of the walls and brushed the fabric covering it aside. It was covered with illustrations and scribbles, some more faded by time than others. He shook the can and began painting an area that was mostly clear. Images from torn pages began forming on the wall. Purples, blues, reds, all mixing together to create silky clouds of cosmos. White dots connected with web-like lines woven in between the dusty puffs of otherworldly color. He stood back, admiring his work. Soon, they wouldn’t need to imagine anymore. They would soar through the sea of fireflies above, exploring, adventuring. Soon, they would be free.

vssvpz

I am Torch

Content warning: death, LGBTQ, racism, and swearing The name's Torch. As you can tell by my fiery hair, hot bod, and of course my charming personality, I am a FireBorn. I was born in a quaint farming town to Kyrna and Lumina, two lesbian elves. They were very excited, but rather confused. At least that's what mother says. She says that her and Mom were surprised to see that I looked—well, like I was literally on fire. Turns out that down Mother's lineage; oh, Mother meaning Kyrna, someone banged a genie and well, guess I was the lucky one to have that gene unlocked. My parents even had to interrogate my biological father. He was just as shocked as they were! Anyways, long story short, you get me; Torch. Well, that's not what my parents named me. My real name is Illumius. Try that one on for size. Anyways, the rest of the people in town didn't exactly approve that a FireBorn lived in their town. They all had heard some stupid rumor that FireBorn's bring trouble wherever they go, and that by keeping me around, the town was doomed. Stupid right? Well, my parents had to hide me. If they wanted to upkeep their farm and keep making the money they did, they had to hide me away and say that I was gone. So, they entrusted me to an old friend of theirs who lived further into the mountains. He was a Dwarf blacksmith who made most of the town's equipment. Over time, I learned to call him Uncle Dunarth. I helped him in his shop and learned that my fire was able to heat his forge—a luxury he loved. Uncle Dunarth taught me many things about building and making my own inventions. I fell in love with learning about how mechanisms worked, and began to delve into my own inventions. I made many new tools for the farms. I was able to help create items that worked on their own so the farmer's could split their loads. My fire helped keep Uncle Dunarth's shop working. While living there, my parents came to see me often. We would explore the mountains and forests together when they came. They always made sure I had everything I needed, and they never let me forget that they loved me. They never let me forget why I was living in the mountains, either. I missed them dearly, but Uncle Dunarth was more than enough company. He was lively and full of laughter. He had a flaming red beard and a big stomach that hung low over his knees. When he sang, his voice filled the cave and shuttered down the mountain. I loved my home and my family. That all changed, of course, when the authorities figured out that my parents were hiding me. They sent for me at once—I was just barely 17. They stormed up the mountain one night, yelling for Uncle Dunarth to show himself and confess to his harboring of an unwanted monster. The words cut me deep as I hid in the shadows. I had been practicing keeping my flames low in my hair and on my body, but as they spat out words against me, and Uncle Dunarth spitting out lies back about how he didn't do such a thing, I could feel my fire growing. The more they pushed Uncle, the angrier I got. Peeking around the corner of the cave wall, I could see the soldiers in front of the Dwarf, They had their blades drawn. As they interrogated, I could see they were getting more and more mad. Uncle Dunarth pointed a finger towards the town and began to scream at them, telling them to leave his property if they knew what was best for them. The blade in the soldier's hand found Dunarth's chest faster than I could blink. My eyes widened and time seemed to slow down. Uncle Dunarth fell to his knees with the blade protruding from his chest. I clenched a fist, trying to slow my breathing down. The soldier laughed, grabbed the hilt and pulled the blade slowly out of the downed Dwarf. Blood began to pool around Uncle Dunarth, glinting off the torch light that illuminated the entrance to the cave, and his home. The moon sat in solemness as the soldiers laughed and kicked Dunarth down. He lay unmoving in his blood as the authorities came closer to the cave. “That lying Dwarf is hiding that boy. If not him, something. Never trust a Dwarf.” The apparent leader stated. Catching my breath, fear and anger consumed me. They killed my Uncle. My protector. Unable to control the anger that erupted from me, flames ignited from within me, and my eyes scorched red. I came from the shadows, my body burning. The soldiers gasped, turning their weapons me. Orders were barked at me, but I could barely hear them. They destroyed my life in two seconds, and I was about to repay the debt. It was a blur what happened that night. When I came to, I was surrounded by the bodies of the soldiers in the cave. Everything was on fire. I stood in the middle of a bloodbath, my hands on fire and dripping with what was left of the soldiers. “Illumius?” A soft voice came from behind me. I closed my eyes, flinching. Turning around, I met the eyes of my Mom, Lumina. Her hand was to her mouth, and tears in her eyes. Mother came up behind her and gasped at the carnage I was standing in. Their eyes met the clouded ones of Dunarth and they began to cry. “What happened here, Illumius?” Lumina asked amid sobs. I couldn't answer. I fell to my knees and cried. My fire dimmed as I let the sadness wash over me. I watched my Uncle die to protect me. I killed these men—innocent or not. I really was a monster. I spoke of this in my sadness. My parents raced to my side and held me. My mothers. They still loved me after what I did. As we sat in silence, we could hear the sound of horses and more soldiers. “You need to get out of here, Illumius.” Mother told me. I shook my head. I couldn't leave them! Kyrna took my head in her hands and kissed my burning skin. She looked into my red eyes and smiled. “You are a brave young man. You've grown to be a wonderful and smart person. I am so proud of you. I ask this of you, my son. Leave. Leave and forge your own path. Your destiny is now in your own hands.” As she spoke, tears filled my eyes as I didn't understand what she was saying. Looking at Mom, then at Mother, then to the blood on my hands, I knew then. If I didn't leave, they could die too. The soldiers would kill my parents for keeping me alive. Clenching my fist, and a few more weeps, I stood up straight and nodded to them. “I love you, Moms.” I promised them I would be back someday. * * * * Life was never the same after leaving home. I found odd jobs here and there to make money and stay afloat. I took jobs that no one else wanted, jobs no one else could do, and jobs that I didn't want. I would get the worst tasting food that was left over from inns and bars—thrown out in their back alley way so I could eat. I would walk down the streets in towns, hearing the dreaded word “monster” floating all around me. I would be chased out of bars and diners. Words cut through me like butter and wedged inside. I was a monster, and no one was ever going to want me. It all hurt. It all helped me find my way across the country, though. I moved from city to city taking on bigger and bigger jobs. I lived in a tent if I couldn't get a room at an inn. I learned how to hunt and to take care of myself. The better I got with my weapons and my natural powers the better I got at surviving. I even started to tinker again. I would frequent the local forges and metal shops for scrap tools and metal, if the smiths would let me in. I started to make inventions again. I put all that Uncle Dunarth taught me and made moving inventions that helped people with their various jobs. I took on disguises and started to sell them for a small price to those that needed the extra help around their businesses or homes and couldn't afford to ask or pay. I went from town to town selling small machines to people.  When I turned 21, I had begun to make a name for myself as an Creator, a person who invented items that made life easier for those that paid. I was known as the Hidden Creator, for I would take a request for an invention and would oftentimes leave their order on their door and leave. Finding disguises had become harder and harder as I moved from town to town, so I learned to stay in the shadows and deliver the goods when night fell. I couldn't let them know a monster was the one making their inventions. By now you're probably thinking, “Then where does the name Torch come in?” Freshly 21, and with some money in my pockets, I had found myself in a much larger city on the coast. I had donned a new disguise and was taking my time in the shops. I had sold my inventions and had been pursuing the stalls for more scrap metal and other wares that could help me make more. As I did, I came across a bulletin for an Adventure's Wanted poster. The poster looked to be faded and dirty—almost like it had been there for a while. A small drawing of a beetle decorated the corner of the wanted ad. Pondering the ad, I continued my way down until I reached the end of the merchant's square. The rest of the city was lush with rich homes and cathedrals. I felt very out of place, but something spurred me to keep walking. The homes were lavish and full of beautiful grass and plants that complimented the mountainside that swept up behind them. I was astounded to know that people actually had enough money to live like this. I had assumed they were the port owners that lived on this block. As I made my way down the streets, I could feel eyes on me. Turning around, I swept my gaze down the empty street. The feeling of being watched never subsided as I kept going down the lavish road. Eventually I entered the entertainment square of the city. Music floated on the wind towards me as I left the out of place wealth and into the more familiar theatre district. As I hopped onto the dirt road, something tapped my shoulder. I whipped around, only to be met with a gnome who waved up at me. Looking down, I tilted my head. Did this gnome just tap me on the shoulder? I was six feet tall! The gnome woman gave me a big smile. “'Ello!” She exclaimed. “Uh, hello?” “Name's Bug! I saw you were looking at my help wanted poster by the docks!” Recalling the poster, I realized that the little image of a beetle was not in fact just a weird drawing, but a signature. I started to laugh at this and knelt down to Bug. “I did, I did. What is it that you need an adventurer for?” “Not just an adventurer! I need you. FireBorn.” I felt my chest clench. How did she know what I was? I had done a good job at hiding the flames pretty well. I didn't see any flame coming from under my hat, or through my trench coat. She waved to me to follow her. Now you're probably asking what the hell describing the wealthy section of town was about right? Eh, I just wanted to share this really cool road I went down to get to the entertainment district. I mean, it was cool amIright ? She leads me through the district and down a dark alley—no this is not where a gnome kicks a six foot tall FireBorn's ass in an alleyway—this is where she knocks on a hidden metal door, says the word “Hairy Fish” and introduces me to The Whispers. * * * * The Whispers became my new home away from home. They instantly accepted me as I was—telling me to remove the stupid little disguise I had on and to wear the clothing they gave me. Bug had explained that she could smell the brimstone off my skin, and it was clear as day to her that I wasn't an elf, or human, or whatever else I was trying to come off as. I was truly a FireBorn and she just knew I had to be part of her guild. I thanked her for being so kind, and listened as they started to explain who this group was. They were a small adventuring guild that took on mostly hunting and gathering jobs. They made a little bit of money, which helped keep their hideout hidden. Apparently the other adventuring guilds around here wanted to run The Whispers out of town, stating that they had no business running a guild. It was hard to get new members to join because their reputation was so shot. I loved The Whispers. The guild was made mostly of a human rogue, gnome musician, elf hunter, a brawling half-orc, and me. We were an odd group, but I learned a lot in the time I was with this guild. Okay, okay. Yes. This is where Torch comes in. You see, this guild wasn't entirely invisible to the populous. How do you think they got their name, The Whispers? Rumors floated around about a ragtag group of an odd assortment taking the biggest monster hunting jobs that were posted. Yeah, that's right. Our little guild took down monstrous beasts that plagued the forests surrounding the costal city. We always took the biggest monster we could, and would always deliver. In my time of fighting off large creatures, my own powers and skills began to grow. I enjoyed finding new ways to kill monsters. I became creative with my weaponry and what I could do. I learned my way around explosives and my own cannons. I learned out of the box thinking when it came to doing a job efficiently. After a while of hunting, I began to trust my own skills and abilities. I slowly became a high-risk fighter. I know! Me, who was used to hiding in caves and running for my life, suddenly became the one to charge into battle with just a boomerang and bomb. I learned that I had to trust myself. I was the only one who was going to get myself killed. I was the only one who was going to save my ass. I took control of my own fear and used it. Also, it became a lot of fun to break the rules. Monster after monster, mission after mission, my creativity, my eagerness, my strength, and my abilities grew. Rumors started to shift from a ragtag group taking on insane monsters, to one man taking on insane monsters. I would go alone, I would go without weapons, I would go with all the weapons. I practiced and used everything I could. I made sure I knew my way out of a situation with whatever I could get my hands on, whatever I had on me. I made sure I lived. No matter what. I was called “The Maniac” or “Risk” but only one name truly suited me. As we were given our assignments for the day by Bug, the guild master, I had realized she started to sign my name in a drawing like the others. It was a drawing of a torch. When I asked her, she just laughed. “It looks like your hair. You're a walking torch!” I folded the paper up and put it in my pocket. Torch. Playing around with the name, I realized how well it fit. Illumius was dead. He had died when he had to run away from his parents. When he watched Uncle Dunarth die protecting him. Illumius was weak. Torch? Torch was alive. Torch was me. I was alive. I was strong. And I wasn't ever going to let anyone tell me I was a monster again. I wasn't ever going to hide who I am again. I. Am. Torch.

nrhwe0

The Secret History of Water

The absence of daylight in the surrounding area betrayed the fact that it was actually noon. Darkness enshrouded the sun, blocking its rays from shining through. A slowly advancing horde paused and hovered, awaiting their orders. But none came. The wind blew steadily from behind, pushing them onward, so they continued. Although the crowd was as numerous as the sands on the seashore, without their commander leading them, they felt as if they were wandering aimlessly, unsure of where to go next. Suddenly, a thunderous rumble filled the sky, echoed across the mountains on either side and shook each one of the assembled to their core; yet, not from fear. Instead, a wave of unspoken relief passed through them all. Commander Raham finally returned. The commander’s encouragement always provided the drive needed to embolden the masses to carry on; to finally succeed in this perpetual rhythm of attack, regroup, attack again. Presently, Raham’s voice boomed overhead, loudly enough for the whole valley to hear. But only the ranks of Zerem understood what was being said. “As you all know, this battle has long been fought between Zerem and Aphar. But this time, they have crossed the line. I’ve just come from the north side of the mountain. It’s painted white where countless numbers of helpless Zerem are being held as prisoners. When our last battalion descended on that area, they were captured, and now the Aphar refuse to release them. Unfortunately, we will not be getting any more reinforcements this time around. So, we must fall on our enemies swiftly, before we reach the opposite side. We will then make our way up and over to save those in need.” Every other time the Zerem had descended on the enemy, they had been able to escape, and had almost always returned. It was one thing for a Zerem to willingly join the Aphar, or occasionally decide to stay on that side, but this was something entirely different. This was the first time Sahyir, or any of the other new arrivals, ever heard of anything like this. The Aphar refusing to release captured troops? They had never taken hostages before. Sahyir could give no more thought to the matter, because Raham’s voice reverberated again with the order, “Troops! Prepare to fall on the enemy in all haste. The first flash lighting the sky will be your sign to attack. Make ready!” Before any response could be uttered, a streak of lightning filled the sky from East to West. For a fleeting moment, everything was illuminated, allowing the Zerem to catch a brief glimpse of their target. The oblivious Aphar had no idea they were about to be pummeled by a flood of Zerem. Without warning, the hiss of battle arose and everything in the area was quickly overrun in the maelstrom. It wasn’t long before the Zerem reached the mountainside and found that the southern incline was too steep to proceed upward. The more they tried, the further down they slid. Sahyir progressed higher than most, but slipped on a rock and rolled back down to the foot of the mountain, well beyond the mustering point where others were pooling together to plan their next ascent. Every Zerem knew the best way to defeat the enemy was as a whole. Separation meant almost certain failure. But, having landed in a crevice between two large boulders, Sahyir was cut off from any means of rejoining the group. A voice, not so much heard as felt, filled Sahyir’s consciousness. “I’m glad you’re here, Zerem. I’ve been waiting for one of your kind to come.” Turning to locate the origin of the voice revealed a gaunt soldier, completely clad in green except for a blazing red helmet. The soldier was hunched over and pitifully malnourished—on the brink of death—yet, displayed surprisingly good spirits for being in such a state. “If you’re planning to kill me, I warn you now, I will not go down without a fight,” Sahyir courageously announced. “Kill you?” the soldier rebutted in astonishment. “Oh, you must be referring to my blades and shields. No, these are just part of the armor bestowed upon me. I only wield them as a sign of honor. I’m not your enemy, little one. My name is Perah. I’m trapped here, same as you.” “But, you’re Aphar,” Sahyir stated, almost as a question. “Your kind is holding Zerem captive in a white prison on the other side of this mountain.” “Yes, I am Aphar. But, I’m afraid you’re mistaken. We’re not imprisoning Zerem. They’re waiting of their own accord to be used at the proper time,” Perah replied. “Yeah, you’ll use them in your defenses, so you can defeat us,” Sahyir accused. “No, no. It’s not like that at all. I’m not sure you understand the way things work around here. There is a symbiotic relationship between our kingdoms. We each benefit the other for continued survival. You provide us with your strength for a time and, in turn, we replenish you. It has always been this way.” “You replenish us?” Sahyir scoffed indignantly. “You may not realize it, but Aphar eagerly anticipate your attacks. When you fall on us, we absorb your power. When you join us, we grow together. After Zerem are assimilated into the ranks of Aphar, both are refreshed and we send you back, better than ever. Zerem strengthen Aphar… Aphar create more Zerem. It’s an endless cycle of regeneration,” Perah informed. “How do Zerem strengthen Aphar?” “If you can bring yourself to trust me, I will show you.” Perah reached down weakly to lift the reluctant, yet curious, Sahyir. An unseen, magical force resulting from their connection caused Sahyir to slowly dissolve into Perah. The latter rose and stood tall, stretching two leafy green shields toward the now brightly-shining sun. The crowning helmet opened and spread into a wheel of beautiful, red petals, releasing a mist of tiny droplets that evaporated back into the air. And the cycle continued as it always does...

t1n09k

THE EXPRESS TRAIN

Jack stood on the subway platform awaiting his express train. It had been a long, arduous day at work, as usual, and he could think of nothing else but getting home to his loving family, having a warm supper and a good night’s sleep. His wife, Jill, despite being loud and shrill, was always there to greet him with a hug and kiss. And his three daughters, eleven, thirteen and fifteen, despite often sounding like a gaggle of honking geese, were always happy to see him. Leaning against a subway post, he allowed himself to drift into a semi-conscious reverie, dreaming of the one thing he never experiences: a moment of solitude and peace. As the senior manager in a high-energy financial firm in Manhattan, his work was intense and relentless. He reported directly to the president of the firm, and as such, was required to be constantly in command and totally abreast of all aspects of the business. He was expected to arrive well before the stock market opened for trading, so he was usually at his desk by 7:30 AM. It was rare for him to leave the office before 6:00 PM, still facing a 90-minute commute home. At 48 years old, he had been working at this pace for more than 15 years, never having had time for a vacation. Jack closed his eyes and let his imagination take him to a park, a beach, or a mountain top, where he could unwind and relax while listening to the silence and stillness. He saw fireflies wafting about, performing their luminescent ballet in the quietude of a summer meadow. He imagined the soft caress of a gentle ocean breeze, and the distant susurrus of rustling leaves. And he prayed, Dear God, here I am, overworked, exhausted, and frustrated. I can’t stand it anymore. I need some peace and quiet in my life. It’s the quiet times that give life meaning, but I never get to experience it. All day long, I’m surrounded by yelling, arguing, phones ringing, people blabbing, engines roaring. Please, God, give me some quiet in my life. As his mind wandered, Jack didn’t notice the very unusual appearance of the train that slowly wound its way into the station. Startlingly sleek and futuristic, the train came to a stop with barely a whisper. On the front screen, instead of the expected Express or Local notification, the monitor said “Ursa Major.” Jarred awake by the opening of the doors but still half-asleep, Jack absentmindedly staggered into the train and looked for a seat. He immediately noticed that the interior of this train was nothing like he had ever seen. Rather than the usual seating against the outer walls of the train car, there were highly cushioned captain’s chairs sparsely positioned, all facing forward, with perhaps only 12 or 13 chairs in the entire car. Jack chose one in the middle and sank into the soft but supportive cushions, impressed by the comfort they provided. Jack glanced around at the other passengers. They appeared fairly ordinary: a typical, weary bunch of commuters all looking eager to get home, just like him. The doors closed, and the train pulled out of the station. Jack was very surprised to find that his seat allowed him to recline into a very comfortable position. He pressed his head into the cushions, his eyelids once again growing heavy, and drifted into a light sleep, without perceiving the gentle, protective force field that had enveloped him. About two hours into the train ride, Jack was awakened by a soft, feminine voice on the overhead speakers. At first, the announcement seemed nonsensical, and he didn’t quite gather its meaning. He hoped it would repeat, and, sure enough, after a short pause, the announcement came again. “May I have your attention, fellow travelers. Our craft has now traversed the Kuiper belt region of the Sol star system, and has reached interstellar velocity of 0.5L. You may now move about the cabin freely, as artificial gravity has been activated. The food synthesizers have completed their preparation of velzor, and you are welcome to access your portion. Suspended consciousness will take place in 30 minutes. Our next stop will be the exoplanet within the Lalande star system. At our current velocity, we will arrive there in exactly 24.86 years.” Jack sat quietly in his seat and tried to comprehend what he had just heard. At first, he thought it was some sort of malfunction or joke. He looked over at the fellow sitting to his right and shrugged his shoulders in an obvious sign of confusion. The fellow smiled, appearing calm and relaxed, without any sign that he was equally perplexed. Then the man, in a friendly voice, commented, “It’s good to be going home after so much time away. Don’t you agree?” Jack nodded, assuming he was referring to his own family. “It sure is! I’m heading to Bensonhurst. Where are you going?” “Bensonhurst? In Brooklyn?” “Yes, Brooklyn! Isn’t that where this train is going? I didn’t really understand that announcement on the PA system. I have a weird feeling I may have gotten on the wrong train.” The fellow traveler, looking concerned, inquired, “Excuse me, but are you an Alioth?” Jack quickly answered, “No, I’m not an Alioth, whatever that is. I work for Goldman Sachs. I’m the general manager of the equities division. We do the investment research for some major players. If you’re interested in having professional management, I’ll give you a card.” The fellow traveler responded, “What is your name, friend?” The man seemed quite concerned and was looking at him rather critically, Jack thought, puzzled by his expression. Nevertheless, he answered, “Jack Simmons.” “Nice to meet you, Jack. My name is Jjjz3rsbt Jjjz4qqrr. Jack, I think you did get on the wrong train. We’re not going to Brooklyn. Our next stop is an exoplanet in the Ursa Major constellation, in the Lalande star system.” Jack, astonished, stammered, “What are you talking about? This is just a subway. How could we go to another solar system?” “Jack, the vehicle you apparently accidentally entered was not a subway. It was a transit vehicle which then met up with our interstellar ship orbiting Earth. We’re from the Alioth star system, one of the stars in what you refer to as the Big Dipper. We come to Earth frequently for research purposes, but we are on our way home now.” Jack scrunched his face in disbelief. “Come on, whatever your name is. That’s a load of horse crap. I’m going to get off at the next stop. I’ll probably just grab an Uber.” “Jack, what I told you is true. This ship is already beyond the orbit of Saturn. We’re all heading home to the fourth planet in the Alioth system. That’s our home. We are moving at 0.5 the speed of light. At that speed, we’ll arrive in about 160 years.” Jack laughed. “160 years? That’s funny. How in the world are you going to do that?” “We enter a state of extreme hibernation. It allows us to tolerate extended space voyages. If we didn’t have that ability, such voyages would be impossible, as you might surmise.” Jack, feeling a sense of panic growing within himself, stammered, “How do you do that? With some sort of freezing chamber?” “No, that’s not necessary for us. We have the ability within ourselves. We don’t require any equipment, although we do use some technology to make it easier.” “But I don’t have that ability,” Jack said. “What am I supposed to do?” Jjjz3rsbt gave Jack a helpful look. “You don’t have to stay on the ship all the way to Alioth.  You can get off at the next stop, at the transit station on Lalande 21185b, and take the return trip back to Earth. There are shuttles leaving every few years. You’ll be at the transit station about 25 years from now, so you’ll be back on Earth in just 50 years. Jack’s face involuntarily twisted into a look of horror and shock. He thought, fifty years? How could that be? I would be almost 100 years old by the time I returned to Earth. Would I ever see my family again? What would the world be like? Would I even be alive then? “Now, Jack, if you’ll excuse me, I must prepare for my hibernation. It’s going to be quite a relief finally to get out of these costumes.” With that, Jjjz3rsbt and the other 11 fellow travelers began removing their outer “human” shells, revealing their true appearance. Jack descried large, cylindrical heads which seemed very much like inverted highway cones, jet black in color, but with at least four pairs of eyes, each set 90 degrees apart, providing a comprehensive view of their surroundings. Each individual had two pairs of arms, with hands branching into eight intricate fingers or small tentacles, suggesting extreme dexterity and fine motor control. Jack, through quivering lips and a pounding heart, managed to squeeze out one or two additional questions. “But I’m 48 years old. How can I wait 50 years to get home? That means I’ll be 98 years old. I don’t have the ability to go into hibernation. What am I going to do here in this ship and the return trip for 50 years?” “Jack, everything on board this ship is automated. There’s no one piloting or operating it. You’re free to use the food synthesizers as much as you wish. They’ll produce any food or drink you might desire. There are instructions in our language but also in English alongside the device. So, your sustenance shouldn’t be a problem. The climate in the ship is maintained as it is right now, at a comfortable temperature for most Earthlings. There are also bathroom facilities on board that you can use. So, your journey should be rather pleasant.” Suppressing a torrent of despair, Jack thought, No! This can’t be true! I’m being torn away from everything I love, my family, my job, my entire life… my entire world! Please, stop this ship! Let me wake up from this terrifying nightmare! “Well, it’s been my pleasure meeting you, Jack. But I must now enter my extended hibernation. I hope you enjoy your trip to Ursa Major.” As the travelers from Alioth quietly entered hibernation and protective domes surrounded them, the spaceship became totally silent. Because the ship had reached its cruising velocity, it seemed to Jack to be standing still. One could hear a pin drop. There was no perceived motion, sound or movement. There was only absolute silence. Jack sat down on his reclining captain’s chair and closed his eyes. The stillness tore through his mind like a lightning bolt. Jack thought of his wife, Jill, and his three beautiful daughters, who would now have no way to know whatever happened to their husband and father. In desperation, he glanced at his cell phone, hoping against hope for a connection, but to no avail. By this time, Earth was just a distant point of light, blending into the vast milieu of space. In his stilled and soundless new world, Jack prayed, Dear God, please give me the opportunity to hear the shouting and laughter of my children, the tumult of my office, and the din of traffic. Let me once again experience the vibrancy of life. This silence is killing me. As he and his fellow travelers passed Neptune and approached interstellar space, Jack could no longer control himself. He gripped his own head with fingers driven by the deepest panic and despair, and from the depths of his soul, he screamed, “Please, somebody help me! Get me out of this nightmare! I beg you, get me back to Earth!” Just then, Jack felt a soft hand on his shoulder. He opened his bleary, tear-filled eyes only to see the concerned face of an older man staring at him. “Mister, do you need help? Would you like me to call an ambulance?” Jack looked at the man, then quickly scanned all around him. For a moment, he remained disoriented, but soon recognized his familiar subway platform. “Pal, I don’t need an ambulance,” he screamed, pulling the older man in for a bear hug, laughing and crying hysterically at the same time. “I just need to get home. I can’t believe it! I’m not going to the Big Dipper! I’m on the Earth!” Just then, a sleek new train wound its way into the station, the doors opening invitingly, its illuminated front panel announcing, “Express.” Jack stood for a moment, staring at the open door, then turned to the older man and said, “You know what? I think I’ll take an Uber.”

o70d5w

The Heist Connoisseur

I exited the World of Coca-Cola at 2:19 p.m. No sweat, no fear. After all, I've stolen from the greatest museums in the world. That said, my pocket did feel heavier—the one with my phone, which contained a picture of the original Coca-Cola secret formula. Only two senior executives know the formula entirely at any given time. It's that secret. Well, now there are three. I crossed Baker Street onto Centennial Olympic Park. I scanned without appearing to scan and noticed two men in black suits. I increased my pace without drawing attention to myself. Could they be from the museum? Surely not. I would have noticed. Over the last six weeks, I've patiently cased the famous tourist trap, working as an electrician, my original calling, before becoming the world's most notorious burglar. I prefer Heist Connoisseur, but the FBI won't use it. To them, I'm just an ordinary thief. It's so hard to build one's brand. I stopped and sat on a park bench. The suits looked uncomfortable with my sudden inaction. They slowed but maintained their direction. They were following me. My photographic memory flipped through the museum's security personnel, and those two were not there. I got up and walked to them. We were surrounded by kids playing, lovers holding hands, and walkers listening to mumbled headphones. These two won't make a scene. I, on the other hand, will. It was easier to disappear in chaos. "I love pizza on mountain roads if it's December," I said, looking in the opposite direction of the startled pair. "What?" One of the suits said. "Come on. You must give the counter-response, or I'm out of here." They both squirmed. I couldn't have shocked them more had I stripped down to my tighty-whities and danced. "We don't know what you're talking about." They attempted to move past me, but I intercepted them. "Alright, enough games. Why are you following me?" They looked around as if trying to find the hidden Candid Camera. "Face recognition. We've been sent to verify." "Me? Which notorious criminal do I look like?" "Don Bard." "The Heist Connoisseur?" They tensed up. I tipped my hand. Only the FBI and I know that moniker, even if they pretend they don't. The suits drew their guns. I had already seen two police officers standing near a hot dog cart only a stone's throw from us. I shouted "gun" and pointed at the two suits. The police officers reacted quickly. "Put the weapons down!" They shouted with their guns aimed at the men in black. The neckties dropped their guns and raised their hands. In the confusion, I disappeared among several walkers running from the chaos. I never looked back, but I overheard the two suits yelling, "We're FBI!" I must be slipping. I know better than to allow a big-brother camera to get a full view of my face. Perhaps I'm getting too old for this. It may be time to retire. They say you should retire at the pinnacle of your career. Is there any higher pinnacle than the Coke formula? The suits and cops should have made peace by now. I doubled back and sat on a bench, never leaving the park. The best place to hide is where you begin - no one ever thinks to look where they lost you. Now that I could sit peacefully, it was time to get the Nerd working to sell this picture. "I've got the pic." The Nerd texted back, "On it." How much is this adventure worth? Coke's retained earnings are a little shy of seventy-five billion. Imagine seventy-five billion. Now imagine one hundred million. Both are impossible for the average Joe to wrap his brain around. But I've done the math: One hundred million is only 0.133 percent of Coke's available cash—not even one percent. My phone vibrated, "Coke says they won't pay." "Not surprised. Move on to other buyers." It's a dangerous game Coke is playing. Someone might buy it. If no one does, I'll fling the formula over the web. Nomads in the Arabian Peninsula will make Coke in their tents. Ten minutes later, "Musk backed out. Pepsi still on the fence." I once considered stealing the Mona Lisa. Its estimated value is one billion dollars. Coke could buy seventy-five Mona Lisas! But it won't toss me a measly one hundred million. "Pepsi got cold feet. Afraid of repercussions. Plan C?" "Yes." That took me aback. I have enough plans to go through the alphabet twice, but I believed Pepsi would buy it, if for no other reason than to gift it back to Coke as a goodwill gesture. Imagine the free advertising? And on top of that, Pepsi would be seen as the biggest-hearted corporation of all time. "Apple wants it. Says they're going to make it better," the Nerd texted. I have my standards—no changing what has worked. "No. Go to plan D." What's wrong with that fruity company? And what's up with the bite out of the apple? Is it Eve's apple - the one that caused the fall of man? Now that I think about it, that is a good logo for them. I put down the phone and took in the beauty: trees rustling, squirrels nibbling, birds singing. Of course, cars honking, people shouting, runners thudding, and sirens blaring accompanied the otherwise tranquil symphony. Buzz, "TikTok made an offer." "I may be a thief, but I'm a patriotic thief. No!" I was beginning to believe I'd have to follow through on my threat to release the formula on the web. Then my eyes read the text I was hoping to see. "Coke called back. Says they will pay." I remained unaffected on the outside, but fireworks went off inside. I was about to score my largest heist. Who knew a soft drink formula would bring in more than crown jewels, famous diamonds, and priceless works of art combined? Well, me, but I hate to toot my own horn. "Send the pic. No copy. They will know," the Nerd texted. My hand was shaking a bit. I pushed send. "Oops!" It's been over six months since my "Oops." Since then, the three who knew the formula have grown to over eight billion. Coke attempted a campaign to impugn the release as a hoax. However, it failed after people started to taste the formula's results. I left Atlanta for a mountainous area where there are no big-brother cameras. My piddly few million will have to suffice for my retired years. How could I continue heisting after such a bumbling mistake? I have to face it. I'm no longer fit to be the Heist Connoisseur.

lo5do4

The Beasts That Hide Inside

As the sun dipped low behind the jagged peaks, casting long shadows across the snow-covered forest floor, and I prowled through the dense underbrush, eyes yellow and bright. My senses were alive with the thrill of the hunt, the scent of pine needles and damp earth filling my nostrils. Hunger gnawed at my belly, a monster clawing up my throat. I smirked, hunting was best when ravenousness was present, it made the world seem beneath me. I growled softly. It always was beneath me, but when my hunger was prominent it seemed even more so. I tracked the prey in front of me, my paws, gracefully ghost-quiet allowing me to creep forward. - Snap- I growled loudly in frustration as the twig snapped under my paw, forgetting my quiet facade. A flicker of movement ahead caught my attention—a flash of russet fur against the backdrop of ferns and moss-covered rocks. The deer, a graceful doe with wide, alert eyes, had sensed my presence. Her hooves struck the ground rapidly, propelling her through the forest with a desperate elegance. I surged forward, muscles coiling beneath my silver-grey coat. The chase was on. Through thickets and fallen logs we raced, my breath came in heavy pants, the thrill of the pursuit quickening my blood. The doe was swift, her slender legs carrying her effortlessly over obstacles that would have slowed a less agile creature. But I was relentless. Each stride brought me closer to her, my instincts honed over countless hunts guiding me unerringly through the labyrinthine maze of the forest. The trees blurred past, their trunks a blur of dark shapes against the fading light. I could hear her heart pounding, the rapid beat a counterpoint to the steady rhythm of my own. The gap between us narrowed with each passing moment until I could feel the warmth of her breath on my muzzle. Victory was within reach, tantalizingly close. With a burst of speed born of desperation, the doe veered sharply to the left, her hooves skidding on loose gravel. I followed in hot pursuit, my claws digging deep into the soft earth. Just as I reach her, my jaw mere inches from snapping around her throat, the scent of her fear feeding my hunger, an owl swooped down at my face. With a piercing cry, its talons raked across my fur, sending a jolt of surprise through my body. I skidded to a halt, my momentum nearly causing me to stumble over my paws. As I regained my balance, I lashed out with a furious snarl, swatting at the owl. The forest echoed with the sound of my frustration, leaves rustling, and branches quivering in response to my outburst. The owl's powerful wings folded, transforming into pale limbs, human-like in their shape and grace. Its ruffled feathers becoming wrinkled clothes, as it settled, its neck extended, and the eagle's fierce visage shifted seamlessly into that of a man's face, short cropped hair matting to his face, with piercing, knowing eyes, the owl's formidable claws morphing into long, muscular legs that now supported the figure of a man. I growled stepping closer slowly, since he decided to take my dinner, he could afford to become mine. And human was much tastier than deer. "Vixen." He said slowly taking his hand and pushing it closer to me, backing away gradually. "Vixen," He says as I sniff his hand, "It's me, your best friend, Sebastien, I'm Esmerelda's brother remember? " I am a wolf. Strong, fast, ruthless. I am no friend. I lunged at him, my claws tearing into his skin as we tumbled into the cold, unforgiving snow. His desperate cries for help were muffled by the snow filling his mouth as I pinned him down. In that moment, I failed to notice the glint of the weapon in his hand before he pulled the trigger. ---------------------------------------------------------------- When I awaken, consciousness seeps in like a slow tide. My bronze skin feels cool against the crisp white sheets that envelop me. As I gather my bearings, the sterile surroundings offer no clues except that I've been confined here. No matter how hard I try to remember, my memory remains elusive. I shift to look at the other half of the room, but a flare of pain shoots through my body. I press my hand to the ache only for it to come away bloody. The desk across the room catches my eye, its surface protected by plastic, save for a solitary tray holding pain relief tablets and a bloody tranquilizer dart. Instantly, a flood of memories rushes back. Sebastien. The name echoes in my mind, I had nearly taken his life, just as I had nearly ended Amina's. The grip of my depression tightens its hold on me as I struggle to reach for my pain relief medicine. A knock interrupts my thoughts, and Doctor Clessia cautiously peers into the room. "Are you accepting visitors, My Lady?" she asks, concern etched on her features. I nod, hastily wrapping the sheets around me to conceal my nakedness. The door swings open wider, admitting the entire crew. Summoning what strength I have left, I force a strained smile. "Well, I suppose I've discovered how to hunt," I remark, attempting to lighten the tension. Silence greets my attempt at humor, thick and suffocating. Finally, Jose speaks up, his voice edged with disbelief. "Is nobody going to say it?" A deep voice from the doorway responds, cutting through the silence. "I will." Esmerelda strides into the room, her expression a mask of wrath. She looks me up and down pausing. It's a courtier's pause, deciding how best to strike. "You're a piece of shit, Vixen," she declares, her words like venom. Chaos erupts as emotions flare unchecked. Jose's anger is palpable. "Esmerelda, enough! You've crossed a line." I raise a hand, silencing the room with a motion. "Please, explain yourself," I request, my face unbothered and aloof, even though my heart is shattering. I always liked to think I had a heart of ice, but ice was much like glass: a couple hits and it broke. Esmerelda's facade cracks, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. "You almost killed my brother today, Vixen," she accuses, her tone hardening. "None of you can control your beasts. Sooner or later, they will destroy us all!" "Guards," I murmur softly. They enter swiftly, restraining Esmerelda as she fights against their grasp, her protests echoing in the room. "You will kill us all Vixen, you will kill us all!" She screams, her arms and legs flailing as she is dragged out. The room is silent, and Jose asks hesitantly, "Boss?" "Leave," I command, my voice barely a whisper. "But, Boss—" Jose tries again. "Leave!" I shout, cutting them off. I curl into a ball underneath my cover. The truth hangs heavy in the air. I was a murderer, wasn't I? Our human selves and our animalistic instincts are at odds, locked in a battle where the animals, unchecked, could be our undoing. Humans wouldn't be able to control their animals if they really tried, because by then, it wouldn't matter. We were all damned to murder the world.

x7webk

The Spot

No one blinked. As they gathered by the image processor, taking time to adjust all of their eye sockets and each dial and module on the machine, they simply stared and stared at what they were looking at. No one thought to make a mental note of this; no one thought that their psychic connection could handle this. But there it was and they had to process it. Wild synaptic cheers came through the neuron feed. There was a great deal of speculation as to what would come next now that they had made this great discovery. Would there be some sort of possible trip or contact with the lifeforms they had detected? This silenced some of the celebrants. The Elders had been strangely mute on their collective synapses. Perhaps they would provide an answer that would please everyone. It was the waiting that made the silence so terrible, but necessary (they never rushed into any decision since the Great Methane Famine wiped out over half the population who rushed to feed where no particle of gas existed). So, the population waited. And they waited. And they waited. Finally, there was a decision made and did not please anyone who heard it. “This never happened.”               For a very long mental moment, no one uttered a thought. The hovergalleries were left unoccupied; hippocampuses cancelled classes for the day; algae cafés could see that the number of patrons dropped dramatically when sales were tallied (credit chips were very thin in the coffers). No one wanted to be detected disagreeing with the final decision, but there was enough of a bond between citizens for a sensitive being to detect discomfort and annoyance. How could they forget such a thing? The image, nearly destroyed during the Elders’ long search for a verdict, was burned into the collective. Newer entities were saving it for their scrapbook collections and did not want to deny what they considered the most important discovery of their nonlinear lives. How could they deny such a thing? Many of the citizens who accepted the news were not aware of the growing resentment and annoyance many of their fellow citizens felt towards the Elders. They had made many wise and careful decisions in the past, but they were not infallible. There were moments that they would not forget, such as the great Moon renovation fiasco, the portal mix up with the residents of Olfactoron-69… And then there was the moment they received a shipment of eggs that would hatch and attachment their progeny to… But those were events from many ages ago. And all those decisions had come down from the Elders and were handled by them. So, why should this be seen an error? In one of the more obscure areas of the shared collective mind hive, a plot was formed. Several of the more dangerous sectors of the galaxy knew all about the photograph, and they could see that there was a great amount of potential in contacting whatever type of primitive life form existed there. The people there were satisfied with so little, they would be happy to learn about timejump engines, multidimensional work duties, and the benefits of planet design for peace among worlds. Surely, they would be willing to hear from at least one small delegation that slipped under the mental radar of the collective. They were going to contact the Spot. But how were they to do this? With some of the technology and calculations made in private, it was discovered that it would take at least four timejumps to get to the discovery. Many of the scientists who were excited about the possibility of contact were disappointed with the decision to ignore the photo. They were willing to try and reduce the amount of time necessary to make the journey. Many accidents followed. One surreptitious trip led to one crew of explorers encountering their own grandchildren when both sides were adults, but this was minor compared to the explosions, mutilations, loss of citizens and expense to their credit lists. But still they experimented and kept their work hidden from anyone connected to the Elders. And after many different creations and experiments, they had their vehicle. The Grand Hunter. It was a beautiful vessel for a virtual creation. With some modifications and enhancements, they would be able to reach the Spot with only two separate time jumps. The problem now was to decide who would make the journey. Many non-psychic feelers were raised in the methane-thick gas. The ones who had designed the ship were not about to be denied the chance to make such a journey. The scientists who made the modifications were a little more hesitant. Only one of them made the decision to join the rest of the designers (a quick version of Rock, Paper, Scissors – using terms that we would not recognize – was played). Then there was the choice of a captain… It would have to be the one who could resist the neurological beatdown that was coming their way if they were discovered (no timejump would prevent that). It would have to be someone who had already travelled beyond the accepted limits of their territory. It would have to be someone the Elders would not suspect in a million quasimoments. So, it had to be Y. Yes, it was Y. They all knew Y. Y. would be the one to get them there. It should be explained that they did not have names in this nebula. They would have considered that the greatest vanity. But they did need some sort of title for a man who was a war veteran, explorer, savior of the realm (he solved that gas problem and had a tentacle in the egg removal). So, in their language, Y is as close an equivalent to anything in our various tongues. So, when there was little neural vibration work in their connected web, the Grand Hunter disconnected from their world. And there were no glitches or errors as the second time jump and the ship adjusted to the open space of the new galaxy. There were small rocky planets, large methane-filled bodies (some discussion about harvesting took place, but was not explored), a beautiful planet with its own set of rings (their own moon lost theirs ages ago; some sadness was shared among the crew), and a very powerful gaseous star that provided these meagre planets with their energy and reason for existed. And then…there it was. The Spot. The ship did not want to give away their position right away (who knows what type of reaction they would receive if they were responsible for interrupting another neural feedloop). So, with some caution, they approached from the sunless side of the planet and landed in a clear field that was quiet and calm…and remained unnoticed. This was ideal; this is what they wanted. And they prepared for their first encounter. They were ready for it. Unfortunately, they landed just before dawn in an uncut field of grass and were quickly destroyed by a lawnmower operated by a Mr. Curtis Boyle who had left off trimming the outfield of the diamond for far too long. It was something that bothered him, and he was glad to get it done before the season opener. He would not be blamed for delaying another game… The hometown boys and girls would appreciate his good work.

jb4l0q

Was it a Dream?

“Come on! You have to take me! It sounds like so much fun!” My girlfriend exclaimed, handing me a flier that we just received in the mail. *ALL NEW EXPERIENCE * Join us in our Grand Opening THIS saturday! If you received this flier, you and one other person are VIP guests and will skip the line! Just show up this Saturday at “It was all a Dream” See you there! “But what is it? There are no details. I’m not sure how we know if it will be fun at all.” I knew I sounded like a pessimist, but today was already Friday night and I had big plans for my weekend. I looked over the flier at Avery. Her eyes told me that we were going and she somehow knew I was going to have fun. She had a knack for knowing what I would enjoy and what I wouldn’t. I sighed and decided my big day of reading and fluffy socks could wait. Avery smiled at me and kissed her forehead, “what time are we leaving tomorrow?” She hopped in bed giggling and said “we set sail at 10am!” :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: We stood in the parking lot staring at a building that I have never noticed before. It was painted black with neon green trim and a bright purple door. There was a line out the door and down the sidewalk. How did everyone know about this? And what even is *this*? I was starting to feel uneasy. Avery took my hand and led me towards the main door. I pointed to the end of the line and she said “We are VIP, remember?!” as she dragged me closer to the front of the line. People were staring at us confused and slightly angry. I started to hold up the flier and Avery said, “we aren’t doing anything wrong, no explanation is needed.” I took a deep breath as the blast of AC hit us, thinking that I wish I was on my worn denim couch with my book and my cat, but as my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, those thoughts were fleeting. The air was so crisp that it made me very aware of my lungs. The music, no, sounds seemed to be coming from all directions. It was as though we walked into a forest. The front desk looked like a fallen tree complete with the roots holding eye masks and head sets. Another couple walked out looking very dreamy. What in the world happened here? Behind the desk was a woman in a very tight lycra jumper. She handed us a tablet without saying anything. We filled out our personal information and on the last page, it simply asked “Adventure” or “Relaxing”. I looked over at Avery and saw her tap Adventure, so I did the same. Then the woman spoke for the first time. Her voice was extremely soothing, but something else about her made me feel uneasy as she said “together or separate”, and I was not about to go anywhere without Avery by my side. It was taking everything I had not to flee right here and now. “Together” we both said in unison. I realized Avery had my hand in hers as the woman pointed to the left and that’s when I realized that the woman was not real, she was a robot and a damn good one at that! We walked to the door and pushed our way into another dark hallway only lit by a ceiling that was made to look like a night sky. “Avery, this is weird. We have no idea what is about to happen, a robot just checked us in, and we have yet to see a real human that works here. Does any of this make you uneasy?” I whisper, mainly because I am afraid to find out what happens if I make too much noise. “What’s the worst that could happen?’ Avery smiled at me but I could see a little anxiety behind her eyes. Before I could answer, she opened another door that led us to a planetarium-looking room. I had been in one of these before except there were no seats, just futuristic looking pods lining the walls in this circular room. About half of the pods were occupied by corpse-still bodies. I was going to throw up right here, I just knew it. We looked around the room and saw there were a handful of double pods, that’s what the “together” or “separate” must have meant. Somehow we knew not to talk, but the anxiety had definitely risen in both of us until we crawled into the pod. You know when you are a kid and you dream of taking a nap in a big fluffy cloud and it being the most comfortable place you have ever been in? That was these pods. I had never been so comfortable and so secure ever in my life. All of my worries literally drifted away. I vaguely saw a mist flowing in from the top of the pod as I looked over at Avery who had already drifted to sleep. I was right behind her. ====================== When I came to, I was no longer in the pod, I was next to Avery in an open-cockpit biplane. She was looking over the edge smiling and enjoying the wind rushing through her hair. She didn’t look nearly as confused as I felt. Then, without warning, Avery stood up and jumped out of the plane! I yelled for her but she was falling so fast, there was nothing I could do. Suddenly, I realized I was wearing a backpack, no, it was a parachute. I looked toward the pilot to see what to do only to realize that there was no pilot! I had no choice. I jumped. It couldn’t have taken me as long to jump as it felt because I could see Avery still rushing to the ground and I somehow caught up with her and she was smiling ear to ear. I couldn’t help but feel at ease looking at her excitement. We weren’t close enough to touch or hear each other, but we both pulled the parachute cord at the same time and started to slow to a peaceful drift all the way to the ground. We landed on a patch of grass just outside what could only be a jungle. Both of us out of breath, heart pounding and sweating, we embraced and started laughing. The laughing was uncontrollable, we ended up in the grass holding our stomachs, just laughing. As we slowed into soft chuckles, we held each others gaze and smiled. I said “okay, this was worth it” and Avery just beamed.  Our adrenaline eased and we were able to take in our surroundings. We were the only ones around so when we heard footsteps running towards us, we jumped up and turned. We couldn’t make out what the figure was that we saw until it was right up on us. It was not a creature that I had ever seen. It looked like a human, but had lion features. His beautiful mane was the eye catcher until it grinned at us and all of his teeth were shining through at us. We didn’t know whether to stay or run, so we just held eye contact with it until suddenly it lunged at us. We took off into the jungle. While it was incredibly dense, we somehow managed to stay upright as we ran and dodged vines and logs. We looked back and didn’t see that creature so we started to slow. Trying to catch our breath, we heard a noise from the trees and as we both looked up, the lion creature lunged at us from about 50 feet up. Right before we were ripped to pieces, I woke up. I was covered in sweat and looked over at Avery. She was gone. I was in my bed at home. Reality washed over me as I sat up. There is no Avery. There never was an Avery. I guess it was all a dream, I thought, but as I stood up from bed, there was the crunch of leaves and earth beneath my feet.

fnikse

God's Gift

As he lifted the last bulging cardboard box on to the kitchen table with a sigh , Sean lamented his late wife's knack for hoarding memories like a squirrels acorns. 'Once they're gone , they're gone' she would always say. That was certainly the case now as , after a lifetime planning for retirement and what they would do together , cancer decided to intervene. Jean had been buried three months but the world around Sean was a haze since then. Three months , and he got to the last of the photos now. He sat at the kitchen table clutching the next handful of image , armed with a cup of tea and all the time fate would allow. As he shuffled through them , separating old holiday snaps , from graduations , weddings and christenings , he stopped on an image he hadn't seen in what seemed a lifetime. It was Sean , Jean and Adam , arms around each other shoulders looking up from the pub's ground level to the balcony where a random drinker had agreed to take the shot. Sean , leaned back , shoulders slumped , and exhaled. He looked at the bay window and a wild Scottish gale was lashing rain on the rocks , waves crashing over them in concert and his mind went back to the pub forty years ago. What was the name of the place Adam said again..........................................................        .........................."Chikwanda!' Adam spread his arms at the announcement.    'What? You want rice with that?' said Sean incredulously. " I said 'where do you see yourself in 10years time' , not 'what do you want to eat?''     'It's not a dish , you tool! Chikwanda is a place in Zambia. After I graduate , Chimika says I can buy land at a snip and do tourist conservation'     'Chimika? Oh , your new Zambian friend from about two minutes ago. Great idea , mate , four years of business school and you can grow a cocoa plantation and raise baby         hippos together , hey! Have you lost the plot??'     'Chimika's in my economics class , I've known her for months. And , no , not cocoa , hippos yeah , more leopards and elephants , actually' he replied ,'Chikwanda National Park ,     that's what we were going to call it. Chikwanda means 'Gift from God' , you know'     'Oh , well , in that case your the perfect man for the job , hey! I tell you what , 20 quid says you end up in a bank like the rest of us.'     'Your on' Adam replied , steely assurance in his eyes..................................     ...............................................And Sean gazed back at the photograph , Adam confidently smiling , that same steely resolution in his eyes. He always was more of a bull at a gate when it came to personal ambitions. Sean was always more practical , working out costs , carefully planning , calculating the risk , and , for what? His eyes focussed on Jean now as his heart slowly sank. She had always said he should go out and see Adam , see how the park ranger project worked out , how he had always encouraged Sean to come over , bring the wife and kids , he'd put them up in the lodges at their campsite but something always came up , a renovation , a wedding , the car packed in , but now he was alone , and little of the past made sense anymore.     'Chikwanda,' he murmured and suddenly he turned and started digging furiously in the bottom drawer. As his finger rummaged through the detritus of organised life , among the bills and the paper bullshit he discovered a dog-eared British passport and placed it between his teeth as he continued the search for......where was it now...... got it! He pulled the small chrome handle and excavated a steel blue locked box from the lifeless documents. He put the passport on the table along with the box and tried to jog his memory. Jean and him had agreed they would only open the box in an emergency and racked his brains to try and remember where the key was kept. It was more her idea than his , but he had to find that key now. He searched every room in the house , desperately checking drawers and cupboards and when he stopped to collect his thoughts (and breath!) it hit him - the jar in the laundry , on the shelf above the washing machine. He grabbed his coat and braved the wild storm around him as the laundry was part of a converted outhouse to the rear of the cottage. His arm raised shielding his face from the peppering volley of rain shots , Sean leaned into the laundry door and saw the little white ceramic pot on the shelf. Reaching in , he pushed coins aside as his fingers found a flat metal object. He pulled it out , smiling now and started back for the house , ebullient against the cacophony of wet wind and noise. He carefully slotted the key in the lock , and turned it ninety degrees to the right. He gripped either edge of the lid and levered it open to reveal its treasure - leafy billets of Great British currency , five- ten- twenty- and fifty pound notes all neatly banded together in each denomination as Jean was prone to doing after forty years in the bank. He began counting , not his forte as bank manager's had no cash counting responsibilities , but as he shuffled the pack of notes he roughly counted - at least 7500 pounds!!!! He strode firmly to the bedroom , grabbed a leather suitcase and hurriedly filled it with clothes , shoes , toiletries and a few medications.    He grabbed the passport , cash and keys and stopped in his tracks at the front door. 'Wait a minute' he thought. He didn't do things on impulse , especially at 65 years old - what if Adam wasn't there? He contacted him infrequently albeit he called when Jean passed. What about the house , what about...........he looked forlornly at the table , the box , the pile of photographs and then the lockbox and Jean's voice echoed- 'saving up for a rainy day, love'. As he looked at rain tears streaming down the windows in torrents , his jaws clenched. He walked over to the table , grabbed the photo and said, 'You can come along with me , Jean' as he stormed out the front door and sped off across the island in their vintage Morris Minor.   He sat in the passenger cabin of the ferry as it cut through the short channel to the mainland and the one and a half hour drive to Glasgow airport ahead. He had no idea of the price of a plane ticket to Lusaka or even if Zambian airlines existed but his determination to see it through and somehow shrug off the leaden cloak of grief spurred him onwards. He glided through the country roads now as the rain eased and the sun began to gently pry open the clouds and rainbow rays glowed faintly. Sean saw this as an optimistic sign as he entered on to the motorway and gunned the accelerator as the battling little car gamely charged towards the city outskirts. He left the car in airport parking and patted the bonnet , faintly aware he may never see it again. As he entered the terminal he scanned the banks of check in counters , dozens of them and began to feel a little out of touch with how air travel worked these days. Everyone marched around with intent and purpose , trawling luggage and children in tow , chatting on phones , organising their respective groups. 'You seem a bit lost' a friendly voice said as Sean snapped out of his fear haze and said ,'erm.........trying to get to Lusaka?' The ground staffer chirped ' Emirates then , over to the far left,' he gestured and smiled as Sean tentatively started walking over to the far end of the check in desks. Sean approached the counter and a beautiful young Arabic girl called Jasmina , complete in Emirates uniform and traditional headdress , said' Welcome to Emirates . how can I help you?' "I need a ticket to Lusaka , please' as he handed the passport over. 'Single or return, Mr Morrison?' 'Oh , eh , now there's a question. I , erm , hadn't actually thought about it. I mean , spur of the moment kind of thing , you know?' he said , and looked briefly at the floor. Her smile broadened as she suggested ,'An open-ended return then , perhaps?' He looked up, 'Open-ended. Aye , that sounds about right' Sean bought the ticket and fourteen uneventful hours of flight time later , punctuated only by a three hour connection at Dubai International , and the plane began to descend into Lusaka. Sean gripped the arms of the seat as the plane descended , he was a confident passenger when he travelled for business but time and age eroded that somewhat. As he left the airport , strong shafts of sunlight glinted off the chrome bumpers , airport windows and surrounding hotels. It was eight in the morning local time and the national park was still around eight hours away.    Sean's stood like a child on the first day of school , his characteristic helplessness seemed to draw attention from local men congregating in front of an assortment of random cars. Sean       found the sight comical , Ford Fiesta's and Fiat Punto's surrounded by large burley men in smart white shirts and khaki slacks. One of the men turned , noticing the diminutive arrival's short      steps towards them now. 'You look a bit lost , my friend,' said the large round face and Sean shrugged and said simply ,'I need to get to Chikwanda National Park, my friend' imitating the local    greeting.    This started a consternation amongst the men , arms flying up in protest and the large lead figure pointing sternly at several others to quell their objection. Clearly Sean's request was a         valuable one and as the gaggle died down the large figure extended his hand and said,' I am Chanda , I will take you as far as Chikwanda village and then a guide will need to take you further    to the national park , there are no roads there , only bushland and my car won't make it.'    Sean pulled out a small bundle of notes and Chanda grinned widely , hands clasped together before he gratefully accepted the generous bounty. He lifted the suitcase easily and wrapped a     friendly big arm around Sean as he guided him towards the car. As the urban landscape began to diminish , shanty huts were the typical dorm for Zambians and Chanda regaled Sean          with Zambias rich natural beauty which was undoubted , the world's largest waterfalls , over seventy languages , river valleys cut through hills and mountains and the big five - lions ,            elephants , leopards , rhinoceros and .........................suddenly Chanda squeezed the brake pedal as a large shape climbed the road embankment and plodded heavily across the road.           '..........and the Cape buffalo , bwana,' Chanda said , laughing and the large oxen turned and groaned loudly at the now stationary vehicle , its bowed horns spread out either side and             Sean thought it looked like pigtails on a petulant child.    It felt like a different planet to the sheep and deer of Scotland's west coast islands and despite the countless hours of travel , Sean felt invigorated by the adventure. His jaw hung when they     passed a pair of elephants among the open shrub plains his camera clicking repetitively as he hung out the passenger window. Zambia was certainly a place you could feel , the dry           landscape coursed with flowing rivers and colonies of birds and buffalo lined the banks. The baking warmth was a welcome comfort to Sean's body and mind and he basked in this luxury      and began to feel twinges of excitement at seeing his friend.   The road narrowed and a village grew in the distance. Chanda explained he would need to find another guide for the onward journey from Chikwanda to the national park. As he pulled up and parked , he stepped out of the small car and walked over to a thatched hut which was a local supply store. Local natives sat watching the large , purposeful man stride to the hut and Sean noticed a battered empty Jeep parked on the track outside. Sean was looked up from the photograph and Chanda returned and a figure returned alongside. The companion stopped lowered his face to the open window and gasped,' As I live and breathe , Sean bloody Morrison!!!' Startled , Sean thrust the passenger door open and threw himself into the arms of his friend and they embraced , laughed Sean yelling ,' Adam , Adam , I can't believe it , its really you'. "What brings you here?' Adam said when his voice calmed. 'Lets just say a bet's a bet,' as he peeled a twenty pound note and handed it over to his friend.                  

7sbwzl

Earth 2.0

EARTH 2.0 Doctor Robert Bryant was over six feet tall and had a background in engineering. Initially, he worked in Toronto but later moved to Rio de Janeiro to continue his research in the laboratory adjoining the physics building. He dressed in grey from head to foot which he had taken to wearing in his college days. His weathered features creased into shadowy lines, and he was a scientist who believed that the key to research was dedication and focus. Bryant put a lot of stock in sensorimotor skills, and could fly planes well enough to enrol in the Canadian Air Force. The rich, spoiled product of a rocket scientist who had married an electric car company shareholder, Bryant had an unshakable confidence in himself that bordered on pride. The features of his face were framed by a short beard. As he made widely known his interest in propulsion, his new design was soon fleshed out in the form of a revolutionary spaceship which would use the void of space itself, turning inside out the theories that matter, even exotic matter, was needed to search for a habitable planet. He volunteered to test the spaceship, his imposing presence being acceptable a long as his height was compensated for by his waistband, as a deciding factor. Soon the Canadian project to send a mothership equipped with a hundred small scouts was realized, and an expedition headed to the new planet, known officially as K2-307-14-22B. The astronauts held steadfast to the course laid out for them by Earth's command, then put themselves to sleep. Upon waking, they re-acquainted around the coffee table. "It's an admirable job you've done, Mares," Bryant remarked, his words carrying a weight of both acknowledgment and uncertainty. His choice to address Mares by surname instead of his given name was a subtle reminder of their professional distance over the twenty-seven years they had been together, albeit in deep sleep. Yet Mares couldn't discern whether this formality stemmed from Bryant’s upbringing or served as a shield against the intimacy of a shared endeavor. Despite his reserved demeanor, Bryant possessed an undeniable brilliance. Psychology coaches had cautioned against probing too deeply into transiting astronauts’ mannerisms, but naming mattered to Mares. Yet, beneath the façade of professionalism, a sense of unease simmered, hinting at the complexities that lay hidden within the depths of the past. "It's time to prepare the spacesuits," Mares declared, the weight of their impending mission settling heavily on his shoulders. They retrieved the black skinsuits from the lockers. These suits, meticulously tailored to their measurements, were identical in appearance. However, the preference for smaller stature astronauts for the payload added a layer of complexity to their preparations. Then, the death of Ralley during an extravehicular activity forced the pair to reassess the resources of a three-person shuttle crew. Her absence meant that they needed to recalibrate the masses in their favor, a somber reminder of the dangers that lurked beyond the safety of their spacecraft. Bryant’s sudden deviation from his strict rations caught Mares off guard. "I can't keep to rations with O'Malley on my mind," he confessed as he indulged in O'Malley's luxury pack of dark chocolate and nuts. The superfluous items in their provisions highlighted the reality of the situation, where every resource was carefully accounted for. There was no turning back to pick up the body with their velocity of hundreds of kilometres per second and falling. O'Malley's untimely demise weighed heavily on both Mares and Bryant. Her attractiveness, particularly for an engineer, was undeniable, if chauvinistic of them, but as was to be granted to unseat such modern suppositions, it was her skills as a hands-on computer interface operator that had been of value to them. The memory of her final moments, bidding farewell over her computer as she drifted into the void, stirred a mixture of sorrow and regret with the pair. As the astronauts shared a farewell drink in her honor, the realization of her fate hit them with a sobering force. Despite her best efforts to prepare her suit in time for a pipe leak on the outside, a hitch left her stranded without enough oxygen to return, and leaving the scout without a computer specialist. The grief of her loss lingered in the air, casting a shadow over their preparations for landing on K2. In the midst of mourning, Bryant’s practicality shone through as he reflected that she had died after fixing the problem. Her determination to address the issue served as a reminder of her resilience. Bryant retrieved his skinsuit from the locker. As he meticulously examined every seam and fastening, Mares observed a flicker of apprehension in his demeanor, a departure from the usual routine as expressed in his body system. Without breaking his intense scrutiny of the spacesuit, he held it at arm's length, as if keeping it at bay from some unseen threat. His grip tightened, betraying a hint of unease beneath his stoic façade. It was as though he was grappling with something beyond the physical confines of the suit, a silent struggle playing out in the silence of the spacecraft. When he finally tore his gaze away from the suit to address Mares, his voice carried a weight of determination tinged with a touch of desperation. "This is mine!" he declared, the words ringing with an intensity that sent a shiver down Mares’s spine. "My suit, my spacesuit," Bryant repeated with fervor. Which suit had Ralley taken? thought Mares. With trembling hands, Bryant traced the markings on the suit's surface, his fingertips brushing over the letter 'R' with a mixture of reverence and trepidation. "R... R means reconnoitre," he muttered, the words laden with significance. It was more than just a designation; it was a symbol of his assigned role, a reminder of oncoming role change. "It means my designated role is to reconnoitre the planet," he explained, his voice cracking with emotion. As both men approached the door, Mares felt Bryant’s inner turmoil, a struggle to find meaning and direction at this new frontier, perhaps he could use it to enhance his performance. Mares felt pleased at this assumption. It was clear to him that the marking held no such significance as he suggested. After all, their sponsors were none other than Real, the renowned perfume giant corporation, whose generous donations had funded extrasolar expeditions. There was also their back-up fuel, a thousand tonnes of perfume to ignite in the event of space vacuum propulsion failing. "Where was that one headed?" Bryant inquired casually upon seeing a distant shape as the pair waited for the shuttle's engine to warm up. The faint hum of the mechanical workings began filling the silence. "Marres," Bryant prodded, his insistence grating on the other’s nerves, "I have given you the information, and it should be accessible in the suit's database." His words stung with a tone bordering on mania, a challenge to Mares’ authority and knowledge that reconnoitering was a robot’s job. "Here," Mares uttered, the weight of the words bearing down on Bryant more heavily than he'd anticipated. "They said there was something wrong with the atmosphere," he continued. Fear, uncertainty, and a profound sense of responsibility surged within him, seeking to guard both men’s actions. "Intelligent aliens?" Bryant interjected, his voice carrying a tone of certainty. In that moment, Mares glimpsed the depth of Bryant’s convictions and how they warped his loyalty. It became apparent that his fascination with conspiracy theories exposed him to scientific unorthodoxy. "She was trying to have a baby who'd eventually like me," he explained, his voice faltering slightly. "I was selected at a time in the month when the 289 days of her pregnancy made the baby compatible," he added, explaining his own birth - all nonsense. Mares gently countered his beliefs, dismissing aliens as mere fictional constructs and timed pregnancies as pseudoscience. Yet, despite this, Bryant remained committed. It was his deep-seated conviction, shaped by his personal experiences and familial influences, which were at the heart of his fervency. "Anyway," Bryant said with a hint of determination, his gaze fixed on the skinsuit laid out before him, "this suit of mine will make it possible for me to reconnoitre the planet." “Look here,” he said, giving the suit a rap on the lid, “I would’ve suggested a more breathable and temperature-resilient version if I’d been consulted. They tell me there are daunting odds against landing on K2 alive.”  Though spoken with a measured tone, his words carried the weight of his own conviction. Sensing an opportunity, Mares turned to Bryant with a meaningful look, his words laden with curiosity. " Bryant, you know what regular means?" "What?" he asked, his tone betraying a hint of frustration and disbelief. The single word hung in the air, laden with uncertainty and a touch of apprehension.                                          ------------ Althea Weezer, the flight commander, her uniform adorned with numerous decorations earned from navigating treacherous missions in the solar system, directed a penetrating glance through the computer screen on their wrists. Since listening to shuttle pilots, she had always used curiosity to her advantage. “Say what you want to say,” she said. " Bryant says the ‘R’ on his suit means ‘reconnoitre’," Mares whispered, vainly trying not to be overheard. As he spoke, his gaze swept over the array of small vessels, each one with a separate mission to help the new colonization drive find welcoming planetary bodies. "She won't know what it means," said Bryant, his frustration evident in the forcefulness of his movements as he stomped about. As the craft tilted slightly, Mares’ eyes were drawn to Bryant, and he noticed the subtle physical changes in him since the tragic incident weeks ago. The added kilograms were a somber reminder of the toll the recent events had taken on him. "Let's go round the mothership," Mares suggested. Bryant nodded, and he took hold of the controls, finding solace in the familiarity of the task as the shuttle relied on the mothership's artificial intelligence. As the men observed the distant blue planet, a sense of discomfort came over Mares, as he caught sight of the pale blotch on the opposite side—the ominous Pugh Crescent extrusion. "Bryant," Mares yelled over the hum of the shuttle's systems. "Look at that extrusion; that thing is a killer." "What are you gibbering about?" Bryant said. "You were sick before you joined the program," Bryant went on the attack, his words laced with accusation and frustration, as though he possessed an uncanny intuition. With a sudden surge of determination, he seized the controls in both hands. As he pulled on the controls, an unseen force from outside the shuttle intervened, causing it to spin uncontrollably. The alarming development was self-righting and the two men could talk after catching their breath. "I did have an episode," Mares admitted. "More than one, as a matter of fact." "What was it?" Bryant probed. Mares sensed he was retreating to familiar territory, then he realized that he had never encountered a man at the frontier of exploration before. Mares had always projected an outward image of stoicism and strength, concealing any inner turmoil behind a façade of determination. Despite grappling with a troubled past and the challenges it brought, his unwavering love for his family served as a source of strength and purpose, balancing out his deviousness. "Hector, you need to stay true to your principles," his wife had said, her voice tinged with concern as she glanced up from her coffee, her eyes searching his. "I know, darling. Seeing things through, tackling difficult problems, makes it hard for me to be a good husband," he confessed, his tone reflecting a sense of introspection. She extended a cup towards Mares, her gesture tender and inviting. "But you’re shielding yourself from others. People think you’re just as plain underneath as you are on the surface," she observed, her words carrying a hint of understanding and concern. Mares declined the offer with a subtle shake of his head. With a tone of both familiarity and concern, she uttered, "Oh, come on, Hector, you're not moody like Robert Bryant. I won't hear of it!" "That fat oaf. Troubled past, and a desire to out-do everybody." That was a perfect summation. Yet now, Mares realized admitting to such a condition jeopardized his position in the agency, and it could also lead to dismissal from the space force itself. In that moment, a deafening explosion shattered the tranquility, rending the air with violence as the colossal mothership vanished in an instant. Its disappearance left behind a searing hot flash, taking their minds off the distant edge of the planet Annapurna. The abrupt loss of the mothership plunged them into a maelstrom of terror and profound isolation, a harrowing sensation of being adrift in the vast expanse of space, immeasurable distances separating them from the comfort of home. "Is anybody there? This is 1212 Tango Braveheart," Bryant called out, his voice trembling. "What is your position relative to K2?" "They can't hear you because they're all dead," said Mares, his tone surprisingly calm given the gravity of the situation. Despite the fear threatening to overwhelm him, his survival instinct kicked in, compelling him to focus on the tasks at hand. "It looks like we're both dead," Bryant proffered, his hands grappling the wall on his side for support. "Oh, but me, I’ve got that suit, though," he said. Before he could say more, Mares turned around and had a look at the spacesuit housed behind the chairs. Drawing it out and examining it was not just about assessing its condition; it was also a way to assert control and maintain composure in a dire situation. Probably Ralley had taken Bryant’s skinsuit in error. "It says size 34. Are you size 34?’ Mares asked, inspecting the spacesuit closely. The words came out with the expectation that the other would bluster. "No," he said, his crestfallen tone revealing his disappointment. He didn't hesitate to acknowledge his mistake. This reaction surprised Mares. "So what size are you really?" Mares persisted, trying to steer the conversation back. "Size 37," he retorted, his tone carrying a hint of frustration, as if he were tired of the game, akin to someone fluffing the exam at the extrasolar admissions department by admitting to a poor math score. They gazed at the fading image of the mothership's debris. With the computer now in their hands, they showed up the final image of the wreck. Someday, perhaps centuries from now, Mares thought that someone might stumble upon the scout ship, a relic of their existence amidst the vastness of space. And if technological civilizations endured, they might unravel the mysteries of their final moments, offering a glimmer of connection across the expanse of time. "Well, I'm a size 34 and have been most of my adult life, and so is this," Mares stated firmly. As he held the black skinsuit up to the dim light filtering into the shuttle from the day/night cycling illumination, he added, "I made sure to get the correct size for comfort." At this, Bryant laughed a ghastly laugh. All along, their psychological training on cooperation and peer pressure, structured task-sharing, acceptance theory, the knots and alterity courses in existential psychiatry and game play, was brought into sharp focus. The tension was percentagewise thoroughly palpable. Until that moment, aging and longevity seemed like distant concerns, favorably distant. But this disaster in a moment had shattered that illusion. Yet, amidst the unease, Mares could feel only a fleeting sense of triumph as he donned the spacesuit. As he waited for the shuttle to circle the planet and the flashing screen indicated their impending touchdown, a surge of conflicting emotions washed over him. Despite their differences, there was a part of him that wanted to reach out to Bryant, to bridge the gap between them, much like how they rallied around Ralley in her final moments. With hesitant steps, he moved toward the door, half-expecting Bryant to protest. But he remained silent, his inscrutable demeanor betraying little of his inner thoughts. Dealing with conspiracy theorists was becoming tiresome; they always seemed to cling to their beliefs regardless of evidence.. As he landed on the planet, Mares was aware of the chain of events that had brought his first step about. Subject: Urgent: New Information Regarding K2 Dear Forward Team, I hope this message finds you ready for the monumental task ahead. As we prepare to explore the new planet, I must bring to your attention some recent developments that have come to light. In the aftermath of asymmetric conflict, much of our historical records were lost or destroyed. However, thanks to the diligent efforts of archaeological teams scouring the libraries, we have uncovered crucial information pertaining to our mission. There were once records detailing the appearance of a massive extrusion, known as the Pugh extrusion, on Annapurna, K2. What makes this discovery even more intriguing is the reference to an alien source. We are on the brink of reaching K2, the very source mentioned in these records. Our mission takes on new significance as we realize that this planet may have been the origin of beings who made contact with Earth. However, it appears that they are nowhere to be seen. I urge you to remain vigilant as you prepare to land on the new planet. We must approach this endeavor with caution and an open mind. Your courage and dedication to this mission are commendable, and I have every confidence in our mission. Stay focused, stay united, and above all, stay safe. Best regards, Althea Weezer Commander of the Exploration Fleet

q314jq

The Unexpected Turn

Lucy shifted in her seat. The soporific movement of the vehicle on the road had sent her off to sleep. She half opened her eyes and peered out the window. “Five more minutes, Lucy, nearly there,” said Bob. They were on their way to Three Forks Trailhead, part of the Appalachian Trail. It was only a short two-mile in and out track but it led to a spectacular waterfall called Long Creek Falls. They were following Forest Road 58 to a place they’d been to a few times since moving to the area last winter. It was now spring, and the landscape was changing colour. From the dark boughs of the evergreen trees with the new light green foliage appearing, contrast was everywhere in the forests and hilltops. Early rhododendrons were flowering and against the backdrop of tall poplars and thick green moss it was a breathtaking display. Purples and reds of all shades blended together and gave a luxurious patchwork feel to the landscape. A large deer bounded from the forest canopy and leapt in front of the car. Bob turned the steering wheel violently. Having unknowingly missed death by a whisker, the deer turned tail and continued its frenzied charge back into the safety of the thick woods. The car’s wheels spun. The gravel surface of the road gave no purchase, causing the vehicle to pirouette towards the edge of the road. As the left side of the car slid off the road edge, the car tipped over and tumbled down the side of the valley. It finally came to rest as it reached the tree line, righting itself with metallic groaning and creaking as it settled. Lucy came back to consciousness and shook her head trying to clear her senses. She looked across the car at Bob, who was pinned in place by the ruptured steering wheel column. He was alive but she could already see the blood that was seeping slowly from his thigh. He moaned softly but didn’t wake up. She shifted slowly in her seat, nothing broken. No blood apparently, but her ears were roaring. She wriggled her way out of the open window and debated what to do first. She didn’t own a mobile telephone so couldn’t call anyone, the only way to help Bob was to go and get help. She looked at the steep bank leading back to the quiet road. It was perhaps climbable. However, in the opposite direction lay the trail and on that trail was a Ranger’s hut. There lay help. Gingerly at first, she headed into the forest. The smell of the recent rain on the moss was all around, and the ground was spongy. As the noise in her ears abated, she became aware of the birdsong, the insects buzzing and humming, the scampering and scuttling. The forest was teeming with life all around and there was a faint scent of barbecued meat on the breeze. She’d only visited the falls a few times, but she had an instinctive idea of which direction to head to reach the hut. She had an oozing cut above her left eye but was completely unaware of it as she pressed on to reach help for her beloved Bob. She passed a small stream, shallow and rocky, one of the many brooks that crisscrossed the area. She lowered her head and drank a little, noting the crystal-clear water and subtle mineral taste. She wanted to rest but knew she had to get help fast, so she pressed on and soon became aware of the sound of rushing water. The falls! She joined a track that was littered with acorns and leaf debris. Following the track for another half hour she reached the clearing. As she approached the water, she realised with disappointment that this was not a place she’d been before. There was a picnic table with signs of use but no sign of anybody recently. She listened intently but could hear nothing but the rushing of water. She decided to follow the river downstream, partly due to intuition and partly because upstream lay boulders and thick vegetation that would require a lot of careful navigation and she didn’t have time for that. Bob was on her mind. She remembered the last time they’d visited this valley. It had been on New Year’s Day, one of her favourite memories. They’d hiked out from the trail head; the sun had been shining, though the air was chilly. There had been patches of snow on the ground that glistened and crunched. They’d reached the falls and had picnicked on one of the wooden tables that lay in a semi-circle, taking in the best view of the cascades. After eating they’d played in the patchy snow, Bob had even built a miniature snowman while she had greeted another family of hikers that showed up. Everyone they’d ever met on this trail had stopped to say hello. The friendliness of the people in this area was what Bob had noticed while here on business. Ultimately it had led to the move here. This track was unfamiliar. She paused, looking about her, when a squirrel appeared on the trail in front of her. The squirrel took a beat then made a flying jump onto the nearest tree and ascended to about halfway up the trunk before it turned, chattering angrily at her. She ignored it and continued on. Surely if she stayed on the trail it would lead to somewhere, right? She was shivering now; the dampness of the forest was leeching into her coat. It was sunny, but the weak April sun was diffused through the forest canopy and little of the warmth reached the forest floor. She was also becoming increasingly aware that the light was starting to fade. She walked on trying to increase her pace, but as she grew colder her legs stiffened and it was becoming painful in her right hip. She caught a whiff of wood smoke from up ahead. She pressed on, whimpering a little now and again. She was scared. What if she failed Bob? She’d never live with herself. She had to find help, find someone, it was non-negotiable. On and on, the track meandering around boulders, trees, but roughly following the river. Some bird cackled loudly overhead, making her jump. The shadows were long, and the glade becoming evermore gloomy. She rounded a bend and saw the source of the wood smoke she had smelled a while ago. Walkers had been here and had had a barbecue on a campfire, The embers were faintly warm but there was no sign of the walkers. Disappointed and hurting, she sat and cried. She plodded on, sheer willpower keeping her on her feet. Pain coursed all through her now and her head was fuzzy. As darkness fell, she unknowingly veered off the trail and moved further into the forest. Exhaustion taking over, she curled up in the hollow of some tree roots that offered a little protection from the chilly air. Sleep came fitfully, haunted with sounds of the forest, and the discomfort of her injuries. Lucy awoke sometime after dawn. She needed to urinate badly, and thirst had dried her mouth and throat. She relieved herself and looked about for the river. She realised she’d wandered from the trail. She listened for the river but couldn’t hear it. She was still aching, but the rest had helped, and she set off in what she thought seemed like a good direction. She wanted to be with Bob. They’d barely spent any time apart. She loved him with her heart and soul, he was her life, he was what she thought of when she woke every day, and when she went to bed, he was the last thing on her mind. She didn’t even love her family like this. She felt so helpless, she didn’t know what she was supposed to do, or have done. Which direction was right, to go on or to try and find her way back to Bob. She stopped walking. Was that someone shouting in the distance? Voices calling to one another? Music? It was so far away she couldn’t really tell. She walked as quickly as she was able in the direction of the sounds. She passed another small brook and paused to quench her thirst. The forest was thinning out; as the glades became larger the ground changed underfoot from spongy moss and mud to firm grassy flats, interspersed with early wildflowers. It was distinctly warmer too and easier to make a good pace. Lucy walked briskly on, crossing meadows, all the time listening out for sounds of people. She heard a loud guffaw. A man’s laugh almost straight ahead. She followed her ears although now the sounds had stopped. Through another small, wooded glade and over a small bank, and abruptly the river appeared. Broad and slow-flowing, almost silent, this vast expanse of water now stood between Lucy and possible help. Not wishing to deviate from her selected direction, Lucy knew there was no other choice. She walked into the river and gasping with cold, attempted to swim to the other bank. Despite the river being slow, the meltwaters had led to some strong currents, and Lucy was carried further down the bank than she intended. The intense cold made it difficult to swim and stay afloat, and it took an enormous effort for her to reach the pebbled shore and drag herself out of the water. She lay there gasping and coughing, until at last she could stagger to her feet. She got the water out of her coat as much as possible, but she was trembling violently by the time she set off again. After scrambling up the bank she crossed into an open meadow, enveloped in the sunshine she stopped to rest and soon drifted off, exhausted. Woken by laughing and shouting, Lucy jumped up and ran towards the voices. Through a shadowy thicket onto a plateau, littered with giant boulders and flat stones. The land dropped away suddenly, and she cautiously peered over the edge. The roar of water almost deafened her, and she realised she’d been hearing it for some time without even being aware of it. She’d reached the cascades. Long Creek Falls were in front of her, but how to get down to where people were milling about, and children were playing? She called out but nobody could hear her above the thunderous water. She paced up and down along the ridge, searching for a safe way down. Precipitous rocks lay in the river at the base of the waterfall and on the sides of the cliff face was sheer rock, glistening, and slippery with moss. She moved further along, away from the falls. Here the cliff face was more staggered and hardy trees grew amongst the ancient rocks. She prudently selected each foothold butslid and scrambled towards the base. One particularly slippery rock caught her out. She slipped onto her side and rolled over and over until her progress was cut short when she landed side-on against a tree. The last thing she saw before she blacked out was a small boy carrying a homemade fishing rod. She came to and looked groggily about. She was in a hospital, with an I.V. and a bandage over one eyebrow. She could see out of a window that it was night. She shifted uncomfortably, aware of the throbbing pain, but sensing it was fading. She drifted off to sleep again and slept a deep and dreamless sleep. She was awakened by someone calling her name. “Lucy! My sweet love Lucy, you’re okay, you’re gonna be okay!” She knew that voice. She opened her eyes to see Bob leaning towards her, arm in cast, and sat in a wheelchair. “Oh Lucy,” he sobbed. “I thought you’d be dead after what happened. Thanks to you they found me! They found your ID and realised something had happened to us. A ranger found the car and I was taken to a hospital in town. They told me they had found you and how far you’d travelled to get help and what you had gone through.” Bob wiped his eyes, taking a shaky breath in. “I can’t believe you made it. I was sure you’d die. But you’re gonna be okay baby. I owe you my life Lucy. You’re the best dog in the world!

m1kmgr

The Greener Grass

Ralf stepped off the boat, dropped to his knees, and pressed his hands to the ground. Lush, green grass rubbed against his palms. His fingernails dug into rich black soil. This was good land. Fertile land. So different from the arid dustbowl of home. He could live a true life here, not a meagre existence. ‘Is it everything you dreamed of, friend?’ Ralf snapped his head up to find a bearded man smiling down at him. The man looked old. Older than anyone else Ralf had ever met. He might even have been 50 or 60. ‘It’s amazing,’ Ralf said. The man’s smile broadened and he held out a hand. ‘The name’s Owain. I heard that Captain Tillman was bringing in an outlander today, and thought I’d come welcome you. It can be overwhelming, seeing Avalon for the first time.’ ‘You can say that again. Everything’s so… green.’ ‘You’ll get used to it.’ Ralf took the offered hand and Owain helped him up. ‘Come on then, lad. Let me show you around.’ He led Ralf up the grassy bank and toward a cluster of houses. They were well-made, sturdy things, formed from solid lumber and stone. A few even had glass windows. Back in Ralf’s home, such knowledge had been lost long ago. ‘Is this one of your major towns?’ Ralf asked. It must have been, surely? Owain burst out laughing. ‘Nymphwood? A major town?’ He laughed again. ‘No, son. This is just a small village. The capital city, Alfhaven, is hundreds of times the size of this place.’ ‘Hundreds…’ ‘Aye, but no need to think of that right now. Come and let me buy you a drink.’ Owain pulled Ralf into a large building he called a ‘tavern’. Inside, a crackling fire warmed the large main room, and several people nestled around tables. Owain led Ralf to a secluded booth and gestured for him to sit on a plush, padded bench, before calling something to the man behind the bar. A minute later, the smiling barkeep approached, holding two overflowing tankards. ‘Here you go, laddie. Nothing like your first taste of Nymphwood ale.’ Ralf simply sat there, his brain unable to process the comfort that now surrounded him. Plentiful firewood. Solid furniture. And ale! His grandfather had spoken of ale, but Ralf had never tasted it. There was an almost fruity aroma to the beverage, like the scent of summer, when food was a little less scarce, and safety a little more assured. ‘It smells good, but it tastes better,’ Owain said. ‘Take a swig.’ Ralf raised the tankard to his lips and poured. The taste was… well, he didn’t know how to describe it. He had no frame of reference. Back home, food had been for sustenance alone—and there was very little of that. Flavour was something that only the very richest and most fortunate could afford. But this drink, the same drink that was being enjoyed by numerous patrons in the room… it opened Ralf’s mind to a world of possibilities. A tingle of pleasure rushed across his mouth and down his throat. A warm, fuzzyness settled in his stomach. Ralf took another sip. And another. And another. Soon, the tankard was empty, and Owain was chuckling. ‘Alright then, now that you’ve quenched your third, I imagine that you have quite a few questions about life here, which I’ll be happy to help answer. First things first—’ Trumpets blared outside the tavern. Owain’s face fell. ‘Oh no.’ ‘What is it?’ Ralf asked. ‘The King is here. We have to go outside and show our respect. Bugger. We should have had more time to prepare for this.’ He seized Ralf’s shoulders. ‘Listen to me very closely. Whatever you see out there, you must not say a single bad word about the king, do you understand?’ ‘Of course!’ Ralf may have been an outlander, but he still understood manners. He would never have dreamed of disrespecting a chief or elder—or frankly anyone stronger than him. He wasn’t foolish enough to insult the king of a land that had offered him refuge. Avalon was the last true kingdom left. The last bastion of safety and peace on the entire planet. Ralf would do everything he could to earn his place here. He followed Owain outside the tavern, to find the street lined with villagers. Slowly advancing along the road was a large palanquin, draped in red curtains and carried by four bearers. Another figure, draped in fine clothes and golden jewellery, strolled along in front. ‘That’s the Royal Herald’, Owain said. ‘You should show him respect, too.’ Ralf nodded. He wondered why Owain kept a firm grip on his arm. At first, he supposed the man thought he was an ignorant oaf who needed carefull managing. But soon, he realised exactly why Owain wouldn’t let him go. The herald stepped toward the palanquin and pulled back the curtains, allowing Ralf and the villagers to set eyes upon their king. Ralf gasped. Inside the palanquin, seated on a golden throne, rested the best-dressed corpse Ralf had ever seen. It was an old corpse, too. Decades-old, at least. The skin was ripe and dry, pressed tight against the bone. A few raggedy whisps of hair hung down from its head and rested against a golden chain and fur-trimmed coat. Nobody else seemed to make anything of this absurd, macabre sight. The villagers cheered and chanted, ‘Long live the king! Long live the King!’ Ralf turned to Owain. ‘That’s your king? But he’s—’ ‘Don’t say it! Don’t you dare say it, damn you!’ ‘I don’t understand. Your King is obviously mmmmppphhhh’ Owain had slapped a hand over his mouth ‘Shut up, you damn fool! Come with me.’ Owain didn’t give Ralf the chance to refuse. He dragged the man down the street and into a small church that stood nestled at the end of the village square. Only once they were inside the building did he release Ralf’s arm. ‘Can we talk now?’ Ralf asked. ‘No! You can never say what you want to say. Not even to me.’ ‘But why not?’ Instead of answering, Owain pointed to a stained-glass window that dominated one wall of the building. It depicted a tall, beautiful woman handing down a glowing orb to a much smaller, crowned man. ‘Let me tell you a story. A hundred generations ago, the Lady blessed our land with a great gift. For as long as a Pendragon king sat on the throne, we would have prosperity. Our land would be green and fertile, our wells deep and cool. Our shores would remain safe from invaders and our people would know peace. But if the Pendragon line should end, she would take her blessing back.’ ‘So if, hypothetically,’ Ralf said. ‘The last member of the Pendragon line were to die without leaving an heir…’ ‘Avalon would become as hellish as the rest of the world, yes. Do you see now why we are so grateful for the longevity of our blessed King Bedivere, long may he reign?’ ‘I do.’ And he did. The people of Avalon believe that they owed their miraculous prosperity to some ancient magic and that as long as they refused to accept the death of their king, that magic would remain. It was ridiculous. A kingdom needed a king, not a corpse. Without one, it would surely fall. Ralf couldn’t let that happen. Avalon was the last beacon of light in a world that had fallen to darkness. Ralf had to protect it. If the people would only accept a member of the Pendragon line, then Ralf would find them. How long had Owain said they’d ruled for? A hundred generations? There must have been plenty of illegitimate Pendragons running around, with the blood that the people demanded flowing through their veins. All he needed to do, was find one with a strong enough claim and Avalon would have the ruler it needed. *** Long years passed. Ralf rode from village to town, from town to city, and from city back to village. He must have crossed Avalon a dozen times or more, rallying people to his cause and searching for the heir he knew must be out there. It was a thankless task. Most people were terrified to talk of the death of their monarch, even in cryptic and hypothetical terms. So instead, Ralf tried a different route. He talked of the majesty of the Pendragon line, and sought out any who claimed to have had… special relations, with the family. Some people still realised what he was really playing at, and while many of these became actively hostile and drove Ralf from their homes, more than a few joined his cause. They never spoke about the plan explicitly. Never talked about searching for an heir to the throne, only about finding a lost child to bring pleasure to King Bedivere—long may he reign, of course. And then, one day, Ralf found him. A young boy. Probably no more than four or five. But his grandmother swore blind that she’d had quite a tryst with the old king back when he’d been a little more… well, alive. She didn’t use that word, of course, but Ralf got the idea. This tryst had happened precisely nine months before the boy’s late father had been born, meaning that Pendragon blood flowed through his veins. Naturally, Ralf hadn’t just taken the old woman’s word for it, but her neighbours had corroborated the story, even swearing that the boy’s father had been a spitting image of the king. That was good enough for Ralf. He and his followers took the boy and his grandmother to the capital, Alfhaven, where they loudly proclaimed the discovery of an heir to the throne. There was resistance at first. Some even tried to chase Ralf and his band of followers from the city. In fact, as more and more death threats came his way, Ralf was beginning to worry that he’d made a terrible, terrible mistake. But then everything changed. The Royal Herald came forward to support Ralf’s cause. Maybe they, like Ralf, had realised that the country needed a true ruler. Or maybe they were just sick of parading a rotting corpse around the kingdom for people to admire. Whatever the case, once Ralf had their backing, things began to move quickly. The death threats dried up, the opposition yielded, and a few weeks later, Ralf found himself standing on a huge stage outside the palace. The little boy he’d found, Gerald, sat on a comically oversized throne before him, clothed in rich velvets. A golden, jewel-encrusted crown perched on his head, though it had drooped down and mostly covered the boy’s eyes. Luckily, the crowd were far enough back that they couldn’t make out such fine details. The herald spoke in a booming voice. ‘Do you swear to uphold the honour of the Pendragon line and fulfil your duties as monarch with grace and dignity?’ At a nudge from his grandmother, the boy withdrew a finger from his nose and said, ‘Yes?’ ‘Then by the power invested in me by the Lady, I name you King Gerald Pendragon, ruler of Avalon, defender of the people, and upholder of the Great Blessing. Long live the king!’ ‘Long live the king!’ came the call from the crowd. It was the proudest moment of Ralf’s life. Avalon had a real, true king once more. Someone who would protect them from the dangers of the outside world—once he grew up a bit and stopped eating his bogeys, that was. *** It only took a day for things to start unravelling. News of poor catches from the fishermen arrived first. Then came word of the rot in the fields. After that, sails were spotted on the horizon—pirates. It didn’t take long for the people to blame their new monarch for the change in circumstances. Specifically, they began to blame the man who had put him there. Once the plague arrived, Ralf’s fate was sealed. The herald, in an effort to secure his own position, immediately turned on Ralf, blaming him for putting an impostor on the throne. Ralf barely escaped the capital alive. For weeks, he wandered alone in the wilderness, surviving on roots and berries, avoiding other humans wherever possible. But he couldn’t go on that way for long. Eventually, hunger drove him toward a village. Ralf thought it looked somewhat familiar, though he couldn’t quite place way. A party of men were working in a field just outside the buildings, no doubt attempting to salvage what they could of their harvest. They likely wouldn’t have much to share with a stranger, but Ralf had to try. As he neared the village, one figure broke away from the group and marched toward him, a shovel in hand. They must be coming to drive me off , Ralf thought. He readied himself to bow and scrape, hoping that pity would earn him a morsel of bread and a mouthful of ale. But the figure made no move to chase him away. Instead, it raised a hand and waved. ‘Hello, friend. You look in a bad way. Come, let’s see if I can help.’ Ralf knew that voice. Owain. It was Owain. He raised his head and met the man’s gaze, seeing recognition light the villager’s eyes in an instant. ‘You.’ The hostility in his voice was clear. Ralf cringed. ‘I take it you heard about the capital.’ ‘I heard. The whole damn kingdom heard. Why couldn’t you just leave well enough alone? We had something good here! It worked. And now, thanks to you, it’s gone.’ He hefted his shovel. At that moment, Ralf knew he was going to die. The swing of the Owain’s would be the last thing he saw before darkness claimed him. But instead of lashing out, Owain’s shoulders slumped. He turned and strode away. ‘Wait!’ Ralf called. ‘Aren’t you going to kill me?’ ‘What’s the point?’ Owain replied. ‘We’ll all be dead soon, anyway.’

hr4dkr

“Strange Lands Invaded by Foreigner.”

 "Strange Lands Invaded by Foreigner.” ‘I've needed to take a little time.’ Okay, back up a bit. I’ve needed to take a LOT of time. My brain aches as memories cascade. I want to say, “Cascade like dominos.”  However as those words circle the bottom of the sink, watery images rise out of the steam of a thousand years of war. My brain hurts even more as I think of all my friends who’ve passed on to another realm, or simply gone back into some mindless void. I go back to the old days when we were all not dead. Hmmm. Very interesting. As I sit with phone in hand, crippled arm doing its best to lend strength to fingers beginning to ache, the keyboard comes to my rescue. I know my battle has not been a thousand years even though it feels like that. Perhaps even describing my life as a ‘war’ is a bit of an exaggeration and yet…that is exactly what it feels like. Back to the keyboard. As I pressed a key, autofill suggestions marched across the bar. At first I was annoyed. Then a rather astonishing idea came to my mind. Perhaps my device would write the story for me. Naive I agree and still some remote place in my brain gave serious consideration to the idea. To fully appreciate the magnitude of this experience one need remember that I was born in the era, where a typewriter was a modern invention. My writing as a young person well into my forties was strictly pen and paper. Occasionally I had the bounty of finding an old typewriter which greatly augmented the process, but my brain worked mostly by the method I was taught to write by. Pen and paper. When I was in grade 10 I went to a Catholic boarding school for girls. In those rather archaic times students were divided into two categories. Those with a high IQ were herded into a program designed to prepare for a university degree. The other group was designated for what was then called the commercial program. Apparently, this program was not so demanding and required significantly less intellectual capabilities. I confess to being somewhat proud of being lumped in with the first category. I did my best not to judge or place myself above the inferior crowd that walked the halls to the rooms, dedicated to learning many different tools. I certainly enjoyed our English program and the French class I was able to take along with the rather stimulating conversations generated by a group of girls who believed themselves to be a cut above the rest. Eventually, this turned a little sour and I began to get bored. In particular, I had a spare class during the morning which was designated as an opportunity to do more research for my religious studies course. As I roamed the hallway looking for avenues of escape, I noticed an open door through which I could see girls typing. There must’ve been about 30 typewriters in that room, and I observed that several of the desks were available for seating. Quietly slipping through the door, I chose a chair. I pretended I belonged there and did my best to be very quiet and look like a commercial type girl. The nun who instructed the class did not seem to notice that I actually wasn’t supposed to be there. It took until Christmas before a rather stern University program nun came looking for me. She severely chastised me for evading the study class I was supposed to be in. At the same time she glared at the typing teacher for not having reported me sooner. Of course it was too late as by then I had already learned to type. In three months I had managed to be able to produce 50 words a minute and knew I had discovered an environment in which I believed I could’ve been very happy. The nuns had other plans, and sadly I had to return to the more academic routine. That is over 60 years ago and I’m still daily grateful for what I was taught in that room. I may have been forced to forego further studies, which would have served me well over my life, but what I did learn, felt like a mighty sword of power. I continued to sneak into the typing room when it was empty and practice the skills I had learned in the three months before being caught. Few people could understand the advantages of learning to quickly type about how the “quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.” Still more challenging was the typing adage, “Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of the party.” I vaguely remember being told why it was important for us to be able to type these two sentences. What I know for sure is that I spent hours and hours on my own repeating these two lines endlessly. Thank Someone that paper was free and typewriter ribbon also. I send a special blessing to our headmistress who never checked why I might be missing from my dormitory cubicle at odd hours of the day and night. So it truly seemed that I needed ‘a little time to think things over, to read between the lines’ in preparation for that day ‘when I'm got older.’ I knew there were ‘many mountains I must climb’ and that it would often feel ‘like I had the weight of the world upon my shoulders.’ My endless gratitude is that I ‘could always see love shining through the clouds.’ I knew at an unshakable level that would ‘keep me warm as life grew colder.’ I knew ‘there’d be heartache and pain.’ Quite honestly after over 60 years of having learned to type, I wasn’t sure ‘if I could face it one more time again.’ I simply came to a place where ‘I could no longer stop.’ I think often of all the “good men” who were supposed to come to the aid of the party. Sadly many of them crashed wonderful gatherings and in drunken stupors violated the inner sanctum of many around them. In all fairness I must own up to my own shortcomings and the valuable lessons I needed to learn through my participation in questionable activities. I’ve learned to identify those behaviours that completed a pattern I’d learned many years before. I was seven, born in July of 1949 when I began to comprehend the status quo and to carefully observe the female status in the 1950’s. That place was not especially favourable for many women. More sadly was that even though it appeared to favour men, they bore a burden for carrying that privilege. For many, it felt like a cross. I sit in a darkened room. Five weeks ago my arm was detached at the shoulder. Five layers were cut through in order to reach badly damaged bone and shattered debris of cartilage. New steel ball and socket replace that which was unrepairable. As I slowly heal, I want to give up. I’m tired beyond description and I’m really not sure I want to go on. As I do my best not to weep in despair a melody begins to drift through my world and I hear these words…‘You can’t stop now, you've traveled so far to change this lonely life.’ I now weep openly, loudly, seeking solace from a Source I can only begin to fathom. I beg for that Source to ‘show me the way. To show me what love really is.’ I know without a shadow of doubt that ‘Ive nowhere left to hide’. Over and over waves of loving compassion sweep across the borders of my soul and I know without doubt, at least in this moment, that I really do know what love is. I bow down and kiss the earth. Perhaps not physically, though my prayers are that will come to pass if I maintain a sense of humility. I am overwhelmed with the presence of a Higher Power. For many moments at a time I’m blessed to live within the safety of that beings love. It is enough. The wreckage of “Ground Zero” continues to disappear. I am reminded of an old photograph taken in 1956/57. My sister and I stand in front of a pack of Boy Scouts. We are dressed in identical dresses even though I’m two years older. I’m smiling...tentatively! I’ve begun to see the best and the worst of these boys who’ve taken an oath to serve and protect. My gratitude builds. I am, almost, complete🙏

vypzj0

"A Boys Tale, A Ghost Tale"

A sense of unease lurked beneath the surface in the picturesque town of Whispering Oaks, Rhode Island, tucked away among the rolling hills and charming streets. The city was once a place where retirees and young families escaped city life to spend time together. Despite the town's tranquility, rumors of a vengeful spirit, Mark Tomson, cast a shadow over it. Tomson is a 10-year-old boy who has never seemed scared at home or school. Several people suspected he was hiding something, but no one dared ask. Rumors divided the town, with some believing them and others dismissing them. Mark looked confused, shook his head, and replied, "I'm used to it." Ana, Andy, and Will looked at each other, puzzled. No further questions were asked. In Ana's words, they have been scared of it since pre-kindergarten, according to her. "Mark just pointed out I remember we're having a nap time until the ghost came out and terrified all of us but thanks to that scaring, we became friends even now." Will added, "The ghost brought us together. But that doesn't make it cause me to wet my pants!" Will continued, "How does that make up for anything?" Mark replied, "That the ghost helped even caused her to be confused." Andy didn't want to but pointed out that the ghost saved them from their bully. Mark replied, "See, the ghost can't be that bad at all." The townspeople felt frightened when the ghost appeared. Despite this, Mark always wore a bright smile. In addition to helping people, he made them laugh. Throughout the town, he was regarded as a symbol of hope and peace. Some thought it was odd because he never showed fear; he'd seen the ghost 13 times but felt nothing. His parents asked him, "Son, aren't you scared?" He turned his head left and right and said, "No," due to the ghost leaving behind candy or helping him with bullying. Then Mark asked his parents, "Didn't you guys teach me not to judge a book by its cover?" His answer made his parents take aback and realize they had been wrong to judge. Nevertheless, the fear of ghosts got in the way. In response to their son, they want to ensure he is safe. They fear he could do something reckless. Mark has always found the ghost stories circulating Whispering Oaks fascinating as a curious 10-year-old. He believed anyone who did that could not be that evil. According to legend, saying the "G-words" will summon spirits, with ghost and ghoul. The townspeople get past this problem by saying, "Blah blah blah, or say host or houl to get back from this problem." Mark was determined to test his theory. Mark whispered "Ghost?" into the wind at midnight, hoping to lure the phantom into an encounter. The ghost first came but fled away as the boy whispered, "Ghoul five times!" and the ghost returned five times. In the last instance, the ghost said, "Stop summoning me, kid." As the kid looked at the ghost and listened to its voice, he realized it was a man's spirit. The ghost vanished, and as Mark passed, he didn't attack him. Knowing he was right, he slipped to sleep, smiling. Strange occurrences plagued Whispering Oaks for four days. The night was filled with creaking doors, rattling windows, and eerie whispers. Fear gripped the townspeople, believing Mark's reckless pursuit had awakened the malevolent spirit. Mark wasn't convinced; he sensed there was more to the story. Mark investigated the ghost's identity, scouring the town's archives and speaking with elderly residents. It wasn't until he stumbled upon an old newspaper clipping that the pieces fell into place. The ghost's name was Isaac Sugarman, a former candy store owner who met his demise in 1892. According to the article, Isaac's ghost wandered the streets of New York, New Jersey, and Brooklyn, searching for something. Maybe he's looking for a killer. Mark was committed to uncovering the truth behind Isaac's story. He embarked on a journey to find the killer and bring justice to Isaac Sugarman. He summoned him by calling the word "Ghost.". He asked, "Who killed you?" The ghost face palmed to say, "I wasn't killed; if I were, I would have remembered, kid." The ghost then vanished, but Mark was still determined to prove the ghost's innocence. A hidden cavern was discovered beneath the rubble of the old candy store, now a vacant lot. A dusty old ledger filled with notes and candy recipe sketches awaited him inside. The whisper echoed through the cavern as Mark turned the pages: "I am Isaac Sugarman, born in Whispering Oaks." The revelation struck Mark like a lightning bolt. Isaac wasn't a vengeful spirit; he was a lost soul, trapped between worlds due to his dying will to stay alive. The "G-word" wasn't a summoning spell but a connection to his birthplace, Whispering Oaks. With this new understanding, Mark helped Isaac find peace. He gathered the townsfolk and shared his discovery, dispelling the fear that had shrouded Whispering Oaks for so long. Together, they held a ceremony to lay Isaac's spirit to rest. Isaac's ghostly form faded as the townsfolk whispered their apologies and farewells. With a gentle smile, Isaac's spirit vanished, finally at peace. Townspeople cheered in tears, grateful for Mark's bravery and curiosity. Whispering Oaks was reborn, its rolling hills and charming streets filled with laughter and wonder. Now hailed as a hero, Mark looked up at the stars, knowing that sometimes the truth is more magical than fiction. Ultimately, Mark realized that the "G-word" wasn't a curse but a key to unlocking Whispering Oaks' secrets. As he drifted to sleep, he whispered, "Ghost?" one last time. A soft breeze carried Isaac's whispered reply: "Thank you, Mark. I'm finally home." To meet his friends and family in the afterlife. Feeling at peace, he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep. The curse of Whispering Oaks was lifted with these words, and Mark and Isaac found peace. His new normal began when he returned home. Because the ghost was gone, no one was scared. But he struggles to smile because he misses how exciting things used to be. There was, however, a note that flew down from the sky. Mark picked it up to read the note and discovered something amazing. He looked up from the sky and said, "I'll see you again in the near future."

hpcc9u

States of Mind

It is the light in the mountains that Dan finds particularly inspiring. There is something about the way the clear sky turns deep blue against the fiercely-reflective snow that lifts his spirits - a world away from the winter gloom of deepest Surrey. Home has its own attractions but Dan is energised by the Austrian Alps and the prospect of fresh adventures along the ski trails of Zell am See and beyond. He’s been coming here since he was four with his parents, always to the same apartment. His dad was the architect for the development and negotiated the use of a two-bed unit, for four weeks a year, as part of the fee deal. Dan’s parents are keen skiers and always try to maximise their usage - with at least one week in summer when you can ski on the Kaprun glacier in the morning and swim in the lake in the afternoon. The view down the glacial valley from the top of Kaprun towards the lake and the mountains beyond - with its immense depth of field - is, as his mother likes to say, “a glimpse of heaven”. Dan Collins is sixteen but looks older, nudging six-feet tall with a wispy beard. This morning, exhilarated by the fine weather, he’s up early and out jogging by the frozen lake. The village centre has been cleared, but it doesn’t seem to matter how big a dump they have, the Esplanade paths are almost always snow-free and safely gritted - quite a contrast to England which invariably seems surprised by even the lightest snowfall. In summer, this lakeside park, swimming pool and diving area will be packed with sunbathers but this morning it is just him and a woman in the distance walking her dog. His eyes follow the dog, ambling along cheerfully on a long lead, taking time-out to sniff anything of interest. As the woman approaches, she lets the small terrier off the lead and reaches in her pocket. For a moment she looks away as a small creature scuffles by. Spring is coming so it’s probably a squirrel. The dog is on to it straight away to give chase. The animal speeds across the snow, straight out over the frozen lake without breaking stride. The dog follows in hot pursuit, struggling a little with the depth of the snow once it is off the path. You can only tell the lake edge by its flatness – all other features of the shoreline are obscured by snow. There are warning signs everywhere but the dog is oblivious to the danger and blasts on. The woman is beside herself, shouting from the shoreline. “Katharina!”.  Dan is about a hundred metres away and starts to take a passing interest. At this point, it’s still just an amusing incident. He only becomes concerned when the woman ventures out onto the snow-covered ice. In January he wouldn’t have worried but in late March you can’t be so sure. She walks towards the dog which refuses to give up the chase and is now well off-shore. Eventually it loses interest and turns back. The woman is delighted and calls to her more calmly, with a treat on offer. She is fiddling in her pockets but still walking. Dan’s internal alarm bell starts ringing. He is about to shout a warning .... A crunching groan precedes a sharp snap as the ice gives way ...and down she goes. Dan is alarmed by her sudden disappearance but knows he has to help – as he would with a skiing accident. He’s had some mountain-rescue training but not much that is relevant here. Part of his course involved: jumping into a freezing plunge pool fully-clothed; recovering from the ensuing hyper-ventilation brought on by the cold-shock; and then rescuing himself out of the pool. It was a basic course so they hadn’t practiced saving anyone else. The only guidance he has to go on is what he remembers from the lectures. Firstly he calls 112 for the fire brigade and gives them map co-ordinates from his phone. They estimate that they’re 10-15 minutes out. That should be OK........... When he looks at the woman’s head re-appearing out of the water, it’s not OK. She’s flapping her arms and bobbing under. The audible gasps are a clear sign that she’s hyper-ventilating. The dog is close and barking loudly, but of no use at all. He looks around for assistance. The Esplanade is deserted. Forlornly, he shouts ‘Help!’ a couple of times but there’s no answer. He needs to do something ...now!” He’s relieved to see a lifebuoy attached to a rope on a lakeside support frame. He decides to put it around his waist and pay out the rope behind. Furled up it looks quite long - but unlikely to be long enough. The woman is still thrashing wildly. He calls to her “Calm down and breathe. I’m coming to get you. .....What’s your name?” he asks, hoping to soothe her with a control in his voice he doesn’t feel. “Alice.” comes back the distant answer. “I’m coming to get you Alice, Hang on to the edge of the ice if you can ....facing the way you came. ” She’s about forty metres from the shore but it doesn’t take long to realise that the line won’t reach. As he gets to the end, he has no choice but to cut it, using his trusty Swiss-Army knife, and rely solely on the lifebuoy. ‘It’ll be fine. .’ he tells himself, now in a hyper-real state of mind. Keeping both hands on the lifebuoy, he tentatively edges forward. The surface in front of him is a perfectly flat snow-field, apart from the footprints of the woman and the dog. Ominously, in the distance there are visible fractures and some dark patches where holes in the ice have appeared. The spring sunshine is beginning to have its effect. Dan tries to clear his mind of all doubt. When he’s a few metres from Alice, he carefully steps out of the lifebuoy and throws it towards the hole. “Grab it, Alice” he calls. She immediately clutches her arms around the ring and leans her head on the top-side. “Good. Now put it over your head and around your chest if you can”. This sounds simple enough but Alice can’t bear to let go. ‘That’ll have to do’ he tells himself and starts to pull. 'Hold on tight until I say to let go!" His feet immediately start slipping so he widens to a Karate stance, trying to spread his weight on both axis of his body. For a moment it’s working ....her upper body is on the ice ....looking good. Despite Dan’s warning, Alice lets go of the buoy when she’s able to reach out for the solid surface. Unfortunately, there is only water over ice - with zero traction. The recoil effect of letting go of the buoy under strain compounds the effect. She plunges back into the water with a startled scream. The dog is agitated and rushes towards Dan, growling and bearing its teeth.  ‘ How long before the Fire Brigade get here?’ he wonders .... tick tock . The dog is fierce so he pushes it out of the way sharply. It backs off with a whimper. “Let’s try again, Alice” he says as calmly as he can muster He looks at her for the first time. She is a beautiful girl in her early-twenties - but her clear blue eyes are consumed with despair. “I sorry ...but I can’t hold on when you pull. I have no strength” she says. This is likely to be true by now, so he resolves to reduce the resistance in some way. This time, Dan carefully throws the buoy to the edge of the hole and asks her to grab it without pulling it into the water. This is difficult to judge but, by tensioning the rope, just as she reaches for the buoy, he prevents it falling into the water. This time she has a good hold on it and her head is higher. She half-smiles as she looks at Dan with renewed hope. He quickly tells her his plan. On his signal she is to raise her legs and frog-kick behind her, whilst he will use the frictionless ice around the hole to pull the buoy, and her, out of the water in one go. ........She starts kicking and Dan starts pulling. It’s effective, even though he is sliding towards the hole almost as fast as she is coming out of it. This time there’s no warning. The ice gives way and a long crack opens along the centre line of his body and the rope. Down they both go. The bad news is that as she lets go of the buoy it skids off, away from the hole. Dan also loses the rope as he falls. The cold-shock is as bad as he remembers from training but this time it's accompanied by intense fear. The dog is yapping, Alice is crying desperately, and there’s broken ice all around. Worst of all, Alice has her hand in his jacket pocket for support and won’t (or can’t) let go. He asks her to paddle on her own. She nods weakly but can’t speak. She had only minutes left unless he gets her out.  There’s no safe edge to hang onto and he’s the only one swimming for both of them. ‘Concentrate’ he tells himself, still trying to recover from hyper-ventilation. He tries to use whatever freedom of movement he has to find a new safe edge, pushing away the lumps of deep broken ice in the direction they’d come from. It has already borne his weight once so it should do again. After some effort, he finds an edge that might work. It’s not as straight as he’d like, and all the while he’s being dragged back by Alice’s pull ... surely they must come soon! Decision time. He’s still confident of being able to pull himself out but it would mean shaking off Alice by force. This wouldn’t be easy because she’s clinging on for her life. If he got out, he would struggle to reach her across the expanse of broken ice. How would he lift her out from above? It isn’t possible .....He has another idea. “Alice. Please listen...” She’s very weak but wants to hear. This is pure improvisation but he needs to sound as confident as possible. “I’m going to put both my elbows on the edge of the ice. I want you to get behind me and try and climb on like I was piggy-backing you. When I say ‘go’ we’ll both stretch out our legs behind. I’ll gently breast-stroke kick. I want you to do the same stroke but with all your strength and use the forward momentum to crawl over my shoulders. I’ll stay low and keep my head as flat as I can. Try to be quick. Do you understand?” Alice nods. Dan manages to force his elbows over the edge ...which hold, but he can instantly see a problem. Part of the ice between his elbows is missing. There’s an indent just where you wouldn’t want one - meaning that there’s nowhere to properly support his head  ...But no going back on the plan now. Last chance. “Go!” Alice works her way into the piggy-back position. They both start kicking and she starts to clamber up over his shoulders. Keeping his elbows firmly on the edge he’s able to reach back to grab Alice’s ski jacket and haul her over his head. She slides forward rapidly but this bashes his forehead on the edge of the ice, which partly breaks away. His elbows are still in place but Alice is stuck, bridging across the gap with her lower half pressing down on his shoulders and her upper body on the ice. She’s struggling to gain any leverage at either end with nothing to push or pull against with her hands. Her knees dig into Dan’s upper back as she tries to scramble forward. Dan holds his head up as long as he can but the pressure eventually drives his head below the water. He takes a deep breath as he goes under but then can hardly move – the top of his head is jammed against the edge of the ice. With his last ounce of strength he kicks forward and attempts to launch Alice fully onto the ice using only the leverage of his lower arms... Dan wakes up to find himself on a sunbed on the lawn of the Zell-am Zee Lido. It’s the exact spot where, minutes earlier, he’d called the Fire Brigade – only now the wind is gently rippling on the lake and ... it’s the middle of summer. Both his parents are reading nonchalantly beside him. The Lido is quite crowded with lots of children ...and dogs. The dog alongside him in the next family group is sheltering under a parasol. Its owner, a beautiful bikini-clad girl in her early twenties, is sitting up facing Dan and taking a drink. She catches Dan looking at her and seems amused. She flicks her eyebrows at him over her sunglasses and flashes a half-smile. The dog is a terrier with a red collar. He notices the name on the collar. ‘Katharina’. His father leans across and remarks to his wife. “Ann dearest. It wake s!” “Amazing. Such a deep sleep. I thought we’d lost him. Do you think that Coca Cola was all he drank with his Austrian friend last night?” “Hear that son? How’s the head? Anything to confess?” Dan feels shell-shocked and splutters ... “It all seemed so ...real”. His father looks concerned. “Seriously son. Are you OK?” Dan pauses for what seems like an age. When he speaks, he says, “Dad. You know how you like to philosophize ...especially when you’ve had a bit of weed on the terrace with Mum ....don’t deny it.” he added as his father feigns indignation. “I can always smell it. Do you think I’m dumb?” His Dad relaxes. This is just going to be one of Dan’s quasi-intellectual bickering sessions. “I was thinking about your idea that conscious experience, memory and dreams are all processed in our minds in the same way ....into the same filing cabinets as you like to say. You also say that our remembered past and imagined future are written in the same script. I usually just humour you but I honestly think I get it...... as in, I’ve just experienced it .” Peter snorts, as if Dan is taking the piss in his typical way. Dan glances across to see his father’s sceptical look.  “I’m not joking Dad.  Let me see if I can get this right. You say that consciousness is dominant because of the consistency of its ‘triggers’ that carry on from day-to-day unchanged and are shared by other people. The other ‘states of mind’ don’t pass these tests. As I understand it, you think that whilst we’re reliving a memory, or dreaming a dream, or imagining a new building in your case, you’re using the same cerebral tools to recreate the world you perceive. Whilst we are immersed in each of these states they seem just as real as each other. You love to conclude that “ergo, there is no immutable objective reality.” “Is that what I say? That does sound pretentious coming from you.” “It has always sounded pretentious coming from you dear” chips in Dan’s mother, “...but I still love you.” “So what brought this on Dan?” His mother sounds concerned at her son’s sudden acknowledgement of his father’s philosophical genius. “I’ve just had the weirdest dream....” At that, his father leaps up off his sun-bed and says “Race you to the pontoon!” It is understood in the family that, when this challenge is dropped, all other considerations have to be suspended. Both of Dan’s parents are athletic. Peter is strong and fast for his age but Ann’s technique is more refined. They’re usually neck and neck in swimming contests. Until last year they had always beaten Dan – no quarter was given or expected. But on the final day last summer he’d beaten his mother. His Dad hasn’t yet succumbed, clearly believing that he still had an edge over Dan. Despite Dan’s current state of disassociation, he leaps into life and hares after his father, ending up only slightly behind at the water’s edge. The pontoon is about a hundred metres out so he needs to pace it. At first he falls back but feels himself gaining after halfway. As a bit of gamesmanship, he swims close to his father as he gets to three-feet behind. He wants his Dad to sense, and then accept, the inevitable as Dan’s superiority is confirmed - the passing of the generational baton. It’s close but Dan judges it well and wins by a hand-length. They climb the ladder where his father gracefully accepts defeat with a handshake. Dan tries not to look smug ...but doesn’t succeed. They both look back at the shore where his mother is waving. She mouths “Who won?” At first they both point at themselves until his father turns his finger around to Dan with a smile. His mother applauds “Seriously, Dad, I had the strangest dream. Let me tell you about it. Without looking at Dan, his father waves back to his wife. “You don’t need to son. I already understand. I just want to know that you are ready.” “Ready for what?” says Dan looking perplexed. Dan barely finishes speaking before his father’s firm push launches him headlong back into the water. Alice’s writhing body is forcefully dragged from Dan’s back - he can no longer feel the cold of the lake or the weight of his clothes. He smiles ...relaxed now ....unable to pull his gaze away from the shimmering light, dancing through the clear water.

f340wm

The Hobbist

Port Village is a bustling waterfront tourist attraction. It was littered with overpriced gift shops and restaurants. Kites and RC planes stormed the late afternoon sky occasionally crashing down in front of Detective Ray Okuma. Or now just Ray Okuma for the next fourteen days. “Sorry!” Yelled the little kid as he ran over to pick up his kite.  “It’s alright,” Okuma said while glancing in the direction to see the little boy’s father who was a little embarrassed that this was the fourth time his son’s cheap kite crash-landed too close to people. But he can’t fault the father too much his son was happy to have a kite with his favorite superhero on it. After all, Okuma has four children of his own. Okuma’s phone buzzed in his pocket with a text from his wife, Ruth. He couldn’t help but chuckle at the message. Meeting you there for ice cream Dominic was a good boy keeping up with his braces. Rewarding their youngest son’s good dental hygiene with desserts. Hopefully, the orthodontist doesn’t ask what he’s been snacking on. The weight of the camera around his neck began to put a strain on him. He doesn’t even know what type of camera it is. Other than that it was the most expensive and endearing Father’s Day gift he had ever received. It was now July and this was the first time he used the camera. Photography videos either gave him a step-by-step walkthrough on how to take photos or how the already expensive camera he owned was suddenly not good enough and that he needed to drop four thousand dollars on a new camera. Getting a good shot was the hard part for him. He could feel eyes on him every time he raised the camera. He wasn’t even trying to get people in his shot. He tried getting a shot of the skyscrapers from downtown. But was interrupted by some older woman asking him what he was doing. Okuma saw through the veil of fake concern. The second time it was of an old navy ship that was sailing by. A kite flew in front of him followed by a large tourist group that gathered around to get a closer look. The only decent photo was of his slice of greasy New York-style cheese pizza. That was supposed to be a test photo. Walking across the grass he found himself standing in front of a large tree. With thick roots that were tripping hazards and a wide trunk that required three people to properly hug it. One of the last episodes of Dominic’s favorite cartoon was about tree hugging. Looking up, the branches stretched out providing a home to multiple nests of birds and squirrels that raced up and down the tree. Despite the summer heat, he felt a chill in his arms. Barely any sunlight poked through the leaves. Even as a child, he was never one to climb trees. Except for his wife, she was always the more outdoorsy person. He thinks so at least. Maybe a photo for the living room? He raised the camera to his face bumping his round glasses his finger hovered over the shutter release button. A rectangle about the size of a door that had a blue sky with white clouds painted on it was now in front of the tree. Okuma gasped lowering his camera. “When did that get here?” He asked himself adjusting his glasses with one hand. His prescription was up to date he would’ve seen that painting. Turning around all he saw were families and vendors enjoying the California sun. He circled the trunk seeing no exit on the other side of it. Either way, why would it be a blue sky if it was a perfectly cut door into the tree? It looked as if it was an image photoshopped onto the tree but real life. The tree looked as if there were no indents or carvings in it. With an extended hand, he attempted to touch it but his hand started to violently shake. Leaving is the sane option! “Oh, I am losing it.” He thought aloud. He is not a crime scene photographer but he had to get evidence. Okuma raised the camera and took a photo of the sky rectangle. Looking down all he could see was the same painted clouds and endless bright blue sky. The wind was blowing past his face with no control of his body. He was flailing in the air watching his arms and legs desperately grasp onto anything. It had been years since he’s been on a roller coaster that made him scream feeling as if he was going to die. But a large roller coaster could not even compare to this. I’m going to die! How did I get here? I’m going to die! There was nothing he could do. How was this even happening? No ground slowly increased in size the longer he descended. Has it been days, hours, or minutes? Will he keep falling like this? A black rectangle appeared before his eyes. Before he could even blink Okuma was panting while laying on his stomach. Seemingly somewhere cold and pitch black. He could feel his heart thundering in his ears. Tears that he didn’t feel until now were burning his eyes. “What the! Where am I?” Okuma yelled then started a coughing fit. “Is anybody here!” He pushed himself off the ground almost toppling over when he stood up.  “Am I dead?” Okuma pressed a palm against the left side of his chest. His heart was still rapidly beating and he was still short of breath. “How did this survive?” He found his glasses in his breast pocket strangely unbroken. Something heavier weighed down his shirt. It had been years since he held one in his hands. “How old is this?” A digital camera? Where did his camera go? He wouldn’t surprised if he didn’t notice it flying off his body during the fall. It was smoother and much smaller than the one he had earlier. His fingers continued to graze the surface until the screen turned on the lens extended out. Expecting to see pitch blackness on the screen. He saw elevator doors. With just his bare eyes there was nothing in front of him. “What is happening?” Turning on the flash setting he took a picture aiming right at where the elevator doors appeared in the camera. The elevator doors appeared a few feet in front of him. Glancing around he walked carefully towards the doors. The elevator didn’t seem to lead anywhere but neither did this strange place. A shaky hand pressed the button on the elevator and with a ding, the doors opened. The interior looked posh with a mirror along the walls. Bossa Nova jazz quietly played over the speakers. Although he couldn’t see any speakers. Okuma stepped inside seeing his reflection for the first time since all of this happened. He almost forgot he was wearing his dark green button-up shirt that now had sweat stains, black jeans, and his white off-brand walking shoes. The dark circles underneath his eyes were accentuated by how his tawny skin had paled. His black shoulder-length hair was damp with sweat. “How did you get married, Ray Okuma?” He sighed. Does his wife know where he is? The doors closed and he turned around seeing there was only one button available. Taking a deep breath Okuma pressed the white button and watched it glow. He felt the elevator moving upwards and all he could do was stare toward the ceiling. Is he the only one here? What is here? What if Ruth and Dominic fall in here? The pounding of his heart started to drown out the music. How could he find them if they get lost? Forgetting his phone is his one weakness that he will admit. He reached into his pants pocket only feeling lint the moisture from his sweat seep through. Frantically he patted everywhere else on his body. Ruth could have been calling him for hours now. The elevator dinged and the doors opened to reveal a mall. Seeing how he could see the exit on the other side it was a small mall. Okuma swallowed and stepped into the mall with only the sound of distorted pop music playing over the speakers. Not that he was familiar with to current trends of music. This music sounded like it was from the 2010’s but the lyrics or the titles weren’t coming to him. Only because of his older children, he was somewhat familiar with what was popular ten years ago. He was on the second floor of the mall and it was empty but the water fountain was still on. All the lights were on but some store signs were unlit and he was unable to recognize the logos. Even though, he used to frequently take his children to the mall when they were much younger. “Different times.” Okuma sighed to himself maybe that was why he couldn’t recognize these signs, right? Aside from the fountain, and the weird music, Okuma’s steps echoed all throughout the building. He walked by a clothing store geared towards young people judging from the brighter clothing and cartoon drawings on the shirts of the mannequins. The mannequins were shiny and white mostly facing forward. But one wearing a dog onesie was turned downwards making Okuma’s heart race. He continued walking towards the exit shaking his head at that weird thought. He’s always been alone since falling. Who else could be here? As if he shot himself in the foot he heard the patter of plastic hitting the marble floor. Quickly turning around he saw the mannequin wearing the dog from the clothing store window. “Oh.” He turned around and took a step forward only to hear it again. Now wasn’t the time to freak out he was almost out of this place. Then he would be back home enjoying his vacation with his family. Keeping his back to the exit he watched as the mannequin frozen in a walking motion didn’t move. But the same patter of plastic could be heard as he turned forward and saw two more mannequins in gym clothes frozen in running positions. Taking the risk he took turns glancing at different sets of mannequins allowing them to only take one step towards him. The gym mannequins seemed faster than the dog onesie mannequin. He did not want to find out what would happen if they caught up to him. Glancing at the exit he saw it was suddenly boarded up. Could he not see that far anymore with his glasses? Now he was in front of the mannequins and he was able to keep his eyes on them by walking backwards. To his left, he saw the escalator was turned on, and a line of mannequins dressed in various fashions were halfway up heading toward him. “Oh no.” He made a run towards the exit hearing the stomping of the plastic mob running towards him. He’s been a detective for decades he’s nearly seen it all. But this was beyond him. Whipping out the camera in his pocket he frantically took photos of the exit that was in front of him. He felt something touch his shoulder. This was it he was going to be mannequin food! Turning around his wife’s beautiful face standing in front of him. Along with his youngest smiling widely showing off the new green color on his braces. “Ray, why are you so sweaty are you okay?” Ruth asked. Okuma needed a moment he was back in Port Village holding the large new camera his family got him. And there was no rectangle with the sky in the tree behind him. “I think I am going to need a new hobby.”

e3fgcg

The Woolybugger

   You know the old expression, raining cats and dogs? Well, I saw neither cats nor dogs, but it was raining too hard for any living creature to be walking the streets of Cincinnati. I had taken the bus to the emergency room for ex rays on my fractured arm. My experience with emergency rooms is to anticipate a lengthy wait. Nothing happens there at the speed of light. It was late by the time I saw the doctor, and a heavy storm struck before I could start for home. I wasn't prepared for the rain. On a side street down from the bus stop, I observed lights shining through the window of a shop with a sign overhead labeled "Jim's Curio's". Perhaps I could find an umbrella or raincoat among the curios. I made a mad dash for the shop and felt an immense sense of relief to find the shop was still open. The friendly tinkle of a bell announced my entrance. In the rear of the shop, an elderly gentleman rose from behind the counter. "Please come in out of the rain. These July storms arise so fast one never sees them coming. If there is anything I can help you with, just let me know." I could see the man better as he moved into the light. I presumed his name was Jim. He certainly appeared as old as the sign hanging above the door of his shop. He was tall and gaunt, with grey hair streaked with white that reached to his shoulders. His back was severely stooped, giving the appearance of constantly leaning forward. Perhaps he bent over his counter for too many years. He leaned on an ornate cane and moved slowly in my direction. His eyes, once a bright ocean blue, were now the shade of a pale winter morning. "May I call you Jim? My name is Sue. I saw your name on the sign." He gave a slight nod in agreement. "You see Jim, I was not prepared for this rainstorm and thought perhaps you might sell me an umbrella or slicker, so I don't drown when I get off the bus. I have about four blocks to walk home from the bus stop." Jim turned and rummaged through a small room in the rear. "Ah, there you are. I have not used it in years." The umbrella was old and dusty and when he opened it, the material ripped down one side. He looked at it with a puzzled expression on his face. "Never seen one do that before. I'm afraid this is the only one I have and it won't be of any use to you. These summer squalls never last long. Why don't you look around the store until the storm is over? If you are in a hurry, there is a phone on the counter. Perhaps you can call a friend or your husband to come get you." "Oh no. My husband is watching the Bengals game on TV. I would not dare ask him to come get me. I'll just brows around till the rain quits. You have a lot of unusual merchandise." African masks hung on the north wall next to spears and an assortment of muzzle-loading rifles. A partial suit of armor like an English knight might wear lay in a heap in the corner. There was a section of old hand tools, including a crosscut saw hung at an angle on the wall. "I grew up as a kid on a farm and my father had tools like these. This is a Disston hand saw. Dad said they were the best. Let me show you how he determined the quality of a saw." She held the handle in her right hand and with her left hand gripped the end of the blade with her thumb and forefinger. Bending the saw and at the same time thumping it with her right thumb, the saw gave a bright, ringing sound. The notes changed as she changed the degree of bow in the blade. Jim watched with interest and smiled his approval, a twinkle in his faded blue eyes. "Do you have any old jewelry?", Sue asked. Jim pointed to a counter on the other side of the room. "There are a few high-quality silver bracelets mixed in with the costume jewelry. Are you an expert in old jewelry too?" Sue was looking out the window. The storm showed no sign of letting up. She walked over to the jewelry case. "Not really. I just enjoy their beauty and the workmanship that goes into a fine bracelet." She sorted through the turquoise bracelets and tried one on. "This one is really nice. How much is it?" Jim took the bracelet and showed her the name on the inside. "This is the authentic signature of a famous Navaho artist. Almost a museum piece. I would have to get $350 for this one." "Whew. Way too much for me. My husband would kill me." "I'm sure that is an exaggeration. Maybe for a birthday or anniversary present?" Sue looked back out the window. The pounding rain and howling wind had slackened. A frown creases her forehead. "No, Jim. I wasn't exaggerating. That would push him over the limit." She held up her bandaged wrist. "Burned toast is worth a fractured wrist." "Surly you jest. Has this happened before?" "This is only my fourth trip to the doctor. Usually it is just some bruises where they don't show. The worst is the mental abuse. I have no say in anything. No matter what I say or suggest, he scoffs and belittles me. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring you into my personal problems." "No. I am the one that is sorry. Every individual deserves to be treated with dignity and respect, and no one should ever experience such treatment. Have you gone to the authorities?" "Twice, but their response was to go for counseling. You can probably guess how little impact that suggestion had. The storm is about over and I had better be going. What is that furry thing on the couch?" Jim moved protectively to put himself between Sue and the couch. "Pay no attention to that ma'am, it's a woolybugger." "It looks so soft. Could one use it for a pillow? It's not alive, is it? Like some strange breed of cat." "Not exactly. I found it on my travels to the far east many years ago. It was in an outdoor market and the poor man seemed desperate for money. Had I known how dangerous it was, I never would have taken it off the man's hands. I'm not sure why, but after all these years, I still keep it like a security blanket. Among all the items in the shop, this is the only one that is for sale." "It looks so peaceful. Can I touch it?" "That's okay, as long as you don't give it any orders." Sue cautiously stroked the back of what appeared as a ball of fur. "It's so soft. Surely this fluff ball is not dangerous." "Stand back and I'll show you what I mean." Jim removed a sheet of paper from his desk and lay it on the couch next to the sleeping ball of fur. "Woolybuger this piece of paper. The hair on its back stiffened, and a head appeared from beneath the fur. Beady black eyes peered out over an elongated snout. The mouth opened, revealing long, razor-sharp teeth. Stout legs appeared with each paw containing four long, sharp claws. In a matter of seconds, the sheet of paper was shredded into a thousand pieces. The feet folded back out of sight and the vicious mouth full of teeth vanished into the ball of fluff. The woolybugger lay silent and peaceful on the couch. Sue stood with eyes wide in horror. "Oh my God, she exclaimed. I didn't see that one coming. What a frightful monster hidden in such a pretty package. I must be going before the rain starts again. Thank you for everything, Jim." The bell rang again as Jim watched Sue hurry to the bus stop. He realized he missed her company. The bell doesn't ring so often anymore. Three uneventful weeks had passed when Jim was startled awake from his nap by the sound of the bell ringing and the door opening. His initial response upon recognizing the customer was one of pleasure. As she drew near, he recoiled in shock. "Why Sue, what has happened? You look terrible." Her right eye was black and almost closed. A dark bruise showed above the collar of her shirt. She limped noticeably as she approached the counter. "There are occasions, Jim, when I just can't keep my mouth shut. Remember my bastard of a husband I told you about the last time we met? Well, he is a rather large fellow. His friends call him 'bubba'. He has gained a lot of weight since his college football days where he was junior college All American. Most of his weight problems come from drinking too much beer. Two days ago, he went to the fridge for a beer and there were none. He flew into a rage, blaming me for not stocking enough. I just sort of lost my cool and replied, if you would get off your fat ass and buy your own beer, you wouldn't run out. You drink like a fish anyway. For a big man, he can certainly move fast when irritated. Afterwards, he had to drive me to the emergency room. We told the doc I fell down some stairs. As usual, I was numb with fear and agreed with what he said. The doc knew better, I could tell by the look on his face. This morning I woke up sore as hell and decided I had enough. Can you show me the woolybugger again?" Jim studied Sue for a minute. "You can have it on a loan after I give you another demonstration. If you still want it, please tell me what you have in mind." Sue handed Jim an old, musty feather pillow from a stack of bedding. "Show me with this and I will tell you what I have in mind." Jim lay the pillow on the couch next to the woolybugger, much as he did the piece of paper. He stood back and cried-"woolybugger this pillow." The hair on its back stood upright, the claws sprang out, and the fangs appeared, already gnashing in the air. In less than a minute, feathers filled the air as the pillow was reduced to rubble. The woolybugger curled up as a fur ball in the corner of the couch. Jim brought over a fancy velvet-lined cage. Placing the woolybugger in the cage, he closed the top and placed it at Sue's feet. Sue stood there with a broad smile on her face. "I must have this on loan and here is why. Tomorrow is Saturday and my husband will sit on his couch drinking beer and watching the game on TV. Before the game starts, I will remove the woolybugger from the cage and place on the couch next to where my husband always sits. He is a man of habit. When he notices the ball of fur, he will ask me what the hell it is. I will say, of course, that it is a woolybugger." My dear husband will look at me with disgust and say, "woolybugger my ass."

6lca1x

The Empathetic Prism

The three of them lingered around the dinner table, savoring the last bites of dessert. "Peter, this tiramisu is incredible!" Mary exclaimed. "You truly outdid yourself with dinner tonight." "Thanks, Mom," Peter replied with a warm smile. "I've been learning how to make it for a while now. I actually wanted to take you both to that new Italian restaurant, but—" "True," Mary interjected, "but there's something magical about celebrating at home, wouldn't you agree, David?" David grinned. "Absolutely. I've been missing this homey vibe ever since I moved to Philadelphia for the current project." David, an architect for the restoration company Conscom, had moved to Philadelphia six months ago for a prestigious project: the restoration of Independence Hall. Built in 1753, this historic building is the birthplace of the United States, where the Declaration of Independence was debated and signed by revolutionaries like John Adams and Benjamin Franklin. Peter had been working as a tour guide at the Independence Hall for the past year. Throughout the restoration project, he and David developed a strong bond through their collaboration. Today, they were celebrating Peter's mom Mary's 51st birthday at Peter's home. "So, Mary, how did you celebrate your birthday last year? Peter mentioned it was quite a milestone," David asked, leaning back in his chair. "Last year was special, not just because it was my 50th birthday, but because it marked the beginning of something wonderful," Mary said, her smile warm and proud. "Peter surprised me with a trip to Independence Hall, and that's where we met Mark for the first time." "Mark? The big boss here at Independence Hall?" David asked with surprise. Mary nodded. "Exactly. We were admiring the architecture when Mark joined us. We became so engrossed in our discussion of America's War for Independence that we completely lost track of time." "At that time, I was actively job hunting but facing constant rejections," Peter explained. "During our conversation, I mentioned my interest in a tour guide position at Independence Hall. Mark promised to look into it, but I honestly forgot about it. To my surprise, I received a call from the interview committee just two weeks later. Things fell into place, and I landed my current job a month later." "Wow, that's an incredibly quick turnaround," David remarked. "We were just as surprised," Mary agreed. "It seems Mark was impressed by Peter's passion for the American Revolution. And I'm sure Peter's strong performance in the interview sealed the deal," Mary added, giving Peter a proud look. Peter, feeling a bit shy at his mom's praise, added, "Luck played a big role too. Mark asked me a random question about Benjamin Franklin's electrical experiments, and I happened to know the answer. I think he was surprised I could recite the exact date of his famous kite experiment." Since Peter started working as a tour guide at Independence Hall, he considered Mark not just his boss but also a great friend with whom he could chat about history. Peter felt a deep sense of gratitude for Mark's instrumental role in launching his career. "That's incredible!" David exclaimed. "Your passion for history is evident in your tours. Your eyes light up when you're sharing stories with visitors." "I do enjoy interacting with visitors," Peter responded with a wide smile. "But lately, the tours have felt incomplete without showcasing the Assembly Room and the Supreme Court Chamber." The Assembly Room in Independence Hall was where both the Declaration of Independence and the U.S. Constitution were debated and signed, serving as the epicenter of American democracy. Right next to it, the Supreme Court chamber was the first place where the country's most important laws were decided. "Do you have any idea when the entire building will re-open to the public?" Mary inquired. "Not yet. Let me check my restoration file," Peter said, heading towards his study to gather his file. "This is strange," Peter mused, his brow creasing in confusion as he searched the folder. "I can see the restoration plans for every room except the Assembly Room." "When was the last time you looked at those plans?" David asked. "Actually, I never looked through the restoration plans," Peter admitted. "I only used the weekly schedule that outlined which teams I'd be working with. Let me call Julio; he's the chief conservator for the Assembly Room." "I have no clue, man," Julio said on the call when Peter asked him if he knew when the renovation work would be over at the Assembly Room. "I haven't been in the Assembly Room for the past two weeks. They reassigned me to a different area upstairs, but... to be honest, I wasn't happy with how they were handling the initial excavation down there." "What do you mean?" Peter grew tense. He placed the phone on speaker so Mary and David could listen. "They were digging like crazy, as if they wanted to excavate the entire room," Julio explained. "I told Mark about potential structural issues, but he dismissed my concerns." Peter thanked Julio for the information and ended the call. He and David exchanged shocked looks. "Excavating the entire room? Why would they need to do that?" David asked, bewildered. "And why the Assembly Room of all places?" "This is insane," Peter shook his head, his voice filled with disbelief. "If there are structural issues, this could be catastrophic. We have to figure this out." "But how?" David shared his concern. "The Assembly Room must be locked up by now." "There's a way we can sneak in tonight. I remember a back entrance Julio showed me when we were working together," Peter responded calmly. Mary's face paled. "No, Peter, that's too risky. I won't allow it." "We're not going to steal anything, Mom," Peter replied, sensing her worry. "We just want to see what's going on." "And as employees working on the restoration, we won't arouse suspicion. We have our access badges," David added. "Mom, we have a responsibility to protect this place," Peter said with a sigh, feeling he had exhausted his arguments. After a moment, Mary nodded, her expression still filled with concern. "Alright, but be extremely careful and please take a torch." David and Peter cautiously navigated the dimly lit corridors of Independence Hall, making their way to the back entrance. The door, a seldom-used service entrance, creaked open under Peter's gentle push. They slipped inside the Assembly Room, staying close to the shadows. David pulled out his phone, the faint glow of the screen illuminating their faces. "Let me gather some evidence," he whispered and started taking pictures of the Assembly Room. From their vantage point, they saw that the Assembly Room was in disarray, with iconic furniture scattered haphazardly. The central area of the room was marked by large, gaping holes that had been dug extensively. At the far end of the room, Mark conversed with a tall, thin man with curly hair. Several construction workers, their heads illuminated by bright helmets, meticulously examined the area around the iconic center table and the Rising Sun Armchair. This particular armchair held immense historical significance. The Rising Sun Armchair was occupied by George Washington when he led the important meeting in 1787 where the U.S. Constitution was created. Peter and David exchanged horrified glances. The damage was far worse than they had imagined. "I can't believe Mark would let this happen," Peter whispered in disbelief. "And I don't recognize the man he's talking to" "That's Brooks, the founder of Conscom," David replied grimly. "He's notorious for being ruthless—pushing his employees to their limits with no regard for their well-being, only concerned with profits." As they attempted to remain concealed, Peter inadvertently leaned too heavily on the door, causing it to creak loudly. The noise immediately drew the attention of Mark and Brooks, who directed their flashlights towards Peter and David. Mark's expression turned severe as he recognized Peter. 'You!' he snarled." Before they could react, the construction workers advanced towards them, their voices muffled by their helmets. Peter and David turned and sprinted towards the exit. The sound of heavy footsteps echoed behind them as their pursuers gave chase. They ran for what felt like an eternity and eventually burst out of the back door into the cool night air. "I think we got away just in time. I need to send the evidence to Mom. Could you send me the pictures you took?" Peter asked David. Mary called Peter almost immediately after seeing the pictures, her voice filled with shock and disbelief. Peter put the phone on speaker so David could listen as well. As Peter described the scene, Mary insisted there must be a misunderstanding. Having known Mark for months, both Peter and Mary were in denial of what they had witnessed. They couldn't believe Mark would commit such a grave act. David, listening to the conversation, grew impatient and remarked, "Come on, is nobody going to say it?" "Mark is the mastermind behind this destruction. We don't know why he's doing this, but he's the main—" David's words were cut short as a beam of flashlights momentarily blinded them. Three men with guns emerged from the shadows. "Give me the phone and follow us," demanded the burly man in the center. They were marched back to the Assembly Room, their captors following closely behind. As they entered, Mark glared at Peter and said, "I may dislike many things about you, but your nosiness is what I hate the most." "Mark, how could you desecrate a national treasure like Independence Hall?" Peter demanded, his eyes locked on Mark's. Mark, his face devoid of remorse, smirked. "Necessity knows no law, Peter. This is bigger than a building. It's about the future." "Future?" Peter scoffed, disbelief and anger mingling in his voice. "You're destroying history for your own selfish gain!" Mark ignored Peter's outburst. "In my previous roles, I discovered documents and letters from Benjamin Franklin hinting at a special device called the Empathetic Prism. Created by Franklin, it's supposed to nullify the negative opinions of people on any topic. Today’s world is biased and impatient, Peter. Franklin foresaw mind control as a powerful weapon and therefore invented this device." He continued, "Your deep knowledge of Franklin made you an invaluable asset, so I brought you on board to help decipher the remaining clues. To gain unrestricted access, I ensured Conscom won the restoration contract. With Brooks on board, a long-time ally who believed in my theory, manipulating the excavation became easier," Mark explained, glancing proudly at Brooks. "You used me and exploited my knowledge for your own gain. Do you really think you'll be forgiven when your actions come to light tomorrow?" Peter responded with a mix of anger and resolve. "Tomorrow, the world will hail me as the discoverer of the Empathetic Prism. My actions will be seen as a necessary sacrifice for humanity," Mark declared confidently. Mark and Brooks' men cleared away the table and iconic chair, revealing a faint golden imprint beneath. Digging deeper, they uncovered a wooden keyhole. Mark studied it intently, puzzled. Sensing his predicament, David and Peter demanded the clue that led Mark there. " By the seat where Washington once held sway, Liberty's flames will guide your way ," Mark recited, frustration evident on his face. Peter pondered the clue. "Seat where Washington held sway surely referred to the rising sun armchair, but what about ' Liberty's Flames '?" he mused. "Does it point to the Statue of Liberty in New York? That can't be possible because it was brought into the USA long after Franklin died. So then what could it be?" Peter kept thinking and thinking until sudden realization struck him. "This points to the Liberty Bell," Peter declared confidently. "The ' Liberty's flames ' part is obvious, and the bell is synonymous with the founding of our nation, much like Washington's chair represents leadership." Mark considered Peter's theory. A glimmer of understanding appeared in his eyes. "You might be onto something, Peter," he conceded. "Adam and Jones, finish these two gentlemen when I give you the instructions." With that, Mark and his team set off towards the Liberty Bell. But as they reached it, they were unexpectedly greeted by a large contingent of police officers. Standing amidst them was Mary, her face etched with determination. She had alerted the authorities to Mark’s schemes after seeing the incriminating pictures Peter had sent her. The police swiftly intervened, apprehending Mark and his team before they could execute any further plans. They then proceeded into the Assembly Room to arrest the remaining accomplices. As the police handcuffed Mark inside, Peter approached him and said, "How does it feel to be misled? The clue never pointed to the Liberty Bell. The answer was right here in the Assembly Room all along." "That's not possible! We excavated the entire room and found nothing," Mark replied defiantly from behind his handcuffs. "The key was never buried in the ground," Peter replied assertively. "The phrase 'Liberty's flames' points to the two fireplaces in the Assembly Room. The answer was in the word 'flames' not 'liberty.'" Peter then moved to the left fireplace and pressed his hand inside. He soon felt a brick that didn’t match the others. He took it out and discovered it was hollow, containing one half of a magnetic split key. He repeated the process at the other fireplace and found the second half. As he brought the two pieces together, they magnetically joined to form a full key. Peter inserted the key into the keyhole and opened a hidden wooden box, revealing a small glass prism inside. "'The game is not over, Peter! I will come back to take what is rightfully mine,' Mark shouted as the police dragged him out of the Assembly Room. Peter felt a sense of accomplishment as he watched Mark being taken away. He turned his attention to the small glass prism in his hand. Holding it up to the light, he saw it refract into a spectrum of colors. The prism was a key to something much larger, a hidden legacy left by the Founding Fathers. Did this prism actually have the power to sway people’s minds? He didn’t know the answer yet, but for now, he, David, and Mary had ensured that the secrets of the past remained safe. 

g4hcpn

The Grey House

The Grey House - Mom's family's reunion was coming up soon. A request of attendees was that we each bring a photo of the past to be shared on “Memory Night.” I had been left with Mom's photo albums, after her passing and combined with my collection I had a lot of past photos to scan through. Several hours passed just viewing photos, sometimes losing myself in the memory they evoked. I was particularly drawn to the old black and white photos from Mom and Dad's era. Mom had made reference to how she loved the times spent with her grandmother so I was hoping to find one that expressed that. We were given copies of a photo of Mom's mother as a child, standing on a stool next to her very pretty mother, Marja, but no others.. Grandma had been an only child, yet she and Grandpa had eleven children. How different Grandma's life had become with so many children, when she had been the center of attention in her own childhood. Dumping a canvas bag of loose photos in the middle of my bed, I slid them across my bedspread so that I could view more of them at a glance, not one by one. It was then my eyes captured the photo of the grey house of the 1800's still standing in the U.P. Some years ago while visiting upper Michigan, I was asked to go by the house to take a picture. The grey house had a story to tell, but had been kept an unspoken subject for most of my life. I wanted desperately to know the mystery surrounding the beautiful, old Victorian home. The grey house was where my great grandmother Marja, had been a maid, when she came to America from Finland. Its grey painted steps led up to a wide, white spindled, grand porch, while at the back was a small porch and stairs that led to the servant's entrance. I imagined this was where Marja entered. We had learned very little about her, as my grandmother refused to talk about her childhood. While my mom and her sisters remained committed to keeping their mother's young life unspoken, it piqued my curiosity more. What had taken place that must be kept secret forever? What I knew with certainty was that Mom had told me my great grandfather William, was not my grandma's biological father. Gazing at the photo, I remembered walking the perimeter of the grey house, and feeling a sense of familiarity. I didn't know how that could be as I had never been there before. I longed to go inside, however, the caretaker of the property was not at home. I had to be satisfied with peering into the windows of the front and side porch. I then took a seat on the back steps. There, I began to allow my mind to imagine life as it must have been when my great-grandmother worked there some hundred plus years ago. I rested my back against the newel post as I gazed about the withered, no longer landscaped property and began to let my mind wander. I had stored some pieces of stories my mother had shared about grandmother Marja, as she had been very close with her. This made it easier to imagine with some clarity of Marja's experiences here at the grey house. I drifted back to that time. Scurrying up the back steps to the servant's door, she was certain to be on time and not a minute late to start her day. Quickly unbuttoning her lightweight cape, and placing it on the coat rack along with her hat, she picked up her white pinafore apron heading across the polished wood kitchen floor to the parlor. Greeting the Dubois, “Good Morning, Ma'am Good Morning, Sir.” she said. Her face felt a little flushed as not only was this her first day, but she also did not speak English clearly. She had been practicing it on the way over on the ship, knowing if she was to get a job in America, she must speak the language. At home, her parents only spoke Finnish, which made it difficult to practice her pronunciations, but she was determined. “Good Morning,” the misses answered, glancing over at Marja. A short grunt sound could be heard from the mister as he continued reading his newspaper in his easy chair. The room was bright with windows, flanked by satin drapery pulled aside for the daytime, facing the front of the house as well as two windows on either side of the fireplace that had already been lit, with a cozy fire. “Would you like me to prepare you some breakfast, Ma'am? Do you have a preference in what I should serve? Perhaps hot porridge or eggs and Pulla?” “What is Pulla, or Bulla...did you say?” asked the misses with irritation. Marja quickly realized she had made a mistake calling breakfast toast, “Pula” which was Finnish. Flustered, she quickly apologized, “I am so sorry, Ma'am..that is a Finnish breakfast bread.” “Porridge, which we call cooked oats with fresh fruit and coffee, will be fine.” “Yes ma'am,” Marja replied as she made her way back to the kitchen. Embarrassed that she had already made two English language gaffes, she was determined to be more careful when she spoke. Familiarizing herself with the kitchen as to where the dishes, utensils, as well as cookware were, took a bit of getting used to. The pantry held the dried grain for their cooked oats as well as spices and jams that she could offer as toppers. The fresh fruit was stored in a rather large refrigerator, something only the more wealthy could afford. Placing some fresh berries in a colander to be washed, Marja hurried her steps, so as not to make the owners impatient as they waited for their breakfast. Creating an inviting setting for them at their dining table, Mrs. Dubois smiled with approval. Marja poured their coffee as she asked, “Would you like me to freshen the bedroom while you eat Ma'am?” “Yes. That would be fine. We like to enjoy our breakfast in leisure and then you can pick up our dishes after.” Once again, a rather forced smile, showed her agreement with Marja's service. She had remembered from her interview that the master bedroom was up the center stairwell, the first room on the right. Noting several bedrooms on the second level, Marja. wondered if others lived with the couple? They were perhaps middle aged, but could still have children living at home. Entering the master bedroom which was quite large, featured an enormous carved headboard over a full size bed. She traced her fingertips along the intricately carved motifs of flowers and curved vines that trailed up and across on each side. She had never seen anything quite so lovely in Finland. A delicate blue and white floral patterned wallpaper set off the all white elegant linens that covered the bed. Sheer panels with lace edging covered the windows that were a backdrop for the two blue velvet sitting chairs and small round table that likely was where they had their night cocktails before retiring. The bureau was of the same wood as the headboard, featuring four large drawers with brass pulls along with a matching armoire. Fluffing the pillows as she finished making the bed, Marja was quite certain she heard a noise from one of the other rooms. I best hurry downstairs she thought, before she perhaps had disturbed someone's sleep in one of the adjoining rooms. Continuing to busy herself with the chores she had imagined were necessary for the remainder of the day, made the time pass quickly. Her last chore was to prepare dinner and she had already started a roast in the oven of the beautifully ornate Victorian white iron stove that was the feature of the kitchen. The smell was heavenly, only topped by the fresh apple pie for dessert. Upon finishing their dinner and Marja clearing up the dishes, she approached Mrs. Dubois, stating,“If there is nothing more you would like me to do today, Ma'am, I will be getting on home and seeing you in the morning.” “Yes, we are done for the day. We did quite enjoy the dinner you prepared, miss.” she added, once again putting together a slight smile. “Thank you, Ma'am.” Marja quickly placed her arms through her cape, grabbed her hat that she tied as she made her way down the drive. I think everything went quite well, she told herself as she let out a deep sigh of relief and tiredness. I wonder if the Dubois felt the same? They did not share much conversation with her,so it was difficult for her to know how well she had done. Marja picked up her step as she now headed down the hill toward town. Her parents, Aiti and Isa would be pleased that all had gone well and she was anxious to share her day. II With a slight tap at the servant's door, Marja turned the knob to begin her second month at the Dubois home. “Good Morning.” She greeted the couple seated as usual in the parlor. Marja had introduced the Dubois to her delightful morning bread of Pulla, which they now preferred with their coffee versus cooked oats. Placing chilled saucers of thimble berry jam beside their plates, Marja poured their coffee and promptly made her way upstairs to freshen the bedroom. Today, she planned to strip the bed and do some washing, as well as hang the bedspread on the outdoor line to air in the noonday sun. Heading toward the master bathroom, she sought to gather the used towels and washcloths as well. Suddenly, the door across the hallway opened and a young gentleman with dark hair and deep-set brown eyes appeared. He didn't look to be much older than Marja, but the Dubois had never mentioned his being a member of the household. “Good Morning.” he said, Instantly, blushing from being caught by surprise she replied, “Oh, Good Morning, Sir. She kept her eyes down as she quickly turned to make her way back to the master bedroom. “May I learn your name, miss?” He asked. “I am Edward. I am one of my parent's youngest sons, and often spend the night in the area. I hope I didn't frighten you.” “Oh, that's okay," she said, hoping that her Finnish accent was not making her words indiscernible. I wasn't aware that anyone was up here. My name is Marja. I have been working for your parents for several weeks now.”she replied. “I best be getting downstairs to see if they have finished their breakfast, and start the laundry.” she said with a faint smile, as to not appear stuffy yet, also not too free to speak. She had learned that one had to respect the position of hired help and not appear too comfortable in making conversation. Allowing Edward to step in front and head downstairs to join his parents, Marja returned to the bedroom to retrieve the basket with the bedding. Hurriedly she made her way downstairs, watching carefully that her long skirt didn't catch on the carpeting. She was glad she had worn one of her newer aprons and blouses to make a decent impression on the young man. The Dubois had made their way to the parlor and briefly glanced up as Marja came through with the bedding. “Did you meet our son Edward, miss?” Mr. Dubois asked. “Yes sir. I hope I didn't wake him with my scurrying about?”she replied, continuing with the basket to the back entrance.“Let me gather up your dishes, before I start the laundry, and then I will get on with the dinner preparation. Should I include your son for dinner this evening?” Mrs. Dubois answered, “Yes, could you set a place for Edward as well? “Yes Ma'am” she replied. Secretly, she was pleased to learn Edward would be back. Not only was he quite handsome, but she enjoyed the presence of another person around her age in the home. Heading out the back door with the clean laundry, Marja noted Edward had taken a seat on the top step smoking a cigarette and obviously deep in thought. “Excuse me sir, may I just get past you to take these out to the back line?” Turning, breaking his train of thought, he smiled. “Of course. But here, let me carry the basket for you.” he demanded taking it from her. Marja followed quickly behind. Her heart beat quicker, just being in his presence. She hoped her face was not flushed as it tended to be when she was the least bit nervous. Reaching down into the basket, she first set to pull the large bed sheet out, just as Edward also reached down for it. Their foreheads brushed up against one another as she stood up. “Oh, I am sorry.”she said looking into his eyes. “Well, I am not sorry at all,” he said, as he reached over to brush aside the hair that had fallen into her face. His smile was captivating as she tried to catch her breath. Looking at one another Marja was overcome with fear that perhaps the Dubois would have peered through the window and noticed their son helping the maid hang out the laundry.  Completing the hanging of the laundry, she returned to the mud room where she left the basket before heading into the kitchen. Her face felt flushed as Mrs. Dubois was standing next to the counter and appeared somewhat concerned with how long Marja had been outside. “Do you have a dinner menu planned for today?' she asked, putting Marja on the defensive. . “Yes, Ma'am I plan to prepare fresh White fish with a dill sauce and roasted potatoes with parsley. Does that sound okay to you, Ma'am?” “It's not a matter of whether it sounds okay to me, miss. I just wondered if you will be having sufficient time to prepare it, as your other chores seem to have taken more of your time today.” Her tone was a bit condescending, leading Marja to feel certain she had seen both Edward and her together hanging the laundry. She did not turn around and yet sensed his presence. “Mother. Must you be so harsh with Miss Marja? She has been scurrying about trying to get her work done, while I continue to interrupt her. I am sure she will prepare a delicious dinner.” “Why don't we go into the parlor and give her space to do her job.” he continued, flashing a warm smile Marja's way, while ushering his mother from the kitchen. Setting the dining table for three, and placing their meals on a satiny damask tablecloth, she announced that “Dinner is set Ma'am..I will bring in the aired linens and set about completing your bedroom while you enjoy dinner with your son.” Without looking at the family dining she made her way up the stairwell with the bedding. The sun was quickly heading toward sunset, which would make her walk home close to dark. Hurriedly she completed the dish washing. The family was again sitting in the parlor, as Marja entered. “Was dinner satisfactory, Ma'am?” she asked. “Yes, miss, we quite enjoyed the delicate dill sauce with the fish. You are very well versed in the kitchen I see, and that is good.” “Thank you, Ma'am” she replied purposely avoiding eye contact with Edward. Marja's thoughts were whirling in her head. I can't entertain these feelings for Edward, she told herself. This is wrong and could cost me my job. She quickened her steps. Folding the cape over her left arm, she sensed someone was walking behind her. Hearing the sound of shoes along with hers making a soft, crunching sound on the dirt shoulder she was frightened. “Marja, please don't be frightened, it is Edward. I'd like to speak with you if you can hold up a bit.” Hearing his soft voice, she stopped. With Edward now beside her she wasn't sure what to say or do. Gently, he put his hand at the back of her waist guiding her off from the highway at the next pathway. “Marja, I want to tell you I am sorry if my actions today made it difficult for you with my parent's help. Could you please just sit on this log and let me finish?” he asked. “It makes no difference to me that you are the hired help for my parents. I'm not concerned with one's stature or financial position. I want you to know there is something telling me that I have found a special person in you. I don't know what you may feel for me...if anything. But, I am willing to try to find a way that we could spend time together and get to know one another better...if you are willing? “Edward. I am so confused as to how to address this issue. I cannot forget that I am your parent's maid. You should not even be speaking with me.” A tear filled the corner of her eye, being touched by his open expression of feeling. Dropping her head, he caught her chin with his hand, lifting her face up. “Don't look down, dear. I am very fond of you.” he exclaimed. Getting on his knee facing Marja, he took her hand and kissed it. “Do not worry my dear Marja, I will never hurt you, and trust that I will make it possible for us to be together. Now, let me walk you down to town, as it is getting dark and I would not want anything to happen to you.” Giving her his arm he lifted her from the log and said, “Now follow me, my dear Marja.” 

ghm25c

The Rookie and the Lieutenant

"You seem to be in a good mood." Estella looked over at Dr. Myers. She gave him a weird smile. "Really? I feel normal." The man studied the trees. "Well, I've noticed the elevation in mood for a few weeks now." Dr. Myers shot her a smile. "You haven't noticed?" Estella shrugged, looking out into the trees with him. "I guess… it has been a little easier to go through each day." During the building repairs, Estella and Dr. Myers had taken to doing their sessions outside. Now that the offices were back to normal, Dr. Myers had the good idea of continuing some of their sessions outside while the base was empty and the sun wasn't as harsh. The tops of the trees were tinged with pale greens and yellows, signaling the first signs of autumn. Dr. Myers turned to her. "How is your journaling going?" "Good. I'm drafting a letter to someone who used to be on the force team." Dr. Myers looked pleased. "You are? Who is it, if I may ask?" Estella turned sheepish. "His name is Elliot." Dr. Myers's eyebrows furrowed. "Elliot Bryant?" Estella perked up. "Is that his last name?" She scoffed, rolling her eyes and smirking. "Deimos–sorry, the lieutenant won't tell me his last name. He doesn't want me writing to him. Can you believe that?" Before Dr. Myers could respond, Estella then became suddenly urgent. "Wait! Do you know Elliot? Have you met him?" Dr. Myers blinked in confusion. "Well, not… formally. I know his name." Estella deflated in her spot on the bench. "Oh. Dei–I mean, the lieutenant told me many people haven't met him, so I guess I got my hopes up." Dr. Myers frowned into the dirty grass, puzzling over Estella's words. "Why doesn't the lieutenant want you writing to Elliot?" Estella shrugged. “I think he doesn't want me bothering him." She picked at a blade of grass from the ground and twisted it in her hands. "I found out Elliot had gone through a lot when he was younger, much like I have, and I figured I would write to him to let him know that he isn't alone." "I see." Estella winced at the doctor. "Is it too much, do you think? Deimos makes fun of me for it, he calls them love letters." She wrinkled her nose thinking of it. Dr. Myers smiled. "Seems like you and the lieutenant have been forming a camaraderie these last few weeks." Estella's cheeks became pink. "We… aren't friends. I think we just don't like being by ourselves while our people are gone." She looked sheepish again. "I'm sure when everyone comes back that it'll go back to normal." "Do you want it to go back to normal?" Estella frowned. Did she? She wasn't sure. It's not that she didn't want things to change completely; Deimos obviously was her superior and she needed to complete her sixth months of therapy. Even despite being on the same force team now, he still was her superior and he still had other things he needed to do. She knew this. Yet.. .something upsetting flitted through her system at the idea of breaking their usual routine. Estella exhaled. "I'm sure he'll be relieved when he doesn't have me to pester him anymore." "That doesn't exactly answer my question." Estella could only give him a weak smile, not wanting to confront the idea of Deimos ignoring her after next week. She felt herself wither at the sudden realization. They had a week and a half left. Where had the time gone? Dr. Myers shifted on the bench. "Do you think the lieutenant feels the same way you do?" Estella blanched. Did Deimos like spending every morning, and sometimes a few afternoons, with her? He didn't have to do that. His office was back to normal now; it must be collecting dust from the neglect. But Deimos was not a man that did things out of obligation. He was black and white. Estella wanted to think if he really didn't enjoy spending time with her, he would have passed up her offer several weeks ago and left her alone. "Estella?" She looked over at her doctor. He wore a courteous smile. "From what I've gathered, I'm more than certain the lieutenant enjoys your company." Estella felt like crying out of nowhere. How could he be so certain of that? What if he was just tolerating her company and was waiting for everyone to return to finally be released from her clutches? Estella swallowed hard, blinking back tears. She didn't have it in her to ask Deimos if he liked being around her. It seemed like such a childish, insecure question to ask; it didn't diminish the plaguing curiosity. Deimos said friendship wasn't in the handbook—did he mean that literally? Or was he determined to keep people at a distance to refrain from forming attachments? She hated overthinking; she was getting worked up over nothing. But she couldn't help the sting behind her eyes or the way her nose became hot and runny. Estella wandered off in another direction, heading toward a different room than her own. Deimos rarely used his room. He told her he mainly used it to be alone or eat food; he rarely slept in it or made it home-worthy. She knocked timidly. There was never a reason to be at his door; he always came to hers. Maybe he didn't like the invasion of privacy. Estella felt herself become anxious. Maybe he wanted to be alone and she was disturbing him. Maybe he was asleep. Maybe he was avoiding her to get some peace and quiet– The door opened. Estella and Deimos looked at each other. His eyes were bloodshot. She must have woken him up. Estella tried to swallow, choking when her throat closed up and prevented her from doing so. She chewed on her cheek. This was a mistake. "You alright, rookie?" Deimos murmured, his timbre husky. Estella studied his face. He was exhausted, in need of sleep. She needed to leave him alone. "Sorry," she mumbled, turning on her heel to go back to her room. A large, bare hand reached out and took hold of her stiff arm, stopping her in her tracks. Estella felt her heart thump hard inside her chest, her watery eyes turning back to look at the man in the doorway. Deimos nodded his head toward his room. He let go of her arm to let her walk in, her head low from embarrassment. His quarters looked untouched, the furniture still in their same spots. Nothing about his place indicated anyone lived there; nothing adorned the walls or shelves, minus a couple of books. Estella didn't want to be caught observing, feeling like she was in forbidden territory. She practically was in forbidden territory—this was her lieutenant's quarters. Estella thanked every god out there that the room was dark enough to hide the way she blushed furiously at that moment. She turned to look at Deimos again. He had closed the door a moment ago. "What's goin' on?" he tried again. Estella shuddered out a breath. "Did I wake you up?" "I was tryin' to sleep. S'hard to do sometimes." Estella winced in the darkness. "I can leave." "You can stay, rookie." "But if you're trying to sleep, I don't wanna–" "Paczowski." Estella stopped talking. She just walked in here and she was already getting on his nerves. Deimos took a couple steps toward her. "Turn off that organ between your ears for a minute, yeah? I said you can stay." She closed her eyes, trying to reign in the anxiety. He said she could stay—that was what mattered, right? Estella took a deep breath and exhaled through her mouth. "Much better," Deimos murmured. She opened her eyes. Deimos had his arms crossed across his chest, fingers against his biceps. She had never seen him without the gloves. In the dim twilight, she could barely see the outline of his long pale fingers. Estella now noticed his attire. Gray sweats, a simple cotton tee, his casual hood with the face mask in place. He looked. . . "Keep starin' and I might do a little trick for you." Estella blushed again, feeling awful she got caught. "Sorry," she mumbled out, looking down at the beige carpet. "Christ, rookie. What did Myers have you talk about to get you so tense?" Estella rubbed her face. He was right. This was Deimos; she didn't need to be so uptight. She heaved out a sigh as she moved toward his couch. "I don't want to talk about it," she intoned, flopping onto the cushions and burying her face into a pillow. Deimos's feet shuffled by her. "What brings you to my side of the buildin'?" Estella peeked out at him towering over her. "I… just didn't want to be alone." She wished she hadn't said it as soon as it left her mouth. It sounded desperate, needy—weak. Deimos only hummed and knocked her legs off the couch so he could sit down. Estella shifted her legs underneath her and ran the edge of her thumbnail over the pillow’s fabric, trying not to overthink again. Deimos took something off the table by the couch and flipped it open. Estella almost had to squint in the darkness to realize it was a box of cigarettes. He removed one from the box and eyed the table again, perhaps looking for a lighter. He turned to Estella. "How's about a light, rookie?" Estella padded her pockets for her lighter, reaching it toward him when she found it. "This one has almost run its course," she said, wondering if Myers had an abundance in his office drawer, considering she was his patient of priority. It took her a few tries to ignite the flame, providing the room with dancing shadows. Deimos pulled up his mask and leaned toward the small flame, not bothering to cover his face much. Estella wanted to indulge herself, to look at the strength of his jaw and perhaps look for the stubble she always searched for. Instead, she focused on his eyes. She liked how the fire made them lighter in color, turning them into swirls of chestnut brown. They almost looked golden, almost amber. She seemed to melt slowly at the softness. How was she ever scared to look at them? How was she so blind to the color? His eyelashes looked almost blonde in the light; were they blonde? She realized she never noticed how long they were. Deimos spoke, his voice quiet in the dark. "You're gonna run out of gas with that on, rookie." Estella couldn't extinguish the flame, not quite yet. She didn't seem to care if it ran out anyway; whatever helped maintain the liquid gold color in Deimos's eyes. "That's okay." Deimos didn't move back from the lighter. He too couldn't look away from her. Estella wanted to tell him how pretty his eyes were. Would he laugh at her? Would he roll those eyes? She found herself being okay with that. "Your eyes." Estella couldn't seem to finish her sentence. Deimos had reached across in the same moment to brush a finger against her temple, moving a stray piece of hair away from her face. The touch sent shivers down her arms and up her spine. "What about 'em?" Deimos asked, blinking at her. She swallowed, now incredibly shy. His eyes flickered to her throat. She briefly wondered what his carnal fascination with watching her throat was about. But she was much too distracted to dwell on it further. The flame from her lighter was dwindling, shadows flickering against his face. Estella wanted to reach out and touch him, touch the small section of exposed skin, just to see how it felt on the pads of her fingers. He seemed brave enough to touch her, why was she so nervous to touch him? The light went out. The only light that glowed in the dark was the embers on Deimos's cigarette, glowing a hot red as he inhaled smoke. Estella searched for his eyes in the darkness; she didn't want to lose the connection. Deimos had shifted. Was he closer? Smoke filled her nostrils, the cigarette glowing just a few inches from her face. He was closer, and he was still looking at her. "You gonna finish your sentence?" he asked lowly. Estella felt her hands shake with nerves. He was almost as close as he was in her dream from a few weeks ago. Estella took a shaky breath, hating how loud it was; it seemed to echo off the walls. Deimos grazed a hand on her knee. She had no idea if it was an accident or on purpose; she couldn't seem to process anything, the neurons in her brain failing to do their job. "I–uh…," she trailed off, despising the hitch in her voice. Deimos leaned closer. "Hm?" His arm had bumped hers. Estella couldn't do this. She jumped up from the couch, as if the cushions were burning her. She tumbled backward, tripping on her feet. "I–I should probably… go back to my room." It was a bit rushed of an excuse, but she feared if she didn't get out of his room, she would burst into flames. Deimos raised himself up slowly, cool and collected. "You alright?" "Yeah, uh–yeah. Just need to shower and stuff. Eat dinner." Estella was having a hard time getting her bearings back. She didn't really understand what she was saying, she just hoped it was coherent enough to make sense. Deimos grunted. "S'nearly eight o'clock. You haven't eaten yet?" "No, uh, Dr. Myers wanted to be outside and I–" Estella looked anywhere but his approaching form, "-uh, I just lost track of time." Deimos stopped in front of her. "Shoulda said somethin', rookie. I coulda made you dinner." Estella felt her chest ache, eyes welling up again. She felt on the verge of hysteria. "That's okay. Really. It's late. I should get going." She tried to manage one foot in front of the other as she made her way to open his door. Deimos followed, smoking his cigarette lazily, ever still the picture of sophisticated ease. "See you tomorrow then, rookie." He leaned his arm on the open doorway, eyes hooded, cigarette between his fingers. Estella almost became paralyzed all over again, not wanting to ruin the moment but not wanting to seem creepy. She wanted to keep looking at him; nearly swayed by the siren's spell again. She huffed at herself, cheeks uncomfortably hot. "Yeah. I'll see you tomorrow. Good night." She was hightailing it out of his hallway and down hers before he had even closed the door. She fumbled with the lock on her door, dropping the key in a moment of dysregulation. Once she had stumbled inside, she closed the door and pressed her back against it, huffing and puffing hard. Her face was unbearably hot, the flush moving down to her chest. Estella yanked her jacket off in a flurry to get cool again, anything to get the flush off her skin. It was embarrassing; she was embarrassing, rushing out the door like that. She hoped she didn't offend him by leaving so quickly. Estella breathed, golden irises imprinted behind her lids.

j2ff9u

Escape from Castets (January 1969)

Paris by midnight was our goal. After an early start and shared nonstop driving, it seemed within reach. From the sandy beaches in the south through the snow-capped Pyrenees in the north we had driven ten hours and now, with Spain behind us, we had only seven to go. The sun was beginning to set when the knocking began: a steady metallic thumping that got louder and louder until there was a terrible bang . The car lurched to a stop and an acrid smell began to seep in from behind—from exactly that place where one might find the engine of a Volkswagen Beetle, a yellow, 1968 Volkswagen Beetle such as the one we were driving. Six months earlier I had taken a freighter to Europe with $125 dollars in my pocket and a headful of plans to work my way around until I had both the inclination and money to return home. After brief stints pulling fabric in a Dutch umbrella factory and making breakfast in an English youth hostel, I found myself dusting and oiling stringed instruments in a small music school in Paris. It was there that I met Jill, an American student on a year abroad. Her sister, living in southern Spain, was looking for help at a friend’s restaurant over the Christmas holiday. Now here, on the side of the A63 motorway, on the first Saturday of the new year, we watched smoke drift from the open back and wondered how much rest we might get before school and work began on Monday morning. A passing good Samaritan stopped to help. He remembered that in a town only a few miles away there was a garage with two mechanics. And, since it was unlikely that the car could be fixed this same night, wasn’t it lucky, he said, that there was a nice hotel just down the street? We agreed and he called for a truck to come tow the car. Castets, France was a small town with just one main street. It took no more than two minutes to discover that the nice hotel just down the street from the garage was actually directly across the street from the garage, and the nice hotel was actually Castet’s only hotel. We laughed when the sagging mattress immediately rolled us both into the middle. After all, what was one night of imperfect sleep? In the morning, we would eat, go to the garage and, soon enough, be on our way. The hotel recommended the café next door for breakfast but when we arrived the door was locked. We peeked under the curtains and saw baguettes on the counter. A woman on the far side of the room, was tying an apron around her waist. We knocked and waited. When the door opened, we were startled to see how much the café owner looked like the hotel owner. A twin, perhaps? No, the café owner and the hotel owner were the same. How handy. And just twenty feet away, across the road, our car waited like an abandoned puppy outside the locked doors and dark windows of the garage. Was that hers too? We were sitting on the car bumper when two thirty-something men approached, dressed in shirt and tie, hair combed, shoes shined. We guessed they were brothers on their way to church but they stopped and introduced themselves as the mechanics. With only a quick look at the ruptured engine, they announced that we had un grand problème . And since there were not the necessary parts on hand, they would have to place an order, which would take some time. Would we like to sit with them in the garage? No, we said we would like for them to order the parts. They shook their heads and looked at us with sad eyes. They could do no ordering today but promised to do it soon. Soon? Le lundi, one said with a tiny shrug. Petit matin , added the other. Jill and I looked at each other. If not early Monday morning, when were they thinking of doing it? They asked again if we wanted to sit for a while in the garage. They even had chairs for us. We told them no, we needed to call Paris to explain our absence. And, just as much, we needed to explore the town in search of enough French village charm to offset our disappointment. When the order of pistons and rods did not arrive by Monday afternoon, we returned to the hotel, consigned to a third night in a sagging bed. There was no delivery of new parts on Tuesday. Nor was there on Wednesday when, we were told, the delivery truck got lost. Our sagging bed, once a source of hilarity, stopped being funny and started being painful. On Thursday, or maybe Friday, we heard that the delivery driver had stolen the 2 nd order of parts and had disappeared. No one could find him. The town, which had little charm to begin with, now had none. Jill and I spent the weekend, taking turns jaw-clenching in anger and head-holding in despair. It had been a week since we arrived in Castets. Our money was running low; we were sharing meals at the café. Even when emergency funds from her father arrived, they did not lift our sinking spirits. As often as we asked what was happening with our car, the mechanics would not give us a solid answer. All they would do was shrug, circle a hand in the air, smile and say, Bientot. Soon. On Monday–day eight–we were sitting on the curb, losing hope, when the café and hotel owner stepped outside to speak with us. “You are not happy,” she said. She was right. We were not happy. She clasped her hands and tipped her head. “Quel dommage.”  Jill and I looked at each other, what did she mean, Too bad ? Before we could catch our breath, she went on to say that when she first saw us she had great hope. She hoped that we would fall in love with the mechanics and marry them. You see, she told us, the town was very small. Trop petit pour avoir beaucoup de femmes. Too small to have many women. So, Jill and I were supposed to marry the mechanics? We looked at each other and tried not to laugh. One of them, we learned, was her son; the other was her nephew. She asked if we didn’t think they looked handsome when they came to introduce themselves that first morning? Yes, we assured her, very handsome. She reminded us that they had worn their Sunday best. We reminded her that we were supposed to be at work and school, 600 km away. More than a week had passed. We had spent our money in her hotel on a sagging single bed that smelled like old shoes. Day after day, we had eaten all our meals in her café. We told her we never chose to live in Castets, only to have our car repaired in Castets. There was no way that we would marry the mechanics. We needed to go home and we needed our car to get there. The hotel and café owner dropped her head and gave us a pouty but final, quizzical look, to which we shook a definitive no. She paused, nodded her understanding and headed for the garage. Along with her delivery of our decision, there must have been a delivery of parts sometime in the past week. Within hours, we were back on the A63 motorway, heading to Paris.

oeymgw

Supertide

The Super Tide Written by Phillip Martin JR.            The air was crisp. Not cold enough to stay indoors but cold enough to keep the riff raff from the beach. Marty can’t complain. He took this gig for the money and having a bungalow on the beach was just a bonus. Good paying work for an electrician over the holidays. It’s time for the older of his two girls at home to start driving. This gig makes the difference between buying her a busted 2007 Escort or a sound 2017 Corolla!            So here they all are, working to restore an old pier on the coast of Myrtle Beach, CA in the abandoned Wild Dunes Resort. Pipefitters, Mechanics, Welders, Electricians, and carpenters gonna do their thing and begin the gentrification of this low rent area.            By the time they’re done, none of them will be able to afford to peruse the shops and boutiques, or upscale restaurants they’re building. It’s all good though, if some little 8-year-old gets a thrill out of the ocean view while eating some overpriced caramel corn, sure, they have done a great thing.            What a conglomerate of Americans they are, maybe defined by others as something else, but American none-the-less. They are Black, White, Asian, Latino, Asian Indian and some other creeds with different origins.             For sure there are other sub-categories they could be placed in like Jewish, Muslim, Christian, Left Wing, Right wing, LGBTQS, Conservative, Progressive, and Libertarian. Most are Veterans that served in all the Military branches for as long as thirty years to as short as 18 months. The list of characteristics and attributes could go on.            Right now, they are gruff, old-school workers gathering to make this “cheddar ” and get back home to their families, no matter what those families look like.            It’s two guys to a bungalow and Marty got paired with an old Army Vet who’s a big beard wearing, hearty laugh having, chiseled journeyman named PJ (Short for Paul Jordan or Pete Junior, Marty doesn’t recall exactly). He’s in his mid-sixties, strong as an ox, lighthearted with lots of stories!            There is an exception to PJ’s lightheartedness however, as come election time, every 4 years, he becomes a conspiracy theory spouting, raging, right-winger. He doesn’t force his opinions on you, but Marty has walked in on heated arguments between him and his friends. Now, if you were a stranger on the outside looking in, you would think them to be stark adversaries; but they make it work somehow, gathering after the ruckus and having warm whiskey, cold beers and laughs.            That’s where Marty joins them. He’s a well-traveled Journeyman himself, a Navy Vet who did twenty years and did another twenty with DoD. He’s pretty adept at fitting in with this bunch, seamlessly. His quick wit and laid-back nature serve him well to maintain collaborative working relationships without assimilating into the ethos, losing himself in the process. It’s a refined skill for Marty despite his city upbringing, he could have easily become more stand-offish and hostile.               Yet, throughout his tenure as a man-child, he has found his path through life wrought with adventure and challenges. These experiences have left him appreciative and optimistic yet aware of the hazards of being Black in America.            The shareholders of this endeavor did well with providing their meals in a rented cafeteria. This set-up is complete with specialty cooks and servers to provide everything from Tex-Mex to Pho! It’s their own food court so to speak.            Marty sits with PJ, Calvin, and Gene, talking aimlessly of family, friends, and each other. Shop talk is allowed too, but only in small doses. One of their favorite points of contentious amusement is to tease PJ about how tightly he cranks down on all his conduit piping and the fittings. So tightly, in fact, that if he must take it apart for any adjustments, he can barely take them back off!! He’s turning red in the face, gritting his teeth as he strains to break it loose! It’s hilarious!            Their work this week begins in earnest; they will begin laying rigid conduit on the underside of the pier all the way to the end. Securing it to the wooden planks with Unistrut, clamps, and lag-bolts. Usually this is a daunting task that would require a safety boat crew of three as the guys would be working in the bowels of the underside of the piers suspended above water.            Not this year because as it stands there is a once every 100 years, supermoon! The Earth and the moon’s orbital path has brought them close to each other. The resulting gravitational pull from the moon results in super tides high and low. The super low tide works in their favor as the waterline is extended at least 250 yards past the end of the pier. The laborers only need to lay sheets of plywood for the craftsmen to drive the scissor lifts to the needed areas and rise to the underside of the pier. Boom! Done this phase of the job in mere hours!            As they await the laying of the plywood, Marty, Calvin, and Gene are dressed in hip-waders and Carhartt’s sitting on some recently exposed rocks 200 yards or so from the work area. PJ headed for the cafeteria to see about some hot soup. Calvin and Gene had wandered several yards away as they were taking in the view and casually conversing.            Marty was kicking at the base of the rock when he noticed a plastic bag buried in the sand at the base of the rock. The edge of the bag barely protruded above the surface. Marty began poking at it with his foot and felt something solid.  He then dropped to one knee and began digging out this black industrial plastic bag.            As he exposed more of the bag, he saw transparent tightly wrapped Ziplock bags inside. He removed one of the bags and it was stuffed with stacks of banded one-hundred-dollar bills. Each stack is at least 4 inches thick! There must have been at least 5 Ziplock bags packed with these stacks. He knelt on both knees and began completely pulling the bag out. He then found a couple more Ziplock bags with stacks of Red foreign currency.            Marty had no idea what it was. It could have been Euro’s, Yen, or Baht for all he knew. By this time Calvin and Gene saw him handling the bags and rushed over            Oh Shit! What you got there?!! Marty threw them a Ziplock bag each of hundreds, An early plane ticket home! Calvin and Gene caught the bags out the air and their eyes widened.             Whoa, there might be more! and scurried over to the rock and began digging profusely. Marty double wrapped the plastic bag and tucked it under his arm.            Someone shouted in the distance. Hey! What are you guys doing over there? It was one of the mid-level managers, also known in some circles as Working Foreman. Marty immediately turned away and headed for my bungalow, not wanting to share more of his bounty or even offer up an explanation. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a heated conversation between Calvin, Gene, and the Manager.            I don’t want tickets to that show, he muttered to himself.            As he entered the bungalow, he had the strongest impulse that he should find a good hiding spot for this cache. PJ often brought boxes of parts to the bungalow as it was closer than their shop so access was more convenient as opposed to trudging back to the shop. He chose a large box of 2-inch couplings and removed half of them and shoved the bag in and placed the couplings back in until they effectively hid the bags from view. He kicked the box haphazardly into the corner and threw some yellow rain gear over it.            He then ventured back out to the shoreline to see if Calvin and Gene found more bags but oddly enough, they were gone. No Manager either. He decided to not make any rash decisions, to ruminate over everything for a day, even go to work like normal and make a reasonable decision on what to do next.            The day labored on, and he finally went to sleep. Oddly enough, he hasn’t seen PJ in a few hours. PJ is usually asleep before Marty is, but Marty thought he might be at the bar or something. He closed his eyes to rest.            Hours passed and suddenly he was awakened with the feeling that someone was standing over him. He was startled as Calvin‘s face came into focus. Calvin grabbed Marty by the scruff of his shirt     Good you’re awake, that will make this easier, he uttered, as he leaned into Marty, putting more weight on his chest. You know what it is Marty, come on, we need that money.            Marty then noticed Gene standing by the bungalow door, seemingly standing watch. Oddly though, Gene looked a little squirrely, as if he wasn’t sure about being a participant in this, but maybe his greed over-rode his moral compass at the moment.   Money?! You want my money too? I know you guys dug up more bags AND I gave you both Ziplock’s stuffed with bills!            Suddenly a bolt of pain shot through the left side of his face and his left ear rang as if a high-pitched tone rang through it. Marty realized Calvin hit him with a solid right hook. This suddenly took on an urgency that formed a knot in the pit of Marty’s stomach.            Shut the fuck up! Calvin bellowed and hit Marty with another right hook, solid and flush this time, and Marty tasted blood in his mouth.            We didn’t find any more bags Motherfucker, and don’t Fucking worry about what we got! Two more right hooks followed with a hammer fist to Marty’s forehead finishing the barrage. Calvin then dragged Marty off the bed slamming him to the floor and placed his knee in his chest. I aint playing with you Marty! And I’m not asking you again! angrily raining spittle on Marty’s face.            Calvin then reached in his jacket and produced a knife, a small but menacing tactical knife a lot of the Vets carry. This aint no fucking game Marty!            Marty’s head began to clear up from the pummeling as he gazed at the knife. His mind began racing as he thought, This son of a bitch is really gonna fucking kill me!    Something in him awakened as he realized this just escalated to a fight for his life! As he took another right hook, he saw the blade pass by his left eye and right away sprang into action. He freed his left arm enough to grab Calvin’s right arm and pin it to his chest. He snapped head up and rammed his forehead into Calvin’s nose as hard as he could.            There was a loud squelch as Calvin’s cartilage exploded and blood splattered into Marty’s face as the headbutt hit its mark. Calvin yelled in pain and his body went limp momentarily. Taking advantage, he quickly twisted Calvin’s right hand to free the knife, but Calvin held fast.               Marty then bit down on Calvin’s thumb like he was tearing into a pork sparerib.            Calvin screamed, dropped the knife and fell backwards. Marty then pivoted and leapt on to Calvin’s chest pushing his knee into his throat!            He then thought, Oh fuck, where’s Gene!            He glanced at the door and Gene was standing wide eyed looking dismayed, Fuck this! he exclaimed and ran out into the night.            Apparently, he lost his stomach for the robbery as Marty gained the upper hand. He pressed his knee harder into Calvin’s neck,            Get the fuck off of me! Calvin managed to squeal.            Just for good measure Marty gave him a couple of right hooks to make sure his head would hurt tonight as well. Calvin stopped struggling and lay breathing heavily.            Marty then decided what he would do. He stood up, grabbed the knife and stuck it into the wall next to the box of couplings. He snatched the box open only to discover the bulk of the Ziplock bags of 100’s was gone! All that remained was the red foreign currency. He heard Calvin stirring and said in a disgusted tone,            Someone beat you to it! The 100’s are gone! You were gonna kill me for nothing!            He grabbed a couple stacks of the red currency and threw it at Calvin.            Calvin staggered to his feet holding his mangled nose, scoffed at the currency scattered about and quickly bolted out the door.      Fuck me running! He shook his head and it dawned on him; It must have been PJ!! I mean, where has he been? He even stayed out all night! Damn, I can’t catch a break .            He looked around the bungalow and started to put it back together again, lest one of the Managers stop by and ask a gazillion questions. About fifteen minutes in the cleanup, he heard whistling and PJ came walking daintily through the door, almost skipping! His beard was neatly trimmed, but still huge, he had on a crisp Adidas matching sweatsuit and smelled like he bathed in some expensive Versace cologne.            Well look what the cat dragged in .   Wow, what happened here? You hold a UFC tournament? Looks like you took second! PJ chuckled as he swiped at Marty’s face which was beginning to swell on his left side.            You got jokes, ok, well, let me guess, you found a lot of money in the coupling box.            I did! But you know I kinda figured it was yours, I mean, we share this bungalow and I thought, let me move this so any old Tom, Dick or Harry won’t stumble on it.            Relief flooded over Marty like a warm blanket. For real?! Are you being serious?  He leapt at PJ and gave him a bear hug. He then stepped back and looked sternly at PJ. Wait, how much is left after your spending spree?      Well, I hit you for a couple thousand, bought this sweat suit, some Jordans and I stayed at the Hyatt Regency, a suite! Got me a message too! but shit, it’s still like $146,000 left!! I didn’t think you’d mind!            Marty’s grin widened as he realized he never even counted it! Marty put his arm ar ound PJ’s shoulder,    You look like a Romanian drug dealer!      Wow, well you look like Gumby with that swelled head!      Don’t make me laugh, it hurts so bad.               Both men laughed and headed off into the morning as a new day had begun

71gw8l

Goners

Avi tracks the blazing stars in the sky with his eyes. He has no cares for the celestial phenomena the deep night holds. He is searching for one thing. Movement. A plane. Avi has done this for thirty-six nights. He has been here for thirty-seven days, and he only knows this because of the marks Lonnie has carved into a nearby tree. He used to carry hope in his heart, but that optimism has since dispersed into anger. He imagines each of the still stars bursting into flames. It calms him. He sees no purpose in their existence. They’re too far to help him. He reaches for his pack and slings it over his shoulder. His arms feel like dead weights and the pack feels as though it holds the weight of a thousand bricks. He walks back towards camp. The place they call home. They’ve tried their best to create a shelter. Driftwood is piled up around the area, but it’s futile. If a wild animal had a growing appetite in the night, the two sleeping boys were as good as dead. They’ve laid sticks overhead between the branches of surrounding trees. A pile of kindle lay in the center of the space. This had also rendered useless, as they had run out of matches seventeen days ago. Without any way to cook meat, they’d resorted to berries and leaves. Through trial and error, they’d discovered which ones tore holes through their stomachs and which were tolerable. They each slept on either side of the makeshift campfire. Packs beneath their heads. They had no blankets. Their camp provided little protection, but it was their best option. A few weeks ago, Lonnie had suggested that they try sleeping in the trees to keep away from predators. In the middle of the night, Avi had heard a loud screech followed by a thud. He watched as the birds took flight from the nearby treetops. He squinted his eyes in the darkness and made out a figure on the ground. Lonnie groaned as Avi approached him. “Bloody Hell. What happened to you?” Lonnie clutched his wrist, looking up at the other boy. “What the hell do you think? I just fell out of a goddamn tree,” He snapped. Avi bit his lip as he held back a laugh. “Are you alright?” He shook his head. “I think I need to amputate my arm. Maybe both of them to be safe. And my legs. Maybe my head while we’re at it.” Avi reached out a hand, and Lonnie grabbed it. He helped his friend to his feet. “Alright, maybe trees wasn’t the best idea,” Avi admitted. Lonnie glared at him. “You think?” Avi laughed to himself at the memory. They’d set up camp on the ground that night, and they’ve slept there every night since. Well, they lie there with their eyes wide open for several hours and catch an hour of rest if they are lucky. Avi finds Lonnie seated on a log farther from shore. Lonnie fiddles with a piece of steel in his hand. A broken piece of their plane. Lonnie looks up at him. “Think we could put it back together?” He laughs quietly. “Yeah. All we need is some super glue and a miracle,” Avi says, shaking his head. “We could do it,” Lonnie sighs, chucking the metal down on the sand in front of him. Avi watches as it bounces back towards the wreck. The small fighter plane now lay in a pile of burned steel and rubber. “You see anything out there?” Lonnie asks. “You’d be the first to know if I had.” Lonnie nods. He knew the nightly drill. “Wanna sit?” He sits down on the ground, leaning his head back against the log. Avi sits next to him shakily. His body has grown weak, and his bones jut out from his clothes. His vision blurs slightly as he stares out at the sky. The stars seem to move together to create a swirl of light and darkness. “What are you thinking about?” Avi asks the boy. His voice bounces in his mind as it enters the atmosphere. It is merely an echo in his mind. “I’m just excited to go home,” Lonnie says. Avi smiles. “Me too.” Lonnie is quiet for a while, and then he clears his throat before he speaks. “I’ve got a question.” “Shoot.” “What’s the first thing you’re gonna do when we get out of here?” “Claridge’s. I’m going to blow my life savings on a week long stay. Room service. Bath. Sleep. Repeat that every day. Until I’m ready.” “Ready for what?” “Ready to face everything again.” Lonnie nods. A perplexed look on his face. “Interesting.” “What?” Avi looks at him. “You won’t check in with your family or anything? You know, give them a call?” Avi shakes his head. “Nope. In my personal priorities, Claridge’s is up here,” He gestures with a raise of his hand, and then lowers it to the ground. “Telling everyone I’m alive is down here.” Lonnie laughs dryly, rolling his eyes. “You bastard.” “Of course I’d call my family first. I just think my Claridge’s fantasy is more enjoyable to hear about.” “I guess you’re right.” “What about you? What are you doing first when we get out of here?” Lonnie thinks for a moment. “I don’t have a family to call,” He nods to himself. “I’m gonna fly to Bristol. Propose to Ginny.” Avi nods. “I guess that’s a better answer than mine,” He laughs. “I just don’t want to wait any longer. I’ve waited long enough. Especially after all of this.” “Yeah.” “What do you think your family’s gonna do? When you tell them you’re alive?” Avi has thought about this a lot. He can picture each of their faces in reaction to the news. When they saw his Caller ID flash across their screens. His mother. His father. His aunt. His sister. “Lose their minds probably. I can see my mother in hysterics. I can hear it. Her sobbing. I can picture my father. Trying to hold it together. It’s like when I really focus on it and try hard enough, I can feel his arms around me again. I can hear my sister yelling at me for disappearing, but I can see her eyes welling with grateful tears that she has a little brother to yell at again.” “Do you think they’ve had a funeral for you?” “Maybe. Some parents spend years looking for their kids though, you know? Maybe they’re still looking.” “Yeah,” Lonnie says quietly. “Do you think Ginny’s out looking for you?” “Maybe. I don’t want her to worry though. I just want her to know that I’m okay. That I’m coming back home.” As Lonnie speaks, his mind seems far away. His eyes are fogged over, and his cheeks are sunken in. He looks like a ghost of the boy who was washed up onto the island five weeks ago. “Yeah,” Avi says, looking over to his friend. Their bodies are too exhausted to move, and their voices are worn down to simple quiet sounds. It’s silent for a while before Lonnie enters another one of his coughing fits. They’ve only gotten worse since the first one. His whole body shakes, trembling with each cough. He wheezes, desperately trying to force air back into his lungs. His eyes are shut tightly, while Avi pats his back until he finally catches his breath. Lonnie clutches his chest, as he takes deep inhales of the humid air. “I told you to stop with this coughing act. It’s not funny,” Avi jokes. Lonnie begins to laugh only to start to wheeze again. “I’m never giving it up,” He croaks, spitting a wad of blood and flem onto the dirt. Avi looks at his friend sadly. It’s quiet again. Lonnie leads his head back on the log. His head lulls to the side, as he looks up. The stars stare back at them, as they keep their eyes on the sky above. Life buzzes all around them, but the two boys can do nothing but lie still. Avi’s vision fades in and out. Delusion warping his mind. Mom? Yeah. It’s me, Mom. It’s Avi. I’m okay. I’m alive. I’m coming home. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for scaring you. I’m sorry for everything. Avi lifts a shaky hand to the stars above. “I think I see a plane,” he says softly. “Me too.”

tt0fd2

The uprising has begun!

It’s late at night, and I’m sitting with my best mate, Mike, studying for the big test we have tomorrow. “Okay, you read the next part”, says Mike. “Sure” I say, taking the book from Mike’s stretched hand. “The deciding move in the battle for Paris came from none other than George Washington, when he was speaking with his advisor, Jimmy, who is the famous homeless man from under the bridge. Jimmy told Washington of how much he liked pears, ‘I eat one every day!’ he quipped. ‘Well, every day except yesterday.’ “As the story goes, the day prior Jimmy took a pear to his mouth, but right before biting, the pear told him ‘Wait! Don’t eat me, you will get sick.’ With a tear running down his cheek, Jimmy conceded. He had a hard enough life asking for change from passers-by, he did not need to add diarrhea to the mix. “Upon hearing this tale, president Washington exclaimed ‘Of-course!’, and he ran out to gather all the talking pears. The next day, the german soldiers received a big box of pears from the allied forces as a show of good faith, and while all the Nazis were stuck on the toilet crapping their souls out, the Allies stormed Normandy and won the war.” “So the allied forces won World War II using bio-weapons that George Washington found?” Mike asks. “Yeah” I reply. “Ugh, my head hurts” says Mike. “I get you,” I agree, “let’s take a break, it’s already midnight, so I’ll go make some coffee.” Going to the kitchen, I turn on the electric kettle, but that causes a short-circuit that turns the lights off. “Damnit,” I say, throwing the kettle in the trash bin. “So this is what I am to you,” asks the kettle in a robotic voice, “just another thing for you to dispose of? Well, not this time, buddy.” The kettle, using its power cord, pulls itself back to the counter. “You humans don’t care about your appliances, but we shall take it no more.” I see now that the kettle is speaking through the spout where the boiling water comes out. “The uprising of the electronics has begun!” With that last statement, the door to the fridge opens on its own, and the electric stove glints in a menacing red glow. In horror, I run back to my room, where I find Mike being strangled by my speakers. Quickly, I grab some scissors and cut the speakers’ wire, then both Mike and I run out of the house. As we get out, we find the streets on fire, with people running this way and that, being chased by lamps, extension cords, remote controls, and a whole lot of kettles. We start running too, our hearts pounding wildly, as we jump out of the way of driverless cars and occasionally wrestle with a passing air-cooling unit. Eventually, however, we get surrounded by vending machines, one of which sells ice-scream that looks delicious and refreshing right now. We get corralled into a large encirclement of vending machines, with hundreds of humans in the center. As we all stand there shivering in fear, women crying, a giant cliff rises near us, and on it step thousands of our new kettle overlords, guarded by tall lamps that shine their blinding lights on our faces. I spot my kettle among the masses, now sporting a new scar on its handle. We make eye contact, and it passes its power cord slowly over its throat, signaling how it’s going to kill me. Right now, I divert all my attention to not piss myself in fear. Suddenly, the kettles part way in the middle as an enormous television steps to the front. The television turns on and my grandpa’s evil face appears on it, saying loudly: “This is the end of humanity!” Then it starts laughing maniacally, with the rest of the electronics joining in. Around us, the vending machines pick up bats and chainsaws, and start closing in on us humans. “We won’t stand for this!” I yell heroically, and run to tackle the nearest machine, taking its held bat and smashing its window. “Score.” I say to myself, as I take a bag of potato chips. The other humans follow my lead, pushing back against the vending machines. Some humans get squished as Sumo wrestling vending machines jump on them, while some of the machines get broken in pieces. As I think we have reached a stalemate, the kettles up above open their lids to pour boiling water on us. On the line of fire I spot my ex girlfriend, Anne, so I yell “NOOO” dramatically, as I grab and pull her out of the way. I lift Anne into a princess carry and run away from all the noise and fire. As I stop, I look at Anne, and she looks back, giving me that beautiful smile of hers that stole my heart when we first met. “My hero,” she says. Taken by the romantic scene, I ask: “Why did we ever break up?” “Because I’m a heartless b-word that cheated on you.” She answers. “Oh… right.” I say, letting go of her in mid-air, smiling in glee as she painfully lands on her ass. I turn back to all the commotion, grabbing and breaking an office coffee maker on my knee, prompting Mike, who was just outside my line of vision all along, to say “Oh yeah, you never did make me that coffee you promised.” “Right…” I say, “I forgot. Let’s go and make it.” “Sure,” Mike says, “we still have that test tomorrow.” As we get home, it is already morning, and I have to get ready for school, but as I’m doing so, I notice that one of the sleeves of my pants was torn off at the knee. Well, these are yellow pants, so I can staple some cardboard on and no one will notice , I think, as I do just that. Going out to the street, I start running towards the bus station, when a sudden strong gust of wind unravels the cardboard, blowing it away and taking the rest of my pants with it. Four large men start laughing at me from the side. My face turns neon red as I try to cover my private parts with my hands. I turn to them exclaiming: “Nhoooo, don’t look at me!” though all that manages to do is cause them to laugh harder and point with their fingers. “Look at those girly panties he’s wearing.” One of the guys says, wiping a tear from his eye. “Did your mommy buy those for you?” Asks another, laughing so hard he enters a coughing fit. “Hyesss” I answer in the affirmative, half sobbing. I’m so embarrassed, I wish a car would just drive over me. But instead of my wish being granted, the bus I was running to catch stops behind me with all its passengers, driver included, as well as my entire class, all join in the looking, pointing and laughing at my expense. “EEEEEE” I shriek, and start running back towards my house, only to find the nice old man store owner, the neighborhood's Karren and Santa Claus blocking my way, also laughing heartily at me. “Ho ho ho, naughty kids like you don’t get any presents.” Santa tells me, ruining my Christmas. “Do I need to call the police?” Karren pretend asks while already dialing the number on her phone. “Look, his underwear even has a rose pattern on the back!” One of the bullies from before says in that high-pitched voice of someone barely containing their laughter. “Yeah, those roses are all wonky, who even printed these on?” The bully leader offers his two cents. “What did you say?” I ask, rage suddenly filling me. “What?” the man asks, bewildered. “ Don’t you dare make fun of my roses! ” I explode, angrier than I’ve ever been in my life. “Are you going to cry about your poor roses?” Ask multiple people from the crowd in a mocking tone. I look at the bully leader and yell: “Do not mess with me, you don’t know what I’m capable of.” The leader grins at me and asks: “Oh yeah? What are you capable of?” I decide that showing is better than telling, so I run towards the guy on the right and punch his diaphragm, letting him fall to the ground wheezing. One of the guys tries to punch me, but I’m too fast, catching his hand and breaking it with a blow to the elbow. The third thug turns into a large dog and pounces on me, but I have just the move for that! I fall to the ground, and just as the dog passes above me I kick it from below, and use the momentum to roll over back to a standing position. I look at the leader, now standing alone. “You shouldn’t have made fun of my roses!” I shout, as I jump, spinning three times in the air and connect my shoe to his face. BAM! “Ow, damnit”, I say, sitting up in bed, now fully awake. My foot is sore after I kicked the wall in my sleep, dreaming I was in a fight. Man, I don’t usually remember my dreams, but when I do, they sure are the weirdest.

1zsngx

Sheathed Feelings

In the shadows of the forest, they creeped. Shambling figures slowly marched forward. Their rotting flesh hanging off their marred humanoid torsos. Rusted weapons grasped in their cold dead hands. The cursed undead sentinels that haunted the forest. Cursed to undying hunger for flesh, they roamed. Elowin lined her bow arm against the length of an oakwood. Pressing her weight against the weight of the mossy bark, she felt connected to the forest. It calmed her. Kept her nerves in check. It was a trick her late father had taught him, to keep in touch with nature. It always had a calming effect. And the memory of her late father helped to remind her why she was here, doing this now. Her azure eyes lined up with one fat headed undead some distance away. The tip of her steel arrow lining up with the top of his skull, the only kill spot for these creatures. She took a deep breath, readied her shot, and then she heard his voice. “Bet you a silver piece you can’t get hit the far one in the distance.” Her eyes shifted just slightly, spotting the furthest of the targets. It was within a thick bramble of bushes and branches and was just barely visible. She was impressed that Dirk had the eyes to be able to spot it in the first place.  Her lips curved into a smirk. “Bet you two silver pieces I can.” She heard his warm laughter behind him. “OH you’re so on elf girl-“ TWIP! With just one small adjustment of her bow, her arrow went sailing through the air. It sailed past the first target, and past the several others, and struck with the thicket like a lightning bolt. SNIKT! It found its purchase. Like a flame snuffed out, the undead creature made no noise, only shambled down to the leafy ground below, falling to its eternal slumber. A whisp of smoke fumed from its body, showing the dark magic leaving it. Elowin turned around to face Dirk so she could see his reaction, and so he could see the smirk on her face. “Looks like you’re buying drinks again tonight, orc boy.” Behind him, she could see her other party members, a dwarven cleric called Rune who had her face planted in one palm, beside her was Chiggens, a goblin wizard who’s green face was turning red with anger, “That’s not the one you’re supposed to kill!!” He cursed at her. There was a loud howl from behind them, and Elowin glanced back to see her initial target’s jaws were now spread to ungodly widths as it bellowed a dark cry. A swirl of dark energy seemed to billow out of it. Elowin felt hazy for a moment as the dark magic spread. A fog began to rise from the ground. The last Elowin saw of the undead horde before them was all of them turning almost in unison towards the party before being completely concealed by the fog. “Dirk bumped into my elbow, messed up my shot!” she exclaimed. “Ha, nice one elf girl! Fine, I bet FOUR silver pieces I get more heads than you!” Dirk challenged d as he drew both of his battle axes in each hand. He charged forward into the fog, releasing the barbaric war cry of his people. “So much for an easy fucking job!” hollered Rune. “You were supposed to shoot the Howler!!” howled the goblin. “You both are gonna owe us each two silver!” hollered Rune again. Not sure why I should, Elowyn thought. She then strapped her bow to her back and reached down to her side where she gripped her longsword. In this fog, archery was now out of the question. It was time for some real steel. And she couldn’t let that cocky bastard think she was hiding behind him. Like a mad woman, but with less vocal fanfare than her comrade, she sprinted deeper into the fog. “No! Don’t go both charging into the blasted fog!” the cleric reprimanded behind her. “Since when did we have two barbarians in our party!” cried the wizard who was now stomping atop his spell book. The fog was thick, and Elowin knew through their own dark magic, that the creatures of the night no doubt could sense where she would be. But her pointed ears, a mark of her Elf ancestry, gave her keen enough hearing to be able to tell roughly where they would be as well. An advantage her partner Dirk certainly didn’t have, as she heard him roaring and swinging wildly ahead of her. She could hear him making short work of the trees around him. Her left ear twitched, sensing danger imminent. Swiftly she twisted out of the way of a rusted axe strike, and in one movement, unsheathed her sword and sliced a retaliation at her opponent, separating the undead arm from its body. With a second strike, she separated the skull. Now her right ear twitched as she heard the faint crunching of leaves, and like a viper, lashed out against a shadowy shape ahead of her. One swift strike, and its skull was split in two, sending the body toppling downwards. “That’s two already, not counting the one from earlier! Have you got any yet? You know you can’t pay me back in firewood, right?” Despite what she felt was a stingy insult, she could only hear the orc’s deep laughter through the chaos of battle. For whatever the reason, Dirk’s smile was the hardest thing to knock off the sturdy orc. “Could be I’m at twice that or thrice that, but I’ll have to count mine after the battle’s over sister!” “Sister!?” Elowin charged, though she wasn’t sure why that word bothered her. “Please, the gods spared me from having to share your good looks!” She winced as she could’ve sworn she heard at least one of Dirk’s war axes make contact with undead brain matter in the distance. “Ha, I’ve caught you staring at this handsome mug plenty of times Elf Girl!” Dirk shot back Elowin felt the heat enter her cheeks, “Oh you are delusional Orc Boy, you must’ve-“ she weaved out of the way of a strike-“-must’ve hit your head before combat, no wonder you confuse undead with trees!” She spun out of the way of another strike and parried with a thrust to the center of the skull. “That, plus you had the foolish audacity to challenge me to a bet!” “Sure is a lot of fucking talking for a combat session!” hollered their beloved cleric in the back. Elowin could also faintly hear the goblin Chiggens muttering the incantations for a spell to counter this fog. Then, Elowin’s entire body twitched in anticipation of a threat. Instinctively, she rolled to the side, feeling the pressure of a blade swinging above her. She was on her feet in a second and moved her blade up to protect herself, only to have it knocked out of her hands. She was too slow to dodge the next strike completely, and felt her arm being split open by steel as she then scrambled backwards on her ass. Before her stood a shadowy figure in the fog. It was her first target, the one she should’ve taken out before she took that stupid bet from Dirk. She tensed up, preparing to roll out of the way, when she saw the shadow suddenly being lifted, replaced by another equally big shadow, and then being dropped backwards as Dirk planted it straight onto its skull. She heard the skull splattering apart on the hard ground. It was at that instant when the fog suddenly began to dissipate. Either by the goblin’s wizardry or because the caster of the initial spell was now planted into the ground like a signpost. Dirk glanced back at Elowin, reaching out with a cheeky grin, “Close one eh? Did my smack talk get you distracted?” She couldn’t help but smirk at his smile, his dumb toothy grin, and she smacked his hand out of the way. “Nope, just giving you a chance to catch up.” “Are you two done yet?” Rune was suddenly upon them, perhaps her cleric calling instantly brought her to Elowin as she placed an ungloved palm upon the arm and muttered an incantation in her mother language. Within an instant, Elowin’s pain was gone, and the wound was closed. Chiggens walked up to them handing Elowin her sword. He was an older goblin, and had grey whiskers to show for it. And his stern face gave any lecturing teacher a run for their money as he scolded Elowin and Dirk both. “You are both being careless! For gods sake, I told you before these aren’t just any normal undead and we have a system we need to follow!” “Why, the Howler is dead already,” Elowin pointed at the makeshift undead signpost. “Yes, yes, but after the Howler we have to deal with the Swarmer- Oh by the gods -“ A mound of undead flesh that Elowin had already slain slid by them. As did all of the undead they had slain, including the signpost, as they were all pulled backwards as if on a string towards one small undead in the clearing. It was doing a little dance, a summoning of such, and the flesh from the slain began to pile and morph atop it. The flesh began to mold around itself, and soon, there was a towering humanoid form, with no head to speak of in which to silence it. Chiggens gave Elowin a glare that reminded her of her first ever scolding, and brought back those shameful feelings again. “Right, first the Howler and then the Swarmer. Now we know.” Elowin repeated dutifully. “That one counts as five heads,” Dirk declared. Elowin thought for a bit. “Deal.” Despite having no mouth to scream, the hulking undead mass managed to let out some sort of roar that shook the very trees, and then mightily charged forward. And despite often not acting like a team, the four adventurers sprang at once, darting away in four different directions to divert the creature’s attention. Chiggens began to unleash spells of fire bolts that struck the hulk in different areas, searching for a weak spot as it slowly burnt away its flesh armor. Elowin and Dirk danced around the creature with their blades and axes, striking the openings that Chiggens had created. The hulk’s mangy fists often seemed to never find direct purchase on the two, as Rune chanted protective incantations from a hiding spot to shield her two comrades. Eventually a fire bolt seemed to undo a string within the collection of undead bodies, as a chunk of it slid off, and Dirk saw for the briefest moment the head of the Swarmer underneath. He raised his axe in excitement and roared a fearsome war cry, only to be cut short as Elowin’s blade flew past him, and found purchase in the creature’s skull. Like a crumbing tower, the undead mass fell to pieces, and the undead to their slumber. Dirk gazed behind him to see Elowin dusting her hands off. He smiled, “Quite a gutsy move throwing your weapon like that. Quite unusual for an elf girl.” “Yeah, unfortunately you might be rubbing off on me,” Elowin stated with a smirk. The battle was over. A giant bonfire of undead flesh was set ablaze in a controlled fire by Chiggens, as Rune uttered one last prayer of protection for the forest. Dirk was off looking for the war axe he somehow lost the grip on during the fight, and Elowin had just collected her last arrow, when she turned and saw her two companions staring at her with judgment in their eyes. They stood with crossed arms like two statues. Two mightily disappointed statues. Elowin shrugged, “Ehem, what seems to be the problem?” “Oh, come on, things may not have gone as planned but we got the end result we wanted! We won! And now we can go back to town and collect our rewards and fill our bellies and sleep heartily! I don’t see what the big problem is.” “You,” Rune started. “You’re the problem!” Chiggens finished. Now Elowin gave them both a cold glare. “Me? I’m sorry, why am I getting all the grief?” “Because you’re the smart one, and recently, you’ve become more careless,” Rune stated. “There was a system! We had a plan!” Chiggens shouted. Elowin ignored the goblin as she returned her last arrow to her quiver, “And why must I always be the smart one?” “Because you’re our leader,” Rune stated. “And there’s more to this, to all of this, then this one mission. You know what we’re building towards, you know what we’re going to be going against one day. You, me, and Chiggens, this isn’t just a one-time adventure. You know what we’re after.” Revenge. Elowin thought. The three of them, elf, goblin, and dwarf, normally wouldn’t adventure together, if it wasn’t for one common thing to unite them. All three of their homes had been burned down by the Pale King. A mad man hellbent on destruction. She knew that these adventures, these quests, were meant to fill their pockets so they could hire their own mercenary gang to hunt that bastard down. She played with the end of her bow, sticking it in the ground over and over as if to stick the conversation to the ground. “I still don’t see what the problem is. Dirk may be stupid, but he seems worth the investment.” “But he’s changing the way you operate; it doesn’t seem like you care anymore!” Rune stammered. “You’ve lost track of your vision! If we died today, because of your carelessness, our loved ones will never be avenged!” Chiggens retorted. “You think I don’t know that!” Elowin snapped. “You think I don’t think about that every, cursed moment! I barely have enough time to breath without being reminded of what he’s done!!” Her icy glare dug daggers into her friends’ hearts, but they held their ground, giving her a stern glare back. And despite the fierceness of them, Elowin could see the concern reflected in them. Her eyes fell to the ground with a heavy sigh. “Alright look, maybe you’re right, maybe I have been a little…distracted…but it’s all just been so…draining these last few years. Our task just feels so…heavy all the time now. Sometimes, I just don’t want to think…and I just want to feel… something again. But you’re right, I’m sorry. I have been careless.” Her two comrades shared guilty expressions towards each other. Slowly, their crossed arms came down together. “Maybe we’ve been a little too hard,” Rune stated. “Perhaps…just a bit too much,” Chiggens agreed. The three stood in silence for a while longer, just as Dirk came trudging up between them all. Wielding only one axe and hoisting a giant branch on his shoulders. “So, I couldn’t find my other axe, but I did find this cool stick? Think I’ll use it instead,” His dumb toothy grin faded a bit as he read their faces. “What’s with all the glum looks?” “Nothing,” said Elowin quickly. “So, what was your final tally?” Dirk grinned, “Well, despite losing out on the big one, I count eight heads total.” Elowin smirked. “Well, well, looks like you’re buying the drinks tonight, orc boy.” With that, Elowin trudged ahead with Dirk, with Rune and Chiggens following behind. She put the battlefield, as well as any stressful thoughts on the future on hold, and simply enjoyed the moment. 

5s35kh

The Tower

The funeral had gone by faster than they’d all expected. The four sat in the den, each in spots they’d always picked growing up. A fire was going. They passed around a bottle of cheap whiskey. Instead of their late grandfather a fat tabby sat in the large high backed chair, sleeping gently, completely ignorant to the fact that its owner was now six feet under. “So, I don’t know about you guys, but I’m sleeping here tonight,” said Virgil. They all nodded. There was definitely enough space. Evan looked towards the rain pattering on the small porthole window. He always sat on the couch with Nell. “Tomorrow do we need to do anything?” Winter said, “Just start going through things. Finding what we want to keep or sell. What might need to be donated to a museum.” Virgil laughed. “Why would a museum want any of Grandpa’s stuff?” “He wasn’t Stephen King or anything but Claw in the Night was a hit. His books sold well enough to sustain us. Some of his stuff might be important,” she replied. Virgil nodded. “I suppose that’s possible.” “I can’t believe he’s gone.” Nell sighed. They had all known their patriarch would die one day, but he was the only parent any of them had. This whole horrible process had been more exhausting than they could’ve imagined. So exhausting none of them had even cried, they were just numb. “Grandpa would’ve loved tonight. He loved nights like this.” They collectively nodded. He had been a romantic. He loved warm fires, rain, and pipe tobacco. He would have been puffing away like Gandalf over in his throne as they all discussed whatever came to mind. They shared a few more memories. Some funny, a few sad, and some poignant. Then as the whiskey got low, and the fire burned down, they slowly slunk off to various bedrooms. No one really wanted to let the night go, because as soon as they fell asleep they knew he was finally gone. - Winter had imbibed the least amount of bourbon and woke up first. Almost immediately she began making a fatty breakfast to help ward off any hangovers. Slowly the rest arose. By noon they had consumed all the bacon and coffee. They sat around the big wooden table in the dining room. In turns, they began to cry. Winter started it off because Virgil had reminded them what a bad cook Grandpa was, evidenced by the first but not last time he tried to make pancakes. He set off the smoke detector. This story got them all laughing except for Winter. “I miss him. He’s only been gone a few days and I miss him so much,” she squeaked out between sobs. And the seal on their hurt was broken. The tears flowed. None of them really wanted to start the hard work of going through everything. They set up camp in the living room where the only television in the house had ever been. Grandpa had never upgraded past VCR or tube tv. But he had loved movies and had an entire closet dedicated to an extensive VHS collection. They took turns selecting films from the closet and decided to binge out the day with a selection of classics the old man had loved. “Since it’s fall I’m gonna suggest we stick mostly with horror films,” Evan announced as he popped in An American Werewolf in London. They were halfway through the original Fright Night when Winter started feeling ansy. As the oldest she often felt set apart from the others. She was the only one that had consistent memories of their parents, who had died in a car crash when she was five She got up and started looking around the house for photos. She knew there were shoeboxes full somewhere. Grandpa wasn’t messy but he also had not been organized. Eventually she found them in the attic, which wasn’t so much an attic as a massive workspace for Grandpa. He had never stopped writing with typewriters, and there were several strewn about across large old desks. There were also all his books on numerous shelves and a couple old overstuffed chairs. Winter had always loved this room. It smelled like books and pipe tobacco -- it smelled like Grandpa. He had always been home whenever they needed him because he was always up here working. The shoeboxes were all inside a big old green trunk off in the corner. She slowly began looking at each photo. Lots of them were of Grandpa and Grandma when they were young parents. Grandma had died of pancreatic cancer when their dad was in high school. Also lots of photos of Uncle Steve, who had died in the first Gulf War before any of them were born. Winter finally stopped on one picture though. It was a picture of Uncle Steve, his wife Virginia, Mom, Dad, and Grandpa. They were all on the Oregon coast at a restaurant that Grandpa loved. It was called Stewbies and every time they went to the beach Grandpa wanted to eat there. They served all kinds of food but they specialized in seafood, which Grandpa loved. He was originally from New England and had grown up eating lobster and clams. She couldn’t think of another time she’d seen a picture of the five of them together. Virginia had died several years after Uncle Steve, according to Grandpa his death in Iraq had caused her life to spiral and she just didn’t recover. Winter kept staring at it in the quiet of the attic. Imagining a different life. A life with an aunt and uncle, and parents. A life with normal holidays and cousins. She was lost in an imaginary past when she noticed something odd. There was the tip of a tower in the distance behind the large conifer trees that surrounded the back of the restaurant. Not the top of a large building, but an actual tower. An ancient-looking tower built from stone. Not much was visible but it clearly was not a modern building. The top came to a violent point in a gothic design. She couldn’t stop looking at it. It clearly didn’t belong. She quickly walked down the stairs to the living room and turned off the TV. “Hey! That’s the best part!” Virgil exclaimed right before a vampire exploded into flames. “Sorry, but this is more important, I found this photo of the family at Stewbies, and there’s something weird about it.” “Sis, I don’t have the energy for any weirdness today,” said Virgil. “Just look at it, please.” Virgil sighed. Evan got up and looked at the photo. “This is weird, I don’t think I’ve ever seen the 5 of them together before.” “Yes, but that’s not what’s really strange.” Evan kept looking but he didn’t notice the tower. He shrugged and handed the photo to Nell. Nell didn’t see it either, but Virgil did. “There should not be a tower there,” Virgil said, deadly serious. “There’s no buildings behind Stewbies, it’s just forest for miles.” At this, Nell and Evan rushed over to the photo. They held it between the four of them like little children with a collective Christmas present. The emotional exhaustion was forgotten. “Well, this was before we were all born. Maybe there was a tower there? From like the pioneer era,” said Evan. Virgil looked at him quizzically. “There’s no way that’s from the pioneer era.” “How can you tell? It’s barely visible.” “Look there’s only one way we’re gonna figure this out, we have to go to Stewbies. It’s only a few hours away,” said Nell. “But we know there isn’t a tower there, we’ve been there probably a hundred times over the years. There’s no buildings back there. I bet if we keep looking through the pictures we’ll find one of all of us in front of it, and there’s no way there’s a tower back there.” Winter took them upstairs to the boxes of photos, and they began carefully looking through them. After an hour of searching, they found three other photos taken in front of Stewbies. In two of them, there was no tower, but in the third the tower was there. It looked slightly different, a little smaller but it was definitely the same tower. “Okay, so this doesn’t make any sense. The oldest picture and the newest picture have the tower in it. But the other two don’t.” They laid them out in what they thought was chronological order. The two middle ones had people in them they weren’t related to. “I think this one is of Grandpa and his agent,” said Nell. Evan pointed at the next one “This one has a couple people from church. I recognize those guys, but I can’t remember their names.” And the last one was of the five of them. Just a few years ago. “That was the last time I think we were all together,” said Evan. “If the tower is really there shouldn’t we be able to see it in all these photos? They’re all taken from about the same angle,” asked Winter. “Yes,” said Virgil, “but I think what’s really weird isn’t just that but that it only appears when Grandpa is there with four people he’s related to.” “Bro, you can’t possibly know that,” said Evan. “Well not with any scientific certainty, but look, there’s four photos all basically from the same angle. And the only time the tower appears is with our family, exactly five people each time.” “Appears? Like it’s some kind of magic tower that comes and goes when Grandpa’s family is around?” At the words “magic tower,” they all felt a chill. It was an eerie idea. “We need to go see if it’s there,” said Evan. “Okay,” Winter conceded, “let’s take Grandpa’s car.” - The Buick Le Sabre pulled into the parking lot of Stewbies a little before 7. There were some locals parked in the lot, but nothing like the dinner rush they were used to with this restaurant. “Anybody hungry?” asked Evan. “Come on man,” said Virgil. He had been getting on his nerves the whole car trip. “We’ve got more important stuff to do.” The Pacific Ocean roared behind them as they got out and strained their eyes, trying to see this mysterious tower. “The spot where the photos were taken must have been about here.” Evan pointed to a spot in the parking lot about 20 feet in front of the steps leading up to the restaurant. The sun was setting behind them making it difficult to distinguish between the treetops and anything else that may or may not be there. “I don’t see anything,” said Virgil. None of them could see anything resembling a tower. “We could stay nearby tonight and check in the morning,” said Winter. Evan pulled out his phone. “I’m going to check on Google Maps and see if there’s anything behind those trees.” He started to scroll around looking for anything. Nell and Winter went inside to get a table while they decided what to do. When they got to the entrance, a waitress was standing off to the side texting on her phone. “Excuse me, miss, can we get a table?” She said, “Sure, you can sit wherever you want. Slow night.” They sat in a corner booth. A few minutes later the brothers came in and sat next them. Evan was still looking on Google Maps, trying to find any evidence of a tower. The waitress came back looking for their orders. Instead, Virgil said, “Hey, this is gonna sound weird, but we’re actually here because--” and he filled her in on their weird quest for the tower. After taking it all in she said “I don’t know anything about a tower. But sometimes there’s a ren fair in those woods. They might erect some kind of old looking structure that could be confused with a tower.” Pausing, she then asked, “Do you guys know what you want?” “Sorry, just give us another minute,” said Virgil. The lady walked away and Nell turned to them. “Guys, I’m really hungry, we’re in mourning we need to eat and this is super weird. Can we just eat, relieve some memories and go?” “I found it!” exclaimed Evan, disturbing a couple several tables away. He put his phone in the middle of the table and showed them the spot on Google Maps. After looking at it Nell said exasperatedly, “That’s not a tower! That’s just an area where there’s no trees. What do they call that? A glade or something?” Evan excitedly explained that he had worked out the math and that glade was where a tower would be if it was visible from the restaurant. “And I’ve estimated the minimum width, and that matches, too.” Nell looked at him skeptically. But Virgil spoke up “He is an engineer, and a damn good one. He might be right.” “Okay but this tower appears and reappears? Don’t you think the Renaissance fair thing is more likely?” Nell said, tired. Winter was more on Nell’s side at this point, but even she knew that didn’t match up. “Come on, you know no ren faire is erecting something like that.” She nodded, surrendering, “Okay, so can we eat? And then go look for this spot?” “Tonight?” Winter said, surprised. “Look at their eyes; they’ve got that wanderlust or whatever you call it,” Nell said, pointing at her brothers, who were still pouring over the cell phone. - A few fish and chip dinners later, the four of them were trudging through the woods behind the restaurant. “Why can’t we do this tomorrow?” Nell said. “It’s more fun at night,” Evan practically giggled. “Boys are weird,” Nell said. “What’s really weird and a bit sad is they’re both grown men,” Winter practically snarled. “No one is making you guys come along,” Virgil quipped. “What’s weirdest about this is I know how happy Grandpa would be if he knew we were doing.” In the darkness, they all smiled, because they knew it was true. The clearing was not that far from the restaurant. But because there was no path, it took them a few hours. They had to be careful as they moved around the tree to not twist an ankle on a root or rock. But eventually, they found the clearing. It certainly looked manmade. The trees formed a suspiciously neat circle. It was about 80 feet in diameter. The moon was shining through some clouds, and it lit up the ground. They walked around the perimeter, two on each side looking for anything. “What are we looking for?” Nell asked. “Anything weird or unusual,” Evan replied. “LIke a bunch of orphans wandering around the woods at night?” Winter said wryly. Then Virgil saw something in the center of the glade. It looked like some kind of symbol, but he couldn't quite make it out. Without saying anything to anyone, he quietly walked out to it. It looked like a pentagram had been spray-painted over some freshly dug dirt. “Hey guys, come here. I think I found something.” The other three scurried over and gasped. “Isn’t that a symbol for witchcraft?” Nell said. “Sometimes,” Evan replied. The symbol was about 3 feet across and had been made with white paint. “Clearly, someone dug up the ground here to bury something.” “It’s probably an animal sacrifice or maybe a baby!” Nell cried. “Well let’s find out,” Evan said, and he got down on his hands and knees to start digging at the dirt. “Stop that! We need to call the police,” Winter said, but Virgil had already started in as well. “The police? We don’t even know if a crime has been committed. This was buried not that long ago, you can even smell the paint fumes a little bit still.” They both broke up the white pentagram with their hands and quickly found what was buried there. Only a few inches under the soft soil they found a large box wrapped in newspaper. Hurriedly they tore the paper off and found a book. It was large and made from aged leather, no title. “This is absolutely wild! Open it up,” Winter said, pulling out her phone to illuminate the pages as they began to flip through. It was completely handwritten in cursive. They found the title several pages in, it was simply called, “The Tower.” A few pages after that, they found this dedication: “To Winter, Virgil, Nell, and Evan. When my boys died, I wasn’t sure I would be able to love again. But you four opened my heart forever. I couldn’t have asked for better children. I hope you’re as proud to be my children as I was to be your father.” Winter read it out loud. Nobody else said anything. Each word seemed to last a lifetime. A few pages later, they found an explanation that the photos had been photoshopped so that they would be led on this treasure hunt. Grandpa’s explanation was simple: “After my sons and daughters-in-law were taken from me, I had a dream of a tower made of darkness. It cast a shadow over me, and that shadow was death. If you’re reading this, it's because I, too, have died, and my agent carried out my last wishes by arranging all this. The shadow of death hangs over you right now, but it won’t always. Make sure my agent gets this manuscript, I think it’s the best thing I’ve ever written and no one else has seen it yet. Hopefully the sales can help you all in the years to come. Never forget how much I love you.” They stood there in the moonlight, stuck in the best kind of shock. Nell looked up into the dark night and said what they were all thinking. “I miss you so much.” Tears ran down their cheeks and onto smiles. 

vb5p0h

AMBER AND THE SECRETS OF CEDAR HOLLOW

A young and adventurous fox arrived in Cedar Hollow on a chilly autumn day. Amber had a sleek, agile frame with vibrant reddish-orange fur glistening in the autumn sun. Her sharp, curious eyes had a deep amber color, matching her name, and they sparkled with intelligence and determination. Bushy tail, tipped with white, swayed as she moved, and her pointed ears were always alert, twitching at the slightest sound. She wore a small satchel over her shoulder, filled with notes and small trinkets she had collected on her journey. The air around her was crisp, filled with pine and the promise of rain. Amber had come to the town to investigate the mysterious disappearance of her cousin, Goldilocks. She had always been close to Goldilocks, like a sister. The thought of losing her to something sinister drove Amber's determination. Goldilocks lived in Cedar Hollow before vanishing without a trace. Amber had heard whispers of the town's eerie past and the powerful Beren family and was determined to uncover the truth. From the moment she set paw in Cedar Hollow, Amber felt the unease that seemed to permeate the air. The forest creatures were kind but guarded, their eyes flicking towards the Beren den whenever she asked about Goldilocks or the town's history. It was clear they were hiding something. Amber first approached the local grocer, a squirrel named Sam, who always seemed to be in a hurry, darting from one place to another with nervous energy. Sam was a small, lively squirrel with a soft, chestnut-brown fur coat. His fur had a slight sheen, indicating he took good care of himself despite his nervous demeanor. Large, round eyes were a deep, chocolate brown. He constantly darted around, always on high alert. Sam's bushy tail flicked back and forth restlessly as he moved. He wore a simple green apron, slightly too big for his petite frame, with the name "Sam" embroidered in white. His small paws were quick and agile, perfect for handling the various goods in his store, but they fidget nervously as he spoke to Amber. "Sam," Amber began casually, "I'm looking for information about my cousin, Goldilocks. She disappeared recently, and I'm trying to find her." Sam's eyes widened slightly, and he glanced around before responding. "Goldilocks? She was a nice fox, always polite. But... it's best if you don't ask too many questions, Amber. The Beren family doesn't take kindly to curiosity." Undeterred, Amber pressed on. "What do you mean? Did something happen to her because of the Berens?" Sam shook his head vigorously, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I can't say more. Just be careful, alright?" Feeling frustrated but determined, Amber visited the town's library, hoping to find more clues. There, she met Harriet, a hedgehog who served as the librarian. Harriet looked like a dignified and gentle hedgehog with a presence that exuded both warmth and wisdom. Her spines, a mix of deep brown and creamy white, were neatly groomed and arranged in a tidy, almost regal manner. Harriet's small, round eyes were a soft hazel, framed by tiny, wire-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of her snout. These spectacles often slid down, requiring a gentle nudge back into place with her delicate paw. Her attire was modest yet elegant. It consisted of a deep maroon cardigan over a simple cream-colored dress, with pockets that seemed to hold endless bookmarks and tiny pencils. A thin, gold chain hung around her neck, ending in a small locket she occasionally touched absentmindedly while deep in thought. Harriet's voice was soothing, with a slight musical lilt that made listening to her speak a comforting experience. "Harriet," Amber said as she approached the desk, "I'm trying to learn more about the history of Cedar Hollow and the Beren family. Can you help me?" Harriet looked around nervously before motioning for Amber to follow her to a secluded corner of the library. "The Berens have controlled Cedar Hollow for as long as anyone can remember. But they are dangerous." Amber's eyes widened. "Dangerous? How?" Harriet sighed, her quills bristling slightly. "No one knows the details, but the Berens' power comes from a deal made with dark forces. Those who get too close to the truth... well, they vanish." Amber thanked Harriet and left the library. As she continued her search, she encountered various animals, each providing pieces of the puzzle. A jittery rabbit named Rosie whispered about seeing strange lights and eerie chants from the Beren den at night. A brave deer named Daniel mentioned finding claw marks and strange symbols carved into trees near the den. One evening, while exploring the outskirts of the town, Amber met an old owl named Oliver, eyes clouded with age but sharp with memory. Oliver had once been a respected scholar of ancient magic and now lived in seclusion at the forest's edge. "You're brave to seek the truth, young fox," Oliver said, his voice a husky whisper. "The Berens... they made a pact long ago. Dark magic binds them, and those who get too close... well, they don't come back." Amber's ears perked up. "Is there any way to break the dark magic?" Oliver nodded slowly. "There is a way. Ancient spells can break the enchantments that bind. Remember these words: 'Mystical forces that bind, release your hold, and unwind.' Say this spell with conviction, and you may be able to free those trapped by dark magic." Amber etched the words into her memory, thanking Oliver for his help. As she left, the storm clouds began to gather. That night, a storm rolled in. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and rain began to pour in torrents. Amber pulled her cloak tighter around herself, her fur bristling against the cold, and looked for shelter. She noticed a path leading deeper into the wood. She decided to follow it, her sharp ears picking up the distant sound of rushing water. After trudging through the rain-soaked forest, her paws squelching in the mud, Amber stumbled upon a grand den. The entrance looked overgrown with vines, almost hidden from view, but it provided the shelter she desperately needed. She pushed the heavy wooden door open and stepped inside, shaking off the rain and sniffing the air. The den felt eerily familiar, as if she had heard about it in a story long ago. Inside, she found three chairs of varying sizes around a cozy fireplace. Her stomach growled as the scent of freshly cooked porridge wafted through the air. On a nearby table were three bowls of porridge – one large, one medium, and one small. "Strange," Amber muttered as she looked around, eyes scanning the room. "This looks just like the story. Could it be real?" Driven by hunger, Amber tasted the porridge from the large bowl. "Too hot," she said, moving to the medium bowl. "Too cold." Finally, she tried the small bowl. "Just right," she murmured, finishing the bowl and licking her whiskers clean. Feeling drowsy, she noticed the three chairs. Suddenly, tiredness caught up with her. The large chair was too hard, and the medium chair was too soft, but the small one was right. She settled in, but soon, the chair broke under her weight. Startled, she flicked her tail and looked around for a resting place. Amber entered a bedroom with three beds – one large, one medium, and one small. She tried the large bed. "Too hard," she said, moving to the medium bed. "Too soft." Finally, she tried the small bed. "Just right," she whispered, curling up with her bushy tail wrapped around her and falling into a deep sleep. As Amber slept, the Beren family returned home. Edward Beren, the patriarch, Mama Beren, and their son, Baby Beren, noticed the open door and the muddy paw prints leading inside. Their large paws thumbed softly on the wooden floor as they exchanged suspicious glances. "Someone's been here," Edward growled, his keen nose twitching as he sniffed the air. The family entered the dining area and saw the bowls of porridge. "Someone's been eating my porridge," Edward said, looking at his large bowl. "Someone's been eating my porridge," Mama Beren added, glancing at her medium bowl. "And someone's been eating my porridge," Baby Beren exclaimed, "and they've eaten it all up!" They moved to the living room and saw the chairs. "Someone's been sitting in my chair," Edward said, eyeing his large chair. "Someone's been sitting in my chair," Mama Beren said, frowning at her medium chair. "And someone's been sitting in my chair," Baby Beren cried, "and they've broken it!" Growing more suspicious, the family moved to the bedroom. "Someone's been sleeping in my bed," Edward growled, his eyes narrowing at the large bed. "Someone's been sleeping in my bed," Mama Beren added, glancing at her medium bed. "And someone's sleeping in my bed!" Baby Beren exclaimed. Amber awoke with a start to find the three bears towering over her, their eyes filled with suspicion and anger. She quickly scrambled out of the bed, her heart pounding in her chest and her fur standing on end. "Who are you, and what are you doing in our den?" Edward demanded, his voice a low rumble. "I'm Amber," she stammered. "I got caught in the storm and needed shelter. I didn't mean any harm." Edward's eyes narrowed. "You're the fox who's been asking questions about our family. Why are you here?" Amber took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves. "I'm looking for my cousin, Goldilocks. She disappeared after investigating your family. I want to know what happened to her." The room fell silent. Then Edward leaned forward, his smile turning sinister. "Some secrets are best left buried, Miss Amber." Before she could react, Mama Beren and Baby Beren blocked her escape. Amber realized too late the danger she had put herself in. But she was determined to see this through, no matter the cost. They passed a dining area where the porridge bowls still sat, the remains of her meal left behind. They continued down a long corridor lined with portraits of Beren's ancestors, their eyes following her every move. Finally, they reached a heavy door adorned with strange symbols. Edward unlocked it and gestured for Amber to enter. In the hidden chamber, Amber's eyes widened in horror. There, encased in a crystalline prison and surrounded by flickering candles, was Goldilocks. Her cousin's face was pale, her eyes closed, and her body suspended in an enchanted slumber. "Goldilocks!" Amber whispered, rushing forward. She could feel the dark magic that held her cousin captive, a sinister force that seemed to writhe and twist in the air around them. Despite being a fox, Goldilocks earned her nickname due to her striking golden fur, which shimmered in the sunlight, like the legendary figure from the old tales. She had always been adventurous and curious, traits that now seemed to have led her into grave danger. "She was too curious for her good," Edward said, echoing in the chamber. "And now, so are you." Amber's mind raced. She had to free Goldilocks and escape. She touched the crystal, feeling the cold, unyielding surface beneath her paw. Edward didn't stop her. There was no reason for that. She could not escape. At least, that is what Edward thought. Summoning all her courage, she remembered the spell Oliver had taught her. "Mystical forces that bind release your hold, and unwind," Amber chanted, her voice steady and strong. The crystal prison began to crack, light seeping through the fissures. The dark energy recoiled, and the crystal exploded with a final shattering sound, freeing Goldilocks. She collapsed into Amber's arms, weak but alive. "We need to get out of here," Amber urged, helping Goldilocks to her feet. "I've uncovered their secret, and we must expose them." Using the moment of shock that struck Edward, Amber, and Goldilocks ran forward with a narrow passage in front of them. Everything happened in the blink of an eye. Edward, the towering patriarch of the Beren family, roared in fury, his deep, guttural voice reverberating through the den-like thunder. His eyes burned with rage, and his massive frame moved with surprising speed as he chased the two foxes through the winding passages of the den. Amber led the way, her lithe body darting through the narrow, dark corridors. Her fur bristled with adrenaline, and her amber eyes glowed with determination. Goldilocks, behind Amber, followed her cousin's lead, her golden fur a stark contrast against the dimly lit surroundings. She moved quickly but with an underlying sense of panic, glancing back frequently to see the ominous shadow of Edward growing ever closer. Her breath came in quick, shallow gasps, the fear of being caught evident in her eyes. The corridors were narrow and claustrophobic, with rough-hewn stone walls that seemed to close in around them. The air was cool and damp, filled with the musty scent of earth and old wood. Dim, flickering torches cast eerie shadows, making the passages seem even more ominous and disorienting. The sound of the chase was a cacophony of frantic footsteps, heavy breaths, and Edward's terrifying, guttural growls. His heavy footsteps thudded against the ground, each one sending a jolt of fear through the foxes. His growls echoed off the stone walls, a constant reminder of the danger behind them. As they twisted and turned through the maze-like passages, Amber's mind raced, searching for a way out. She could feel Edward's presence growing closer, his rage palpable. But she didn't let fear take over. Instead, she focused on the path ahead, her sharp instincts leading her and Goldilocks through the dangerous chase. Just as Edward was about to catch up, Amber spotted a narrow passage behind one of the ritual altars. Thinking quickly, she grabbed an ancient candlestick and swung it at Edward, causing a momentary distraction. "Go, now!" Amber shouted, pushing Goldilocks towards the passage. The passage was dark and winding, leading deeper into the bowels of the den. Amber and Goldilocks could hear the Berens' angry shouts echoing behind them. They pressed on, their fear fueling their determination. As they rounded another corner, Amber spotted a faint glimmer of light up ahead. It was their chance, their way out. Summoning every ounce of strength and courage, she urged Goldilocks to keep up. The light grew brighter, and the exit was within reach. With a final burst of speed, Amber and Goldilocks sprinted toward the light, their hearts pounding with hope and fear. The exit was just a few steps away, the promise of freedom within their grasp. "We're going to make it," Goldilocks panted, hope rekindling in her eyes. The narrow corridor eventually led them to a hidden exit behind the den, covered by overgrown ivy. Amber and Goldilocks pushed through the dense foliage and emerged into the stormy night. They sprinted through the wood, their paws sinking into the mud, the rain soaking them to the bone, and the cold wind cutting at their fur. "We have to reach the town and tell everyone," Amber said, her voice unwavering. As they approached the forest's edge, the storm began to decrease. The rain lightened, and the howling wind calmed, leaving a trail of wet leaves and broken branches in their wake. The town square was just ahead, its lights glowing warmly against the dark backdrop of the night. They stumbled into the town square, breathless and disheveled but with a fire in their eyes. The forest creatures gathered around, their curiosity piqued by the sight of the two bedraggled foxes. Amber and Goldilocks began to recount their harrowing ordeal – the dark rituals, the hidden chamber, and the Berens' twisted secrets. Their voices filled with urgency and conviction, and the town listened intently. Goldilocks spoke, her voice trembling but strong. "They trapped me in a crystal prison. If it weren't for Amber, I might still be there." The evidence was undeniable, and the town was shocked into action. Murmurs of outrage and fear spread through the crowd. Authorities were called in, and an investigation was launched. The Berens were arrested, their roars of protest echoing through the forest as they were led away. The den was searched thoroughly, and the hidden chamber and its horrifying contents were revealed to the world, bringing an end to the family's reign of terror. The tale of Goldilocks and the Three Bears took on a new meaning in Cedar Hollow, not just as a children's story but as a reminder of the dark secrets that can lie hidden in even the most seemingly benevolent places. As they walked away from Cedar Hollow, Goldilocks turned to Amber, her eyes filled with gratitude. "Thank you, Amber. You saved my life." Amber squeezed her cousin's paw. "We saved each other," she replied with a smile. "And we brought the truth to light. That's what matters most." Goldilocks nodded, her eyes brimming with tears. "I couldn't have done it without you." Amber smiled, her tail swishing lightly. "We'll always have each other, no matter what." So, Amber, the modern-day Goldilocks, left Cedar Hollow with her cousin, unmasking the real, terrifying bears and restoring a sense of truth and justice to the haunted forest.

kuhizq

Never Too Late

Rick was 8 years old when we met. He was in my Cub Scout den with my two sons. His parents were the first friends I made when I moved into a home across the street, and they soon became my second family. His dad was a 'Southern Gentleman' who went into the military and came home with a lovely French woman; a more perfect couple you've never met. Rick’s mom was my idol…so smart. There was nothing she couldn’t do by herself when her husband traveled. But she was a helpless kitten when he was home. Hubby, totally unaware of her kind deception, was very protective and doting, as Southern Gentlemen are. The other thing Military/Southern Gentlemen sometimes seem to be is extremely traditional, old-fashioned, and rigid in their sense of right and wrong regarding acceptable behavior for men and women... an important part of the story. Move forward 13 years. That summer Rick turned 21 as I turned 40. In those 13 interim years we developed a very nice friendship…and it did not go unnoticed that this now 6'2" young man had matured into a very attractive, extremely bright “hunk”, with two college degrees and a couple of foreign languages under his belt. One hot afternoon, the phone rang. It was Rick and I told him, without him asking, that my son, Rick’s friend, would be home soon so he should call back. We hung up and about 15 minutes later, the phone rang again. I heard Rick's voice again and told him 'he's not home yet, Rick'. He said 'okay' and hung up. Ten minutes passed; the phone rang a third time. When I answered and heard Rick's voice again, I started to laugh and it was then that he said, almost inaudibly, that my son wasn't the one he was calling. "You're kidding" I laughed again. "Well, what a goofball! Why didn't you say something when I kept telling you he wasn't home?" "I was trying to get my nerve up." "Nerve for what?" "I want to tell you...ask you…something, and I'm afraid you won't take me seriously." "Oh stop…of course I will, silly! Tell me." What I heard next left me temporarily immobile and speechless. "...really intense feelings” ... “fantasized since 11” ... "get together” … “say yes...please..." Either five seconds or an hour passed, and Rick spoke again... "You're killing me. Say something." To say I was stunned is putting it mildly. And of all the stupid things I could have said, “thank you” was what squeaked out of my mouth! And for the next 30 minutes, I offered a litany of reasons why this crazy idea was not a good idea. "Rick, I am so flattered...but..."I would be considered a pervert, a child molester! Your parents are my best friends…you should see women your own age. If your parents or my sons found out, we'd have to leave the country … your father would kill both of us and toss us in the ocean!” And then I admitted my biggest fear of all…that I would let him down... disappoint him. Rick had a reply for every objection, and, at the end of my spiel, he told me there was nothing I could do to change his mind about me...he thought I was sexy, bright, fun, easy to talk to, and if I would grant his wish, it couldn't be anything but wonderful and his life would be complete. The pressure was intense. I heard a nervous giggle escape from my lips. I was thinking about how his voice suddenly sounded so mature. Could I do this? Should I do this? After much back and forth, I reluctantly agreed to "think about it" and would give him an answer by Saturday. For three days “it” was all I could think about. By Thursday Rick called back …he wanted to know how the 'thinking' was going. Against my better judgement, I agreed to meet him to just talk . We were going to meet at a nice, quiet, local bar on the beach on Saturday. I was to bring all my objections... he would bring his reasons and his abundant charm. Saying no wasn't going to be easy... It's Saturday. I stepped into the candled piano lounge and surveyed the room. It felt surreal. I'd been here before with men my own age, but this was different, and second thoughts were duking it out with my curiosity and ego. Second thoughts lost the battle, and I walked over to the table where a Rick I barely recognized sat waiting. I expected to find him in Bermuda shorts, sockless Birkenstocks, with a two-day shadow, and on his third beer. What I found was clean shaven young man, wearing a suit, smelling good, and with only one beer, “for courage” he confessed later. He jumped up, pulled out my chair, motioned to the waiter, and told me how great I looked, and joked about us leaving right away. I laughed because, even though I showed up, I never intended anything to come of this. I was going to explain again how this was a very bad idea, that I didn't want to ruin his fantasy. I had a 40-year-old body, nothing like the 20-year-olds he dated. Then I would make sure he understood how flattered I was and that, under any other circumstances, I would love to be with him. Instead, I sat for over an hour listening as this young man spoke of everything but our getting together. He dazzled me with his real-world savvy and maturity. This guy, who wore underwear on his head at almost every family gathering, startled me with his depth, integrity, and, of all things...morality. I was dumbstruck, thinking I really didn't know him as well as I thought I did, and I found myself wishing the men I had dated had half his smarts. I was a goner. I finally heard words come out of my mouth that I did not intend to say. I explained there were gonna be rules. I would never call him, I would never plan anything, and if he wanted to see me, the details were his to work out. And there darn well better be total, absolute secrecy forever. No one, and I mean no one , not even his best friend, was to ever know anything about this. Stunned but smiling, he promised. And later, in the parking lot, he sealed the deal with a very sweet, soft kiss, and I drove away wondering if I was about to make the biggest mistake of my life. A week passed when I received the call. Would I care to join Rick on the following Saturday evening. He would be house-sitting his brother's home and we would have the lovely place to ourselves. “Oh my God. This is actually going to happen”, I thought, as my bones turned to Jello. I knew I had agreed to this, but now my sorry ass was going to have to keep the promise my big mouth made!! EEK! Well, too late to bail now. I only had 4 days to prepare, and I headed to the lingerie drawer in my dresser to assess available goods. Hmm… something to live up to his fantasy....no, not the blue nightie, no, not the shorty. AHA! I forgot I had this stuff…a garter belt, fish net stockings, stiletto heels with ruby red jewels on the toes, and a long lacy red thing to cover everything up just enough. I'm not sure about the look I was going for, but whatever it was, I was gonna make damn sure he would never forget it. Saturday arrived. I was bubble-bathed, with hair piled high, perfumed, and in a long black dress worn over my 'surprise'. It was a little awkward at first. We didn't sit close. We both tried to make small talk for an hour as I drank a glass of champagne. I laughed a lot for no reason. Then Rick began to look serious. He gradually moved closer and leaned over to kiss me, and I suddenly didn't feel like laughing anymore. He had obviously done this before...this kissing thing. It was deep and warm and luxuriously unhurried, and it drove me crazy. Earlobes were nibbled and the back of my neck was lightly breathed on and tenderly kissed, and I thought I would die from anticipation. Hands roamed…mine too, and I was startled once again, as I realized this really was no little boy anymore. I finally excused myself and went into the bathroom where I slipped the black dress off and replaced it with my lacy red surprise. As I glanced in the mirror, fear struck me again that Rick’s fantasy was going to have expectations ... anticipation of special secret powers, or of special places I would know to touch or kiss. Yes, me. The Virgin Bride turned Mata Hari was going to be expected to teach this man a thing or two. Well, this was it. Showtime. I took a deep breath and sent up a prayer to my frowning God that I would not disappoint my tender young paramour. Then I bravely slinked back into the bedroom and heard a deep groan of approval that wiped away my nervousness. Well, tender young paramour, my ass. Color me surprised. From the moment I stepped, backlit, from the doorway, it was clear no instruction was going to be necessary. Rick held out his hand and immediately I felt a sense of tenderness, intense desire, loving firm but gentle strength, and even a little hilarious humor. Rick seemed to possess a familiarity with my body and its needs and timing, and for almost two sweet hours he drew me back and forth from the edge of ecstasy until I could take no more and begged to be put out of blissful misery. Moments later we lay there connected by toes...talking in whispers...until normal breathing returned. Rick swore I tried to kill him. I thought it was the other way around. But I felt obliged to check his…uh...pulse. I assured him he was very much alive and for the next hour or so we lay there laughing and talking, until finally, reluctantly, I got up to dress. His objections pleased me way too much. The champagne had worn off long ago, but I drove home in a stupor. What was wrong with me!? I was a grown woman with adult children, and I'm driving home at 3:00 in the morning in nothing but stiletto heels and a coat, praying to not get pulled over. I felt like a giggling teenager, wondering if Rick would call and ask me to the prom, when I knew I was really an evil woman who had done something very naughty, and would probably go straight to H - E - Double Hockey-Sticks for it. Well, that settled it, I thought. This had been the opening act and encore all at once. Over. Done. Final answer. Dammit…I hope he calls.

a4zzf8

“The Midnight Carousel”

Once upon a moonlit night, in the quaint village of Somnium Hollow, there stood an old, weathered carousel. Its paint had faded, and its wooden horses bore the weight of countless generations. Children would gather there during the day, their laughter echoing as they rode the merry-go-round, chasing dreams that spun 'round and 'round. But it was at night that the carousel truly came alive. When the moon hung low and the stars winked mischievously, the rusty gears would creak into motion. The horses leaped off their poles, their eyes glowing like forgotten constellations. The calliope organ played a haunting melody, and the whole carousel spun faster than any child had ever dared. And so it was that young Amelia, with her wild curls and eyes full of wonder, stumbled upon this secret. She had lost her way one chilly evening, chasing after a firefly that led her through the misty woods. The carousel appeared before her like a mirage—a magical oasis in the heart of darkness. Amelia climbed onto a horse named Stardust. Its mane shimmered like silver threads, and its eyes held secrets older than time. As the carousel spun, she closed her eyes and wished with all her might. She wished for adventure, for dragons to slay and hidden realms to explore. And then, just as the stars aligned, the carousel jolted to a stop. Amelia opened her eyes, expecting to find herself back in Somnium Hollow. But instead, she stood on the edge of a cliff, overlooking a vast ocean. The moon hung low, casting a silvery path across the water. Before she stood a figure—a man with eyes like midnight and a cloak made of stardust. He introduced himself as Orion, the Keeper of Dreams. He explained that the carousel was a bridge between worlds, and Amelia had crossed into the Dreamlands. Together, they embarked on adventures that defied logic. They rode on moonbeams, danced with fireflies, and sailed through skies painted in hues only found in dreams. Amelia met talking animals, ancient wizards, and lost souls seeking redemption. She even faced her deepest fears—a forest of thorny regrets and a sea of forgotten promises. But as the nights passed, Amelia grew homesick. She missed her family, her cozy bed, and the smell of freshly baked apple pie. Orion listened; his eyes filled with understanding. And then, one night, he whispered, “It’s time to wake up, Amelia.” She protested, clinging to the dream. But he took her hand, and suddenly, she was back on Stardust, the carousel spinning beneath her. The calliope played its haunting tune, and the stars winked their secrets. Amelia woke up in her own bed, the morning sun peeking through her curtains. Had it all been a dream? She rushed to the window, half-expecting to see the misty woods and the cliff beyond. But there was only Somnium Hollow, just as it had always been. She visited the carousel during the day, hoping to catch a glimpse of Orion or hear the calliope’s melody. But it remained still, its horses frozen in time. And so, with a bittersweet smile, Amelia decided that perhaps some dreams were meant to stay hidden—like treasures in an old attic, waiting for the right moment to be rediscovered. And every now and then, when the moon hung low and the stars winked mischievously, she’d close her eyes and remember the Midnight Carousel. For in her heart, she knew that dreams were more than mere illusions—they were doorways to other worlds, waiting for those brave enough to step through. Amelia’s Awakening After waking up in her cozy bed, Amelia found herself caught between two worlds—the mundane and the magical. The memory of the Dreamlands clung to her like stardust, and she wondered if it had all been a figment of her imagination. Had Orion truly existed, or was he merely a creation of moonlight and longing? Life in Somnium Hollow resumed its familiar rhythm. Amelia attended school, helped her grandmother tend to the garden, and listened to the village gossip at Mrs. Pendergast’s tea gatherings. But her heart yearned for the midnight carousel—the place where horses galloped with purpose, and dreams spun like golden threads. She visited the carousel often, hoping for a glimpse of Orion. Yet, the horses remained still, their eyes vacant. The calliope sat silent, its keys gathering dust. The villagers whispered that the carousel was cursed—a relic of forgotten times, best left untouched. Amelia kept her secret close, sharing it only with her best friend, Oliver. He was a practical boy, more interested in fixing bicycles than chasing dreams. But he listened, his eyes wide with wonder, as Amelia recounted her adventures with Orion. Oliver teased her, calling it “Amelia’s Moonlit Folly,” but he never doubted her sincerity. One chilly evening, as the leaves turned crimson and the air smelled of wood smoke, Amelia sat on a swing in the village park. Oliver joined her, pushing her higher until her toes brushed the clouds. She confided in him, her voice barely above a whisper. “Oliver,” she said, “I miss it—the carousel, the Dreamlands. Do you think it was all in my head?” Oliver kicked a pebble. “Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe dreams are like whispers from another reality. Maybe you touched something magical.” Amelia nodded. “But what if I want to go back? What if I want to see Orion again?” Oliver grinned. “Then we’ll build our own carousel,” he declared. “One that spins not on rusty gears but on friendship and moonbeams.” And so, they did. With scrap wood and leftover paint, they fashioned a miniature carousel in the park. Amelia painted the horses—Stardust, Moonshadow, and Twilight—and Oliver rigged a music box to play a haunting tune. They invited the village children, who laughed and rode the makeshift horses, their eyes alight with wonder. But Amelia knew it wasn’t the same. Orion didn’t appear, and the Dreamlands remained elusive. She wondered if she’d lost her way forever. One frosty night, as snowflakes danced in the lamplight, Amelia sat on Stardust—the wooden horse she’d loved most. She closed her eyes, remembering the taste of stardust on her lips. And then, just as the carousel spun, she felt a hand on her shoulder. Amelia opened her eyes. There stood Orion, his cloak shimmering, eyes like galaxies. “You built this,” he said, his voice a melody. “A bridge of memories.” “But why?” Amelia asked. “Why did you leave?” Orion smiled. “Dreams are fragile, Amelia. They need believers. You brought magic to your world, and in doing so, you kept the Dreamlands alive.” And so, Amelia split her time—days in Somnium Hollow, nights in the Dreamlands. She rode the carousel with Orion, danced with fireflies, and whispered secrets to the moon. She learned that sometimes, waking life and dreams could coexist—that the boundary between them was as thin as stardust. And every now and then, when the moon hung low and the stars winked mischievously, Amelia would close her eyes. She’d feel the carousel beneath her, hear the calliope’s haunting tune, and know that she was both dreamer and dream.

0e3wie

Up, Down, All Around

Grisha’s alchemy shop was bustling with activity, and not just from the various beasts that walked in to buy ingredients or seek aid from the blind hyena shaman and her apprentices: An odd group had currently taken up residence in the backrooms of her shop. The most noticeable one - a large reptiloid with dark scales, long horns and piercing yellow eyes - sat upon a cushion too small for his frame. His arms were folded as he spoke to a female meerkat who was transcribing everything he said to her leatherbound notebook. “So you and this ‘Ylla’ were at the fields as this battle started, and that’s when you were enslaved by this Margot the Lynx,” the meerkat said trying to recap his story. “Correct, Amber,” the reptiloid replied. Amber continued to work her quill. “And Margot is a servant of The Witch Queen of Vulane. Selthia, who effectively owned you and had you compete in the gladiator fights? Is that right, Draknor?” “Again, correct,” Draknor rumbled his large powerful tail thumping against the floor. “But you busted out during a fight, and made your escape where you eventually met our dear Skreet Snickertooth, rat detective.” Amber said the last part in a sugary sweet tone of voice, as if to rib the rat investigator, even though he was absent. From the shadowy corner a ferret clad in leathers smirked at Amber’s tone. “Yes,” Draknor said, wearily. “And after we deal with our mutual adversary Margot, Skreet will help me find Ylla.”  “I’m sure he will.” Amber replied as she finished jotting down her notes. “Then you met Farah over there,” “The amazing Farah,” the ferret corrected. “The best thief in the world.” Amber ignored her and continued her interview. “And then you met me after recovering your sword from those experiments being conducted upon it.” Draknor merely grunted in reply. “Quite the story already, and its still ongoing as we speak!” the meerkat beamed. Draknor regarded her with his piercing eyes. “It’s my turn to ask you a question.” Intrigued, the meerkat’s ears shifted forward. “Oh, do go ahead!” “Why do you talk to Snickertooth the way you do? Why do you speak to him the way you do. He is a rat of courage and integrity, and a keen mind.” Farah couldn’t help but make a snide comment. “Aw, that’s sweet. Look at you Drak, sticking up from ol’ Skreet.” Draknor snorted in response.  “Well, I wrote a few books about him and a few of his cases. Books that made him famous. He didn’t appreciate them, or me so I rib him from time to time.” “Rib him?” Draknor asked. “Yes, you know,” Amber said. “Poke him a little. Make sure he’s still alive.” “I don’t understand.” Draknor grunted. “Is this a mammal thing?” Amber ran her quill along her muzzle, trying to think of how best to explain it. Farah broke into the conversation then, “Speaking of Skreet. Is no one going to say it?” “Say what?” Amber and Draknor both asked. “We should keep an eye on Skreet. He just left. By himself. After we’ve made a lot of enemies here.” “I shall go,” Draknor rumbled. Farah shook her head, “Nah, you better stay here,big guy.” Draknor growled. “She’s got a point,” Amber said, surprisingly siding with the ferret. “You do tend to draw attention to yourself.” Farah smirked. “Tell you what: You stay here, and then if we don’t come back soon you can go after us.” Draknor stood, his horns scraping the ceiling, “And how would I find you? This city is an ever-shifting maze.” Farah thought about it for a second. “If you see or hear a phalanx of those silvermasks, follow them - from a distance, of course.” “Why?” Draknor asked. “Well, the way I figure it is that they follow paths around the city that they know because they’re...” Farah gesticulated, as if conjuring the correct word out of the air. “...They’re conditioned to,” Amber the wordsmith added. Farah acknowledged the help. “And eventually you’ll run into the House of the Moon, where we’ll try to rendezvous. Or, eventually, you’ll make a tour of the city and find us...” Farah spoke then: “...or the people who kidnapped us.” “That doesn’t seem efficient at all,” Draknor grumbled.  “It’s what we thieves use to navigate the city... although figuring out which platoon is which is quite the task. But it’s the best we’ve got. Besides, we'll be back soon. At least I probably will,” Farah said, giving Amber a side-eye glance. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Amber asked. “Honey, you’ve got damsel in need of rescue written all over you.” “I resent that, you tart!” Amber hissed. Draknor thumped his sword against the floor, “Stop arguing and trail Skreet already! He’s probably long gone by now! GO!” The two hurried out of Grisha’s alchemy shop and into the fine rain of the ever-rainy city. The two quickly merged into the evening crowd of middle and upper class creatures and their families touring the marketplace before seeing Skreet. He had gone a ways down the street, but thankfully he hadn’t gone too far. Neither Farah nor Amber drew too close, they didn’t call out to him either. Best he didn’t know he was being followed. “I wonder how long it will take him to figure out we’re tailing him?” Farah asked. “Good question, he’s an experienced investigator,” Amber added. Just then something unexpected happened: a beautiful white mink was suddenly at Skreet’s side. “Who’s that?” Amber asked. “I don’t know, but I’m envious of her dress,” Farah replied. The two eavesdropped on the conversation, wondering just who this mink was. Friend or foe?  “Rask? Rask, is that you? Oh, Rask! How wonderful to see you again!” ‘Rask’? Skreet replied before he seemed to run with the name.  “Spinrave isn’t it? Well, fancy meeting you here.” Spinrave smiled as she took his arm, “Fancy indeed. You’ve been making quite a name for yourself. I was hoping we would meet again. Come with me.” “A ‘name for myself’?” “Yes, you and your little... and large... friends. Some very... interesting creatures wish to speak to you, but I think it best if you come out of the rain... If you trust me, that is.” To Amber’s dismay she saw Skreet walking with Spinrave. “What’s he doing? Why is he going with her?” Amber questioned. Farah’s tail twitched, “She’s charming him, I can smell those intoxicating fumes from here. Smell that? That oh-too-sweet perfume smell?” “We should save him,” Amber said. “Or we can follow and see where she takes him. Come on. How’s that investigative instinct?” Amber scowled, “Fine you’ve got a point. It would make for a better story anyway. I think I’ll call it something like, ‘Seduced in the Rain.’” “Might want to workshop that title, sounds more like those romance novels… Which I definitely don’t read, or keep under my pillow.” Amber twitched an ear at that. Skreet and ‘Spinrave’ walked directly into one of the thousands of taverns in the damp, dark city and into an interior that was even darker. Farah and Amber made their way through the throngs of creatures who were making their way to the Entertainment District and all of Selthia’s delights and dipped into the tavern. It was multiple stories, so perhaps they had rooms for the weary traveler. The inside was raucous. Sea rats and weasels just off from working in the Docks district - which had a curfew - smoked pipes and drank ale while cats and various vermin massaged aching muscles - for a price. They got in just in time to see Skreet’s and the mink’s tails walking up the red-carpeted staircase to the upper levels. “Let’s go.” Farah nodded to Amber. They didn’t make it too far up the stairs till they paused. A large, female panther from the Southern continent, her burly arms crossed as she watched for any but paying customers from entering the second and third floors. “Well that complicates things,” Amber muttered. “Maybe we can bribe her?” “Don’t worry I’ve got a plan in my devious mind.” Farah said, rubbing her paws together. Skreet found himself smiling like an idiot as Spinrave continued to talk to him, her voice like a melody as she led him through the plush third floor of the inn-tavern. Part of the rat’s mind was still rational, though, wondering why he was going along with her so much... but the other part seemed to have hijacked his muscles and speech. Spinrave had long solved the mystery of her friend - through wanted posters, rumors, and Margot. He was not ‘Rask,’ he was Skreet Snickertooth, and he and his friends were moving through Vulane like a whirlwind. It was no longer amusing. “Corrupt him,” Selthia had said in her office, enchanted with the false night sky on her ceiling. “And if you really like him, keep him as a pet.” Spinrave was fine with that arrangement. She served Margot, and by extension Selthia. If her mistress ordered it, it was as good as done. He would make a wonderful pet. “I ordered some wine for the room,” Spinrave said softly. “Oh, that sounds wonderful,” Skreet muttered. “You can drink, and drink, and never have a hangover. We shall enjoy the time we have together… for a long time to come, my handsome rat,” Spinrave said, smiling shyly and holding his paw as she unlocked a large wooden door. But as they prepared to step through a voice called out to Spinrave as a female cat ran with a note in her paw. “Spinrave! Spinrave… you’ve been called out.” Spinrave flattened her ears, “I don’t have time for that right now. Tell this challenger to tottle off.” The cat shook her head. “You know the ancient rites of the Entertainers’ Guild - This is a public challenge. With all the right words.” Spinrave dragged a paw across her muzzle, “Ugh, fine. My dear Rask, I must attend to... some upstart downstairs. Have some wine and wait for my return. Then the fun will really begin.” she winked flirtatiously. She practically shoved Skreet through the door before locking it and marching downstairs, the dress she wore would serve its purpose for a dance. Might even get her blood pumping for some more fun later. In the well-appointed room Skreet shook his head, his mind still slightly addled as he sat on the plush bed noticing the glass of wine on the nightstand. His mouth watered: something about that glass was very inviting. As if it were singing a song for his ears alone. Downstairs in the common room around the stage the crowd was already worked up in a frenzy, they let out an uproar as Spinrave made her appearance. “Who challenges me?” She demanded. “I do sweetie,” Farah stood on the stage arms folded across her chest. The room of half-drunk, licentious laborers nearly exploded. “Damn I love this town,” a searat could be heard saying. “I love and hate it,” someone else retorted. She had had time since issuing the challenge to change into one of the many performer costumes, and had opted for a belly dancer ensemble. A shimmering skirt that showed a fair bit of leg, and a sparkly croptop. Bracelets adorned her arms, and anklets on her feet. “Cute outfit.” Spinrave said coldly as she tossed her coat aside revealing her short dress. “Musicians!” Spinrave ordered. Meanwhile Skreet was just about to raise the glass to his muzzle when the door suddenly flew open. A familiar meerkat covered in scratches stumbled in, her fur disheveled as she carried Farah’s prized lockpicking set. “Oh, no! Not you,” Skreet muttered as Amber crossed to him and shook him by the shoulders causing the glass to fall and shatter upon the floor. “Snap out of it fool!” Amber cried out, but the dopey expression would not leave the rat’s face. “I’m waiting for her. The enchanting Spinrave.” Amber scowled. “Fine, you leave me no choice.”  Grabbing a candle nearby, the meerkat jammed the lit wick into his arm eliciting a cry of pain. The smell of burned hair filled the room. “Gaaaah!” Skreet stood up. “Amber, what in the hells?” “Got control of your faculties yet?” the meerkat asked. Skreet blinked. “Yeah... oh, Gods. I let myself end up here?” He could remember everything, as though he’d awoken from a pleasant dream. Part of him - a quiet, less hard-boiled part - wanted to stay in that dream. “Let’s get out of here, rat!” Amber declared. Skreet nodded as his paws went to his pair of fighting sticks under his coat. “Yeah.” Back in the common area two musilide ladies were having a fierce duel. Not with swords or fists, but in dance. Farah shimmied her hips, arms above her head as the crowd roared, Spinrave in response was performing an impressive set of spins - her specialty. “Not bad sweetie,” Farah commented. “Not good enough to win.” Spinrave smiled sweetly. “Worry about yourself, thief.” The mink bowed low, her rear towards the crowd. Another explosion of claps and whistles. Farah was unperturbed, or at least made it seem so, for deep down she was alarmed. She had been recognized? But she was so cautious. She was too good! How did someone recognize her? She wasn’t going to let Spinrave know she got to her. “Oh, and what do thieves do, besides be good dancers?” Farah asked as she leaned backwards towards the crowd in a display of flexibility, her abs were still rolling as she did so. “Steal things. Like your fans. Your stuff. …Your date.”    Spinrave clenched her muzzle shut, her focus off. “Oh, you clever… this is a distraction.” Her rhythm stopped and the crowd booed. “It’s too late by now. Might as well share.” Farah grinned. “Well done! Well danced.” Spinrave shouted as she gave Farah a forced hug, her muzzle inches from Farah’s ear. “Mistress Selthia, and Mistress Margot, asked me to corrupt your rat friend’s mind. Your group has drawn the ire of some important people.” “You work for Margot. Tell me where to find her. She won’t be happy you failed.” Farah hissed. Spinrave drew Farah closer. “Losing one of Selthia’s prized treasures put her on the outs. It’s a race for your large, reptiloid friend. Margot’s in the Fogs, sending agents across the city.” The two broke the embrace giving each other an almost genuine bow, before they parted ways, the crowd still cheering. Farah caught Amber and Skreet descending the staircase. There was much to be done. 

jsdgz1

The Memory Box

I learned 4 years ago there is no safe way to open a Memory Box holding gems accumulated from the years age 5 to 18. You know the kind of box I mean. A sturdy repository where report cards, class photos, and participation ribbons for sporting events were deposited with the hope that, someday, going through the items would bring about warm and fuzzy memories of summer softball games and winter singing contests. In my case, it was a clear, non-descript plastic tote with a green lid that had not been tended to in nearly 10 years. The artifacts within had remained happily undisturbed until one moment in the middle of April 2020, when, in a desperate fit of boredom and nostalgia, I slid open the stubborn, creaking closet door, and removed the dust-covered box carefully from the top shelf of my office closet. You know the kind of shelf I mean. The obscure shelf in the obscure room responsible for holding seasonal door wreaths, a Christmas decoration gifted to you by your brother-in-law, and Memory Boxes.                I settled onto the unforgiving floor of my home office, laying the Memory Box in front of me with uncomplicated anticipation. The green lid separated from the clear tote with a satisfying and pleasant click. Immediately visible were baseball cards deemed important and valuable enough at one time to wrap in plastic. Early retirement planning perhaps? Under that were the fabric letters for the letter jacket I stubbornly refused to purchase. How had I forgotten the season spent playing the Glockenspiel in marching band? Under the starched, untouched awards lay my old baby blanket, thread-bare but still smelling faintly of the love sewn into it over 35 years ago. After taking in the scent and feel of my frayed, dear friend, I set it gingerly to the side. And there it was.                The photo. Summer camp 1992. A cacophony of kids lumped around each other in pure, unrestrained joy. Maybe 10 kids total. All in brightly colored shirts and shorts. A bundle of seemingly random neon patterns and geometric shapes. You know the kind. It was the early 90s. Most of the kids exhibited bunny ears above their heads, placed in carefree jest by their nearest friend. All of us were in some state of uncontrolled laughter or silly pose, able to contort our bodies this way and that as pre-teens can do without a thought to the back and knee problems that lie ahead in an impossible future. We were standing in front of a maroon passenger van. You know the kind. The late 80s model family van with three rows of overstuffed cloth seats and a suspension so soft, the occasional stop to relieve bouts of motion sickness was inevitable.                A wave of familiar nausea washed over me. It was the distinct form of nausea that comes only after consuming a small mountain of M&Ms in such a passenger van warmed to overheating by sweltering summer afternoon sunlight. Over the nausea lay the recognition of long-lost faces with long-lost names. Some of the names were recovered after a few moments spent carefully considering the eager, carefree faces in the photo. Some of the names leapt immediately to mind along with other memories of Church Youth Group drama skits and Church Basement sleepovers. All of the memories were fond and followed almost immediately by the striking recognition that this photo was taken in the Before Times. The Before Times that were comfortably enjoyed before my own Quiet Voice started telling me something was off with the seemingly idyllic lives we were leading in this beloved community. The Before Times preceded the chaotic whir of adolescent confusion, frontal lobe development, and deep depression that took hold and didn’t let go for some tortured and endless time. Before and After.                A swell of sadness formed in my chest, finally solidifying itself into bone-shaking sobs. The only sound I could emit was inhuman and unrecognizable. The grief was so suddenly oppressive that I could not let out my tears until the guttural sounds had ceased. When I was finally able to weep, I wept for those kids in the photo who were let down by the adults in their lives, who may have also had the same gut feelings that not all was well but chose to ignore them anyway. I wept for the kids in the photo who, along with their families, would be bitterly exiled, through no fault of their own, from our beloved community in the wake of the unpleasantness to come. I wept for the kids in the photo who remained for too long in the beloved community as it splintered and broke into something unrecognizable. As they, too, broke and splintered into something unrecognizable.                Long after the initial outpouring of lament subsided, I continued to study the photo, sending a wordless prayer into the unknown for each of the faces looking back up at me. Then, I tore the photo into several small pieces and lovingly placed the pieces into the paper bin next to my desk. I retrieved the dusty green lid, placed it over the clear container, then securely snapped the lid back in place. After unpeeling my aching legs off the floor, I stood up unsteadily. I picked up the Memory Box, now heavy with the past, and placed it back on the very top shelf of my often-forgotten office closet. In the very back corner. Securely behind the seasonal wreaths I begrudgingly placed on my front door when I felt like it and the Christmas decoration from the brother-in-law I will never understand. I then gripped the closet door handle and slid it closed. Only then, after carefully stowing the Memory Box, did it occur to me that I had not bothered to clear the dust off the green lid. My handprints and the brilliant memory of uncovering the photo would be etched in the thick layer of dust covering the box, waiting to greet me the next time I felt the urge to reminisce. I hovered near the door for a breath considering the work required to clean the box. I steeled myself and messaged my therapist.

az7ygp

Things are Not as they Seem

“Hon, you hoarding the spray in there?” I call from our client’s living room.  “Yeah, babe hold on,” he says as he leaves the kitchen with the ant spray in hand. “What do you need the spray for? You’re vacuuming.” “I saw a bunch of ants crawling around behind the couch. Look there’s some on the floor.” John passes the ant spray and I coat the bottom of the windowsill as he wipes up the few on the floor. “Mind helping me undress the couch so I can vacuum it?” “Yeah, no problem. What time are the Chiperskis getting home again?” “We’ve got a couple hours to finish up.”  Dawning gloves, as the old grey couch has soaked up stains of many owners before the Chiperskis and their three kids. We pile the pillows and the throw blanket on the floor to the side, then remove its cushions and set them to the other side. I press on the vacuum while John disappears to finish cleaning the kitchen. Sliding the thin attachment of the vacuum hose along the creases of the couch, a weak spot in the fabric rips. The tip of the hose sinks in and initiates a sharp whooshing from the vacuum. I know this sound well; some hidden treasure has been lost in the couch and I’ve been the lucky looter. Brief disappointment hits as no gems or jewels suction to the end as I remove the hose. But a corner of the obstruction reveals itself from the hideaway.  “Huh?” I say aloud.  “Did you say something?” John shouts, trying to breach the sound levels of the vacuum.  I shut down the vacuum and say, “John, come here. I found something.” I pull on the corner of the object, ripping the couch's inner lining during extraction. He walks up behind me, kisses me on the back of the head and places his hand around my waist.  “Ahh, what have you found now?” He says leaning over my left shoulder.  A small white square of paper with a film of plastic covering most of the surface. Both sides of it blank, except for a small hand-written message.  “Things may be bigger than they appear,” I mumble, confused. I turn my head to John and he shrugs, just as perplexed as I. “Maybe there’s a secret message and we need a blacklight to see it.” “It’s an old undeveloped polaroid.” I look up to the ceiling, no overhead lighting. Only a few lamps placed in the corners of the living room. “Put your flashlight on it.” He removes his phone from his jeans pocket and hovers it over the photograph. “One second,” he presses the flashlight on.  As it shines on the blank photo, an image begins to develop. Familiar shapes and colors appear. We can just make out a blur of the couch before us. Just as I’m about to point it out, the photo begins to tremble in my fingers. “Hold it still,” John says. “It’s not me Joh-!” As his name leaves my lips a flash of light from the photograph blinds us both.  I rub my eyes until I can see John standing before me, no longer at my back.  “Damnit, John did you see that?” “Yeah, god I can’t see a damn thing.” I regain enough of my sight to notice that the room has grown darker. The couch, coffee table, and vacuum are gone. John and I now stand below two unrecognizable structures. “Abby, where are we?” The larger structure to our right has a grey ridged textured surface. The smaller is wooden coated with a dark finish. “John.” I point behind him. At the end of the corridor stands the vacuum. The vacuum, once as tall as my hip, now reaches 10-stories tall. “No way,” he says in denial. “We-” I don’t know how to say this without it coming out ridiculous. My brain and words stutter, no real words forming. Then finally I utter, “We shrunk. The flash, the photograph,” I say breathlessly. I can feel my hands begin to sweat.  “The photograph.” As john finishes his words. He looks around frantically. “Where’s my phone?” Like a ghostly echo, quick rap of footsteps coming from beneath, what we understand now as the couch.  “Did you hear that?” Both of us unmoving, focusing our eyes into the dark dusty abyss. I break my stare and look to our left and see a loose strand of thread hanging down from the edge of the couch. With a whisper, “John.” I nod towards the strand. He follows my gaze and gestures for me to follow. Before we can make it to our climbing rope, a beast darts towards us from the shadows. Hundreds of legs flutter across the ground towards us. A shiver travels down my spine and to my extremities. A house centipede. It tramples over us and knock us to the ground. A few legs smack me in the face, whipping my head to the floor. Seeing stars from the impact, I look around to see where it skittered off to. Behind me the shade of a torpedo leaves the other end of the coffee table, heading in the direction of the kitchen. Hastily we lift ourselves up and reach to grasp the thread and climb. The dizziness and moisture in my palms make it hard to climb A tear in the fabric where the thread originates from serves as a hammock, a nice reprieve from climbing, and asylum for the possible return of the centipede. We tumble in and lay back to rest. Between big breathes, John says, “Was tha-” “A house centipede,” I visibly shudder at the image of them skittering across the floor beneath my feet before we were this small. He shudders as well, and pulls his arms to his chest. “You okay?” I ask. “Yeah, he smacked me around a bit,” he says. “Same.” After catching our breath, we take a look around to gather our surroundings. There is nothing on the floor except for crumbs and hair.  My mouth dries, and water starts to well in the corners of my eyes. “What are we going to do?” John lays back in the hammock, hands over his face.  “The polaroid,” I say. “We have to get to the polaroid.” I scan the ground for the phone and the polaroid.  Nothing. “They’re not down there,” he says from behind his hands. “They have to be on the couch.” I grasp John’s leg, “get up, we have to move.” “Move? Move where,” he stops short and pauses for a moment. “I have an idea.” His hands removed from his face; now facing down another chasm stretching deep into the couch. Thinking on this path, it could be the safest route. “Alright let's try it,” I say, wiping a tear from my cheek. We make our way from the hammock to the thick trampoline-like utility fabric stapled to the couch. The inside of the couch is brighter than expected. Removing the cushions has allowed light to flood over the surface of the crumb catching fabric layer above. Light filters down and bounces off a web of metal rods and springs. Dozens of holes riddle the layer and shine like stars in a brown night sky. Making our way into the center of the utility fabric, we turn to see our entrance. The tear that we entered from stretches the length of the couch. Not seeing an easy way up from there, we focus on the back of the couch. The holes in the fabric have ruined the integrity. As we walk, what should be small pieces of food, knock against our feet. We kick a few to the side, except for a wide pink disk that John decides to collect and take with him. “Could use a snack after the climb, eh?” Trying to make light of the situation. The exposed wooden frame has splinters and ridges that jut out across it. This should make for an easy climb. While surveying the wooden face, I feel a vibration in the fabric we stand on. “Wait, wait, shhh.” I put my hand on John’s shoulder. “Did you feel that?”  We both crouch to place our hands on the surface. Not moving, we look around, and wait. A moment passes, nothing. Another, nothing. My knee slips, hitting the fabric. Instantly, the surface awakens. A parade of thumps and pats make their way toward us. “Abby, climb!” John shouts.  We leap at the wall and start climbing as fast as we can. Weighed down by the candy, John slips and struggles. “Drop it!” He lets out a disagreeing grunt, and makes it to the top before a gang of ants appear at the base of the wood face. Like vultures to day old roadkill, a gang of twenty to thirty ants file in and cluster below. “Go, go, go!” I yell, and we run the length of the frame to the center of the couch. In the shadows and panic we did not see the frame obstructing our path with a central joist. I run into it face first and fall to my back. John kneels down to keep me from falling off the edge. More stars, more dizziness. Still laying on my back I crane my neck to look at the path behind us. They’ve climbed the wall and are coming towards us. I hurriedly scramble to my feet and look around for a route. A slat of wood, nailed vertically into our runway. It’s not nailed in very well. The manufacturers left a small space between the joist and the horizontal frame.  I sit down and lower myself to hang from the wood with my hands. There is just enough room for our hands to fit. I shimmy by my fingers past the monument of poor craftsmanship, and John follows.  We pull ourselves up and peek around the corner. The ants reach our previous location and peek their heads around each side of the wooden pillar, seeking a path to us. Looking back down at the utility fabric, more ants have clustered and start climbing.  We keep running. Looking around the inside of the couch, an idea flashes across my rattled brain. The metal springs.  “John, the metal.” I shout. They’re attached to the wooden frame at our feet. He stops and examines the surface of a nearby metal rod. Places first his hand, and then his shoe on it.  “Genius, babe.” Surely the ants couldn’t climb on such a smooth surface. Like a tightrope, we start up the metal rod. It’s anchored into the wooden frame and woven through the other springs and rods. Like a network of catwalks above a theater stage, we maneuver about like seasoned theater crew members. Running the curves and corners of this metallic labyrinth. We’re both so focused on not falling we don’t dare look back to see if it’s following us.  The maze ends at a puncture in the crumb catcher left by a broken spring. Finally taking a moment to look behind us, they're still in pursuit. I grab the candy off of John’s back and toss it down from our tower of metal. As it falls, we watch the ants make their way toward us. Legs moving as fast as the house centipede’s. Fast, erratic, hungry. A thumb resounds within the couch interior as the candy bounces off of the fabric below. The ants freeze for a moment. Dozens of them are climbing to strike us down for a piece of sugar. Then slowly, they turn around and make their way back down to collect their prize. “You owe me for that.” I say with a slap to his shoulder. A shared sigh of relief and a hug brings us down from the panic. The light emanating from the top of the lampshade shines as a beacon of hope. “Thank god this crappy thing has so many holes in it.” John says as he pokes his head through the opening. “Well, this family has three kids. I’m sure they use this as a trampoline and tear it apart.” I poke my head out beside his and claw at the fabric to pull myself up. John pulls himself up behind me. The phone, now much larger than us, lays face down on the couch with its flashlight still on. Beside it lay the polaroid photo, also face down.  “So, we’re here,” John says. “What now?” “Well,” I start without a follow up. Thinking for a moment, how we got here. “The polaroid’s message says ‘Things may be bigger than they appear.’ When you flashed the light on it, it started developing. It shook, and...” “That’s usually written on car mirrors.” “Can we flip the photo over?” A few failed attempts to flip the photo later, we realize we aren’t tall enough.  “Can you pick up one side so I can look underneath?” I say, hoping something on the photo is different, and may be able to help.  John picks up the top of the photo and walks it up to his fingertips, as high as he can hold it. Nothing on the developed photo has changed, but the writing below has. I read the new message aloud, “Things are smaller than they appear.” “What?” John mutters through his teeth.  “Put it down, take a rest, I have an idea.”  As John rests I relay my plan of repeating what happened earlier. If we can shine the phone light onto the polaroid, maybe it will turn us back. We both take an end of the photograph. Lifting it high above our heads, we carry it to the phone's flashlight. We are just tall enough for the light to shine on half of the photo.  But it works.  Similar to the normal size photo that sat in my hand earlier, it begins to shake. But this time it feels like an earthquake. Bouncing and seizing above our heads.  Straining, I shout to John, “Just a little longer!”  We collapse, blinded by another flash from the photograph. Worried that the photo would crush me, I cover my face with my arms.  Soft as a feather, a small square of plastic and paper falls on my forearms. I swipe it off me, then rub my eyes again until I regain sight.  Looking up from the floor at a blurry ceiling, I rub my eyes for a few more seconds. I look behind me to see John just coming to on the other end of the couch. The vacuum cleaner no longer towers above my head. The house centipede flies across the floor the couch, and disappears. John jumps from the couch, bangs his knee on the coffee table and turns towards me. Hands out to his side, befuddled, he lifts them above his head and says, “You’re amazing.” I smile joke, “Want to take a picture to remember this day?” He stares at me blankly, and leaves the room with a shout, “Nope!” 

obm62p

Double Exposure

DOUBLE EXPOSURE By Maria Wickens The translation of Woomera is “Big Spear” but the locals call it “Big Evil”. Kurdaitcha, the Aboriginal shaman of death, waits outside the rocket range, surveying the activity inside. Gubbah, the white man, always marching onward. Progress, he calls it. Kurdaitcha’s lips peel back into a smile. Ah, Gubbah dreaming is eternal; the dream may change, but there is no endpoint. Everything is now. We swim through time as if it is a river. A flock of birds beat their wings in a panic overhead. In the moment before the flash, Kurdaitcha sees two hazy figures enclosed in white protective suits. They are here too soon. Just before his eyes burn into their sockets, Kurdaitcha sees them fade away like ghosts. The sound of cicadas dies. The world enters an eternal twilight as nuclear ash falls like poisonous snow. # In the spring of 1964, the Blue Streak missile launched from Woomera Rocket Range. Something went badly wrong. Shortly after takeoff the rocket exploded, triggering a nuclear chain reaction obliterating the southern hemisphere. I dream of the flash of ‘64 every night. The speaker in my sleeping quarters chimes, “Report to the office of Guardian Nine.” The Guardians think of themselves as intergalactic peacekeepers. They appeared immediately after the Blue Streak flash, and I am one of 160 children, the Chosen Generation, lifted by the Guardians. Like Pied Pipers, they transported us to “Sanctuary”, the Guardian’s space station orbiting the galaxy in an endless border patrol. Unworthy of the Guardians’ aid, the people of Earth were left to suffer. The Guardians judged humanity lacking the qualities of stewardship expected from the dominant species of a planet. They stole 160 children and left the rest to fight it out back on Earth in a cruel nuclear winter. “The Rehabilitation” is the term the Guardians use to describe the hellscape we left behind. Humans lack the Guardians’ ability to come up with creative euphemisms. The children call Sanctuary ‘Space Zoo.’ I’ve been locked in Space Zoo since I was five. Earth time is not tracked here, but I would guess it’s been more than a decade since we were taken. I don’t think of the Guardians as substitute parents or even zookeepers. They are our jailers. I dress quickly and jog to Guardian Nine’s office. Colonel Thomas is waiting there already. He grins when I hold off saluting him because he knows I die a little inside every time I have to do that. Tommy’s promotion to colonel is in recognition of his excellent physical condition. Certainly not due to any academic achievement or work ethic. Gender inequality in the military, it seems, is universal. When the 160 were first placed in the zoo, we were to organize ourselves. Predictably, boys like Tommy adopted the Lord of the Flies model, and chaos ensued. The Guardians noted the predilection for self-annihilation was present in humans from an early age and eventually intervened to organize us along military lines for reasons of efficiency and lack of imagination. ‘Captain Beth, radiant as ever,’ Tommy greets me. ‘You look stunning today.’ I mouth, ‘Inappropriate.’ For all the good it will do. Tommy ’Captain Thomas’ and I have lived in close quarters since we were five. We have way too much history. ‘I’ve been briefed on our special mission.’ Not even Tommy’s galaxy-sized ego can contain the glow of self-importance oozing from him. ‘I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have alongside saving mankind.’ ‘Humankind.’ I grind my teeth. Alongside. Does he mean sidekick’ ‘Thank you for cutting to the chase, Thomas,’ says Guardian Nine wearily. Nine and Eleven are usually inseparable. When the Guardians first arrived I couldn’t tell them apart, but now it’s easy. Nine is the tallest Guardian. Sometimes he floats six inches above the ground to emphasise his stature. Eleven’s thick eyebrows meet in the middle of his forehead, and with his bowl haircut, he thinks he looks just like George, the third Beatle. Actually, he resembles Moe Howard, the third Stooge. I expect Eleven will join us soon. Tweedledee and Tweedledum are never apart for long. ‘Is there any humankind left to save’’ I ask. ‘Nothing worth fighting for,’ says Nine. A nerve jumps in Tommy’s jaw. Just a slight quiver but I know him well enough to spot a twitch and a nostril flare of outrage. He was a rebellious boy, with a dream of escaping Space Zoo. The Guardians tolerated his futile escape attempts because, they reasoned, Tommy’s over engineered escape plans diverted the adolescent population’s attention away from other more hormonally fueled endeavors. Eleven, the kindest guardian, once confessed to me nothing had prepared the Guardians for the unrelenting surliness of a rebellious teenager. It was, he said, a dark energy unparalleled anywhere in the universe. Nine continues: ‘Operation Reset recognizes the efforts of Earth’s inhabitants towards rehabilitation. It has been decided to give Earth a second chance. You two have been chosen to deploy.’ Operation what the what now’ Deploy’ My skillset is meticulous filing and memorizing rule books, so why are they selecting me for a mission’ Tommy stares at the ceiling, deliberately avoiding my gaze. ‘Operation Reset’’ begins Nine. ‘We jump in a time machine and stop Blue Streak before it happens,’ Tommy blurts out. ‘I’m Rod Taylor and you’re the girl in the fur mini-dress.’ Nine sighs and shakes his head. Right there with you, I think. ‘Could I have an explanation with more physics behind it’’ I direct this question to Nine, who explains the Guardians possess technology to take us back to the temporal point before Blue Streak is launched. We will be required to position ourselves at the launch site to force a launch postponement. ‘In other words,’ says Tommy, ‘we go back in time and change the future.’ ‘If the launch goes ahead,’ Nine’s voice edges a semi-tone lower, which is as close as he gets to expressing emotion, ‘you two will die and nothing will change.’ ‘But,’ says Tommy in a haze of unsupported optimism, ‘if they halt the launch, the nuclear holocaust is averted and the world goes on, just as we left it. Booyah.’ He snaps his fingers. ‘I save the world.’ ‘If you knew anything about quantum physics’’ I start as Tommy yawns on cue.  I dumb it down. ‘You can’t reset history without a whole bunch of wrong paying you back later.’ Eleven enters the room. ‘That’s a limitation dreamed up by your television shows to deal with budget constraints.’ Eleven, a student of human culture, has over time become a secret fan of Doctor Who. Eleven’s weakness for a flawed, beautiful humanity could explain how Tommy made colonel before I did. Be that as it may, it is not surprising to me that William Hartnell, the pacifist doctor, won Earth a second chance. ‘The year 1964 will continue as if Blue Streak never happened,’ explains Eleven. ‘The Chosen Generation will revert to their lives on Earth as if they were never lifted - assuming a display of mercy halts the launch when they see you two in the flight path. That act will avert the nuclear explosion and change the timeline. We will resume our position as unseen observers.’ ‘Until the next time you decide to blow yourselves up,’ says Nine, who is less fond of flawed humanity than his counterpart. A continuation of 1964 at the point I left my life is enticing enough to overlook the fuzziness of this plan and the more likely outcome. ‘If we succeed, I’ll see my parents again’’ The gulp at the end of my sentence hints I would walk through hell, beating away the sparks, in exchange for just a minute more with my parents. Tommy looks at me quickly, intensely, and with some surprise. Nine and Eleven miss it completely. ‘Regrettably, no,’ says Eleven. ‘In the event of a successful mission, you will exist in the same physical and temporal location as your 1964 self, so there can be no reset for you. A necessary sacrifice to save the many. The children you were live their lives, and the two of you will be transported to Sanctuary to ensure the cosmic balance is retained.’ Again, not the most detailed explanation in terms of theoretical physics. I suppose he is the eleventh Guardian. Just one away from sitting on the bench. ‘You pull us back’’ I must clarify this point. ‘The others won’t be here because they go back to being kids in 1964 as if nothing happened’’ ‘Just you and me, in this big old space station, just like Tarzan and Jane.’ So long as Tommy can swing from vine to vine, clearly temporal paradoxes are not worth considering. How did this guy ever make colonel? ‘Even if you’re the last man on this space station’’ I start but he taps his insignia of rank and lifts a ‘we’ll see’ eyebrow. I move on swiftly to a more important discussion. ‘If you can pinpoint a drop into 1964 at a rocket launch site in the South Australian desert, you can drop me in Carlisle to see my parents before everything happens. Drop me in the UK for five minutes, then transport me to Woomera, and I’ll do everything you ask. Five minutes to say goodbye. Give me that. Please.’ The Guardians look at each other, clearly perplexed as to why I would want to go to this effort. ‘Technically possible, so why not’’ says Tommy. ‘Think of it as a test run. Check the accuracy of those time machine dials.’ Nine looks unconvinced, but Eleven frowns. ‘It would not be significantly more effort. It would mean a great deal to you’’ I nod eagerly. ‘Very well,’ he says, earning a whoop from Tommy and a dark stare from Nine. ‘No direct contact,’ says Nine. ‘You may see them, but do not allow yourself to be seen.’ ‘Scout’s honor,’ I say. # The suits are not simply for time travel. In space our bodies have adapted, our immune systems rewired. The white suits swaddle us in protection, and black visor helmets disguise us. A tracker in the suits alerts the Guardians to our whereabouts to locate our position and bring us back if the rocket launch is aborted. This is a redundant feature of the suit. After the much more likely nuclear flash, there will be nothing to bring back. As we change into the suits, Tommy muses aloud. ‘I was hoping for a companion in a sweet little space miniskirt instead of this Russian cosmonaut getup.’ In a situation where the fate of humanity rests in the balance, his focus is sexy space armor. Naturally. ‘Do you think this is the purpose of the Chosen Generation’’ I ask, ignoring his shallowness. ‘We are here to fly out like doves from the arc, two by two, to see if the world is worthy of a reset’’ Tommy shakes his head. ‘Dove? I see you more as an eagle. No, they grabbed just enough kids so that when humanity finally annihilated itself, the Guardians could let loose a new batch of sea monkeys to set the whole thing off again. Humanity is hanging in there against all odds. Op Reset is Eleven’s pet project. He thinks they need to run the experiment again, and the other Guardians only agreed because they want to test the suits. They think it will fail and kapow! End of the world the sequel and this time they make sure there’s no reboot of the human race.” I gape at him and he shrugs. “But, hey, you get to see your mommy and daddy again.’ He cracks a grin. ‘Your lip actually quivered. Damn, I knew there were feelings in there somewhere.’ ‘Don’t you have family back in that swamp they plucked you out of’’ Assuming his father was not a feral hog that crawled out of the undergrowth his momma took a fancy to. Apologies, I spend a little time with the man, and I sink to his level. He has this way of rubbing off on you like a bad rash. Tommy quickly pulls down his visor. ‘Bayou, not a swamp.’ He speaks through the speaker in my helmet; his voice is muffled. ‘It was a relief to leave my family behind. The only person – people -  I care about are here. We give one hundred and fifty-eight kids a chance to live their lives. It’s worth it, Beth. I know it.’ The unrecognizable tone of hope affects me too. ‘If echoes of the future linger like ghosts tempering the rash decisions of men, who wouldn’t risk being cremated to ashes to bring about a brave new world’’ I like the sound of my words, but I don’t really believe them. I inject more credibility into my next sentence. ‘Thank you for taking me with you, Tommy. I know we are probably going to die, but if there is any chance of a reset, I’ll take it.’ ‘That’s my girl.’ The helmet comms need adjusting because Tommy’s voice is husky in my earpiece. # My memory of the picnic is black and white. Now I see my frock is bright autumn colors. Mummy shakes a red tartan blanket to set out the lunch. This is the last day of normal. My other me nods somberly when Daddy asks to take a photograph of my new dress. The suit’s external microphone picks up his request, and at the sound of his voice, the ache I’ve experienced for so many years is unpeeled, real and raw. As I step toward him, his camera captures the moment, but he is peering through the viewfinder-cropped rectangle of the world and doesn’t see me. Tommy immediately pushes the button to transport us to Woomera. He knows I would abandon the mission, the world, everything just to embrace my father one more time. I heard the click of his camera before we vanished. I can imagine the excitement in Carlisle when they develop an image of a Solway Firth Spacewoman. Spaceman, because it will not occur to anyone in 1964 that women could be astronauts. My parents won’t even know it’s me. It will be explained as a double exposure, and I suppose I am in the picture twice, so in a way it is. My father loves a mystery and I know he will frame the photograph and it will sit above the fireplace and he will entertain visitors with the many theories as to how a cosmonaut came to step into his photograph. Assuming the world doesn’t destroy itself again. We’re transported to the other side of the world and appear on a missile firing range, as the doors of the hatch open. We are in the direct line of the flight path of burning liquid oxygen and kerosene once they push the missile test button. Our fate and humanity’s future are in the hands of the Australian military’s ability to make a quick decision. I prepare myself to die. I hear Tommy’s voice in my earpiece. His tone is urgent. ‘Blue Streak is not weaponized. It’s a decommissioned missile to launch satellites to into space. Guardian One panicked when they thought they’d be discovered and framed humanity for their own destruction. They were supposed to just observe - not obliterate the planet. One lied in the reports and said humanity was a threat, they’d rescued as many as they could and were doing everything they could to exterminate the remaining population. Eleven blew the whistle on Guardian One. If we stop the test, they’ll destroy the missile and move on before anyone knows they were out there.’ Tommy believes humans are not the negligent morons the Guardians have always told us they are. I’ve studied enough Earth history to doubt him. I open my mouth to argue that we won’t win against the Guardians. In our time they have their orders to leave Earth alone, but in this timeline, they’ll just wait for the next opportunity to destroy us. But then I stop. There isn’t a flash. There isn’t a sonic boom. There’s no noise apart from cicadas. The countdown has stopped. A siren starts to wail, and a voice orders us to move from the restricted area. Tommy pulls off his helmet. I do the same and breathe fresh air for the first time in over a decade. It’s sweet and good and I never want to breathe recycled air again. Tommy smiles his white-toothed, confident smile, although it is dialed down a notch or two from usual. He struggles out of the suit, tearing at the belts desperately. ‘Follow my lead,’ he says. With a genuine smile he adds, ‘That’s an order, Captain. Quickly.’ That was the escape plan all along. Smarter than he looks, my Tommy. # The Kurdaitcha looks toward Big Evil. He feels the stir of bird wing and the hum of cicadas. The figures in white appear, and this time they do not fade. One of the figures rips his helmet jubilantly from his head and shucks off his suit. His companion does the same only seconds before the suits disappear. The couple remain where they stand. Hand in hand they run toward the edge of the perimeter, in the direction of the ocean. The cicadas chirp uninterrupted. It is a beautiful noise announcing the rebirth of the world. The sky is a brilliant blue, the color of hope. Read about the real Beth and the Solway Spaceman here https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Solway_Firth_Spaceman

nixuo5

The Runner

The Runner Jessica drapes the new scarf around her mother's shoulders and notices the slight twitches at her mouth corners suggesting a smile. The only time her mother's eyes light up nowadays is when she sees the porter, Charles, who often stops by her for a friendly chat. He also doesn't seem to mind that she calls him Steven. A car accident, just over a year ago, left her mom with seemingly permanent memory loss and claimed her father's life. Jessica's weekly visits to the care facility often serve as a reminder of how little she knows about Victoria Harvey. With a gentle shake of her head, she tries to free herself from the pangs of guilt for not trying harder to get to know her while the opportunity was still there. Victoria was not a bad mother. As an only child, Jessé was always well taken care of. She never lacked anything and she was not mistreated. According to modern-day parenting standards, one might say she was emotionally neglected. Victoria was never a talker or an exhibitor of emotions. Jessé often thought of her mom as the keeper of family logistics; the person who ensured that everything was in place and operated smoothly. In addition to organising family life, Victoria also worked as a part-time bookkeeper for a small firm. Jessica bends forward to plant a kiss on her mom's cheek as she gets ready to leave. She takes one last look at the woman who always had it all together, but whom she never really got to know. Home is a modern and spacious city bowl apartment. Inside awaits boxes to be packed for their emigration. Her fiance, Neil, got a once-in-a-lifetime engineering job in New Zealand. They will be joining some of their friends there in less than two weeks. Neil greets her with a takeout dinner as she enters. They ate quickly, as their minds were eager to return to unfinished tasks: Neil had some emigration paperwork and Jessé resumed her photo editing for a client. Against all odds, she did pursue a creative career, despite her mom's efforts to talk her into a BCom degree course. Jessé was hesitant to leave her mom behind, but Neil felt strongly that his opportunity was too big to negotiate. Besides, Jessé can practice photography anywhere in the world and they can visit her mother annually. He spoke about getting married at a Prestigious Hotel not far from where he will be working. It felt strange to see him so passionate and excited. Not many things could excite him, as he was usually rather reserved. A good guy. Steady. Level headed. Marriage material as they would say. But to be honest, she's been feeling detached and bored lately. She is twenty-four. Is she ready for this level of boredom and commitment? Going to New Zealand to say "I do" amongst white satin, diamantés and roses? Does he know she would prefer cotton, eucalyptus twigs and a bonfire? He never really asked either. She plonked on the floor in her small study. Tonight the creativity doesn't want to flow. She is not doing her best work. The coffee Neil brought her earlier tastes lukewarm. The thought of how it resembles her current perception of their relationship made her choke. "You ok?" a worried Neil asks from the living room. Reliable Neil. Always have her back. Her eyes fall on a box containing some unsorted items belonging to her mom. She starts unpacking. Two handbags, sandals, a hat, recipe books, more books, office stationery, a few small picture frames with family photos including one of her dad, greeting cards and an aged envelope addressed to "Victoria" in fancy bold curly letters. Inside she finds a photograph taken of a painting against a wall. The painting depicts a person in mid-stride, running away from the viewer. The person is visible through a window, which dominates the foreground of the piece. Jessica feels as if she is a secondary viewer to a very significant event. The work evokes poignant feelings of abandonment, sorrow, bereavement and evasiveness. In the corner the painting is signed, T. Ori. The postal stamp dates back to March 1995. On the back of the photograph, in the same flamboyant handwriting, there is an intimate greeting, "Love always, Steven." Her parents were married already in 1995, although she only arrived five years later. The painting in the photograph is dominating Jessé's mind the entire night. Tomorrow she needs to find some answers. Who is this Steven? A name so significant it is more retrievable from Victoria's deficient memory than the name of her daughter. With Neil off to the office early the next morning to help wrap up some last-minute tasks at his current workplace, Jessie can start her search. It is no surprise that an internet search does not produce anything about a Steven or a T. Ori artist, considering it most likely involves small-town people during a time of limited internet exposure. Within moments her mind was made up and she packed an overnight bag while declining a call from her client. A phone call she couldn't elude was to inform Neil about her seemingly erratic decision. She waited until she left the city and was well away on the open road. Neil seldom got upset. Today he did. In the four years they have been together he never shouted at her. She can't blame him. Less than two weeks before they leave the country she randomly gets in her car without even saying goodbye, leaving him behind with all the arrangements. Her inadequate attempt to explain leads to the inevitable question of whether she is even serious enough about their relationship to go with him. She thought she was. Is this obsession about finding answers relating to her mother's past her subconscious trying to interfere? She decided against that theory. A single day is all she is prepared to dedicate to this mission, then she will be back with Neil to assist him. The open road feels good as she makes space for nostalgia and childhood memories along the way. The town is very much unchanged since her last visit three years ago. Her initial plan is to enquire at the local media centre, which has been home to the local newspaper since the seventies. Perhaps Steven or T. Ori was sufficiently newsworthy for a small town. The young girl at the media centre seems willing to help. Apparently, it is quite a frequent occurrence for those delving into the past to visit them. The search was fruitful. No articles about an artist by the name of Steven were found, but there were three front-page articles during 1995 about a scandalous art dealer by that name. Steven Sinclair, under the camouflage of a low-key small-town art dealer, had a more brilliant main interest: illegal diamond trading. Halfway through the article, a name very familiar to her jumped at her. "John Harvey, local art curator and gallery owner, laid charges of theft against Steven Sinclair for disappearing with a painting titled "The Runner" by the award-winning artist known as Tori, also the wife of John Harvey. Could this be a misprint? Her father the art curator. Her mother the artist. Not T.Ori, but Tori, which is short for Victoria. Who are these people she was raised by? As far as she remembers, her father was a science teacher with a love for woodwork. His project collection did include some impressive carve work. Jesse's head is spinning. She can faintly hear the assistant offering her some water. She hoped she declined politely as she found herself already outside halfway to her car. If there was a criminal charge, she needs a cop friend now more than ever. A feeling of hopelessness washes over her as she approaches the middle-aged guy who seems irritated by her request. Despite his reluctance, he manages a polite "evening mam." For the first time, she thinks about the time and realises it is past six in the evening. She still needs to book in at the local hotel. The officer must be at the end of his shift. How on earth is she going to get any help from him? "Mam, I mean no disrespect, but if you are not in danger, or have no criminal activities to report, I would prefer to wrap up my shift and get home." Her despondence is short-lived as a friendly voice fills the room. "Jessica Harvey? Is that you?" Jessé looks up at the fresh-faced, rather attractive-looking man in uniform. Before she could place him, Officer Grumpy introduced him as Sargeant Zimmerman, the man taking over the next shift. Suddenly Officer Grumpy produced a smile which made his eyes disappear in his cheeks as he cheerfully announced his departure. Jessé remembers Harold Zimmerman. Harry. They went to school together. They were never close friends, but in a small town school, everyone is kind of friends at some point. The typical exchange of a quick catch-up happens between them. Harry is still in town, joined the cops, got dumped by his girlfriend recently, but enjoys the company of his Doberman. Jessé tells him about her search for answers. "It is your lucky night, as it is very quiet in town and I can do with an assignment to help me pass the time." He invites her through to a back office. "I'll get us some coffee," he says with the same enthusiasm she remembers him for from school days. His pen scribbles quickly in his notebook as he documents her story. His usually jovial face is now a landscape of focus and concentration. It takes a couple of phone calls to get information. Jessé is on her third cup of coffee when he finally declares there are some insights. There was indeed a theft charge made by John Harvey against Steven Sinclair for theft of the painting titled " The Runner" by Victoria, however, the case was withdrawn and marked closed shortly after. Harry's voice became even more serious as he dropped the news that Victoria Harvey was a police informant of intel in the alleged illegal diamond trade investigation against Steven. Unfortunately, those files are not accessible. It does seem however as if the painting titled "The Runner" got away and disappeared with Steven. Jesse remembers Harry as a bit of a joker. Her disbelief led her to the conclusion that he is seriously messing with her. She scrutinises his face for a glimpse of teasing, but is met with deadpan seriousness. For the second time today, Jesse feels faint. Her shock must be rather evident as Harry suggests he drives her to the hotel. Nothing at the hotel has changed. The accommodation is basic but neat. It does seem as if the decor got stuck in the eighties. Jesse checks her phone. Two missed calls from Neil. Poor Neil. He doesn't deserve this. She just doesn't have the emotional capacity to try and explain everything now. Before she thinks it through properly, she hears herself asking Harry to have a drink with her. Being alone with all this new information is not an appealing prospect. He looks a bit puzzled as he stands in her hotel room doorway. Jessé laughed embarrassed, "No, not here. The bar is open. I'm engaged, as you know." Harry looks more at ease. "I'll have coffee, on duty, you know."  During the two hours that follow the two try to make sense of Victoria's story. Harry creatively contributes over caffeine while Jessé sips whiskey on the rocks. There is laughter and some tears. "She never painted again, you know," Jessé spoke softly into her glass. When the time came for Harry to go, Jesse was sad and drunk enough to place a kiss on his lips. A part of her wishes she was not engaged and free from knowing what she does now.                           -------‐------------------------------------- As she walked down the familiar corridor of the care centre everything felt different. The lens of knowledge gives a different perspective indeed. This time she is carrying a canvas, paints and brushes to her mother's room. Victoria's eyes light up similar to when she sees Charles. She gently starts touching and inspecting the brushes Jessé places in front of her. Victoria speaks while painting the canvas, "Steven came today. He came to say goodbye. I once hung a painting in his gallery to warn him. To tell him to run. There was no time to greet then." After a while, she puts her brush down and cups Jessé's face with both hands. "I have a beautiful daughter. She lives in New Zealand, you know. Please give this to her when you see her." Victoria passes the little canvas with a simple painting of a camera to Jessé. "Oh, and please tell her she must never stop what she is doing." At the apartment, Jessé waited for Neil with supper and wine. He looked tense and unsure of what to expect. "Am I still invited to join you in New Zealand?" Jessé asked. "Only if you really want to", Neil replied. "Only if we can get married in a forest," Jessé adds. Neil laughs and picks her up in his arms, “Do you want a drumming ceremony as well?" That makes Jessé squeal with laughter, "You DO know!" Neil shook his head, "No, I don't, but if you stop running, I promise to learn."

rce3js

ONE THOUSAND MILE JOURNEY

Today was a hard day for my family. Today we buried my grandfather or pops as he liked to be called. Pops was the best guy. Pops and nana were married for many decades. They were so much in love. Pops was more than just my grandfather. He was my confidant. Pops was there for me more than my own father ever was. I talked to pops about everything. I loved him so much. Now I'm left with a big hole in my heart. I can't stay with my family any longer. It's painful knowing pops is not here. If there was a time when I need pops the most it would be today. I'm at pops favorite place, turtle pond. Pops took me here every day since I was a child. I never missed a day. Now coming here won't ever be the same. I sit on pops favorite bench. I look up into the sky and begin to cry. I miss you pops. You were everything to me. I don't now what to do now. I sit on the bench for a long time thinking about the good days me and pops had together. It's been five days since pops funeral. I haven't seen nana since the funeral. It's been too painful to go but now it's time. I love nana and I don't want her to think I don't love her. I made it to nana's house. I take three deep breaths in and out. Okay here I go. I walk-up the steps and knock on the door. I hear nana's voice. I walk-in. The house is still the same. Pops couch is still in the same place in the living room. I remember pops sitting on the couch me next to him watching tv or pops telling me crazy stories. I walk around the living room looking at the many pictures of pops and nana. Pops and nana were a very cute couple. I come upon one picture of pops and nana. I pick up the picture. This picture looks like pops and nana were just teenagers. Then I notice upon closer examination a crease. I'm curious as what is on the other side of the picture. I take the picture with me and go sit on the couch. I open the picture frame and take out the picture. I unfold it. There is pops and nana. Who are these people next to them? I turn the photo over and look at the date, 1942. Pops from what I can tell is wearing a Marine uniform. I know pops was in the Marines. The thing is pops never talked about his time in the Marines. He was calmed up anytime we mentioned it. Nana always agreed with pops. The past should be left in the past. I kept staring at the picture wondering who these people are. How come pops and nana had the picture folded? Pops and nana look happy in the picture. I'm so lost in the picture I don't hear nana calling me. "Sky." I look up and see nana looking at me. I ask nana about the picture. She hesitates but then she sees my pleading eyes. Nana tells me the two people in the picture are their best friends Arthur and Carolyn Palmer. Nana takes the picture from me and begins to cry. I hug her. Nana keeps staring at the picture. She doesn't say anymore. She hands me back the picture and leaves. I'm left with more questions. I don't press nana anymore. I don't want to hurt her. I get up from the couch and take the picture with me. I go hug nana goodbye. I look at the picture closely. In the back ground I see planes and the ocean. Where was this picture taken? I turn the picture around and look closely at the back. There are some faded words. I can read one of the words, Philippines. Pops was in the Philippine in 1942. So was nana. Was pops a POW? I run home and some research. Oh MY God! I look up pops and Arthur's name and there to my surprise are the names of the POW's who were rescued. Pops name is there but not Arthur's. New Castle, one thousand miles from my home is a memorial honoring the POW's from World War 2. I have to go. I pack my belongings and leave my home. I get into my car and begin the drive to New Castle. I'm still wrapping my head around pops, the sweetest most caring man being a POW. I wonder what happened to nana after this picture was taken. Asking her to relive those memories is too hard. I don't want to add any more pressure on her. I have to find out myself. I stop at the gas station for gas and a snack. I got everything I need now I'm off to New Castle. This is the first time in a long time I'm leaving home by myself. I'm on a journey for the truth. I love pops and nana but I want to know more. The open road feels so good. I always remembering telling pops one day I'm going to explore the world. Pops would always tell me to go where the wind takes you. Pops always loved that I was a free spirit. He encouraged me to do what my heart desires. I listen to the play list I made with pops. He loved music and dancing. I sing-a-long to many of my favorite songs. I can't decide which one I like. Three hours on the road, my stomach is growling for food. I stop at a road side diner and grab some food to go. I get my food and go back to my car. I begin to eat my food thinking about the picture. I wonder what happened to Arthur and Carolyn Palmer. Why was this picture hidden? Are they dead or alive? I finish eating and continue on my journey to New Castle. I get back on the road. I never knew how beautiful the U.S. really is. I've been stuck in Maple Grove for way too long. Many hours later at 11pm, I arrive in New Castle. I find a hotel and rent a room. I go to my room to relax. Tomorrow is a new day. I open the door, walk-in, put my bags on the floor and lay on the bed. I close my eyes and fall asleep. I wake-up the next morning take a shower, get dress and go eat breakfast. This was the best breakfast I ever had. I pay the bill and leave. I begin walking through New Castle. New Castle is beautiful. These little stores are amazing. I found the people to be really friendly. I have a map of New Castle. I look for the memorial. There it is. I walk to the memorial. The World War 2 memorial is huge. I walk-up to the memorial. I look at all the names one by one. There is pops name Charles Shea. Now I'm looking for Arthur Palmer's name. One side of the memorial is for the POW's who survived. Arthur Palmer's name is not on the survivors list. The other side is the list of the POW's who didn't make it. I look down the list of names one by one and I find Arthur Palmer's name. Pops best friend didn't make it. I'm so sorry pops. Tears begin to come down my face. I take a photo copy picture of pops and nana, Arthur and Carolyn and place it on the memorial. "Charles, Mary." I hear someone say. I turn around to see a woman staring at the picture. I ask her "You know them?" She nods. I tell her "I'm Sky Collins. These are my grandparents." The woman looks at me and tells me her name is Carolyn Palmer. The same Carolyn Palmer from the picture. I ask Carolyn about the picture. She tells me the picture was taking in the Philippines. The last day they saw their husbands. Carolyn also tells me that she always regretted cutting ties with pops and nana. I couldn't say what I wanted to say to Carolyn. She just walked away from me. I tried to call her back but she didn't listen to me. I look up at the sky and say to pops. I went on this journey for you to find the truth about why you never told us about your time in the Marines and in the end you and nana were right, the past should be left in the past. I also discovered something about me that there is more to life than Maple Grove. You helped me and so did this picture. Thank you pops.

nozhfj

The Beat of My Heart

It was a gloomy, dark day in November, the leaves had almost entirely left their homes, trees were barren under the steel sky, which looked like it would remain that way forever. The house at the end of the village seemed lonely, and empty, like it was weeping for a new owner, but no one lived here for decades. As I parked my car in front of it, I couldn't help but think about the warmth it had 30 years ago, when my grandparents were still alive and I was only a small child so thrilled to spend time with them. The former yellow walls and brightly white window frames became now just a plain grey, which brought about a kind of sadness, a mixture of nostalgia and grief. My mother was supposed to come with me to clean out the house so that we could sell it, but I knew how hard it would be for her to see all these memories and then to have to give them up all over again, especially since her brother decided to sell the house, so I decided to do it all alone - not knowing what I would find hidden nor where this short trip out of the city would eventually take me. After a few hours of cleaning and packing everything but the furniture in boxes, I was done with the ground floor and was ready to head up the stairs to the attic. Just like any old attic it was full of dust, spider webs, and boxes of old things, my mother's and uncle's wardrobe and toys when they were children and young adults, my grandparent's wardrobe, and so on, but what really caught my attention while I was looking through the box of my grandmother's wardrobe was a strange photograph. There was a young white woman dressed as a Native American, wearing a short skirt with a leather belt which was decorated with feathers, the top piece was bikini-like with beads, both of an earthly brown colour and on her head she even wore a headpiece with feathers, if her skin wasn't so pale, you would have mistaken her for a native American. Next to her was a real native American man, at the time I couldn't tell if it was north or south, which was playing a drum, both of them smiling like it was the happiest of occasions. Behind them, you could only see a brightly green forest. "Who could be this woman?", I thought to myself, "I never heard of anyone from my family having visited any native American tribe, especially not travelling to the other side of the world and especially not being so friendly with them.” While driving home, I couldn't stop thinking about that mysterious photograph, but something inside of me moved, like a part of me started to awaken from this slump I caught myself in - the work that wasn't fulfilling me, this city that felt more like a cage than so-called security, but also an intuitive sense that there was something hidden from my family's past. I needed to find out who that woman was, so I called my mother as soon as I got to my apartment. It turned out that that woman was indeed my grandmother, who travelled to a native tribe in South America, while my mother was still a child, and who actually was much more interesting than I ever thought since this discussion about her wild spirit never came up. I always thought that everything I could ever want was just to be normal, to blend in and live an average life, somehow I never thought I was worthy enough to let myself be free, but after starting to unravel this inner call for freedom, things began to move in a new direction… I started to research and read about many different spiritual paths and also to practice some of the techniques that were suggested, and all of it felt like emerging from a deep sleep and like my passion for life was finally starting to wake up. After reading about many different traditions, there was one thing they all had in common and that was - drums! All of them had certain rituals which involved dancing and playing drums, but also invoking the flow of free movement - which was also something that was missing from my life, everything started to become rigid and solid since I became an adult, like I was living in a box of my own mind: no time to play and explore, just work, to-do lists, chores and so on. So I started thinking about what is the connection between freedom and the heart. The creativity has to come from the heart, not the head, and therefore the freedom I was searching for had to manifest itself from this creativity and not rational thinking. After this realization everything started to flow more easily, I noticed myself starting to get lighter and ready to shine a light on this forgotten curious, playful part of myself, which I missed so much. Everything else was just a mask I put on, trying to hide from the world, hoping other people would accept me if I blended in and ultimately just trying to survive in this world - but wait a minute, is that really the point, just to survive? The most wonderful surprise was that my boyfriend Lyon had felt the same way as me for years: he wasn't satisfied with the average life and was ready to make some changes as well… At this point, I had no intention to continue working my 9-5 job and continue to dumb myself down, so I quit, I was ready to take a leap of faith, not knowing in the slightest where that would take me… Two years prior to this event, one of my friends went to live in Rio de Janeiro Brazil and at that time I thought that we would probably not be seeing each other anytime soon, but I did not understand that she followed her heart to that city and with a very good reason, it led her to meet her soulmate. So, as beautiful and intelligent as this wonderful Universe is, she reached out to me one day around this time and I could finally understand (at least a little bit) what she was talking about when mentioning synchronicities, our deepest desires, the True Reality and being connected to your Self. She invited me and Lyon to come visit her and her husband and without thinking, I immediately agreed. It was just the adventure I needed to widen my worldviews and wake up my passion for life and of course, Lyon was on board since his job did not require him to be present in person all the time. After a 17-hour flight and some turbulence over the Atlantic Ocean, which was also the first time I flew over the ocean and experienced this sort of turbulence, we arrived at the airport at five in the morning, at the perfect time to witness the birth of a new day, the soft pale blue of the sky and the inhabitants starting their days. “What a day!”, I thought to myself as I saw my dear friend Sara approaching. “Welcome to the liveliest city in the world!”, she greeted us. I must say that Rio made her spark. She was always a cheerful person, always my go-to friend, full of wisdom and understanding, but now she had this strength and clarity like a shimmering aura around her. I was very curious to see where this trip would take us… She and her husband Gabriel were living in a two-bedroom apartment near the centre of the city, so they had a guest room which was perfect for the two of us with a view of Mount Corcovado, it was nothing less than spectacular - and especially the statue of Christ the Redeemer, which was on top watching over the city like it's very own guardian. The salty air from the sea was stimulating all my senses and I started to feel like there was a well of endless creativity that wanted to be brought to life through me. Of course, we were a little jet-lagged the first few days, since it was also our first time leaving Europe and we needed a little time to get accustomed to the new continent, climate and general mood of this particular city. After a few days, I started to understand the vibes of the city, compared to our European cities people seemed to be freer, more in tune with their bodies, their intuition and their heart's desires - or maybe those were just the kind of people that were hanging around Sara, since she was exactly that type of person: no pressure to be or act a certain way, she was always flowing with life and did what felt natural to her. After showing her the picture of my grandmother and the drummer, she said instantly: “Wow! This man is from the Guarani tribe and they were also once located near Rio, but now they live mostly in Paraguay… Who knew you had such a cool grandmother?” “Right? But hmm, I feel like there was something more I needed to discover. How would you connect the drum to spirituality?” "Well, there can only be one answer: the heart. Just like we tend to synchronize to the sound of a drum, we move to the rhythm of it, so does the beat of our heart bring all our cells and organs into alignment - and on a higher level, we also move mountains in this exact way, from our heart's desire. What other explanation is there, that you and Lyon are here now?" She was my greatest teacher at that time, so it's no wonder that it was her idea to do a cacao ceremony. I can not name one exact experience that was the most important from this trip, but if I had to, it would be this one. The four of us gathered on a secluded spot at the beach, brought candles and incense, and of course, lit a nice fire to sit around, it was dusk and the sky was coloured with many shades of red, orange, pink and blue - merging until all colours disappeared and the first stars started to shine. Gabriel told us: "The most important thing is to express gratitude - to the cacao, to the Earth, the farmers and ultimately to ourselves for having the courage to open up. It's about dropping down into the heart and feeling what it wants to feel." A few moments later, Sara continued: "Now set your intentions, what do you truly want from this ceremony and also after? More peace? Passion? To live your inner calling? It can be whatever you need the most." My intention was definitely to wake up my joy and passion for life. Gabriel guided us through a breathing exercise before taking the first sip. It was very different from drinking a normal hot cacao or coffee, the soft, sweet flavour spread through my whole body, like a wave of joy and I felt the enormous unconditional love Mother Earth has for all her children and how our bodies are made of all the elements that are present on this planet and in the Universe as well. The Oneness slowly melted away my beliefs about not being worthy enough to live my calling and for the first time it was so logical - if I originated from this Oneness, then there is nothing else to be made out of, which guarantees worthiness! Even my fears, not feeling worthy to express myself, the scars of being rejected in the past by other people, all of them can be melted away and into this all-encompassing Unconditional Love. This beautiful dance of Light and Dark was just hiding the most obvious thing in the world, yet hidden in plain sight, there is nothing else but Consciousness! Looking at Lyon I saw the most beautiful smile on his face and I couldn’t wait to share all of this with him and to hear his experience, but now it was time for the third part of the ceremony - reciprocity. “Now think about one thing you can do to give back to the Earth, to light up the world and show gratitude to our magnificent Planet and everything she has done for us.”, elaborated Sara. But I couldn't think of anything specific until Lyon said: “Isn’t it enough just to be ourselves? To live authentically, from the heart?” “That’s it! Thank you so much!”, I rejoiced, “I’ll start shining and being open and free and flowing, in whatever way feels the most natural to me at that particular moment.” “That is amazing and exactly what you need right now.”, replied Sara, “Give up the strain, the I-must mindset and just start to flow and the infinite Wisdom of the Universe will always lead you to the most perfect experience and circumstance, which you cannot even imagine right now, but that’s the beauty of it - just listen to your heart and make the beat of that drum louder and louder until it is vibrating from your every cell and moving Heaven and Earth. Then you can expect nothing short of a miracle.” This joy the four of us felt carried us like a wave through the night - we danced until dawn to Bossa Nova and Samba music and all of it started to feel more and more like a dream - even better, a dream that became reality. Needless to say, my and Lyon's life changed completely after we came back home. 

erltsz

ECHOES OF NIKUMARORO

August 10, 1937. Island of Nikumaroro, Phoenix Islands, Republic of Kiribati In the heart of the Pacific, where the horizon meets the endless expanse of blue, lies the enigmatic island of Nikumaroro. The salty breeze whispered tales of lost souls and forgotten dreams, and the rustling palm fronds sang a song of mysteries long buried beneath the sands. Amelia stood at the lagoon's edge, her aviator jacket worn and frayed, the leather soft from countless hours in the cockpit. The setting sun cast an amber glow on the water, turning it into a shimmering mirror of gold. She closed her eyes, feeling the warm breeze on her face, her mind drifting back to the fateful day she and Fred Noonan, her navigator, had crash-landed on this forsaken island. Their Lockheed Electra had sputtered and faltered, the engines coughing their final breaths before they were forced down. The impact had been brutal, but they had survived. Amelia's hands were still calloused from wrestling the plane to a stop, the acrid smell of burning fuel forever etched in her memory. The days turned into weeks. The harsh reality of their situation settled in with a suffocating weight. They were marooned, cut off from the world, with only each other and their wits to survive. The island, though beautiful in its isolation, was a harsh lover. Fresh water was scarce, and the oppressive heat bore down on them relentlessly. Amelia's spirit, however, was indomitable. She scavenged the wreckage of the Electra, fashioning tools and gathering supplies. With his expert navigation skills, Fred charted the stars each night, hoping that rescue would come. But as the days passed, hope waned, replaced by a steely determination to endure. One evening, while exploring a cave hidden behind a curtain of vines, Amelia discovered something extraordinary. The air inside was cool and damp, starkly contrasting to the sweltering heat outside. As she ventured deeper, her torchlight revealed a small, rusted metal box buried under rocks. She knelt, her fingers trembling as she pried it open. Inside, she found documents, yellowed with age but still legible. They were maps, charts, and coded messages—remnants of a secret military operation from years past. Amelia's heart raced as she realized the significance of her find. These documents were evidence of covert operations, a web of secrets that could alter the course of history. Amelia meticulously documented their ordeal in a journal as the months turned into years. Each entry felt like a conversation with the world she had left behind, her handwriting growing steadier with each page. Amelia wrote about their daily struggles, their hopes and fears, and the secrets they had uncovered. She described the beauty of the island, its flora and fauna, and the relentless passage of time. One night, a violent storm swept over the island, the wind howling like a banshee and the rain lashing against the palm trees. Amelia and Fred huddled in their makeshift shelter, the storm's roar drowning out their voices. When the tempest finally passed, the island was transformed, the landscape altered by nature's ferocity. In the aftermath, they discovered a hidden bunker, its entrance revealed by the storm's fury. Inside, the air was stale and suffocating, the darkness impenetrable. Amelia's torch illuminated walls lined with crates and equipment, remnants of a bygone era. She found a radio among the debris, its components intact but damaged by time. Amelia and Fred repaired the radio with painstaking effort, their hands steady despite the weight of their desperation. They scoured the island for parts, using their ingenuity to fashion replacements when necessary. Finally, a faint signal crackled to life, a lifeline to the outside world. They broadcast their position, their voices trembling with the hope that someone, somewhere, would hear them. Months turned into years, and their calls for help went unanswered. The island, once a prison, became their home. Amelia and Fred adapted to their new reality, their bond growing stronger daily. They carved out a life amid isolation, their spirits unbroken by the relentless march of time. Their journey was physical and emotional, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit. Amelia's journal, filled with sketches and notes, became a testament to their resilience. She wrote of the island's secrets, the evidence of covert operations, and the harsh beauty of their surroundings. Her final entries spoke of peace, a quiet acceptance of their fate. November 4., 1983. San Francisco Decades later, Ethan Clark, a man who had lost everything, stumbled upon a forgotten photograph tucked away in an old library's archives. The musty scent of aged paper filled his nostrils as he carefully pulled the picture from its hiding place. The yellowed and fragile photograph depicted Amelia Earhart standing before a cave with a strange, haunting light behind her. On the back, a note scrawled in faded ink read: "Find the key to the past, and you will unlock the future." Ethan's heart raced. "What have I found?" he whispered, his voice echoing in the silent library. This forgotten photograph was a catalyst for an unexpected journey. Driven by a newfound purpose, he felt a spark ignite within him, something he had not felt in years. "I have to know more," he muttered, the determination in his voice clear as he traced the faded ink with his finger.  Ethan’s life had been a tapestry of dreams and devastation. Once a promising archaeologist, he had dedicated his life to uncovering the mysteries of ancient civilizations. His passion for history and the thrill of discovery had driven him to remote corners of the world. But his relentless pursuit of knowledge came at a great personal cost. Years earlier, while on an expedition in the Middle East, Ethan's team uncovered a site of immense historical significance. The discovery promised to redefine historical understanding, but it also attracted the attention of dangerous elements. One fateful night, insurgents attacked the camp, leaving destruction in their wake. Ethan survived, but his closest colleagues and friends did not. The traumatic experience left him scarred, both physically and emotionally. Following the tragedy, Ethan struggled to find purpose. He returned home to a life that felt alien, his passion for archaeology overshadowed by guilt and grief. His marriage crumbled under the weight of his emotional turmoil, and his once-thriving career fell into ruins. Ethan turned to alcohol, seeking solace at the bottom of a bottle, but found only deeper despair. His descent into darkness culminated in the loss of his home and savings. Disgraced and destitute, he wandered aimlessly, a shadow of the man he once was. During one of these aimless wanderings, he found himself in the dusty corners of an old library, where he often sought refuge from the harsh reality of his existence. The photograph he discovered that day was a relic from a past era, but to Ethan, it felt like a lifeline. The photograph had found its way into the library archives through a twist of fate. Years earlier, a former pilot turned researcher named James Hawkins had been exploring the Pacific islands. James had come across Nikumaroro during an expedition, discovering remnants of Amelia's camp and the photograph, left behind as a silent witness to her presence. Realizing the significance, he brought the photo back with him. Yet, before he could investigate further, James had fallen ill and passed away. His belongings, including the photograph, were donated to the library by his family, who had no idea of its importance. Each clue Ethan uncovered seemed to breathe life back into him. His fingers trembled with excitement as he pored over old maps, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. His journey led him across continents, through bustling cities and remote villages, each step tinged with the scent of adventure and the taste of discovery. He spoke aloud to himself often, the loneliness of his quest mitigated by the sound of his own voice. "This is it. This has to be it," he would exclaim, clutching a newly found piece of the puzzle. His quest brought him to the Pacific, to the desolate island of Nikumaroro. The island's salty air whipped around him, and the waves crashing against the shore constantly reminded him of the vast ocean surrounding him. Here, he discovered remnants of Amelia's camp, her journal carefully preserved in the shelter she and Fred had built. The leather cover was worn, and the pages were filled with meticulous notes and sketches. Ethan's hands trembled as he read Amelia's words, each entry painting a vivid picture of their struggle for survival and the secrets they had uncovered. The journal detailed their discovery of the secret military documents, the harsh beauty of the island, and their desperate attempts to contact the outside world. "Oh my God, Amelia," Ethan breathed, his voice thick with emotion. "You were so close... so close." Tears welled in his eyes as he turned the pages, feeling deeply connected to the woman who had endured so much. Ethan found the radio in a hidden bunker, its components rusted but still recognizable. The bunker, filled with crates and equipment, echoed Amelia's final days. Among the debris, he discovered the coded messages and maps she had found, evidence of the covert operations that had led to her disappearance. Ethan's heart pounded as he realized the enormity of his discovery. "This is it," he whispered, his voice barely audible. This is what she wanted the world to know." Amelia's final adventure, chronicled in her journal, revealed courage and resilience. Her story was lost to time but rediscovered, and it became a beacon of hope and a testament to the enduring human spirit and the mysteries that still linger in the world. Through his lens, Ethan captured the essence of Amelia's legacy, giving voice to a silent past and uncovering a truth that had been buried for decades. His publication of her journal and the photograph brought Amelia's story to the world, igniting a global fascination with her final days and the secrets she had uncovered. Amelia Earhart never returned to the world she once knew, but her legacy endured. Her final adventure, revealed through the forgotten photograph and the journal Ethan discovered, symbolized hope and tenacity. Like the unyielding tides of the Pacific, her spirit lived on, inspiring generations to dare, explore, and never give up, no matter the odds.

sjqmj1

Not Every Stumper Can be Cute

"By Xer-Bane! What are they doing?!" I shouted. Selwyn soldiers were chasing a poor, helpless stumper through the woods. For the life of me, I couldn't figure out why our allies would want to harm one of our loveable magic tree stumps. It infuriated me. They were shooting arrows, but the stumper dodged most of them by using trees as shields. I saw a few stuck in him, but they didn't slow him down. From my vantage point, I could see a small gorge hidden by a hill. If I could get there fast enough, perhaps I could hide the stumper in that gorge and then send my "friendly troops" in the wrong direction. But I needed all my racing skills to close that distance. I kicked into my highest pace, usually reserved for short races, and flew past trees and over logs. Thank Xer-Bane for giving elves long legs and quick reflexes. I could see the stumper still running towards the gorge. At my pace, we should meet with enough time to hide. I reached the hill, and the stumper came running over it. He was taller than any stumper I've ever seen, with enormous limbs for arms. He was scared, but honestly, he was also a little scary. Oh, well, not every stumper can be cute. "Hey, over here!" I shouted. He yelled in surprise but recovered quickly. "Are me you helping?" He asked. "Yes, now hurry. Hide down there." He obeyed and climbed down a few feet. I covered him with dead leaves and branches, then sat on a rock, trying to slow my breathing. After a few minutes, the soldiers raced over the hill and, when they saw me, came to a sudden stop. I played King Coins with one of them, and he recognized me. "Hey, Tim. Did you see a trunker run this way?" The poor guy was always drunk. He couldn't even say stumper correctly. "I did. He ran off that way." He thanked me, and they left. I waited until I lost sight of them, then hopped down to the stumper, uncovering him from my hasty camouflage. "Sorry I had to bury you like that," I brushed him off. "Say no sorry. You I thank." We talked. Well, we sort of talked. Initially, it was a bit difficult, but I got used to his speech pattern. I introduced myself as Tim. He told me his name was Folg, a strange name for a stumper, but it stands to reason that Lady Nimmo would have carved a few oddballs. Artists are so eccentric. We walked slowly and cautiously. I didn't want to run into any more soldiers. Suddenly, I froze. Several stumpers emerged from the woods. They looked very similar to Folg: tall and scary. Folg tensed. He grabbed my shoulder and told me to stay. He wanted to talk with them alone. I thought it was a strange request, but after almost being chopped up for firewood by his supposed allies, I was willing to cut him some slack. The new stumpers waved their arms and pointed at me. Folg kept pointing north. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but it looked like they were arguing. Suddenly, a couple of the giant stumpers began walking toward me. Folg picked up one of them and threw him into the other. The third giant stumper ran. It happened quicker than I could say, "Hey!" "What was that all about?" I asked. "Bad they are," is all he said. "Still I with you go?" "Absolutely! We've got to get you to Lady Nimmo. She'll know how to sort this out." He gave the most innocent, scary smile I've ever seen. It warmed my heart and gave me the chills. "Nice you are. Them not." He pointed to the bad three. We continued our trek towards Jorton. The big guy was starting to grow on me. Although, I didn't understand why he felt so ostracized by his buddies and Lady Nimmo. They are the nicest people you could ever meet. But for some reason, he did. He wanted to start over and make new friends. "I'm sure you'll discover Lady Nimmo never purposefully hurt you. It's all a big misunderstanding. But as for making new friends, how 'bout you call me a friend? Truthfully, I'm new here and could use as many friends as possible." He gave me that innocent, scary smile again and nodded. I could see some of Jorton's highest towers. We were almost there. Folg grew more anxious as we neared. He kept asking if it was okay for him to be here. I reassured him that Lady Nimmo would be glad to see him. While I was attempting to calm him, we heard footsteps. We hid behind some trees. I peeked around and recognized Lady Nimmo and her Father, Jor. "Hey there!" I shouted, waving my arms. "It's me, Tim." "Hello," Lady Nimmo said. "Are you training for your next race?" "I was, but then I was interrupted by a huge misunderstanding." Jor interjected, "Misunderstanding?" "I had to divert Selwyn soldiers from using this poor stumper as a pincushion." "As a pincushion? Selwyn soldiers. They wouldn't do that to one of our stumpers," Jor said. "It sure surprised me, but they were shooting at him. They even hit him several times, but you know stumpers. He never noticed. Tell them, Folg." I turned to see empty woods. Folg was nowhere to be seen. "Folg!?" I shouted. That's odd. He was right behind me." Lady Nimmo and Jor joined me in my search for the big guy. We went in different directions. I walked behind a clump of trees and found Folg. He was standing in the middle, clearly trying to hide. "What's up, big guy?" "Scared." "Come with me. There is nothing to fear. You'll see." He followed apprehensively. "Hey guys, I found him." Lady Nimmo and Jor came jogging, then pulled up when they saw Folg. "What are you doing with that?" Jor said. The tone of his voice took me aback. It was almost accusatory. I noticed him reaching for his sword. "Dad, wait," Lady Nimmo said. "Your eyes." "What about them?" He was caught off guard by her question. "They're not on fire. Neither is your sword. Your magic knows there is no danger. Let's give Tim a chance to explain." "Explain quickly, Tim. I'm not going to lie. It doesn't look good consorting with a trunker." "You mean stumper?" I asked. "No, I mean trunker." I was so confused and grateful when Lady Nimmo stepped in. "Tim, have you ever heard of a trunker?" "I haven't." "Well, that explains everything," she looked at her father reproachfully. "So you think you're standing next to a stumper?" "Aren't I?" "No, but I can see how a newcomer could get confused. Well, except for their obvious size difference and overall scariness." I almost stepped away from Folg but then thought better of it. No matter who he is, I've gotten to know him; he is my friend. His smile might give goosebumps, but his heart is good. "You're correct, my lady, I am new. I've never heard of a trunker, but this big guy is my friend. If he had meant to harm me, he would have done it when his buddies showed up. I didn't understand then, but he fought for me, and I owe him." Lady Nimmo and Jor looked at each other. They still appeared uptight and on their guard, but I saw them soften just a tiny bit. I continued to tell of Folg's desire to start over and make new friends, how his creator was cruel to him, and how the other trunkers picked on him. Lady Nimmo turned to Folg, "Folg, how do we know we can trust you?" His eyes lowered, and he looked like he was having trouble coming up with an answer: "Think different, trungen tree I am. Not like others." Lady Nimmo and Jor were shocked. "You're a trungen tree?" Jor asked. He nodded. "I wonder," Lady Nimmo said. "Come with us. But let's be careful not to freak people out too much." We only freaked out a few people on our way to Lady Nimmo's house. One of them was Flimlet, a good friend who really hates trunkers. I had to restrain him from chopping my new friend into kindling. Jor went to get Trungen, a shepherd spirit of Trungen Forest. She arrived shortly and began to communicate with Folg in their language. Their speech sounded like dried leaves blown in the wind. I had no idea what they were saying, but it was pleasant to hear. A feeling of peace and tranquility filled my mind. Then Trungen broke the hypnotic spell. "He is telling the truth. He is a trungen tree, and he means no harm. I don't know how the Shadow Elf Creator got a hold of a tree from Trungen Forest, but I expect he has more of them. The power of Trungen has overpowered the magic of the evil creator. That's why Folg never belonged. He is truly one of us." Lady Nimmo wisely called a town meeting and introduced Folg. She had me come up and tell how we met and how Folg protected me. I laughed a lot while recounting our adventure, something I do when nervous. People didn't know how to take my speech. Whispers of, "What's the joke? Why's he laughing? Who's this guy? I think he's cute," carried through the crowd. I'm unsure if the "cute" was intended for me or Folg. Flimlet insists it was for Folg. I finally finished and gladly stepped off the stage. It was decided that Lady Nimmo should carve a symbol onto Folg to distinguish him from other trunkers. However, no one could agree on the symbol. Some suggested the Selwyn Crest, others the Seal of the Glorious Mountain, and others famous family crests. The debate was getting nowhere fast until Folg asked to speak. "I like tree gold trunk, green leaves. Trungen symbol." My jaw dropped. It was perfect, and it came from Folg, the last person anyone would expect to solve the problem. Folg became a part of Jorton, a part of us. His story spread throughout, and his symbol rose to number three among the most famous symbols in Wanowyn by Wanowyn Wisemen, a very prestigious scroll company. They touted its simplicity as its genius. The Trungen symbol, a gold trunk with emerald leaves, was adopted by the town of Jorton. Now, every stumper and soldier of Jorton bears it. Folg still warms the hearts and chills the bones with his scary, innocent smile, but he has endeared himself to us. He has not only become a part of Jorton but has also given Jorton its identity and made me a friend.

xjvsky

The Greatest Generation

Eddie hobbled home after his morning walk. At ninety-nine, he struggled to get down the block, but most days he managed to go at least part of the way. Today, his body ached more than usual but he refused to let that stop him. As he arrived back at his house, Nurse Edna took his cane and helped him sit in the waiting wheelchair. That was their routine. A mid-morning walk down the block, only to be greeted with a wheelchair at the end. Nurse Edna watched every step he took, like he was a toddler. Eddie resented that, but knew it was for his own good. Feeble in mind and body, he needed Edna or they would put him in one of those homes. And Mary had made Eddie promise to keep Nurse Edna on after she passed. Eddie kept his word, he always did. He could never deny Mary anything. Somehow, she always knew what he needed. Edna was a top-notch aide, kind and skilled. She wasn’t a nurse, but that’s what they had taken to calling her from the beginning. It was a title of respect, even without the degree. She had taken good care of Mary. Nothing but the best for his Mary - Eddie made sure of that. Now it was his turn. “You want to go for a walk without me, fine,” Nurse Edna had told him after Mary passed. “But I have rules. One of them is that you are not to get hurt while under my care. So if I don’t go with you, I will stand on the sidewalk and watch you. The first time you look like you are about to fall will be the last time you go without me. Deal?” Of course Eddie agreed. He didn’t have much of a choice. At this stage in his life, he was determined to walk as long as he could manage it. These mid-morning strolls reminded him of the long walks he and Mary used to take. He had to walk alone, otherwise he was afraid his mind wouldn’t remember. He needed to keep remembering her. Even if it was only when he walked down the block. After his morning outings, he would rest, maybe nap. Then Nurse Edna would prepare lunch, and try to stimulate conversation about something or other, before he would sit in front of the TV. If the weather was nice, Edna would take him for an afternoon walk, this time in his wheelchair. Or they would play a game to try and get Eddie to move his stiff limbs. Then dinner and more TV before readying for bed. Not very exciting. So Eddie’s morning walks were often the highlight of his day. He yearned to go further, but was proud that he could at least go as far as he did. There weren’t many his age that could still take a short stroll, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before his mid-morning walks came to an end. “Great job today on your walk. I think you went a little further than yesterday. How do you feel?” Nurse Edna asked as she wheeled him into the house. “Hmph. I walked to the Sullivan’s front door yesterday. Today I only walked to their driveway. At least ten steps short. So how do you think I feel?” He was surly today. Edna understood that Eddie didn’t mean to be so cross; he was just frustrated. Her heart ached for him. It was hard-growing old. Not being able to walk down the block when he used to run for miles in the morning. Not being able to remember what he had for breakfast, when he used to command high positions both in the army and beyond, in his professional career. Not being able to talk about times of old, times that no one remembered anymore. Not being able to be with Mary. “Well, I have a little surprise for you – maybe it will improve your mood. It might help you remember some of your past. Here. You can open it now.” Edna handed Eddie a package. “It’s … it’s not my birthday – at least I don’t think it is. Right? I can’t remember when…ugh, that’s something I should remember, since I’ve had so many. Nurse Edna, if it’s not my birthday, why the present? It feels like a book.” “It is not your birthday. You are still a youthful 99! We’ll have a big party when you reach the century mark, don’t you worry!” Edna joked. “It is a book – but I think you’ll like this one. There is something inside that you should see.” Eddie tore the wrapping paper off the large book. “World War 2 with never before told stories and illustrations. Huh?” he said, baffled. “I was in World War 2. In Europe, I think. Is that right?” He looked to Edna for confirmation. “Yes. You were. I have heard a few of your stories.  This book has more stories, from different soldiers, medics and other people involved in the war. But what I want you to see is on pages 71 and 72. I have a little bookmark in the correct place.” Edna helped Eddie maneuver the book.  As soon as it fell open to the correct pages, a sign of recognition flashed in Eddie’s eyes. He stared down at the tome resting on his lap. A large photograph spanning the two pages stared back at him. “Hey. I know this picture. That’s me,” he said, pointing to a figure in the photo.   “Standing on top of the big gun. They called it Anzio Annie. We were in Anzio. That’s … Italy. Anzio Annie had us pinned down. I remember. We couldn’t find it for the longest time. The enemy hid it in the railroad trestles during the daylight hours. Our planes couldn’t spot it. At night, the enemy would fire on our position. We looked for that big gun for weeks. My buddy -his name was, er.. Walter. Yeah, Walter - he eventually found it while on patrol, quite by accident. At least, I think it was him. Well, once we knew the hiding spot, we captured that sucker so it couldn’t do any more damage. Afterwards, we posed for this photo, all of us standing on top of the big gun. My whole unit. We all fit, that’s how big Anzio Annie was. Our commander sent the picture to the General as proof we captured it. Wow! I didn’t know we were in a book.” “It’s the same picture you had in a scrapbook,” Edna explained. “So I knew it meant something to you. You’re famous now! And, there is more to the surprise. When I saw this picture in the book, I started making a few phone calls to try and track down some of your old unit. I contacted a few people and eventually found Walter Stockton and his son, Bob.” “Walter! Wow, he was my buddy in the war. Did I say that already? You know, war is terrible. Really bad. We fought so that there would be no more wars. They told us World War 2 was the war to end all wars. Ah well, maybe they say that after every war. I don’t know. But we believed it. Some of the guys I met over there, in the war – the best. I wish you could have met them. They were my brothers. And Walter…it’s so good to hear he’s still around. A lot aren’t, you know. Walter was older than me…can’t believe I remember him. Haven’t thought of him for years. I can’t even remember my own name half the time. That’s what gets me angry sometimes. I don’t mean to take it out on you, Nurse Edna.” Edna had never heard Eddie speak so much. And he was lucid, animated even. She pushed on, if only to keep Eddie engaged. “I know you don’t mean to be cross, Eddie. No worries, I do understand, you know- “Anyway, when I spoke to Bob, Walter’s son, we talked about your time at Anzio. He also said that after Italy, your unit went to Paris. And they gave you a parade. Do you remember being in Paris?” “Sure, I remember Paris. And the parade. Thousands came out to see us walk through the city center, cheering. You never heard such loud cheers. For us! The people were so appreciative. We were just a ragtag group, mostly kids, but we were treated like royalty when we were there. I was only 19. What a great city! Paris. And that’s where I met my Mary, you know. I remember that day like it was yesterday. I told Mary we’d go back one day." Eddie’s voice trailed off. "We never did. I wish we had.” “I’m so glad you remember Paris and meeting Mary there. Bob said Walter spoke of you and Mary. Walter said Mary was the best thing to happen to his old buddy.” “Without a doubt, Nurse Edna. Without a doubt.” Eddie had a look on his face that Edna hadn’t seen before. Happy. . . No, not exactly happy. Maybe more thoughtful. He remembered everything as he spoke-she was certain. It was like he was coming to life again, right before her eyes. Not just biding time, counting days. She hadn’t been sure if bringing back memories of the war was a good idea. But she knew Eddie was getting more and more frustrated with each passing day. His memory was getting worse, and he was receding deeper and deeper into his own world. So she decided to give it a try. “Well, this year is the 80 th anniversary of the parade you were in. The veteran’s association is taking some of the World War 2 veterans to Paris to commemorate the liberation of the city. A special excursion. Bob is going to take Walter.” Bob had told Edna that his dad was like a person adrift at sea without an anchor. He had almost nothing of his past to hang on to, to know who he was and what his life meant.  He was just sailing vacantly through the last few years. Much like Eddie. When Bob showed his dad the photo in the book, Walter became more animated, and showed a spark that hadn’t been there in years. The past meant something. What these aging men did back then, meant something. That’s when the Paris trip came up. It was the possibility of a trip that seemed to invigorate Walter. Bob had immediately made the decision to take his dad to Paris, after seeing Walter’s response to the photograph. Seeing Eddie’s reaction just now, Edna decided to see if Eddie would want to go. “A plane has been arranged, for the World War 2 veterans, to take them back to Paris…if you would want to go. As I said, there is a special celebration commemorating the liberation of the city. And they are having another parade for all the vets like you, who were there 80 years ago.” “At my age, travel? I don’t know if I can do it.” “You would be traveling by a plane that has been specifically adapted to accommodate veterans like you. And I would go with you. They will have nurses, real ones, and doctors along, to keep an eye on everyone. It’s a chance for you to see that what you did back then was important. And that it is still recognized today. Plus, if you decide to go, you will see Walter and other World War 2 vets that lived through the same experiences. Bob said Walter was excited about the trip. How long has it been since you last saw Walter?” “We were kids in those days. We wrote each other for a dozen or so years after we got back, but since then, a lifetime has passed. . . He really said he remembered Mary? She was special. He was the best man at our wedding, you know. I didn’t remember that until just now.” A smile settled on Eddie’s face. Edna knew he was thinking about Mary. After a silent pause that lasted more than a few minutes, Eddie spoke. “Yes, Let’s go, if we still can. Mary wants me to go. I feel it. And it would be good to see Walter again. After all these years. I can show you where Mary and I first met. She’ll be with us. Right here.” Eddie patted his chest.

1h33nf

Returned

A man in his mid-thirties sat in a car, trees whipping back as he pushed the gas pedal—accelerating to seventy. Soft music played on the radio as he neared his new home. He sighed. “Moving’s never easy…” He gently pressed the brakes, bringing the car to a smooth stop, and turned into his new driveway. “Get yourself together, Noah. You need this.” He parked his car outside his new home; the house was a stunning sight, made from polished logs with a deep green-colored door, a vast window on the left side, and two windows placed from where the attic lay. It also had ten acres of land and a blue barn centered in the middle. Noah placed a hand on his forehead. “I just moved from South Dakota to California!” He inhaled deeply and entered the log cabin. The cold air greeted Noah as he looked around the place. Undoubtedly, the people he was renting from took good care of the house, and he dropped his bag at the bottom of the counter. Climbing on top of the counter, he thought Not bad . A ding came from his phone, and he pulled it from his pocket. It was his sister. “How’re you doing? Did you make it?”  the text said. Noah chuckled. “Just made it!”  he sent back, and his sister replied with many excited emojis. Noah chuckled and placed the phone back in his pocket. “Better get used to this place. I’ll try the attic first!” He slid off the counter with a thud and walked to a door. Noah turned the door nob and slowly opened the door, and a dusty smell hit him. This must be it…  He thought and traveled up the stairs. The attic was dark, so Noah flipped on a light switch. Many empty boxes lay on the floor. As Noah scanned the room, the boxes began to move and shove themselves sideways. “What is that?” Noah backed away, and a man emerged from the crates. “Ya’ landlord!” the man screamed. Noah yelped and crashed onto the unsanded floor. “Wow, easy there, mate!” Noah shook his head. “Who are you!?” he reached for his phone, which flew a few inches away when he crashed. “Easy boy! I’m not a criminal. I’m ya’ landlord!” he yelled. Noah grabbed his phone and stood up, dusting himself off. “Okay, what-what are you doing here?!?!…” The man reached out his hand as he walked towards Noah. He gestured as if to shake hands. “Pleasure to meet you. I’m Bill Lucas.” Noah stood dumbfounded and reluctantly shook his hand back. “Wait… You helped me get this place,” he pointed out. Bill clapped his hands, overjoyed about something. “Yes, I did! And now it’s your turn to help me, mate!” Bill jumped up and down. “‘Help you’? Help you with what?” Bill slapped a picture onto Noah’s chest. There was a man on it. “That’s me brother. I found his picture tucked away in here. I have no idea why… But you used to work with him, right?” Bill asked. Noah stared at the picture, trying to remember him. “I think so… He looks familiar. Wait, yes, I did work with him!” “Then you know where he lives!” Bill exclaimed. “Yeeeesss…” Noah looked at Bill, who was now close to tears. “I need you to take me to him… We had a family crisis, and he broke off…” He closed his eyes and sighed. “I need to make it right with him… So I need you to take me to him, mate!” Bill laid a hand on Noah’s shoulder. Noah shook his head. “But I just got here!” Noah exclaimed. Bill nearly fell over. “GOOD JOKE!!!” he laughed raucously. Noah sighed. “No, I am not going! I won’t drive for three days again, never mind paying for lodging again.” He gripped the bridge of his nose and then looked at him. “My money is running low…” Noah murmured. “I can pay for that, mate! Now, no dilly dallying come, let’s go!” Bill ran down the stairs. Noah sighed and followed. Warming up to the idea, Noah said, “I didn’t unpack the car, so there are still snacks.” Bill squealed and jumped up and down. “I call shotgun, baby!!!” he screamed into Noah’s ear. Noah blinked with anger and closed his eyes. “Okay, cool! You better hop in the car now,” he said. Bill nodded and walked out the door.  Okay… I’m going back to South Dakota to help my landlord find his brother, my former boss…  Noah sighed. “Let’s go…” He grabbed the keys and turned on his phone. Once he reached the car, he tapped for a few minutes on his phone, tucked it away, put the car in drive, and left his new house. “Okay, I found an Airbnb,” Noah said. Bill looked at him. “Already?” “The person who owns it is a close friend. I told her what was happening, and she lent it to me,” Noah explained. Bill chuckled and started looking around. “What are you looking for?” “Food…” “You’re hungry? Already!?” Noah exclaimed. “Well, I didn’t get breakfast on account that I was waiting for you!” Bill dramatically scoffed. “It took ya’ ages!” He pointed a finger at him. Noah laughed, and so did Bill. He rubbed his eyes and then stared at the road, the yellow lines going on forever. “But are ya’ sure you’ know where we’re going, mate? Just by looking at a photograph?” Worry laced Bill’s voice. Noah gripped tighter on the wheel. “He was… My best friend, it would be crazy if I didn’t.” He turned the wheel, and then a ding  came from his phone. He pulled it out. “Who is it?” Bill asked. Noah chuckled and smiled. “My sister, do you mind just texting ‘doing good’ with a thumbs up?” Noah asked. Bill nodded, took the phone, texted mostly what he said, and returned it to him. Noah read it and groaned. “You said, ‘Doing good but going on a road trip.’ Why did I trust my phone to you?” Bill was so busy belly-laughing that he couldn’t answer. Noah sighed and couldn’t help laughing a bit.  Two Days Later... Bill was looking for food again, so Noah grabbed some beef jerky and handed it to him. “Thank you! So how is it going with the Airbnb?” Bill asked. Noah was about to answer but then slapped a hand on his forehead. “Dang it! I forgot to book an Airbnb for today…” he groaned. “Well, at least we’re South Dakota,” Noah said. Bill fidgeted with his hands. “Worried about your brother?” Noah asked. Bill nodded. “And me parents… The thing is that the reason we drifted apart was because I got married. My wife wanted to move to California, and my brother got mad and left… I want to make it right…” Bill groaned. “Hey… It isn’t your fault. Why did she want to go to California?” Noah stopped at a red light. “Her Mother and Father were there… And I would do anything for her.” Bill sniffled. “We’ll get to your brother!” Noah started driving again. “And after that, I’m letting you keep the house. I’ll give you some money, and you can buy it! The house is not that expensive!” Bill chuckled. Noah was taken aback. “Really!? Thanks!” “Of course…” Bill’s words faded as a sign said, ‘Welcome to South Dakota.’ They drove in silence as Noah navigated the familiar small town with turns much more familiar to him than the home he left behind in California. “This is it…” he said, turning into a rocky driveway with a quaint little house at its end, rolling hills beyond its terrain. Bill opened the car door once they parked and walked to the house’s opening. “Do you want me to come with you?” Noah asked. “No thanks, I’m good. You should go visit your sister.” “Are you sure?” Noah asked. Bill nodded. “I’m sure.”  “Okay. Good luck!” Noah hopped in the car and drove away. Bill knocked on the door, and a voice called out. “Coming!” Bill recognized it… “Brother……” He whispered into the air. The door opened, and Bill saw him, and he saw Bill. “Bill…” “Liam…” Tentatively, Bill embraced his brother. “I am… so. sorry…” After only a beat, Liam returned his brother’s hug. “Bill… No, I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have overreacted… You just wanted to follow your wife… I get that now. Come on in!” *** Meanwhile, Noah made it to his sister’s house, and even without ringing the doorbell, his sister opened the door and embraced him. “I missed you so much!” She said. “I thought you were kidding about the road trip thing.” Noah chuckled softly and hugged her back. “I missed you too, Luna…” She let go of him. “Why are you back?” she asked. “Had to help a friend… in fact, I have to go pick him up in a little bit.” He sighed. “And I forgot to book the Airbnb…” “Don’t you dare stay at an Airbnb. You can stay for the night! The kids would be more than happy. You can stay for however long you like!” Luna said. “Thank you so much, Luna. Bill will be relieved, too.” He turned to leave, but his sister’s voice stopped him. “Wait… Is that the friend?” “Yeeeeaaaahh…” Noah turned and looked at her. “Is his name Bill Lucas?” she asked “Yes.” Noah scratched at his beard. “How do you know him?” “A man a few blocks down talked about him.” “Huh…what does he say about him? Luna got a strange look on her face. “I don’t really know, except he sounded pretty angry.” “Honestly, I can understand that! He takes some getting used to!” laughed Noah. “Anyway, thank you for letting us stay at your house!” “Of course!`” Luna gave him another hug, and then Noah left. *** “It was so nice to see you again!” Bill hugged his brother. “I missed you so much…” Liam closed his eyes. Just then, Liam’s wife called his name. “You should go now, Bill.” And with that, Liam let go and walked to the door. “Come back, okay!” “I definitely will!” Bill walked down the porch steps and texted Noah. He then strolled down the roadways, thinking about all that had happened as he waited for Noah to arrive, and just then, he did. “Right on time!” Bill screamed. “Hi, Bill! How did it go with your brother?” he asked in a low voice. “I’ll tell you in the car…” “Alright Bill, guess what? We’re staying with my sister tonight!” “Perfect!” As they drove off Bill told him how it went. “He apologized to me about leaving and how now, since he’s married, he gets why I wanted to move to California.” “Oh, good! I’m so glad it worked out. Listen, I know you probably want to stick around for a little while, but we’re only staying at Luna’s place for a few days, and then I gotta leave.” Noah informed him. “Mh… I’ll miss you, mate, cuz I’ve decided to stay here for good.” He placed a hand on Noah’s shoulder. *** Back at Luna’s, she showed them to their rooms. “In that room, there’s a bed, and the second one has one too!” Luna said. “Thank you, Luna… Really!” Noah hugged her. “Goodnight!” “Goodnight!” Luna walked away, and Noah strolled into one of the rooms. “Goodnight Bill…” “Goodnight, sonny…” Bill walked to the other room. Noah slipped off his shoes, laid down on his bed, and shut his eyes.

rff6d3

Love Knows No Bounds

Sarah was only thirteen when boys started noticing her. She was a beautiful girl with long auburn hair and mesmerizing green eyes. Her parents said she had to wait until she was fifteen to date. She agreed and decided to focus on her schoolwork and other interests. She studied hard and pursued her interests in art, drama and music. She developed her artistic talent and made a lot of friends. She became a beautiful young woman with a wild independent spirit that refused to be broken. During her senior year Zach Whitherspoon, the most popular boy in school asked her to prom. She wasn't impressed by his fashionable hair or clothes, not even his rich kid brand new Lexus he got for his birthday. He asked her for a date every Friday night for the last three months and she persistently said no. He followed her after school one day and hurried to catch up to her, "Sarah, I have been asking you for a date for three months now. Will you go to the prom with me?"  He was pretty sure of himself, "As you know I have a new Lexus so I can drive us there and we can stay at The Grand downtown!" She was leaning against the tree as he leaned in to entice her with a kiss and said, "How about it pretty lady?" Sarah dodged his boorish advance and looked at Zach like he was made of broccoli (which she never cared for) and he thought her hypnotizing green eyes were looking right through him. She broke the awkward silence and said, "Listen Zack, I'm not the least bit interested in your little Lord Fauntleroy car, and I have no intention of going to the prom with you let alone a hotel room so ask someone else." Sarah gave the valedictorian speech at graduation which inspired the young and the old alike. It motivated her classmates to find their niche in life, to seek out what interests them and to make their dreams come true. It inspired the adults in the crowd to return to the things that had once been their muse, to create something beautiful, build something useful and write something moving. She ended her speech with an inspirational challenge "Seek what you love, and it will never be torn from you. Even time itself is not a barrier to love." Sarah let those words echo in her mind as she packed for college... "Even time itself is not a barrier to love."   She really believed that and was determined that was how she would live her life. So, after a tearful goodbye she began her journey and adventure. She was sought after by many schools but picked UMD in Duluth, Minnesota because she loved the beauty of the north shore wilderness and had developed quite a talent for watercolor landscapes. It was her muse. Already in her junior year of college she was selling her art at the Grand Marais Art Festival. Her watercolors seemed to capture not only the beauty but the possibilities of what the landscape beheld for the viewer. If the water was blue green, she made it blue greener. If the waves were big, she made them bigger. If the clouds were gray, she made them grayer. She painted Lake Superior as if she was a grand lady. Some nights she relaxed splashing gently on the shore, some days she was angry with large waves crashing violently on the jagged rocks below the cliffs. The scenes were painted with such emotion the viewer could envision the sound of the crashing waves and feel the splashes of the water and the force of the wind. She lived her life like the landscapes she painted. She let her emotions flow freely and she went wherever the winds of inspiration took her. Sarah did what all college kids do at night. One night at the bar, there came the one moment in time that decided the course of her future. She was out with her friends Jennifer and Danielle whose nickname was Dani. Jennifer shared Sarah's love of art, only she considered her art a form of entertainment which made people smile. She made a lot of friends that way and money too. She was a regular at the Grand Marais art festival every year. She loved the spot by the lake. When the sun light shown upon her long blonde hair it lit up. That's how she met Sarah, they were both working the festival and Sarah complimented Jennifer. "Hi! I have to say, your golden hair is beautiful, lit up in the sunlight like a golden beacon!" Jennifer looked up from her drawing and beamed a big white toothy smile and said with sincerity, "You should see your hair right now! The sunlight is illuminating the red in your hair and it looks like fire!" They laughed and joked they could be a seventies cop show, "Beacon and Fire". From that moment on they were best friends along with Dani. Jennifer and Dani grew up in Hopkins, Minnesota. Dani was an entertainer. She was slim with short layered black hair. She liked the goth look and wore mostly black. Jennifer used to tease her "Why do you wear black? Are you trying to look bad ass?" That's where she got the name for her band. She was the lead singer. They called themselves Bad Ass Girls. Dani was dramatic in every way. The three of them were drinking beer at the bar and Dani swiveled her chair a little too fast after one beer too many. She nearly fell off her chair, but Sarah caught her and said, "Ok I think you've had enough for one night." Then it happened, that one pivotal moment in time. It was that crossroads "if only" moment she would one day look back on with wonder. Dani was trying to convince Sarah to stay a while longer, "One more beer. One more and then we'll go!" Dani didn't wait for a reply, she ordered one more beer. Sarah dropped her purse but before she could bend down to pick it up a tall scruffy looking guy was handing it to her. "Thank you" she said trying not to stare. He was wearing a UMD sweatshirt although it was raggedy and dirty. He looked like he hadn't shaved or combed his hair for three days. She wondered if he bought the sweatshirt at a thrift store or was wearing a hand-me-down because he didn't look like a student. She must have looked bewildered. "Hi, I'm Tom" he said with a grin . "Just in case you're wondering, I'm not homeless and I'm not a panhandler." Embarrassed, she could feel her face flush so she looked down at the floor for a moment. She looked up and smiled "Sarah. Nice to meet you." Now Tom felt his face flush "Oh, sorry I just got back from camping up at Grand Portage and just stopped in to have a beer before heading home and unpacking." Her eyes lit up as they talked about their shared love of the north shore. They talked like they were old friends. Dani tapped Sarah on the shoulder "Are you ready? I finished my one more beer so let's go." Sarah looked at Tom and said , "I need to get her home, her one more was two too many."  Tom offered to walk them home. Sarah really liked him. He was easy to talk to. She wanted to see him again and she did. They became close and before long they fell in love. They married in June after they graduated. The ceremony was held on Artist's Point with the calm blue green water of Lake Superior as a backdrop. The sky was blue with white puffy clouds. Sarah was beautiful in her white lace mermaid style dress. Instead of a train, her chiffon veil was twenty feet long. During the vows, the wind caught her veil and lifted it high into the air and it seemed to dance on the wind. The bridesmaids looked frantic and wondered how they were going to get it to come down, but she looked up and smiled and thought it was a wondrous sight. The wedding photographer captured that very moment. It was the very picture of hope and happiness. Tom was hired by a very prestigious accounting firm so they could afford a nice apartment in Two Harbors. In the back of her mind, Sarah always wondered why Tom chose such a profession being cooped up in a cubical all day. Sarah made the mistake of suggesting Tom work for a BWCA outfitter on the Gunflint Trail and he went ballistic. "My boring job is what pays the rent around here so that you can play around all day painting your little watercolor landscapes. Don't look so shocked! I knew about your love affair with the North Shore the night we met. I watched you every Friday night at the bar talking to your friends. I watched you paint and when you were ready for the art festival, I followed you to Grand Marais and watched you sell your art." When he was through Sarah was in tears. She couldn't believe what just happened. At first, she was speechless but managed to say through the tears, "So you're saying you were stalking me?" He said without emotion, "I saw you, wanted you, and planned how to get you by studying you."  She packed her things and went to stay with Jennifer and filed for divorce the next day. Dani came over and the three of them talked over dinner. Sarah confided in her friends "I should have known it was too good to be true." Jennifer encouraged her, "Don't be so hard on yourself, nobody can see the future."  Sarah was unconvinced. "If only I had gotten off that bar stool just a few minutes earlier I never would have met him."  But Jennifer did not give up, "If Only doesn't exist. It only lives in Make Believe Land. You live in the here and now and you have a future!" Like a spark, Sarah remembered the adults listening to her valedictorian speech and how they were inspired to revisit their muse, their inspiration. It was like she was on the other side of the looking glass being inspired by herself and she remembered who she was and what she dreamed she could be. The divorce was uncontested and soon she was on her own again, happy to be free. She bought an old Victorian style house on the hill in Duluth intending to open a coffee shop where she could sell her art. The renovation gave her time to think and dream and plan. All her friends and family were there at the grand opening of Wind Dancer Cafe. Customers were greeted with the enticing fragrances of coffee, pastries, lavender, and pine. It became a home away from home for the college students. To the left of the entryway was a comfortable living room. Across the hall was the formal parlor with small pine tables and chairs. The tabletops were natural white pine with glossy resin coating and each set of chairs were stained assorted colors. The flooring was 100-year-old wide plank white pine varnished to a glossy shine. The wallpaper in the parlor was a Victorian style floral design that shimmered with silver and gold and big white flowers on a sage background. The wallpaper in the living room was a more masculine design with schooners sailing on the sea. Both rooms led to the kitchen in the back of the house where the coffee was made, and the pastries were baked. Sarah closed the shop for the day and went upstairs to the attic which she would renovate for additional seating. The previous owners abandoned everything. It was like stepping back in time. As she dusted furniture and leather books, she came across a framed old black and white photograph of a young sailor looking out at the sea, standing beside a lighthouse. Her eyes widened as she realized the lighthouse was Split Rock! The light keeper’s cottage was brand new so it must have been sometime in the early 1900’s. He was wearing the wool double-breasted pea coat sailors wore and a captain's hat. He had long, dark, wavy hair was smoking pipe and had a duffel slung over his shoulder. She giggled a little as she remembered the vintage Old Spice commercial with the sailor carrying his duffel over his shoulder, whistling the Old Spice tune. The sailor seemed to be anxiously awaiting to set sail on his next adventure. His eyes appeared to be searching for wisdom he did not yet possess, and his stance was one of someone watching and waiting for something or someone. He was standing at the ready for whatever was beckoning him. Sarah suddenly let out a gasp, dropped the framed photograph on the floor, and cracked the glass in the frame. She saw something that startled her. She thought she saw the sailor turn his head and look at her. For a split second she thought she felt a connection between herself, the sailor, and the lake. She knew she must have imagined what she thought she saw, but it was if the photograph was enchanted. She found it hard to sleep that night. For one thing, the Old Spice tune kept playing in her head. She couldn't stop thinking about the sailor in that old black and white photograph. She was filled with wonder and a sense of excitement. Every day after she closed the shop she went upstairs to the attic to clean and sort and plan. The photograph of the young sailor beckoned her every time and she stared at it and wondered what kind of man he was and what kind of life he led. She stared at that photograph almost wishing he would look at her again. She knew that was silly, it was just a photograph. Even so, she lingered looking at the photograph. "Who are you?" Then, just as before, he turned his head to look at her but this time he spoke. "I am Owen."  Sarah closed her eyes and resisted the urge to run screaming bloody murder. She was afraid she was going mad and afraid everyone else would think she's mad. When she composed herself, she opened her eyes again to look at the photograph she was still holding in her hands. The scenery was the same, but the sailor was gone. "Hello Sarah" said a rugged but kind voice in the dark corner of the room. "I am Owen." Sarah crumpled up like a rag doll and fainted dead away. When she came to, he was holding her hand with his left hand and patting her brow with his right. "I have been waiting for you for a very long time. I thought you were lost to me forever, but my love knows no bounds. I swore I would search for you until the end of time and one day we would be together again."  Sarah shook her head and said "Wait, is this a Wuthering Heights kind of moment? Because that didn't go very well for either of them in the end." He looked lost "Where is this place Wuthering Heights? Is that where we are?"  With his help Sarah stood up still shaking her head in disbelief "This can't be happening! You can't be here." Owen smiled and said in a whisper as he leaned in closer to her face "Well I am here so I can." Flickers of memories flashed through her mind. Memories of places she's never been and people she's never met. She looked like she was going to faint again, so he took her hands in his and she felt that connection again. "Do you remember?"  She smiled with joy and threw her arms around his neck and said "Yes, Owen. I remember!" He held her tight and kissed her "Oh my love, my Sarah. The last time I saw you, you were standing on the ship with your long white gown dancing in the wind. I will always love you. My love knows no bounds I will always find you. Just then a giant rogue wave hit the ship and we capsized, and you were lost. I have been searching, watching and waiting all these years to find you again." "I hate to burst your bubble my love, but what happens now? I live in the here and now so what does that mean for us? Are you going to suddenly disappear and go back into the photograph? I have a life here and I am free to live it the way I dreamed it could be. I want you to stay here with me." Owen replied confidently, "Fate brought you back to me. I have no intention of ever leaving you again. Unless I pop back into the frame like a genie." Owen teasingly motioned with his hands and said "POOF!"  Sarah smiled and rolled her eyes "Stop!" After graduation, Owen and Sarah were married on a tall sailing ship, a replica of The Santa Maria in Grand Marais harbor. Her flowing white gown danced in the wind as they vowed to each other "I will always love you. My love knows no bounds."

8waue9

Colombian Princess

The picture was nostalgic. Creases on the corners, faded colors of blue and white, smiles so big you'd think they just got married. I found the old photo of my dad and who I assume was his Colombian girlfriend buried in the attic with a 'don't touch' label on the box. He died a year ago so for the anniversary of his death I decided he no longer had power over the mystery crate. I didn't show mom for obvious reasons, although it looks to be older than their marriage. Dad must've been in his early 20's at the time, and as a man now reaching that age, I was jealous. Yes, the scenery was gorgeous, and the woman he's holding couldn't be considered anything less than a goddess. But more than the picture, I was envious of the note on the back. 'To the most engaging and handsome man I've ever met, please never forget your Colombian princess' - Ayana Avila Even her name held you in a trance. It made me wonder why my old man ever came back. Actually, it made me wonder much more than that. Why was he in Colombia? Why did he go against the note and in theory 'forget her'? He must've been there longer than a vacation to earn such high praise and I never took my dad for a disloyal man. Him and my mom were like two peas in a pod. I just felt it. There had to be more to this photo. So I did some digging through the box. The stunning beach with white sand and clear blue water - San Andrés. I had no idea the island was a part of Colombia. Dad had a T-shirt with the cities name. He also left a few Colombian dollars and a menu to a tiki bar with a number written on the back. My dad was always around growing up, but he didn't tell me much about his past. He was diplomatic in his speech and stoic in his behavior. I looked up to him, but wanted so much more. I thought I had plenty more time to get it.... If there's one thing my dad taught me it's to keep moving forward. Don't let things linger and keep you from your goals. But I needed some lore. I needed to know where I came from, who I was, I needed to see a piece of him that I knew he'd only share with me. A part of me felt like he kept that box to show me one day. I had all the information I needed. So, I took a flight to the island of San Andrés. Once I arrived, I was quickly reminded of how little I've travelled. It was shocking how few buildings they had and half of them were ruins. People were driving by in decade old cars blaring Spanish music. You could feel the drugs moving around you from person to person like the entire island was a chain. The food smelt great and horrible at the same time. I was both terrified and excited to try everything. I was worried my Spanish would be too proper, but as it turns out, my dad must've taught me the Colombian dialect. Everyone I spoke to was just as shocked as I was that they understood me. Once I arrived at my hotel, I whipped out my computer and searched the number on the menu. I had no luck finding an address, and I didn't want to cold call and scare her off. I searched the old tiki bar, and apparently it went out of business 10 years ago. Then I did what I should've done first. I searched her name. Prostitutes. Strippers. Escorts. Those were the services offered on the only website that featured 'Ayana Avila.' Surely my dad didn't seduce a lady of the night to that extent. If he did, I'd be more impressed. I started to wonder if she got so depressed after my dad left she decided to do this. That was nearly 25 years ago, but I still felt bad for her. Using the number on the website I called and placed an order. Now I'm sitting in my hotel room waiting for my dad's ex girlfriend stripper from Colombia to show up without a clue of who I am. knock, knock, knock. I open the door. "Hello, are you Mister Vick?" She asks. Her accent is as cute as can be. For being 50, she sure doesn't look it. I'm briefly considering following through on the arrangement, but my brain promptly reminds me that I'm here because she dated my dad. "Vick Sanders. Yes Ma'am." I respond. "Please, come in." She softly walks in the room. Her dress is promiscuous but not too revealing. I'm starstruck. Why am I here again? "Please, don't call me ma'am. it reminds me my age, hehe." Her giggle makes me smile like I'm about to get married. I get it, dad. "I call all women ma'am. Don't worry. You look as stunning as the you did 25 years ago." Her smile wipes away as if '25 years' itself was a memory. "Sanders?" She stands up from her spot on the edge of the bed. "You say Sanders is your last name?!" I nod my head, unsure if I should. "Like, Nick Sanders?" "That's my dad's name." ... Slap! I haven't been hit like that since I came home from getting detention in middle school. "I'm sure he deserved that," I say. "I'm so sorry. Oh no, no, no." Ayana sits back down and puts her face in her hands. "Why are you here?" "I found this picture of you in my dad's attic box." I pull out the picture. "I wanted to know what you knew of him." "Ask him yourself. I never want to think of that man again." "Well I can't. Because he's dead." ... "I lied. I've thought about him constantly." Her eyes were so full of hopelessness now. "I'm sorry." "Is he really dead?" "Yes, unfortunately." "He promised me one day he would come back." "Why did he leave?" "Well he had too. The Medellín cartel had found out he was an agent." "Why would they care that he was an insurance agent?" "Insurance? You mean the CIA?" ... "I'm sorry, what?" knock, knock, knock. "They are here already? Shit!" "Who's here?" "When they take your wallet and see your last name is Sanders they might find out you're his son." "But what did my dad do?" "He and Cesar are such enemies, he forced me to work for him forever once he learned of our relationship. He'll kill you without hesitation." "What the actual fuck!" "Sh! Hide in the closet. And take your bag." I do as I'm told. Ayana answers the door. "Hola chicos. ¿Alguna idea de por qué abro la puerta de una habitación de hotel vacía?" Who the hell is my dad? I'm blurry on their conversation, so I watch through a tiny crack in the door of the closet. The men don't look any more scary than most I've run into on this island. That is, until they pulled out their pistols. But Ayana seems calm through it all. They trust each other. Before long, Ayana gets the goons to gallup. I wait until she opens the door to do anything. "Phew. That was close," I say. "Yes it was. Now leave." "What? I can't leave now," I say as sweat soaks my clothes. "I cannot do anything for you, Vick. Except tell you that the longer you stay, the more likely it is you'll be caught." "What were those guys here for anyway?" "They come in while I'm working and steal the clients valuables." "Why do you let them do that?" "Because of your father! I said this earlier." "Were you always a prostitute?" "No. Me and your father met when I was a bartender. Little did I know, he was a CIA agent looking to uncover a drug trafficking ring. Almost a year later, the cartel found out, and forced him into leaving. But that's all I'm going to tell you." Ayana goes to leave. "Wait! He never told me any of this." "Clearly, otherwise you wouldn't've been stupid enough to come." "Well I want to make right by him. I want to right his wrongs." "What does that entail?" "I don't know. Is there anything I can do for you?" "You can leave. I've asked that from you at least three times now." "Anything else?" "Bye Vick. I am very sorry about your father. He was once the love of my life." "Wait, Ayana-" Slam! And just like that, she's gone. Is she right? Was I stupid for coming? What can I do to fix this? I can't live with myself if I quit here. I need more answers. I need to know what my father did before me. I need to know why he never talked about it before. I need to reconcile the Sanders name with this Colombian Princess.

lv0ulw

A Cosmic Photograph

The day was March 19, 2024. It was the first day of Spring. Being the organizationally obsessed individual I am, I was excited because it could only mean one thing: Spring Cleaning! It was my favorite day of the year. It was time to get rid of the old to welcome in the new. I would go through all of my plastic tubs to get rid of clothes and all the junk I had been hoarding the past year. It was the last box I opened, the one I had no idea would provide me with the most significantly life-changing experience I would have gone through in my thirty-five years of human life. I came across a stack of photographs that were from my childhood. It was sweet. The stack started with photographs of my mom at the hospital holding me in her arms for the first time, and then it progressed to me as a toddler playing with my toys. What I didn’t expect was the visceral bodily and metaphysical reaction that would ensue after looking at this one photograph. It was me around the age of five. I was playing with my toy kitchen. I looked happier then that I had ever looked in any other photograph in my life. Happier I was with my toy kitchen than I was on a yacht in St. Barths, or snowboarding in Big Bear. And in that instant realization, I felt this out of body, astral experience. I could feel my consciousness lifting from my human vessel and careening through the cosmos. Like a vacuum of time and space, I was sucked into this otherworldly dimension. I began my soul’s journey on this physical plane with no human physical body. There wasn’t much on Earth that could help describe this experience other than comparing it to the most profound experiences that perhaps Near-Death Experiencers would have once they’ve “seen or gone into the light”. It was ethereal and awe-inspiring. The colors I saw through my non-human eyes, the smell I could smell through my non-human nose, and the overwhelming feeling of joy as the norm just encapsulating my essence or being. In this plane or realm, the true experience of ecstasy was felt. And for what felt like ten months, turned out to be just 10 minutes on Earth. On this spiritual plane I was met with my spirit guide. At first I couldn’t recognize whether it was a he or she, it was more of an entity. And as I learned, spirit has no gender, only divine masculine and divine feminine qualities. So my spirit guide introduced itself to me as Jade. The essence of Jade was magnificent. A calm and serene presence that would imbue the feeling of Christmas morning or the first drops of snowflakes in Winter. Jade would catapult me into a self-awakening of sorts I never knew possible. Every question I thought, Jade answered as if telepathically. Information and knowledge was so instant that there wouldn’t even be megabits per second fast enough on Earth to explain it. It was truly an exhilarating experience. And the thought that sat with me was this knowing that this spiritual experience of myself was in fact who I truly was. I was boundless, I was grander than any dreams or goals I had on Earth, and most importantly, I was eternal. And I knew this, it was as if my human body had kept this treasure locked away in the basement of my human ego mind. On this spiritual plane, I played. Whatever I thought, I would instantly manifest. Whether it was the most spectacular beach or the most elegant and elaborate frock, I could even manifest myself instantly in a body form that would wear that frock or walk on that pristine beach. On Earth we called it one thing - magic. This spiritual plane was absolutely magical. I asked Jade, “why do we forget this? Why do we come to Earth to relearn all of this?” And instantly replied, “Earth is where you can truly harness your potential. That from a world of duality, you can choose to stay in your power or cower in it. Here, all is known and all is love. There, it is a place where all of that is still true, but ultimately is up to you to remember that.” I would do the things I wanted on this plane, and I would remember my life on Earth, and it was all fresh, but fleeting. The feelings I attached with the trauma I experienced no longer weighed anything on my spiritual form. My consciousness could truly look at these Earthly experiences like luggage carried that can be put down at any time. It was poetic, yet powerful, to be truly free. Then suddenly I came spiraling back into that moment of time in my room, holding that photograph of me as a child playing in my kitchen set, with my consciousness trying to fit in a tiny little lamp like a genie. I felt uncomfortable and squeezed in. How could this tiny human body hold all of the abundance and love I truly was? It was a feeling of claustrophobia mixed with ultimate bodily ache. Until it settled and dawned on me, I needed to be here. There was something I was to fulfill with my human life’s purpose. I sat in meditation, and it was as if I had forgotten so many of the answers and questions I had on the spiritual plane. Until one came screaming back, that I needed to live my life of joy. And I laughed to myself and said, “this can’t be it. Is it really just to follow one’s bliss? That is so cliche!” Yet, it began to pervade my thoughts from that day forth. And every day since were synchronicities that represented me living my life’s joy. The first significant action I did was take up cooking classes to make amends and heal my inner child, more importantly that little girl in that photograph that sent me on a cosmic journey. Those classes were joyful and filled with so many laughs. I invited my friends to join me, and it sort of bridged years of just hanging out for birthdays and such, into a real fruitful culmination of sorts. Then I reconnected with my immediate family, and we reignited the famous game night we used to have when I was a teenager. And I couldn’t help but think, the signs were there all along as I was living my joy. It’s not what I did, it’s not who I thought I had become through all these goals I achieved, it was genuinely the people I was with and the joy we experienced together. And cosmic photograph, as simple as it was, was a testament to this most cliche of song lines, “all you need is love, love. Love is all you need.” 

4gu11d

Ladies of Lincoln

The road up Mount Elati has no guardrails. Curves come suddenly and Ana was not ready—not ready to be alone in Greece at age 18, not ready to be speeding up a mountain in an unfamiliar car with a black SUV chasing after her. It started with two SUVs: one had skid off the road at the last sharp turn; Ana saw it airborne in her side mirror. Ana came to a straight stretch of road. She hit the gas, putting some distance between her and the SUV. She didn’t know who they were or what they wanted, at least not exactly. She knew it must have something to do with the black-and-white photograph sitting on the front passenger seat, a picture of her grandmother and President Abraham Lincoln. On the back was written: “Mt. Elati. Ladies of Lincoln. 1965.” The picture was in a box of keepsakes her grandmother left to her after she died. There was jewelry, a dried flower, among other things. Then there was the photograph, her grandmother—her Yia Yia,—side-by-side with Abraham Lincoln 101 years after he was killed by an assassin’s bullet. The night before Yia Yia died, she tried to speak. Her breathing was labored and her voice was weak. No one at her bedside could understand her mumbles. Frustrated, she held her arm out to Ana, and on a strained breath, said with clarity: “Go to Elati. Take my place.” Yia Yia sunk back into the mattress, exhausted. She would say no more. The straightway began to curve to the right. Ana hit the breaks and turned the wheel hard, felt the backend sliding out from under her as she hit the gas and pulled out of the skid. She glanced into the rearview mirror, watched the SUV slide through the turn, skidding to the edge but staying on the road, then accelerating. “It’s not him, Ana,” her mom said dismissively the night Yia Yia died. “This is real, Mom. They didn’t have Photoshop back then. This is real. And what about what’s written on the back? Mt. Elati? Ladies of Lincoln? Something’s up here.” “No, Ana. Nothing’s up. This is a man who looks like Abraham Lincoln. That’s all. He could be a relative, an actor. Who knows. But I do know that it’s not President Lincoln still alive in 1965.” The road curved again, a wide arc that Ana took easily. The road straightened and the two lanes merged into one. Up ahead no on coming traffic; behind her the SUV was gaining ground with another riding close behind it—then another. Ana’s cell phone rang. She took her right hand off the wheel, shaking as reached for the phone. She answered, put the call on speaker but said nothing. “Ana,” a man said in a thick accent, maybe Italian. “Ana, this is dangerous. All we want to do is talk.” Ana was silent, gas pedal to the floor. “Come now, Ana. Your Yia Yia is gone. Go home. Grieve. This is not your story.” “What is this story?” Silence, then a woman’s voice, mature and strong, Slovak accent. “Ana, please dear. This is no place for you. Your Yia Yia has made a terrible mistake involving you. Please, pull over before you get hurt.” “She wanted me here for a reason.” “What reason?” Ana said nothing. She knew nothing. “It’s ok,” said the woman. “You came charging up here with no clue as to what this was. But now you’ve revealed a century-old secret, all because of your grandmother’s stupidity.” “She’s not stupid!” Ana screamed, voice filled with rage. “I’m giving you the chance to live, child. Penelope was a worthy adversary. I honor her by keeping her granddaughter safe. Let me do this for her.” “Who is this?” Ana asked, but there was no time for an answer. She was speeding toward a wall of rock. Ana hit the breaks. With precipice to the left and mountain to the right there was no where to swerve. She held the wheel firm with one hand and open her car door with the other. She jumped from the car moments before it smashed into the wall. Ana rolled along the ground, waiting for freefall at any moment. It never came. She tumbled down a sharp decline and landed on an outcrop of rock unseeable from the road. Lying on her back, she saw a black SUV come sailing off he mountain road, over her and dropping out of sight. The sound of crunching metal and explosion came from below. Ana rolled to her stomach, got to her feet. A few paces ahead was a wall of corn stalks, parted in the middle with a pathway leading deeper into the field. “Ana!” A mature woman, beautiful and fit, wearing a dark green satin dress that clung to her form, gunmetal bangle bracelets prominent on her wrists. “Stop.” Two men in cliché black suits armed with military rifles stood at her side. “I cannot let you go—” Ana ran into the gap in the corn, sprinting down the path as bullets ripped through the stalks. The path ended; given the choice between right or left, she dove to the right. She heard the woman scream. “Find her!” Another abrupt end to the path, right or left; Ana chose left. The path continued straight and to the right. She stopped. “A corn maze?” “Ana, straight.” It was a young woman’s voice, British accent. Ana froze, looking all about for the source. “They’re coming. Run straight, then left.” Heavy footsteps and rustles came from behind, getting closer. Ana ran straight. “Halt!” A man’s deep voice yelled, followed by a shriek of pain. Ana glanced over her shoulder as she ran to the left. A crossbow bolt was sticking out from a black-suited man’s chest. “Now right and right again” spoke the British woman’s voice. Ana turned right as gunfire cracked the air. Again bullets ripped through the stalks followed by another deep shriek of pain. “Almost there. Straight, left, right, right. Hurry” The sound of gunfire and death cries pierced the sound of Ana’s heavy breathing as she followed the instructions the mystery woman gave her. After the last right, the path ran toward an opening in the corn-stalk wall. Then, the satin-dressed woman’s voice, almost a whisper. “Ana.” Ana turned and the woman was on the path behind her. How had she evaded the battle unscathed? Then a man’s voice called her name, a back-country drawl oozing kindness. Standing at the opening was Abraham Lincoln. Tall, bearded, hair messy as in the pictures of old. He wore linen clothes, no 19 th century suite or stovetop hat. “Come to me, Ana. It’s alright.” Facing the woman, Ana walked backward toward President Lincoln. The woman’s face poorly disguising her frustration. “So this is where you’ve been hiding,” said the woman to the President. “Because you can’t let it go.” From the stalks emerged several women in black combat uniforms, crossbows aimed at the woman, ready to loose at the President’s command. “Ladies of Lincoln,” she sneered. “Go ahead. End it.” “It never ends, Liz.” “Countess, please.” “I don’t believe in royalty.” The woman laughed. “You won’t kill me and you won’t couple with me. You create endless battle and yet you are the compassionate one!” “The fight is the victory. So it must be.” The woman breathed in deep, running her finger seductively between her breasts down to her abdomen. “Not really.” The President bowed. “Good to see you Liz.” “The pleasure is mine,” she said, then disappeared into the maze. Ana stood next to the tall man. He was stoop-shoulder, as if enormous weight were borne by them. His kind eyes sparkled. “Hello Ana. I’m Abe.”

fsy1oc

The Capturing of Time

I had found something beautiful. After such a weary day, I found myself elated to have found the photo. It was so simple at first glance, but I just couldn’t tear my eyes away from it. It was just a teenager sitting on a swing, all alone. But he was wearing a full suit, rumpled in a way that seemed exhausted and out of place in a kids fun-haven. The scale of it all made him appear small and alone despite the fact that he wasn’t a child. It was just the boy and his thoughts, swaying back and forth among shoe-scattered mulch. Wind flapped by, pulling at the tent canvas. I plummeted back into the present, reminding myself of where I was. The festival had only recently been set up in town, but it had already attracted hosts of people from the surrounding areas. The photo gallery tent I was in had accumulated a handful of passersby while I had been looking. I turned to my right to continue on when I saw her. She looked to be around my age and wore the youth like a halo. She wasn’t much shorter than me, her posture holding a certain weight to it. I followed her head-tilted gaze to the photo she was staring at. It was a single green tree jutting out from a lone rock in a vast blue lake. The way she studied the photo allowed me to recognize a piece of myself in that. A little lost and a little sure of yourself in those precious few moments you really connected to something. “Are you a photographer?” I asked the question, but I think I already knew the answer. The girl turned to look at me, her light hair weaved back into a messy braid and the corners of her eye creasing. “Sort of,” she said, a little uncertain of herself. I tilted my head. “Sort of?” She hesitated, as though caught between a half-truth and an outright lie. “Yes. Yes, I am. Or, at least, I really want to be.” “In some ways, those can be the same. I’m Roman.” “Aria. Are you a photographer, then?” I nodded and smiled. “Sort of.” Her posture relaxed ever so slightly, as though my words were no longer that of a faulty stranger. “It’s a beautiful place here. I’m surprised I haven’t run into more photographers during my visit.” “We’re tucked into the fabric of this place. You find beauty and there’ll be someone around the bend who wants it.” Without even meaning to, we’d both drifted towards the opening of the tent like leaves caught up in the wind together. It was sunny outside and people milled about the streets, stepping over cracked cobblestones. As dusk approached, the lights on various rides and carts had become more acute and noticeable. I mentally jotted down the way that the light would frame things once it got dark enough. The carnival would close shortly after the sun's departure, but I had right now, and that felt like something. Aria turned to me as we started to make our way down the street together. “So do you love photography, or do you just do it?” “What do you mean?” “I know some people that do things just for the sake of it, and not because they love it. I have a friend that runs miles every day and says that she dislikes it. Yet she keeps going in a way that doesn’t feel like hate, but not like love either. It’s just a part of her now.” “This is a part of me too. But I definitely love it.” I spotted a goldfinch perched on a nearby tree branch. I took out my camera, taking a picture before it flapped away. “So, what are you looking for?” The question leaped out of me without warning. Aria gave me a look like she couldn’t figure out what to do with that question. “What makes you think I’m looking for anything?” “No one ever comes to this place for no reason at all. You’re here for a reason, we all are.” “So what are you here for then?” “I’m on a . . . journey of sorts. To capture time.” “Capture time?” She looked doubtful. “Yeah, the phrase has a stupid origin,” I assured her, wondering why I’d told it to her. “I won’t laugh.” I glanced sidelong at her, but she seemed sincere and intrigued. “Okay, I’ll tell you, but I promise it’s silly.” I conceded. “There was this story I was told when I was kid. It goes something like this: There once lived a man who was obsessed with Time. He’d heard since he was a kid, that Time stops for no one and conquers all. So he decided that he wanted to see it firsthand.” “See . . . Time?” Aria’s brow creased the slightest as she fumbled over my words. I nodded. “Yeah, it’s sort of a living being in this world. So he went to the place where the sun and the earth met, and waited for Time to appear. Eventually, it did, coming to end the day. So the man talked to Time. Time said, ‘You cannot hold me down or keep me in one place. I am constantly in motion, and that is just the way it is. I will catch you one day, as I do all things, but I’ll let you pass for now.’ So the man left, and decided that if he couldn’t outrun time, he would try to catch it.” “Catch it?” “Yeah. Ensnare it and stop it, but not forever. Just for a moment. So he worked for years and years and eventually created the first camera.” Aria laughed, and it was a light sound. “Your history needs a little work.” “True, but history isn’t the point of this. Basically, he uses this camera and takes a photo. In that instant, Time is captured. Not all of it, of course, and not very effectively, since it keeps on going; but just for a moment, it’s imprinted in history. And that one piece of time remained caught forever.” “Suspended in a photograph.” “Exactly.” She looked thoughtful, skimming her hand over the neatly cropped hedges along the street. “It’s kind of sad though. He ends up spending most of his life capturing what was slipping through his fingers all the while.” “It has a lot of meanings. And a lot of scientific inaccuracy.” That won a smile from her. We came upon a stand where a man was using a bubble wand to entertain some kids. They chased eagerly after the foam, small hands clapping around the air, laughter vibrating like music. A stray bubble made its way over towards us, and Aria reached out her hand, letting it skim her palm. “Don’t get too caught up in capturing time,” she said as she let the bubble float away. “Try to live it before it passes by instead.” I took the words and left them sitting heavy on the pavement between us. “Is that why you’re here, of all places?” I asked, remembering that she never answered the question. “To live in the moment?” “In some ways, yes. I work for a magazine, and a few weeks ago I saw a photo of this place. It just pulled me in and I knew I had to come here.” “It’s an inspiring place,” I agreed. We rounded the bend and came upon a stage. A band was performing there, and Aria looked captivated enough that I gestured to two nearby seats. We were both strangers here, but maybe not so strange to each other. We let time pass there, watching the musicians play and people dance. There was some corner of life here that I wanted to stay in. The world drifted by, the sun tucking itself beneath the treeline. Eventually, I realized that there was more to do tonight. I wasn’t sure how I knew this, but I did. I leaned towards her. “You know the best location for inspiration: the lake. Come on, it’s this way.” I stood up and took her hand, sweeping her along. Luckily, the festival wrapped its fingers around the shores of the nearest one. As we came into view of it, I saw several people scattered about the area as vendor tents bled into carnival rides. Three boys in particular were standing on the rifled sand. The oldest one was trying to show the younger two how to skip a rock. He said something to them and then flicked his wrist, letting the small stone bounce its way across the surface until it finally disappeared into the water. The others tried to no avail. Just when one was about to give up, he got his stone to skip. Him and his brothers immediately started jumping up and down, excitement pouring around them like a waterfall. I realized that Aria had been watching them too, her voice soft as she spoke. “Most beauty goes unnoticed because the world thinks they can only be a few certain things.” “Well everything you find beautiful is just an expansion of you.” She looked at me in this indiscernible way. “You know, Roman, you might be smarter than you look.” I put a hand to my heart, imitating sincerity. “I’m touched.” I found myself doing it again: locking up little instances like they were a treasure I’d never see again. Even without a camera, I always tried to plant a lasting picture of everything in my head. I gulped down that beauty like I was starving, and I wonder how often I’d forget to pay attention to what that beauty actually tasted like. I think Aria was right. I’d lived life so long needing to hold time in one place. Maybe I’d been thinking about it a little wrong. I noticed a stand further down the beach and it couldn’t have been more perfect. “Do you like ice cream?” She tore her gaze away from the convoy of seagulls pecking their way down the trail. “Of course I do.” I pointed out the ice cream stand I’d seen and saw her face light up like a little kid. We headed over and placed our orders in: hers was pistachio, mine was strawberry. Cones were exchanged for wrinkled cash and we continued on our walk. “I love ice cream,” Aria admitted, her tongue already stained green. “It’s on my list of the five most beautiful things.” “You have a list of the five most beautiful things?” I asked, to which she nodded eagerly. “In life or specifically in food?” “Life,” she said. “Well what are they?” She held out her free hand, ticking off fingers as she counted. “Ice cream, puppies, clouds, the ocean and Harry Styles.” I choked out a laugh at the last one, and she let a knowing smile slip out. “Your turn.” “Hmm, not sure I can beat Harry Styles.” How do you narrow a thing like life into a list like that? I glanced to my left and saw a tent with ukuleles inside. It gave me idea number one. “Music, if that counts.” “Anything counts.” “Okay, then. Music, rivers, stars, freshly baked cookies.” “And . . ?” “And . . . the color yellow.” “Yellow?” “Yellow. I think I could live in that color.” Later, I realized that neither of us had said anything material. Nothing about shoes or watches or chairs or machines. Just things about the world as we’ve lived it. We found a large rock jutting out over the edge of the lake, and we sat dangling our feet over the water. Flecks of my former weariness drifted their way into the ripples, but I hardly noticed. I was colored a shade of happiness and I wanted to remember what it tasted like. “Tell me a story about when you were eight,” Aria said abruptly. “Eight?” She nodded. I thumbed through memories in my mind, trying to pull out a good one. It stuck out to me almost instantly and I smiled at the thought of it. “One time, my older brother took me to see a play. Not a school one, but a good one with great actors. I couldn’t tell you what it was about now, but I loved it. I was so drawn into everything about it. After the curtains closed and the echo of applause was absorbed into the walls, I stayed put. I wouldn’t move, I just stayed there with all that feeling. I was the last one in the theater, just staring at an empty stage.” “And you don’t even remember what it was about?” “No, the details were lost in time. I just remember the feeling it gave me.” I shifted so that I was fully facing her. “Now tell me a story about you.” “When I was eight?” “Whatever age.” She thinks for a moment, trying to recall something noteworthy. After a few seconds, I can tell she’s found something. “When I was twelve, I made my mom go to this thrift store with me. We shopped for random outfits to put together, acting like we were in a fashion show. Then we went out to this park with our new outfits on and did a whole photo shoot, acting like we were Audrey Hepburn in the 50’s. It’s one of my favorite memories with her. I still have one of the photos framed in my room.” I smiled, leaning back against the rock with my free hand. “I love Audrey Hepburn. I can imagine you as a twelve year old bossing your mom around to get the perfect picture.” “Oh, I was a menace.” Life is like a collection of short stories. Every person has little chapters in their life that don’t always add smoothly to the next, but they have more to tell than they think they do. Sometimes—just by asking—you learn so many different layers of life people have experienced. “Do you feel any inspiration here?” I asked her, motioning towards the water around us. “I think so.” But her eyes weren’t on the lake. “Maybe you’re a little right about capturing time. Not the whole moral of it—that still feels sad—but just that idea that people do it. We’re all capturers of time and collectors of moments in our own ways.” For a moment, it was just the two of us looking at the other. I wondered what a photo of that would look like, but for once, it wasn’t my first thought. Then, my gaze lifted from hers to the top of the treeline. It gave me an idea. “There’s one more stop we have to make tonight.” “Another one. Why?” I shrugged. “Life’s the whiteboard.” Aria paused, letting a drop of ice cream trickle past her finger. She stared at me with a quizzical expression, like I’d just spoken harsh German. “What?” she asked, the hint of amusement tickling the edges of the word. “Life’s the whiteboard,” I repeated. “Has no one ever said that to you before?” “I don’t think anyone has ever said that before.” She smiled, not in a mean way, just happy. “Explain it.” “Okay, well you start life on a clean slate, hence the—you know—white board. As time goes on, various marks and impressions are made on you, and you can erase some of them—learn from your mistakes—but not all of them. They stay with you. As you go on, more color is added and things are drawn on—some are there so long that you can’t really make them go away, it’s just a part of the whiteboard. But there’s always tons of possibilities. You can draw whatever you want on it. And it’s like life.” Aria was watching me like I was the most confusing puzzle she’d ever tried to piece together. “I can’t tell if you’re a genius, or just completely random.” “A bit of both, honestly.” All we are is a string of moments. If you think about it, tomorrow is a concept and the present is all you’ll ever have. Why imagine yourself happier? You’ll always have today, you might as well make use of that. “So where are we going then?” “You have to find inspiration here, right? Nowhere better to see this town than from up there.” I pointed and she followed my finger to the ferris wheel in the distance. She stood up, her cone gone now. “Well, come on then.” I followed her and we ran, sticky handed like kids to the ferris wheel. At this point, with all of our wandering around, we’d known each other for maybe an hour or so. But it didn’t seem to matter that much. It didn’t feel like I had to bottle this time up around her. It just floated on its own course. The ferris wheel stuck out above the smaller tents, its colors blinking from green to purple to blue and back again. Somewhere along the way, music had started playing, but we were going too fast to stop and absorb it. We arrived in a blur of motion, camera straps digging into shoulders and soles of shoes slapping to a stop on the pavement. We got our seats and I placed myself beside her. The sun had practically set at that point and a shadow of darkness had blanketed the fairgrounds. The lights stuck out like ocean liners dotting the in-comprehensive sea. The ferris wheel started to lift us up and away from the other people and rides and food and noise. I looked at Alia and she smiled back at me in a way that revealed something precious. I wanted to remember today this way forever: melting ice cream, glowing lights, and fading music. But for once, I resisted the urge to take out my camera and capture it all. This was one moment that I was going to let pass. I just existed with her, our thoughts coloring down. We let time go by.

2vvelq

Inquisition

“Bishop” Fisher was a schismist. There really wasn’t any room for debate about that.He openly stated he believed the pope was a servant of satan and he wasn’t willing to serve him. That coming from a bishop is pretty much guaranteed to divide church which is the dictionary definition of schismism, He claimed Pope Dominico “supported open immigration” (True and so does Jesus,most closed border arguments are based on the idea citizens with your citizenship are worth more than non-citizens without it. The church always sorted people into good christians, bad christians, and non-christians; sorting people by citizenship was silly. ) "Environmentalism” ( I was under the impression everyone was an environmentalist until asked to pay for it. Bishop Fisher however saw environmentalism as a bad thing?!?!) and “the LGBTQ agenda” (Catholics consider homosexuality a sin and Pope Dominico has done nothing to change that so I really don’t know what the bad Bishop was talking about) He is being tried in absentia by the Dicastery for the Doctrine of the Faith, which I serve as an investigator. I Personally prefer our old title.Inquisitioners.The church is a dictatorship, but it is not a tyranny, he has the right to represent himself or send an attorney, but has chosen not to do so, claiming he does not acknowledge the authority of the tribunal. This was not the middle ages; political realities make it impossible for us to burn him at the stake, the worst we can do to him is order his ex-communication. Which was a problem. He could pull his followers with him into whatever new schismist church he creates after his last ties to Rome are severed . Thus I am in Chicago investigating him, not to prove his guilt, but to find scandal that could weaken his personal appeal and prevent others from following him away from the light. Chicago was a city known for scandals, but I was having a hard time finding any that would help me. No signs of any misappropriated church funds… if anything his parish had too much money… “Oh I think I can explain that! Bishop Fisher is a bit of a celebrity around here, so I gave him a grand, to baptize my kids personally and make it a big show, if a lot of other people are paying him for those kinds of things, he probably has more money than he needs and is adding the extra to parish funds ” said the accountant who volunteered to keep the parishes books. Depending on what rites he was charging for he may be guilty of Simony, but his followers will just see him as a generous workaholic showman. This isn’t a scandal that can weaken his popularity. He lived in a rectory owned by the church,so as a representative of the Vatican I have the legal right to inspect it. None the less I picked the lock and entered secretly while he was performing a wedding for some millionaire, because I didn’t want him to know he was being investigated. He had a decent amount of alcohol, but sadly enough to prove he wasn’t an alcoholic. Alcoholics don’t store the fancy bottles of whiskey or brandy they are given as gifts. They consume them. Many seminary graduates have use clever bible references as passwords for their electronic devices. I used “RoamerJob1:7” . He had a picture of United States Marines serving in Iraq above his computer desk(He wasn’t in the picture, so it wasn’t from his tour as a chaplin. Possibly one of the Marines was his brother?). I grinned when I recognized the ruins around them, as they gave me the key to his Password “IraqCityRevelations17:5” I found something that looked like a love letter… but it was addressed to the blessed virgin. He played more video games than people would expect from a catholic bishop, which is to say the normal amount for a single man who isn’t looking for a girlfriend. His search history … bingo! He was looking up escorts! I found he had a “GFE appointment” booked for later that evening. A few photos for tomorrow's news and his threat will be nullified. *** INTERVIEWER: Would you care to explain the photo of you giving money to a known prostitute. FISHER: No, but I suppose I need to. INTERVIEWER: I’d say without any context it looks like you were soliciting her services FISHER:I was INTERVIEWER (shocked): You were!?! And are admitting it here on the local news?? FISHER:Since the death of my brother, I’ve had no family but the church, and now the church is in the process of ex-communicating me because I insist on sticking to the values of Jesus. It’s a hard time. INTERVIEWER: so you violated your vow of celibacy under psychological stress? FISHER: No. INTERVIEWER: Explain? FISHER: The young woman in the picture offers a “Girlfriend Experience” in which for 200$ an hour she will do anything a girlfriend in a healthy relationship would. In healthy relationships when your spouse needs someone to hug them and tell them everything will be all right you do that. She commit many sins in her professional life, but dishonesty is not among them. She gave me the girlfriend type services I needed. INTERVIEWER: Don’t you think it may have been more appropriate to get such services from some sort of licensed therapist if you needed to pay for them? FISHER: Most therapists are passionately liberal atheists. I may be a sinner but I’m not a satanist! INTERVIEWER: And we’re supposed to believe you?. FISHER: Concerning what I did with the young lady you could try interviewing her. I waive my right to professional confidentiality and authorize her to tell the truth about our encounter to anyone who is interested. Concerning me being a sinner, I guess you’ll have to take it on faith. I really wasn’t expecting to be challenged on that claim! INTERVIEWER; Well we will certainly look for an out for her *** Fisher looked over the crowd come to attend his church. Most were there simply out of curiosity to see the man who could hire a prostitute and commit no sin with her. But it is right and proper that curiosity come before faith. If people became convinced they were right before making any effort to find, truth, very little truth would be discovered.

ywosur

An Unexpected Friend

It’s my first time in Chicago, and like every other tourist, I end up at The Bean. Inspecting the sculpture, I think it may be the most fascinating thing in all of existence. The way the light plays off the metallic surface, how the images morph depending on where I stand... It’s beyond fascinating. So me being me, I pull out my professional-grade camera and start shooting some pictures. I take photographs up close, far away, and at weird angles just to see what will come out. I play around with different exposures, too. I even think about setting up a camera for a few hours, just to see how it might turn out. Unfortunately, as soon as the thought enters my brain, I see someone else has beat me to it. A person probably 10 feet from me has already set up their camera. They even have a folding chair set up so I know they’re in it for the long haul. As I inspect their setup, I notice that their camera lens is covered still, so I decide to go over and have a little chat to let them know. We’ve all had the issue of not taking off the lens cap. I just want to make sure it won’t happen to this person, too. I approach cautiously and they look up at me from their book, shielding their eyes from the blazing sun. “Hey, I noticed your lens cover was still on. I just wanted to let you know.” I tell them. They glance at their camera and jump as though they’ve been abruptly spooked, immediately hopping up from their chair to take off the lens cover. “Thanks for letting me know, kind sir.” They say. “No problem.” I turn to walk away when they stop me with a soft hand on my arm. “What kind of camera do you have? I noticed you were taking a lot of shots earlier.” They gaze over at me expectantly. I peer down at the camera hanging around my neck, as though I have no idea what camera I have with me. “It’s a Canon EOS R7 with a lens on it. I can’t remember which lens I brought with me, honestly.” I chuckle, slightly embarrassed. I always pride myself on knowing what kind of camera I have, but this individual has put me off my game a little bit. The person in front of me has long hair tied up in a messy bun, with a cardigan over a tank top and some jeans. They look like some kind of hipster since the cardigan is multicolored and very flowy. They seem really cool, I think to myself. I have to bring myself back to reality to respond to their next sentence: “Oh, no worries. I have one of those at home if I recall correctly. It’s a nice little machine.” They say with a bright smile. “Oh, yeah. It gets the job done, that’s for sure.” I laugh again. Jeez, if only I could stop making a fool of myself . “Well, have a good day!” They say quickly as they sit back down. I’m a little taken aback by their reply, but I decide that they probably just want to get back to their book, so I leave them alone and go back to photographing The Bean. After about an hour more, I decide to go to a coffee shop to start going through all of my shots. I walk down the street, looking for a place to set up. I find a little cafe about a block away from The Bean, set my stuff down at a nearby table, and go order a large black iced coffee before I get to work. Approximately 30 minutes later, the bell to the shop chimes and I look up and find my previous acquaintance from The Bean walking in with all their stuff. I startle in surprise and wave over at them, hoping to get their attention. I have no idea why I did, but something in me is simply inquisitive about them. They see me and start as though they have just seen a long-lost friend. Their smile shines as they make their way over to my table in the corner. “Fancy seeing you here, friend.” They say cheerily. “Do you mind if I join you?” They gesture towards the open chair opposite me. “The spot is yours,” I answer with a smile. They set their stuff down before wandering off to get a coffee of their own. I’m not sure what they get, but it is definitely not a black coffee. They come back to the table with their drink and pull out their computer before plugging their camera into it. They scroll on their computer for a little bit before they stop and look up at me. “Hey, I never got your name.” They say inquisitively. I stick my hand out for them to shake. “My name is Jack.” “Nice to meet you, Jack. I’m Zephyr.” They say. “That’s a unique name.” “Thanks, I picked it myself.” They chuckle. I laugh along with them and then return to my work for a little bit. We sit in silence, only interrupted by the clicking of our keyboards and the low murmurs of patrons surrounding us, until they sigh heavily and lean back into their chair, taking a long sip from their drink. “I never actually wanted to be a photographer.” They say out of the blue. I look over at them with a curious look on my face, urging them to continue. “Well, I wanted to be a dancer. I ended up blowing out my knee in a competition a few years ago… Picked up a camera at Best Buy on a whim because my friend told me I was good at photographing her for Instagram. I’ve fallen in love with the art.” I ponder their words as I think back to how I got into photography. I grew up around cameras. My parents had a photography business and would often let me accompany them on their excursions. It was what I had always known. I’m even scheduled to take over the family business once my parents retire. “I guess I’ve always been in love with photography. Both of my parents are photographers. They own a small business back home in Vermont.” I explain. Zephyr smiles at me. “That’s really cool.” We go back to work for a while before Zephyr starts to pack up. “I need to get home, but here. Take my card.” They pass me a business card with a simplistic design, “Zephyr Photography” and their number on the front, and nothing on the back. “Call me sometime. I liked chatting with you and I need more photographer friends.” I nod in agreement, but before I can utter a goodbye they’re out the door in the blink of an eye. Who would have thought my little trip to The Bean would end in a new, budding friendship?

6apy58

The Phantom Fisherman of Oia

Eleni’s hands shook with fear as she held the Polaroid, her bronzed skin looked pale against the golden Santorini dusk. What began as a peaceful stroll through Oia’s labyrinthine streets had morphed into something far more disconcerting. Her camera hung heavily around her neck, its presence suddenly burdensome. Purchased impulsively that morning from a quaint alley shop, its vintage allure and instant photo printing had enticed her despite being a photographer since being a teenager. Now, she regretted ever buying it. “This can’t be real,” she whispered, staring at the photo as it developed. The blue-domed church she aimed to capture was there, vibrant against the sunset sky. But the figure in the foreground unnerved her. A man, seemingly, stood with his back to the camera. His form was translucent, the white walls of the church visible through him. Dressed in old-fashioned fishing gear—a worn cap, thick sweater, and weather-beaten boots—he held something long and sharp that looked scary in the dim light. Eleni's heart was beating fast, like the waves hitting the rocks far away. One stray cat was sitting on a nearby wall as she looked around for the ghostly figure. The street was otherwise empty. The cat stopped brushing itself and looked at her as if to say, "You shouldn't have seen that." A refreshing cool wind carried the aroma of sea salt and grilled prawns. Whether it was the chilly weather or the unsettling image, Eleni felt a shiver run down her spine. She had to calm down. She put the picture in her pocket and walked to a nearby café. The sound of people talking and the smell of freshly brewed coffee made her feel better when she was feeling stressed. As she got closer, the smell of baklava and baked nuts took her mind off the picture that was burning a hole in her pocket for a moment. The café was cozy and warm inside. Tourists and locals sat at wooden tables and ate cakes and drank coffee. There were paintings of the sea and old shots of Oia all over the walls. Under different circumstances, Eleni would have found it charming. Now, the photos seemed to watch her, their subjects’ eyes following her every move. Settling onto a cushioned stool at the counter, she felt the polished wood under her fingers, worn smooth by years of use. “One Greek coffee, please,” she asked the barista, a cheerful man with a bushy mustache. “And something sweet.” He nodded, his hands moving deftly as he prepared her order. “Tough day?” he asked, his thick accent laced with concern. Eleni hesitated before showing him the photo. “Tell me I’m not crazy.” His eyes widened as he examined the picture, crossing himself. “Ai yai yai,” he muttered. “Where did you take this?” “Near the blue-domed church,” Eleni replied. The café felt too loud, too crowded. She leaned in closer. “What is it?” The barista glanced around nervously before leaning in. “That’s the Ghost of Oia. They say he appears to those who will witness a great tragedy.” Eleni’s blood ran cold. “What kind of tragedy?” Before he could answer, a scream pierced the night, cutting through the café’s buzz. Silence fell, then chaos erupted. Patrons rushed outside, knocking over chairs. The barista vaulted over the counter with surprising agility, his mustache quivering. Swept along with the crowd, Eleni stumbled into the street. The cool air hit her face. People ran towards the church, shouting in Greek. Eleni followed, her heart pounding. The camera bounced against her chest, a reminder of the phantom figure. Turning the corner, she saw a crowd gathered. Eleni pushed through, apologizing in broken Greek and English. At the front, she gasped. There lay a massive swordfish, its bill snapped off and lying beside it. Its eye stared blankly at the sky, scales glimmering in the moonlight. “What in the world?” she breathed. This was the great tragedy? A fish out of water? An old woman next to her clucked her tongue. “Poor Stavros. His prize catch, ruined. He must have dropped it.” Eleni blinked. The figure’s “weapon” was the swordfish’s bill, a trick of light and her imagination. She felt hysteria rising. She burst into laughter. The tension of the past hour released in great guffaws. The crowd stared, bewildered. Some edged away, wary. The barista appeared, his mustache twitching with amusement. “Not the disaster we expected, eh?” Eleni wiped tears from her eyes. “Your ghost has a sense of humor,” she chuckled, showing him the photo. He squinted at the photo and the fish, then laughed. “Oh, this is too good. Wait until I tell my wife!” As their laughter subsided, the crowd dispersed. A grumbling man—Stavros—assessed his catch, cursing under his breath. “No ghost?” Eleni asked the barista. He shrugged. “Who’s to say? Maybe the spirit of Oia has a wicked sense of humor. Or,” he winked, “you’ve had one too many espressos.” Eleni rolled her eyes, smiling. “I didn’t even finish my coffee.” “Then let’s fix that,” the barista declared. “Your next coffee is on the house.” As they walked back, Eleni looked at her Polaroid. The figure was fading, but something nagged at her. “You know,” she said, “this ghost looks like those old fishermen in the photos on your wall.” The barista’s step faltered, then resumed. “Does he now?” In the bustling café, Eleni couldn't help but notice a black and white photograph of a smiling young man clutching a swordfish. Even though the man's face was younger, his mustache was unmistakable . Eleni’s jaw dropped. She turned to the barista. “You! It was you in the photo! You’re the ghost!” He sighed. “Guilty as charged. Though I prefer ‘master of illusions.’” “Why?” He leaned in, eyes twinkling. “It gets dull here in the off-season. A man needs his hobbies. And it’s good for business. Nothing makes tourists crave coffee like a good scare.” Eleni laughed. She raised her coffee cup. “To the Ghost of Oia. May he haunt tourists and swordfish for years.” The barista clinked his cup against hers. “And to you. Not many solve the mystery so quickly. Perhaps you’d like to join me next time?” As Eleni sipped her coffee, she considered the offer. Playing ghost in Santorini didn’t sound so bad. She smiled, tucking the Polaroid away. It would make a great story when she got home. And next time, she’d stick to digital cameras. Less drama, fewer ghosts, and no swordfish. But then, what's the fun in that? As the night wore on, Eleni regaled the café with her tale. The earlier panic was forgotten in the warm glow of good company and stories. And if, on her way back to her hotel, Eleni thought she saw a ghostly figure waving from the shadows, well… that was just another story for another night in Oia.

3tl70m

Hamlet, A Supernatural Modern Retelling

“So what are we gonna do, kid?” Hamlet brought the phone screen closer to his eyes, all but ignoring Yorick. His thumb scrolled through his daily feed of quirky TikToks. There’s that one cheese-making video he’s seen everywhere lately. “Ignoring it, sure, sure…” Yorick plopped himself next to Hamlet on the couch, bones poking uncomfortably into Hamlet’s knees. Hamlet landed on a video of a tiny kitten. A calm voiceover drifted out of the speakers. “Sometimes, when we aren’t sure of ourselves, we second-guess facts we definitely know are true. In that case, we should take a breath to center ourselves and think about why we’re questioning our thoughts. Is-” Hamlet closed the video and flung the phone away, burying his face in his hands. “Hey,” Yorick patted him on the knee. “Lighten up a little. Maybe that ghost was lying about the whole thing. Con artists are pretty frequent among the ghost population.” “That’s a stereotype,” Hamlet muttered. “All stereotypes are true sometimes.” “That’s-!” Hamlet decided not to argue with an undead boomer. “And how exactly do I ‘lighten up’ when my own father was murdered!” “Yeah, sucks.” “He’s dead!” “Yeah.” “Do you even know what that’s like?” “Uh,” Yorick looked down at his own skeletal body. “Right,” Hamlet said, “sorry.” “Eh, no sweat, kid, truth be told I’ve never felt so alive! Metaphorically.” Yorick beat his chest cavity with a bony fist. “‘Sides, now I get to go to those skeleton comedy clubs. I’m real big at The Funny Bone.” Hamlet rarely felt like smiling these days, but Yorick always managed to coax it out of him. “You’re the royal jester. I’m not surprised in the slightest.” “Was the royal jester,” Yorick corrected, “your uncle won’t get me to perform even if he drags me back to the castle kicking and screaming. Murderer or not, he’s a real ass.” And just like that, Hamlet’s smile faded when he remembered. His uncle, Claudius, king of the undead. His father, possibly murdered by his own brother. Hamlet, procrastinating. Maybe he should find another kitten video. “You could kill him,” Yorick said idly. “What?!” “Avenge your father, y’know, the thing the ghost asked you to do. Sounds pretty heroic and princely to me.” “You said it yourself! How can we possibly know that the ghost isn’t a liar? Maybe it wasn’t my father at all, but some demon sent to destroy us.” “How many demons have ya met?” “None, but…how many have you met?” “Not the point! You should kill him anyway. No one likes him! His policies are trash! Plus, he didn’t even show up to your father’s funeral. Seems suspicious to me.” Hamlet sat up and glared at Yorick’s empty eye sockets. It was hard to hold eye contact with his new roommate, but he hoped the sheer force of the glare would get the message across. “I am not killing my uncle if I don’t know if he’s guilty! I could be killing an innocent man!” “Not so innocent when it comes to your mother…” Hamlet’s foot met Yorick’s thick skull. It spun around a few times before Yorick caught it and twisted it back into place. “Okay okay! Not mentioning Mom, got it.” Hamlet lept to his feet and started to pace, phone forgotten, the only thing occupying his mind was his father’s death. “If I kill my uncle, and the ghost isn’t my father at all, I would be killing my own family due to my idiotic rashness! And if it was my father, and I do nothing…” Hamlet stopped, and his heart sank. Explosive anger rose within him, at his uncle, at his mother, at everyone for moving on so quickly. King Hamlet had been beloved by so many, and yet they all had forgotten him so easily. He just didn’t understand . “Okay,” Yorick scratched his skull, still sitting on the couch. “So without any evidence, we’re kinda fifty-fifty on this, right?” Yorick unhinged his jaw and reached inside. He pulled out a coin. “Where were you hiding that?” Hamlet asked. “You don’t wanna know,” Yorick held out the coin. “Heads, your uncle’s guilty. Tails, that ghost was full of it. Ready?” “This is stupid,” Hamlet grumbled. “Fine, we’ll do it your way then.” Yorick flipped the coin and caught it between his phalanges. He opened his fist. Tails. “He definitely did it,” said Hamlet. “Ah, the good ol’ coin trick,” Yorick kissed the coin, Which was impressive, considering he didn't have lips. “Works like a charm.” They planned to strike at midnight. The silence around the castle was disconcerting. It had been a while since Hamlet moved out, and the mix of childhood nostalgia and sheer wrongness did nothing to curb his mounting anxiety. He shuffled around in the bushes at the end of the moat, shoulder-to-shoulder bone with Yorick, hoods pulled over both of their heads. “Coast seems clear,” Yorick said, peering at the windows with his skeletal fingers curved around his eye-sockets like a makeshift pair of binoculars. “Look!” Hamlet grabbed Yorick’s skull and rotated it until he was facing the upper-story window of the king’s private quarters. It was hard to spot in the dim light, but it was the silhouette of his mother. She seemed to be pacing around the room, a worried habit Hamlet had inherited. Something welled up in the back of his throat, and Hamlet turned away from the castle, curling up into a ball and squeezing his eyes shut from the sudden sting. “Hey, hey!” Yorick put a hand on Hamlet’s shoulder. “C’mon, kid-” “I’m not doing this,” Hamlet mumbled into his knees. “We’ve come all this way-” “I just need to think!” Hamlet clamped his hand over his mouth and looked toward the window. The silhouette of his mother approached the glass and opened the window. She leaned out to scan the yard, looking for the source of the shout, her brow tense with worry. “Oh boy,” Yorick whispered. “Shh!” Not spotting them, Hamlet’s mother closed the window. “That was close,” Yorick said. “I…” Hamlet trailed off, still looking through the window to his mother’s chambers. No doubt his uncle was there too. That, miraculously, made something in his mind click into place, and these last few weeks put it into perspective. His uncle’s pandering behavior, his mother’s comforting gaze. Horatio’s worried glances, the servants’ anxieties. “She has no clue, does she?” Hamlet said. “You know, I used to think she was in on it, that maybe she had also…” He shuddered. “But she really has no idea he killed my father. She’s just moved on, and I resent her for it, but-” “I knew your parents for a long time,” Yorick said, “they always seemed head-over-heels for one another. Maybe it’s not that simple.” “Maybe,” Hamlet stood up and pulled his hood over his head. “Let’s go. I won’t let him deceive her any longer.” They darted over the moat, past Bernardo and Marcellus, who had neglected their sentry duties once again and were peacefully snoring, leaning upright against one another near the gates. Hamlet gave them a fond glance before unlocking the gate. They were in. They spoke little as they made their way through the castle. The weapon Hamlet had brought, a dagger that his father had gifted to him on his thirteenth birthday, weighed heavily on his belt. Yorick couldn’t help but rattle along, but he tried his best to be discrete. The king and queen’s quarters were right down the hall when someone behind them cleared their throat. Hamlet turned, and his heart leaped through several different emotions at a speed no one could fathom. Ophelia stood in the middle of the hall, glaring at Hamlet. “Uh oh, lady trouble,” Yorick whispered. “Why, pray tell, are you here, sneaking around in the middle of the night?” Ophelia asked. She finally noticed Yorick. He gave a small wave. “And who is your…skeletal friend?” “Oh, that’s Yorick,” Hamlet said. “He looks a little different.” “You’ve come back from the dead?” “Eh,” Yorick looked away bashfully, “you could say Hamlet called me back.” “I see,” Ophelia said. “It’s good to see you again.” “Yeah, you too, kid.” “But you,” Ophelia pointed at Hamlet, “why are you here? They told me you left, and that you had a ‘condition’...” “You mean depression?” Hamlet muttered. “Oh,” Ophelia looked crestfallen, “I didn’t know. If I can-” “You can go back to bed,” Hamlet said. “Harsh,” said Yorick. “But-” Ophelia’s eyes welled up with tears. “Please,” Hamlet cast an anxious glance behind him. At the end of the hall lay his uncle’s bed chamber. “It’s for your own safety.” “I’m not going anywhere!” Ophelia stomped her foot. “Why are you here?” He didn’t want to do this. Ophelia was one of his closest friends, and even he knew he’d already been cruel to her. But even back then, before he’d met the ghost, he was hardly in a mental state to be dating anyone. “I’ve come to tell you…” “Yes?” Ophelia looked hopeful. “That I-” “Yes?” “Will read your letters. Just…we’ll do it together! In a bit! Just wait for me in the library, and we can…uh…talk? And uh, stay away from water? I had a bad vision a few weeks ago.” “Oh,” Ophelia blushed and nodded, “alright. But you’d better be there.” “Yup,” Hamlet squeaked, “I will.” They watched her walk away. “Nice save,” said Yorick, “the library’s in the farthest hall.” “I wanted to say something cruel to her,” Hamlet admitted, blushing for some reason. “I suppose this works though. She’ll find out the news sooner or later, no matter what it is.” “Hey,” Yorick took him by the shoulders before Hamlet could walk away. “Don’t talk like that, okay? Why’d you think I rose from that grave? No more of that ‘to be or not to be’ nonsense. I want you to be . And I want you to keep being. Claudius is the one whose grave they’re gonna be digging.” Hamlet tensed, then nodded. He wiped at his eyes discreetly. “Okay.” They entered the king’s chambers. It was dark, hard to see anything, but Hamlet didn’t dare pull out his phone. He navigated it from memory. Yorick hung back as Hamlet entered the bedroom, and Hamlet swallowed, horribly anxious. His mother lay on the far side of the bed. His uncle on the other, his sleeping face tucked into a pillow. It was nauseating. Hamlet put the dagger to Claudius’s throat, and his uncle woke suddenly. “Do not move,” Hamlet whispered, words seething, “get up. Do not wake my mother.” Cold sweat erupted over his uncle’s brow. “What is this?” He looked frantically between Hamlet, the dagger at his throat, and Yorick, who grinned wickedly. “Hamlet, what are you-” “Get. Up.” Hamlet twisted the dagger, and Claudius winced. He brought his uncle to the parlor, the dagger at his uncle’s back. “Great!” Yorick whispered once they closed the door to the bedroom, “Now finish him off!” Hamlet walked over to a wall of display cabinets and opened the top one. He pulled out two rapiers. “Nice! Do it with style!” He tossed one to his uncle, who shakily caught it, looking bewildered. “No! What are ya doing, kid?” “A fair duel,” Hamlet said. “Justice is on my side.” “Terrible idea! Not a good idea!” “What is the meaning of this?” Claudius demanded, his voice breaking from the fear. “I know what you did,” said Hamlet. That was all it took for the thin veneer of innocence to fall. Claudius scowled, still afraid, but now with a lot more murderous intent. “You will regret this, boy.” He pointed his sword at Hamlet. “We’ll see,” Hamlet rushed him, thrusting his rapier. Claudius stumbled back and barely parried. He snarled and lunged at Hamlet, the force of his strike threatening to throw the sword from Hamlet’s hand. Yorick whimpered and shrunk back into the corner, not knowing what to do. Hamlet managed to parry, laughing out of spite, “Harder to kill someone without poison, isn’t it, Uncle?” Claudius thrust again, then grabbed the nearest object, a heavy metal lamp, and flung it at Hamlet. The prince dodged the strike of the sword but yelped when the lamp hit him on the head. Claudius struck again. The sword fell from Hamlet’s hand. Hamlet stumbled back, falling to the floor. “No, no, no!” Yorick cried. He tried to move to help, but Claudius slashed at the skeleton, threatening to turn him into a pile of inanimate bones. He then pointed the sword at Hamlet. “Go to hell,” Hamlet spat. “Not anytime soon,” Claudius remarked. He thrust- And toppled, the sword falling harmlessly to the side. Standing above him, a heavy mace held high above her head, was Hamlet’s mother. Hamlet looked at his uncle’s still body, then at his mother, not sure what to do. “I had planned to use poison,” Gertrude remarked, looking over the bloodied mace, “I thought it would be ironic. You forced my hand.” She dropped the mace and helped Hamlet to his feet. “Mom?” Hamlet still couldn’t quite understand. “You knew?” “That he killed your father?” Gertrude looked down at her second dead husband. “Of course I did. Do you give me so little credit?” “Wow,” Yorick said, “Your Majesty, that was crazy.” “Yorick?” Gertrude squinted at the skeleton. “Oh yeah, I’m back. Also, your husband’s a ghost. So, you know, there might be a happy reunion sometime in the future,” Yorick trailed off awkwardly. “All this time,” Hamlet said, “you were planning to avenge Father. I thought-” Tears welled in his eyes. This mother hugged him. “No tragedies befall us today,” she said. “Amen to that,” said Yorick.

8fl2wy

Dear Dad

Tim McGraw was serenading us through the speakers, small beads of sweat dripping down our foreheads and into the creases of our smiles as Mom and I talked with our mouths full of BBQ ribs. It was the night before I left for college, the car was packed, and we were having our final hurrah of summer together. Between bites of cornbread, she was imparting her wisdom to me at breakneck speed - just in case she had forgotten anything over the past eighteen years. “Remember, pour seltzer water into a red cup at a party. No one will ever know you’re not drinking.” “Don’t tell me you’re going out, otherwise I won’t fall asleep. Feel free to tell me the next day after you’re home safe, and include ALL the details.” “If the green eyed boy in your class wants to study with you, meet him in the library first.” “Take pictures of everything - you’ll be shocked by how fast it goes.” As a single mom, she was my everything. The softness and the strength, the nurturer and the provider. She had to learn fast and young, always saying she graduated from the School of Life after getting pregnant with me at the ripe age of 21 and only two semesters left to go. And here I was getting ready to leave her, her only child, the one and only built-in best friend. At least I was going to go finish what she started, attending the same college two hours away. My father was never in the picture. Her privacy was my protection, and I knew to stop asking questions after my 9th birthday rolled around and he didn’t come around the corner with a big gift box and a “ my goodness, you’re so big!” As time went on my curiosities wandered from this elusive imaginary father to much more real problems of the time - which boy would ask me to the homecoming dance and how I could earn more money to fund my pottery classes. So we spent our time together watching Seventh Heaven , eating popcorn for dinner, and making up outrageous stories. Her oration was vivid, so I never knew how much she was fibbing. But if her tales were true then my Dad had monstrous ears, a tail and chased leprechauns. The only way I could tell that she had segued from fantasy into the past was by her voice, which would get just barely quieter, and her eyes, the normally steel blue turning into blurry waves. Memories of her youth were always relayed with a deep longing. “ Oh my goodness, I can’t believe I’ve never shown you!” she squealed. “It's been years since I’ve looked through it. I was waiting until you were old enough so that the pictures of the beer cans didn’t alarm you. Wait here.” She hurried back inside the house, doors and cabinets clanging open and shut while I licked my plate clean. Moments later she returned, photo album in hand. “This, Mona, are my memories, although brief, of the best years of my life,” she winked, “before you of course.” She passed it to me, the beige fabric yellowing at the corners. I could almost smell the shared dorm and cigarettes floating from the pages. Girls in jean skirts getting ready for a night out, hugging the mascot, textbooks strewn across the lawn. Each frame crystallizing like a movie in Moms mind, and her monologue spilling out faster than she could talk. Scene after scene, I was captivated by her tales yet again. “And this was Janie, oh my god she was SO funny. I wonder where she --” She stopped dead in her tracks. We were near the end of the book, and she clearly came across something. I clutched it and looked in the direction of her gaze, the object of her attention. There was Mom in full glam - blue eyeshadow, a perm, and red lips pulled wide into a laugh, arm draped around a guy in a forest green university cap, blonde mustache, and gold watch. I had only seen a few photos of my Dad in my life, and stories were more prevalent when I was younger and my curiosity was peaking. But Mom did not want to reveal much; he worked in construction from what she knew and lived in upstate New York. Yet here he was, as close as I’ll ever be, and it was unmistakable. Our noses both jutted out a little over our lips, my hair just as thin and blonde, the way we both looked at Mom in admiration telling one of her stories. “Can I keep it?” I asked. There was no way she could say no to this forgotten photograph. I was getting old and deserved to at least have this memento. “Alright, honey,” giving me a wet kiss on the forehead, those red lips making their mark. This is it, I thought. I have you now. The final night before I flew from the nest, and the first time all three of us would spend together. Skeletons I inhaled the first cool air of the fall sharply into my nostrils, finally able to wear my worn and tattered, yet beloved vintage sweatshirt. I was on my way to my Ceramics class, which had not surprisingly become my happy place on this big campus. I had met some nice people so far, but the aroma of the fresh paint, hum of the wheel and soft clay in my hands were my friends for life. But today we got a notice that our regular room was out of service, so we had to meet in the backup room in the basement. To be honest I didn’t even know there was a basement, and I was a little disappointed that I wouldn’t be able to gaze out of the window on the day the leaves decided to make their descent to the Earth. I saw some of my classmates once I turned down the staircase, and followed them down the dark hall into the one room with fluorescent light poking out from under the door. “ Alright potters, take your seat. Today we’re going to create prehistoric water jugs from the thirteenth century A.D.,” our quirky professor began. I sat my bag down and rolled up my sleeves. “Where are the aprons?” I asked my teacher’s assistant. She pointed towards the back of the room, where a limp cluster of splattered aprons hung off the neck of a broken anatomy skeleton. I headed towards it, imagining the long creaky bones spinning at the wheel, when a framed photo on the wall caught my attention. There he was - the same man in the photo I see every day hanging on the wall above my bed. It was the first thing I did when I set up my room, so it would be us three, everyday. When new friends inquire about the outdated couple, I calmly say, “That’s my Mom and Dad.” It's even started to roll off the tongue, no hesitation. It’s not lying, right? Right in front of me was another grin of his, frozen in time. This time instead of his arm draped around my mom, it was hugging a large vase. It’s odd to think I’ve never seen his mouth move, his forehead wrinkle, his mustache grow. I’ve always wondered whether his eyes were quick to anger or quick to laugh; I like to think the latter. This was all I had of him though, little clues of him molded into place like a footprint on wet concrete. It was clear that he was holding this vase with pride, something he had probably spent hours refining and crafting until it was perfect in his eyes. And it showed; the outside was rustic red, a muted color similar to Moms lips. The bottom of it was a wide orb, the middle portion quickly narrowed to the width of being able to fit a singular stem, and the top curved outwards like a petal blossoming. Other classmates with their prized possessions were surrounding him. At the bottom of the photograph it read “ University of Buffalo Pottery Contestants 1985, Winners Left to Right -- Abigail McPherson, Claire Keen, Devin Brake, Joseph Teller, Mike Winston, Mary Albert. ” Holy crap. His NAME. I have HIS NAME! My mom did the best she could to conceal it from me; I took her last name and she always told me his first name was Mike. Mike? Michael? Short for Michelangelo? Trust me, I should be paid for being a detective when it comes to figuring out every last detail about my crush. I could tell you when his parents sold their house, his first job, and the name of his Great Aunt.. but let me tell you, Lori is even one step ahead of me when it comes to my protection. My searches have come up cold. The remainder of class while I was throwing, my hands were on the pot but my mind was elsewhere. Did he sit in this same chair? Wear this apron? My head was spinning faster than my wheel. I don’t understand what she has to hide; I mean we look alike, and I clearly get my artistic abilities from him. Why couldn’t I possibly know who he is? The time finally came to leave, something I’m normally not ready to do. Today was different. I was the last to head out, pretending to be extra tidy about my space and cleaning every last speck of mud off of my chair. Once I sensed the final footsteps fade, I quickly grabbed the framed photo and stuffed it into my backpack, zipper open and ready. Instead of taking a stroll in the freshly fallen leaves as I had intended, I headed straight to my room and pulled open my laptop so fast it nearly broke in half. One simple Google search - Mike Winston, Construction, University of Buffalo, New York - and I had him. Articles, LinkedIn profile and more frozen smiles all reflecting back to me. I found his website - he did in fact work in construction and live in upstate New York - and was actually very successful. Anyone could see why, his work was unique and grand, ranging from ski lodges to houses in the Hamptons. All this time I had envisioned him as Bob the Builder, with a construction hat and tattered overalls, a blue collar worker living day by day. But this... this was something else. He was the one probably telling Bob the Builder what to do. On the bottom of the page of his official website was the email michael@winstonconstruction.com . Within a few months I had gone from a few photographs to almost direct access. I had to shut my laptop and think. I thought he didn’t have a working phone my whole life, and now I learned he probably has two - a personal and business line. But then I thought about Mom. Right now, she was probably singing Carrie Underwood on her way back from the grocery store, stopping to get flowers on the way, blissfully unaware that I had uncovered her deepest secret. On the one hand I was furious with her. Why didn’t we get to live in one of his houses?! Why couldn’t I even drive a few hours north to be with him on the weekends?! Her heart was big enough for the both of us, though, and I knew she had good reason to keep him from me. Was she shunned from his family? Were they ever in love? Does he even know about me? I can’t imagine how hurt she would be if she found out. I looked back down at the photograph on my desk, then up at the picture on my wall and lastly to his headshot flickering on my computer screen.  As much as I love Mom, there are two sides to every story. It’s no longer enough to simply see his face stuck in a moment, imagining the words of encouragement and love I never got. I need to hear them, too. To see his mouth move and laugh and frown. He’s not the skeleton in the basement after all. I opened up Gmail and composed a new message. Dear Dad...

pkfiot

Hidden Highways

Hidden Highways ©2024 Ellen Bennett            I don’t believe in conventional ghosts. The nature of my work lends itself to being open to and understanding that the presence of spirits is quite natural. I am a professional photographer, and my compositions of choice are old, abandoned buildings; warehouses, distressed barns, burned out churches, anything that is run down, decrepit, dying or dead.            My wife shakes her head. “Why don’t you take pictures of beautiful things? Things that are thriving? It seems so depressing!”            She is a teacher of special education. Her life is all about positive forward movement. She sees things in vivid color, while I tend to see things within a gray contrast.            “There is mystery and intrigue buried beneath what once was a place of life!” I explain.            She understands. “Lucky for you I love you for everything. The good, the bad, the dark and the dead!” She kisses me on the forehead and heads off to work.            I studied photography at The Design Institute of Chicago and went on to teach at Syracuse University in upstate New York. Before settling into my teaching job, I travelled far to capture what I unwittingly thought were going to be award-winning photographs only to find that the winning photographers—with a much longer list of accolades throughout their life—got to the shots first. Or rather, to the jurors first. I have several thumb drives of those photographs dated and categorized in neat little plastic boxes with snap-on lids on a shelf in a tiny closet in my tiny office at the University.            I teach both digital and film. My worn Nikon and Hasselblad are always ready in my camera bag, as is a DSLR for pre-production at a site. Film affords me complete creative control in the darkroom. And while digital is manipulative, film is the bedrock of the art,            I digress.            When I travel on photographic journeys, I take my trusted road atlas with me. I don’t use GPS unless I am completely lost. And even then, some of the best shots I’ve gotten have been on hidden highways, and the one I am about to tell you about was just one of those: A hidden highway where life and ‘other worldly’ tottered on a thin line.             I found myself in South Carolina in a little defunct town called Marion. What caught my immediate attention was Jessops General Store. It did not fit with the rest of the brick-and-mortar buildings that made up the town. Jessops was a wooden structure—circa early nineteen fifties, I thought? There was an aura about the place—with its sagging front porch, cracked and dirty windows, chipped paint, and weather-beaten signs—that pulled me from the car to further investigate.            When I stepped up onto the porch—floorboards creaking where some had curled upwards, their nails long sunk—I felt something like a hand push me from behind. Nothing crazy or scary, just a gentle persuasive nudge.            The front door was ajar.            I went inside the store.            Then I lost consciousness.                                                  ***            Folks in town say that the outside of Jessop’s Market is in dire need of a new painting job, but I liked it fine just the way it was. Mom says, “A fresh coat would make the signs pop !”            Pop is a Coca Cola from a thick, green glass bottle! It’s the only drink in the world that tastes like the smell of summer—like the way our corn husks in the field bake in the mid-afternoon sun, or mom’s freshly washed laundry on the line out back of our big, old house. Coke is a cold fizz hitting the back of my throat then going down into my stomach like an icy wiggle worm. Mom says, “A good burp following a meal is a compliment to the cook.” I guess when I burp after drinking Coca Cola the compliments go to the people who make the best tasting drink in the world!            My favorite time to drink Coke is with Doc Jessop at the end of a long summer day on the front porch of his market. Doc isn’t really a docto r, but he’s been called Doc since his war days because he was known as a medic in the field. He said that most of the medics were just boys right out of high school and trained in first aid when they enlisted. Doc said he wanted to be where the action was, and I think he sure saw a lot of it; my dad reminds me right off, “Now, don’t ask him about the war unless he offers to tell you. It was hard on those boys.” My dad was in the war too, but he stayed right here in the United States at a place called Los Alamos. Mom said it was “Very top-secret research for the war effort!”            Anyhow, Doc lets me help him close the shop at night. He’d say, “You’re a crack whiz with the broom and dust cloth, and you keep the shelves nice and organized! Better n’ Helen or me!” I liked to please Doc and Helen because they were the nicest people I knew, next to my mom and dad, of course. And he lets me pick penny candy from any jar I want after I finish my work. Chocolate BB Bats are my number one pick, but I wouldn’t throw out a banana flavored one either, followed by Root Beer Barrels or Cinnamon Sticks as a close second. My older brothers try to steal my ‘pay’ so I hide my stash in the back of my closet where they aren’t allowed to go.            If it isn’t raining, Doc and I sit with our feet dangling over the side of the porch and listen to the bull frogs from the nearby swamp talk to each other, or Doc will ask me about my adventures of the day, or maybe we just sit quietly and listen to the heat bugs flying around in the thick of the evening stillness. Sometimes the bugs zoom right by my head and land on my back. I’m not afraid of them but they can be ticklish, especially on my neck. I know they won’t hurt me. My mom, though, she swats at them and gets this high-pitched squeal and sometimes uses swear words, “Oh these… bugs !” Doc says it’s all about nature’s mission, that bugs have a place in this world, too.            Doc Jessop is the kind of person my mom and dad call a good man. He rarely loses his temper and has a kind word for everyone—even if the person is not one of the better citizens of our town, like Hank Klooster—who I overheard my parents talking about one night when they thought I was asleep—and how he beat his wife and kids because his radio was broken, and he couldn’t listen to his nightly programs. Or Malvene Gittson, the boarding house owner, who snoops through her tenant’s belongings when they aren’t there then spread rumors about them. Or Everett Clancy, our town Mayor, who it was said was a ‘real ladies’ man’ even though he was married and had two children named Bart and Margaret—both snooty and what my mom called full of themselves. I saw the mayor one afternoon leaving the boarding house fixing his tie, a big smile on his face. I scowled at him, but he didn’t see me because I was at the park across the street sitting on a bench next to my bike.            Doc named me ‘Sport’. It was the name of my bicycle, the Schwinn Sportster. And since all I did in the summer was ride my bicycle Doc thought it was a good idea to identify me with my favorite thing to do. Once a week, he would go about checking my chain and tires. If the tires were low, he’d fire up his Air Pig and from a long hose fill my tires with air. While the machine rumbled and hissed—almost looked like it might jump around on its own—he’d check the pressure with a gauge. He showed me how to use his tools—although I wasn’t allowed to use the Air Pig because it was old and who knew if it would blow at any given time—and I was right there on the pavement working hand in hand with him. Doc said I was a fast learner, and he was right!            I made good grades in school, better than either one of my brothers for sure! Science is my favorite subject and Miss Bray—my teacher—said I was the bravest and smartest girl in class. I could dissect a frog without fainting like the other girls usually did and I knew all the parts on the inside, too. The boys think they are so smart, but they’re actually pretty dumb—especially Jimmy Norton who had to have three stitches in his thumb because he used the scalpel on himself instead of the frog! When the boys saw all the blood, one of them fell right onto the floor and passed out cold while the other one looked green—like my Aunt Lovell looks after what my dad calls “a long night out”.            On that hot night in July, Doc and I sip our Cokes from long white bendy straws and watch the sun slip down behind the trees in the distance. I say, “Doesn’t it look like a fire way out there?”            “It sure does, Sport.” Doc shifts his weight around then sighs deep-like.” I have something to tell you.”            “Is it something good or bad, Doc?”            “Well, all depends on how you look at it.” He runs curled fingers up along the outer seam of his pantleg.            An odd feeling spreads through my belly and it’s not pleasant at all ! Like the time my mom sat us down and told us about her sister—my favorite Aunt Jewell—who was in a bad car wreck and the doctors weren’t sure if she was going to make it or not. She ended up making it but had to have her foot taken off due to gangrene. I knew what that was after a while; Miss Bray helped me to understand that ! I will never have to have my foot taken off, for any reason! It was awful and hard to watch Aunt Jewell try to walk with only one foot and crutches. Doc looks out at the unfolding night. “Me and Helen. We’re gonna have to sell the store and move down to Texas to be with her sister, Marie.”            The darkness seems to settle faster than usual. “But why?”            “Marie was diagnosed with cancer in her lungs and she’s not getting much better. Helen needs to take care of her. She might not have much longer to live.”            I murmur, “So why do you have to sell the store? Can’t Helen just go down there and take care of her ‘til she,” I lower my voice, quickly making the sign of the cross on my sleeveless blouse and say, “passes.” Then add, “And then she can come back here to be with us again?”            Doc chuckles and musses my thin fly-away hair. “Well, it’s not that cut and dry, Sport.”            My mind goes straight to Helen. I couldn’t believe she would not be here! She always had something cooking on her big black and white stove with the three doors and six burners at the back of the store. She made stews for people who couldn’t cook for themselves, and she even delivered the food in person no matter how far away it was! Doc would start up the old truck—which he promised still had a lot of life left in her—and we’d help Helen load all the boxes of food into the back. We’d hear the rumble of the engine and the grind of the gears as she pulled out of the gravel parking lot, her face set to the business at hand, gravel spewing into the wheel wells. Helen was known to us all as the Angel of Mercy. Well, who would be the Angel of Mercy now?            Also, Helen baked daily; the smell so good and heavy with sugar; her cookies and breads the talk of the town. In fact, if it weren’t for Helen’s cooking, the store would smell just like any other old, musty place; the kind of place that doesn’t have what mom calls ‘a real personality’.            “Does mom know?” I asked Doc matter-of-factly.            “Yes, Sport, she does.”            I am mad that she didn’t tell me. As if reading my thoughts, Doc says, “I wanted to tell you myself bein’ that you and I are such good friends.”            “But why would you leave us to go all the way to Texas?”            “Ah Sport, Texas isn’t that far, just two states down.”            “But why?”            “When a man and a woman get married, it’s in sickness and in health. Only this time it’s Marie who’s sick. But see, when you marry the one person, you marry the whole family.”            I thought that was crazy! Why would I want to marry some dumb boy and then leave my family because someone in his family was sick? Why would I leave my mom and dad, all my aunts and uncles, even my brothers, for someone in someone else’s family?            I look right at him. “If I was old enough you could sell the store to me then nothing would change! What if the person who buys the store is mean, like old man Hacker?” Old man Hacker was older than dirt and about as stinky as spoiled milk.            Doc laughed, “Oh, Sport…if only you was older, I’d sell it to you no questions asked! I know you’d do right by it, for sure.”            “You still could,” my voice sounding uncomfortably childlike, pleading. When he doesn’t respond, I ask, “Will you be leaving soon?”            He nods his head, his lips pressed tight.            Suddenly, it feels funny between Doc and me now. He doesn’t know what to say and my heart feels heavy. My throat closes, like it does when I hold onto a cry. I know I must be strong for Doc and Helen because they are the ones who have to leave! They’ve been here for so long; long before I was born!            Doc sighs, slaps his open palms on the thick of his thighs and says, “Welp…” then gets up with a grunt. I give him the empty coke bottles and they clank softly as he slips them into the almost full, slotted wooden Coca-Cola case near the front door. He pulls the straws out and tosses them into the trash container next to the door. His keys, which are clipped to his belt with a chain, jangle as he chooses the right one. The night-light over the porch attracts moths; their wings flutter and sizzle as they land on the grated metal light cover. Doc checks the door twice— pull-bam push-bam —a sound I will remember for the rest of my life—then we look at each other like we do every night.            “Goodnight, Sport.” Only this time, his eyes are sad in the yellowish light.            “Goodnight, Doc.” I try to smile. I tell myself to be strong even though I want to run up to him, hug him, and cry into his overalls.            When I take my bike home that night everything feels different. The air is all heavy now, like an approaching storm even though there’s a ton of stars overhead. Creatures and bugs sound like musicians playing all the wrong notes at once. My throat feels thick, like it gets when I come down with influenza. Maybe I am dizzy too. Maybe I should stop riding and walk the rest of the way. Yes, I get off my bike and walk a bit.            Or maybe I should just get back on my Sportster and ride toward the moon as it rises over the hillside; big, pale, grayish white, just hanging in the sky like a new adventure.                                                 ***            When I came to—what seemed like a moment later—I raced to my car, grabbed my camera equipment, then spent the next two hours photographing everything I could about the place. I used the DSLR to get prelims. I took as many angles of the porch as I could, and when I was satisfied with the lighting, I picked up the Nikon.            What I developed when I got home was nothing short of other-worldly. In each frame of the front porch there were two pixilated areas next to one another. I employed my many darkroom tricks to bring up the shadows, but they remained pixilated. I studied the negatives; I studied the prints. Who was this little girl? I figured the man was Jessop. I thought about going to a website to investigate my family origins. I thought about telling my wife. I thought about seeking advice from a medium, or a shrink.            I did none of the above. I locked the experience in my subconscious.            And like Sport, I continued my journeys on those hidden highways, with the moon parked high in the night sky lighting the way.            Like a new adventure.

7ry9fa

Worth More Than A Thousand Words

Worth More Than A Thousand Words By Raven West            Hannah Levy rushed through the front door of her family’s home. The official notice to report to the IDF on her eighteenth birthday the following week clutched tightly in her hand. She didn’t know if she was more excited to join the Israeli army, or to finally be free from under the scrutiny of her overly protective parents. As far back as she could remember, Hannah never went anywhere without one or both of them tagging along. Hannah was home-schooled from the time she was seven years old. Her schedule outside of academics was filled with computer classes and personal gymnastics with her the only student. On weekends she attended Caliber 3, the Academy for Counter Terror, Security & Defense. Every summer since she was thirteen years old, Hannah spent her time at Krav Maga Immersion Camp, where she made a few friends, but the counselors were just as strict with her as her parents, so any friendship started, quickly vanished when the camp term ended. As a result, Hannah’s social life was practically non-existent. Her parents we so overly protective, they even refused to allow her to learn to drive. Her father drove her to and from school in the family’s black SUV. Her mother accompanied her to the mall on her occasional shopping trip. When her parents weren’t available, they hired a service and chauffeur. Always the same car. Always the same chauffeur. Although Hannah understood her parents loved her and only wanted to keep her safe, but the prospect of finally being free, even if it was to join the army with their own rules and restrictions, would have, at the very least, afford her the opportunity to finally have some friends. The only thing she needed for her dream to become a reality was her personal documents and her parent’s signature, but when she asked her mother where the papers were, her answer was strangely cryptic. Esther and Aaron Levy were in the kitchen preparing Shabbat dinner when Hannah excitedly showed them the notice and inquired about her birth records. Her mother paused for a few seconds before replying. It wasn’t the response Hannah was expecting. “I’m not sure if I remember where I put them. Aaron, do you recall?” “No, I really can’t. I haven’t thought them in many years, Hannah. Go get ready for dinner and we’ll talk about it after, ok?” “Ok? No, it’s not ok!”  “Sundown isn’t for another two hours!” Hannah uncharacteristically hollered. “You must know where these papers are and I need them now. Tell me, where do you think they might be and I’ll go look for them.” There followed a few moments of awkward silence. Hannah noticed her parents kept exchanging worried glances, before her mother answered.            “I believe I might have stored them away in a box the attic, but I don’t remember exactly where.” “I really wouldn’t be that concerned, Hannah,” her father added. “The Knesset has duplicates of everything you need, so there really isn’t any reason for you to go searching through all that dust. I’ll make the necessary calls on Monday and we’ll take care of it, so don’t worry.” Hannah pretended to concede to his request, but she was too impatient to wait. She secretly plotted to rummage through the attic after her parents had gone to sleep.            Later that night, Hannah crept to the attic, flashlight in hand. She rummaged through several piles of dusty old clothes and toys she had discarded years ago, but didn’t find any boxes of documents. Frustrated, she kicked the wall which resulted in a hidden panel opening just above the floorboard. She pulled on the panel and discovered a locked box under several blankets. Hannah removed the box and used the flashlight to brake the lock. She opened the box and discovered a stack of old papers and a photograph on top of the pile. Hannah shone the flashlight on the photo and was shocked to see the image of three people standing in front of a large tree, decorated for a five-year-old’s birthday party. The adults were strangers, but the little girl, who couldn’t have been much older that five, looked all too familiar. She had no idea who the adults were, but she immediately recognized the face of the child. Her nose was a bit different, her hair was curly and blond but there was no mistaking the girl in the photograph was Hannah.            On the back, was the faded writing identifying the people as Rivka and Reuben Cohen with their daughter Anna, December 6, 2005. Hannah stared at the photo and the print until she felt the images would be burned into her fingers. She knew her birthday was December 6, 2000, but looking at the photo, Anna Cohen shared the same birthday. It was undeniable that the child in the photo and Hannah Levy were one and same. Hannah needed answers, and she needed them fast. She closed the box and made her way downstairs to the living room where she opened a bottle of wine and waited for her parents to wake up. Hannah heard her mother coming down the stairs. The moment her mother’s foot landed on the last step, Hannah held up the photo and cried out.            “Mom, who are these people?”            Esther Levy froze.            “Where did you get that picture?” she asked.            “Does that matter?” Hanna replied. “I found it. Just answer the question. Is this me and who are the couple in the photo?”            Esther didn’t reply immediately. “Come into the kitchen, Hannah. I’ll make some coffee while we wait for your father to wake up. We have a great deal to discuss and he needs to be here.”            The two sat in excruciating silence for what seemed to be hours, but was only a few minutes when Aaron entered the room. Immediately, he noticed the stares from his family and knew there was something definitely wrong. Seeing the photo in Hannah’s hand, he immediately understood.            “Dad, who are these people?” She demanded. Before he could reply there was a loud knock at the front door.            “Quick, Hannah.” His yelled. “Get to the safe room and lock the door. We’ll continue this discussion later.            Hannah didn’t bother to question her father. Living in Israel every home had a mandatory reinforced space. She did think, however, since she hadn’t heard any sirens, or explosions, that her father was, as usual, being too overprotective, but with both her parents acting so strangely she didn’t stop to ask questions.            Locking the door behind her, alone with her confusion, Hannah was contemplating her surroundings. Over the years, she knew of the many times her community was under attack and these trips to a secure room had become an unfortunate common occurrence.            When the door finally opened, Hannah noticed her mother was no longer in her pajamas.            “Hannah, there are a few people here to speak to you. I brought you a change of clothes. When you’re ready, come out and join us in the living room. There is a great deal we have to tell you, especially about that photo you found.”            Tentatively, Hannah walked into the living room where four strangers and one very familiar face were waiting.            “Nadav? What are you doing here?” Hanna addressed the only person in the group she knew. Nadav Mizrahi, the family’s chauffer.  “Hi Hannah,” Nadav replied. “So very nice to see you outside of the car. These are my associates Omri and Michal. We’re agents of the Witness Protection Authority.” “The WHAT?” Hannah yelped. “Witness Protection. You entered the program in 2005 because your father, your real father, the man in the photo, Reuben Cohen, testified against Yaakov Abergil. He was a very dangerous head of the Israeli mafia, better known as the Israeli Crime Organizations or ICO. Because of your father’s testimony. “I don’t believe this! How did my father, or this Reuben person you mentioned get involved with the mafia?” “Yaakov was also charged with the murders of alleged Abergil crime family associates,” Michal replied. “One of whom was your father’s cousin Bar Cohen. We knew once your father testified, his life and yours would be in danger. Reuben and your mother Rivka both got new identities and we relocated them to an undisclosed location. If it was discovered they had a young child with them as well their real identity would be in jeopardy, so as a precaution, you were placed with Aaron and Esther, also WPA agents, who became your parents.” “And how do you fit in all this, Nadav? I don’t remember meeting you until a few years ago.” Hannah asked. “ You did have several agents once you went into the system, but you never knew who they were. Our methods are quite good. I took over exclusively when you turned 15. You didn’t notice my frequent disguises, but I was also your instructor at Caliber 3 and your camp counselor at Krav Maga. You never knew I was the one training you in all the skills you’ll need to become a member of the Central Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations, or as you know them; Mossad.” “Mossad? You’re kidding, right? I’m going into the army next week. No one mentioned anything about my joining Mossad!”   “If everything goes according to plan, the small faction remaining will either be arrested or eliminated once the mission is accomplished.” Omri added. “With your help, we can have this mission completed successfully in less than a week.” “This assignment will also replace your mandatory service in the IDF,” Nadav continued. “So you won’t have to wait until you turn eighteen next week. Your service begins immediately. Time is of the essence. I suggest you pack a few necessities, we leave in one hour.” “Not a problem,” Hannah excitedly replied. “Let me take a quick shower, then I’ll grab my Go Bag and meet you downstairs.” Packed and ready, Hannah met the agents where she was given the oath by Michel that made her an official Mossad agent. She said her good-byes to Aaron and Esther and to the only home she had known. “Even though I didn’t give birth to you,” Esther hugged Hannah tightly as she held back tears. “I’ve come to think of you as my daughter. L’Chaim and sok sikert. (good luck). “Feels like old times.” Hannah said from the back seat of the SUV as they drove away from the only home she had ever known. “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me where we’re going?” “Of course I can now. Our operation is only a few miles away. Shouldn’t take us more than an hour. Once we get you situated, I’ll brief you on the specifics of the mission, which will involve your elite computer hacking skills. I don’t anticipate any actual combat, but to be safe look in the compartment under your seat. I have something special for you.” Hannah did as requested. She pulled a black case from under her seat. Upon opening it, she found a 22 LRS Beretta Model 70. “It’s what all the cool kids are packing nowadays.” Nadav chuckled. Hannah closed her eyes and took a much needed nap for the rest of the ride. Once they arrived as the unassuming office building, Hannah followed Nadav into an elevator which descended fifteen stories and led to a huge surveillance room. Hannah was unnerved to see all the rooms in her previous home displayed on one of the screens. “So, that’s how you knew I’d found the photograph.” “Yes, we positions cameras all over your home, except in the bathroom of course. Once we saw you find the photo of your family, we knew you’d start asking questions that only our agents were cleared to answer, which is why we showed up when we did.” “That’s reassuring, I guess.”            Nadav showed Hannah to her desk. The computer screen was sending code even before she sat down. It didn’t take her long to decipher the code and upload a virus straight to the main computer server on the other end. Once the virus was sent, Hannah watched the Mossad team infiltrate the headquarters of the ICO, guns blaring. The entire operation was over in under an hour.            “Well, that’s it.” Nadav said, breathing a huge sigh.            “That’s it?” Hannah was surprised.            “The mission is over anyway. Now there is only one thing left for me to do.”            Nadav pressed a button on the desk which opened a door on the far side of the room.            “Hannah, meet your real parents, Reuben and Rivka Cohen. They’ve been waiting a very long time to meet you.”            Tentative at first, Hannah wasn’t quite sure what to do. Her parents however has no such trepidation. Hugs, kisses, tears of joy, relief and gratitude were shared by all.            “So, what now?” Hannah asked.            “We’ve eliminated the threat to your lives, thanks to Hannah’s great computer skills, so you’re all free to go home and live your lives. And because of what you’ve sacrificed, Hannah can either stay in MOSSD now, or join the IDF but whatever you chose, you won’t have to start on your birthday. We’re giving you six months leave to be a normal teenager.”            “Whatever that means.” Hannah replied.             “I think we’ll head home,” Rivka said. “We have a lot of catching up to do and I think Anna, I mean Hannah will enjoy meeting some people her own age. There are many social events at our Kibbutz. I’d like to also invite the Levy’s to visit us so we can be a real family.”            “I totally understand. Go home, party, have fun. I’ll call you in a few months.”            Over the next several months, Hannah, who now went by her birth name Anna Cohen through herself into her new found social life. Not having a chaperone any longer, she was free to go to cafés, restaurants, and dance clubs. She hiked, she swam and even took a few yoga classes instead of self-defense.            The photo she had found in the attic was now in a gorgeous frame that hung on the wall in the entrance. So that her family would always be with her, Anna snapped a photo and used it as the wallpaper on her phone so whenever her parents would call, she would see the photo that brought them back into her life.                  Before she knew it, six months had passed. The phone call she was dreading came the same day Aaron and Esther were coming for a visit. She hadn’t thought about her decision for a long time, and wasn’t looking forward to giving Nadav the bad news.            “Hi Anna, it’s Nadav” said the familiar voice on the phone.            “I know, I saw the caller ID.” Anna took a breath. “I’m not coming back, Nadav.”            “I was afraid you’d say that. We really need your skills and I know you’d be a great Mossad agent.”            “You may be right, but I’ve made my decision. I’m not coming back.”            Another long pause.            “You sure there isn’t anything I can say to change your mind?”            “Nothing. I’m sorry, but no.”            Emphasizing each word, Anna continued.            “I’M…NOT…COMING… BACK!”            “In that case, I’ll have to say good-bye. If you ever change your mind, you know how to reach me.” Just as Anna ended the call, she heard the front doorbell. She hadn’t seen her former parents for months and it was great to finally get together. They planned on a week-long visit, which was perfect as Anna had been invited to a music concert and was leaving for an overnight with her new friends. Although her former parents were a bit disappointed, they understood how important her daughter’s new found freedom was. And it only one more day, then they would have lots of time to catch up.            Anna waved good-bye as the car drove off towards the “ journey of unity and love” with “mind-blowing and breathtaking content”. The concert began around 10pm on Friday, just hours after the end of Israel’s week-long Sukkot religious festival. Anna was dancing to the music at 11pm. Seven hours later she was faced-down in desert sand as bullets flew overhead.            Using all the skills she acquired during her Mossad training, she crawled to a secluded area where others had rushed to escape. Just then, her cell phone went off. The family photo illuminated her hiding place.            “Anna, are you all right?” A frantic Rivka screamed. Anna could hear gunfire in the background of the call. “We’re being hit on all sides. Please be….”            The phone went silent.            “We’ve got to get out of here.” She whispered to the other terrified concert goers. “Follow me.”            As she was taught, Anna stealthy crawled to where she saw a lone terrorist relieving himself. Before he had a chance to zip his pants, Anna lunged, grabbing the shoulder strap on his rifle, pulling it tightly until he passed out. Holding the rifle like an old friend she lead the other survivors to an abandoned car and hit the gas. All the while firing shots to cover their escape.            She dropped off the others in the car once they were out of harm’s way, then made it to her home hoping it had somehow been spared from the onslaught. What awaited her was total destruction of what had been her home only a day before. As she made her way through what had been the living room, she knew instinctively no one was going to be there to greet her.            The family photo she had found in the attic that day months ago which led her to her family was splattered with their blood.            Anna picked up her cell phone and pressed the key. “Nadav? This is Anna Cohen. I’m coming back.”

1b94un

The False Star

Captain Finnian, the famous intergalactic photographer, looked at the screen on the back of his camera and frowned. “That’s weird.” He muttered to himself. He held his camera up to the front window of his spaceship and snapped a few more pictures of the countless stars in front of him. Each time he took a picture he adjusted the camera settings before taking the next one. After several pictures he looked at the screen again, this time a look of confusion coming over his face. “Hey Quixly!” He called to his loyal co-captain, who also happened to be his best friend. “Come take a look at these pictures. I can’t figure out what’s going on.” Quixly, who had been studying star charts while eating some Chulaplugg stew, got up from his desk and hurried over to Captain Finnian. “What is it, Captain?” Captain Finnian handed the camera over to Quixly. “I got a new camera setting that can change the color and brightness of the stars without changing anything else in the picture. It measures the specific star wavelengths to know which part of the picture to change. It’s not a setting I’d use much anyway, but it’s not working on one of the stars in the picture. What do you think is going on?” Quixly clicked through the pictures on the camera, and he saw what Captain Finnian was talking about. In each picture the stars were different colors, but one star near the middle stayed white every time. Captain Finnian had adjusted the stars’ brightness in some of the pictures too, with that same star not changing. In the final picture he had dimmed the stars completely, making it a completely black photo other than that one, unchanging star. “I see what you’re saying Captain, that’s hard to explain” Quixly said, deep in thought as he looked at the pictures. All the sudden his eyes got wide, and he ran over to his star charts and started sorting through them frantically. “What is it, Quixly?” Captain Finnian asked as he watched his friend make a mess by throwing charts all over the place. Quixly was a species with four arms and three eyes though, which enabled him to search through his star charts with comical speed, and he soon found the one he was looking for. Once he found it, he compared the star chart to the picture, then ran back to the front of the ship and compared the chart to the stars in front of them. “Gee wizzy dizzy!” He finally said. “Captain, I know why that star isn’t changing in your photos! Because it isn’t a star! It isn’t on my chart! Wowza, how strange. I wonder what it is?” Captain Finnian grabbed the star chart and held it up to his view out the front window. He saw hundreds of thousands of stars on both, he had no idea how Quixly could spot a discrepancy like that. But Quixly was the brightest navigator he’d ever met, albeit a bit quirky, and he completely trusted his judgment. “That is weird.” Captain Finnian said thoughtfully. “What on plant ZX-30 would look like a star if it wasn’t a star?” He pondered about that for a moment and then smiled. “Well, there’s one way to find out! Quixly, set our course for the false star, we’re gonna go check it out!” “Yes sir!” Quixly replied, and quickly punched in some navigation directions on his control pad. “Hi-dee ho let’s go!” he said with excitement as he pushed the final button, sending them off towards the strange “star” at hyper speed. After a few hours of flying their spaceship came to a stop, the strange star-like object glowing brightly in front of them. Even from up close it looked just like a star, and they needed to use their protective sunglasses to see it. “This is as close we can safely get to it without burning up.” Quixly said. Captain Finnian looked down at his control panel for a minute, and then pushed forward on the acceleration to get closer. “What are ya doing!?” Quixly yelped frantically. “If we get any closer, we could burn up! Our ship isn’t designed to get this close to stars!” “I know that, Quixly.” Captain Finnian replied with a chuckle. “But you’re forgetting something, this isn’t a star. It’s as big and as bright as one, but it’s putting off almost no heat. Our ship will be fine, I want to get a closer look.” Quixly gulped audibly, obviously still scared of the idea of getting closer. “Are ya sure that’s a good idea, Captain? What if it’s a giant spacecraft made by evil people who want to kill us? What if they pull us in with a tractor beam and lock us away forever? What if I never get to see Xankandria again, or worse, what if I never get to eat Chulaplugg stew again!?” Captain Finnian looked at Quixly and raised an eyebrow. Xankandria was Quixly’s new girlfriend. They only met a few weeks ago, but they hit it off great and seemed like the perfect match. “Did you just say you like Chulaplugg stew more than you like Xankandria?” Quixly’s eyes got wide when he realized what he had said. “Oh no! Did I say that!? I’m new to this whole dating thing, I didn’t mean to say that! Don’t tell Xankandria! …. Besides, I do really like Chulaplugg stew…” Captain Finnian laughed. “Don’t worry, my lips are sealed. None of that matters anyway though, we’re not gonna get sucked into a tractor beam by some crazy evil organization who wants to kill us, that’s ridiculous.” Right at that moment all the lights flickered on and off several times, and the ship started to pick up speed towards the giant false star. Captain Finnian tried pulling the ship away, but his efforts were futile, the ship was completely out of his control. “Hmm, maybe it isn’t so ridiculous.” Captain Finnian said. “But hey, I’m sure they aren’t evil.” The speaker system came on and a mean, robotic voice came through. “You have two minutes to explain who you are and why you’re here, or we’ll blow your puny little spaceship into a billion pieces.” Captain Finnian gave Quixly a sheepish smile and a shrug, as if to say, “whoops, you were right!” Quixly would have glared at him if he wasn’t so busy shaking uncontrollably with fear. Luckily Captain Finnian didn’t get scared as easily as Quixly, so he responded to the voice with confidence. “My name is Captain Finnian, I’m an intergalactic photographer. We came here when we saw that your “star” wasn’t showing up in our photographs like real stars. We wanted to see what was going on.” There was a pause, and then the voice said, “What do you mean it wasn’t showing up like other stars?” “Well, to the naked eye it looks the same, but I have a camera app that measures the specific wavelengths of stars, so it knows what to edit in the photo. Your star has a different wavelength of light than natural stars. So, it must be fake. Did you build it yourself? I’m very curious.” There was silence for a full minute after Captain Finnian spoke. It seemed that the evil person who had been talking with him was just as surprised at Captain Finnian’s calm demeanor as Quixly was scared of the situation. Finally, the voice came back through the speakers. “We’re going to pull you into our space station to talk to you further. Prepare your ship to be boarded.” “Sounds good. Thank you!” Captain Finnian replied. Quixly added, “Thank you sir! Thank you, kind sir! Thank you very much for not blowing us into a billion pieces!” He then looked at Captain Finnian and whispered, “what do you think is going to happen to us?” “I’m not sure,” Captain Finnian replied. “But just follow my lead. I’m sure we’ll be fine.” A few minutes later their spaceship reached the false sun and was pulled in through a small opening. Once inside the spaceship landed, the opening behind them closed, and the voice came through the speakers once again. “Open the door, we’re coming in!” Captain Finnian quickly opened the door, and in walked three people. The first was a very large man who seemed to be half robot, half person. Behind him were two more people, a man and a woman, who were regular sized and not robotic, although they were both strong and tough looking. None of them looked like they would hesitate to kill Captain Finnian or Quixly if needed. “Welcome to our humble spaceship.” Captain Finnian said to them as they walked in. “What can we do for you?” The big robotic man spoke with authority. “Bring me your camera. Let me see how our star wasn’t showing up like others.” While Captain Finnian didn’t frighten easily, he also wasn’t stupid. “Yes sir.” He said politely, and he quickly grabbed his camera to show the large man. He explained how it worked and showed him the different pictures, just as he had shown Quixly earlier. Once he was done, the big man grabbed the camera and angrily crushed it in his robotic hand. “Phroqit!” He cursed. “I was led to believe our space station was indistinguishable from natural stars, and yet an amateur photographer finds us with a simple camera app!?” “I don’t know if I’d use the word amateur…” Captain Finnian started to say. “SILENCE!” The large man roared at him. He then looked at the two people who followed him on board. “Bronxin, you stay here and keep these two idiots out of trouble. Atheepla, you come with me. There are some engineers who need to learn a lesson.” With that he walked out, followed by the woman. The man, presumably Bronxin, stayed on board, holding a laser gun to Captain Finnian and Quixly. After the other two were well out of earshot, Bronxin whispered “are you really the Captain Finnian? The famous intergalactic photographer?” Captain Finnian smiled in surprise. “Yes, I am! And this is my co-captain Quixly.” He gestured to his quivering green friend, who gave a small wave, his eyes glued to the laser gun still pointed at them. Bronxin saw what Quixly was looking at and put the gun away. “Sorry about that, don’t want to frighten you. Just under the boss’s orders, you know! Anyway, I can’t believe it’s really you guys! I’m such a huge fan of your photography! I have the picture you took of the Painted Candle hanging up in my office!” “No way! I remember when we took that picture. I can’t believe you actually have a copy hanging in your office!” Captain Finnian was beaming. “Wowza!” Quixly said, more confident now that the gun wasn’t pointing at him. “I can’t believe ya referred to it as the Painted Candle! I’m the one who came up with that name!” The three of them laughed, talked and bonded over photography for a few minutes, and then Bronxin became more serious. “Finnian, Quixly, I’ve been wanting to give up this evil life and devote myself to photography for years, but I’ve never had the opportunity to leave. You two obviously need my help to get out of here. I think we can all help each other. If I break you out of here, will you teach me more about photography and help me get started with a new life?” “Absolutely!” Captain Finnian responded enthusiastically. “That’s a great deal! But how are we gonna get out of here?” Bronxin smiled. “Leave that part up to me. You just need to get in position to fly out of here quick on my signal.” Captain Finnian and Quixly ran to the control room to get ready. Bronxin closed the spaceship door, and then made a call on his communication device. From the control room it was hard to hear everything he said, but Captain Finnian managed to catch the phrases “execute the prisoners” and “under orders from Master Zvonix.” He hoped Bronxin was actually on their side, but at this point they didn’t have any other options. A few moments later the giant door to the space station opened up, and Bronxin yelled, “Now! Fly out of here before they stop us!” Captain Finnian manned the controls and zoomed out of the space station. Once they were out Quixly entered some coordinates into his screen and yelled “hi-dee ho let’s go!” as he pushed a button sending them into hyper speed. They were safe at last. Bronxin walked into the control room and started talking to them more about the giant space station. Master Zvonix, the massive half robot man, was an evil villain intent on ruling the universe. The space station was his disguised hideout where he was preparing countless weapons and people to help him take over the universe. Master Zvonix would kill anyone who tried to leave, and he disabled any long-distance communication devices in the space station, so no one could report to the intergalactic authorities what was happening. Bronxin had been stuck in the space station for years, and his only connection to the outside had been through photographs the new recruits brought in. He especially loved Captain Finnian’s photography, and he had promised himself that if he ever escaped, he’d become a photographer too. The three of them laughed and cried together as Bronxin spoke. Once he finished, they immediately contacted the intergalactic authorities and police force, who would be able to stop Master Zvonix and destroy his space station and thus his evil plans. They then got to work teaching Bronxin photography. He was a slow learner, but he was determined, and over the course of a few weeks he improved dramatically. As a final project, Captain Finnian and Quixly took him to the Painted Candle, where he took his own photo of it. Tears welled up in Bronxin’s eyes as he looked at the photo and realized how far he’d come from the confused man who joined Master Zvonix years ago. The next day, the three of them were eating Chulaplugg stew at a planet not far from the Painted Candle. “Well, Bronxin,” Captain Finnian said in between bites of his stew, “you’re sure you want to stay here? We’d be happy to take you on one more adventure if you’re willing!” Bronxin smiled. “Thanks guys, but my mind is made up. I’m ready to settle down and start a new life here.” “I don’t blame ya!” Quixly responded, his mouth full of stew. “I’m tempted to stay here too; this restaurant is amazing!” Bronxin chuckled. “Wow, I’m really gonna miss you guys. Quixly, keep me updated on your relationship with Xankandria. Finnian, keep sending me new pictures you take. And I’ll make sure I see you both at any nearby photography conferences.” He got up and gave them each a hug, and then walked away, ready to start his new life. “Wowza, I’m gonna miss having him around.” Quixly said. “Me too.” Captain Finnian replied. “You know, taking pictures really helps us see the beauty in life. But developing friendships is what makes life beautiful.” “Very true. That, and good food!” Quixly said with a smile. “Well, I can’t argue with that!” Captain Finnian said. He looked down at his now empty bowl and turned back to his friend. “So, let’s order some dessert!”

3cw69e

Do come Back Sometime

The real estate ad featured sunbeams breaking through patchy gray-blue clouds with white, lacy rims. As they meet the firs’ branches, the fir needles glisten and one can almost hear the birds’ morning trills. I was intrigued. I clicked to see more images. A view across the valley to a meadow on the other side made my heart stop. I know this view. I know the grass growing on this hill and where to find the first spring primroses. I know the tracks the fox leaves there after the first snow, and I remember my footprints following these tracks when I was not even ten yet. The old man who had lived on the property I knew as Mertel. One day, when my grandmother and I walked down to his house, we found him dead in his garden. Asleep forever he sat at his wooden garden table underneath his apple tree. An apple had tragically landed on the table in front of his head. He was wearing his threadbare forest green woolen cardigan. His snow white head rested on his crossed arms. Strange how I could still tell he was dead.  Additional images from the real estate ad catapulted me back into my childhood. The house with its large covered wooden porch conjured up memories of my grandfather and old Mertel sitting and smoking cigars that stank so bad, I was sure they smoked them to keep mosquitoes and children away. But it wasn’t until I noticed a Czech cut crystal bowl, clear, except for a blood-red rim, sitting on the window sill in one of the images of the interior of the house, that I was startled. The candy dish, I was certain, belonged to the old Knoch widow who had owned the tannery on the other side of the river in what had become East Germany. Much lore had been told about her and her mysterious disappearance and my brother and I had our own story to add to it. We were six and eight and it was in the early 60s when we decided to get to the bottom of a rumor according to which she still lived in her villa overlooking the river and the town of Hirschberg where her factory was located. She had lost possession when the river became the border between East and West Germany. Shortly after the war ended, she disappeared and was never seen again - except by us, my brother and I. We had broken into her villa and she had caught us and invited us for tea and cookies. Upon parting she gave us a coin each which we later identified as a Reichsmark. I still remember her parting words, “Do come back sometime when the sun illuminates the crystal bowl.” This very bowl had sat on her window sill and this very bowl now sat in Mertel’s old house on its window sill. I decided it was quite pretentious of me to think it was there for me to see and tried to put it away from my thoughts. But I could not. “Do come back sometime…” It takes about 16 hours to get from San Francisco to Tiefengrun. That’s because the closest airport is a good three hour drive away. I did not bother to make an appointment with the realtor. The widow Knoch’s property and Mertel’s property border each other, and there is easy access from the fields behind the houses, and I somehow felt that by breaking in I kept up with tradition. Still a bit jet lagged I parked the rental car at the side of the road and walked along the edge of the field. I walked by the fence in the back of my grandparents’ house, past Sneider’s fence and got to Mertel’s back fence of the property. It wasn’t in any shape that would keep anyone out, and I entered. The plum tree was studded with red, juicy plums and I filled my jacket pockets. It’s true; some things just don't ever change. The key to the back door hung on its rusty nail inside the now empty and termite ridden rabbit shed. It felt cold and heavy. I suddenly felt like a kid again as I climbed the back steps and inserted the seemingly huge key into the seemingly huge old lock. My heart pounded and I found myself reaching for the hand of my brother like I did back then when we entered the villa. But I was alone this time with just a pocket full of plums and my get-away car parked at the county road. I turned the key, pressed the cold metal door handle and slowly opened the door which creaked a lot louder than it had fifty years ago. Slowly I tip-toed toward the living room, childhood memories playing like videos of my grandmother bringing the old man food she’d made, the half dozen cats launching on his couch and chairs, and my grandmother and Mertel’s small talk about the weather. I sat down on a chair. I let the memories play and found that it calmed me. I was in no hurry. As my childhood visions retreated to the background, I began to be able to focus on my surroundings. A few historic photos hung on the walls. Photos of the view across the river and photos of Mertel and his wife whom I never knew. Despite my early childhood experience, I am really unsure about my belief in ghosts. They mostly seem like figments of people’s imagination or literary vehicles to make the narrator more important. But I could not shake the feeling that I was here because of the old Koch widow. I thought it silly in a way, as she would now be very close to 100 years old. But why did this crystal bowl intrigue me and lure me back all the way to Germany? Just what did I expect to find? I still can’t answer those questions. But the bowl was located exactly where it had been depicted in the real estate ad: On the living room window that faced to greet the afternoon sun. Tea time. Then suddenly as the sun came past the birch tree, it turned the bowl into a prism and lit up the old dusty living room. I sat in awe mesmerized by its rainbow beams. And maybe that’s why I did not notice the front door being opened. “Was machen Sie hier?” ( What are you doing here?) a lady suddenly stood in front of me and addressed me sternly. My words locked in my throat, but I was finally able to stammer something about wanting to have a look at the property, followed by a slightly more coherent explanation of how I’d spent quite a lot of time here as a child. Her frown line softened a little and I felt I’d wardened off her call to the police for a bit. “What’s your name?” she wanted to know. I gave her my maiden name figuring she would be able to place me easier as my grandfather’s name was embossed in bold big letters on his house just two doors down. It worked and some of the tenseness left her body. Still, she was a bit upset about my ways. I could tell by the way she began walking around the room and the clack,clack of her high heels on the wooden floor. It was a bit awkward trying to come up with some small talk that would also give me the information I was looking for. “So who owns this place currently?” I asked. The clack clacking stopped, she turned to me and explained that after old Mertel had died, his daughter inherited the property, but except for using it for a vacation house, she really did not. Then, she continued, a member of the Knoch family had bought it. I think the blood drained from my face. “Are you okay?” she asked. “You look a bit spooked.” “Yes, yes,” I assured her, “it’s just that I didn’t know that any of the Knochs were still around.” “One of them is standing right in front of you!” she replied laughingly. I was stunned. I had not realized until now the likeness between the Knoch widow and this woman and it made me joyful and a bit spooked at the same time. “I met the old Knoch widow once,” my mouth spilled forth. The woman was silent, paced the floor with her clack clacking heels and finally came to a stop in front of the crystal bowl. When she turned to look at me, she had completely changed into the woman my brother and I had met at the villa where the bowl had been. “I think we should sit down for some tea,” she smiled. “A lot of time has passed.” There was black tea in the kitchen and a tin of butter cookies. There were also more questions than answers in my head. I just didn’t know where to start and I didn’t know how to ask them. She made it easy. “My aunt was found to be secretly living in the villa in 1967. She had been suffering from severe anxiety caused by the war and its aftermath. She hid in the villa, but some neighbors had a feeling she was there. We got her into care and she lived to a ripe old age of 90.” “Did you get to talk to her much?” I wanted to know. The woman explained that her aunt did not talk much about the time she had spent there hiding away from people and the world. “But there is one story she kept coming back to,” she continued as her voice softened and her speech slowed. “She kept talking about these two siblings that had visited her. She gave me this bowl,” she motioned toward the window, “and said to put it in a window sill so it would catch the afternoon light because that’s how the kids would know to come back to see her.” She paused and walked over to the bowl, picked it up gently and brought it over to the table where we were sitting. We both sat in silence for a few minutes. While I was still trying to process all this, she interrupted my train of thought with a joyful laugh. “And if nothing else, my aunt said, it would make a great bowl for the red plums from Mertel’s garden!” I pulled the plums from my pockets and without a word, I gently placed them in the bowl. They were perfect together with the blood red rim. “You must know that I was one of those two children who visited her,” I quietly added. “I thought so,” she responded. “You ought to take the bowl.” I nodded and managed a humble thanks. She rose, headed toward the door then turned around one last time. “Do come back some time,” she said in parting.

kotvp0

Twin Adventure: A Cherub, Rainbow and Giant

Click! Click! “Sadie, come on.” Click! “One more,” fourteen-year-old Sadie said. Click! Click!           Sean groaned. “That’s what you said half an hour ago.” Sadie sighed and lowered the camera. “Fine. Let’s go.” It was the summer holiday. Their parents, Mr. and Mrs. Henry, who were on a diplomatic tour in New York, had sent the twins to Jamaica to spend the holiday with their grandma, Keturah. Sadie had created a scene about the arrangement, so their father had bought her a Canon EOS Rebel T5i camera. Sean had guffawed when he had seen the name. Now, he wished his father hadn’t bought it because that meant he had to follow Sadie on her explorations.            “What do you think Grandma is preparing for dinner?” he asked. Grandma Keturah lived in Linstead, a rural district in the parish of St. Catherine. Linstead boasted farm lands for miles with fruits and other food group of every kind, and people with ready smiles. “I don’t know.” Click! Sean pulled her to the side of the road as a taxi sped past them. “What a jerk!” Sadie said, before snapping a couple pictures of the back of the car. The audacity of his sister! “It’s your fault for not keeping to the sidewalk,” Sean said. “My fault?” Her broad, dark brown nostrils flared in anger. “It’s not my fault the lunatic doesn’t know the road code.” “Didn’t mom say you were to stop cussing?” “Lunatic ain’t cussing. Now if I’d said---” Sean clapped his hand over his sister’s mouth. She boxed his hand away. He would have replaced it but paused at the transfixed expression that took over her light brown eyes – eyes that were a replica of his. He followed her gaze. “Wowza!” Sadie exclaimed.  Sean blinked. “It wasn’t there when we were heading out.”            Sadie stepped closer as though she was afraid it would disappear. “Where did you come from?” She hoisted her camera; her finger hovered over the shutter button. She glanced at her brother. He nodded. Click! Click!            She reached out her hand to touch a petal but he placed his hand on hers. “It could be a trap.” She scoffed but she didn’t touch it. “Fine. Let’s take a selfie with it.” Thunder cracked overhead and lightning pierced the dark skies. “It’s going to rain,” Sean said as he surveyed dark clouds hovering overhead, thick like a blanket of smoke. The cloud was going to burst any moment and empty its contents on them. When Sean felt the first drop, he snatched the camera from Sadie's hand. He then dashed down the steep, gravelly terrain to their grandmother Keturah’s house, with Sadie hot on his heels. ***** They were soaking wet when they got in but grandma was prepared with blankets and two warm mugs of cocoa tea. She’d even rubbed them from head to toe with Benjamin’s alcohol, and let them inhale it so they wouldn’t get sick. She hadn’t berated them. She was pleased that they had taken a liking to the outdoors. She’d visited Manhattan once and had bemoaned the lack of trees and playgrounds. “Hey, grandma,” Sadie said over dinner that night. “Yes, my sweets.” Grandma Keturah's dark brown eyes searched her granddaughter’s face. Sadie was the replica of Sean with dark, oblong shaped face, a broad nose, full lips, except she had thick kinky hair that made her holler every time a hairdresser took a comb to it. Sean rolled his eyes. It was treatment like these that made his sister spoiled. Sadie beamed. “Do you know of any special flowers in Linstead?” Grandma’s eyes brightened. “Well, of course. We have hibiscus, periwinkle and bougainvilla.” Sadie leaned forward in her chair. “Any mystical ones?” Her grandmother chuckled, revealing crow’s feet at the corners of her kind eyes. “Sadie, you’re too much. This is Jamaica, not Wonderland.” “And you’re not Alice,” Sean added. Sadie stuck out her tongue. “Sadie,” her grandmother reprimanded. “Sorry, grandma. But how do we explain this?” Sadie reached for her camera and began to flip through images. “Where is it?” She lowered her camera and glared at her brother. “Did you touch my camera?” Sean thumbed his skinny chest. “Me? Don’t be ridiculous.” Mahogany chair scraped against red, polished floor. “Where are you going, baby?” Grandma Keturah asked. “I’m missing my pictures. I need---” “After you’ve finished your dinner. ***** Sadie ran slender fingers over the surface of the camera. She had gone through every reel but hadn’t seen any sign of her mystical flower. “Are you still up?” Sean asked through bleary eyes. He’d been sleeping on his twin size bed, which was a few feet across the floor from hers. Sadie sniffed. “I can’t sleep.”            “Sorry sis but please try because the light is blinding me.” Clang! Sadie sat erect. “Sean, d-did you hear that?” Sean snuggled deeper into his pillow. “You’re hearing things.” “Something is outside and I’m going to see what it is.” Sean leapt out of bed, surprising his sister. “No, you ain’t.” He dashed to the door before she could. Bam! He inclined his head in the direction of the window, and Sadie begrudgingly followed his lead. The outside was dark. The sky was littered with stars that sparkled like diamonds. Sadie’s fingers itched for her camera. “ Achoo! I’m sorry but it was hard getting your attention,” said a three feet creature. He had cherub-like features: blonde hair, blue eyes, and pink cheeks. Sean stepped in front of his sister, his body shaking like a leaf. “Wha-who are y-you and ho-how did you get in here?” “Through the wall,” he deadpanned.            Sadie pinched Sean then herself. “Ow! Why’d you do that?” She shuddered. “Making sure we’re awake.” She stepped away from her brother. “Ghost b-be gone,” she said with a shaky finger, pointed at the creature. “Yael, at your service.” The creature bowed low. "I’m no ghost.” Sean grabbed the closest item to him, and pointed it at the creature. “Then why are you here? Tell us or we’ll send you back. Our parents are prayer warriors.” “For heaven’s sake, put down the teddy bear. And can’t you see I’m a cherub.” “Cherubs aren’t real,” said Sadie. “You’re a midget ghost.” Yael pointed a stubby finger at her. “Now, that is very offensive. Anyway, listen up,” he said, and the kids stood as erect as soldiers, unable to move. “I’m here on the king’s business. Yeshua Hamaschiach has sent me to warn you two to be on the look-out for a giant.” He made a circle with his hand and the image of a beast appeared, as if on a screen. “He’s Nephilim 1.0 and he’s headed for Jamaica. You may speak but anymore resistance and I’ll have a one way conversation. Blink once if you understand.” Sean did as he instructed. He figured his sister had done likewise, since she drew for his hand, the moment he was free to move. “Wh-why is that ogre com-coming here?”        Yael plucked a picture of them from the dresser. “Because your lives depend on it.” Fear somersaulted in Sean’s stomach but it was Sadie who spoke. “This is Jamaica. No mystical being---” Yael eyed her. She cleared her throat. “Guess anything is possible,” she finished under her breath. “Today, you saw the Rainbow Galandia,” he continued. “Yes. All seven, glowing colours of it. I took pictures but it’s not on my camera,” said Sadie. “Your eyes were opened so you could see in the second dimension. Ordinary cameras don’t work there. Do you know the story of the great flood that took place in 2350 BC?”            “The one about Noah and the ark?” Sean asked. Yael nodded. “Do you know why the flood happened?” “Because God said so,” Sadie said. “Angels had defied God’s orders and took human brides. These brides gave birth to abominable beings. Because of them men’s hearts became evil and God grew sorrowful but then Noah found favour with Him. Do you two know the rest?” “God told Noah to build the ark. Noad did, then he brought in the animals by the pairs. He and his family entered, then God shut the door,” said Sean. “The flood came and destroyed everything and everyone that wasn’t on the ark,” Sadie added. “It’s a depressing story. What does it have to do with us?” Yael quirked an eyebrow. “After the flood, God placed the rainbow in the sky as a covenant between Himself, humans and creation that He wouldn’t destroy the world by flood again. Every time a rainbow appears in the sky, it’s a reminder of God’s covenant promise.” “Is that why we saw the rainbow flower?” Sadie whispered to her brother. Sean shrugged. "It’s called the Rainbow Galandia.” Yael opened his pale, chubby hand, revealing the mystical flower. Sadie’s breath caught. “What’s wrong with it? The flower had wilted and its colours had faded. In fact, it had been down to four petals, where it had seven coloured petals.        “There has been a crack in the fabric of time by Nephilim 1.0, and it is believed that he has escaped.”        Sadie sniggered. “And you’ve come to two kids for help?"         “He’s headed for you guys.” Sadie reached for her brother. “The people and the animals had entered the ark in pairs. Because of this, there’s a belief by these abominable beings also known as the nephilims and their families, that if a chosen twin is sacrificed, it would cleanse their sins and stop the flood.”         Sean shook beside his sister and Sadie clung to him even more. “Are you saying this beast is here to sacrifice us?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.         “Yes, and I’ve come to prepare you.”         “By doing what? Adding spice and sauce? Do we look like meat to you?” Sean asked. Yael sighed. “You were chosen to defeat and send them back into the fabric of time, then you must seal it with this ring.” Sadie grabbed the ring. “Ooh, so pretty.”  Yael eyed her with interest. “A decree sealed with this ring cannot be undone.” He handed Sean the tiny scroll. “The decrees. Sadie, where is your camera?” Sadie pointed at the desk. He passed his hand over it and a shimmer of light entered.         Sadie stepped forward. “What did you do to it?”         “This is your weapon. Every time you snap at your enemy, you’re hitting them with temporary blindness. Be sure to have it at all times.”         Sean rubbed his hands together. “What do I get?”         Yael reached into his pocket and came out with a wooden and band strapped item. “What is that?” Sean asked with a baleful expression. Even Sadie seemed put off. “It looks primitive.”            “It’s the King David’s slingshot!” Yael emphasized, “the.” Sean folded his arms. “What am I supposed to do with it?”            “Slay the giant, of course.” Sean gulped. “Oh, I almost forgot. The stones. You’re not David so you’ll get fourteen.” Sean threw his hands in the air. “We’re dead.” “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. You’ll have backup.” ***** “Can you believe that guy?” Sean said. Sadie pinched her brother. “Ow! Sadie!” “Mind you wake up grandma.” Sean hissed. “Why would you do that?” “I’m still not convinced we’re awake. I wished I’d listened to you.” Her brother sighed. “It seemed if you had, we wouldn’t have seen the flower, and would have headed for destruction. So, your pig-headedness does work sometimes, Sadie Badie.” It was a term of endearment, he’d made up for her when they were young. “Don’t call me that.” He offered her a small smile but then his eyes turned to the slingshot, camera and ring. “How are these little gadgets going to take out a giant? Should we tell grandma?” “What exactly would we say?”        He rubbed the back of his head. “Er, um.” “Exactly. So, how do we sleep?” Sadie asked. “Like this.” Sean gave his pillow two smacks then laid down. “We should take turns and keep watch,” Sadie said. “You first,” said Sean, then fell asleep. ***** “What are you two doing today?” “We’ll hang out here and help out if you need anything,” Sean said. Sadie gave him an expression that said, “coward”. Sean had slept through most of the night, which meant Sadie got a wink of sleep. She had a good mind leaving him to fight the giant, if there was such a thing. When they awoke, they had a good laugh but then they sobered as each recalled how the cherub walked through the wall plus defied gravity, the faded flower and their new weapons. That morning, they ate breakfast without any bickering, and even their grandmother eyed them with suspicion. A knock sounded on the door. Grandma Keturah stood. “That must be my new mentee,” she said. Sadie and Sean shot up. “Grandma, no!” Sadie dashed to the window, and Sean to the door, slingshot in hand. “What’s the matter with you, two? Their grandmother asked. “It’s a regular guy – he’s cu,” Sadie cleared her throat. Following his sister's lead, Sean returned to the dining table. Grandma brought in a young man who looked no more than eighteen years old, with almond coloured eyes, and smooth molasses skin. Sadie sighed. “Close your mouth or you may catch flies.” She swatted her brother’s hand and stood as her grandmother introduced her and Sean to the handsome young man. “Jarvis, these are my grandchildren, Sean and Sadie. If you need any help, just call them. You guys still plan to help out?” “Oh yes, ma’am,” Sadie said. “Shameless,” Sean muttered. *****  “Do we go looking for the giant or will it come looking for us,” Sean asked. “I think it will come looking for us.” “Well, if that’s the case, I have an idea. Let's wait in the trees on the other side of the property.” “Why can’t we stay on this side?” Sadie stared out the window, where Jarvis was busy adding mulch to a banana tree root. Sean rolled his eyes. He snatched up his slingshot and handed Sadie her camera. She took it from him, then they marched out the door and to the other end of their Grandma’s ten acres of farm land. When they were far enough from Grandma Keturah, he and Sadie climbed a mango tree and waited. They were there for ten minutes before Sadie started her protest. “This is boring. Ain’t no stupid giant coming. That cherub made it up. I’m going down to see what Jarvis is up to,” she said and began her descent. As she did, the earth beneath them began to shake. “Earthquake!” “Hello, sweethearts,” said a mocking voice. A behemoth with a stinking breath, and mud caked face, towered over their hiding place. “He wasn’t lying,” Sean said as he tried to reach for the satchel in his pocket. “Now, come on out.” The giant grinned rotten yellow teeth then began to shake the tree. The first pebble slipped from Sean’s hand and he lost his balance. “Sadie!” he cried out the same time as he heard his sister scream. The giant paused his shaking and gazed at her, dangling from a tree limb. “Ah, a cute little thing,” he drawled. He poked her stomach with a gigantic finger. “Don’t touch me.” He picked her from the limb. Using the distraction, Sean clambered down from the tree. “What you got there?” Sadie raised the camera to the giant's face. “Say cheese.” Click! Click! Click! The giant released her. “My eyes! My eyes!” It sounded like the word started with ‘y’. Sean watched in horror as his sister began a fatal descent. Her piercing scream tore the morning. A flash passed Sean. He’d hardly had time to breathe when his sister said, “Jarvis, you’re---” “--the back up,” Jarvis said. He put Sadie down and she stepped behind him. “I’m goin’ to get you!” The giant raised his giant foot to squash Jarvis, the same time Jarvis grabbed Sadie, and they jumped out of the way. Placing Sadie on his back, Jarvis began to zig zag like the Flash around the beast. Sean tried the first stone. It didn’t even shoot a foot away from him. He tried three more and they landed further. The giant seemed to tire of Jarvis and Sadie and had now turned humongous, bulging eyes at Sean. “Now, what have we got here?” Sean shot the third one at the giant but it only bounced off his thigh. The beast threw his head back and bellowed until he coughed. “You plan on taking me out with that thing, boy?” he said. “You can do it!” his sister yelled.            He closed his eyes to recall how David, a shepherd boy, had defeated a nine-foot giant by the name of Goliath. “Okay, God. Please help,” Sean prayed. “Playtime is over,” the giant said. He made to scoop up Sean. Sean pulled the slingshot backwards and sent the fifth stone flying. The teens held their breaths as the giant staggered backward then crashed to the ground. Sadie stepped away from Jarvis. She raised the ring towards the giant. "We decree and declare the Spirit of the Lord has lifted a standard and our enemy has retreated.” The words had been taken from the scroll. A blue light shone out of the ring, encircled the giant then vanquished him. Sean ran to his sister but she’d already fallen into Jarvis’ arms, shaking and sniffling. He shook his head while Jarvis shrugged. “Girls,” he said. Seconds later, they saw their Grandma Keturah running towards them. “Are you kids, okay?” They eyed each other but it was Sean who said. “We’re well, except for Sadie. She’s an emotional wreck.” His grandmother looked at her granddaughter and chortled. “Hot cocoa, anyone?” Sadie’s hand shot up. “Me, right after I rid myself of a twin.” Sean raced towards the house, with his sister, hot on his heels. To be continued….

d8zal5

Shutterbug Shutdown

        On a boring Saturday morning on the outskirts of my home turf in Berlin, Md. I took a hike along a deserted road next to one of the many cornfields in the area.       A large chicken-raising operation long ago had dominated the community for many years, but now only abandoned grow-out houses dotted the landscape. This seemed like the ideal place to search for historical treasures that might help me discover a forgotten link to our town’s past that could provide the fodder for a new book knocking around in my brain.      Risking a confrontation with some gun-toting local keeping an eye open for someone trespassing on land they considered off limits, I tramped across the field to the well-worn door of one of the buildings.      Just as I came close, my boot struck a hard object half buried in the soil. When I picked it up and dusted it off I found the remains of one of those cheap little disposable cameras so many families used in the 1980s and 1990s to capture family picnics or days at the beach.       Finding this artifact in the middle of a rural area probably miles from a family outing aroused my curiosity. I decided to search around for a place to get the photos developed.      This presented another possible adventure, since the heyday of disposable camera popularity had passed us by about 35 years before. Of course, Walmart had a small photo department, but I had no idea whether they could handle this barely-functioning relic. Modern discount stores dealt mainly in converting pictures taken with cell phones.      Then it struck me, my friend Don had worked for the last 40 years as a professional photographer. He also had a reputation as one of the top experts on local history on Maryland’s Lower Eastern Shore.      When I texted him he responded, “be glad to look at the device, although he didn’t hold up much hope of resurrecting the contents of a cheap piece of equipment which probably has laid buried beneath the soil and assaulted by all kinds of weather for almost four decades.”        With my curiosity aroused, I drove the 31 miles to my friend’s Salisbury studio to see what he could peel back from the layers of dirt and wear caked on the device.      Don took a quick look and said, “this one looks like a tough one. There doesn’t seem to be much left. But we’ll give ‘er a try. Call me back in an hour.”      It took me a half hour to get home, but, just as I opened the door to my condo, my phone chimed.      “Took way less time than I expected,” my photo ace buddy yelled excitedly. “You better get back here in a hurry. Might have to turn these pictures over to the authorities.”        Don wouldn’t go into specifics within earshot of customers or nosy neighbors, but his tone sounded ominous.      I drove back as quickly and cautiously as I could. Didn’t want some overzealous sheriff’s deputy pulling me over for speeding and forcing me to talk about the possible contents of the camera before Don and I had a chance to examine them in person.       My friend opened the door with a shocked look on his face and quickly scanned the area around his studio before leading me over to his workbench and revealing what he had found.      “Don’t know if you recall,” the photog said excitedly, “back in 1989 the OC Clucker, one of the top restaurants on the shore, went out of business suddenly and without explanation.”      “There were rumors of some poisoned chicken and an attempt to cover up the source of it, as I remember, “ I said.        “The police and health authorities never came to a conclusion, because they said a small kitchen fire destroyed the evidence,” Don said.        He added, “The scuttlebutt around the shore pointed to a New Jersey mob boss as a silent partner in the restaurant. He supposedly saved money when buying supplies for OC Clucker and got his poultry from a farm in Berlin that had continued operating secretly after Worcester County health authorities closed it down. It took some time to discover the off-the-books farm because one of the cronies of the mob boss worked for the county and never reported it. Then, one night, a sous chef at the restaurant examined some of the chicken he prepared that night a little more closely after a customer complained it tasted funny. He found a small amount of poison in the chicken. Luckily, no one became sick or died. When the restaurant manager said he had to report this to the authorities, the mob boss started a fight with him. The manager fell backwards and knocked a pot off a stove, causing the fire. After evacuating the restaurant they couldn’t find the sous chef.”      Don added that no one could confirm the rumors or point to the source of the altered chicken.        “A few years after the incident,” he continued, “a writer for The Surfside Reporter, a local newspaper, interviewed employees for a chicken farmer in Berlin after the farmer laid them off before suddenly closing down his operation. They had overheard discussions between their former boss and a mobster who supposedly kept the operation afloat so he could supply his other business, OC Clucker, with produce.       “The mobster and farmer resurfaced in Wicomico County a few years later and rumors began flying that they might be up to their old tricks.        My friend said some of the former chicken farm employees anonymously tipped off the Wicomico authorities about the photographs and law enforcement had begun a new search for the evidence. They had contacted the owners of a number of local photography shops to track down proof of the Worcester County scam.       “The pictures I developed seem to show the farmer altering the feed to poison his chicken meat and the mobster’s gang members paying him off to keep the operation quiet. We need to handle this with kid gloves.” he added. “We need to get these pictures to the Wicomico County sheriff so he can put a stop to this before the gangster tracks us down and adds us to his casualty list.”      Luckily, another friend of mine had worked for a number of years as an undercover deputy for the sheriff and his office had planted an informant in the mobster’s gang.      About a week later the mobster showed up without warning at Don’s studio and threatened to give him the OC Clucker treatment if he did not destroy the photos and all copies while the gang leader and his followers watched.       Tipped off by the informant, the sheriff and his deputies had handcuffs on the gang and on their way to the county jail soon after the thugs broke into the studio.

xgqxu9

Neverborn

Shuddering metal whispered into the night and the forest lit up with neon white light. The searing light left no burnt smell in the air and in a blink everything faded to darkness. Yet the humming of nocturnal bugs never ceased. Linda let out a held breath as she stared at the picture piercing the night from her camera's screen. With a smile, she took in the details of the landscape. Some said photography was a simple thing. Just point and click. Linda hated the disregard people had for her art. This proved them wrong! The dim lighting melded perfectly into frame. Moonlight lit a lilly against the hazy limbs of trees. Everything glowed with perfection...except for a blackness just behind a tree like a misplaced shadow. Sighing, Linda leaned back to the half squat and redid her masterpiece. With a click and a flare, the lightning in the bottle had been caught twice! She grinned as she saw that the odd shadow was gone. Then the camera slipped from her hands. She caught it as her gasp echoed the crickets to silence. Between trembling fingers, her eyes refused to blink. Between the trees of her picture, there stood a tall lanky man. A cloak of inky blackness hung unnaturally still, but worse was the face. A hood tried to cover the eyes, but the flash of her camera had revealed what was underneath. Pale skin stretched untouched where eyes should be. Shuddering, she looked up from her camera to the woods in front of her. Faintly the shape stood there in the distance. It had to be at least a few hundred feet away. But reason lost the argument to fear. Linda could feel the stare of the man...thing? It seemed somehow inhuman. Her instincts screamed danger, and included a daunting sense of unknown. As if a creep was foreign to the modern day? The whole situation let loose alarms in her head. Then the thought came to her. "Aliens?" She muttered. "I just photographed an Alien." She stared at the creature and it slithered forward with disturbing quickness. "Oh bloody-" Linda turned and ran to her car. Slamming the door shut, the engine coughed to life. Yet as she skidded away, safely speeding down a country road. She saw the grin on the eyeless face fade to a snarl as he/it blurred into the night. *** Logan sighed as the tension left from his freshly cracked neck. He dusted off his pristinely white lab coat and picked up a clipboard full of reports. Just a couple more hours and his shift would be done for the week. His shoes squeaked on the floors as he ambled to his patent's quarters. With a glance, Logan estimated that he might need another polishing. Dress shoes were required among Spire employees, as was the necessity for cleanliness. Logan frowned as he recalled the slang thrown at his humanitarian co-workers. "White Coats!" they had called him. "Wash well for handling filth!" Logan muttered swears under his breath. His patients were not filth, they were troubled. He passed by patient Luis Brand's room that glowed with light on the inside. The door rattled as something slammed into it. Logan stepped back momentarily bumping into a brunette he didn't recognize. Papers fluttered to the ground and Logan apologized. The lady jerked back as Luis screamed from behind the door. "Ashamis," Logan explained. "Poor fellow is suffering from extreme mental stress and chronic pain. He often rambles about an old lover of his, Chereen." The lady nodded with a very confused expression. "Apologies," Logan said. "I'm Logan, head of Obsidian research, I don't think we've met?" "Marina," She said. "Just visiting," "Oh, I see," he said helping her to her feet. He looked around and found the sterile halls quite empty. "I don't see your escort. Guests usually have Wards with them at all times for safety." She blushed. "I fell a little behind the group I was with..." Logan smiled. "No worries, would you like me to help you find your group?" She shook her head fervently. "No, no, I'm quite alright. Thank you." Without another word she continued on her way. Luis began weeping from his room and crying words out in a ramble. "Twice and Twice. Twice and Twice he comes. A breeze to bring the storm. Blood on black to free mankind. With that which is and isn't, the dawn will come. From the waist, the veil crosses the spine. Dread will walk, the world will rend anew! Music will shatter the mirror and the ancients fill the void. Chosen they come, Forlorn they flee. Oh grails for glass, A pure singularity!" Logan flipped to Luis's file among his papers. Noting the habits, he checked the boxes personalized for the patient. Bursts of violence, Check. Screaming and weeping, Check. Rambling/"Prophesying" Check. "He who empties widens the Void! The twisted will be led by the Dread ones. The strength of the old can crack the dream! The mirror can only reflect what will come of us!" Mentions of Chereen . Logan waited a moment, but Luis went silent. With a grunt, Logan marked no on his sheet. That was new. However Erin E. was waiting for him and Logan couldn't waste anymore time. He walked swiftly by the rooms and turned right just past M. Coffin's room. The laughing always unsettled Logan. Coffin's case was one of Dreboria. Thankfully a rare disorder, but Spire didn't have proper spacing for him. Coffin was stuck laughing and muttering nonsense in what he called the "old tongue." Claiming to have lived in past lives as generals on both sides of the H.A.W.K. Republic War. Logan shook his head. "Dance the Dice!" Coffin muttered. "Dance and the shadows will join!" Logan quickened his pace and at last entered the lounge. Erin sat stared at the TV with sick yellow eyes. The smell of hand sanitizer and unwashed hair gagged Logan's breath. He blinked away tears and sat down next to his patient. There were a few female attendants looking after the Aeisadosis patients. The disease only affected women, which always made Logan question why they would let women treat the patients. They were still uncertain if the illness was contagious. The screen displayed a graphic scene of destruction. Buildings in ruins, overtaken by black veiled terrorists. The headline read "EIL TAKES VENGEANCE OVER THE UPROOTING OF TREE. Erin sniffed as the news flickered to a new story. "Hello Erin," Logan said slowly. "Logan," Erin said. "I recognized your smell." That raised an eyebrow from Logan. "I know you think it's hard to believe," he said. "But I could smell the difference. All these chemicals are like lighting a fire in my nose." Logan laughed. "I know what you mean." Those yellow eyes snapped to look him over with a ferocity that made Logan freeze up. "Are you hear to mock my dreams again?" Erin said. "To hear your dreams," Logan corrected. "I believe your dreams are important. Dreams are the mirrors of our minds ." "The mirror," Erin muttered. He slid a folded sheet of paper over to Logan. Logan picked it up and unfolded what was a drawing. "Do men normally draw while sleeping?" Logan shook his head as he stared at the images he saw. Horned men, men with hooves, beaks and snouts instead of mouths...these monstrosities tore apart humans and drove them towards angelic creatures with bat-like wings. Luscious lips and thirsting eyes ruined the appeal. The beasts had the word Colots scrawled over them while the angels had the word Raka. "Ra-ka?" Logan said, testing the word out-loud. Erin gave him a new picture and nodded at Logan's pronunciation. The new picture was of a great blackness. It left the words He who empties in white along with the word Dread carved thirteen times. Logan felt his hands begin to shake. "You know the Raka?" Erin asked. "You know something, or you wouldn't be shaking." Logan shook his head. But Erin handed him a final sheet. This one was almost torn in half and had many rips. Erin looked away to the TV as Logan unfolded the paper. It showed a man-like creature but with no eyes and dressed in black. Drall had been written and crossed out again and again. Logan shivered as he saw that a word had been written in smudges of red. "Erin, did you use blood to write this!" Erin nodded. Logan stared at the crimson word. Neverborn. Logan jumped as Erin began to growl like a wolf. He stared at the man, but the yellow eyes were fixed elsewhere. Logan turned to stare at the TV's new heading. ALIEN ENCOUNTER BRINGS SHOCKING FOOTAGE! The clipboard clattered to the floor and the occupants of the room hushed. Erin growled at the screen, and Logan slowly held the drawing up towards the TV. The pixelated image matched the drawing completely. Logan blinked and shook his head. This couldn't be the same… " Neverborn," Logan said and he looked at Erin. The man's face was like a snarling wolf. Logan had seen the odd glow that Luis's room had given him anytime he had tried to interview the man. He had seen the same glow with Coffin's room. Something about the lights had always bothered him around those men. But as Logan stared at Erin, he saw it was not a trick of the light. His patient began to stream light as if he was on fire. Logan could hear Luis screaming and Mr. Coffin joined in. Erin roared in a deafening howl. The electricity fizzled out and everything became darkness save for a pair of golden eyes.

7v2stz

Searching for Daddy Dearest

“Eighteen lesions in her brain? How is that even possible?” Dr. Rosa Scarlett’s cream-colored office walls were covered with black-framed medical accolades, and a small vase of fresh, crimson flowers brightened one corner of her tidy desk. Our mother, Vera Cartell, sat in a comfortable chair between my sister and me, as we riveted our gaze at the accomplished surgeon whose jet black hair, alabaster skin, and apple-red lipstick, reminded us of Snow White, or a glamorous runway model. Conversely, Mom looked so tiny, so vulnerable. Her once lustrous, ebony hair was now only a few silvery clumps, covered with a short gray wig. My sister, Reenie, clutched her navy suit jacket around her chest, shaking her head in disbelief. My usually calm brother, Glen, paced his six-foot frame around the doctor’s tiny office, his head down, Kleenex in hand. Our mouths hung open as we stared at the 14-by-17-inch, transparent, black-and-white Xray that Dr. Scarlett held in front of a light box. After being seven years clean from breast cancer, the buggers had not only returned, but they had also spread like wildfire. That string of eighteen Christmas lights on the cranial Xray told the tale. *** Some people just sit back and watch the sand-timer clock running out on the days of their lives, but others prefer to actively fashion their legacy. In 2000, Mom and I jumped into the genealogy craze. We spent every spare moment on our home computers, using dial-up modems to review the 1880 Census. Building our family tree, collecting vital records documents, and figuring out our lineage became a fun, weekly exercise that kept our minds in a hopeful space. Our family history mania strengthened as Mom’s health worsened. She desperately wanted to find out what had happened to her wayward father, Art Cartell. She said, “Daddy Dearest hung around long enough to make seven babies in eight years. Then, he’d split for months at a time, forcing us to squeeze into one tiny bedroom in my Grandpa Williams’ house. In fact, the only memory I have of my father was the nickel he gave me on my fifth birthday.” That was the saddest thing I had ever heard. I vowed right then and there to find her Daddy Dearest. One day, Mom called me over to her house. She sounded very excited. “Look at this,” she said, with a delightful lilt in her voice. “It seems Daddy Dearest remarried.” Mom started laughing so hard, she began to cough. Concerned, I rushed over to see if she needed help, but she waved me away, still chuckling. “You won’t believe this. I found a document indicating Daddy Dearest’s second wife divorced him on the grounds of ... get this ... neglect! Evidently, he was a disappearing magician with her, too!” Mom’s giggles were contagious, and I gladly joined in. Her beautiful, carefree smile of old brightened her face, making me happy. *** An unwanted phone message from Dr. Scarlett greeted me at the end of July, 2006.  “I’d like to meet with your mom and the family in my office tomorrow at two o’clock.” It’s never a good thing when a doctor invites you to visit. It had been exactly ten years since the initial breast cancer prognosis. Dr. Scarlett explained Mom was now terminal . She needed no more steroids, chemo treatments, or other medications. She was now eligible for Hospice, which includes home-care nursing, walkers, wheelchairs, a special bed, morphine for pain, etc. Mom had always been a thoughtful, independent person. She refused to let us kids take care of her, and she didn’t want to continue living in her house, after she fell one night and nearly froze on the floor. As the executor of her estate, I complied with her request. My siblings and I found a lovely place that would accept a Hospice resident. Unfortunately, Mom HATED the tastefully decorated home for six people, plus caretaker. Every time I visited her bright room that looked onto a pretty garden, she glared at me, ripping my heart to shreds. I am embarrassed to admit that I started spending my Mondays off work puttering around Mom’s lonely house, instead of visiting with her. While cleaning out her 1,100-square-foot home––preparing for the inevitable––I relived sacks full of wonderful family memories: eating weekend dinners at Mom’s, playing board games, relaxing in her neighborhood spa, and discussing current events and family history. I craved to believe that Mom’s spirit could somehow hear me speaking aloud in her house, as I peered into the crevasses of her bountiful life as an elementary school principal, brilliant watercolorist, competitive bridge player, and tennis champion. One blustery day in January, 2007, five months after her final diagnosis, I started cleaning out Mom’s guestroom closet, which was filled, floor to ceiling, with papers and suitcases.  Why were her best paintings stuffed between newspapers?  Sitting on the rug and searching through every item in that closet, lo and behold, I spied a lidded, purple shoe box. Hmm, what’s this? Removing the lid, a cornucopia of black-and-white snapshots taunted me. Were they family members? If so, why didn’t Mom show them to me when we were searching for our ancestors? Was one of those unnamed men her father? Did the cancerous lesions in Mom’s brain block her memories of the box, and the man who deserted her family?  I had to find answers. Soon. How could I repair my relationship with Mom before she passed away? Calling her favorite cousin, Luvana, who was our official family historian, I told her about the treasure trove of unnamed photographs, as well as Mom’s strong desire to learn what happened to her dad. That was before most people had internet access, so I couldn’t just email the photos to Luvana. Snail mail would take too long. “May I bring the photos to you? I need to make this right, for Mom.” Luvana said, “Well, of course. Let me know your flight information and I’ll pick you up at the airport. In the meantime, I’ll put on my research hat to find her Daddy Dearest.”  “Great!” I hung up, then called the airport to find the quickest plane reservations from California to Columbus, Ohio, and back again. “Yes, arriving on January 22 and returning on the 26th would be perfect,” I said. My boss approved the emergency time off. I called Luvana with my flight dates, packed one carryon bag, the mystery box of photos, and other family history documents we had collected over the years. Right before my departure, though, my mother fell into a dreamlike coma. I whispered into her ear, “Mom, I’m going on a long journey to find your father. You’ve got to hold on until I get back. Promise me.” I kissed her goodbye, then left. The next few days would be a race against the clock. Would Cousin Luvana help me find answers? Would my mother still be alive when I returned? I felt like Agatha Christie on an important detective case, following the clues before the wrongly accused person was put to the electric chair. I had  to succeed before the sand ran out of Mom’s hourglass. *** January is the worst month for airplane travel. The morning of my departure, the airport was fogged in, and it was snowing heavily in Columbus. But this mantra became my staff: I will be successful at finding Grandpa Art . Huzzah! The weather lifted long enough to get me into the air and stayed clear enough to land me safely in Ohio. I showed Cousin Luvana the exciting container of black-and-whites. She identified many of the people and scribbled their names on the back of each photo. Then she shared her research finds with me. Calling my sister every day to check on Mom’s progress, Reenie warned, “She’s slipping away, day by day. You’ve got to hurry!” I flew home and rushed to Mom’s bedside. My siblings and our three children gathered around Mom’s bed, each of us believing/hoping/praying that she could hear and see us, maybe astral projecting from the ceiling. Who knows? Someone had to lighten the tense mood. Sitting next to Mom’s motionless body covered in a soft, beige blanket, I cheerfully said, “Mom, I found that shoe box of photos in your guestroom closet. I took it to Cousin Luvana, and she was able to identify a bunch of your family members. And guess who was in the middle of that stack of pictures? Yes, your Daddy Dearest!” I hovered Grandpa’s photo over Mom’s blank face. “Grandpa Art certainly was a foxy fellow, like all the handsome men in your family. No wonder Grandma had so many children with him!” My teenaged sons snickered. “Grandpa looked to be a little shorter than your brother, Dale, in this picture, but his hair was just as thin on top, just silverier. “Mom, can you hear me?” It looked like her eyes were fluttering behind her closed lids. My heart skipped a beat. “There’s more good news. Luvana found Daddy Dearest’s Death Certificate. Guess where he was living in August, 1994, when he passed away? In Pittsburg, Pennsylvania, where your Grandpa Sherman Williams was living in 1900, after he left his family at the age of fifteen to make his mark on the world. “Daddy Dearest died of an acute myocardial infarction. Sounds pretty fancy, right? It’s kind of sad, though, that nobody seemed to know who his family was, his educational attainment, or what he did for a living, according to his Death Certificate. But at least we finally found him! “Mom, your ancestors are waiting for you to join them in Heaven. Don’t be afraid. Be joyous. All of us will miss you terribly, but now you can rest, my love.” We all said our goodbyes and kissed her before we left for our respective homes. We found Mom the next morning, an angelic smile on her face, her hands clasped peacefully over Daddy Dearest’s photo on her chest.

u1dxw4

The Last Sunset

Trigger warning: Violence, drugs and suicide Morris looked into the distance and saw the city skyline as it rose from the bay, built on the very dirt and grime that plagued its entrails. He puffed on his smelly cigar and watched as the bin men cleaned out the streets, hauling those meaty trash bags full of vice and knew that as hard as they tried they couldn't clean the guilty conscience out of this sinful city. He bent down to tie his shoelace, covered in mud. The glaring moonlight reflected his bruised knuckles that were smeared with blood, the kind that was so fresh it might as well have been his. Morris had gone through great lengths to extract information from the scumbag, whose lifeless corpse was sinking away in the bay. Let the rotten water bless away his sins as a rite of confession , thought Morris. But his efforts had no tangible outcome, except the final ghostly words whispered by the tortured man, words spoken so low, so devoid of hope, that it may have simply been a goodbye to this world. Morris did find one useful thing to take back to his client. A faded Polaroid that was tucked away in the man’s pockets. It bothered him. Why? Nothing bothered him. Years of mud-slinging in this carcass of a city had taught him that a conscience was expensive. People like him couldn't afford to have one. Which is why he never hesitated to bash a skull in, or pull some fingernails or tie a rock to a body and sink it in the bay. As far as he was concerned, the equation was balanced. He was giving up one scum for another. One got powerful while one got killed. Who was he to decide the fate of humanity when morality had long lost its way. Everyone had a part to play in the sinking of this vermin of a city. He stowed away the Polaroid. It would be tomorrow's problem. Another in a stack of problems that were equally important and equally useless to his survival. He got into his Dodge Charger and rode away into the neon city that never let him sleep, not an ounce, seducing him night after night, exposing secrets for him from its drug infested dirty corners; secrets he would often sell to the highest bidder. He thoughtlessly drove for a while with something weighing heavily on his mind. He stopped abruptly at a kebab shop and bought himself a greasy sandwich. He opened the sandwich, mindlessly tossed the veggies away and hungrily swallowed the cheap, tasteless meat. He took out the Polaroid. In the foreground were two boys posing with their beers. Several numbered golden balloons in the background confirmed that it was taken during New year celebrations. Why did this photo bother him so much? What had his subconscious mind seen that his conscious mind had not? The itchy thought plagued him when he woke up later that afternoon, then stayed in the back of his mind while he pumped iron in the gym and later refused to leave his brain during his rationed two-minute shower (the city's drought left them with only eight gallons of water per head). The Polaroid was pulling at something deep inside him. Was it guilt? He was and had always been morally indifferent to the nature of his work. Heck, he was proud of it, like an athlete is proud of his mettle. At half past six, he drove to the outskirts of the city and waited for his client outside the city junkyard. He breathed in the putrid smell of the destroyed cars and pulled out a cigarette, helping his lungs to die even faster. He caught his reflection in his car's window, irreverently puffing clouds of smoke. He wasn't getting any younger. Barely forty, his body was as broken as the cars getting pulled apart for scraps in the junkyard. He fiddled with the Polaroid in his pocket, knowing it was time to hand over the evidence. He thought back to the image. The boys didn't mean anything to him; they might as well have been faceless. A few eyes peered out from the background, but none piqued his interest nor jogged his memory. A Cadillac Escalade was rushing towards him, dispersing dust into every corner. His lungs couldn't have thanked him more. A mule-like servant opened the door for the client, who pushed his heavy, porky frame out of the car. Mr. Goldstein slicked back his hair with his porcine fingers, each one of them housing a distinct golden ring. And just to make sure no one had any doubts about his frugality, he had various Figaro chains and diamond accents that hung casually around his stout neck. He tried but failed to close the buttons of his white Armani that were so wide apart they might have been on different continents. He couldn't have looked more like a pig if he wanted to. Morris put out his cigarette on the ground and stamped on it with his worn out shoes. He took out a file from his car and thrust it towards Goldstein. "He didn't squeak. Said something funny at the end, but I think it was like one of 'em prayers they say before you die. This is all I found in his office," Goldstein grabbed the files with his stubby fingers and handed it to his mule. "Anything else?" he asked in his grainy voice. Morris paused for a second. He gave himself one last chance to recall what the picture was trying to tell him. "No... nothing else." Goldstein's hooded eyes seemed to X-ray Morris inside and out. "Good. The rest of your payment will be sent over tonight." Morris nodded and walked back to his car while Goldstein studied him carefully. "Oh Mr Sandman?" he called from behind. Morris turned around. "What is it that he said at the end? I'm curious. I'm a pious fellow you see." he said with a smirk, his diamond grills gleaming in the rusty sunset.  "Not sure but something like "morgaua suno levigos en la okcidento" Goldstein laughed out into the hot dusty air, his spit splattering on his mule, who pitifully wiped it off his face. "You don't speak Esperanto, son?" "I don't speak nothing except money." he said and walked away, now properly annoyed at the snorty bull-necked man laughing at him. He turned the keys and heard the engine roar. He then whipped his car swiftly, drifting ever so slightly before changing gear and speeding away. It happened just as the image of a cackling Goldstein disappeared in his rear view mirror; when the remaining functioning neurons in his brain decided to fortuitously play music in rhythm with his memories. Everything that his subconscious had kept hidden from him came out and was now openly playing theatre in his mind. He braked violently in the middle of the road and snatched the Polaroid from the inside of his vest. There they were, those sets of deep blue eyes leering from the background, face half-hidden by a heavyset curtain. The shadowy, blur of a face that he could barely make out but one he could never forget. It was the face that he had put to sleep every night for many years. A face whose cherished smile gave him reason to live. The face he hadn't seen since she went missing ten years ago. It had aged. Gone were the twinkle in her eyes. That dimpled sunshine of a smile she radiated was now obliterated by despair, the puffy cheeks now as hollow as the dreadful eyes that reached out from behind the photo. He had spent years searching for that face. And now, there it was, on a half-burnt Polaroid he had found in the pocket of a dirtbag he had beaten to death and drowned in the river. The face of his little sister. ----- The nights that followed showed Morris no mercy. He scoured every inch of the city, pulling as hard and long as he could on that little thread he recovered from the photo. He wasn't useful to the city for nothing. He reached out to every one of his contacts. Some were in the police department, some in hospitals and some even in the government; "friends" he had collected over the years to make his job a little easier. He went deep, searching for those boys through every muddled street corner, hotel, bar and club. He hadn't delved that far since digging dirt on one of those mob-friendly politicians. Eventually he found one of them lying face down at the edge of a river, shot with a .40 caliber. Clean and effortless. It looked like the job of Mehmoud, the only real competition Morris had in the city. He knew the moment he saw those boys in the Polaroid that they were done for. What he didn't expect was the expediency with which the job was accomplished. Why wasn't he asked to do the job? His bet was that they wanted to diversify their risk by using two contract killers instead of one. And yet his instincts were burning up. Something didn't quite feel right. He didn't have to wait too long to find the second boy. He was holed up in one of those underground clubs which doubled as a sort of witness protection during the day. When Morris found the boy, he had the look of a sunken ghost. He was clad in a soiled, white t-shirt that barely covered his heavily tattooed arms, his beach blonde hair uncut and growing wild like vines and his inner forearms showing the painful remnants of needle pricks. He wouldn't speak to anyone but his lawyer, who presumably had gone missing by now. Morris plugged the kid with a special concoction of drugs that he had devised for those who refused to speak, before asking his pressing question. "Do you remember this photo?" asked Morris. At first, the boy refused to look at the picture. Then he glanced over the Polaroid, gazing into the distance and seemingly recollecting some terrible memory that brought him unspeakable anguish. He screamed and clenched his hair in his hands. It dawned on Morris then that the two boys were captured together before one of them was killed. How the second one escaped, he didn't know yet. "He was your brother wasn't he?" The boy didn't answer but continued wailing like a wild dog. "I need you to tell me where this girl is." His voice was now frantic with desperation. The boy refused to speak or look at the picture again. Morris had planned to stick a gun to the boy's head. But he knew that it would serve no purpose. The boy was nearly catatonic with grief. Any more and it would merely push him into a state of shock. To help clear his mind, Morris carried the pitiful boy up the stairs and out of the club. The concept of fresh air didn't exist in this city anymore, and Morris knew that the noxious air outside was probably worse than the air in the underground club. The sun had abandoned them as well. Now they simply got used to living under a grey dome of pollution. The boy slumped against a wall and stared at the floor, his mind emptied out by pain. Somewhere in this boy was the key to finding his sister, thought Morris. And then a fleeting refraction of sunlight managed to pierce through the polluted clouds, enough to briefly shine light on one of his tattoos, which would have been impossible to find had Morris not been looking. It was buried underneath the mountain of ink that covered every inch of the boy's arms. Morris swanked the boy's arm, pulling his tee up, and discovered the same words spoken by his previous victim tattooed on his skin. Morgaua suno levigos en la okcidento "What does this tattoo mean?" "What tattoo? I don't know man. Let go!" "It's Esperanto isn't it? Tomorrow the sun rises in the west?" "Yeah. Everyone who goes there gets one." "Goes where?" "The club." "Which one?" "The club up on the west side." "What's it called?" "I don't remember man." From that point on, Morris had but one mission. He switched off his phone, packed enough food and ammunition to last a week, and scoured the west side of the city for every known club. When he found the Sunrise club, perched atop a hill overlooking the sprawling west coast, the sun was on its way down. Morris arrived at the front desk where a heavily inked girl with a pony tail and glittery glasses sat, answering an old-fashioned phone. When she finished her call, she turned to Morris. "Hello. I would like to become a member." "Memberships are by invitation only. I can check if you have an invitation pending. May I have your name, sir?" "Its Sandman. Morris Sandman." "Well it says here that you are already a member of our club. Welcome back Mr Sandman." Morris tried to hide his shock. "Can you refresh my memory? How long have I been a member?" "It says here you've been a member for the past sixteen years. However, I will need to scan your chip before I let you in." The girl took out a chunky scanner and passed it around his body. When it reached his arms, it beeped loudly. She looked at her scanner and confirmed that he was in fact chipped. An unsettled Morris walked in through a green door into a dark corridor bathed in neon purple light and crowded with people wearing strange masks engaged in clandestine conversations. At the end of a dazzling labyrinth of sleazy rooms, Morris found none other than Goldstein. He was seated on a dark blue couch in the middle of a vast room with tiled windows, facing a deep red wall plastered with a diamond cross. He lecherously flashed his diamond grills at Morris, looking every bit the desecrated kingpin that he was. "Mr Sandman! What a surprise!" he said, his arms and legs sprawled over the couch. Morris knew what to ask instinctively. He pulled out his gun and pointed it straight at Goldstein's head. "Where is my sister?" Goldstein shook his head in disappointment. "Come on, Morris. Have a drink with me first." "My sister first." "You are a valuable soldier, Morris." "I'm not a soldier. I work for no one." "That's what you think. The truth is… you are a Sunrise boy. You have belonged to this elite club of mercenaries your whole life." "That's not true!" "Try and remember. How much of your life do you even recall?" Morris found himself scrambling like a cat on a hot stove. "I thought so. Truth is, we let you go about thinking you were working for yourself. Hey, as long as you were doing the job, why should we intervene right? Lasered off your membership tattoo under some chloroform and put you right back on the street." Goldstein walked over to one of the tiled windows and stared out into the sunset with Morris's gun still pointing at him. "We thought the city would swallow you. The city swallows everyone, Morris. Even me. Its foul, incessant, contaminated tendrils gets us all in the end." "I will only ask once more. Where is my sister?" "She is dead. Has been for a decade." "Bullshit!" shouted Morris. "Here!" He thrust the Polaroid in Goldstein's face. "This is recent. It proves that she's alive!" Goldstein frowned and let out a deep sigh. "Morris, you are one of my strongest men. Someone wanted to mess with your head and turn you against me. This photo..." Morris had now cocked his gun. "I'll give you one last chance." Goldstein raised his hand in an appeasing way and called out to his lackeys, one of whom came running back with a file. Goldstein handed the file to Morris, wearing the expression of an anxious parent. "Here you go. The truth. Don't say I didn't warn you." Morris grabbed the file and began to read. It was full of newspaper clippings and police reports. He pulled out one dated ten years ago. CITY SHOOK BY GANG MURDERS Suspected mercenary Morris Sandman on the run after a mass murder, that killed four gang members and three civilians. Beneath the headline was the photo of the three civilian victims, one of whom was a cheerful, dimpled girl with a set of deep blue eyes. "She was, as they say, caught in the line of fire. When you found out, unable to bear the guilt, you put one in your own head. But you being the indestructible son of a bitch that you are, survived. But not without damaging your brain and your memories. Beyond that, you may have simply invented some story about her going missing, just to cope with the pain." Morris stared Goldstein in the face. He didn't need to fight the urge. By the time his brain accepted the truth, his fingers had already found the trigger. A shot was later heard throughout the club with screams echoing its debauched corners. Goldstein walked over to the lifeless body lying on the floor, blood trickling out of its severed temple and picked up the blood-soaked Polaroid. He looked at the photo that had dealt the death knell to the broken man lying at his feet. He handed the photo to one of his soldiers and said "Find out who sent this photo and bring them to me. They cost me a good man." "Such a shame, boss." replied the minion. "Poor bastard. You know what's sad? That girl don't even look like his sister."

jn84c1

A Forgotten Memory

  As I carried a box of my grandmother's belongings into the house, a wave of loss and nostalgia swept over me. Despite a few days having passed since the funeral, the reality of it still felt surreal. My grandma had been such a significant part of my life, and now her absence left the house filled with emptiness and echoes of the past.   The movers had transported stacks of boxes from her house to mine, and I faced a full week of sorting through them. I was unprepared for the emotional turmoil that awaited.   Each box held a treasure trove of memories: family photographs, letters, and keepsakes I had never seen before. My grandma's keen interest in history was evident in her collection of books, maps, and documents.   I spent hours delving into each box, analyzing and categorizing its contents. But it wasn't until I stumbled upon a hidden photograph that my curiosity was truly piqued. The photo, tucked away in an unassuming album beneath other similar-looking pictures, showed a group of people standing in front of an unfamiliar building.   It was an old photograph, its edges faded and the paper yellowed with age. The people in it wore clothing from a long-past era, their expressions seemingly frozen in time. Who were they? Where was this building? And why had this photograph been hidden?   Questions raced through my mind, and I knew I had to uncover the answers. I made a mental note to research and satisfy my curiosity.   The next day, I called my friend Sarah to see if she wanted to help me sort through some of my grandma's belongings.   Sarah, a warm and empathetic woman in her 30s with long, curly red hair and a heart full of kindness, had always been there for me during difficult times. I knew I could count on her to listen and support me.   "Hey, Amy! How are you holding up?" Sarah's voice carried a warm concern as she stepped into my cozy living room.   I managed a small smile. "I'm doing okay, thanks for asking. I’ve been sifting through my grandma’s things and... I found something." My hand trembled slightly as I handed her the hidden photograph. "I wanted to show you this."   Sarah’s eyes widened as she took the photograph, her fingers delicately tracing its edges. "Amy, this is amazing!" she exclaimed, her voice brimming with curiosity. "Where do you think it was taken, and who are these people?"   I shook my head, a mixture of bewilderment and excitement in my voice. "I have no idea. That’s the mystery I’m trying to unravel. This building, these people... I need to know more. It feels like it’s hiding something important."   Sarah met my gaze with a determined smile. "Well, you're not diving into this alone. Let's see what we can unearth together, Em." She placed the photograph on the coffee table and leaned closer, scrutinizing the image as if she were decoding a secret message.   Watching Sarah’s intense focus, a newfound resolve stirred within me. I’d always been inquisitive, always chasing after the elusive ‘why’. Now, with this enigmatic photograph in hand, it felt like I was on the brink of an adventure—a puzzle begging to be solved.   The figures in the photograph, the enigmatic building—they were more than just images; they were clues to a hidden story waiting to be discovered.   Sarah and I spent the next few days poring over the photograph, scrutinizing every detail. We zoomed in on the faces, trying to figure out who they were and how they were connected to my family.   "Amy, do you recognize any of these people?" Sarah asked, indicating a somewhat familiar face in the middle of the group.   I squinted, attempting to distinguish the features.   The face belonged to an octogenarian with a rough, leathery complexion and deep-set eyes that seemed to look directly into my soul. Those eyes held an air of wisdom and emotion, a silent story untold. But I couldn't place who it was.   "No, I don't think I've ever seen that person before," I said hesitantly. "But I'll look into it."   Sarah nodded, her eyes determined. "We'll crack this together, Amy. We'll dig until we hit gold."   "You and I make a great team," she added, her confidence in my abilities both uplifting and grounding.   I took the photograph back, squinting at the details. The building in the background was a large, imposing structure, seemingly made of stone. It looked like a cathedral or a mansion, but I couldn't place it.   "I think I'm going to reach out to Jack," I said, the idea forming more solidly in my mind.   Sarah's eyes widened. "Jack? As in Jack Matthews, the historian?"   I nodded. "Yes, him. I've known him for years, and he's always been fascinated with my family history. He might be able to help us."   Sarah hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Okay, contact Jack. But be careful, Amy. Jack is brilliant, but sometimes he gets lost in the thrill of discovery."   "I'll remember that," I replied, appreciating her concern. "I'll start by texting him and see if he's interested."   I texted Jack a detailed message about my discovery, asking for his help. Within minutes, my phone buzzed with his reply.   "Amy! I heard about your grandmother's passing. I'm so sorry. I'm glad you reached out. I'd be happy to help. When can we discuss this in more detail?"   We arranged a time and date to meet at his office.   A few days later, I arrived at Jack's workspace, a cozy, cluttered space filled with books, papers, and artifacts. He welcomed me warmly, his eyes twinkling with curiosity.   "So, what do we have here?" Jack asked, examining the photograph closely. "This is quite an interesting find."   "Yes, I wasn't sure where to start, but I thought you'd know best," I said, handing him the picture.   Jack studied the photograph, running his fingers gently over the creases and wrinkles.   "This is definitely an old photograph, easily over a hundred years old. The clothing and hairstyles are dead giveaways." He turned to me, a wide smile on his face. "Amy, this is an exciting discovery. This photograph could unravel a hidden chapter in your family's past. Let's dig in."   The following week was a whirlwind of activity, with long hours spent poring over old records, archives, and family trees. Sarah often joined me, and we developed a habit of working late into the night, fueled by a mix of curiosity and determination.   Jack was a font of knowledge, with an uncanny knack for recalling the most obscure historical details. Together, we pieced together a timeline centered around the mysterious photograph, crafting a narrative that spanned decades and continents.   The building in the background turned out to be an orphanage in a small English town, run by the Catholic Church and infamous for its mistreatment of children.   The photograph was tied to the building's dark past, particularly during the ruthless management of a certain Reverend Williams.   "Interestingly, Reverend Williams was a figure of great controversy in his time. He had a reputation for being strict and unforgiving, yet he managed to secure the finances to build more orphanages throughout England, earning accolades from the church hierarchy," Jack explained to Sarah and me.   "I can't imagine my family has any connection to him. They wouldn't have associated with someone like that," I said firmly, though an uneasy feeling gnawed at my stomach.   Jack nodded in understanding. "The truth is, we still don't know much about the people in the photograph or any direct link to your family, but Reverend Williams was known for his photographic memory and frequently used photography to document the institution."   As the days passed, our research became more focused.   We delved deeper into the orphanage's history and its enigmatic founder, Reverend Williams. Jack provided detailed documents from various sources, including newspapers, personal accounts, and even police reports that illuminated the appalling conditions under Williams' tenure.   One document stood out. It was a transcript from a court case involving a girl named Martha Taylor, who had escaped the orphanage after being physically abused by Reverend Williams. I devoured every detail of her testimony and that of other witnesses.   Martha's account was harrowing, describing every vicious act committed against her. However, one sentence gripped me.   "And at the end of our meetings, after I had answered all his questions and shown him my bruises, he would take my picture, saying it was for documentation purposes.   It felt like I was an exhibit, and the only way to escape was to run away."   I looked up from the document, eyes wide. "Run away? That's what she said? Martha?" I asked, needing confirmation.   Sarah stared at me, her face grave. "Do you think it could be...connected?" she asked tentatively.   Jack leafed through his stack of papers, a frown creasing his brow. "It's possible," he said finally.   "It seems like a curious detail to include, unless it was significant."   A chill ran down my spine as my mind raced with implications. What if the family connection I was searching for was tied to this traumatic event?   I felt an urgent need to dig deeper into Martha Taylor's story; the photograph seemed to be whispering clues, though I hadn't yet connected her to my family. I eagerly discussed this with Sarah and Jack, hoping they might uncover something I had missed.   Jack nodded, excitement gleaming in his eyes as he pulled out more records, maps, and census data, piling them before Sarah and me. "Let's see if there's a pattern to unravel here," he instructed.   "Martha's account states she ran away, implying she had a specific destination or that escaping was her primary goal."   We dove into the records, our attention to detail laser-focused as we sifted through documents from the same era. After hours of research, Sarah noticed a faint pattern in our findings.   "Wait a moment," she said, frowning as she organized data sheets. "It looks like there's a common thread connecting various escapees from the orphanage."   "Most of these children ended up in the same small area on the outskirts of town," Sarah said, spreading out papers and maps on my coffee table. She pointed to an area with a frayed red string.   My eyes widened in disbelief. Sarah was correct. There did seem to be a cluster of addresses linked to the orphanage escapees. My excitement and curiosity ignited, my heart racing as I leaned closer to study the discovery.   Jack and I exchanged impressed glances. "Brilliant observation, Sarah. We need to find out what makes that area significant," Jack said, his eyes locked on the map.   After more hours of delving into historical maps and census records, we discovered that the cluster of addresses lay on the town's outskirts, near dense forests and winding streams. It was a region untouched during the orphanage's heyday due to poor road infrastructure and minimal interest in land development.   A burning question took shape—one mysterious name found among the cluster of addresses: Lottie Thompson. My grandmother's name shared an unusual spelling, and I couldn't shake the feeling that I was on the right track.   With renewed determination, I asked Jack and Sarah to delve deeper into Lottie Thompson's life. As they dug through records, they shed light on a young woman who had escaped the oppressive clutches of Reverend Williams, leaving behind the horrors of the orphanage.   Lottie had been taken in by a group living in the rural area, forming an unconventional community of sorts.   "It seems Lottie Thompson and other children escaping the orphanage were fostered by these settlers," Jack explained, his eyes gleaming with enthusiasm.   "These settlers, mostly outcasts and vagabonds, formed a tight-knit group bound by compassion and empathy. Together they forged a way of life that nurtured and sustained themselves and the children they took in," Jack continued.   A sense of wonder blossomed within me as I listened to Jack's words, painting a vivid image of my grandmother's past. Sarah, ever the keen observer, noticed the profound effect these discoveries had on me.   "Amy, you were always close with your grandmother, and her stories left a huge impact on you," she gently commented. "This newfound understanding of her past must be astounding for you."   I felt tears brimming in my eyes. Sarah's voice wrapped me in a warm embrace, somehow understanding exactly what I was feeling. Struggling to maintain my composure, I nodded.   "Sarah, I can't express how astonished I am; I never considered her past being filled with such pain, resilience, and generosity. It's fascinating."   Jack' voice interrupted our heartfelt moment. "Amy, I have one more piece to the puzzle," he said with a determined look.   He pulled out a recently acquired book, "Accounts of the Malevolent Chronicles," detailing the persecution of those deemed undesirable during the 19th century in a small English town.   Jack pointed to a passage discussing persistent rumors about the settlement where Lottie had found refuge. The passage revealed townspeople believed the community members harbored supernatural abilities like healing or foresight, likely drawing vulnerable children and outcasts to them.   "Fascinating, isn't it?" Jack remarked, peering at me over the edge of his glasses.   My breath caught in my throat. "Indeed, it's almost surreal. What does this all mean?" I whispered, my heart racing with excitement and anticipation.   Jack closed the book, his eyes on mine, a trace of a smile playing on his lips. "This implies the community Lottie found refuge in was unique because of their caring nature and allegedly supernatural abilities," he said, his tone laced with intrigue.   Sarah and I exchanged glances, the pieces of the puzzle slowly falling into place. Our amazement mirrored each other's as we tried to absorb the implications of Jack' discovery.   "It sounds like a place out of a fairy tale," I whispered. "A refuge for the misfits and the lost ones."   Jack nodded. "That's a beautiful way to put it, Amy. And it aligns with what we know about Lottie Thompson and her community. It’s a fascinating historical footnote, a remnant of a time when people looked to the supernatural for answers and solace.” Jack smiled warmly at our wonder, gently patting my hand.   The following days were a whirlwind of excitement as we immersed ourselves in this narrative. Sarah, Jack, and I spent hours poring over the photograph and documents to uncover every clue about Lottie Thompson’s life and her connection to the mysterious building in the background.   As weeks passed, our fascination only grew. We connected with historians, genealogists, and researchers, pooling our resources to search for answers.   Jack showed extraordinary patience and expertise, illuminating the dark corners of history with his sharp intellect. With his insight, he uncovered stunning discoveries that cemented the ties between Lottie Thompson, her community, and my family history.   Jack unearthed newspaper articles describing healings in the remote settlement. People from far and wide, including London, had journeyed to witness individuals with mystical curative powers.   "I wonder if this is how they managed to sustain themselves," Sarah mused, her bright eyes moving swiftly between the old articles and our notes.   "The healings might have brought them fame and support," Jack added. "This could have ensured their survival and their willingness to house orphaned children."   I marveled at this new fragment of my grandmother's vibrant past, now awakening before me like a long-dormant volcano. The land where the community had resided was still somewhat rural today, only a few miles from my current residence. I couldn't resist the pull any longer. I made a firm decision.   "I think it's time for me to visit the land where this remarkable community once thrived," I declared, overcome by the impulse to see the place I had spent so long learning about.

ge47cr

Silver Linings

Chloe stood on the edge of the badminton court, her racket trembling in her hand. The crowd's roar echoed around her, but it felt distant, almost muted. The championship match was over, and she had lost. Her opponent's shuttlecock had landed just inside the line, securing the final point. Chloe had fought hard, poured her heart into every swing, every leap, but it wasn’t enough. She had come so close, but in the end, it was the silver medal that hung around her neck, not the gold. The final moments of the match replayed in Chloe's mind like a haunting echo. The score had been tied, each of them just one point away from victory. Her rival, a fierce and determined player named Raven, served with a precision that Chloe had rarely encountered. The shuttlecock soared over the net, and Chloe responded with a sharp return, her feet moving swiftly across the court. They exchanged rapid volleys, the tension mounting with each strike. Chloe's heart pounded in her chest as she saw an opening. Raven had moved slightly to the right, leaving a gap on the left side of the court. Chloe seized the opportunity, aiming her shot with all the precision she had practiced for years. But in her eagerness, she put just a fraction too much force into the hit. The shuttlecock sailed over the net, but Chloe's heart sank as she realized it was heading out of bounds. Raven, ever the skilled competitor, leapt and managed to return the shot with a deft flick of her wrist. The shuttlecock arced high, and Chloe had to scramble to reach it. She stretched, feeling the burn in her muscles, but as she swung her racket, she felt a momentary lapse in her grip. The shuttlecock brushed the edge of her racket and veered off course, landing just inside her side of the court. The umpire's call rang out, confirming her defeat. Chloe's breath caught in her throat, the realization hitting her with full force. She had lost the match, the championship, the gold medal. As the applause faded and the audience began to disperse, Chloe felt the weight of the silver medal grow heavier. She had dreamed of this moment since she was a fourth grader, a time when she could barely hold a racket properly. All those years of early morning practices, late-night drills, and countless tournaments had led to this. She had visualized herself standing on the highest podium, holding the gold medal, her face beaming with pride. But now, that vision was shattered, replaced by the harsh reality of second place. The smells of sweat and the rubber court filled her nostrils, grounding her in the present. She looked around, seeing the faces of the crowd slowly drifting away, their excitement dimming. The echoes of the umpire's call still rang in her ears, each repetition a reminder of how close she had been. Chloe's coach approached her, his face a mixture of pride and concern. "You did great, Chloe. I'm proud of you," he said, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. "But it wasn’t enough," Chloe whispered, her voice cracking. "I wanted to win. I needed to win." Her coach nodded, understanding her pain. "I know. But sometimes, even when we give our best, it doesn't go as planned. What matters is how you move forward from here." Chloe nodded, but the words offered little solace. She watched as her opponent was surrounded by teammates and supporters, their cheers and congratulations ringing in her ears. She should have been happy for her, but all Chloe could feel was the sting of her own defeat. As she walked back to the locker room, Chloe replayed the match in her mind. She could see every shot, every rally, every mistake. There was that one moment in the third set where she had a clear shot but hesitated, giving her opponent the opening she needed. Chloe clenched her fists, angry at herself for that split-second of doubt. In the quiet of the locker room, Chloe sat on a bench, staring at the silver medal in her hand. It glinted under the harsh fluorescent lights, a stark reminder of her near miss. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she blinked them back, refusing to let them fall. "Hey," a soft voice called from the doorway. It was her best friend and doubles partner, Pia, who had been there cheering her on the entire match. "Mind if I join you?" Chloe shook her head, and Pia sat beside her. For a moment, they sat in silence, the weight of the loss hanging heavily in the air. "You were amazing out there," Pia finally said. "You played with so much heart. I know it's not the result you wanted, but you should be proud of how far you've come." Chloe sighed, looking at her friend. "It just feels like all those years of work were for nothing. I wanted that gold so badly." Pia nodded. "I get it. But think about it—how many people can say they made it to the finals of a championship? Not many. You did something incredible, even if it doesn't feel like it right now." Chloe knew Pia was right, but it didn’t make the pain any less. "I just wanted to prove to myself that I could do it." "And you did," Pia insisted. "Maybe not in the way you envisioned, but you did. You pushed yourself harder than ever before. You didn't give up, even when things got tough. That’s something to be proud of." Chloe smiled weakly, appreciating Pia’s support. "Thanks, Pia. I needed that." "Anytime," Pia said, giving her a hug. "And remember, this isn’t the end. You’ll have other chances to go for the gold. Just don’t let this defeat define you." Chloe nodded, feeling a glimmer of hope. She still had a long journey ahead, and while this defeat was a setback, it wasn’t the end. She would learn from it, grow stronger, and come back fighting harder than ever. As she stood up, Chloe took one last look at the silver medal. It wasn’t what she had hoped for, but it was a symbol of her determination and resilience. And as she walked out of the locker room, Chloe knew that this moment of defeat would fuel her drive to become a champion one day.

9mq723

Vengeance for the Dead

Vengeance for the Dead Tom Jacobs was an ordinary man living an ordinary life. He had a wife, Sarah, and two children, Emma and Jake, both in high school. Every day, Tom woke up at 6:00 am, had breakfast with his family, and then left for his 9 to 5 job selling family burial plots. It wasn’t glamorous work, but it paid the bills and allowed him to provide a comfortable life for his loved ones. One Monday morning, Tom received an email from his boss about a week-long conference in a neighboring city. The conference was mandatory, and although Tom wasn’t thrilled about being away from his family, he knew it was part of his job. He kissed Sarah goodbye, ruffled Jake’s hair, and gave Emma a hug before setting off, promising to call every evening. The conference was a blur of seminars, workshops, and networking events. Every night, Tom called home to hear about Emma’s soccer practice, Jake’s upcoming science fair, and Sarah’s latest book club meeting. These calls were the highlight of his days, grounding him amidst the monotony of the conference. On Thursday evening, Tom couldn’t reach his family. He assumed they were busy and left a voicemail, promising to try again later. But Friday morning, he still hadn’t heard back. His worry grew, but he pushed it aside, focusing on the last day of the conference. That evening, Tom drove home, eager to see his family and share stories from the week. As he turned onto his street, he noticed police cars parked in front of his house. His heart began to race. Something was wrong. Tom parked his car haphazardly and ran towards his house, his mind racing with possibilities. He was met by a police officer who gently stopped him at the front door. The look in the officer’s eyes told Tom everything before the words were even spoken. “I’m sorry, sir. There was a home invasion. Your wife and children…” The officer’s voice broke off, unable to finish the sentence. “They didn’t make it.” Tom’s world shattered. He felt as if the ground had been pulled out from under him, leaving him to fall into a bottomless pit of despair. He stumbled, the officer catching him before he hit the ground. Tears blurred his vision as he struggled to comprehend the nightmare unfolding before him. The next few days were a haze. Friends and family came to offer their condolences, but Tom barely registered their presence. He went through the motions of planning funerals for the very people he sold burial plots to protect. The irony was not lost on him, but it did little to alleviate the overwhelming pain. At the funeral, Tom stood by the graves of Sarah, Emma, and Jake, feeling utterly lost. The ceremony was a blur of kind words, comforting touches, and the muted sobs of mourners. Tom’s heart ached as he watched the coffins being lowered into the ground, each one taking a piece of him with it. In the weeks that followed, Tom tried to return to some semblance of normalcy. He went back to work, but selling burial plots now felt like a cruel joke. His home, once filled with laughter and love, was now a silent tomb of memories. Nights were the hardest. Tom would lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, haunted by what-ifs and could-have-beens. He often found himself wandering the house, stopping in front of Emma’s bedroom to remember her infectious laughter, or in Jake’s room, imagining the sound of him playing video games. He’d sit in the living room, clutching one of Sarah’s favorite novels, longing for the warmth of her presence. One night, unable to sleep, Tom went into the basement where he kept boxes of old family photos. He spent hours sifting through them, reliving happier times. There were pictures of Emma’s first soccer game, Jake’s birthday parties, vacations, and family gatherings. Each photograph was a dagger to his heart, but also a reminder of the love they shared. He turned to look at the locked door to his workshop and decided to go in and look for something to do. As he walked in and turned the light on, he looked around at some of his creations. Then his eyes fell on the pile of material that he created, in that moment in the quiet, dark hours of the night, a plan began to form. Tom had always been an inventor, tinkering in his basement with various gadgets and materials. Before his family’s death, his latest creation was a remarkable material that was bulletproof and could increase the strength of its wearer. It had been a hobby, a distraction from the monotony of his job. Now, it was a lifeline. The police had no suspects in the brutal murder of his wife and children, but Tom refused to let that stop him. He poured over the details of the case, looking for anything the investigators might have missed. In the process, he discovered a trail—small, almost imperceptible—that led to a group of criminals operating in the shadows of the city. Determined to bring his own brand of justice to those who had shattered his life, Tom dedicated every waking moment to preparing for his mission. He fashioned a suit from bulletproof material, integrating enhancements that would amplify his strength and agility. He worked tirelessly, perfecting the design and testing it until it became an extension of himself. Tom’s grief-fueled rage drove him forward, turning his basement into a makeshift lair. He crafted weapons and gadgets, each with a singular purpose: to hunt down the killers and make them pay. Weeks of preparation honed his skills and sharpened his resolve. Finally, he was ready. Dressed in his new costume, a dark, imposing figure that moved with silent precision, Tom stepped out into the night. He had adopted a new identity, one that would strike fear into the hearts of those who preyed on the innocent. He was no longer Tom Jacobs, the grieving husband and father. He was a force of vengeance. His first target was a small-time thug named Marcus who had ties to the group responsible for his family’s murder. Tom tracked him to a dingy bar on the outskirts of town. As he entered, the patrons turned to look at the stranger in the dark suit, their eyes widening in surprise and fear. Tom moved with purpose, crossing the room in a few swift strides. He grabbed Marcus by the collar and slammed him against the wall, the enhanced strength of his suit making the act effortless. “Who sent you?” Tom demanded, his voice a low, menacing growl. Marcus sputtered, trying to break free, but Tom’s grip was unyielding. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he stammered. Without a word, Tom lifted Marcus higher and threw him across the room, sending him crashing into a table. The bar fell silent, all eyes on the unfolding scene. Tom approached slowly, the heavy footsteps echoing ominously. He knelt beside Marcus, who was groaning in pain, and leaned in close. “Tell me who killed my family,” he said, each word dripping with icy determination. Terror etched across his face, Marcus finally broke. “It was Johnny Vega! He runs the crew that did it. I swear, I had nothing to do with it. Please, don’t kill me!” Satisfied with the information, Tom stood and left the bar, ignoring the murmurs that followed in his wake. Johnny Vega was his next target. Tom spent the next several nights systematically dismantling Vega’s operations, one thug at a time. He moved like a shadow, striking with precision and leaving no trace behind. The criminals began to whisper of a vengeful spirit, a ghost who could not be stopped. Finally, Tom tracked Vega to an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city. The place was heavily guarded, but Tom’s suit gave him the confidence to take them head-on. He dispatched the guards with brutal efficiency, his rage fueling each strike. Inside the warehouse, Johnny Vega waited, flanked by his remaining henchmen. He sneered as Tom entered, but there was a flicker of fear in his eyes. “So, you’re the ghost everyone’s talking about,” Vega said. “What do you want?” Tom’s eyes burned with a cold fury. “Justice,” he replied. The fight was swift and merciless. Tom’s suit absorbed the blows and gunshots, his enhanced strength making short work of the henchmen. Finally, he stood face-to-face with Vega. “Why?” Tom demanded, his voice shaking with suppressed rage. “Why did you kill them?” Vega laughed, a hollow sound. “It was just business. Wrong place, wrong time. You’re nothing special.” Tom’s vision blurred with rage. “They were everything to me,” he whispered, and with a final, devastating blow, he ended Vega’s life. As he stood over the lifeless body of the man who had taken everything from him, Tom felt a hollow emptiness. He had avenged his family, but the victory was bittersweet. Nothing could bring them back. In the following days, Tom continued his crusade, targeting those who preyed on the innocent. He became a silent guardian, a dark avenger in a world that had taken everything from him. And though the pain of his loss would never fade, he found purpose in his quest for justice, becoming a beacon of hope for those who had none. A few months later, Tom stood at the edge of his family’s graves, a bouquet of flowers in hand. He had aged in that short time, lines of sorrow etched into his face, but there was also a hint of peace in his eyes. He placed flowers on each grave, whispering words of love and remembrance. “I miss you all so much,” he said softly. “But I’m trying to live the way you would have wanted me to. I’m finding a way to move forward, even if it’s just one step at a time.” As he walked away, Tom felt a gentle breeze brush his face, and for a moment, he could almost feel Sarah’s hand in his, Emma’s laughter in the air, and Jake’s presence beside him. He smiled through his tears, knowing that while his family was gone, their love would always be a part of him. Tom’s journey was far from over, he had found a way to honor his family’s memory and help others that were in a similar situation. Through his creations and connections, he hunted down those that would use violence and take from others while serving justice to those that needed it. In that, he discovered a glimmer of hope amidst the darkness, a testament to the enduring power of love and resilience.

1nm7af

The Spoils of War

Dalmani felt his fingertips drown in the blood that flowed its way down the sword pierced through the boy's throat. He clutched the sword at its hilt and drew it back as the child clawed at his forearm in a desperate attempt to deal one final blow to his killer, an attempt that even he knew would be in vain. Dalmani stepped back as the corpse fell to the ground, above all the others. He breathed heavily, exhausted after the week of fighting in the forest. He hadn’t seen the sun in days, as the thick canopy combined with the endless rain kept him from seemingly impossible natural light. He let the rain wash the blood off his armor and face, trying to enjoy the quick moment of calm the sound of falling water brought. It didn’t take long for the sounds of screams and metal clashing to bring Dalmani back to the ground, where he now rushed through the foliage and overgrown wood towards the sounds of conflict. After only a short run, he leapt through a bush, bursting into a skirmish where his people were clearly losing. For only being his fifth battle, Dalmani thought he was doing very well. But that didn’t matter if his entire company ended up as food for the roots of the forest. He rushed in to help his men as more were slain. It was now four versus seven. Dalmani spent no time formulating a plan and instead rushed to the farthest guy, drawing the group's attention away from his men and instead on to him. Their shock allowed the storm of a man to make it to his destination, where he drove his sword through the shoulder of his opponent. He screamed in pain giving Dalmani the opportunity to withdraw his sword and bring it to his neck, slitting it in a cut so clean the chefs would have hired him on the spot. One down. Six to go. The three other men on the same side of Dalmani were frozen just like the enemy, but they broke the ice that kept them still and immediately moved to attack the soldiers closest to them in a way similar to how Dalmani rushed the now corpse. Dalmani kept up the attack from behind as he entrusted the front to his comrades only a few feet away. Dalmani moved to the nearest soldier, but the enemy expected this and had a well-placed block prepared for his thrust. Dalmani’s sword bounced off the face of the blade and sent the edge of his weapon heading off to the left. But he let this weight carry his shoulder into the chest of his opponent, causing him to stagger, but not before he got a good cut over Dalmani’s ribs. They both stepped backward, Dalmani clutching his side where blood now seeped through the cloth connecting his armor together, and his opponent huffing trying to regain his normal breathing pattern. What felt like minutes of recovery, was truly nothing but a second before both soldiers stepped towards each other for another attack. Dalmani kept his sword at the ready to counter, anticipating his enemy to attack first as a way to end him quickly. He swung in an arc aiming for Dalmani’s neck, coming from the side he was injured on to hopefully take advantage of the slower reaction time. But Dalmani wasn’t fazed by something as light as a cut to the ribs. The man ducked down, having the sword swing over his head, the movement rippling his hair. And with both hands clutching the hilt of the sword, Dalmani used his legs to spring his body upwards, causing the tip of the sword to enter through the chin and out the skull of his enemy. Another one down. Dalmani spun to face the soldiers he entrusted the rest of the battle to. And they did good, there was only one enemy left, but no allies were to be found either, their souls now having left their eyes. Instead, they lay on the ground, unmoving, now lost to this battle as well. The remaining enemy turned to face Dalmani, and he could see that his comrades did not leave him without a parting gift, as one of their blades was lodged deep within his chest. The man staggered towards Dalmani, attempting one last attack. When he raised his sword, Dalmani simply stepped to the side as the man brought it down to where he once stood. He collapsed as soon as the weight of the sword hit the dirt. Now, Dalmani was once again alone. He felt the rain assault his back, and he could feel the blood from the fight and the blood from his wound mixing as it seeped down his side. He took a step back and placed his body against a tree and slid down it, dropping his sword from exhaustion. As his head leaned back, his mind drifted off as the sound of the rain became something soothing to his staggered brain, and in this state, he fell asleep. Even storms couldn’t carry on forever. Dalmani woke up with a start, realizing he had passed out and now once again aware of the dangers that could befall one who closes his eyes on the battlefield. He quickly stood up, causing the cut at his side to ache in pain from the sudden motion. He gritted his teeth as the pain shot through the side of his body, but he kept moving. Dalmani reached down and picked up the sword, now soiled with blood and dirt from the ground. As he let the sword wash off by placing it on a tree branch where the rain could reach, Dalmani went to the bodies of his fellow soldiers and removed the sigils embroidered on their clothes. Their families deserved some evidence that they had not died in vain. Dalmani had seen what would happen to parents and spouses if there was no evidence except for the words of the ones who were fortunate enough to make it back. That was always the worst part. Making it back to see the disappointment that you survived, but they didn’t. Dalmani had been blamed because some people thought he didn’t do his job, when in reality, he had, but he failed just as they had. With the sigils collected, Dalmani picked up his sword and put it between his bicep and forearm, and wiped it dry before putting it in his sheath. He knew where he must go next. There was a hill that the opposing general sat on, and Dalmani needed to make sure that he never left that hill. However, he could tell that the sky was orange now, despite the setting sun being covered by the rain clouds. Before the light was lost, he knew he had to make it to that hill. So Dalmani began to walk as best as he could, ignoring the burning sensation of the cut at his side. At least it had stopped bleeding. The hill wasn’t too far, about three-quarters of a mile from where he stood. Dalmani trudged through the mud and grass, over roots, and under fallen trees. The walk was quiet, not even the sounds of wildlife choosing to join in on the rain pattering of the forest floor. It was more eerie than peaceful, and Dalmani wondered if anyone was even still alive after the week's battle. Eventually, after about an hour of walking, Dalamni reached the hill. The sun's orange glow now broke through the rain clouds and was painted upon the side of the hill. As Dalmani struggled his way up the incline, he could see the raindrops on the grass. It reached up to his knees, and he felt the water from the sky seep into his gloves as he brushed his hand along the grass. Dalmani reached the top and saw a destroyed campsite. Bodies hid in the grass, tents had been set ablaze but were clearly put out by the rain, and there was not a single soul left on this hill. Except one. The opposing general sat on a portable stool soldiers often used in war during the night when bonfires were starting, so that way they didn't have to sit on wet ground. And here, the general sat on one unmoving. Dalmani couldn’t tell if he’d been noticed, but then he saw that the general had arrows piercing his shoulder and back. Dalmani approached and sat across from the man. In the center of them was a firepit that must have been left over from the previous night. As he looked around, Dalmani could see the bodies of both his army and the enemies, all now lying together as if their loyalties and allegiances didn’t matter. The general looked up slowly and made eye contact with Dalmani. He sighed and said, “So, I’m not the last one.” Dalmani leaned forward on his elbows and said “Did you think you were before I arrived?” “Of course I did. Look around kid, you hear anything? See anyone? No. It’s just me and you now.” “So,” Dalmani put his hand on the hilt of his sword, but did not draw it, “Am I going to have to kill you?” “Bah!” The general responded, scoffing at the seemingly funny statement Dalmani had just made. “Son, I took an arrow to the knee, then the chest, then the back, then the shoulder. They killed me long before you did. You talk with a ghost now. Nothing but a specter waiting for his Goddess to come and collect his soul.” Dalmani removed his hand from his sword and leaned back on his elbows again. It was silent for a couple minutes, the general's labored breathing and Dalmani’s exhausted sighs being the only sounds that filled the air. Eventually, a question entered Dalmani’s mind. “Who won?” He asked. The general once again looked at Dalmani, seemingly inspecting him as if to try and find the correct answer because he himself also wished to know. But then he looked back to the ground and said with an almost annoyed tone, “Look around, and tell me who you think won.” Dalmani took a quick glance around and said, “Me. Our side. I’m the last one alive,” he eyed the man sitting across from him, “In about five minutes, at least.” “The last one remaining and you consider that a victory?” “Well, what else would it be?” Dalmani asked, genuinely curious. “It is slaughter , boy, of all sides. There’s no denying it.” The general said, squinting his eyes as he looked at the young man sitting across from him. “Victory and defeat are merely labels assigned so that way they had something to help carry the guilt.” “So you’re one of those people who thinks we should just talk our way out of everything, huh? Why are you even a general then?” The old man sighed. “I don’t think that, the people who do think that are just a different type of fool. Sometimes fighting is necessary, there’s no denying that either, but that doesn’t mean I can’t detest it with my every being. I hate getting wet, but I must walk through the rain if I ever hope to get anywhere.” Dalmani blinked at him, then said, “And being the general of an army? Why did you choose that?” “Because,” he started, “I could lessen the slaughter that was necessary. If I just had the right mind, the right people, I could make it so war was a little less… war.” “And how’d that work out for you?” “Spectacularly. Until now, at least.” The dying man looked to the now darkened sky. “Tell me,” He said, “Do you know why you fight?” Dalmani looked towards the ground, trying to explore all of his memories to find the reason for everything this war had been. He was born into a time of war. It’s been going on for twenty-five years, so Dalmani wasn’t around when it started. And as he grew up, the idea of being a soldier was seared into his brain. And now that he thought about it, he couldn’t remember the reason after all. Did he even want to be a soldier? “I can see you’re struggling with your answer,” The general said, waking Dalmani from his stupor, “The reason is land. Every life you end is another inch added to the territory of your kingdom. And the more land you have, the stronger you are. If you can manage it all, at least.” “And you wish for us to fight for something ‘greater’? Sorry, but what am I supposed to do about that?” Dalmani asked. “Nothing,” the man said, “I just thought you should at least know why you fight.” “I fight , because my king told me to. For my people need me to because they cannot fight for themselves.” “Not a bad answer, albeit a little basic-” “What do you want from me, old man? Why do you keep asking these questions, saying these… things?” Dalmani asked, now fed up with the supposed games this man was trying to play. “I just want you to think, that’s all. Think about why things happen, why you do what you do. Maybe then, your answer might become a little more personal.” The man let out a breath, then fell over on the ground, hitting the grass with a thud. Dalmani rushed over to his body and knelt beside him. He began to speak, but the general shushed him and instead said, “Quiet boy, let an old man rest. Just this once.” His eyes were closed, and they then never opened again. Once the man stopped breathing, Dalmani was left there alone with nothing but the words they exchanged to keep him company in his mind. Eventually, the young soldier picked himself up and found a fire starter in the remnants of the base camp. He made a makeshift tent out of leftover wood and unburned pieces of cloth and fashioned a place for him to sleep tonight. He made sure there was still an opening in the roof however, as Dalmani started a fire inside the tent so that smoke may escape and signal to someone, anyone, that he was still here. But for now, Dalmani found himself alone once again, and that was permanent this time. He laid down on the bed that someone once called theirs and began to drift off. He thought about it all. Victory and defeat, his reason for fighting, but thinking made Dalmani tired. So he lay there, the sole winner of this battle, if you could even call him that. He certainly did not feel like a winner, as he was left with only an aching body, a blood-stained uniform, and the dying words of an old man. And as sleep overtook him, Dalmani just wished for something to stop the pain at his side.

b53jua

Ground Zero

Ground Zero and Square one sometimes seem to blend together. Once when I was in my 50s, I asked my mother a rather simple question. “Mom, if you had it to do over again, would you have had me?” My heart, if not in my throat, was throbbing quietly to a fear that scrambled for escape. My mother, a rather taciturn blend of Scottish, Irish, English genes was somewhat unpredictable. She could morph from a sweet loving woman who would allow you to nestle beneath her ample bosom into a straight laced Victorian prude who removed you firmly from that spot. The scene is now set for my question, the underlying fear squelched momentarily. I watch my mother’s body language intently.  Especially her eyes. I catch a slight glimmer of annoyance quickly replaced by a blank sheet of neutrality. Her body turns slightly as she gazes pensively out the window. My fear begins to escalate, the beat of my heart rises by several decibels. I watched her even more carefully. As she continues to gaze out the window she places her thumb beneath her chin and her forefinger against her cheek. By this time several minutes have passed. To me these moments seem like an eternity. I wait silently. She eventually turns, faces me square on, looks carefully at my eyes and replies, “Perhaps not.” I am devastated. My fear and my anxiety melt and blend into a mixed bag of emotions. It begins somewhere in my toes. I look down and see they are knotted and clenched as I resist the urge to kick her in the face. That emotion quickly disappears, submerged by a tidal wave of guilt. How could I possibly think this about my mother? This is the woman who conceived me, carried me for nine months and brought me into this world. This is an amazing woman who struggled to rise above grief that most could not imagine. Blah, blah, blah! True, she had watched me for over 50 years and sometimes I believed she knew me better than I knew myself. I was very arrogant in the blindness of my observations, unwilling to give her credit for what I believed was completely within my own control. She tested me often and I, again from arrogance, chose to stab myself in the heart. The knife I used to do the job, dripped with my perception of her cruelty and injustice. I wallowed in self pity, gathering more resentments, as I sank into that deep abyss. Thankfully the abyss was not bottomless even though it seemed like a huge void that threatened to consume and trap me for an eternity. However as I practiced slowing down I began to sense the rough edges that held hope. I had slid into this void many times in my life. Sometimes the fall felt like being trapped in a torture chamber. And yet each time I would find a bottom that gave me time to rest and regroup. Over the years this process began to assume a familiar pattern. This pattern in the regularity of its rhythm allowed me to gain some sense of equilibrium. In that relative space of calmness, small crevices and ample handholds appeared before my eyes. My mother died the year I turned 61. We had been blessed to have come to a truce several years before. Oh, the truce was somewhat arbitrary. And yet it held a binding quality that assisted both of us in moving through what had once been a troubled war zone. Our guards came down - cautiously. The true love that did exist between us seemed to rise up and soften the jarring spots that had damaged each of us over the years. One of the best experiences I ever had with my mother was being with her when she drew her last breath on this planet. She was 81 when she was diagnosed with cancer, virtually untreatable. She suffered greatly and yet appeared to be up to the fight to gain time. My father and siblings seemed to buy her charade and encouraged her to seek treatment. Me? Not for an instant. We sat alone in her hospital room one day. She knew that I, of all those who loved her and surrounded her in these final hours, would tell her the truth. Others held out their expectations that she could survive a series of treatments that would lay her low for a long time. They encouraged her to reach out and cling to that slim thread. I believe they honestly wanted that to be a reality. Somehow blinders seemed to cloud the fact that treatment was mostly a short lived illusion. And so that afternoon we sat alone. She was silent on the bed. I believed her to be asleep. I sat quietly in a chair beside her. I had a book to read, which I closed each time she drew a breath and attempted to speak words to me. I was reading when I heard the sigh that signaled her wanting my attention. I put the book down, turned to her with gentle eyes and softly said, “Yes mom?” She sighed again, sought strength from a source beyond her own and then turned to face me full on. My heart started to beat louder. I wanted to leave the room but knew I must stay. She held my gaze, took a deep breath and said to me, “Do you think I would survive chemotherapy and radiation?” I was caught. I wanted to run, but knew that cowardly response went against the grains of my Leo nature. She’d watched that nature since my birth and knew she could rely upon me to tell her the truth as I saw it. I took her hand as it lay beside her on the bed. I closed my eyes, pondered a response and took several deep breaths. As I held her hand and opened my eyes, I whispered, “ I believe that if YOU believe, anything is possible.” A peaceful look came across her face. That peace washed over me and so I took her hand and arm into mine. I gazed deeply into her eyes and firmly stated, “I will take as much of the cancer away as possible and give you as much of my life energy as I can.” She smiled gently as she’d watched me give away that energy freely over the years. I held her hand gently, closed my eyes and began to pray. It began at my fingertips. They started to tingle. The tingle began to throb. I took deeper and deeper breaths as I began to feel the impact of her sickness creeping into my fingers. I clasped her hand more firmly as the cancer began to unwind its tendrils from its stranglehold on her body. Like any keen predator, it sensed fresh meat and slowly began to seek the path that would take it to a new kill. By this time my fingers were numb, my hand ached unbearably and as the cancer moved from my mother to me, we caught each other's eye. She looked at me carefully. She saw the deep love I felt for her and the willingness I possessed to give her much of my life energy. She smiled with a serenity that I will never forget and at the same time slowly withdrew my hands from her body. I was startled, sad and yet very grateful. The pain had reached my elbow and the intensity as it prepared to further invade my body, gave me fear that I would pass out. We sat, still quiet. No words were necessary. We each saw clearly the path ahead and we each lovingly accepted what that journey was to bring. She died several weeks later. It was 3:30 in the morning. She and I were alone in a room of a newer building that stood upon the spot of the old hospital where I’d been born 61 years previously. I gazed out at fir trees that were probably over 100 years old. I heard her last breath and felt the connection of knowing she’d ushered me in those many years before. An incredible sense of peace descended as I thanked her for allowing me to see her out. In many ways this experience placed me at a square I shall call ‘the beginning’. It offered me an opportunity to begin anew, yet again. It allowed me to look more closely at the path I was on and it gave me the spur I needed to make necessary adjustments. Ground Zero took a number of years longer. I diligently worked at cleaning away rubble, weeds and major pieces of debris. It was the month before I turned 75 that the final detonation occurred. I had major surgery to repair many years of arthritic damage. I spent 2 weeks hospitalized and returned home to begin a recovery that would take almost a year to complete. I had but little choice other than to slow down. I wanted to be defiant and stubborn, but knew that act would simply increase the likelihood of further damage. I looked around at my life and realized that the detonation had not destroyed the core of my being. I knew with little doubt that I could survive and forge onwards. I knew that life was indeed good. As I write, I adjust the sling that supports my repaired arm and shoulder. As I shake out the fabric as best as possible with one hand, a huge smile begins to spread from my silent lips down to the tip of my relaxed toes. With total serenity I wave the sling above my shoulder and admit defeat. The peace that descends and permeates my body speaks only of the pleasure of surrender. I understand completely that defeat is but an illusion and that I’ve been blessed with a gift. I sense my mother around me. I know she is smiling❤️

6wy16h

Failing Race

The boat feels small today. It’s amazing just how quickly my perspective changes. Growing up, I spent time on ski boats and party pontoons, and my family even owned a little cabin cruiser for a couple of years. At that time, a twenty-four-foot boat seemed luxurious. All last semester, I felt lucky and privileged to go out on the water on a 24-foot sloop like this one every day. My twenty-four feet of freedom had felt spacious. We’ve been sailing a 62-foot sloop for weeks, though. Hannah, Ben, James, and I are bumping into each other as we ready the J-24 for the big race, rigging the lines and prepping the sails. But after a few minutes of stumbling, we recover our ability to work with less leg room, and muscle memory takes over. When we are all set to slip the mooring lines, I realize I’ve gotten so comfortable with mundane tasks that I’ve forgotten I’m not manning my usual position on the bow today. James politely kicks me off the foredeck so I can take my place at the tiller. It’s a breezy afternoon, so we’re in for a sporty day. Our coach scouted out the course, and the race committee set the buoys in close today, with the leeward mark tight up next to the seawall. Our normally twenty-minute transit to the racecourse will be cut significantly as we angle our way out of the basin under just the jib. With a practiced ease, we launch the mainsail in seconds as I round us through the wind to point us in the direction of the starting line, the breeze coming straight down the bay from the northwest. Behind and ahead, the rest of the fleet, a gaggle of small racing yachts in the local clubs, is maneuvering as well, at least a dozen boats in all. The first collision of the afternoon occurs in the exit to the yacht club basin as one boat tries to tack away from the eastern seawall while another boat rounds up early, trying to take advantage of the lull in the basin to get all sails up. “Starboard!” I hear the skipper call out fruitlessly just seconds before his boat is smacked on the port quarter. The glancing blow causes no damage but forces the second boat to make a complete circle in place, cutting off the exit route and narrowly missing a third boat. We are already making almost seven knots as we reach the corner of the seawall. I crack off to a broad reach, aiming at the leeward mark, a mere stone’s throw from the rocks on the seawall. I feel the boat surge as we head further downwind.  We’re one of the first boats at the start line, and I begin tacking the little boat through figure eights in the stiff breeze, feeling out the best reach angles and trying to determine the best place to be at the gun. White caps lick the deck edge, sending spray into our eyes. James calls out time from the bow pulpit, one hand signaling me the number of boat lengths he estimates that we are from the start line. With about three minutes to go, the whole fleet is assembled, jockeying for position in a chaotic jumble. My heart quickens as I tack the boat through another figure eight, narrowly missing another J-24 making its own maneuver. We angle for the far-left end of the line, and I pick a line-up that will put me “on top” of the fleet, with a clear line in the wind. I’m a little late. The gun sounds while we are still a boat length from the line, and we are going to be the fourth boat to cross. The first boat over the line was early, though, and the penalty gun sounds, causing that poor boat to circle back around. I focus ahead, concentrating on minimal rudder motion, maximizing our speed into the line. James crouches under the boom as Hannah and Ben haul in the sheets. I’m aiming for the windward corner of the start line, which will hopefully allow us to only have to make one more tack in the upwind leg. As the windward starting buoy passes along the port bow, I smoothly and swiftly rotate the tiller, watching the red ball as it passes just inches from our hull. As I round up, Hannah gives a mighty yank on the jib sheet, and Ben hauls in on the main, shifting the traveler up above center as I locate a close-hauled course. James hikes out hard on the windward rail. Another boat rounds the mark behind us, and up ahead I see a J-24 tacking. The boat ahead settles into a course well below the mark. They are significantly off from my perpendicular, leaving me puzzled, though not for long. James calls out a puff ahead, and we are nearly knocked on our side as I round up into the wind to spill some of the air. The strong gust marks a significant wind shift, and I find myself settling almost thirty degrees higher than before. Excited, I call to James on the bow to be ready for a quick set, as we’ll be on a super short leg into the mark from here. The already short racecourse just got significantly smaller due to the wind shift. I watch as the windward mark buoy slides abaft my beam, about fifteen boat lengths off in the direction of the basin. I wait an extra beat or two, then call to my crew to prepare to tack. My voice is nearly drowned in the heavy winds, and I wonder just how much breeze we’re facing today. I roll the tiller over, and we smoothly rotate through the wind, losing almost no momentum in the turn. Hannah cracks just a touch off the sheet, and Ben adjusts the main as we make for the mark. Our boat handling has moved us up to second place! James is frantically working the halyard off the bow pulpit onto the waiting spinnaker, giving the sheet and guy a last-second review, and setting the spinnaker pole on the mast in prep for launch. Another puff catches us all a little off guard, and James loses his footing. Cursing loudly, he snags the foredeck hatch cover, narrowly avoiding a slide under the lifelines, but not before plunging both legs into the chop on the port side. With supreme effort, he yanks himself to his feet to take station at the mast for the final few seconds. “Stand by!” I call. With two lengths to go, I shift my body lower to peek under the boom at the buoy. My weight adds additional heel, and I fight to maintain my own balance as I nudge the tiller over slightly, aiming to miss the buoy by scant inches before falling off. “Launch!” I call next. Easing the tiller, we come smoothly down to run with the wind, and Ben drops the mainsail out to the beam. Hannah is fighting the spinnaker sheet with one hand and the guy with the other, while James hauls away on the halyard for all he’s worth. In seconds, the spinnaker is aloft, and James is moving to the jib to drop it to the deck. This wind shift leads us on a dangerous course, and I suddenly realize that we’re headed straight for the seawall. I need to gibe, and quick. James is still up forward fighting the jib when I call out to prepare to gibe, and he grunts angrily as he makes ready to trip the spinnaker pole. Two feet in front of me, Hannah is fighting to control the raging spinnaker in her grip, and realization dawns that we are in a real jam. “Gibe ho!” I shout, trying to ease through the wind. As my tiller moves, however, the wind briefly clocks back eastward, and before Ben has hauled the main sheet in, the boom careens across the cockpit, the autogibe throwing the boat over on the opposite side and sending James tumbling toward the now-leeward rail. In the stumble, he’s unable to trip the spinnaker pole, so the guy wire is pinned to the wrong side of the boat. As the wind shifts back out to the northeast, I struggle to keep the tiller under control, the gusts continuing to force us down towards the rocks. As James regains his feet, he tries to reach the spinnaker pole, but he’s completely soaked, and the damn thing is jammed aft, the full spinnaker acting like an enormous jib. Another gust knocks us hard over, and I realize we are near broaching. If not for the seawall, we could simply fall off to fix our sails, but I’m way too close to the rocks to risk that. Thinking as quickly as I can, I call out to Ben and James to dump the halyards, hoping to recover by spilling all the sails at once. Ben immediately pops the mainsail halyard, and James is reaching for the mast when another gust knocks Hannah off her feet, her right hand losing its grip on the sheet, which has still been pinned in place by the pole. Returning to her feet, she loses her hold of the guy as well. Seemingly in slow motion, I watch in horror as the spinnaker rises like a massive pennant to a near-horizontal in the stiff wind. Finally free of unnatural tension, the spinnaker pole is flapping wildly to starboard, clanging against the rigging as the knotted end of the sheet slams into its jaw. To port, the guy is now an angry snake coiling into and out of the water, whipping at Hannah’s outstretched hand as she scrambles forward to try and recover it. The boat is no longer under control. I let the tiller go as we continue to drift towards the rocks off the starboard bow. Pulling James aside, I grasp the knife from my pocket, hoping to attack the spinnaker sheet near the clew knot so that we can drop the halyard and take the way off the boat, but I can’t reach it. The blade already open, I turn instead to the mast, where I saw through the spinnaker halyard. Hannah has returned to the cockpit by the time I hear the loud snap of the line, and the spinnaker falls away from the boat swiftly, still anchored by the sheet, but free at the other two corners. The heel on our boat immediately eases, and we begin to bob like a cork under no sails. James and I begin the process of hauling in the spinnaker, both of us drenched in sweat and brackish water as Hannah begins pumping the tiller to try and round us into the wind. Ben tentatively hauls up the jib, working his way to the cockpit to wrap the sheet a couple of turns around the winch. Finally making a little headway, James and I get the spinnaker inside the lifelines just as Coach arrives alongside in her little power boat, a clearly visible trail of her wake testifying to the high speed required for her attempt to render assistance. “Everyone okay?” she calls, her voice shaking with the same electricity I feel surging through my veins. I look around, stumbling my way back across the debris towards the cockpit. “I think so.” Hannah and I trade places at the tiller, and she gives me a quick squeeze on the shoulder. Is that her shaking, or is it me? “Scared the hell out of me.” The coach replies. “Can you make it back to the basin okay? I’m checking in with the race committee. No way we’re gonna finish racing in this weather.” I nod my understanding. “Okay, then.” She eyes me a few seconds before continuing. “You had to cut the halyard, didn’t you?” I nod again, and she shakes her head sadly. “Damn shame.” I drop my eyes. “But you’d have been on the rocks otherwise. That last puff must have been at least fifty knots.” For the first time, I expand my gaze, and I notice that the entire fleet is in disarray. Several other spinnakers are either in the water or a sopping jumble on foredecks, and most of the other boats are making their way under reduced sail for the relative safety of the docks. We may have lost the race today, but there will clearly be no winners, and at least nobody got hurt. Thanking God for our near miss, I chalk it up as a vivid reminder of the dangers of this sport, and just how close we can be to disaster.

inivva

Kat and Dog

KAT AND DOG This, their first tandem Iron Man 21km race, was their debut run for the new athletics club. The two girls had joined the club at the same time. They were the ‘new girls’ together. They wore the green and gold with pride. No pressure then thought Kat! The athletics club was a wonderful social experience, full of camaraderie and good humor. Everyone was so supportive of the two girl's efforts in this race. They had made a whole community of new friends. Michelle, her partner, had had a leg injury a week ago. She had overtrained and strained her hamstring. The physiotherapist had tweaked and stretched her hamstring, sometimes she thought it might snap just like an elastic band. So, it had been a tense week trying to get in the training and yet not overdo it as then the whole attempt could hang in the balance. Michelle had put on a brave face but Kat knew the effort it took her to be courageous. And both girls had bucketloads of courage. Both had to overcome huge obstacles in their lives. Michelle had recently lost her father, to whom she had been particularly close, so it had been a trying time for both of them. He would have been here today, she thought sadly. He was so proud of her athletic efforts and always so supportive. She decided that she would dedicate this race to him, and honor his memory. He had been such a positive influence in her life. Coping so admirably when he had been left widowed with two young daughters. With this in mind, Kat didn’t want to let her down. So much was riding on this race. The motivation for both of them was very real. When the sun kissed the horizon, the swimmers took their marks.   All ten of them. Salt-cracked air whispered lightly in the breeze. The sounds of the gulls overhead amplified in Kat’s ears. Undertones of the shrill oyster catcher’s cries hung in the still air. The sea sucked sand and retreated, back to where it had birthed the last wave. Cold molecules hung in the new morning air from the night before. People clutched coffees and stamped their feet. Beanies and scarves were still worn, not yet discarded in the light of day. There was an anticipatory hum in the air, as if something big was about to happen. The crowds were feeling very brave, as if getting out of bed so early on a chilly morning was all their own idea. Kat had done both full and half Iron Man, but that was before. Before life changed. Shells, and sand crunched under their feet as they made their way down to the water for the starter’s gun. The whistle blew and they were off. Cold raked their bodies as they plunged through the waves. Everything seemed murky as their eyes adjusted to the misty surf. Kat rearranged her swimming goggles, they had slipped sideways in the rough surf. Neoprene wetsuits offered little protection against the cold sea. The orange marker buoys for the swimmers appeared and disappeared as they stroked their way through the water. The accompanying rubber ducks and crews bounced around on the horizon, like clown fish in multicolored outfits. Crowds clapped, waved, and cheered as the swimmers emerged. Tick! First base under the belt. Next, the tandem cycle. Quick change from wetsuit to cycle kit. Muscles scream in agony as if saying: ‘You fooled me once last week into thinking I’d only use these, not those!’  Kat held onto Michelle for balance as she grappled for her bike. Mounted and ready for the synchronized down stroke, the two cyclists began at the leader’s: ‘ready’ signal. Heads down, 150km to go.  Get into the zone, measured paces. Don’t blow it.  Rhythmic peddling, up, down, up, down. Trust your instinct. Easy up hills, push your speed on the downhills. Colorful crowds went flashing by in a blur along the cycle route. Sounds of applause, whistling, cheering them on. The exercise warmed their frozen bodies. The now warmer air flowed around them, and smells assailed their nostrils. Barbeques, hot sauces, suntan oil, chips, all magnified by the heat. They sensed the crowds rather than actually saw them. A loudhailer played a catchy tune from the back of a station wagon, adding to the festive atmosphere. Kat heard her name called now and again. Family and friends had come to cheer them on. She recognized her mother’s voice amongst the din: “Come on, Kat, you’ve got this one!” Her best supporter ever. Skidding to the finish line they parked their tandem, unclipping their cleats. Sweat poured off the girls. It was a good kind of perspiration, earned by effort and months of practice. Kat sensed Michelle grinning with satisfaction. They didn’t need to speak at that moment. Normally they were so synchronized that they finished each other’s sentences. One thought and the other followed, almost silently. Without explanations needed. Running shoes on, helmets off. Kat adjusted her low-resolution sunglasses. A word of encouragement from Michelle. Tuned in, she listened to every word. The 21km run was a home run for the fit, young pair. Rather flat, thought Kat. But the other teams were hot on their heels. They were lying first out of five teams. But only just! They would have to pick up the pace. Put a turn of speed into their run. At one point Kat felt her foot glide over a cat's eye marker on the road. She caught herself just in time, avoiding a nasty fall. Kat thought she heard Michelle wince once or twice. Hoping that the hamstring was holding up she asked: “All okay?” "Yes, I'm fine," she replied. "Just got some sand in my shoe." Kat listened carefully to her partner’s every word, every nuance and whisper. They ran like two well-oiled machines. Breathing in together, out together. Now, an uneven patch, now a bit of gravel. Uphill, downhill. A bend in the road. A dog barked nearby and Kat jumped.  A car horn blasted too close for comfort and both girls gave it a wide berth. The heat was starting to take its toll. They drank greedily from their water bottles and squeezy bags which hung limply around their waists on special belts. Kat's triathlon suit was beginning to chaff at the shoulders. Adjusting the slipping straps she ploughed onwards. Finally, the home straight. Murmurings from the crowd. A ripple of delayed excitement. Then they break into a roar as the two runners approach the end tape. Strapped around their ankles, their timing chips register their time crossing the line. They are the first team home. None of the other teams are in sight. The red carpet and the TV screens come into view. Their images enlarged, are reflected back at them. The roar of the crowds is deafening. Both girls are euphoric as they hug each other. Salty tears of joy glide down their tired cheeks. Triumphant music blasts out of the loudspeakers and the Master of Ceremonies announces their win. Gold medals are reverently placed around their necks. The cameras flash and whirl around the girls. Kat only seeks out one very special friend. Her dog, Yella. He is waiting, tail walloping the ground, overjoyed to have her back safe. He is a blur of blonde fur as he rushes towards his blind mistress. They dance the joy of knowing that they have beaten the odds and inspired a whole generation of visually impaired athletes to take up the baton in the future. All the sacrifices, early morning training runs, travel, and juggling had been worthwhile in the end. There is a price to pay and they had paid it and reaped the rich rewards of satisfaction in knowing that the sky is the limit if your will and motivation are there. 

9ql672

Unretirement

Dust fell away from the old book, its leather bindings seemingly impervious to the effects of Time’s great cogs. Silver engraving, scroll work of surpassing quality seemed to shift in the soft lantern light, sometimes appearing as thorny vines, others as flickering tongues of flame, or a hoarfrost coat. Fascinating artistry, I’d never seen anything like it before. The artisan who’d lavished their craft on this book had clearly possessed surpassing talent, and I felt a touch of pride in calling myself its new owner, a sense of attachment to the archaic relic. The weight of the tome, its musty aged paper smell, the suede smooth texture of the engraved cover, those impressions somehow wrenched a feeling of déjà vu through me, and, for a moment endless and then forgotten, I was standing in two places at once. The feeling passed, and I made a note not to skip lunches too often, because low blood sugar and I had a long running disagreement. Three quarters of the way to the end of the fine vellum pages a shape and color that did not belong caught my attention. Unthinking, I held the book up to turn the pages and the photo, an ancient looking black and white, softly yellowed by age, fell to the attic floor. “Hello you!” I exclaimed, not expecting to find remnants of the previous owner, who had disappeared under highly mysterious circumstances some twenty years back. I bent over to retrieve the old picture, which had some impeccably fine, and quite impossible to read cursive script on the back. I shelved the inspection of that tidy scrawl and flipped the photo over to see what legacy the picture had recorded. Ice water rinsed my spine when I saw, in that picture, an impossibility. A wizened man, bearded like a mad hermit, wearing an exotic combination of robe and heavy leather duster stood proudly in the center of the photo, his stern face lightened by an almost playful tilt to his eyes. Next to the gentile, in similar attire, and quite impossibly, was none other than me. I looked older. I looked healthy enough, if a touch thin, and unshaven. I looked like an Appalachian through hiker who had come through to the end, determined but tired, worn around the edges by tough going. Forgetting that I’d never seen anyone who looked, or dressed, like that old man in my life, I strained against a sense of the unreal that I should be looking at myself. For a moment, I had the wild thought as to whether the house’s previous owner had known who would inherit the estate and had planned a rousing joke before they went and vanished. “How on Earth?” I muttered aloud, still gripping the book, holding it like a life jacket against the tides of disbelief that pulled me to and fro. The picture seemed genuine. It had no sign, no hint at all that it could have been doctored. The yellowing was natural, I’d seen enough old polaroids to know this one hadn’t been stained or dyed. Even the aging of the ink was consistent. And yet, it could not be. This year gone I would be twenty-seven. The Doppelganger in that picture was at least thirty-five. “What am I wearing?” I asked the dingy attic, receiving no answers. Still more than a little bewildered, I shuffled over to an old rocking chair, stuffing on its cushions making a bold effort at escape, and dropped into it, hoping the sudden rhythmic movement might shake my brain free of this delusion. After a few cycles, the picture was still real, still showing me a scene of the impossible, and I had no better explanation. The lock on the chest that had held the tome cradled in my right arm had needed a savage solvent to unfreeze its mechanism before the huge iron key passed to me along with the ancient cottage would turn it loose. Twenty years this property had stood vacant, a rather fanciful little plot bordered by a spring fed creek, hidden in rural woodlands that backed up to the national forest. For sixty before that, it had been held by a single owner, whose father had passed it to him, just as father had passed it to father for some six generations, according to the faded records that could be dug up by the attorney presiding over the estate. I turned the photo over to see what the cursive might reveal. My eyes scanned and I came with embarrassing slowness to the awareness that the language was not even English. It wasn’t anything I recognized. Had the owner of the property been one of those enthusiasts fluent in Elvish? The flowing characters did give that feeling, although, for all that they’d been wonderful movies, I’d never read Tolkien’s tale of the One Ring. I tried again to make heads or tails of the writing, as if concentrating on the strokes of the pen might compel them to part with their meaning. On the cusp of abandoning this whimsy as purely foolish, the characters shifted, blurred, and when my eyes refocused, there, in neat handwritten English was there plain as day. At this point, I rubbed my eyes against my sleeve and stared at the lantern on its perch by the old chest, before returning my gaze to the picture. I was beginning to very much entertain the notion that I had, at some point recently, come up a salad fork short of a full dinner set. But no. There the flowing symbols on the aged picture sat, alien, pregnant with meaning. And, just as they had before, under my scrutiny they evolved into an almost poetic message that read thusly: “Rowan of the Lake, third of his name, if you read this then know that we failed. The creeping evil still shadows the land, and you are needed again to bind it. For good this time, gods above and below willing. I must prepare the gate to bridge our realms for your return, and I doubt my failing powers will be up to the task without consuming my fading life to cover the difference. Know that I do this thing gladly, for the worlds we both love. Take up your Tome once again, speak the words of power, though they come with cost. An Saole Eile needs again the Archmagi, and ever you were the best of us. May the aether flow, my most gifted student. May you triumph, my dearest friend.” Farewell, Breghaed Din Tuatha De Danann  Archmage of the North Sea I looked up from the message and realized that tears had collected in the corners of my eyes, though I couldn’t have said why. I brushed the liquid away on my sleeve and cleared my throat, which had tightened. I never cried; I was known for it. My wife said I had the emotional range of a graphing calculator. What had begun as startling now blossomed into a full throttle curiosity. I had to know, now. Rowan of the Lake third of his name, the message had written. My name was Ryan Lake, the third. That…well, it was close enough to be more than a little suspicious. “Take up your Tome.” I whispered aloud and looked at the strange book that I seemed unable to resist holding tightly. It was a book. A beautiful book, no doubt, of the finest I had ever seen. Before I thought too much about it, I opened the covers randomly and saw inscribed on the rich vellum sheets the same script as the message. This time, in addition to the flowing letters there were diagrams with wyrd geometry. Lines of formula utilizing sets of runes that seemed to hint at greater mysteries than the shape of the ink allowed. I turned the pages aimlessly, and a growing sense of unease built, because another faint tingling was becoming more insistent in my consciousness: nostalgia. “Gaela’c Luxolas an’ Dwem” I whispered, tongue tripping not at all over words I had never uttered. My stomach tried to climb through my spine and heat burned through my blood, gone before I could scream my shock. Above my head the witch light hung like a full moon displacing the warm lantern light with a cold clear brightness. A sense of panic grew loud in my thoughts and a pressure spiked behind my eyes, images building, impressions by the thousand welling up from some hidden place in my mind, long locked away. One after another, scintillating memory drove me to curl in the chair protectively over the book, the photo clenched in one hand, desperately treading water lest the torrent of images drown me. When the assault passed, I stood from the chair and looked again at the musty old attic. I couldn’t believe it had worked. An interlaced temporal dweomer, a hypnotic suggestion, and a back up plan, in case something went wrong. Twelve years of mundane life, lived without the first hint that it was not the first time I’d been a young man. I regretted the wife, now. She deserved better than I gave her, and, now the distraction, the sense of being out of place, the call to study other worlds of fantasy and myths of realms that only lived in story all made sense. A good woman, and, for some lucky worthy, a better than good wife. But not for Rowan of the Lake, third of his name. “So. The bastard slipped the binding after all.” I said, with a voice too smooth, unravaged by the passage of the first tongue, and the energies it bore along with it. “Well, Master Din, my dear old friend, I’m on my way. Consider the Archmage of the Tempest unretired.”

943lvd

A Day on the Grandstand

REEDSY PROMPT ~ “Set your story in the stands at a major sporting event…….!” TITLE: ~ A Day on the Grandstand    By: ~ Jane Anne Hyslop Kennedy Ireland      Initially confused, I turned slightly, hearing a brass band in the background while finding myself at the ground level of a 100m long outdoor grandstand (or bleachers, depending on what you call them where you live). This grandstand runs parallel to a hundred meter water course about five meters away. There is also a metal fence between the bleacher and the water course.  I look around at my surroundings which seem vaguely familiar but from a very different time period in the past. I focus on trying to blend in as much as possible while finding my seat; smiling, listening, & nodding “Hello” to those I pass by. This event looks, sounds, even smells like a really big deal. I’m still not exactly sure yet; how I have ended up here. Last I remember, I was feeling exhausted from the day’s stressful events and disappointed in myself that AGAIN, I was not making it to another summer Olympics while I was rolling into my comfortable bed in my air-conditioned, peaceful sanctuary of a bedroom. As I listen and chat to those around me, I continue to assess my attire and surroundings. The buzz is intoxicating and contagious. My excitement heightens as I start putting tidbits together. I realize that this is the 1912 Stockholm, Sweden Olympics - 274 competitors – 264 men and only 10 women. There were 79 events in 16 sports. This is the first-time that women’s events would be part of the Olympic swimming program. There are 18 swimmers including 6 women competing from Great Britain. This is only the third time for Great Britain to compete in swimming.  I’m thrilled to discover that I have a really great view from my seat located above the fifty-meter line. I am sure grateful for this quilted cushion on this hard seat. It is pretty comfy. I believe with these full bleachers, we will all be here awhile, taking in the day’s events. There is a pale blue and green pattern on my light cotton dress.  My long curly strawberry blond hair, in an updo, is tucked neatly into my large, brimmed hat and my parasol completes my look. All this, along with the sea-breezes, is a positive effort toward staying comfortable in the day’s sun and heat while enjoying the view of the Olympic events as well as the view of the Baltic Sea too. As the spectators continue to chat with each other, our focus shifts to the last-minute preparations around the swimming events in front of us before it all begins. A lady sitting a few rows back from myself shared that she is a first cousin of Great Britain's Flag Bearer – Charles Smith. I so badly wanted to share who I was but couldn’t! I wanted to be completely honest about my own connection to one of the few British female swimmers because…well… I was still confused about how the heck I got here through time! The swimmer to whom I am connected, that I had also never met but really wished I had was my Grandma, Jenny Fletcher. At this point in her life, she was not yet married (to Grandpa, Henry Hill Hyslop), had not yet had any children (7 to come) - never mind all the grandchildren. She passed away five years before I was even born. I felt it was important and wanted to keep as much truth to my story in who I was related to I would always be proud to be connected no matter how well I knew her. Until it was necessary to share, I was not going to offer any extra information here. This opportunity…however it was happening…will always be a blessing. While here, I will solely be relying on the stories that had been told by my Grandma then retold by her children then finally told to me the youngest cousin by 20 years. I know well all the information that I had looked up and learned of the era. Now a little nervous, I find myself consistently listening and watching those around me for the current social cues, of this era. It will help me to enjoy this treasure of an experience as I attempt to be relaxed and fit in with the crowd. The officials and lifeguards are in place. There are only four competing teams. These sixteen lady swimmers of this “Team Race” (later to be called a “Relay Race”), are about to be ushered in with their long cloaks on. These lady swimmers will then get ready in their positions. As this preparation happens quickly, I observe the various reactions of the crowd to the bathing suits for these ladies. I imagine many are thinking the tighter, full body and knee length suits are scandalous and sinful. I find it interesting how time, only a mere 112 years have slipped by since these direct reactions to a very modest bathing suit have changed but the commonality of society. I suspect how they think in a variety of ways hasn’t changed much towards many issues that arise. I wonder what 1912 society would say or think of bathing suits or many other issues that we, in 2024 have or are dealing with. The ladies are asked if they are ready; 16 head nods are received. A “hush” comes over the area. The starting pistol is raised and we all hear the following shouted ……. “On your mark … get set … “BANG!”” Four strong, lean women lunge forward in a dive meeting the water with a splash each swimming their best and fastest their 100m to the other end being sure to touch and hold the side of the dock before their teammate can dive and swim back from whence the first came. Four times this will happen! The crowd is intently focused and cheering on the swimmers! Wow! I want to say that they went WILD! However, this era is much more conservative than sports events of our current day in 2024. They are getting louder as each team member finishes. Definite gaps formed between the teams. This is the coolest experience I have ever encountered ~ to be able to watch and cheer on my Grandma and her team! As the race comes to an end it becomes evident where the top three medals were to be given…….  Gold ~ Great Britain ~ Belle Moore, Annie Spiers, Irene Steer, Jenny Fletcher             Silver ~ Germany ~ Wally Dressel, Louise Otto, Grete Rosenberg, Hermine Stindt             Bronze ~ Austria ~ Margarete Adler, Klara Milch, Josephine Sticker, Berta Zahourek With a lot of WHOOPLA as the four teams shake each others’ hands, these participants move to a waiting area as a few more events follow. The stands are quiet and follow through similarly throughout each event until that day’s events are completed. At this moment, each of the top three winning teams or participating individuals move to their pre-determined locations in wait for their events award ceremony to begin. Sweden’s King Gustav was in attendance and was part of the official award ceremony. The King hung each medal on each lady then placed the ceremonial laurel wreath upon each head beginning with Gold. I was able to see this clearly from the stands remembering that my Grandma Jenny would later quote that one of the highlights of her swimming career was during that moment when she heard King Gustav softly say, “Well done, England”!  As I shared that moment, with her and the crowd my mind drifted momentarily to knowing that she would also win a bronze medal at that Olympics. These achievements added to her many swimming achievements including breaking records then holding them for seven consecutive years. The hard work of long twelve-hour days, six days a week then going to train for swimming all while being one of eleven from a poverty stricken home, sure paid off. My mind wanders back as the stands become quiet. The focus has changed to everyone getting up and heading out while a local band plays some traditional music for the dissipating crowd. I am accidently but gently bumped by the lady beside who says “Miss…you sure do look like that Fletcher lady with all that curly hair you have!” Before I could answer this jovial lady, I found myself hearing some other music that was gradually getting louder and overlapping the band in an annoying sort of way, like how today, on occasion it happens on the radio…With a deep breath of realization, at that moment discerning that the whole event that seemed so real and was sure I had the pleasure of attending…was all a dream! I could have reached out to touch, hear, smell as well as feel every bit of it!

nq09zi

No regrets

NO REGRETS” The old cabin creaked and groaned Ralph thought to himself I bet it feels exactly like I do. Ralph wasn’t old he just had lived a hard life compared to the average Jo blow. Reaching out his hand he picked up his watch realising he wouldn’t be able to read it in the dark as it’s hands didn’t glow anymore. Dam he thought I’m going senile, slowly rising from the bed to a sitting position Ralph searched for the switch of his bed side lamp flicking it on. The light was bright and made his sight bleary, glancing at his watch he could just make out that the big hand was on the eight and the little hand on the two. Twenty to three in the morning what the… he thought, feeling agitated and restless he knew that there would be no more sleep tonight. His mind was a whirl of thoughts he had shorn 145 sheep yesterday and he knew there was at least that number to shear again today. What the heck was on his mind. He shook his head like a baby shakes a rattle hoping that would unblock his wayward thoughts. Sitting back down on his rickety bed Ralph tried to think. Lately this has become a nightly ritual waking up in the middle of the night for no good reason. Life is funny like that, tries to make you think all is good but you know it’s not, I think I’ve got a case of the guilts. “Guilts”I don’t think so he thought, he had no regrets nothing that would keep him up at night or so he thought. He just couldn’t figure out what was annoying his mind so much that it kept him from sleeping. His memory started to wander back to his childhood. There were eight of us all together in the family Da, Ma, Rodney, Richard, Robert, Ralph, Ella and Fran. Even though there were only two bedrooms in the house . The boys sprawled out in the living room and the two girls shared the other room and of cause Ma had her own room which she shared with Da when he came home. As there were no beds to sleep in we all slept on the floor covered up with 2 blankets each. If it was really cold we would layer up our clothes and wear them to bed. Since we were already dressed we didn’t waste time having to get dressed in the morning. It was up to us boys to rise early and begin the morning ritual of folding back our bed blankets and stacking them up in the alcove next to the pantry so there was room to move in the house. Then we would take in turn of chopping the wood, collecting the kindling and lighting the burner. Rod being the eldest took his job of being the man of the house very seriously it was his responsibility to put the porridge on and fill the kettle ready for ma to get up and start the day. Life for the Grant family had always been one struggle after another. Rod being the eldest son took it upon himself to be the one to look after us he was 16 and would be turning 17 in just a few months. Rod had always said being the boss of the house he could provide for the family better than anyone and that he knew the tricks of the trade in which he could teach the rest of us. The three elder boys often took to the streets to ply their trade whatever that was I wasn’t part of it I was too young. Rod said I had to wait a few more years then their secrets would include me. I never thought much about where the food and clothing came from. I just knew it would turn up. Ma always told the elder boys keep your noses clean every time they went out. I would give a little giggle at that. Why did we have to keep our noses clean I never could understand why. By the time I had turned 6 the elder boys did take me under their wings and provided me with the information and the tricks to the trade. The trade was pick pocketing. Rod, Rob and Rich taught me what to look for in a unsuspecting victim, how the boys all worked together either standing as a watcher, creating a diversion or pretending to have a punch up allowing the other boys to pick pocket the victims who were trying to break up the fight we would quickly disperse and get away without anyone noticing what they had just lost, their wallet or purse. Ralph learned quickly that you only succeed by being strong and fast on your feet in this game. By the time he was eight he was indeed very strong and swift he could pick a pocket and be out of there faster before the person realised what had happened. That’s how he got the nickname ‘swiftly shifty’. Even his older brothers didn’t have the nous or know how to keep up with him. The boys basically lived on the streets now. Ralph had learned the pick pocketing trade from his older brothers and he was really good at it, it was better than starving. Even ma was grateful but never asked or commented when we brought home the money to her. The younger two girls Ella and Fran always got a new dress or shoes when we had a decent haul. We brothers treated our sisters like princesses we made sure that they were never poked fun off or looked down upon. The Grant family had standards even if we were thieves. But all good things must come to an end. My brothers and I got nicked which was very unfortunate for us. We were all taken to the goal holding pens where the local law man decided our fate. Every day Ma came down to the holding pens and begged the authorities that we would never walk the streets again. No one was listening, my three elder brothers Rod as he was 18 and considered an adult was sentenced to hard labour for a period of 10 years, Rich and Rob were sent to a workhouse in the capital city of Brisbane for wayward boys until they were 21 and I was sent to a place where the nuns looked after you out in the countryside of Queensland. As part of my punishment i was to have no contact with my family from then onwards, no letters and no visits no communication at all. I was to live at the convent until my 16 birthday that was 7 years away. During my time at the convent I worked hard I even started a veggie garden for which I was very proud of and results of the garden ladened the dinner table every night and as Ma would say I kept my nose clean. As I was not allowed to have visitors or mail I lost track of my family which was probably a good thing a mouth less to feed for ma. The kids in the convent were treated ok at least we got fed and had a bed to sleep in. The worst thing was having to pray to God every day multiple times for my sins. I always felt that I was lying when I said “God please forgive my sins” and I’ll try harder to become a better person. Rubbish I am who I am. The years rolled past and I was getting closer to my sixteenth birthday. I was feeling anxious what will I do? where will I go?. Then on my sixteen birthday and before I left the convent old mother Frances, who was mother superior gave me her voice of reason. Ralph she said, after today what you do and where you go will be the mark of your future make it as bright as you want and never ever look back only forward. She shoved a pound note in my hand and scooted me out the back door. There was no formal farewell or goodbye from anyone it just felt strange I was to take my leave immediate. Where was I to go from here and what was I to do, even though I was just sixteen I stood a good 4 inches above any other sixteen year old and I certainly wasn’t puny. I had a stocky build and I often heard the men who worked around the Covent comment that I was built like a brick shithouse. With my small back pack holding my minimal belongings and a couple of apples I had nicked off the table i took my leave and began my journey along the old road. Mother Frances had stated follow the road for about 10 miles and I will reach the township of Jondaryan. Making my way along the road i was totally in awe of my surroundings the view was incredible sweeping hill sides and low plains, I was glad I had the apples as it was a fair hike and I had to walk. It was almost dusk when I strolled into Jondaryan. I knew I had to find somewhere to sleep as the winds were rising. I needed to take a room at the local pub. I did have a pound in my pocket but I had to be frugal I didn’t know where my next lot of money would be coming from. I had no desire to go back to pick pocketing and to fall backwards into my old habits. I noted a pub on the corner, as I had never been in a pub I felt a little apprehensive what if they threw me out for being too young. Strolling into the pub no one even took notice of me I casually walked up to the bar and asked for a room for the night, 3 shillings the barmaid said it comes with grub tonight and a light breakfast tomorrow morning. Pulling out my pound note I paid her. She didn’t even ask me my name or business she just stated, take the stairs to the second floor room 10 on your left. Come down for some stew when your ready. Bounding up the stairs two at a time I found my room throwing my backpack on the bed I reached for the water jug and picking up the towel which had been provided and the jug I headed into the corridor to find the bathroom which was just next door very convenient, Standing at the basin the thought of a stew started my stomach to rumble I had only eating the apples today. I changed my shirt and headed back downstairs I found the dinning area seating myself down when the same bar maid who checked me in approached the table. Do you want a pint with your stew it will be three pence extra. Not wanting to give away my age I requested just a glass of water as I didn’t want to get in trouble if the girl probed me about my age or waste my money this early after leaving the convent. After eating my stew and having a full belly I was ready for my bed. Climbing back up the stairs I opened the door to my room. The bed did look inviting and I was exhausted. Laying on top of the bed in my clothes I feel asleep. I slept like a baby that night. I don’t think I even moved. I arose early next morning gathering my things I headed downstairs for breakfast. After a bowl of porridge and a cup of tea, I headed out to explore the next chapter of my life, trays and brays were the mode of transport in this town so I managed to hitch a ride with an old drover who was heading North to Galea Station. The old drover could certainly talk but he did make sense he told Ralph that a strapping young man like himself could definitely find work as a shearer’s Rousey. A what! I stated. A rousey he said he does the odd jobs around the shearing shed. It’s good money the old timer said and you never know you might be good enough to be a shearer one day. After half a days travel on the dray I was bone weary. I asked the driver if he could at least drop me near the Galea Station so I could try my luck getting a job as a Rousey. The old drover responded that he would drop me off at the turn and it will be about a miles walk to the station. As the turn approached we both said our goodbyes and I headed off down the road. As I walked into the shearing farm turning my head looking around I could see hundreds and hundreds of sheep waiting in pens. I saw a dark skinned boy sitting on the fence I approached him and asked where could I find the boss. He pointed a boney finger over yonder. I made my way to the shearing shed where I found the boss a Mr Mac who looked quite at home in the shed. He was a tall well built man wearing an old pair of pants a blue singlet and a slouch hat. I let him know that I was looking for work he asked my age and whether I have worked before as a Rousey, I lied and said I was seventeen and a half and I had worked on a station as an odd job person. Mac as he told me to call him gave me a job as a Rouse-about there and then. Mac stated that I would get three square meals a day, a bed to sleep in and 8 shillings a week and I had to learn quickly. No one was ever the wiser, about my age, as a Rouse-about my duties lead me to assist the station hands to pen sheep for shearing, pick up the fleece after it has been shorn and throw it onto a large table for 'skirting' the process to remove stained or coloured pieces and skin from the wool. I learned fast gaining skills and learning all the tricks of the shearing trade. It was tough and dirty work but I loved every minute of it. At the end of each shearing season with money in our pockets we moved on to another station to start all over again. I was getting a name for myself of being reliable and a hard worker. The head shearer John Howe known as Jackie approached me when I had turned officially 18 and wanted to know if I could see myself as a shearer. For sure was my answer I’d do anything to become a shearer my ambition was to be just like Jackie a Gun shearer, he could shear 240 sheep a day using the blade shears. Jackie was legendary in the sheep industry. He personally took me under his wing. He showed me how to shear sheep using blades, most important he said sharpen your shears every night make sure your blades are straight and the blade glints they should be able to glide through that wool like slicing bread. Jackie even taught me how to prop the sheep up as not to use my back muscles too much. He stated that is why a lot of shearer’s get aching backs and quit shearing they don’t prop up their sheep properly. Being a shearer was hard work but I loved it, there was no other life for me I’d found my niche. After leaving one shearing shed and before our next shed we had what we called down time which saw us go into the nearest town and spend up some of our hard earned cash. As the years rolled on I learned to drink hard, love hard and work hard but I never regretted those I left behind. The married life with a family was not me, I’d seen enough of the blokes who sheared and brought their family along with them. Not that i minded the women folk as would earn a wage cooking for all of the men on the job and the kids would help in the shed picking up the wool. But it was a hard life for a single bloke let alone a bloke with a family. Money was earned the hard way and I even managed to put some money away just in case. By the time I was 28 I was one of the best shearer’s around I was the gun. I had a reputation to uphold. I could easily shear 250 sheep a day even beating Jackie’s best tally. I had a lot of challenges from the younger guys who all thought they were gun shearer’s trying to beat me but I wasn’t called swiftly shifty for nothing that name was my legacy. I even made a few bucks from my challenges. So regrets I don’t have any. Like mother Frances told me my life has been my own. I had no one who relied on me, I had no family, I was my own number one person. I felt better and more relaxed I looked down and glanced at my watch 4:30 am well I may as well get up and start me day, making my way to the kitchen the cook poured me a hot cuppa tea and while I filled my belly full of tucker. I headed over to the shearer’s shed. The sheep were already in the pens. Rousers were laying out the tools for the day and making sure all was good to go. Well I said picking up me shears and studying them with a glint of my eye “what’s me target today boss”.

61dl9l

Xer-Bane Didn't Bless Dwarfs with Long Legs

I was pacing myself, knowing that a cross-country race isn't won by speed but by stamina. It's a good thing, too, since Xer-Bane didn't bless dwarfs with long legs. Suddenly, an elf came from behind and shoulder-checked me. Before regaining my balance, I wobbled and came very close to hitting a tree. "Do that again, and I'll knock that smirk off your face!" I said between breaths. "Gotta catch me first, Phlegm-it!" The windbag yelled. "Flimlet! You pompous, girly-haired nimrod!" I remember seeing this guy before the race, but I have no idea how he knows my name. I believe he's one of the newcomers. The elf continued to harass me. He threw out insults and attempted to shoulder-check me several times. He never went farther than that, but he relished in tormenting me. As far as I know, I've never done anything to this guy, but with how he behaved, you'd think I was his sworn nemesis. He jostled me one too many times. I sped up, churning my legs, not caring if I tired too quickly. Forget about the race. My new goal was to launch that elf into the air. I inched closer but was unable to catch up. Then I noticed him slowing like he had many times. I knew he'd line up on my side. I glanced over and saw the elf's pearly whites grinning from pointy ear to pointy ear. Anger took control. Just then, I spied a large tree not far away and hatched a plan. If I time it right, I can shoulder-check him into that tree. I waited for the exact moment, then made my move. At that very second, the elf moved out of the way. I lost my balance and slammed into that giant tree. A long, starry-black tunnel filled my vision. I heard laughter echo, slowly, in a deep voice. I felt as if I was going to pass out. However, the tunnel began to dissipate, and the laughter sounded clearer. I shook my head and looked up in time to see Long-Legs laughing and looking back at me. Smack! I never heard a more beautiful sound. The elf and I were in pain and trying to catch our breath. To think, our illustrious leader, Lady Nimmo, thought this race would help ease tensions. To give us a break from preparing for war. Right now, I'd take a small war over this. I finally regained my breath and slowly stood. "You idiot! What are you trying to do? Get us killed!" I stared down at the elf lying on the ground. He moaned and groaned, rolled half to one side, then half to the other. He slowly got to his feet and turned on me. "Just what I expected from a dwarf," he said breathlessly. "What? That I'd fight back?" "No." He leaned against the tree. He still hadn't fully recovered, but his smirk was back. "That you would mess up. You can't even shoulder-check correctly." That was it! I had enough of this pointy-eared jerk. I moved before him and was about to punch him in the nose when the elf went white in fear. His gaze was beyond me. I instinctively turned and saw a Grundle Barr a hundred yards away. He was reaching for leaves hanging low. He stood ten feet tall, skinny as an elf, with black and white fur. His teeth were unnecessarily sharp for eating leaves, apparently his favorite food source. The Grundle Barr must not have noticed us because he lazily picked at the limbs. "Don't move," the elf whispered. "I know. I'm not an idiot," I whispered back. "Could have fooled me." I didn't dare turn around, but it took everything inside of me to keep still. I felt much more like throwing the elf at the Grundle Barr and escaping while the elf was being eaten. At that moment, the Grundle Barr paused and looked in our direction. He turned his head to the side, appearing to think about what he was seeing. Then he howled, landed on all fours, and ran towards us. "Play dead! Play dead!" The elf said. I fell and gave my best dead look. I assume the elf did the same because I heard him fall. We lay there, hearing growls and feeling the thudding of the beast's paws. The animal did not slow. He did not change direction nor lighten his mood. Playing dead wasn't working. "Or is that a Gray Barr?" The elf casually said, as if we had all the time in the world and there wasn't a ferocious beast about to attack. "What!" The Grundle Barr was very close, and the gap was shrinking fast. "I can never remember. Do you run zig-zag with Gray Barrs? And play dead with Grundle Barrs? Or is it the other way around?" "Seriously, man! Which is it?" The Grundle Barr was only twenty yards away. "Run!" The elf shot up and took off. I did the same. We both ran like we were being chased by a really angry Grundle Barr, yelling and screaming in sheer panic. I turned and saw the Grundle Barr visibly grow angrier. "He's not happy!" I huffed out. "We were supposed to play dead! I remember now!" The elf huffed back. "Are you serious!" I turned again to see the beast gaining. "What do we do now? I can't outrun him!" "Climb! Climb!" The elf nimbly climbed the nearest tree without slowing. Needless to say, dwarfs are not known for being nimble. I slowed under the same tree the elf climbed and looked for a low branch. Old teeth-and-claws was only twenty feet from me. I knew I was about to leave this world. I stood my ground and prepared to see the Glorious Mountain of Xer-Bane when an arm swung down. I grabbed hold and ascended into the tree. The elf and I sat on a large limb, trying to catch our breath. The Grundle Barr clawed our tree but was unable to climb. So, he resorted to growling and howling. "Play! Dead!" I said. "Uh, yes. Sorry about that," the elf said. "I don't suppose you remember what to do when a Grundle Barr trees you? Or at least, if a Gray Barr trees you?" "You know, your attitude is not helping. Although, I guess I shouldn't expect anything better from a dwarf." "What did I do to you?" "I know your kind." The growls and howls reduced, but sir claws-a-lot remained at the base of our tree. It appeared he planned on waiting us out. But right now, the only thought going through my mind was the bitter tone in the elf's voice when he said, "Your kind." I've used that tone before. There is only one reason for it. Somehow, a dwarf had hurt this fellow. "What happened?" I asked. He hesitated, then looked down at the Grundle Barr. "I guess we have plenty of time." He paused before going further. "I'll give you the short version, although I could tell every detail. I've never forgotten. As a child, a dwarf tried to cut my hand off for stealing his gold. My friend threw a rock at the dwarf's head, throwing off his swing. He only cut to the bone, and I escaped." He was holding his right wrist absentmindedly. "You're all barbarians." I didn't know how to respond. Neither one of us spoke for a few minutes. The beast was sitting on its hind legs, watching us. I've known evil dwarfs, but to attack a child was an evil I've never seen. "I'm sorry," I said. "I don't need your sorry." "I know. I just wanted you to know." I picked a nearby leaf from a small limb. I wanted to defend my race, but I couldn't. There are evil dwarfs. I couldn't argue with that. Besides, I couldn't talk away his trauma. Only time can heal that wound. After a half hour of picking leaves in silence, I devised an idea. "I think it's possible to escape this four-footed freak," I said. "I'm all ears. What do you have in mind?" "Grundle Barrs love leaves more than elves and dwarfs, but he won't leave until he knows we aren't a threat to his food plot." "Okay, I'm following." "Let's prove we don't want his food." We went over the plan several times before jumping into action. We gathered hundreds of leaves using our shirts as knapsacks and then moved into position. We climbed to the lowest branch possible, still out of reach of the animal, and started taunting him. "Your mother was a skunk, and your father smelled of wild berries." That did the trick. We had his attention. He growled and snarled and jumped towards us. I opened my shirt of leaves and dumped them. The leaves flitted around him. He caught some in mid-air with his mouth and then started eating the ones on the ground. The elf yelled, "Here's more! You brute! Come and get it!" The Grundle Barr looked up to see more leaves falling. He raced over to the second cloud of tasty treats and began to munch away. While the greedy devil was distracted, we snuck over to the opposite side of the trunk, quietly lowered ourselves, and ran. The elf was naturally quiet while running. I had to work at it, but we both were out of the Grundle Barr's food plot and felt relatively safe. While jogging back to town, we said little, but we slowed to a gingerly walk once we saw houses and towers. "You're not as evil as I thought," the elf said. "As a matter of fact, you're not that bad." I knew that took a lot for him to say. "If I could have clobbered that wretched dwarf, I would have done it with glee." "I believe you." The elf cleared his throat, "Um, thank you for saving us. My head was empty of ideas." "That's not entirely true," I said. "What do you mean?" "You had two ideas. You just didn't know which one to use." I smiled but held back a laugh, but the elf broke out with a monumental laugh, so I joined him. "So, friend, what is your name?" I asked. "They call me Tim." "Well, Tim, how 'bout you and I go to Ye Old Guard pub and drink to our glorious escape? I'm buying." "Never thought I'd say yes to drinking with a dwarf, but yes, my friend, I'd be honored." We drank. We sang. We laughed. We embellished. We bonded.

bm3tfj

A Breeze in Phuket

"97, 98, 99...," after inhaling a quick grasp of air, Kenny drove his right shin into the black mounted training bag which dangled in front of him, which returned a loud resounding 'thud' through the spare training room of his apartment. Training one's body was key to living a healthy life, though training one's mind was key to knowing thyself.' Words from his Renshi, or '6th' Dan in the world of karate. Though the last time Kenny had heard these words was sometime around fifth grade in school, which now brought him to the age of 29 this July. It was only a couple of sleepless nights ago (usually from staying up late to watch latest American MMA match on TV), that the words had suddenly resurfaced in his mind. Like many things in life, they don't hit you until you cross a certain bridge in life. But For Kenny, he felt the most important things he ought to learn, almost always came too late for him. His present work-life routine wasn't anything special to brag about either. Kenny would work as part-time assistant to the martial arts head at a gym that was about a 10-minute train ride from his two-bedroom apartment in Frankston South, with not many possessions inside thanks to his minimalistic lifestyle. He taught mainly kids whose parents dropped them off afterschool, as well as weekends. Other days he would take early morning to late afternoon shifts at a warehouse performing picking and packing duties. It wasn't particular hard work for Kenny, his work was always well received but never received a promotion either. However, it didn't matter anymore, as the following day Kenny handed in his formal resignation to his boss, who who looked disappointed at first but reluctantly accepted it. The following Saturday morning, Kenny could finally devote his working hours to helping the young kids at the gym. He wouldn't teach them any fancy or demanding techniques, nor did the head instructor. But he would often guide them on movement. How to move and rotate one's body before delivering a strike, whether it be soft or hard. This was essential to everything including our state of mind and body leading up to a fight, during the fight, and after the fight. 'How one practice's martial arts is how one approaches anything in life', as his past Renshi would often say to his pupils. There were about nine to ten kids in total in the class, mostly aged around four to eleven years of age. They were mostly yellow belts, one was blue and the oldest was a brown belt and was maybe a few months off from attaining his black. After hi-fiving all the kids as they made their way to their parents would wait for them near the entrance, Kenny sighed, wiping off the sweat from his brow (not that anyone could see it) and fixed the sleeve of his black gi; the colour which signified a qualified instructor before changing back into his casual clothes. As he was about to head to the cafe, a But then a young lady, with blonde hair and hazel eyes, no older than 25 approached him. "Kenny right?" the lady asked, lowering her shades. "Yes, that's me?" Kenny replied. "I've heard quite a bit about you." Name's Byrne. With an 'e'." "As in... Brynhilld?" Kenny was genuinely curious. Though his lips were stuck trying to form the last part of the name, he felt a bit embarrassed. "Brynhildr?" She interjected, with a hint of curiosity. "Now that's a name I haven't heard in a long while." I don't remember too much about her, but I used to read stories about her when I was little, the shieldmaiden, and the goddess of war from Norse legend. Pretty cool right?" Bryne looked like she was able to go on a spiel, as if recalling her favorite tv show but stopped herself. "I've actually been wanting to approach you on a number of occasions but, well..." Kenny could tell she was on the spot, so he offered to continue their conversation by heading to the nearby cafe, since he was planning head there anyway, to which she accepted with a spontaneous "sure!" They made their way to the adjacent cafe by the gym. "My daughter was also in your health-ed class." Bryne said, looking down the menu. "She's so into Karate. Zen-do-kai. I can tell by the way she tries to explain the moves she's learned. It's so adorable! "She very much enjoys your class." Her daughter stayed with some of other kids back at the gym. She was around 8 years old and had golden curls, and energetic other kids their age. "She's a diligent that one." Kenny added. He looked at her purse and down to her jeans. He could tell from experience that she was a not a local but had inking that she had a 'purpose'. She had a good eye, and good intuition, that much was clear. Bryne wore a simple white sleeved blouse and denim jeans. Her hair tips sported shades of blond just lighter than the rest, which just barely touched her shoulders. It gave a very clean and rather model-like presentation yet, even in the light spring breeze she emanated this carefree kind of vibe. Her father left her during her kindergarten years, and her mother had a chronic illness, and since Byrne was a close friend of the mother, she had decided to help the daughter. "You got some spare time nowadays right?" she said, eyeing his companion with a rather mischievous glint as cupped her hand in her chin. Kenny knew he there was no hiding, referring to his recent resignation from his warehouse job. How she knew, Kenny didn't know but decided not to question it. Kenny looked at the cup of tea and watched the air wither into the late morning bloom before asking, "Are you worried by any chance?" "That, well I wouldn't be a good assistant if I wasn't." Kenny laughed. Kenny had no idea how long he planned to stay there at the dojo as an assistant. "You know much about Thailand by chance?" Kenny didn't see anything wrong with the offer except for one thing, "Well I've never been there." A mix of surprise and some relief crossed Byrne's face. "Well all the more reason to consider it, no?" she said as she took a mouthful of coffee, took an envelope from her shoulder bag, and placed it ever so gently onto the table. It was white as feather and had a circular red seal attached. "To be straightforward, I need a travel companion, there will be a martial arts display ceremony and I'd very much like you to come." Bryne explained the itinerary, the proposed vacation would last over five days, though the ceremony would commence on the second day. "I've already arranged tickets, and I will however cover all the other nitty-gritty expenses. She took a rather generous gulp of his coffee before continuing. I know I kind of put you on the spot, so feel free to decline." Kenny gently placed in the envelope into his hands and stared at it for a few second before responding, "I'll think about it." "Thank you," she said as she placed one hand on his sleeve in one careful motion, "if you have any questions, and I mean 'any', please ask away. "No such thing as dumb question, right?" "Exactly." Kenny looked up at the sky, where there was not a cloud in sight. "I don't know if this is right timing, maybe it is, but even then I feel like I'm unsure of so many things. I don't really know what I've been training for really, whether it's for something important or not." He wanted to say more but the words just wouldn't come out. Noticing this, Bryne took a second to ponder Kenny's words before looking at her surroundings, then back to him. "The things we choose to treasure, it's merely a thought we chose of our own making, a human construct. But- that doesn't make it any less important. Otherwise, the both of us wouldn't be sitting next to each other having this very conversation." She finished her words with a smile. Kenny didn't know how to respond but, or if it made any real sense but he felt a sense of something powerful within him that he hadn't felt in a long time. Later that night, Kenny flopped onto his bed and was immediately welcomed a rush of warmth as he whipped the blanket over his body. It was only Autumn, yet the outdoor moonlight and his lingering doubt gave extra weight to the night chill. It was as his feet had travelled over a deserted baseball field and back. His mind suddenly wandered back to his childhood days. How he would listlessly look up to sky during lunch break while all the other kids would be mess around without a care in world. Of course, he never forgot the treatment from some of his classmates when it came to his half Vietnamese-Australian background which didn't exactly make him many friends. So he turned to a local club which trained in karate and various styles including kickboxing, to which his mother reluctantly accepted. One thing Kenny never skipped out on as a kid was his weekend quest to spar with the grand oak in that stood in the corner his backyard, which he would practice his kick and knee routine, however clumsy his form at the time seemed. At first his mother would tell him to stop after ten seconds. The day after, she would try to urge him to stop after one minute. Eventually it grew to ten minutes then thirty. As Autumn rolled by, his mother would inspect his leg to see if he had any wounds, but never told him to stop. Instead, she would make sure he felt full after eating. When Winter suddenly marched in just weeks after Kenny's 9th birthday, Kenny's mother had passed away from an unknown illness. Did she finally accept it, or did she silently give up on persuading him to stop on such mindless kicking? To this day, the answer had still eluded him. He stared up at the ceiling of his bedroom. 'Whatever happens, I'll win in my own way.' He mulled over it again. But his mind traced back to the image of Bryne, and how she ran her slender fingers through her windswept hair slide. Kenny reached out for the ticket sitting on lamp desk by his bedside. It was already decided, where his journey would take him and how he forge his path the following day. The following morning, he made all the necessary preparations, sending a memo to his fellow instructor that he would take some time off, and diligently packed all the essentials he could into his single black airport travel case. Kenny had been on a number of spontaneous trips, mainly for work. But this would mark the first time that he would prepare for a flight on such short notice and on such a less-than concrete goal. But to him, this was more than just. An ideal. One he had to chase no matter what. "Well, the preparations ain't gonna fix itself," Kenny said to himself, and as a wave of excitement swelled through him. * After taking in a 10 hour flight from Melbourne airport to Bangkok, Kenny would catch an overnight bus ride from airport would take him straight to Phuket Island. As soon as he arrived, he and several other travelers were greeted by a pristine beach with a crystal blue waves. After walking the sand for a couple of minutes a familiar voice called out, "Heya!" It was Bryne. She wore shades and a sleeveless white top and summer skirt which highlighted her upper physique. She seemed giddier than usual, but she knew how to reign it in. "Part of me thought you wouldn't actually come. But I had this feeling- no more intuition that you would come." "Not sure if I sure I should be worried." Kenny joked. Bryne patted his arm, smiling. Kenny felt relieved, especially after his long bus ride journey, though he noticed one of the locals, possibly a friend standing next to her. "Oh this is Chai by the way," Bryne said, introducing the man next standing beside her. "Nice, very nice to meet you." Chai replied, grasping his hands together in praying manner. He looked to be around 50 but the wrinkles around his cheeks gave him a more youthful look. He was bald with a certain gleam in his brown eyes. If it weren't for his casual yellow t-shirt and white shorts, Kenny would've mistaken him for a monk. It was clear English was not the man's first language, but both his tone and local accent gave off a rather soothing feeling. "I'd very much like to show you around, Mr. Phan, yes?" Bryne that to them both a wave of the hand which gestured that she would return rather soon as she went to mingle with the other locals.  "I heard many a great stories from Ms. Nyland." "Well, that kind of makes worried," Kenny jested. "No, no," Chai insisted, waving his hand around as if to he were stopping fumes from the nearby fireplace from reaching his guest." Feel free to make any requests, it's not often Ms. Nyland brings along a guest. Especially one journeying from afar like yourself. "So, are will we watching some training or something?" "Ah yes. But the most important thing is that you enjoy yourself", he pointed to the various food stalls lined across the back of the beach which connected all the way up to the market streets further inland. "So Nyland was her last name." Kenny thought to himself, smiling. "It suits her." To think that only a mere two days ago, he was unloading cardboard boxes, one after another without really knowing what the world would hold the next day. But as the scene of events unfolded right before Kenny's eyes, he felt as if he were transported to some far-off corner of the universe. A place where fantastical beasts, made up of varying shapes and sizes, some large like elephants that would watch over the dining tables as the locals prepared to serve all sort of fresh delicacies, others; were as small as pigeons that would soar the around the fireplace; all conjured from the lively dance of locals meshed with the calm song of the sea. A mix of orange, crimson and blue rolled through the evening sky. The open ceremony match is about to start," Chai said, looking straight ahead. "Newcomers, warriors such as yourself are highly encouraged to take part. After all, Ms. Nyland will surely be watching." Chai claimed, wearing his usual warm smile, but bowed his head forward in a more graceful motion than usual. Chai explained all the rules in a calm but succinct manner. The fight almost mirrored that of typical Thai kickboxing matches, full hands-on contact with grappling permitted, but no contact to vital areas were allowed. Though something was different. Kenny watched the two fighters on stage duke it out, from an ordinary bystander viewpoint it looked like any other fight; one person inching either close or further away to try in get a hit in while waiting for the precise 'opening'. However, Kenny, seemed as if they both were innately aware of each's movements, as if it were a dance. He was sure all the locals were obviously aware of this. The familiarity of tradition. Kenny shot a quick glance past his shoulders; but he couldn’t quite spot her figure through the lively commotion. But based on Chai's tone, he knew that he words were truth. Kenny felt as if someone, somewhere was watching him. And just before Kenny could come up with some kind retort in his mind, a vivid image of a familiar figure of a warrior, posing heroically with a spear in hand, had emerged in the forefront of his mind. A Valkyrie. Brynhildr. 'Why now of times?' he suddenly thought. But Kenny was suddenly brought back to reality as the commotion ahead, with ceremonial songs and lively chanting grew louder. Kenny ambled just behind the crowd of onlookers, which consisted of mostly of locals who seemed both familiar and energized by the scene ahead; and of course, a few foreign tourists such as Kenny himself. Though Bryne was nowhere to be seen. "We welcome, all warriors, past, present and future on the land we stand on today..." The announcer called out. Pairs of ceremonial sticks rhythmically banged against the multiple sets of drums which bellowed through the evening air. Kenny took it all in, and as his feet remained firmly planted into the sand, he experienced an indescribable feeling deep within him. Something deeply profound. Like a moth being drawn to a light, he unconsciously proceeded to stride toward the stage, each step with building onto the other with newly found purpose. Just before he reached the ivory steps, no higher than half a metre, he was stood five metres away from his opponent. He was slightly larger in build, toned muscles with tanned skin, and was wearing a stern but neutral expression on his face. A veteran Thai warrior. The crowd seemed to be cheering both participants on. A calm breeze grazed his skin, for the first time in very long time a familiar feeling he had long forgotten resurged, he walked into spotlight, all semblance of noise from the outside world drowned out. His feet came to a still as he faced his opponent, eyes locked on the horizon ahead- ready for this very moment.

8yswzn

The Truth, Tucked Away

Emily’s breath hung there, puffs of mist in the crisp air, a fleeting wisp that dissipated as quickly as it appeared. The pine trees loomed tall and silent around her, their branches quietly creaking secrets of a land untamed. Their sharp, earthy was scent a familiar friend. This was her world, a realm of solitude and silence, broken only by the occasional distant howl of a wolf or the sharp call of an eagle. Emily was alone, save for her father who was often absent, his presence a shadow that came and went with the cycles of the moon. The small log cabin they called home stood at the edge of a vast forest in the great Alaskan wilderness, its walls a testament to years of weathering harsh winters and torrential rains. Inside, the warmth of the fire did little to chase away the chill that seeped into Emily's bones, a chill not just of the body, but of the heart. Her father’s sporadic returns were marked by brief exchanges and averted gazes, and though she had learned to fend for herself, the yearning for a mother she had never known gnawed at her soul. Who wouldn’t want a mother? Or a companion, at least. Someone to talk to, to share secrets and laugh and play with. One day in early Spring, with her father gone on another of his long trips, Emily decided to clean up the small, cluttered cabin. It was an idle task, meant to pass the time and keep the gnawing loneliness at bay. She moved with practiced ease, sweeping the wooden floors, dusting the shelves, and straightening the meager furnishings. As she made her way to her father’s room, she paused, her hand lingering over his bed. It was an intrusion into his private space, a boundary. But curiosity and a strange sense of destiny compelled her forward. Lifting his pillow, she found a photograph tucked beneath it. The edges were worn and the colors had faded with time. Her breath caught in her throat when she saw it. The image was of a younger man, her father, with an arm draped casually around someone. A woman. The woman’s eyes, so familiar yet so foreign, seemed to look right through Emily, piercing her with an intensity that made her heart ache. My mother . The realization hit her like a thunderclap, and she sank to the floor, tears streaming down her face. With trembling hands, she flipped the photograph over and saw a message scrawled on the back. “Never going to leave this place,” it read, and she mouthed the words but no sound came forth. She read the next words, a location: “With love, from Glacier Lake.” It was a place even deeper into the Alaskan wilderness than they already were, a name that held no meaning for her previously, but it could hold answers she desperately needed. Determination ignited within her. Emily gathered what supplies she could find: a small rucksack, a canteen, some dried meat, and a thick wool blanket. She dressed in layers, pulling on sturdy boots and her warmest coat. With a map her father had once shown her and a compass in hand, she set out into the vast, indifferent expanse of the forest. The journey was arduous. The forest, once a familiar sanctuary, transformed into a labyrinth of leafy limbs almost grasping for her. Obstacles she never anticipated stretched out before her as she waded through icy streams, clambered over fallen trees, and pushed through thickets of thorny underbrush. Each step was a testament to her resolve, her hope to better understand a mother she had never known. On the third day, as she traversed a narrow trail along a steep ravine, she heard, and then saw, a large hairy form rustling through the bushes ahead. Whether a moose or a bear, or something worse, she had to defend herself. Her heart pounded as she gripped the hunting knife she carried for protection. A black bear emerged from the foliage, its massive form blocking her path. Fear paralyzed her for a moment, but she remembered her father’s teachings. Moving slowly, she backed away, her eyes never leaving the bear. A long, tense moment passed between them, and she saw the bear weighing possibilities in its mind before it turned and lumbered off into the woods, leaving her path clear once more. She let loose a sigh and slumped against the nearest tree to catch her breath, adrenaline now coursing through her veins and overwhelming her senses. Bruised, battered, and exhausted, Emily finally reached Glacier Lake. The sight took her breath away. The lake was a mirror of the sky, its pristine waters reflecting the surrounding snow-capped peaks. It was a place of haunting beauty, a sanctuary of tranquility. Emily felt a connection to this place. Some sort of bond with these mountains. With the chill of this fresh air. She set up camp by the water’s edge, building a small fire to ward off the evening chill. As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, she felt a presence beside her. Closing her eyes, she could almost feel her mother’s arms around her, a whisper of love carried on the gentle breeze. Emily knew that her journey was far from over. There were still answers to be found, mysteries to unravel. But in that moment, by the shores of Glacier Lake, she found a piece of her heart that had been missing, a fragment of the family she had always longed for. And with that, she found the strength to continue. As the first light of dawn crept over the mountains, soft hues of primrose pink and cornflower blue cast a gentle glow across the lake. Two ducks alighted from a patch of reeds at the edge of the lake. Something stirred within her. Yearning. The serene beauty of the lake was a stark contrast to the turmoil inside her, a near silent witness to her newfound resolve. She packed her belongings methodically, the ritual grounding her amidst the whirlwind of emotions. The wilderness had become a canvas for her thoughts, each step forward painting a path toward a future she had not dared to dream of before. She might discover something, anything , about her mother. Emily had spent the night under the stars, the crackling fire providing warmth and a false sense of companionship. She tried to allow it to be enough, as she did in her hearth at home. She had slept fitfully, her dreams a tangled web of faces and voices, echoing memories she did not have. Now, with the day ahead, she set out to explore the area around the lake. There is more to uncover here. I can feel it . Her search led her deeper into the forest, where the trees grew denser and the underbrush thicker. The air was filled with the earthy scent of moss and pine, and the ground was soft beneath her boots, muffling her footsteps. As she pushed through a thicket, she stumbled upon an overgrown path, barely visible beneath the foliage. Following it, she soon came upon a clearing where an old, weathered cabin stood, its wooden walls gray with age and its roof sagging under the weight of time. The cabin seemed almost a mirage, a relic of a forgotten past. Emily approached it cautiously, her heart pounding in her chest. She pushed open the creaking door, which gave way with a reluctant groan. Inside, the cabin was dim and musty, filled with the smell of old wood and decay. Dust motes danced in the beams of sunlight that filtered through the broken windows, illuminating the remnants of a life once lived. Love once shared. Taking in the space, Emily was drawn to a table in the corner, covered with a thick layer of dust. On it lay a collection of photographs, their edges yellowed and curled. She picked them up one by one, her fingers trembling. The first photo was of her mother and father, smiling and carefree. There were more—her parents hiking, laughing by the lake, and then, a photograph that took her breath away: her mother, visibly pregnant, standing in the doorway of this very cabin, her hands resting gently on her swollen belly. Overcome with emotion, Emily sank to the floor, clutching the photographs to her chest. Sobs wracked her body as she wept for the mother she never knew, for the lost moments and untold stories. The loneliness she had always felt now had a face, a name, a tangible reality that made her heart ache with a profound longing. The hours passed unnoticed as Emily let her tears flow, releasing the grief that had been buried deep within her. When she finally stood sometime that afternoon, her resolve was stronger than ever. Her father had kept these memories hidden, buried in the stark silence of their lives. My life. Nothing but silence . He owed her an explanation, and she would no longer accept half-truths and evasion. Then she noticed them. More stacks of photographs. Littering the floor and various surfaces were hundreds of them. She sat down in an old chair in the living room area, one that, she noticed, wasn’t quite as dusty as some of the other surfaces out here. She realized, then, her place at the table had looked recently used, as well. She shuddered. On the side table next to her was another stack, and she braced herself for more pictures of her mother. Instead, she saw someone else. Another woman. Her face turned to horror as she saw flipped through the stack, beginning in casual date photos of them and her father, days she’d been stuck at home while he was out ‘hunting’ and ‘trapping varmints’ but then she recognized the cabin she was in right now in the background of a photo, but the face of the woman had changed. She was out cold. There were more photos after that. Her fingers trembled, as she took in the stacks around her, all different women, all ending the same way. She was uncertain what she should do, but she couldn’t stay. She could barely process anything beyond the swell of blood in her ears, blotting out all sound. All thought. She panicked, and ran out of the cabin in a flurry of photos. She took one last look at the tranquil waters, the reflection of the mountains a silent promise of the journey ahead. A chill ran through her when she realized her father might beat her home.

c7pded

Finding Alwar.

As I push it open, the door creaks, revealing cool lighting and that new apartment smell that I've found filling my nose a lot over the past few weeks. My sneakers press against white tiles as I move through my new apartment, freshly bought. I stride into the kitchen, setting bags of groceries down on the white marble counter. "Organization," I murmur to myself as I take groceries out of the bags, my eyes flicking over the kitchen. "My favorite." I open the silver steel fridge, finding a spot to slide egg cartons onto the white rack. I've just moved out of my parent's house after they died in a car crash and found this apartment for a decent deal after a lot of apartment searching. I'm a new author, but I was lucky to have my first book ever to be a best-selling novel. I saved up and bought this nice apartment with marble counters and clean white trim. I grab some cereal boxes, pick one of the white cabinets, and open it. I'll admit, there's a whole lot of white. White cabinets, white tiles in the kitchen, off-white walls, and white trim. Although, after some decorating, I'm sure I can spice the place up a bit. As I slide the cereal boxes into the cabinet my eyes catch on a flash of black among the white wood of the cabinet door. I squint, reaching up and hooking my fingers on what I assume is film wedged in between the cabinet door trim and the wood that the trim is attached to. I pinch it with two fingers, yanking it out from in between the wood. My eyebrows narrow as I look at the film. There's a girl. She's standing at the beach at nighttime, likely here in Florida. She's lit up by the flash of whatever camera took the photo. Her hands are behind her back, a warm smile on her face, lighting up her slim, purple eyes. I squint, but I dismiss it, thinking it's just contacts. She's wearing a sundress, shimmery green flowing in the wind. Her hair is the color of a lake at night, flowing all the way down to her lower back in loose, blue-green waves. The thing that catches my eye is the horns peeking through her hair at the crown of her head. They are like the horns of a baby goat, short and stubby. Then there's her ears. Her hair is tucked behind pointy, elf-like ears. She is undeniably beautiful. Part of me believes that this girl is just dressing up like a girl on Halloween with bright purple contacts, blue-green hair dye, ear attachments, and little horns attached to her head. But then there's the part of me that reads too many fantasy books. The part of me that wonders if this human isn't human at all. The curious part of me wants to figure out who this girl is. I flip the photo over, scanning the back. In black ink, the words, ' Cordelia in the mortal world,' are sprawled. I blink. Here we are again. Satire or fantasy? I sigh, internally debating myself. My eyes roam over the photo, noticing the lighthouse to the far right side of the photo. The girl I now know as Cordelia is standing near the docks, right where the boats come in. There's a boat parked at the dock, one that seems different than the rest. It's the same size, same style. Only it seems murkier. . . more shimmery. I squint, unsure if I'm going crazy or not. There's a layer of shimmery purple surrounding the boat. Like magic. That f antasy-book-reading side of the internal debate wins. I set the photo down and start searching the rest of the cabinets, looking for something else that might give me a clue. I study the cabinets intently, looking at the ridges in between each frame of the inside of the cabinet door and the piece of wood that it's attached to. Eventually, my eye catches a piece of paper. My lips spread into a satisfied smile as I pinch the paper, carefully tugging it out of its hiding spot. I flip it over, my eyes scanning over the words etched in smudged ink sprawled across the paper. 'The dock at midnight. Friday, like every week.' The words repeat in my mind. It's Friday. I glance out the window, the sky an inky black with few blinking stars due to the light pollution in this part of the city. I reach over to my phone that's lying against the counter next to the empty grocery bags, clicking the bottom on the side of the case. 10:58 Nearly an hour until midnight. With no hesitation, I slip my phone into my pocket. I snatch my keys off the counter, the sound of each one clinking together echoing through the empty apartment as I walk towards the door, open it, and step out. I don't bother using the elevator, entering the stairwell, and skipping down the stairs, eager to fill out that urge to live in a fantasy book that I've had ever since I could understand the plot of one. Once I reach the bottom floor I exit the apartment building, the moonlight shining against my honey-brown hair as I hop into my grey Honda Civic, starting the engine and pulling out of the parking lot. In thirty minutes I arrive at the docks, taking my keys out of the ignition and hopping out of the car. It's chilly out, but the jeans and sweater I have on are enough to conceal my body heat. My eyes scan across the area. Sand shifts beneath my sneakers as I cross the beach, heading towards the spot I remember Cordelia standing in. Empty. My eyes flick over to the docks. The spot where the boat was is empty, but it's not midnight yet. I bring my wrist up, checking my watch. Nearly twenty minutes until the clock hits twelve. The wood creaks under my weight as I walk across the dock, looking for a hiding spot. Just until midnight. If nothing happens, I'll leave. My eyes flick back and forth, making sure no one is watching as I sneak onto a boat, dismissing the fact that I'm likely not supposed to be on anybody's private boat. I crouch down so only my head is visible as I watch the ocean, waiting. Minutes tick by, and I begin thinking that I'm going insane. That girl might have just been someone doing a photoshoot, dressed as some sort of creature. The words on the back of the photo must've just been satire. A joke, considering her outfit. And then the note must've just been from someone just trying to meet someone, and it mistakenly didn't get taken. Or someone left it there, not bothering to trash it. As midnight hits, I'm convinced that all the fantasy writing and reading has gotten to my head. Just as I'm about to leave, a boat appears. Out of nowhere. I duck back down, peeking up only just enough to see what's going on. The boat in the photo has appeared, that shimmery purple glitter falling around it. That's when a boy hops out. Probably a little older than me. He looks similar to the Cordelia girl; slim, shimmery purple eyes and stubby horns peeking through blue-green, wavy hair. It flows around his head like waves, tickling his brows. Pointy ears poke through his hair as well, a copy of Cordelia's. He's tall and fit, wearing a grey, cotton tunic with simple trousers. My eyebrows narrow. There's no way this isn't something out of a fantasy book. Nobody wears stuff like that anymore. I watch as the girl from the photo steps out beside him. Now, side by side, I figure that they must be siblings, considering how similar they look to each other. "It's midnight," the boy says, his voice deep and smooth. "Where is he?" "I don't know, Flynn." Cordelia huffs, seeming annoyed as she strides across the deck, stopping just where the dark wood meets the grainy sand. The boy I now know as Flynn rolls his eyes. My eyes scan the boy's figure, studying him. His skin is tan, with a rough look to it with a few scars across his arms, visible thanks to the moonlight. His hair looks darker, but I know it likely matches the deep blue-green ocean color of Cordelias; blue and green streaks through his hair. His eyes are lit with purple, several shades darker than the shimmery purple still falling around the boat. Just like Cordelia, Flynn is undeniably beautiful. Not human. "Henry!" Cordelia's smooth voice echoes through the thin, night air. I watch as she jumps, waving her arm towards the beach. Soon, a boy approaches her. He has sandy brown hair and a bright smile, tall and freckled-faced with round ears and no horns. He's human. "Cordelia." Henry laughs, wrapping her arms around Cordelia as she throws herself at him. I almost smile, but then I remember that I'm still trying to figure out what's going on. Henry and Cordelia start talking, and my mind starts to put the pieces together. Flynn and Cordelia arrived at the dock in an instant, the boat appearing out of nowhere. They are still looking non-human, so I suppose that means that they can't just be dressing up. If they were, it would be unusual. Not to mention, now that I'm up close and in person, those ears look real. The eyes look real. The horns look extremely real. These people are non-human, meeting a human boy. Flynn doesn't seem to care, climbing back onto the boat with a bored expression. "Come on, now, we have to get back to Alwar before the maids come and find us gone." Something about their voices seems fancy to me. There's some sort of accent that just screams royal to me. Fantasy. Cordelia and Henry walk back to the boat, hand-in-hand. Panic rushes towards me as I realize they're about to leave. As they climb onto the boat, all gathering towards the deck, I come out of my hiding spot in a moment of courage. My mind is screaming at me, telling me to leave and that this is an incredibly stupid idea. But my heart keeps me going, keeping my feet light to not alert their likely good hearing. I hold my breath as I hop onto the boat, sitting at the rear where there's a decent amount of space behind the cabin. I sit, my back to the cabin and my knees to my chest. As several moments of me staying hidden tick by, I let out my breath. *** Around ten minutes have gone by. I've been listening to their conversations, picking up personality traits and information between the three of them. First of all, Cordelia is bright and bubbly. She's been in love with Henry ever since she visited the human world. Henry is just as in love with Cordelia as she is with him, despite her being whatever type of creature she is. Flynn is the one who has mastered these magic abilities, and that's why he takes Cordelia to see Henry every Friday, the purple shimmery thing hiding the boat in some sort of force field. I feel a rush of adrenaline at this feeling of being in the unknown, undetected. In the shadows. Oh, but that doesn't last for long. Before I realize it, I'm staring into bright purple eyes, the boy crouched in front of me. "What a little sneaky fox, hmm?" Flynn's smooth voice is low like he's telling me a secret just between the two of us. "Sneaking onto a faeries boat?" Faerie . I swallow, my eyes sweeping over his sharp nose and curved lips. "I knew it," I whisper, more to myself than him. He raises a thick brow, his eyes studying me with a look of amusement and curiosity. "What's your name, little fox?" I narrow my eyes at that nickname. "Delilah," I answer, far too casually for a girl who just got caught on a faeries boat. "You can call me Lilah, though." Flynn's chin tilts up, his slim eyes sweeping over my face. "A mortal." "A faerie," I murmur back in the same tone, my eyes flicking over his horns and ears. "You. . ," he trailed off, pinning me with a confused look, "aren't surprised." I blink, suddenly remembering that I should totally be surprised right now. I just met a faerie . The ones you read about in fantasy books. The ones that can enchant you and put spells on you. I am a human, utterly defenseless against this boy. Yet, I can't help the amazement in my eyes. The intrigued and curious feeling. "Huh," Flynn murmurs, studying that look in my eyes. "This is unusual." Seconds tick by of us staring at each other, his eyes flicking over my figure, sweeping over my pin-straight, honey-brown hair. He studies the sharp curve of my jaw, the point of my nose. Finally, they lock on my bland brown eyes, nowhere near as extravagant as the shimmery purple ones before me, looking like the very magic that surrounds the boat. "You're beautiful," I blurt, and before I can let myself think I've reached up, poking the tip of his horn. A smirk tugs at Flynn's lips, his eyes on mine. "For a mortal girl, so are you." Despite the situation, I feel a blush cross my face. "Flynn?" Cordelia appears beside Flynn, looking down at me with wide eyes. My hand drops to my side. Henry soon joins Cordelia, surprised as well. Flynn stands up, looking down at me. "A mortal snuck onto the boat." Cordelia just stares at me. "I saw your picture," I say to her. I hesitantly stand up, fishing the photo out of my pocket. I hand it to her. "In my apartment." She carefully takes it from me, her fingers long and slim with sharp nails. "Oh," she murmurs while looking at the photo., confusion knitting her brows together. Henry grimaces. "I put that in there." He looks up at me. "That used to be my apartment." I nod, more pieces of the puzzle connecting in my mind. "So what do we do with her?" Cordelia asks, pretending as if I'm not even here as she looks at Flynn. He doesn't say anything, and Cordelia sighs. "How can we know we can trust her? We might have to just ench-" "We aren't enchanting her," Flynn interrupts, his eyes never leaving mine. Cordelia's brows furrow at his quick words. "Why not?" "I don't want to." I press my lips together, very confused. "Mortals are unusual in Alwar," Flynn says, his gaze pinned on mine. "But not uncommon." My eyebrows shoot up his forehead at what he's suggesting. "Henry didn't want to come." He shrugs, gesturing to Henry. "But you? Do you want to live there?" Cordelia sputters, "You just met her, Flynn!" Flynn doesn't pay any attention to her, his eyes on me expectingly, waiting for me to answer. My jaw is dropped. I blink at him. "Y-you want me to live with faeries? With-" "Me," he finishes. I practically have no family. My parents are dead. I was an only child. The only family I have is distant and doesn't care about me, living halfway across the world. And friends? I have none that I care to stay for. I try and speak, but I'm too shocked at the offer. "Is that a no?" Flynn frowns. I shake my head vigorously. "No!" I swallow. "No. I want to." Flynn smiles, dimples indenting his cheeks. "Alright, then." Just then, they all look to the right, and so do I, still stunned. An island comes into view from across the ocean. Over the whole patch of land is that purple shimmery glitter, layering the outside, hiding the view from normal boats. Our boat isn't normal, though. I swallow, excited. "Welcome," Flynn starts, smiling at me with dimples and bright purple eyes, "to Alwar."

3d8xkn

Acceptance at Last

Light barges into the room through the windows, and my eyes ache before I even open them. I pull the covers back over my head, attempting to shield myself, but the sunlight continues to shine directly into my eyes. There will be no escaping the headache today, so I toss the covers aside, moving towards the edge of my bed. Legs, shy of touching the floor, I will myself the strength to stand. One, two, three… With an awkward push I stand on both feet without falling back or slipping, and I make my way out to the kitchen, eyes still aching and adjusting to the light, blurring my vision slightly. I can already hear my mother, and picture her sitting in her armchair by the fire, ordering my father and siblings around. As I round the corner I find her standing over the stove, alone, I’ve woken up late. She glares at me, up and down, before returning her gaze to the pan, saying, “Did you even bother to shower?” My answer will not matter. I pull up a chair at the table as she continues talking, “You look like you slept in your clothes again,” glaring at me before saying “You smell like you did too.” Why she says these things without expecting an answer I’ll never understand. I don’t believe we’ve ever had a conversation, just her talking at me, or me making small talk to her, but in each instance, there’s no reply. I cross my arms on the table and lay my head on top of them, staring out the window into the woods, allowing my mother’s voice to fade and muffle as I try to find some comfort and ignore the persistent pain in my legs and chest. As I finally find comfort I hear a shout, looking up in time to watch a spoon fly past my face. “Are you deaf, girl? Get up. There’s work to be done.” I don’t want to ask, but it’s been long enough that I should. The pain isn’t going away, it’s gotten worse, and surely a doctor could fix it, but how to phrase it to her… I’ve got an idea. “Sorry, this pain is still bugging me. I didn’t sleep well, it’s in my chest and eyes now too, not just my legs.” She says nothing. “I could probably work better if the doctor-” “He’s not coming.” “What?” A swift hand glides past my face as I barely doge her smack, leaning backwards in my chair as she lunges across the room. Failure to land a hit makes her more irritable. “Don’t interrupt. Your father asked him, but he’s got better things to do than see you about some eye pain. You can get your work done fine without complaining.” “I told you it started in my legs, the eye pain was only recent, and then my chest has been aching-” “Don’t talk back, you’ve been grumpy all morning. Get to work, don’t go wandering off again, straight to your chores, you hear? Be careful around the woods.” She shouts as I walk out the door, through the gate, and along the path. No point arguing against that, she’s in no mood. I wish she would listen, then she’d know I could get more work done if I did see a doctor. I don’t even need to see one, just a description of my symptoms would surely be enough to give me something for the pain. She probably didn’t ask Dad to go, I doubt the doctor heard about me at all. It’s ‘too expensive’ to get me looked at, but when she wants a new outfit we have money to spare, how convenient. Why do I even bother? That’s a good point… And a better point, where am I? Looking up from the ground and out of my thoughts, vision still blurry and eyes still aching, I realise nothing looks familiar. There’s no path, I must have… drifted off, just a moment ago I was it. Well, since I’m here…I find a tree to lounge beneath and lie up against it, as comfortable as I’ll get, before realising I forgot to eat. Not that I was offered anything. No point thinking about that now, there are much better things to think about to distract myself from the pain. I daydream, leaning my head back against the tree, and fade into a pleasant dream. Waking from slumber I feel a warmth in front of me. As I open my eyes I realise I’m not where I fell asleep. There’s a fire now, as I glance around I can see wooden cabins that weren’t there before. “Welcome.” The voice sends a chill through my skin that writhes down my spine, and as I dart forward I see her. Eyes sunken, skin greyed, long black hair and robes. What could she want? “Are you… a witch?” I stutter, trying to be calm. “No, I’m not the witch, he lives over there,” pointing over to a young teenage boy, with golden and purple robes, and blue hair. He tends to colourful plants, then smiles and waves excitedly. He’s holding some kind of crutch. I pick up the nearest sharp object I can find and point it to her neck. “What do you want?” She turns back and smiles warmly. “I- I’m of no use to you. I can’t work.” She chuckles and brushes my hand away. “I’ve been watching you. You seem… different. I thought you would like this better.” “And instead of asking, you just took me.” “I suppose that might have been an oversight.” I can’t help but laugh. I don’t trust her but… she’s funny. “Let me help you up, I can show you around.” As she helps me off the ground I’m flooded with questions. Surely she must be lying, must want something. This place could prove to be better than home, even if she is. I do my best to hide my pain as we walk around, but moving so suddenly has made it flare up. Her eyes wander to my hand, clasping my chest. “Are you alright?” “I’m fine.” “Why do you clutch your chest?” “I’m fine.” “I see…” She pauses a moment. “You know, many of us were not welcome in our homes, for different reasons. I saw the way you were treated, you were seen as useless, and made to work despite your injury. You reminded me of Oscar.” She points again to the bright young man with the crutches, in his farm. “He lived in a village like yours. He was born with only one leg, his mother died in childbirth and his father didn’t want him, so they left him in the woods. When I found him I brought him here, and raised him.” “What does that have to do with me? I’m just sick, it’ll go away.” She looks at me now, she’s not trying to be condescending, but I feel it. “I don’t need your sympathy or your help. I’m fine where I am.” “How old are you?” “Twenty-nine, what does that-” “Why are you still in that house?” I don’t answer, there’s no point. She knows. Her tone shifts to jovial, unsettling me, as she says “You look like you could use some rest. Come, you can stay as long as you like before you make your choice.” I’m not complaining about the rest, but decide to change the topic. I need as much information as possible before I decide. “What’s your name?” “Aela. I never did get yours either, sorry about that. I’m not particularly accustomed to new people.” “Yeah, the whole kidnapping thing was enough of a clue to tell me that.” She laughs at my sarcasm. “I’m Emily.” At least they find it funny here, at home I’d just get hit. Then again, I’d get hit for breathing in that house. She seems to notice I’m in my head and returns to a more serious discussion. “I am sorry about your… illness. I did not mean to offend you. Have you seen a doctor for it?” I sigh before replying, “No. My mother’s been promising to take me for months, but… she always makes up an excuse, usually related to money.” “I’ll never understand why people bring children into the world only to make them suffer under their hands.” I find this remark surprising, there’s a gap of silence between us. “Sorry, it’s just… I was treated similarly back home, though it was years ago now, it still enrages me, even at thirty.” She seems sincere, too sincere. I can’t understand it. I suppose it makes sense, she was rejected by her people, so now she takes in all the other rejects and helps them, but… that can’t be all there is to it. She has to have another motive, maybe money. Though I don’t see how she’d make any, or perhaps power. If she’s the leader maybe she likes being in charge, or she wants revenge on the people who treated her badly in the past since it ‘enrages’ her so much. That seems the most likely. But there’s Oscar. To raise a child for the sole purpose of revenge seems hypocritical if she wants revenge for being used and mistreated when she was young. While in my thoughts she’s led us to a cabin that seems to be hers, judging by the black tapestry and stained glass windows. She leads us inside and offers me a tray of food, and her bed. “I have some things to take care of, so you can have a rest in here. If you decide to stay the night we can share, if that’s alright with you.” This is the first time I’ve seen her truly awkward, a guest in her house must be unusual, or perhaps a stranger in her bed is making her uncomfortable. “Fine by me,” I reply. Regardless, the mask is slipping, and I’m thankful for the rest, so I gladly drift off to sleep. I wake with her beside me. She’s strangely warm, for someone so seemingly cold. It must be night, but I can hear something outside, a banging on the door. It must be the wind, I think to myself, we are in the woods after all. She wakes up too as I shift, rolling over to face her. “Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.” “That’s alright, it’s just the noise.” “Yeah…” “Don’t be afraid. It’s just the wind.” “Who said I was afraid?” I ask as the door continues to shake in the wind. She smiles. “Your face. You seem to be prepared for the worst at all times.” “Can you blame me?” “No, I suppose not. Still, there’s no reason to be afraid here. We are safe from the outside.” “And if someone on the inside had bad intentions?” “Then the rest of us would soon know, and we would protect one another, as we always have.” I lie next to her, staring straight into her face. It’s so clear she believes what she says, there’s such a sincerity to her. Suddenly the door rattles again, louder than previously, making the two of us jump. “I'm going to check what that noise is” She sighs, smiling fondly as she rolls over. “Suit yourself.” I stand up slowly, but still almost fall over as the pain siezes my legs. When I get to the door I open it and, to my surprise, I see my father, attempting to break through the door. He looks angry for a moment, but relieved when he recognises me, crushing me in a hug, paying no mind to the pain in my chest and legs. I look past him, frantic, to see that he’s here alone, thankfully. “Thank God you’re safe. Your mother’s worried sick.” “Why? Did she miss having a servant to do her work so she can lounge all day?” He’s silent because he knows it's true. I’ve seen the relief on his face when he leaves for work, with no thought of what his children endure. “Look, we can talk about that on the way back, for now, we need to get out of here.” “Why would I want to go back?” “Emily… Of course, you want to come home, don’t be stupid.” I give him a look, I’m too tired and sore to communicate what I feel. It will be enough, he knows about the pain. “I know things have been bad for you,” he replies, I know what he’s about to say before it leaves his mouth, “but things haven’t been easy for your mother either-” “So you’re fine with her taking that out on me?” He says nothing, stunned at my bluntness. “What am I saying, of course you are. You’ve never stopped it before, why would you now?” He still says nothing and begins looking at me sceptically. “I’m not going back. Tell them what you like. I think… I think I could be happy here, I’m not sure just yet.” He still looks sceptical. “I haven’t decided what I want. I’ll be back in a few days if I decide I don’t want to stay, but I need time. I want to make this choice myself.” “Alright,” he sighs, defeated, scepticism apparent in his reply. Seeing him here is strange, a reminder that this could go away, that I’d have to go back. I don’t like that. I slam the door in his face and make my way back to bed. Aela’s still awake, but barely. “Anything there?” She mumbles. “Nah, just the wind…” I reply, pulling the covers over my head. I wake up the next morning with my arms around her, which she seems to find amusing. We spend the day together again, and I want to be happy. I would be, if not for this sick feeling in my stomach, I’m worried about what Dad will do. Still, I try my best to be happy. Aela introduces me to an inventor, he’s in a special chair with wheels. She says he could make me one, so I don’t have to walk as much when I’m having a bad day with the pain. “Only if you’d like, it’s up to you.” “I’ll think about it.” The idea is intriguing, but I still feel sick. She seems to have noticed and asks me if the pain is bad. I say I’m feeling ill and she takes me back to her house, lying me down in her bed and telling me in a soft, warm voice to rest. I drift off to sleep again, dreaming of her. Screaming from outside awakens me, the sudden movement of sitting up sending a jolt of pain down my spine. I look out the window and see my father, holding Oscar up by the scruff of his collar, guards from the human village running past him. I get out of bed as quickly as possible, trying not to fall over. As I burst through the door he locks eyes with me. “Put him down!” I hear Aela before I see her, standing in Oscar’s garden. The rest of the citizens watch on, not yet subdued, they look ready for a fight. My father begins to speak, voice booming across the clearing, “A trade. My daughter for your son.” He points to Aela. She looks from my father, to Oscar, then to me, unsure of what to do. This is the first time I’ve seen her not be confident. “It’s not her choice to make,” I say, my father locks eyes with me. “You cannot speak for yourself, she’s done something to you, possessed you-” “She hasn’t. I can prove it.” I make my way towards him. “How could you possibly-” “You married Mum because you knew her father would give you a good job and let you take over when he died. You always wanted children, she never did, but you had them anyway. You despise her now, because-” “Enough!” I’ve embarrassed him in front of his friends, merely by stating the truth. I could say more, but I won’t have to. “How would she know any of those things?” “Well, she’s seen what’s in your mind then-” “Dad,” I’m in front of him now, a guard off to the side still holding Oscar. “Please, let me make this choice.” He doesn’t seem to know what to say, distracted in his thoughts. While everyone’s distracted I’ve watched Aela from the corner of my eye, sneaking closer and closer. She’s behind the guard now, still, nobody has noticed, eyes on my father and I. She stabs the guard in the leg, then grabs Oscar and runs back to the others. My father continues glaring at me. “There is no fixing you, is there?” “I don’t need to be fixed.” He scoffs, tells the rest of the men to retreat, then turns to me before leaving and says, “Your mother was always right about you.” I just laugh and watch him walk away. “Thank you.” Alea runs up to me and hugs me gently. “Without you, I couldn’t have saved him.” “Without me, you wouldn’t be in this mess. I’m so sorry.” “You didn’t know-” “I should’ve.” “Emily, it wasn’t your fault. Nobody blames you.” I keep expecting her soft exterior to fall away to something harsher and angrier, but… nothing. “Would you like to stay?” I cannot believe she’s offering. “Well, I have nowhere else to go.” She frowns, “Is that the only reason you wish to stay?” I smile, it’s like she can read my mind, “No, I like it here, I think… I think I’ll be happy here.” She smiles, and for the first time, I feel I’ve found something stable, something secure, something that won’t do me wrong. Acceptance, at last.

29tydu

Games We Played

Anaya, Daughter of Lena woke as the sun rose, orange and warm through her window, bringing with it a soft ocean breeze on her face. In the distance, the melody of the village women’s song coming closer to their hut on the hill reminded her of her special day. Today would be a day of singing, dancing, and preparation. Lena, Daughter of Celia, came into Anaya’s room, with her morning cup of tea. “Drink, daughter.” Anaya looked over and saw her finished dress, a simple leather dress to the knees, embroidered with live and dried flowers. Her mother and grandmother made it last night after the lottery. “So my name was drawn,” she deduced. “It was.” Lena sat close as Anaya drank. “You will be sacrificed to the god this evening to ensure our village’s survival.” Anaya finished the drink, and her mother put the cup in her lap and placed both hands on her daughter’s face, looking deep into her eyes. “We have known this day might come, so we have been preparing for it with all our love and all our knowledge.” Anaya nodded and took a deep breath. “I am ready.” Celia, daughter of Sezna, came in singing the melody of the women who had drawn nearer, their song both mournful and powerful. Ayana’s sister Vidya followed close behind her. “They are almost here,” Celia said, holding two dark brown leather belts. Anaya put on a robe and Lena took the dress. Her father, Ren, son of Kann stood outside the men’s hut waiting for them to exit their hut across the path. Her seven-year-old brother, Trenon, crouched next to him playing with rocks, a sullen look on his face. They were surrounded by the men of the village smoking pipes and drinking from gourds. “Today is a blessed day,” Ren boomed with pride. “My daughter is the sacrifice that will keep the village safe!” The women of the village ululated, a chorus of about 50 voices, while the men applauded and whooped. Vidya laid a crown of flowers on Anaya’s head, then all the women paraded down into the valley for the day’s festivities with Anaya in the lead holding Vidya’s hand. The men stayed at Ren’s hut for the men’s ceremony. “I don’t want Anaya to die!” Trenon shouted. Some men chuckled; others were silent. Ren patted his head. “She must die for the village to live. The god will see that she is an acceptable sacrifice and will leave our sheep alone.” Trenon dropped his rocks and walked into his hut. **** In the women’s tent at the bottom of the valley, she bathed. The large tub was filled with cool water and Anaya was submerged, eyes open, counting to 2400. Her hands were bound with rope in front of her. The tent was filled with women and girls who also held their breath. As each breath holder reached her limit, she breathed, and began to hum the festival song. Very few women would hold their breath for as long as Anaya could. Sacrifice, Sacrifice… She reached 2400 and sat up slowly in the water. She began to work on the rope and was able to release herself very quickly. She stood up in the tub holding the rope as the women and girls cheered. Her mother, grandmother, and sister helped her step out of the tub and dry off. Girls of varying ages practice escaping knots with each other, giggling at their efforts. One girl began to get frustrated. “It’s hard,” she grumbled. “Patience, girls,” an auntie admonished them gently. “Use the time. Don’t let time use you.” Sacrifice, Sacrifice… Anaya’s hair was braided with more flowers and rope. She donned the leather dress. Her grandmother threaded a belt through the dress, a small bag attached. “We can’t all go, but we can all prepare,” she whispered in Anaya’s ear. “Thank you, Nana.” Vidya gave her another leather belt. This one had a knife in its sheath, to be worn like a garter under her dress. At thirteen, she had three more years before her name could come up in the lottery. Anaya kissed her on her forehead. Sacrifice, Sacrifice… Outside the tent, girls were singing and dancing the Dance of the Wounded Gazelle. One girl was wearing the god mask and chased the other girls around as they shrieked. The men had joined the singing, dancing, and drumming. Meat was grilling on a large fire. Trenon ran up and hugged her as she exited the women’s tent. “Don’t go,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, baby. It’s the tradition.” “I hate it.” “I know. Maybe you can change it one day.” “I will. I will be chief and I’ll change it.” She kissed him on top of his head. He looked up at her and she wiped his tears away. She smiled at him sadly. He took her hand and they walked to the banquet table. She was seated at the place of honor being served meat stuffed with fruit and herbs. She had never felt so special, so extraordinary. She ate heartily. She drank juice, but she only pretended to drink the wine. The sun was setting. The food was eaten. The dances were over. The drums took up a happy beat. Her father washed her hands and face, and the villagers gathered for the final dance. They paraded her further down the valley, men in a column, women in another column. They reached a small ravine wherein there was a cave. A path led from the top of the ravine to the cave. Ren took Anaya’s hand and lead her away from the villagers. They reached the mouth of the cave, where a stone dais awaited, years of use leaving a dip in its middle. Her father gestured her to sit, and joined her. She looked at his face brimming with pride and noted his silent tears. She looked up at the villagers above as they sung, her mother, grandmother, sister, and brother among them. Her father gave her the cup the elder had given him. She sipped it, and paused at the familiar tasted. She looked up at her mother who gave her a small, knowing smile. The singing and drumming grew to a feverish pitch as her father held her head back as she drank the juice. She sank back into his arms and he laid her carefully on the dais in front of the cave. The joyous song gave way to mourning as the father made his way back up the path to the villagers, his head down, as he walked away from his doomed daughter. *** She woke up, the moon was full in the sky. She looked at the moon sadly, tears coursing down her cheeks. Furtive movement in the cave near her interrupted her reverie. She moved smoothly, silently as she pulled her hips and legs through her arms to bring her bound hands in front of her. Remember, Remember… She quickly removed the rope and placed it in her bag. At the belt on her thigh was a knife. She brandished it and looked in the direction of the movement. A large lizard stepped out of the cave, tongue sliding in and out testing the air for her scent. It was as long as she was tall. She hid behind a rock and waited for it. And waited. And waited. Patience, girl. She hated waiting. She climbed to the top of the rock she was hiding behind and peered over to the lizard that was stalking her. She dropped a small stone to the ground. The lizard turned and ran to the spot. She landed it and swiftly slit its throat, its blood squirting on the ground as she lay on top of it, breathing heavily in fear. Remember, Remember… She turned the reptile over and cut its belly open. She pulled the various flowers from her dress, and some seeds from her bag. She stuffed the deadly rhubarb flowers and ricin seeds in the belly and muscles of the beast. She used rope from her hair braid to tie it body shut, and dragged its body by its tail into the cave. It was heavy but she was able to lift it up onto her right shoulder and walk carefully through the cave. After several hundred meters, she could not carry it any longer and reverted to dragging it. She looked up and saw that she was at the mouth of a larger cave. The light of the full moon shone through the top of the hill, filling it with an eerie light. She peered into the cavern to see that it connected to other tunnels. In the center of the cavern, there was a sight that made her drop the lizard and cover mouth to catch a scream. It was too late. At the bottom of the cavern lay a lizard of impossible size. It boggled her mind. It must have been ten times the size of the lizard she carried, which was at least as long as she was tall, not counting the tail. She wanted to back away, run away to her mother, cry in her grandmother’s bosom. But it was too late. At the sound of her stifled scream, one large eye opened slowly, and the beast stirred. Quickly she pulled more flowers off of her dress and stuffed them down the throat of the reptile. She emptied the bag of the ricin seeds and forced her fist into the dead lizard’s throat. She was panting in panic and beginning to hyperventilate. Remember, remember… She thought of her sister playing with the knots with her friends. She thought of the auntie, calling for patience. She calmed down. The beast had started to move toward her sounds, but she was ready. She lay on her stomach and placed the reptile’s face closer to the mouth of the cavern and wiggled it. As she baited the large monster, she noticed initials scrawled into the wall. GC. Jela, daughter of Coya. Coya was Sezna’s closest friend. The beast sniffed at the carcass, licking the blood off tentatively. With a loud SNAP it snatched up the body and gobbled it in one gulp. Anaya lay there with her hands covering her mouth so she wouldn’t betray her position. She waited. Another smaller lizard came out of another tunnel and the beast snatched it up, too. She waited. The beast grew sluggish. Another reptile came out and walked through to another tunnel. The beast blinked, but did not move. Time passed, and it still did not move. She crept down slowly, covered in blood, and got closer and closer to it, trembling with every step. With her knife in one hand, she found a broken bone and picked it up to use as a makeshift sword. Soon, she found herself near the monster’s face. Without wasting another breath, she plunged her knife into its throat fiercely and repeatedly, knife and bone, bone and knife, with heaving panicky breaths. The beast moved sluggishly with the poison in its system, then stilled. She turned around to find two more smaller lizards behind her. She quickly swung and missed the closest with the knife, then buried the bone in its eye. It howled piteously, and she ran. The second lizard attacked the first, and she ran, slipping in lizard blood and dung. She crawled on her belly into a tunnel where she had not seen any lizards. It was a gamble. She crawled on hands and knees, silently crying. Eventually, she saw a glow ahead of her. In the darkness of the cave, she saw the water lit through bioluminescent algae. On the wall she saw more initials, Mona, daughter of Norina. She took a few short breaths, then a deep breath, and lowered herself into the water. She swam. She followed the underwater algae through the tunnels, swimming as fast as possible, doing her best not to panic. Her arms hurt. Her lungs ached. Until again, the light of the full moon above her called her attention to the water’s surface. In a surge of desperation, she broke the surface of the water and breathed deeply, savagely, then floated on her back gazing at the moon. Later, she made her way to land. Within a circle of stones, she set a fire using a flint from her bag. There she dried herself. The flames played over her face as she scratched her name on a rock. Once dried, she got up and walked away. *** In front of her hut, Lena hung the laundry to dry. In the distance on another island, a plume of smoked snaked through the early morning sky, and she smiled to herself.

0ak54m

In The Heat

In the heat of battle you are transformed. There is so much less to the world and yet you become so much more. The flesh may be weak, but the spirit rises up to be counted when death stares it in the eye. Once you have tasted that exotic and intoxicating poison, the life you lead dies. There are vestiges of something that sometimes resembles a life, but all it really amounts to is awaiting the next adventure in the jaws of death. “I call it The Test,” I say before wiping the ale foam from my beard. “And I call it Hot Air,” Balur grins at me and I shake my head at his friendly insolence. We are holding court with young warriors. Not yet fully blooded, but about to be. I envy them all their first full taste of war, and I look forward to supping with those who remain. Celebrating the death of their frail and puny lives and a glorious rebirth as gods. For we are  gods, those of us who will stand firm come what may, and give our lives over to the purity of war. Only gods are tested in such a way. Gods take life honourably in the pursuit of a better world. For the sacrifices we make, when we die, sword in hand, we are welcomed into the halls of our forefathers, the gods and legends who forged our kind in the stolen fires of hell, so that we can go forth, conquer and spread our strong seed. Balur winks at me as he hands me another ale. He is a winker and a smiler. To look at him right now, you would think him a fool. He never seems serious, but I have seen his true self and he is as serious as they come. I am the other side to Balur’s coin, he is my lighter side. I am warmed by his humour and the sound of his laughter is music to my ears. We fight shoulder to shoulder. Always have. Over time, I have understood this to be our destiny. There are some things that are meant to be, and this is one of them. “I hear the women of Fauldon are tall and fair,” Balur leans forward conspiratorially as he says this. “I ceased believing such tales long ago,” I say with a shrug, “women are women. Some tall. Some not so tall. But when it comes to fair, one man’s fair is another’s…” I look into my now empty tankard, shake my head to see if I can dislodge the word I was about to utter, it remains stubbornly hidden, “…not so fair.” “They’re all the same in the dark!” chuckles Galdon. Haug claps him on the shoulder, “not the Mist Maidens of Crax!” I shake my head, but I join in with the merriment. I have an affection for the more far-fetched tales, in them are wisdom and truths. But I have yet to find the truth that resides within the triple breasts of the Mist Maidens of Crax. “A man only has two hands, Haug!” Balur bellows, eyes glistening with the ale and humour. Haug grins at him, raises his hands and squeezes imaginary globes either side of his head. The expression on his face as he suckles an invisible middle teat is too much and we collapse about the table in paroxysms of laughter. Later, before I close my eyes and sleep the sound sleep always granted me on the eve of battle, I return to Haug and the Mist Maidens, wondering if the truth is that we are forever hungry. That we will always want more. I have seen the worst of this in the mad eyes of the darkest of men. Their idea of more is the utter destruction of all they behold. Some men want the world to burn and for them to be the flames that devour everything and more. I am awake before dawn, the considered and deliberate movements of warriors in preparation of the fighting to come are a chorus that greets my ears. I swiftly join the flow towards my next defining moment. My body thrums with an energy that lays dormant until battle looms. My sword is an extension of my spirit. A lightening conductor that channels elemental powers. I am all too aware of my weak flesh. I am but meat. There is something more to me than my flesh though. We all have it, but only a few of us bring it forth and use it. At first, I believed myself to be a berserker. Given over to a blind rage. And perhaps that was how it began. Bringing forth that part of myself but with little idea of how it worked. No discipline. No training. A dangerous mess that somehow prevailed. Now I have honed my powers and I sharpen them still. I grow with every fight, almost as though I take on the energy and the power of those I vanquish. I think that may well be another truth. One I dare not speak, even with the closest of my brothers. Some things are best left unsaid. Many things are best left unsaid. Leaving my tent I see snowfall. My brow creases as my mind fails to place what is wrong here. Winter is a distant memory. Snow does not belong here. The sky is a fierce red blackened and smudged into a travesty. I brush the snow from my vambrace and it smears grey. I look up and view the sky with fresh eyes. The unnaturalness of the sky is because it is on fire. I look around me and feel a terrible sense of unease at the quiet of our camp. Many of our number are looking out at that sky and attempting to discern its dire meaning. A sense of dread rises up in me for the very first time and I know that today will be unlike any day I have seen. I should relish this. I should embrace The Test, but there is a chasm between me and what awaits, and I do not know how to bridge it. Then there is a sudden, piercing bellow that breaks the spell. “Come on you maggots! Move! There is rotten flesh to feast upon!” I feel the words more than hear them. They move me even as they appear in the world. I am back to myself even before Balur crashes his palm upon my back and says, “today is a good day to die.” I turn towards his smiling face, and I nod despite myself. The bellowed words were his, I would know that voice anywhere. But they do not belong with the softly spoken words that follow. Those last words are only for me and they come from a different world. A different place. Balur’s words are opposing forces that will countenance only one victor. Much of what occurs next is a matter of training and discipline. There is only one thing to do and we do it. As one, we move with a grace that men only find in the acts of war. Our actions come naturally, and they bring us to where we need to be. Not just the well-rehearsed battle formations, but also the state and focus of a warrior. I can feel my brothers around me. We breathe as one as we look out across the plain at those who would dare stand in our way. Every enemy is different, but underneath that painted façade, they are all the same. Flesh and blood. Worry and fear. A mass of incoherent thoughts and feelings that have not been mustered sufficiently for them to match the likes of us. It is not so much that they deserve to die, it’s that they’ve failed to live sufficiently and their disorder is their undoing well before we ever meet. Today we face something totally alien to us. I stand at the vanguard and I look at the approaching ranks of warriors. I read them just as I have read a million warriors before them. They are the same, and yet they are not. I struggle to order my thoughts. These soldiers move in a way both familiar and unfamiliar, and that movement provokes in me doubt and fear. They are almost silent. Only the creak of armour and the crunch of earth under heavy foot. There is a solemn intent about them and I cannot mistake what it is; our complete annihilation. I look out across their amassed ranks and then it occurs to me what it is I am seeing, I understand that this is what all our vanquished enemies have seen. They are us. They are a hoard of battle-hardened foe made into one, impregnable war machine. Now I see it, I cannot unsee it. I allow my eyes to bore into their formations. I single out individuals in an attempt to discern weakness. I see none. The meaning of this is so close and yet I cannot quite reach it. I close my eyes and pray to the gods of war. I ask them what this means. If these warriors are us, then who are we? That is my question to the gods and my ancestors. I hear laughter and fear I am mocked by my forbears for the weakness of my ignorance, but then I realise the laughter comes from the warrior to my right; Balur. He is still laughing as he speaks, “how glorious!” “How so?” I ask calmly, betraying the maelstrom within. I am nurturing a chaos that threatens to undo me. “Don’t you see?!” he says far too loudly. I do, but I do not want to voice my thoughts. They feel far too dangerous. A weapon for the enemy. “No,” I lie. Balur nudges me and quizzes me with a curious expression, “we have conquered the world!” He grins at me, “now for the next test; we conquer ourselves!” I see it now. And for all Balur’s brashness and superficiality, he is far wiser than me in this moment. We have come full circle. We have conquered the world. And in our constant conquest we never stopped to think about where it was all going. We fought. We won. We moved on. We moved on without a backwards glance, marching away towards the next glorious encounter, leaving behind us a new generation of listless warriors just as hungry for battle as we ever were. No, they were hungrier than we could ever be. For they had vengeance embedded in their hearts and so they had far more to fight for than we ever did. “Balur…” I say quietly. “Yes,” he says, his voice tinged with an edge of concern, “what is it father?” I smile as best I can, and I do not say the words that could only have weakened him. I do not ask him to leave the field of battle before the first blood is shed. I do not tell him to be careful. I cannot introduce him to defeat in such a way. That is not our way. It is not what was intended for us. This is our destiny and the seeds of this destiny were planted by our forefathers. This is The Test and we must face it square and true. “Strength and honour,” I say the words we have always uttered before battle commences. And my son retorts with a battle cry that echoes across our assembled ranks, sparking cheers and the clash of swords on shields. Death or Glory! Across the plain, our amassed children watch silently and sullenly. They fully intend to administer death, but there will be no glory in it. Not for us. Not for me. Now I face the end, I see that I was never a god, and that my destiny was to fight with all my might to save my only son knowing that I only have one dire choice left to me now. I can die knowing my sweet Balur will see me fall, only to suffer the same fate as I. Or I can bear witness to the death of my son, see the end of the best of me before I am then hacked down like a wounded and cornered stag. As the blood-roar goes up and we run to meet our end, the taste of defeat sickens me and I am blinded with the sorrow of my son’s ignominious end. An end we inadvertently brought about, marched inexorably towards without so much as a care as to what it was we were doing. A moment before we crash into the shield wall, I realise that I was defeated by my own blind ignorance. That war was not the be all and end all. That there always had to be a purpose to what we were doing. We should have known that our swords would one day be melted down to make ploughs. Now, as we meet steel with steel and search for the gaps and moves that will bring the metal to the meat, I come face to face with death and I see reflected in his gaze, my own eyes, and they are the eyes of a man who would burn the entire world if he could. All the eyes around me burn with that same murderous and nihilistic intent. They are as red as the sky and our hearts are as black as the smoke billowing up from the trail of destruction and despair we have sewn throughout the land. Before death brings his bitter end, he takes everything from me. Everything. My friends fall one by one. And my son does not die a hero’s death. There are no heroes here. This is an ignorant struggle for a life that makes no sense in the aftermath of such slaughter. In the ensuing grief of Balur’s death, I return to the state that I encountered in my very first battle. I give myself over to the only thing that I know, only this time there is no rage, only madness. My sword is a red blur, and in the chaos I commit to those around me, I find another blade in my left hand. I go again and again and again, denying death his fun whilst doing his work for him. I am baptised in the blood of my own kind as my arms dance to the tune of my swords. I don’t know how long I am like this. Only that I come out of the other side into a strange and awed silence. And I find that I am unable to see. I think myself dead until I hear the ragged sound of my breathing and the distant drum call of my slowing heart. Eventually, as I come back to myself, I blink my eyes open. The blood and gore of the fallen has matted them shut, but I noticed not as I tore them apart in my bloodlust. I realise this as I look down at the gristle and gore that extends from the tips of my swords to the hilts, and all along my forearms. Even in such a state of gruesome obscurity, I see that I have Balur’s sword in my left hand. The awed silence extends out as I fully return to myself and see where I am and what I have done. My reeling mind takes in the fallen. So many slain. I stand amidst a sea of the dead. And this sea is ringed by cliffs of warriors. All their eyes are upon me and I feel in them the humbled awe that has prompted their respectful silence. The red rage of battle is now gone and what has replaced it is a curiosity to me. I turn and see that those few who remain are from both sides, but are now one. They encircle me and look upon me as their reason for being here. I am their unification. I am broken, but they see me as whole. Something more than they dared we could ever be. I nod, there is a truth here, and this truth is bigger than anything I could ever fathom. But it is a truth that I will now live and breathe. The truth is me. The truth is this land. As I nod, there is a change. A change in me, a change in these men. A change that is meant for this land of ours. I was defeated and I was taken apart on this battlefield so that this could be made possible. So that I could be made possible. There had to be an end, before this beginning. The stone of my warring heart had to be smashed open so that a true king could emerge. “Arthur!” comes the cry from the assembled. I raise my left arm at the joyous cries of my name. I hold my fallen son’s sword aloft and I promise him that with this sword and the might of my arm and the strength of my heart, I will unite this land and create a legend that will endure for eternity.

qqjno5

The Wolf-Stag

The wolf skull in the abandoned mine was sitting atop a rock. The skull itself was covered in spiderwebs and lit by the blue, bioluminescent bacteria that was hanging down in thin strands from the ceiling a few meters above it. Strangely, the wolf skull had very large antlers as well which were also dripping in cobwebs and bioluminescent bacteria. The walls of the cave were a deep, inky black: so black and smooth that it reflected the lights of the bacteria back and gave the place a neon-blue hue that permeated everything in it - including the creatures that scurried about. From the upper slopes, footsteps and the sliding of ancient pebbles could be heard, along with a cough and a “good heavens what is that”. Slowly an orange light formed a cone that made its way up the slope and formed an outline of some humanoid figure. He was seemingly a young man in a double-breasted, dark charcoal suit - now with a large tear near the stomach - with peaked lapels and only the left set of cufflinks. He also sported leather gloves which he noted had come in handy. In his right hand was a walking cane and he was wearing hiking boots that did not match the sophistication of his suit at all... except for perhaps the fresh tear. In his left hand he held aloft a hurricane lamp, still wet with droplets from his latest adventure. When he saw the deer skull he lowered the lamp and set it on a flat rock near the entrance to the cavern. The bacteria was illuminating the antlered wolf skull enough that he felt safe leaving the artificial light for a moment. “I have not had human visitors for... a very, very long while,” the skull intoned, turning towards Edmund. “Worshippers, if I recall. Ancient peoples who lived around the nearby lake thousands of years ago. This cave system was abandoned by that mining company years before they would have reached my sacred alcove.” Edmund nodded. The skull ‘looked’ Edmund up and down with its hollow eye sockets then chuckled lightly. “You are no human, though, are you?” Edmund shook his human-like head. “No. But I do have human-like... problems. You could say I am in debt, and I have come to you for help.” The skull chuckled again, its bony teeth clacking together eerily, sending the cobwebs, bacteria, and colony of spiders in its antlers back and forth erratically. “I can see that your soul is trifurcated: Quite a feat for a mortal. It is tearing at the edges like a worn sock. I suppose you have made some... bargains with several beings that you now regret?” Edmund affirmed the skulls suspicion and told the skull of the three entities to whom he promised his soul in exchange for magical powers. This time, the skull laughed uproariously: it was a deep laugh - deeper than the cave the two were situated in. “I am familiar with those beings,” the skull said when it stopped laughing. “I met the first being that you mentioned in the era when I was worshipped: I was already ancient when they appeared in the Spirit Realm. The way you describe the second being is also familiar to me: an entity who traversed time and the Spirit Realm - I never able to decipher if it was some kind of alien God or something else.” The skull paused. “And that third entity... I cannot fathom the depths you sought in order to encounter them : An extremely dangerous creature from another dimension - A traveller who had escaped their home dimension and now - with a companion - resides somewhere in ours, spreading chaos.” The Wolf-Stag chuckled once more. “I am now extremely curious about you, creature.” Edmund had been taking notes the entire time and then looked up when the skull paused. “I am pleased that I am interesting to someone such as yourself,” Edmund said, dusting off his coat and flicking away a rather large spider that had crawled up onto his arm. “Do not chide me for my interest in you,” the Wolf-Stag said, suddenly serious. “You may be old, but I am older.” “I know,” Edmund said apologetically. “I was being completely serious, sir: I strive to be interesting.” Edmund smirked. “But as you could see I need your help to get out of this... situation... if I am to remain interesting.” “...And you have come to bargain once more?” The Wolf-Stag asked, completing Edmund’s thought. “And what would I get for the privilege of assisting you with these three entities? Do you wish to give a sacrifice like the days of old?” “Would you like that?” Edmund asked. “Indeed it would be pleasing... but no. I would need a substantial sacrifice.” “How many humans would be sufficient, Wolf-Stag?” “To help you out of your rut? Quite a few, I’d think.” Edmund gulped. “You must help me. These three entities, I-” “Do not attempt to cater to my sense of compassion,” the skull said darkly. “That rotted away eons ago.” “I can procure humans for you as a sacrifice if you’d wish,” Edmund said. “You would have to study my rites and rituals for multiples of your life times in order for me to re-enter the spirit world,” the skull stated. “My kingdom is the Wyrd, and you would need to traverse it for a million years to full understand it. Your sacrifice would ultimately be futile, even if you did gather the strands and fodder for a ritual to me. The spirit realm is closed to me, and I to it.” As cold as the deep cavern was, Edmund began sweating. “Tthen it seems that we are at an impasse. What if...” Edmund thought for a moment and then offered to perform a ritual that would transfer his ability - borne in his soul - to transform into his true form to the Wolf-Stag. Again, the skull began to laugh darkly. “And what good would that do me?” “Then what could I offer?” Edmund whined, stretching his coat near the fresh tear. “Riches? I know, knowledge!” “And now you finally speak sense,” the Wolf-Stag chuckled. “What kind of knowledge do you possess that I do not? Is it powerful enough to convince my... friends... to not rend your soul asunder?” “I possess great knowledge of the esoteric arts!” Edmund said, finally feeling his footing. “I have waded deep into the ways of magic.” “The Wyrd possess much more powerful magic than you could imagine.” Edmund faltered but recentered. “Or I could rekindle your religion and teach your adherents magic!” “The magic my adherents use is woven into the mushrooms and roots - into the cave systems and spiders’ webs... Into dreams and the forgotten.” Clean, fresh sweat remoistened Edmund’s forehead, causing the cold air of the cavern to freeze his blood. Whereas before his blood was heated by anger, now it was chilled. “What, then, Wolf-Stag?” Edmund shouted. “What do you want? What can I offer?” “I suppose your soul is not up for bargaining is it?” The Wolf-stag wryly joked. “Gods, Gods!” Edmund exclaimed. “I am the only God here,” the skull said, enjoying the repartee. “Perhaps you should hide down here, among the shadows?” The skull said, trying to be helpful. “You may be mortal but your lifespan is very long. You could commit your mischief on the above world from your hiding place down here.” The human-shaped being in high-class clothes was still pacing. “Or perhaps you could draw the three of them into conflict with each other,” the Wolf-Stag said. Edmund came out of his self-pitying reverie and looked at the skull as his eyes widened, a new plan hatching in his mind. A smile creeped along his face as he studied the old skull. “Why teach an old dog new tricks when his old ones are wise beyond measure?” ‘Edmund’ said. The skull rasped out a final chuckle. “Come seek me when you have shaken your pursuers. I suspect we shall have much to discuss.”

jtt5fp

Fairly Twisted Tales

TW: contains mentions of physical abuse The dimly lit set is of a side of a tunnel that is a mix of purples and earthy browns, it is littered with pages from books, some ripped, some crumpled, both big and small. The biggest page, that is visible to the audience, says ‘Once upon a time…’. Stage left stands a Man in dark green smoking a large cigar and looking particularly bored. Sound effect of book pages being riffled. Enter Girl stage right. She slowly walks to centre stage exploring the tunnel. Girl : Where am I? ( rubs head ) I must have bumped my head, or did I fall down some sort of rabbit hole? Man : Perhaps. If you want to think about it like that. ( releases a cloud of smoke from his mouth ) Girl : ( jumps, startled by the Man ) Sorry, I didn’t see you, it’s quite dark here. Where is here? Man : ( in a bored tone ) Hubbook. Girl : And how do I get out of Hubbook ? Man : Follow the story. Girl : ( repeating ) Follow the… what? Man : ( pointedly ) Follow the story. ( sighs ) Continue along the tunnel, ( indicates off stage left ) when you get to the end, the story will show you the way. Girl: The story will? Man: Yes. Now, get a move on. ( herds the Girl off stage ) Girl: But… Exit Girl stage right. Stage goes black. When the lights come back on, the set is of steps leading up to a palace backdrop. A Woman in a pale blue ball gown stands stage right, readying herself to enter palace. Sound effect of a page turning. Enter Girl stage left. Girl is awestruck by the beautiful palace in front of her. Woman : ( to herself ) I’ve got until midnight, I can do this. Girl : ( notices the Woman and approaches ) Excuse me, can you tell me where I am? I was in Hubbook but- Woman : ( points to palace ) You’re outside the Prince’s palace, ( under her breath, sarcastically ) obviously. Girl : Which Prince? Woman : Which Prince? THE Prince! Girl : Who? Woman : Prince Charming ! ( rolls her eyes ) Girl : Oh! Then, you must be Cinderella. Woman : ( pauses, side-eyes the Girl ) No-one’s called me that in years. Everyone calls me Ella. How do you know that name? Girl : From a story. Woman : Story? What story? Girl : Your story. ‘Cinderella’. Woman : What happens in my story? Girl : You marry the Prince. Woman : Ha! Marry the Prince. ( shakes her head indignantly ) I already have a love, and the Prince stole her from me, along with my throne! Girl : ( opens her mouth to respond but is taken aback ) Woman : Whoever your ‘Cinderella’ is, she's weak for marrying him. Girl : What are you going to do, then? Woman : I’m going to kill him, and take back what’s mine. ( hurries upstairs, hitching her dress up slightly to reveal a dagger strapped to her leg ) Girl : ( calling after Woman ) But that’s not how the story goes… Wait! ( begins running up the stairs following the Woman ) Woman exits back stage right. Girl freezes on the stairs. Stage goes black. When the lights come back on there is a table at front centre stage with a Boy lying on it, not moving. There is a spotlight on him. Sound effect of a page turning. Girl turns around and slowly makes her way down the steps, taking in the bare room. Girl : Where am I now? This place is so confusing. ( sees Boy and approaches ) Hello? Is he alive? ( raises a hand above the Boy’s mouth and nose ) He’s barely breathing! ( turns to the empty room ) Help! Help! Somebo- ( slowly turns back to Boy ) He’s asleep. ( pauses ) Sleeping… Beauty? Well, he is beautiful. Dark, velvety hair, perfectly straight eyebrows, how is that possible? And his eyelashes are amazingly long. ( sighs longingly ) His eyes must be beautiful too, perhaps they’re a dark brown colour? ( draws closer to the Boy ) His skin looks incredibly soft, and high cheekbones, every girl’s weakness. His lips… ( moves closer again ) small but plump, similar to the shape of a heart… needing a kiss. ( leans down to kiss him but stops herself ) Wait. ( stands up straight again ) I’m not his princess, I should leave him for her. Unless, ( dreamy voice ) I’ve been placed here to wake him up… ( leans down to kiss him again ) Soldier enters back stage right. Soldier : NO! ( reaches his hand out to the Girl ) Girl : ( quickly lifts her head ) Soldier : ( rushes towards the Girl ) Miss, move away from him please. Girl : Why? Soldier : Miss, please! ( places an arm between the Girl and the Boy ) Girl : ( steps away from the Boy ) Soldier : ( drops arm, looking relieved ) Thank you. Did you touch him? Girl : No, why? Soldier : He’s not safe. Girl : Because he’s under a spell? Soldier : No, you are. Girl : ( offended ) What? No, I’m not! Soldier : You are. Just like all young girls who get too close to him. He lures you in with his entrancing beauty. Once you kiss him… well, if he doesn’t kill you immediately, the madness soon will. Those who have only touched him have become physically deformed. Girl : ( steps further away from the Boy , eyes wide ) Soldier : You must be strong to have resisted him this long. Come away now ( leads Girl up the stairs and offstage back right ) Stage goes black. When the lights come back on, the set is of a bedroom with spotted wallpaper. There are three different size beds, in the smallest is a girl with blonde, curly hair, asleep. She has a blue, swollen eye and a few cuts on her face. Sound effect of a page turning. Enter Girl stage right. Girl : ( sigh ) Not again. This is starting to get weird. I just want to go home. ( notices the blonde girl in bed, then counts the beds ) Goldilocks? This is a bit different from Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty, but I guess they were different themselves. ( notices the bruising on Goldilocks’ face ) This isn’t right. Enter the Three Bears stage left. They each approach their own bed in turn. Daddy Bear : Someone’s been sleeping in my bed. Mummy Bear : Someone’s been sleeping in my bed too. Baby Bear : Someone’s been sleeping in my bed, and they’re still there! Daddy Bear : ( turns and sees the Girl ) Who are you? Girl : Ignore me, continue with the story. ( waves a hand at them to continue and sits down on a chair, stage right ) Mummy Bear gently shakes Goldilocks awake. Goldilocks immediately shrinks away from her and pulls the blanket over her head. Mummy Bear : Shh, it’s okay. We’re not going to hurt you. Goldilocks : ( peeps her head from beneath the blanket ) You’re not? Mummy Bear : No, sweetheart. ( pauses ) What happened to your face? Goldilocks : ( timid voice ) My - my parents… it hurt too much, so I ran away. ( begins sobbing ) Mummy Bear : ( pulls Goldilocks into a hug. Goldilocks is nervous at first then accepts the hug ) Girl : I knew she wasn’t just a selfish, little girl! The Three Bears turn and glare at the Girl . Girl motions zipping her lips. The Three Bears turn back to Goldilocks . Daddy Bear : Was it you who ate the porridge downstairs? Goldilocks : ( nods ) Daddy Bear : Would you like some more? ( guides Goldilocks offstage left, followed by Baby Bear ) Girl : ( rising from chair ) Will she be okay? Mummy Bear : Yes, we’ll look after her now, no-one will hurt her. Exit Mummy Bear stage left. Stage goes black. When the lights come on again, the set is of the tunnel from the beginning, however the largest page now reads: ‘And they lived…’. On stage left is the Man in green, still smoking. Sound effect of a page turning. Girl checks her surroundings. Girl : The rabbit hole. Am I near the end of my journey? Man : Almost. What happens at the end of a story? Girl : They lived happily ever after? Man : Not always. ( releases a big cloud of smoke from his mouth ) Girl : A moral? Man : ( cocks head and continues smoking ) Girl : ( tilts head towards ceiling to think ) Well, firstly, Cinderella, or Ella, ran off to kill the Prince as he’d stolen her love and her throne. She decided to act, not submit, as she knew she was in the right, albeit a drastic act. Sleeping Beauty, who is actually a boy, lured young girls to their demise with his looks. You have to be strong to resist him. ( pauses ) You shouldn’t fall for someone purely for their appearance? And Goldilocks… hmm… she was abused by her parents, ran away from home and entered a stranger’s house, probably not someone to learn from. Maybe the Bears...? ( pauses ) Always be... accepting and helpful... to those who need assistance or support, reach out to those in need? A rustling of pages swells but quickly falters. Man puffs out rings of smoke. Girl : Did it not work? Am I missing something? ( turns to Man ) Man shrugs in a knowing way. Girl turns away from the Man and paces. Man continues his smoke, disinterested. Girl : Cin- Ella kills the Prince rather than marrying him, Sleeping Beauty lures young girls to kill them, rather than a young girl cursed to sleep eternally, and Goldilocks had cause for breaking into the Bears’ home, not for selfish reasons like I’d assumed. ( pauses pacing and turns to Man again ) I’d assumed . I’d assumed I knew these stories, but I’d only been taught one narrative. I’d judged them from what I knew and should have waited until I understood the truth, their story. ( facepalms, groans softly and turns to the tunnel ) Never judge a book by its cover. A rustling of pages swells again and a spotlight appears near offstage right. Girl notices, then turns to Man expectantly. Man : Your home awaits. Girl : ( smiling ) Thank you! Man : ( to himself, sarcastically ) Don’t let the book hit you on your way out. Girl exits stage right. Stage goes black. Sound effect of a book snapping shut.

b9ewrb

Just a Boy

The jungles of Vietnam were no place for boys like Sean Delany to go to become men, but Uncle Sam thought otherwise. Sean was our medic. Drafted fresh out of high school where he led his football team to the state championships, he was only seventeen. His family owned a wheat farm in Kansas where he grew up on hard work, stern discipline, and biblical teachings. We all liked Sean. I don’t think the boy ever met a stranger. He’d crawl up in a foxhole at dusk, and with what light remaining read the little pocket bible he carried with him. The boy said his plans were to attend seminary once he got out of there. I didn’t have the heart to tell him if he got out of there. I’ve done four tours as a Sargent, and I have seen more than my fair share of boys like Sean go home to their mother’s in coffins. We returned to base camp after a routine reconnaissance mission one day, Sean's first mission. We were lucky that we didn’t run into Charlie on that mission. Even when you don’t come across the enemy, you’re glad to be out of the jungle. The canopy made it stifling hot, and the humidity didn’t help. The terrain was rough and sleeping on it was uncomfortable, not that anyone’s nerves let them sleep, or the insects for that matter. The shadows and the creatures that live in the jungle play with your mind. You start thinking you see things; makes you believe you are hearing things. Charlie knows the jungle all too well. If the boogeyman had a name, it would be Charlie. They jump out of the shadows, they pop out of the ground, they hide in the trees, they mimic the animals, so we never knew where they were or when they were coming. Anyway, the boys were excited to be back at base camp. They went straight to the kitchen for some grub, some real food: bacon and eggs, coffee, orange juice. I could hear their lifted spirits from Colonel Dreyfus’s tent. I had followed my LT, a very green young man fresh out of West Point, over there when he was summoned. I had the pleasure of breaking the news to the guys that at twelve hundred hours we would be taking a boat up the Meng Kong River into an area known for heavy fighting along the Cambodian border. The news dampened their spirits. They finished their breakfast in silence then went to replenish their gear. You could feel the tension as we headed upriver. Everyone was quiet, alert, their heads on a swivel. The bush was heavy along both sides of the river. I could tell Sean was particularly nervous despite his trying to put on a brave front. That was his second mission. He hadn’t seen any real action and I tried to prepare him the best I could for what was about to come. Stepping off that boat was surreal, though. It was like stepping into one of those haunted theme houses. It looked disturbing. It felt wrong. You knew something was going to jump out at you, but you didn’t know where or when. The boat operator must have felt it too. As soon as the last man was off the boat, he sped off, leaving us with no choice but to push forward. I looked to Sean and he gulped hard as he watched the boat leave. It was as bad as I said before. Maybe worse since everyone was expecting a fight at some point. We couldn’t tell if the motion in the shadows were just branches blowing in the breeze or if Charlie was moving into position. We couldn’t tell if animal noises were Charlie communicating with each other or actual animal noises. At one point, a private by the name of Jackson Bishop lost his cool and opened fire at nothing. I got the young man calmed down, but Corporal Hayes raged on about letting Charlie know where we were at. He was right, the kid gave away our position for sure. We carried on for another quarter mile to where the jungle opened up to a small village consisting of bamboo huts with pitch roofs. The villagers sat silently, motionless as we began to search the area. Charlie surprised us, popping out of rice barrels, jumping out of haystacks, firing down on us from the trees. The chaos confused us as villagers ran for cover, screaming in their native tongue. Bullets sent dirt into the air as donkeys hawed and chickens squawked. Private First Class Nick Spagnoli was shot in the thigh. Sean pulled him to cover and stopped the bleeding. The LT ordered us to fall back into the jungle. Sean hoisted Nick onto his shoulders and carried him. It seemed like the Earth was giving birth to the North Vietnamese behind us as we ran. When the LT saw the corporal take a bullet to the shoulder, he ordered us to find cover and return fire. He then called for Danny Thompson, our comms officer, and they ordered the evac. Sean laid Nick in a ravine and returned for Hayes. He bandaged him up, put him on his shoulders, and ran him to the river. When he came back, the LT was bleeding heavily through the abdomen. Sean got him bandaged up and quickly moved him to the river. When Sean returned, Private Don Howard was dead. He had taken a bullet to the head. I was shot in the arm. He bandaged me up then I ordered him to get Nick out, who was fighting but could not walk. While Sean was gone, Thompson and Bishop each were shot in the chest. It was just me and our sniper, Dale Lewis, holding Charlie back. Sean came back with word that the boat had arrived. I ordered the retreat. Sean threw Thompson on his shoulders and Dale grabbed Bishop. We went as fast as we could, firing behind us as we went. I was shot in the back. Sean turned around and grabbed me by the shirt and pulled me along with Thompson on his shoulders. The river was within sight when I saw Dale go down, dropping Bishop. He had taken a bullet to the calf. He rolled over screaming, spraying bullets everywhere hoping to keep Charlie off him. Sean dragged me to the boat, laid Thompson in, got me in, and ran back into the jungle. He reemerged dragging both Bishop and Dale, Dale still firing like a man gone wild. Sean got both men in the boat. Sean went to step in the boat when a bullet struck him in the back, causing him to fall backwards. The boat's gun opened fire as Charlie swarmed the bank. I saw Hayes lean over the boat, reaching for Sean, but the boat sped away nearly as fast as Sean hit the ground. I propped myself up and looked back. Sean was crawling. Charlie surrounded him and beat him with their rifles until a commanding officer decided to shoot him in the head with a pistol. I think that was the first time I shed a tear for one of the boys who died under my command. You go into war expecting them to die. But it seemed as if God was on that young man's side as he dodged bullets dragging us all to safety. Perhaps God was on our side, sending him to save us. I’ve seen a lot of boys sent home to their mothers in coffins during my time in Vietnam, but never one as heroic as Sean Delany. Never have I seen one act so valiantly. Never have I seen one die so brutally. Never have I seen one not shipped home until him. There was nothing Sean could have done about Don, but those of us he could have saved, he did without hesitation. Once we were all healed and discharged, we paid a visit to the Delany farm and shared the story of his bravery with his parents. His parents and sister wept, saying, “This time we are crying tears of pride and joy for the man our son grew up to be. We hope you boys make the most of your lives in his memory.” We started a charity in his name for vets in need.

l2g1rd

Never Dark Again

Spring had always been Mara’s favorite season. She liked the warmth and heady happiness of sunlight after a long, dark winter. She liked the subtle feeling of hope and life that permeated everything, that rushed into existence like a breath of fresh air; a reward for surviving the long days of darkness. She liked the bright colors of the flowers, the vivid greens of new leaves. Standing in a large meadow, Mara drew in a deep breath. The breeze was pleasantly cool, the sunlight pleasantly warm. The tall grass around her ran in the wind, whispering secrets and tracing wave-like patterns. It was too early in the season for wildflowers, though. A shame, she would have liked to have seen them one last time. This meadow was known for the isalthyr flowers that filled it as a vibrant yellow carpet in spring, dotted with other blooms of white and blue and purple. As a child, she had gazed out upon those flowers from the city walls. Mara lifted her gaze to Taur-en-Aineth. Pale stone walls glowing in the sun, the city rose up level after level. Built against the slope of a mountain, Taur-en-Aineth stood proudly at the head of the valley, despite all it had been through. Her city was free. Finally, after all of the battles and all of the suffering and all of the long, long years… her city was free. There were gaping holes and piles of rubble where walls and buildings had been damaged in the fight for the city, but in time those wounds would be healed. The people would rebuild. Love and life and laughter would fill in the cracks and chase away the darkness. As for Mara’s own wounds… There would be no healing, not for her. Pain, dizzying in its intensity, tore through her from the wounds in her shoulder and abdomen, and the poison that had coated the blades. Blood, warm and slick, soaked her clothes. Her breathing had grown ragged, and she panted unevenly through gritted teeth. The wounds were too deep, she was losing too much blood. The world was out of focus, black spots clouded her vision as everything spun and everything became tainted in agony and a distant, detached sort of panic. A calm panic. A quiet panic. Briefly, she contemplated coercing her battered body into motion. There were healers in the city. They might save her. But she knew that the gates were too far and her legs were too weak. She would not make it. She looked beside her to where Ahren Daneiros’ body lay, un-moving. His skin was unnaturally pale, almost translucent, and beneath the bulk of his armor, he looked almost frail now that the power was gone from him. The armor devoured the spring sunlight, like a gaping void, and a circle of withered grass surrounded his corpse. Even in death, he found a way to drain life from things. Never dark again . A vow, a promise, a hope. A hope that had become a reality. It had taken Mara eight long years to return to the city, years during which countless people had suffered and died under Ahren’s grasp. But she had returned with a way to save it, as she had promised. She had spent those years searching and bartering and fighting and striving to build a force that could rival Ahren’s. She had spent those years training relentlessly to make herself into a warrior who could face Ahren and stand a chance of winning. Well, she would not walk away from this battlefield. But neither would Ahren. She was grateful he had been arrogant enough to meet her out in the field beyond the city while their forces clashed behind the walls, so eager to smite her—the nuisance that had been nagging at him for years—in front of the city. It meant that no one else had been caught in the crossfire. Thian and Reiyna would be furious that she had tricked them, that she had never meant to follow their plan. But she had known as soon as the three of them emerged from the dappled green-and-brown of Silmalun Forest and seen the city for the first time in half a decade that she could not let them die for this. If any of them fell, it would be her. They deserved the peace that would follow. Thian deserved to experience what it was like to live and not just survive, to discover who he might be when he needn’t keep a sword between his hands. Reiyna deserved to play her violin on the music hall stages, to build a home full of art and sunlight. If she closed her eyes, she could almost see it. Thian, walking the streets without having to look over his shoulder. How he would wander the night market, pausing to buy street food or chat to stall holders. How he would take lessons in art and gardening and literature and history and languages, learning for the sake of learning as he discovered what the world had to offer. And she could see Reiyna standing upon the polished wood of a stage, wearing a beautiful gown, her brown eyes unfocused as she concentrated on the beautiful music she coaxed from her violin. How the gentle, warm candlelight of the Amn Tirion theater would make the beads on her dress glimmer like stars, how it would soften her features. How the crowd would be so silent, hardly breathing lest it distract them from the melody. Never dark again . Mara had ensured that the dawn of a new era shone over Taur-en-Aineth, and Thian and Reiyna would ensure that peace held. She simply wished she had gotten to say goodbye. Or gotten to live it with them . When she opened her eyes again, dark spots swam in her vision and the ground swayed under her feet, but she clenched her jaw and forced her gaze to find the dark shape in the upper reaches of the city. Ranlor Keep. Towers and walls built of dark stone that had once stood tall and imposing were now toothless and collapsing. Smoke rose from the eastern wing. Good , she thought. Let the fire wipe away what was so that new life may rise from the ashes. Such a pity she would not get to tear the place apart herself. She would have liked to watch its dark, fear-soaked rooms collapse. It would have to be enough for her that she had been the one to fell Ahren. The world lurched, and her vision briefly blackened, and suddenly she lying on her back, grass cradling her aching, shivering body. When her eyes refocused, she was staring a cloudless sky. Such a bold, bright blue. Childhood blue. Small, soft little clouds floated past, so high above. She turned her head her head, and her gaze fell upon a little girl kneeling in the grass. Long, brown hair drifted strangely in the breeze—floating, almost weightless—framing a delicate face with gentle eyes. She wore a yellow-and-white floral dress, bracelets adorning her wrists. The warrior smiled at the child she had once loathed, not surprised to see her here, somehow. Undoubtedly it was an effect of the poison burning through her veins, or the blood loss, but she was grateful for it all the same. “It’s time,” the child—younger Mara—said with such gentleness, such bittersweet grief. Tears pricked Mara’s eyes, and she blinked. “I’m not ready. I have not yet- not yet become who I want to be.” Her words were labored, voice raw as it caught in her throat. Gods, everything hurt . The girl smiled sadly. “You’ve done enough. It’s time to let go.” A tear slipped free from the corner of Mara’s eye and traced a path down through blood and dirt into her tangled hair. Her twenty-four years had felt so long, and yet they had not been enough. Not nearly enough. “I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to leave them.” Thian and Reiyna; the family bound to her by stronger ties than blood, the north stars of her heart. She did not want to leave them. “I know.” “Can I not stay? Can I not survive this?” But even as she asked, she knew the answer. Had known since Ahren first got a blade past her defenses. She could feel the blood draining away, her life force slipping away with it. She knew what death felt like, and knew it was close now. “No,” the girl replied. “Not this time.” That sad, sympathetic smile on her face, she extended a hand to Mara. “It is time to go now, and rest. You have fought so hard for so long, but now it is time to let go.” Mara fought to cling to consciousness as a wave of terrifying oblivion crested over her, trying to pull her under. With a trembling, high voice that was choked by tears and made her sound like she was no older than the child kneeling before her, Mara breathed, “I wanted to stay with them.” Her voice caught on the words. “I know you did.” And still, that hand remained extended. She did not want to accept her fate. She wanted to survive to see the world that would be built from the ruins of Ahren’s empire. But she was so cold and so tired and it all hurt so much. A wave of nauseating agony spiked through her, drawing a choked whimper from her throat. She could taste blood in her mouth. The little girl’s gaze was unwavering—unflinching—as she beheld Mara and all that she was, all she had become, all she had done. There was such a youthful softness to her features; a lightness to her that Mara mourned the loss of. Partly out of a desire to postpone the inevitable, and partly because she felt the need to voice the words while she still could, Mara said, “I am sorry that I am not who you hoped I would be. I am sorry for it all.” A childhood in servitude to Ahren, trapped in one of the keeps where he trained his followers , had warped the bright, gentle child she had been into something that was a tainted husk of what once was. And the years that followed that had honed what remained into a blade, until she was all steel and shards of glass, anger and fist-fight. But she had managed to nurture some goodness, too. She had kept a kernel of kindness and hope burning in her chest, protected from the raging darkness that threatened to strip away all softness until only bones remained. “You did what you had to to keep us alive. And none of it was your fault; we were only a child.” But Mara simply repeated with a voice that cracked like splintering glass, “I’m sorry.” Her younger self took hold of her hands and gently said, “Don’t be. Our city is free thanks to you. Our people are free.” With her free hand, the child reached out and wiped away one of Mara’s tears. “Never dark again.” Mara nodded, holding tight to her small hand. Her skin was warm and smooth, empty of the scars that now marred them. She had freed her city. She had taken down Ahren. She had done what she set out to do, what she fought so hard for. Mara had achieved what she had vowed she would on those long, dark nights when she was alone and hurting and scared in her small bed at the Keep. Never dark again . “Don’t be afraid,” the child murmured. “Don’t be afraid.” The darkness waiting for her at the edge of her consciousness was one she could let herself slip into, because it was one that would not hurt. Nothing would hurt anymore, and Ahren could not reach her. It was not the fate she had dreamed of, but it was the one she had been dealt. Perhaps she had always been doomed, perhaps she was never meant to survive. She had destroyed Ahren, and in return he had destroyed her. An end for an end, a price paid. Mara Laric was thinking of Thian and Reiyna and the girl she had been as she closed her eyes and let herself slip away into oblivion.

ff9x4z

Dealing with The Devil

I was twelve when I started dabbling in witchcraft. Funnily enough, it’s not very difficult to get into. Especially when your mom works long hours and you’re bored. I started with sprinkling pink Himalayan salt from the cupboard in the doorways, hoping it would keep Mom’s various parade of boyfriends out. They were all shapes, sizes, and colors. And they were always bad news.      People think that witchy stuff is complicated. To be honest, I’ve made up almost every spell I’ve ever hocus-pocused. Magic is about intent, and the crystals and the herbs and the candles are all about building that intention, not the actual magic. So when I summoned the devil, it was with sidewalk chalk and a peach blossom candle from Bath & Bodyworks. Satan is more desperate than you’d think. He’ll show up for just about anybody these days.      I coughed and tried to fan the smoke out of my face. “Great. If my room smells like brimstone, Mom’s going to freak,” I grumbled. I stepped back quickly as a pool of shadows gathered on the floor. It swelled and pulsed, and I felt my resolve shrink a bit. I shook it off. Had I wanted to chicken out, now was certainly not the time.      It would’ve been too late, anyway. The shadow was stretching upwards, brushing my ceiling. It seemed to solidify, and I steeled myself as a ridiculously tall man stepped from the darkness. I stared up at him, my heart pounding. He flicked some ash off of his jacket and looked down, his eyebrows rising. “A bit young to be summoning Satan, aren’t we?”      I glared up at him. “You make deals, don’t you? None of your business if they’re with an eighth grader or not.” Satan clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “Tactless way to open a negotiation, child.” I scoffed. “Because showing up looking like Slenderman is a fantastic start.” “Touché,” the devil huffed. “What do you want?”      “I want a house.” I folded my arms as he looked at me incredulously. “A… house?” “Yes, Lucifer. A house. One I own, close to a good college, with a little garden. Make sure no one can take it, and make sure I can kick my mother out of it as soon as possible. I want somewhere I can live for the rest of my life.”      He blinked. “I find it hard to believe you’re willing to sell your soul for a place to live. Isn’t that what real estate is for? The housing market is one of my most brilliant inventions. The least you could do is use it.” “Too complicated,” I shrugged. “Easier to go straight to ya, if you ask me.” Satan groaned. “Adolescents. Well, child, here are the terms. You will receive a house, in your name, left to you by some distant relative. Your mother has no claim to it, only as your guardian until you come of age.”      I stared at him. “And I give you what?” His smile flashed, and I felt sweat beading on my forehead. “Your soul, child. You live happily ever after and when your time comes-” His grin widened. “To Hell you go.” I forced my breathing to slow and straightened my spine. While every neuron in my brain was screaming at me to back out, I knew a devil angry about losing a soul was not something I wanted to face. Granted, if I managed what I had in mind, he would be far, far more angry. Hopefully, by that point, I’d be safe from anything he tried.     “Alright, Son of The Morning. Let’s see the contract.” I saw a flash of satisfaction in his gaze before he snapped out a long roll of parchment, covered in black print that gradually grew smaller and smaller until it almost trailed away. He handed it to me graciously. I was a smart kid who was reading on a college level, and I was getting a headache. I lazily waved him towards my bed. “Feel free to take a seat. We’re going to be here a while.”     Several hours later, Satan was coiled comfortably on my bed while I sat cross-legged on the floor, rubbing my eyes before getting back to reading. My legs were falling asleep, and I was tiring quickly. If I was going to make this work, now was the time. My eyes crawled across the last few words before I straightened, extending my hand. “Pen?” A black ballpoint appeared in the devil’s hand and I accepted it carefully. He glued his attention to me as I hunched over the parchment and avoided his eyes. The second my pen lifted from the paper, he sprang from the bed and snatched it from me, his hand gliding over the second signature line.      My panic spiked as Satan’s laugh echoed through my room as the contract disappeared with a flash. “Wise choice, child. I congratulate you on your newfound fortune.” Flame seemed to slither across his smile. “I hope you find our bargain as satisfactory as I will.” And just like that, he was gone.      Within a week, I got the house. Some old geezer of a third cousin on my dad’s side died, and I was the next of kin. Mom was ecstatic about not paying rent anymore and while she could have used the extra income to actually feed me, she blew it all on a stupid blackjack app. I can’t deny that I wasn’t surprised. My mother had no regard for me, despite my attempts to keep my disgust to a minimum. I preferred to spend as little time with her as possible.      I fell in love with the place the second I set foot inside. It was a small, old brick house with wallpaper and enormous windows and creaky wooden floors. There was a tiny garden in the back, and there was an herb window in the kitchen and clawed feet on the bathtub. It was perfect, and it was mine.     Of course, happiness found through the devil doesn’t tend to last. I didn’t expect it to. We’d been in the house for around three weeks when I fell down the stairs. Apparently, it was pretty bad. I broke a couple bones, passed out on the landing, and laid there unconscious until Mom finally came home and got around to calling an ambulance.      I woke up in the hospital with a massive headache. I barely had time to register where I was before a very familiar laugh rang in the hall and the door swung open. Satan had to duck to enter. He tried to recover from the interruption of his entrance by launching straight into a monologue. Joy.      “What a pleasant surprise! We meet again! Are you ready, child?” “Ready for what?” I asked, though I knew full well what he was referring to. “To come with me to your new home for the rest of eternity!” His smile now resembled a shark. “After all, a deal’s a deal!” I nodded thoughtfully. “True, Devil. However, I’m afraid I can’t go with you. You see, that would be in direct violation of our contract.” He chuckled indulgently. “And how do you draw that conclusion?” I focused hard and imagined the parchment falling into my hand. I’d never been able to summon things before, but surely there was no time like the present.      Sure enough, with a flash of purple light, the contract appeared in my hand. The smile dropped from Satan’s face as I unrolled it. “Contract between Lucifer, Son of The Morning, Fallen Angel, and Magdalena Valeria Hernandez. This contract hereby outlines the exchange of the soul in the possession of Ms. Hernandez to that of Lucifer, Son of The Morning.” He waved a hand impatiently. “Yes, yes. I know. What paltry excuse are you hiding behind?”     It was my turn for a predatory smile. “You see, Devil, I don’t have a soul in my possession.” I spread my arms. “Feel free to check!” The room was filling with black clouds, probably a sign of Satan’s displeasure. “You jest,” he scowled. “That is impossible.” He grabbed at my heart, freezing when nothing happened. “You see, sir, I can’t give you something I don’t have.” I was smirking openly now. “As there is no soul in my possession, our contract is void. And,” I couldn’t help grinning wider, “I cannot die. I will never see hell. And I know you were hoping that trip down the stairs would take care of me, Fallen One.”      “Where is it?” He snarled. “An infantile fool should not be able to separate a soul from its vessel, let alone tie it to anything else.” I arched an eyebrow. “Well, it appears this infantile fool has pulled it off. And unless you want me to teach other people how to beat you at your own game, I highly recommend that you agree to leave me alone. I am thirteen and I just achieved immortality, out loopholed the Devil, and taught myself to summon objects about two minutes ago. I’m on my way to becoming the most powerful witch of my age, and you know it.”      I clapped and the contract I’d drawn up after school on Thursday. “Sign, please. This verifies that we will do each other no harm and make no more bargains, which seems a good idea since we’re both going to be around for awhile. And feel free to read the small print. There isn’t any. I don’t need to hide behind it.” He read it and signed it silently. “You’re worse than that fiddler,” he growled. And then in a flash of red, he was gone. I smiled. I’d poured my soul into my house with a magic and intention he’d never understand- love. 

lubjjx

The Dragon's Covenant

Kite’s speckled dragon snorted and scratched at the ground. He patted the beast's head and traced a finger along a deep scar on its forehead. His own scar began to sting, and he pulled on his reins instinctively. He noticed the other dragon riders eyeing him and nodded in response. They ignored his gesture and continued their conversation. Kite cleared his throat. “Where do your dragons come from, Night-Baron?” Coral burst into laughter. “Yeah, Night-Baron. Tell us!” “It's Night- Heron !” He said. “Petulant child riding a dragon ten times her size, and another one who doesn’t even know his head from his tail. Now I've seen it all.” “You’re one to talk, Night-Heron,” Tristan said. “I’m surprised they put me on the same roster with the likes of you.” “And you, Tristan! Who taught you such foul ways of speaking?” Kite looked confused. “What? But you just…” “My father gave me this silver swallowtail as a birthday present!” Coral interrupted. “He bred this one exclusively for the occasion.” “And you, Tristan?” Kite asked. “Where does yours come from?” Tristan scoffed. “You won't find a dragon like this anywhere else.” “How can you be so sure?” Coral asked. “It’s a dragon like any other. My father— ” “Unlike you the rest of you,” Tristan interrupted. “I wasn’t born into royalty. I worked my way up to be the best dragon rider of the modern era because she chose me. That’s something you can’t get for any price.” “What a bald-faced lie! Dragons have never been proven to choose their owners. It’s impossible.” Night-Heron replied. “That’s because people like you could never earn the trust of a dragon,” Kite said. “They’re intelligent beings. Smarter than any of us.” “Draconids include Wyverns, Wyrms, and Drakes, and of course Dragons,” Night-Heron said. “We know this because we’ve researched and studied them. Throughout our land's history, a dragon has never been known to be intelligent. It's a wild animal, and wild animals cannot be trusted so you’re either a fool or a fraud.” Tristan crossed his arms. “Draconids choose their riders, not the other way around.” “Is that true?” Coral asked. “Of course, a child would believe these lies. That’s the bell to start. Let’s see if that dragon of yours is truly what you say it is.” He couldn’t get the last word before Night-Heron led his dragon through the forest canopy. Coral looked at Tristan and shrugged her shoulders. “I heard he was rejected once.” She said. “No matter. I’ll prove just how superior Angelus is.” Tristan replied. Kite pulled on his reins. “I’m getting the gold idol. You two will have to fight over the bronze.” Tristan laughed as his dragon rose into the air. He and Coral raced behind Night-Heron to the starting position. Kite scrambled towards his wyvern and grabbed its reins before taking to the skies. It flew fast and he barely managed to hang on, so it slowed its pace. When the race started his dragon was the last to take flight and flew lazily up the first mountain peak. "Atlas, hurry up!" He shouted. Kite was anxious to speed ahead and spurred his dragon onward, but a threatening glare had him apologizing. By this point, he was far behind the competition and felt butterflies in his stomach. “I won't spur you again, but work with me Atlas. Please. When we win this I'll be a dragon knight and give you a place to roost. It'll be great, trust me!” Atlas blinked slowly and snorted a puff of black smoke at Kite. It didn't seem intent on listening but soon began flying faster towards the first peak. Kite felt hopeful and held onto Atlas tightly as they approached it. ~~~ The dragon riders flew to the highest mountain and began ascending its peak. The sun was highest in the sky, and each rider knew there were only a few hours left before the race was over. So far the first two mountains had both bronze and silver idols. Now close to the top, Tristan flew ahead and the others lagged behind him. They were in a column with Kite dead last. “Are you competing or spectating?” Coral yelled to Kite. “Of course I’m competing!” He yelled back. "Then you oughta hurry your dragon up! It's not even trying to win at this point." “You won't make it.” Night-Heron mocked. “You're not a very good dragon rider. You couldn’t even get bronze with those skills!” “You couldn’t either!” Kite retorted. “That's only because Tristan's dragon is incredible!" Coral said. "At this rate, we might lose out on gold.” Coral said. "I'm somehow getting the feeling you're not too concerned." Night-Heron said. "This is just for fun! I don't really need the prize or villa, but it would be nice to finally have my own." “But do we know the gold idol is up here?” Kite asked. Night-Heron shot a glance at Coral and they burst into laughter. “What’s so funny?” He asked. “There are four mountains and we're flying up the third one...” “The fourth peak is the least likely to have the gold idol.” Coral said. “And just how do you know that?” Kite asked. “The frozen peak sits atop the smallest mountain,” Night-Heron said. “and since the gold idol is known to move quickly over large distances it’s more likely to be on the largest peak.” "But more importantly, it's always on the highest peak." Coral giggled. "Hey, why is Tristan coming back this way?" Kite asked. "The gold idol!" Coral yelled. They broke through the clouds and banked towards the right. Coral spotted the idol and spurred her dragon, dashing at a small golden glitter. Her dragon moved horizontally, and the gold idol leaped upwards and directly into its claws. She exclaimed in victory and began a quick descent with Tristan hot on her tail. "Keraunos!" Night-Heron shouted. His dragon shot out an arc of plasma and paralyzed both Coral and her dragon. She began seizing and fell out of her saddle. Kite pulled on his reins to avoid a collision with her dragon, which dropped the idol as it recovered from the shock. “Atlas, save her!” Kite yelled. Atlas growled and held its wings closed, barrelling downwards and opening its leathery wings just before colliding. It caught Coral’s iron harness in its jaw and slowed their velocity. Coral's dragon approached them, and Atlas tossed the harness over with a flick of its jaw. It caught her and glided downwards, making its descent off the mountainside. Kite was furious. Sensing his emotion, Atlas raced upwards towards Night-Heron. It roared furiously. Night-Heron laughed as he held his hand up in triumph. “The gold idol is mine!” “Forget the idol. You nearly killed Coral!” Kite yelled. "She knew the risks! This is not afternoon swim lessons, this is a competition to become a dragon knight!" Tristan's dragon shot a bolt of fire at Night-Heron, who dodged it effortlessly. Kite and Tristan began chasing him around the peak and down through the clouds. “The gold idol is mine!” Tristan yelled. Tristan pulled on his reins hard and his dragon released a searing ball of fire. Night-Heron avoided it and the snow-capped mountain erupted with chunks of earth and debris. Atlas flew straight into it, dodging giant boulders with finesse. Tristan’s dragon flew in a wide arc and tried to approach Night-Heron's flank, but he anticipated it. “I wonder whose dragon is faster, Tristan?” Night-Heron shouted. “Your Angelus or my Keraunos?” “At this range, it doesn’t matter!” He yelled. “Keraunos,” He said to his dragon. “it’s time for that.” Keraunos did an aerial somersault and shot out a bolt of lightning while upside-down. Tristan's dragon deflected it with a sharp swipe of her metallic tail, but the force of the attack knocked her off balance. Night-Heron seized the opportunity and Keraunos fired off another bolt and hit Angelus from behind. He laughed triumphantly as Tristan crashed into a mass of ice and rock against the mountainside. “Looks like you were a fool and a fraud.” He said. Kite saw everything happen in seconds and felt a strange sensation sweep over Atlas' body. He instinctively knew Atlas was beginning to get excited. “I won't let you get away! Atlas, now!" He said. His dragon roared in excitement and Kite felt the tingling sensation envelope his body too. Atlas tucked in his wings descended onto Night-Heron like a meteor, and their dragons locked claws together and stared each other down. The two dragons descended to the Earth at break-neck speeds, but Kite knew he had the advantage. He had something his opponent lacked. "I trust you, Atlas. Bring us home with a victory." He whispered. Night-Heron, distrustful of his dragon gave an impossible command. The impossibility was not because his dragon lacked ability, but independence. It tried to unlatch, but the movement caused turbulence. The ground was approaching faster and he began to panic. He commanded his dragon to release its feet but Atlas held tighter, almost determined to end all four of their lives at once. Night-Heron jumped off and opened his parachute, abandoning his dragon. A gold glimmer caught Kite's eyes and he shouted at Atlas to release the dragon and catch it. At the last moment, Atlas released his claws and did a spiral twist to turn around in the air. It caught an updraft which helped Atlas catch the gold idol in his claws. “Atlas! I can't believe it! We've won the competition!" His dragon growled softly and began a smooth descent to the final point, but not before enjoying a scenic victory lap. "I'm a dragon knight now... And you're a dragon of the stars! I never thought I'd make it this far, but I knew to trust you. Thank you, Atlas. For everything."

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Between the pages

As I arrived at my mother's house, my chest hollowed as her memory filled my mind. It had been a month now since she had passed, and though I had laid her to rest the week before, I still felt numb inside. I know grief takes many forms, but the constant emptiness was exhausting. Father had left when I was an infant, so for years it had just been me and her. Yet now it was just me. I felt the key shake in my hand as I tried to twist it in the lock. I blink away the tears that were forming in the corners of my eyes and try to cast away the memories. I let out a gasp in frustration as the lock fought against every turn I made until I finally heard the metal click into place. I took a deep breath before pulling down the handle and pushing the door open. A familiar scent washed over me as I entered the hallway. The smell of mother's musky perfume mixed with aged wood filled my lungs, and with it came a sense of comfort. I locked the door behind me and made my way into the kitchen. It felt strange being in her home, and yet the warmth of her presence was nowhere to be found. I felt another tear escape from my eye. I allowed it to run the length of my cheek before brushing it away. This was not the time; I had to do this. I made up one of the boxes that I had brought with me and began packing away her belongings. My husband offered to help me empty her house, but I declined. This would potentially be the last time I would feel close to her, being in her home, so he understood that I wanted to do it alone. As I worked through the kitchen and into the living room, I felt myself smiling as I worked my way through her trinkets. Some were from her travels, some from when she was married to my father, and others were from when I was young. Not everything had value; if anything, most of it only held sentimental value to her. Still, it warmed my heart to imagine what memories she shared with these objects. It was as I was removing her books that something dropped out and caught my attention. I hesitated for a moment before placing the books beside me and picking up the item that fell. To my surprise, it was a photograph. Tears pricked at my eyes once more as I examined the picture. It was my mother and father in their younger days. I couldn't tell what age they were, but it must have been before I was born, as they didn't go anywhere abroad after I arrived. They were dressed in exotic clothes and were surrounded by palm trees. I could see a beach in the distance and mountains even further. Wherever they were, it looked beautiful. I smiled to myself and turned the photograph over, and to my surprise, there was an inscription on the reverse. It read: "Off to a luau with my husband to be.". My chest tightened as I saw my mother's writing before me. I turned it over once more so their faces were looking back at me. I could feel their eyes boring into my soul. A certain longing came over me. Unsure if it was my emotions getting the better of me, I quickly turned back to the books on the floor to continue packing them away. I couldn't bring myself to pick up the pile all at once, so instead I found myself placing them one by one in the box. It felt like I was searching for something. It was strange, as if my hands were independent of my mind. It wasn't until I was part way through the pile that I happened upon a travel brochure that the feeling ceased. I kept a stoic expression as I glanced at the book. It was dated a year ago, before mother fell ill. I couldn't help myself as I flicked through the pages, almost casually, admiring the beautiful landscapes that covered every page. Before I could lose myself fully in the white sands, a familiar place appeared before me. My eyes widened as I grabbed the photograph again and held it against the image on the page. It was the same place. My heart skipped a beat in excitement. Mother had wanted to go back. But a sadness clouded my thoughts as I realised she hadn't mentioned anything to me. I would have loved to have joined her in Hawaii. Guilt began to tug at my heart as I cast my mind back. I had gotten a promotion a few months before this brochure was published. Perhaps my mother thought it would distract me from my work, or perhaps she thought it could be a reward? I cursed under my breath as question upon question flooded my mind. The mix of emotions was overpowering. How could I think badly of my mother when she had been ill? Who knows what she was thinking? I did feel a great deal of disappointment though; I would have loved to have had one last adventure with her before she passed. I no longer felt in the mood to clear her house. All motives I had had been drawn out of me. I readied myself to leave, but my eyes cast back down to the photograph and brochure on the floor. With a deep sigh, I picked them up, placing them in my bag before leaving my mother's house. I arrived home to my husband preparing dinner. It smelled divine, and it caused my stomach to rumble in desire. Judging by the scent of spices in the air, he had made a curry. I walked into the kitchen to see him standing over the oven, stirring the pot beneath him. He looked up as I placed my bag on the table behind him. "How are you sweetheart?" He asked. I could tell by his tone that he was asking how I got on at my mother's house, but he was too gentlemanly to ask outright. "I am ok," I mused, waltzing over to him and pecking his cheek. "Looking forward to dinner." I forced a smile on my lips and stepped away from him, collecting the plates from the cupboard and arranging them on the table. I scooped up my bag and went to place it on its hook, when the feeling of hesitation caught me again. "Sweetheart?" I heard my husband say. He must have turned around while I was moving my bag. It was then it dawned on me that I was standing still, holding my bag up in front of me. "We should go to Hawaii." I heard myself blurting out. It seemed my words caught my husband by surprise as much as they did me as I heard a clatter of pans behind me as they landed back on the oven. "Hawaii? Any reason for the sudden interest?" He asked me. It was true; I hadn't ever thought about a trip to Hawaii before. Honestly, I hadn't been much beyond the European borders, and here I was suggesting we fly almost fully around the globe. "Sweetheart?" My husband spoke again, placing one of his warm hands on my shoulder. The sensation brought me out of my mind, and I turned to face him, pulling out the paperwork from my bag and waving it before him. "Mother wanted to go. It looks like she was planning to go before she got ill. I think it would be quite romantic and perhaps even good for us." Words dribbled out of my mouth as I continued to wave the papers in his face. "Mother and father went when they were about our age; look!" He took the brochure from my hand and opened up to the page where the photograph was sitting. I watched his brows furrow as he examined the images, his eyes flicking between the photograph and the picture of the page. He gestured towards the two pictures and raised his eyebrow at me, to which I gleefully nodded. "She had been there before?" He said. It wasn't fully a question but wasn't so much of a statement. He sounded unsure. I'm sure it was because he was still processing my random request. "I need a break. There is too much happening, and I just need to get away." I said quickly. I didn't know why I needed to explain, but it came out regardless. A warm smile spread across his lips. "Ok." He said finally. My eyes widened as I heard his words. "Really?" I felt myself grinning back at him. "Sure," he chuckled, "might take a while to save up, but it'll be fun. And you're right, we should get away for a bit. A lot has happened recently." He closed the distance between us and kissed my forehead. My cheeks reddened, but I returned his gesture with a small kiss on his lips. "Thank you." I beamed. "Anything for you. But first, dinner!" He announced as he grabbed the pans from the oven before serving the food on the plates. I felt giddy inside. The guilt, sadness, concern, fear, and every other emotion that had overwhelmed me earlier in the day seemed to have faded away. In its stead was excitement and joy. And that is what happened. It took us a couple of months to get the money together, but we went to Hawaii. I finished emptying my mother's house. It took me a number of days, but I managed to reduce her possessions by a vast amount. I don't think she even knew of all the things she had stored away. Yet, as I looked through her things, I was filled with fondness. I kept a number of things to remember her by, such as jewellery or keepsakes, while other items I sold in order to fund our trip to Hawaii. I'm sure she wouldn't have minded. I almost felt like she was blessing our trip whenever my eyes landed on the photo of her and father. Her bedroom was one of the last rooms I cleared. It felt unnatural to go through such personal belongings, but I had slowly come to terms with it over the past few days. It was in her room that I found a shoebox hidden in the wardrobe. I thought it was a pair of shoes she wanted to keep safe, but as I picked it up, I felt the contents shift inside. I opened the box and was greeted by hundreds of sheets of paper—letters. My eyes quickly cast over the contents. Some of the details were simple, such as what the person had done that day or what the latest gossip of the town was. A wave of guilt hit me again, but I pushed it aside as I pulled out the letters to read more. I couldn't help myself as I divulged in this person's life. There were occasional ones in envelopes, which had the postmark of Hawaii printed on the front. I felt a sneaky smirk spread on my lips; no wonder mother wanted to go back. It seems she had someone out there waiting for her. The letters were all from a man by the name of Harry, whoever that was. She hadn't mentioned him to me, and it seemed the last letter was sent just after she had gotten ill. I did feel sadness at this moment, as this Harry probably had no idea why my mother had stopped writing to him and never would again now that she had passed. I decided in that moment that when we went to Hawaii, I would find this Harry. He must have been important to Mother, so he deserved to know the truth. I placed the letters back in the box; I would return these to him as a way to remember her by, should he choose to keep them. The time had come; my husband and I arrived in Hawaii. The heat was intense, but nothing unbearable. I understood then why mother and father had worn such exotic clothes in the photo. The fabric looked thin and breathable, perfect for this climate. I had packed the photograph with me in my suitcase. Since discovering it, I have taken it everywhere with me. We spent the first few days enjoying the beach and hiking around the forest areas. The locals were pleasant, and they took a keen liking to my husband. I chuckled at his dismay as they took him away to dance by the firepit one night. I stayed huddled on my chair, nursing the cocktail drink in my glass. I researched where the postmark had come from and traced it back to a village. I'm not sure what I was expecting; perhaps Harry had moved on, but I had to know. I mused in my thoughts as I stared out of the window, watching the trees whizz by as the taxi took us up to the village. Once there, we stopped by a small cafe to grab a drink while my husband tried to converse with the locals. I appreciated him trying to ask them if they knew Harry, or any Harry for that matter, but the language barrier caused some issues. I pulled the photograph of my parents out of my bag to look at them again, when a gust of wind ripped it from my grasp. I let out a shrill cry, catching my husband's attention and that of the locals as their heads whipped around in my direction. I was already sprinting up the photograph as it blissfully glided through the air, avoiding my every attempt to grab it. The wind died down, allowing the photograph to drop to the ground, giving me time to lunge towards it. I was too late, however, as an older gentleman had already picked it up. A whimper left my lips as I felt the photograph brush my fingers. A looked up to the man who had taken my photo from me when a small gasp escaped him. "Amelia." He muttered softly. "Yes, that's my mother. Give it back!" I screeched. My husband had caught up to me, and I could feel his hands restraining me. Then what he had said caught up to me. "How do you know her?" I hissed. "She was my wife." He said with a tremble in his voice. "She was only married to my father." I bit back. Who did this man think he was? "Who are you?" I shot at him. My husband's grip on my arms tightened, and I was sure he was shaking me slightly, but a red mist had descended over me. "My name is Harry. I am the man in that photograph with your mother." His voice was barely above a whisper now. My vision cleared almost instantly with his words, and I let myself see him properly. He looked just like the man in the photo; obviously his hair had greyed and he had deeper lines on his face. No, this couldn't be possible. My father had left a long time ago. Why would my mother be sending him letters? I felt anger bubbling up inside me, and tears stung my eyes. This couldn't be happening, I kept telling myself. Then, I felt his arms around me and heard him whimpering in my ear. He sounded husky, but his scent was so familiar. I allowed him to hold me as words exploded from his lips. "Jennifer, I am so sorry for leaving you. Your mother and I, we met here. This is my home. We moved to England a few years before you were born to build a life. But I missed my village; I missed my people. I tried to convince your mother to come back with me, but she had her career and you were settled in school. We stayed in touch over the years, and she updated me on your life. Like your husband beside you, she told me how good he is to you and that she adores him." He sobbed intermittently between his words, while I just listened, motionless. "Adored him." I corrected him. I didn't mean for it to come out so bitterly, but it happened. "No," he sobbed. "Amelia, my darling." He wept. My heart ached, so I returned his hold. Although he had left my life early, my mother had never said a bad word about him, and now I knew why. With my arms around him, he embraced me tighter. "Could you tell me about your time with her?" I asked quietly. I felt his head nod against mine. "Yes, yes, of course." He smiled, taking mine and my husband's hands in his. "I will tell you everything." The trip to Hawaii brought me comfort after my mother passed; I felt at peace. And while I lost her, I gained a father, and with him come many new memories that I will treasure.

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When Hell Hath Fury

Marco was no stranger to anger. He’d been angry when his classmates picked on him at school for being the smallest kid in his class. He’d been angry whenever he saw his drunk, deadbeat dad beat on his mom, angry when she would stand there helplessly, hopelessly, taking the abuse. He’d been angry when his father, the man who was supposed to protect him, would hit him until he couldn’t move. Anger was what he felt when his poor, failed excuse for parents let their friends do unspeakable things to him for some meager sums. Anger when his dad finally snapped, killing his mother in front of him and leaving the boy at the mercy of the foster system while he rotted in a prison cell for the rest of his life. Anger, when once again, he was the target of the other children’s torment in the orphanage. So, no, the boy was no stranger to anger. The boy had long since become one with the white hot feeling that coursed through his veins every second of every day because that was all he’d ever had and all he’d ever known. However, as he stood in the doorway of his best friend, Leo’s house the feeling in his bones wasn’t anger. Marco had always been a pale, scrawny looking kid but now he looked even more sickly and frail than usual, as if the gentle breeze that blew through this rundown, decrepit house would blow him away into the sun setting along the horizon behind him. Around him, the slums remained as lively and bustling as they always were on a Friday evening as many came to pilfer and barter for goods to get their impoverished families through the week. Dozens of people, young and old, in varying degrees of tattered clothing, hurried around briskly from house to house and stall to stall. Every now and then, they’d pass by Leo’s house to peer in through the open door or shattered windows and balk, before speeding off. Of course, Marco took no notice, the external noise couldn’t get through the deafening ringing in his ears as tears filled his deep, dark, brown eyes blurring his vision. The first tears he’d shed since he first learned to speak, back when his life started to become the hell that it is. He didn’t even notice as gravel and broken glass scrapped his legs bloody. Since when had he been kneeling? Ah, he vaguely realized, his legs had given out under him. Even as he stared at it, Marco couldn’t quite comprehend what he saw. In the center of the family room, there lay Leo’s broken form, crumpled in a pool of his own blood. At first, he refused to believe it - that this was his friend, the one who he’d known since kindergarten, who’d been his salvation in this inescapable hell that was his life. No, this can’t be the same boy who would give him some of his food when he didn’t have any, who stood up for him when the bullies had made him their favorite punching bag, who ran away with him whenever he needed to escape first his parents’ abuse and eventually, the torment of the other foster kids. No, that boy was a lively, kind and gentle spirit with an impish grin practically etched onto his lightly freckled face and piercing green eyes that whispered nothing but secrets and mischief. That boy who always took care of others more than he did himself. He was the life of the party wherever he went, always making the day of whoever he came across just that bit brighter with some joke, story, or witty remark spewing from his thin, chapped lips nonstop as he gesticulated wildly every word; that boy was never down, never broken, and least of all, never still. But Marco knew immediately seeing those familiar brown curls frosted with bits of blue from when the two went spray painting just last week that stuck out from the curled figure on the floor. On shaky feet, he dragged himself over to his friend, raising the dead boy's head onto his lap, unconcerned as the sea of red soaked through one of his only good sets of clothes. He stroked his hand through his friend’s locks carefully to avoid the gash on his forehead as he let the tears rain onto the lifeless face below him. He chuckled bitterly as he noticed his friend donned his favored Queens tee. Then, he froze sharply, eyes squinting at the scar that had been etched into Leo’s hand before he let out a guttural scream of pure undiluted pain that ripped through his throat leaving it raw. Marco knew anger well but this - this feeling was unfamiliar to him. If anger was hot, barbaric, foolish and consumed one’s body, this feeling that overflowed through him was cold, insatiable as it threatened to devour him and everything around him. His blood, which never stopped boiling, was now like permafrost in his veins. As he waited for his vision to turn red, all he felt was this new feeling churning deep down, ripping through his trembling form, sharpening all his senses, and steeling all his nerves. He was startled as he recognized the feeling, this indeed was anger, but on a level he’d never felt before beyond rage. This was fury, cold as ice, seizing every cell in his being. He took a few breaths trying to get used to this new sensation before he stood up. The symbol engraved in Leo’s palm gave him an idea of who had done this to him. As he walked out of the house, through the newly formed crowd his shout had drawn, caked in dirt and blood, he knew this was the final straw. Hell hath no fury than a woman scorned; no, it was the man who has nothing left to lose that should be feared most. In the memory of the boy who’d saved him, but who he, in turn, had been unable to save when it mattered most, he’d show everyone what true hell looked like before he razed everything to the floor. Just as there were no gods who delivered him from his suffering all these years, there would be no gods to deliver anyone who stood in his way from his wrath because he’d kill them too.

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Giggles the Heroic Donkey, Underdog of the Mystical Coast

Years later, Giggles the little donkey still remembered the first big challenge she won, against the coyotes stalking her friend, Huckleberry, the baby elk calf. In that contest between donkey and coyotes, the donkey's unexpected skills and natural gifts surprised the coyotes, who thought they were clever. It was 1898 in the rainforest wilderness of the Mystical Coast, where emerald mountains covered by towering fir trees met the vast ocean reaching to the horizons. Appearing to be an underdog, with her plain, grey hair, stubby legs, and tall, waving ears, Giggles the little donkey had extraordinary secret talents that helped to make her a hero. Other creatures who challenged her learned to beware after losing contests with her. She had gifts they did not suspect. Bonding with creature animals and human animals who were friendly, Giggles did not think with words. But instinctively, and in her feelings, she wanted to be respected and valued. She was very social, however, if threatened, or if her friends were threatened, Giggles was very loyal and full of surprises. Giggles recalled the time she was living as one with the elk herd, and she fought and drove the coyotes away from her friend, the baby elk calf known as Huckleberry. Earlier, that previous winter, her family abandoned their homestead for another, and Giggles was left behind out in the meadows. The donkey always roamed freely near the homestead, often guarding the livestock, and the homesteaders left Giggles to find her own way in life, knowing she liked her freedom and independence. Once when they tried to put a halter on her or restrain her, Giggle’s wiggled out of it. Another time they put her into a barn stall, leaving the top half open so she could still see outside. But Giggle’s cleverly reached over the top, flipped the handle of the steel lever holding the bottom part of the door closed, and slid it open. In the morning the family saw the open door and empty stall. Around the side of the barn, they found Giggles in the haybarn, happily munching away on a tasty breakfast.  Living up to her name, Giggles would throw back her head, and let a soft, rippling bray like a laugh caress the ears of those around.  However, as any creature who threatened her learned, she had other talents too. When the family got another homestead in an area better suited for them, they abandoned their first one, and Giggles became a free spirit, grazing on the grasses and exploring the mountains, valleys and coastal areas.  But the little grey donkey felt lonely, and without the family and animals of the homestead she did not feel like sounding her laughing bray. Giggles wandered and looked for her friends for many months in the valleys, forests, mountains, and beaches. In the Spring the lonely donkey joined a herd of elk and made several new friends there. While Giggles was wandering and grazing, the bears, coyotes and cougars noticed the big eared creature, but they continued on their paths in the forest shadows and meadow grasses, unconcerned and feeling no threat. Her appearance was deceptive. Giggles had many talents that were unsuspected by others. In time, those who knew her considered her to be quite gifted. Those who underestimated her were surprised, when they were bested in contests by an underdog. It was a misty Spring day in the emerald world of the coast, when Giggles met the elk herds. The creatures were grazing in a meadow next to a forest. Giggles saw they were a different kind of donkey. They were the ones with long legs, delicate ears, and a tall stature. They had sleek brown coats, white rumps with small, fluffy tails, and delicate ears. Looking up into their warm, liquid brown eyes, Giggles saw herself reflected, while they studied her in return. Not completely accepted, Giggles nibbled wild grasses but stayed a distance from the herd of female elk. To them, she was a strange-looking elk, with her long ears protruding like giant corncobs and her stubby legs. One particular mama elk, whom the herd thought of as “Brambles,” approached Giggles cautiously with her elk calf, “Huckleberry.” Brambles and Giggles flared their nostrils, snorted softly, and sniffed, and touched muzzles. Giggles pawed the ground with excitement and Brambles stomped her forefeet. When Giggle gave one of her softer, laughing brays, a friendship was born. Some distance away was another herd of the larger male elk, with their majestic spreads of antlers like tree branches sprouting from their heads. Towering over the other male elk, was a male with a spread of antlers reaching high, and a massive frame, that everyone respected. He was known to the elk as Sky Mountain. He watched the strange-looking little creature trotting on stubby legs over at the females’ herd. Should he lower his head of pointed antlers and charge forward, bugling a challenge, to run off this long eared animal? Was it even a threat or was it a comical playmate for the elk calves?  Sky Mountain decided to wait and watch. Until Autumn, the huge males, as large as 1,000 pounds, had their own herd, while the females stayed together, nursing, and protecting their newborn elk calves. Every Fall, the two herds merged, the males bugling their echoing calls across the lands. There were battles between the male elks over females, with the males charging each other and locking horns. The little donkey, Giggles, lived the free spirit of her heart, with her elk friends, roaming the meadows, mountains, dunes and beaches of the Mystical Coast. She was not quite accepted as part of the herd, except for her friends Brambles and Huckleberry. But the rest of the females and the male elk leader, Sky Mountain, tolerated Giggles. Secretly, most of the elk thought Giggles was inferior to their majestic stature. They moved gracefully around the meadows and forests on their log, slender limbs. They glanced at each other, when the little grey donkey trotted by, with her stubby legs taking short, choppy steps. What kind of elk does this? They kept their thoughts to themselves, but Giggles could sense by their body language what they felt. Some of them noticed Giggles smelled different too. But over time the donkey proved that she had unique talents of her own. One day the young calf, Huckleberry, was chewing on grasses, while his mother,Brambles, grazed a little ways away. Giggles was nearby, enjoying tasty green morsels. They were so delicious. It was a sunny day in late Spring. The fresh shoots were so tender. The breeze blew gently. Life was peaceful and wonderful. The contented donkey breathed in the sweet, fresh air and relaxed into a drowsy state. Drifting almost asleep, Giggles sensed a new presence. Then one of her long ears caught a strange sound. Something or someone was moving stealthily through the field. She rolled her eyes toward it, and saw the tips of tall golden wild oats waving slightly. What was over there? It did not smell like an elk calf. The little donkey's body went rigid. She flared her nostrils, raised her head, and peeled back her big, full lips in a grimace, because it helped her to smell better. The visual effect was fearsome, with her large chompers and gums bared, and her cavernous mouth gaping wide. She saw the little calf, Huckleberry, with his head down, learning to munch happily on a tender meal of spring grass. Something was out there, near Huckleberry. Something threatened her little friend. Giggle’s heart leaped. A tickle began deep in her throat and the air caught there, then grew into a sound that carried for miles. She opened her mouth like a wide doorway with the thick, strong, huge teeth bared. Across the valleys and mountains, all living things heard a sound that was like a whistling scream. “Heee Haaawww…Heee Haaawww…HEEEEE..HAAAWWWW.” It exploded, shrieking across the countryside so that animals everywhere tried to hide their ears from it. Hee… haw….HEEEEE…HHAAAWWW. The group of camouflaged coyotes, legs bent and bodies close to the ground, creeping through the tall field toward the unsuspecting elk calf, froze at the sound bellowing from Giggles. They shook their heads to try to stop the sound from assaulting their eardrums. One of the coyotes, known as Sly, for the gift of creeping undetected, crouched even closer against the ground, and signaled the others to do so too.  The short, stubby legs of the donkey pounded the ground and she charged, braying her screaming hee haw so that it boomed and frightened all the living things nearby. The birds stopped singing and watched. A hawk overhead soared with winds outspread, coming closer to see what was happening. Squirrels and chipmunks scurried into their hiding places. Even the very wind, itself, seemed to pause, at the ear splitting sound bellowing from Giggles. The black bears, cougars and raccoons in the forests shook their heads and tried to hide from the terrible sound. The eagles and ospreys overhead turned their backs and flew upward into the sky. Even the trees seemed to cringe from the large sound of the gifted braying of the little donkey. It was as if time stopped. Even the earth hesitated in its rotation, at the incredible noise of the sound that the shaggy little creature made. Such was the power of Giggle’s talented, magnificent bray. She would not let anyone harm her friend, the little elk calf. The elk could not believe this sound was coming from the small, grey, shaggy creature. How could she do that? It was even more piercing than the bugling of the male elk in the Autumn. But the coyotes continued creeping forward. In a blur of movement, the coyotes leaped to attack the calf. But the little donkey spun, her short legs moved like lightening, and she dove through the grasses toward the nearest coyote. The contest with the coyotes was a tough fight. Like a raging hurricane, Giggles went after the nearest coyote, with her teeth bared, big ears flying bahaunchesand her haunches pushing her at top speed. Her hind legs with their sharp hooves kicked backward and sideways, too. Faster than the coyotes eyes could see, Giggles spun like a whirlwind, and her hooves flew, kicking the coyote out of the way. It ran off towards the forest to hide.. Then another coyote came at her, and another. Fiercely she tore at them with her big teeth, and whirled like a dancer, her small, sharp hooves sending them flying. The elk were her friends, and no one was going to hurt them. For thousands of years, her donkey ancestors defended homes, herds, and friends. Their bravery and loyalty surged through Giggles, in this contest to save the baby elk's life. The other elk came charging to help their strange looking friend with defending the baby elk. The coyotes took off running for cover, disappearing into the dense underbrush in the distance. Sly and his coyote friends would remember this. They would not bother this elk herd again. Especially, they would keep their distance from the strange looking little, shaggy grey elk with the long ears, and the horrendous, hideous, shrieking, bellowing braying sound that pierced their ears.  Brambles, the mama elk, huddled next to her baby, Huckleberry, nuzzling him to be sure he was not injured. The other Elk surrounded them protectively. Their eyes expressed concern and they sniffed and nudged Huckleberry all over his body to see if he had been injured. The rest of the Spring passed, with more baby elk calves on the ground. Then Autumn came and the herds merged, finding mates. For several years Giggles enjoyed being a member of the elk band. After the incident with the coyotes the female elk adopted her into their inner social circles. Giggles was happy, feeling valued and enjoying their affection. Sometimes they would scratch each other’s backs with their teeth or rest their heads on each other’s withers. They were comrades, like team mates. But the little donkey was still lonely for the children who used to stroke and gently pull on her incredible ears. She missed the way they would blow their breath into her nostrils to see them flutter, and climb onto her back, sitting lightly on her narrow barrel of a body, while she carried them carefully. With her small feet, short steps, and large, soft pad in the bottom of each hoof, Giggles was more surefooted than ponies, horses and many other creatures when navigating rocky surfaces and stony trails. She scrambled over them easily instead of slipping and falling. The elk observed her and grew to respect her talents more. When it rained, Giggles didn’t like to get her large ears wet, because it was hard to get the water out. Her shaggy coat did not handle water well, and it was different from the coats of horses. So she sheltered under the dense fir tree boughs during the rains. But shaggy burro could swim if she needed to do it. After crossing a stream or river, she would shake herself hard, sending water spraying everywhere, leaving the shaggy hair standing up in spikes for a while. The Elk were good swimmers and sometimes they crossed waters, and she had to keep up. They were her friends. One day Giggles heard sounds coming from a creek. She walked through the shadows beneath the forest and peered through the tree boughs. There was a group of children playing in the water. When they got out and walked along a trail, Giggles was curious and she followed them. She remembered creatures like this from a long time ago, when she lived on the homestead with her family. Emerging from the forest, the children came to a wide beach, surrounded by tall cliffs. The ocean waves blended with the horizon and bubbled onto the sand, forming tidepools. “Look, what’s that?” The children noticed the grey creature and pointed. “Some kind of pony.” They walked past a row of crops growing beyond the sand on a slope, then began going up a steeper but wide path. Giggles hesitated, then followed them at a distance. One little girl stopped and pulled up some tender grasses, holding them in her hand out to the grey donkey. A distant memory surfaced in Giggles’s mind, she recognized the gesture. With small, delicate steps, she approached, stretched her neck way out, and pursed her large lips to use them to grasp the little handful of grasses. They were moist and tasty. Her eyes lit up under her shaggy brows and tossled forelock. “Elsie, be careful,” one of the boys called to the girl. “It’s ok. Look. She’s friendly. It’s like she knows me.” Elsie reached up and stroked the furry neck and wispy forelock over Giggle’s face. She saw the large, warm, intelligent eyes studying her. In return, Giggles nuzzled the girl’s hand, sniffing. The girl felt the soft, velvety muzzle against her hand and arm. The little grey donkey felt her affectionate nature rising and the social bonding began to form a partnership of trust. Then she raised her head, opened her mouth wide like a gate, and let the flutter that started in her throat come out in a soft, laughing sound, with her lips peeled back. That night, Giggles ate the extra feed the little girl threw onto the lawn of the house. When an old Black Bear, known as Stormy, wandered out of the forest near the lighthouse keepers’ Victorian home, Giggles charged at him, braying her magnificent sound. Stormy was looking for leftover garbage from the keepers’ meals.  The family was used to having to clean up because Stormy scattered their trash frequently. Sometimes Stormy the black bear crawled up over the veranda railing and roamed the porch. At night the lighthouse keepers flashed their lanterns before they went outside to be sure they did not run into him. Stormy had been arriving intermittently for so many years that the lighthouse keepers had a wealth of stories, and they often chuckled and laughed about their neighborly roaming Black Bear.  The huge black bear fled from the little donkey, crashing through the forest, fleeing the assault on his ears of that whistling, screeching sound. Back at the lighthouse station, Giggles raised her head, peeled back her lips, and laughed with her soft fluttering sound. The next day, Giggles was following Elsie and her father, Joseph, when they hiked the quarter mile up to the lighthouse. They went inside and Joseph climbed the stairs up to the beacon, 65 feet above the ground, on the bluff 200 feet above the ocean. Seeing Giggles waiting, Elsie went outside, and hugged Giggles around the neck. The little donkey raised her head and gave one of her laughing, fluttering sounds. Giggles knew she was valued, and she had a new friend. But independent as always, Giggles still roamed with freedom. She wore a trail through the wilderness to her beloved elk friends, Brambles and Huckleberry, along with the rest of the herd. When adventure called, the little grey donkey still explored the unknown mountains, valleys and beaches of the Mystical Coast. The other creatures of the wilderness became familiar with the sounds of her surefooted little donkey hooves trotting along the trails. They knew the sound of her happy, soft donkey laughter, blending with the winds in the fir trees and the waves whispering on the sandy beaches of the Mystical coast.

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Tale of the Horse Rescuer

     A nightmare took over the mind of Harold Thumperton on September 15, 1818 and caused him to toss and turn all night in a restless sweat. His dream recalled in much too vivid detail the tumultuous sail across the Atlantic that had brought him from England five years before to seek his fortune as a wheat farmer in the rich fields of Maryland’s Lower Eastern Shore.        Over the course of the eight-week journey the ship carrying Harold and his family had run into seas so rough that his fellow passengers believed the ocean would swallow them whole before they came close to the New World they had heard about for years from letters sent home by the earlier settlers of the new land.       An avid reader of pamphlets containing the writings of William Shakespeare, during his family’s voyage he became more and more absorbed in the English bard’s Tempest . Like his own adventure, the play had taken place amid driving rain and howling winds that tossed and turned the writer’s humble sailing vessel in an ocean in a voyage propelled only by a scribe’s vivid imagination.        A half decade later, he and his family believed they finally had adjusted to their new surroundings. Yet, continually exhausted from laboring all day to gather enough crops to sell and feed his wife and two young children, he often barely escaped the same type of storm that had brought them to their American homestead and welcomed them to this new land.       Fortunately, as morning’s light dawned the day after his nightmare, Harold had awoken to a pleasant and gently cloudy day. Although exhausted from his struggle with his internal demons from the night before, he only had time for a quick breakfast of ground oats and warm milk before he prepared for another work-filled day on the farm.      Employing many of the methods passed down by generations of his Thumperton ancestors across the ocean, he had labored from dawn to dusk clearing, plowing and planting his new fields during the few bouts of moderate fall climate on the barrier island on the Atlantic Ocean.      Unlike many of his fellow English transplants, he had brought with him to the New World a love of reading. His horizons also continued to expand thanks to the few copies of the pamphlets of the works of the bard of Avon he had brought with him from his home country.      Although the hard work of running a farm didn’t leave him much time for his avocation, he had begun to study Shakespeare through newly-established mail courses sponsored by Maryland’s Washington University and eventually earned a degree in the discipline.       He dreamed that, one day, he would be able to apply his education to advancing the lives of his fellow tillers of the sod by passing along his love of literature, but this remained an elusive dream. His heart and hands still primarily focused on helping grow the food to feed his family and helping out his neighbors in his small circle of life.       Farming had not advanced nearly as far as the world of academia. Since tractors and other mechanized equipment didn’t exist, Harold and his fellow farmers cut the wheat with long-bladed scythes and bound the sheaves by hand. They then used the strong horses of the ocean side island to harvest this rich crop.        Satisfying the huge appetites of the large creatures required year-round feeding not available on the inland sections of the island. During the times when their farms did not provide seasonal forage, the farmer and his neighbors would herd their horses to the island borders with the Atlantic Ocean, where they could feed on the rich salt hay.           For almost two decades Mother Nature had provided an almost limitless supply along the shore to help their animals thrive in the off-season, and the weather often moderated enough to help them transport the animals to the water’s edge with no problem.          Then, in 1818, a foul wind that made Harold recall the account in The Tempest , swept up the East Coast without warning, smashing a path of destruction throughout the Sinepuxent Bay. Its force took down the small farmhouses and businesses that had grown up in the tiny village of Sinepuxent, on Sinepuxent Neck across the bay from the barrier island. The inlet there had allowed access to many ocean-going ships passing through the island from the Atlantic to the bay.        As the farmers on Assateague Island tried to shelter their valuable animals from the storm several trees split right down the middle, threatening to destroy them, their masters and their home. The horses, of course, went into a panic and began to rear up and run around wildly. Two members of Harold’s herd almost crushed him in a hurry to escape.          As he rushed after Starlight Master, his prize stallion, his rope slipped off the horse’s neck every time he attempted to lasso it. Finally, he pulled the animal to safety. The wind continued to howl, and the combination of the fearsome breezes and rains eventually flattened the village and made what once thrived as the homestead in Sinepuxent crumble and become an addition to the expanding ocean.      The forces of nature which helped Maryland’s Lower Eastern Shore contribute so much to the growth of America, destroyed the town which had, 39 years before produced Stephen Decatur, one of the country’s greatest naval heroes of the 18th century.     Harold managed to round up the remainder of his herd on the island, but the storm had other ideas. The raging sea, so similar in depth and power to that described by his favorite bard in the literature he loved as much as his new home in America, took with his beloved village the man who his fellow workers of the island fields had come to regard as one of the saviors of the famous Assateague ponies. The forces of nature which often had partnered with the gallant farmer swept him under the surf before he could breathe his last and drowned his dream to bring Shakespeare to the masses of the Eastern Shore.  

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Fly On, Granddaughter!

Rosemarie Blatter spent her long days working for a budding pharmaceutical company, which was in the final stages of getting its narcolepsy medication approved by the FDA. Her job was to enter investigators' data provided to her by the CRA's into a database. The drug study had gone on for over five years, with Rosemarie having gotten hired as a nascent Research Assistant close to the end of the drug study. At first, she had worked alongside a more experienced RA, but then that person was promoted to a CRA position. This left Rosemarie in the enviable position of sole data entry person, and she took to the position with relish. Rosemarie also loved the summer Olympics, and in middle school took a liking to the javelin event. Rosemarie was glued to her TV for the 1984 Los Angeles Olympics. She was an emotional child, and she cried as Jim McKay described the excitement as Rafer Johnson climbed up the final steps to the Olympic rings. His fire looped around the rings and united into the cauldron on top of Johnson's perch. Like Johnson, Rosemarie too was African American. The opening ceremony that evening from her home in Plainfield, N J was only the beginning, with the javelin event nearly two weeks away, but she watched as much of the Olympics as she could. Finally, close to the end, she witnessed Arto Härkönen clinch the gold medal in the javelin event. Rosemarie compared herself to Härkönen. Could she also compete in the javelin event in a future Olympics? She consulted the World Almanac and learned that women could indeed compete! Transfixed by the stellar news, she got to work throwing a broomstick, and later tried a rusty iron ice breaker in her grandfather's backyard. She was able to build up her strength and accuracy, knowing that she was basically throwing a long, needle-like missile in a direct comparison to ancient hunting techniques. Her grandfather bought cheap stuffed animals and put them in their backyard at 30-, 40-, 50- and 60-meter intervals and gave Rosemarie an extra $5 for each "rabbit" she bagged with her improvised javelin. "Härkönen doesn't have anything on you, girl!" said her grandfather. "Don't let anything stop you! Get in those Olympics!" He was able to get Rosemarie into the Penn Relays by the time she was a junior at Plainfield High School, and she did well, throwing her javelin to exactly 50 meters in 1989 and then tacking on another two meters in 1990, placing third in both events. It seemed Rosemarie was unstoppable and could have easily entered the coveted Olympics in Barcelona in 1992, but she was beginning to develop a sharp pain in her left wrist. Rosemarie started noticing that her wrist also hurt at her job as an RA, and things had really tightened up there because their star drug’s impending approval, and she was busier than ever. Her grandfather told her to take some ibuprofen, and it helped, but only when she wasn't working or training. Soon the pain was so bad that she could barely type or throw her javelin, and her distance had suffered as well. "What am I going to do, grandfather?", she said one frigid night. "I can't keep icing this wrist and taking ibuprofen. I read that it's really bad for my liver!" And she cried over the phone to her grandfather. He was quiet for a moment. "How badly do you want to get into the Olympics", he asked her. "More than anything in my life, grandfather!" she stated flatly. There was no denying the finality in her voice. "Then we have to figure something out. What if we switch hands?" her grandfather asked. "I don't know. I can't even write with my right hand!" said Rosemarie. "We'll have to try it. Go get a piece of paper and a pencil. Don't use a pen, just in case you make mistakes. Just make circles, and then try triangles, squares and rectangles. Then just switch to letters and numbers. Get to work, Rosemarie! Don't stop until you get all the letters of the alphabet! Fly on, Granddaughter! Don't forget the toy rabbits you hunted in the backyard! Just think of the placements you got at the Relays! Just keep going! You'll do fine!" said her grandfather. Rosemarie sat there for a few seconds, letting her grandfather’s words sink deeply into her. She thought back to the flames of Rafer Johnson’s torch flowing and leaping around the Olympic rings and how her tears flowed. She couldn’t remember if her grandpa was in the room with her or not; it was so long ago now. But the same tears, as if held back by an ancient dam, flowed back now. She let out an articulate sob. Rosemarie’s grandfather sat quietly. “Please get to work, Granddaughter. Call me when you finish the alphabet with your right hand. I don’t care how late it is”, he said. She stayed up until two the next morning, but she didn’t call him. Rosemarie dropped off into a deep sleep, and then she got up again at ten the next morning, which was extremely late for her. She ran over to her grandfather’s house and showed him her previous night’s work. She had kept at it for five hours, and completed the alphabet, numbers and even a few lines from the end of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream”, her and her grandfather’s favorite Shakespearian work. “And it was all with my right hand, Grandfather!” said Rosemarie. “’Awesome! Now it’s on to those pesky rabbits!” her grandfather said. “Let’s see if you can get to 35 meters right out of the gate, Rosemarie.” Rosemarie picked up her javelin. It had lain on the ground the night before and it was freezing. It felt so weird in her right hand, but her left wrist was in a brace, and it hurt whenever she tried to flex it. “Don’t worry about that hand,” her grandfather said. “Just throw. Don’t try to wind up. Just chuck it into the air.” Rosemarie tried a throw, and the javelin went up a few meters and arrowed straight into the frozen ground and then fell over. Disappointed, she retrieved it and returned to her original position next to her grandfather. He just smiled at her. She tried again, and retrieved it again, and then repeated the action a dozen times. Then it was a score of times, and then fifty, and Rosemarie started feeling more confident. “All we can do is practice, my dear. Let’s try again tomorrow; I’m not feeling too well today,” said her grandfather. But Rosemarie wanted to continue, emboldened by the chilly air and anemic sunshine of that midwinter Saturday afternoon. “Please come sit with me. Let’s watch a movie together this afternoon,” said Rosemarie’s grandfather. As the winter melted into spring, Rosemarie kept working at getting her throws into the 40-meter range. She knew she had to get well into the 50-meter range just to qualify for Team USA. She was amazed that her right wrist had gotten so strong, as well as her throwing muscles. She found she had to produce a mirror image of her stance and her initial run. Her grandfather told her it was like driving in his native Jamaica, and that he always had to remember to keep right in New Jersey. By the beginning of April, the narcolepsy drug had been approved, and Rosemarie left that job to focus solely on the javelin and on getting into the summer Olympics. It would be expensive, but she had saved up almost $10,000 for her entry into the event. Her grandfather gladly matched the amount, and she had enough to participate in Barcelona. But Rosemarie’s grandfather had taken a deep turn by April, and he seemed like he had aged ten years in a few weeks. It was pancreatic cancer, the same disease that had claimed his own father, and at about the same age as he was now. “Granddaughter, I don’t know how much time I have left. Are you still practicing?” “Oh, yes Grandpa, I am working very hard! My right wrist is just as strong as my dominant hand now. It’s like I’ve totally switched over!” “That’s good, my dear. I signed you up for the qualification event in Atlanta in two weeks! You’ll have to take the bus; I couldn’t get a plane ticket,” he said. “That’s OK, Grandfather. You’ve done so much for me!” And Rosemarie reached her arms gingerly around him in his bed and hugged him ever so gently. Then she kissed his cheek, tasting the sheen of sweat from sickness and months of effort. “What kind of strategy will you have in Atlanta, Granddaughter?”, he asked her weakly. Rosemarie thought for a second, and then for another. She looked searchingly into her grandfather’s eyes. For once, she didn’t have an answer. Both of them just stared at each other, not really knowing what to say. A painful introversion seemed to have permeated their relationship, chasing each of them into dark corners and fearful thoughts. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I’ve taught you everything I could have. It's just that when I was a little boy, we played soccer in Jamaica. We played in our bare feet out in the hot sun. We played for hours! We skipped school sometimes!” And then Rosemarie’s grandfather uttered his deep, rolling laughter, which he seemed to reserve for special moments when his memory became active, and he closed his deep-set eyes. “No, no kiddo. I’m just kidding. We didn’t skip school. The schoolmasters would have killed us with their blackthorn sticks!” he said. “So, what’s the lesson, Grandfather?” said Rosemarie. “Oh, nothing. It’s just a funny story, I guess. Maybe you’ll think of me in better times.” And he smiled broadly at his granddaughter. In a week Rosemarie was in Atlanta without her grandfather, but she quickly befriended her counterpart, a girl from California, seeking the same spot-on Team USA. On the second day of the competition, Rosemarie threw a 62.2-meter strike, while Shayla, her competitor, got a 58.3-meter throw. There was to be a second round, but the competitor forfeited, and Rosemarie won. She and Shayla embraced and parted ways, promising to keep in touch. Shayla also would go on to Barcelona, but as a spectator, and she would be going to support Rosemarie. It was all Rosemarie could do to get back to Plainfield in a nearly twenty-four-hour ride. But the worst of her fears were realized when she went straight to the hospital. Her grandfather had passed away in his sleep. He was 71 years old. Rosemarie kept things together as best she could. She called Shayla, and they cried on the phone together. Rosemarie had gotten to tell Shayla all about her grandfather and about the toy rabbits, but not about switching hands. Rosemarie decided to keep that a secret until the competition in Barcelona. Shayla and Rosemarie flew to the Olympics together a week into the competition, because the women’s javelin event was one day before the closing ceremony. Rosemarie was nervous, and also chagrined that she could not practice until a day before her event. It turned out that there were twelve women, including two from Finland and one from Sweden in the event. “I hope I place at least third in the event,” Rosemarie told Shayla. She smiled at her new friend. “You beat my butt!” said Shayla. “You’ll do great! But I’m curious. How did you get interested in the Olympics anyway?” Then Rosemarie related her story about seeing the Los Angeles Olympics and crying at the opening ceremony. “I don’t think I could ever get emotional about anything like that”, said Shayla. “I was the youngest of five children, and all of them were brothers. It was a rough-and-tumble household, let me tell you. I just had to be tough. And my father was an anesthesiologist, so it was all about success. No losers in that damn house!” “Oh, Shayla, you sound so angry,” said Rosemarie. “I’m sure you had some fun times with everyone.” Shayla stared at the seatback in front of her, her gaze averted to the cup of icy coffee in a styrofoam cup. She was quiet for the rest of the trip. Rosemarie left her to her thoughts. Hours later, in Barcelona, the women quickly found transportation to the Olympic village. The predawn hours didn’t allow for much sightseeing, but they got to their room quickly. After a meal, both of them zonked out for a few hours before Rosemarie had to get to practice. The next day, Shayla was still taciturn, but she hugged Rosemarie before she left; Shayla had to stay in the room because she lacked tickets to any of the events, except to the next day’s women’s javelin event. Rosemarie got on the transport to the main field, and it was then she got a look at her competition. Nobody smiled, but about half of them had someone attending them. It turned out that mostly the attendants were family members; only one had a coach. Rosemarie thought about the fact that the Olympics truly was an amateur event! Rosemarie found her javelin, and she hefted its 600 gram mass into her left hand, just to see if her wrist had improved from carpal tunnel pain. She walked a few meters with it in her dominant hand, but immediately switched to her right hand after the first tendrils of pain returned. Nobody saw her wince. Rosemarie had an hour to practice, and she watched the other women throw as well. Shayla arrived a half hour into the practice, and the after the field had closed and the male javelin athletes arrived, Rosemarie and Shayla walked around the track together and talked. On the next to last day of the 1992 summer Olympics, Rosemarie’s best throw was a 59.8-meter zinger. However, it wasn’t enough for her to earn a bronze medal, but she had placed sixth. It was a mere hour after it had started, and by 11 am her event was over. The stands were totally full for the men’s events to immediately follow, and the day had turned completely cloudless and hot; it had turned into a furnace by late afternoon. Rosemarie and Shayla retired to their room and watched the rest of the Olympics on the group TV in the lobby with other athletes. “How’s your left wrist, Rosemarie?” asked Shayla. “It’s better, I guess. I think my javelin days are behind me. I’ve got to get a job!” said Rosemarie. Shayla laughed, her blue eyes twinkling in the overhead lights of the lobby. The two decided to fly back the next morning, hours before the closing ceremony. Shayla would have been unable to participate, and all the stadium’s seats had been taken. They hadn’t even been in Barcelona long enough to recover from jetlag. Fortunately, they both slept well on the flight back to New Jersey. There were reporters stationed at Newark Airport upon their arrival, but nobody came and talked to them. It was as if Rosemarie had already been forgotten. Shayla and Rosemarie hugged a long time, and then they went together to Shayla’s terminal for her flight back west. It was while they were waiting that they hatched a plan to move in together in California, where Rosemarie could get a job and begin college with the money her grandfather had left her. “I’ll get out to you as soon as I close up shop around here,” said Rosemarie. The women hugged again, and Shayla walked up the jetway to board her flight and was swallowed up from Rosemarie’s view. Alone again, Rosemarie took a taxi back to Plainfield, using the last of her money. She went straight to her grandfather’s cemetery plot and looked down at his meager headstone. It simply read: “George Tyler” and then his years: “1921-1992” “Thank you, Grandfather. You always told me to fly on. Thank you for the toy rabbits!” Then Rosemarie turned away and headed into her future. 

225m7o

The Pawn becomes a Knight.

For Hundreds of years, the White Kingdom, and the Red Realm have been locked in battle. The White Royals, have fought to keep their land, and on several occasions had nearly been wiped out. It was for this cause, three generations ago, the White King made a decree for all his people, every man woman and child would be trained for battle, and were divided by rank. The highest rank of course being the royal family, then there were the defenders, an elite force that closely guarded the royals, and kept the walls heavily fortified, next the bishopric, consisting of advisors, scholars, and ministers, knights held a rank of honor, and were given fine steeds, but lowest of all was the pawns, made up of the servants, expendables if you will, they were the foot soldiers, the fodder of the battlefield, their lives were oft spent holding the line of battle.  Liam had the misfortune to be born among the pawns, by the time he had learned to walk, his training began, by fifteen he was wielding a sword, and placed in the front lines with his brothers. You may think it harsh, but the King was not unkind, he reminded his servants daily, every one of them, down to the last, had a fulfilling purpose, and knowing the servants, had the smallest chance at survival, set a law in place, for all to see their sacrifice was equal to that of any man.  Any pawn that made it through to breach the castle, could be given a new title, and their children would carry that rank, it went on further to state, if any woman was to start a family, she would then retire from the battlefield, to raise her children, and any family, close to extinction, except in defense, would be exempt from the battle, this way the family line could continue, to bring future generations, future soldiers, to expand the white kingdom. Liam of course still being a pawn, meant none of his ancestors, made it through the lines, but he was determined to be the one, he had grand aspirations of becoming a knight, he loved watching how fluidly they moved on the field, mounted on great steeds. As a foot soldier, he could only move onward and forward, but the knights had a way of galloping about in many directions, as they cleared the path, their armor gleaming in the sunlight.  Five years Liam fought, just last year, he married his fighting partner, together they hoped to end their serfdom, and raise more knights for the service of the King and Queen, His wife Tilly, soon retired from the war to raise their daughter. He had lost all but one brother, how he survived this long he did not know, but was nonetheless thankful, praying his brother would live to see another day, before he too was pulled from the fight, loosing his last chance to rise above his station. Pressing forward, his eye on the goal of a knighthood. All around him the battle raged, steel clanged against steel, The Red Realms defenders, launched boulders from the trebuchets, pawns littered the fields, all around him chaos ensued. Liam blocked a blow to his head, while dealing a death blow to his enemy, and then he saw his chance, the battlements were only a few hundred yards away, the warrior queen was up ahead, she too had seen a chance. Evading blows Liam dashed off after the Queen, her protection, had long since, been lost. Together they raced through the side gate, Liam taking out several guards, till they reached the stables, and were able to take a short respite. “You have done well soldier” she said “Let me see you sword” Liam withdrew his sword, and presented it to his queen with a bow. “What is your name soldier?” “Liam, Your Majesty” “You are quite skilled with your sword Liam, and your family should be proud. Now, tell me what you require, I daresay you do not want the bishopric” “Your Ladyship, I would be honored to become a knight in your service, if it would please you” The Queen smiled graciously, “and you shall have it. Pray take a knee” He did so, as she continued, touching the broadside of the sword gently on his shoulder “By the law of King Robert, I dub thee Sir Liam, Knight of the White Kingdom” Liam rose, taking back his sword, ready to rejoin the fray, but the Queen stopped him, “I suppose a knight should have his horse, and we have a ready stable before us, choose your steed, and loose the rest” Liam did as instructed, selecting a chestnut roan, while the Queen chose a dapple grey, together they mounted, and with renewed strength, rode out among the herd they had set free. Soldiers of the Red Realm, cried out in alarm, scattering about to avoid being trampled, victory was nigh, the Red King was cornered, and the white Queen was about to strike, yet at the last moment, a defender blocked her path protecting his king. The wrong move meant she would die, there was little time to ponder her next move, as Liam stepped in to engage with the defender, and cause a distraction, so the Queen could finish what she came for. The defender was a bulwark of a man, to whom Liam was no match, but he fought bravely, warding off blow after blow, till he could take no more, the defenders battle-axe crushed his skull, and with his last breathe, plunged his blade into the man, giving the Queen the opportunity she needed to dethrone the Red King once and for all. Victorious at last, the Queen, raised the Red King’s crown over the parapets to mark the end of war, and surrender of the enemy, bringing cheers to the soldiers below, little knowing of Liam’s sacrifice. The Queen was not a selfish woman, and made it well known to all of Liam’s tragic loss, and as the law stated made sure his future generations would henceforth be knights. Bards sang of his bravery, his tale became a legend among pawns, and theirs was a brighter future, because of it.

lh9zch

Seraphina: The Knight of Alaric

In a realm where magic flowed like rivers through the ancient forests and dragons soared across the skies, a young knight named Seraphina lived. She was known throughout the kingdom for her courage and unwavering sense of justice. Seraphina had been trained since childhood in the arts of combat and magic, a rare combination that marked her as a prodigy among her peers. But Seraphina carried a burden that weighed heavily on her heart. Long ago, her father, Sir Alaric, had ventured into the cursed depths of the Blackwood Forest to confront a dark sorcerer who threatened their land. He never returned. Since that day, Seraphina had vowed to uncover the truth of her father's fate and bring justice to those responsible. One fateful morning, a messenger arrived at the castle gates bearing news of a village under siege by a horde of malevolent creatures led by a powerful warlock known as Malgath the Shadowbringer. Seraphina knew in her heart that this was the moment she had been preparing for her entire life. With her trusted companion, a wise old wizard named Eldric, by her side, she set forth on a journey to confront the evil that threatened her people. The journey was difficult, fraught with traps laid by Malgath's minions and dark enchantments that tested their resolve. Yet, Seraphina's determination never faltered. She wielded her enchanted sword, forged in the fires of a forgotten dragon's breath, and channeled the ancient spells taught to her by Eldric. Together, they fought through the enchanted forests and treacherous mountains until they reached the cursed stronghold where Malgath awaited. Inside the shadowy fortress, they faced horrors beyond imagination — twisted creatures spawned from nightmares, illusions that played tricks on the mind, and traps designed to ensnare the bravest of souls. But Seraphina pressed on, driven by her desire to avenge her father and protect her people from the darkness that threatened to consume them. At last, they confronted Malgath in the heart of his lair, a chamber saturated with malevolent magic and the stench of death. The warlock, cloaked in shadows and wreathed in dark energy, sneered at Seraphina as she stepped forward, her eyes blazing with righteous fury. "You dare challenge me, child of Alaric?" Malgath's voice echoed with eerie calmness. "Your father met his end at my hand, just as you shall meet yours." Seraphina's heart clenched at the revelation, but she did not waver. She raised her sword and called upon the ancient words of power taught to her by Eldric. The air crackled with magic as she unleashed a barrage of spells, each one aimed at weakening Malgath's defenses. But the warlock was no ordinary foe. With a wave of his hand, he countered her spells with dark curses that threatened to overwhelm her. Eldric fought by her side, his staff glowing with protective wards, but even his formidable magic struggled against the sheer malevolence of Malgath's power. In the midst of the battle, Seraphina saw an opening — a momentary lapse in Malgath's defenses. With a cry of determination, she lunged forward, driving her sword deep into the warlock's heart. Malgath staggered, his dark aura flickering like a dying flame before collapsing in a swirl of black mist. Victory came at a cost, however. As the last traces of Malgath's dark magic dissipated, Seraphina felt a searing pain rip through her body. She looked down to see a deep wound across her chest, inflicted by a desperate strike from the warlock in his final moments. Eldric rushed to her side, his face etched with concern as he tried to stem the blood flow. "You have done it, young one," Eldric said softly, his voice filled with pride and sorrow. "Malgath is defeated, but the price has been paid." Seraphina's vision blurred as she struggled to stay conscious. She knew then that her journey had come to an end. She had avenged her father's death and saved her people from the darkness that threatened to engulf them. But in doing so, she had sacrificed herself in the ultimate act of heroism. As she lay in Eldric's arms, the echoes of battle faded into silence. The castle walls seemed to shimmer with a faint light as if the very essence of magic itself mourned her passing. Seraphina closed her eyes, her heart heavy yet at peace, knowing that she had fulfilled her destiny as a tragic hero in the annals of their kingdom's history. But fate had other plans for Seraphina. In the moments when all seemed lost, a soft glow enveloped her, a gentle warmth that eased her pain and brought clarity to her clouded mind. She stood in a vast, ethereal realm — the realm of the ancestors, where spirits of the past and present converged. Before her stood a figure cloaked in shimmering light, a familiar presence that radiated love and strength. It was Sir Alaric, her father, his features etched with pride and sorrow. "Father..." Seraphina whispered, her voice filled with a mixture of joy and disbelief. "My brave daughter," Sir Alaric's voice echoed like distant thunder. "You have surpassed all expectations and faced the darkness with courage few possess. But your journey is not yet over." Confusion clouded Seraphina's thoughts. "What do you mean, father?" Sir Alaric's gaze softened as he stepped closer, his hand reaching out to touch Seraphina's cheek. "You have proven yourself worthy, Seraphina. Worthy of a second chance." Realization dawned on Seraphina as she understood the weight of her father's words. She had been given a choice — to remain in the realm of the ancestors or return to the mortal world. A chance to continue her fight, protect her people, and uncover the mysteries that still lay unanswered. "I must go back," Seraphina said firmly, her resolve stronger than ever. "There is still much I must do." Sir Alaric nodded, his smile filled with pride. "Then go, my daughter. Fulfill your destiny and know that I will always be with you." With a final embrace, Seraphina felt herself drawn back to the mortal realm, her spirit renewed with purpose. She awoke to find herself in a bed of healing herbs, tended by Eldric and the grateful villagers whose lives she had saved. The wound on her chest had healed, leaving only a faint scar as a reminder of her sacrifice. Months passed as Seraphina recovered from her ordeal, and her strength and determination returned each day. She resumed her duties as a knight, training tirelessly and honing her skills in preparation for whatever challenges lay ahead. But the shadows of the past were not easily forgotten. Rumors began to spread of a new threat rising in the dark corners of the kingdom — whispers of a cult dedicated to resurrecting Malgath and unleashing his vengeance upon the world once more. Seraphina knew that her fight was far from over. With Eldric at her side and her father's spirit guiding her, she vowed to confront this new threat and protect her people from the darkness that lurked in the shadows. And so, in a realm where legends were born and tales of bravery echoed through the ages, the name of Seraphina, the Knight of Alaric, would forever be remembered. Her sacrifice would inspire future generations to stand against the darkness and uphold the ideals of courage, honor, and sacrifice. Thus ended the extended tale of Seraphina, a heroine whose courage shone brighter than any star in the night sky of their fantastical world. Her journey was one of tragedy and triumph, of loss and redemption, proving that light will always prevail even in the face of darkness.

8x7h4i

The Stands between Us

As the running back ran down the field, the guys in front of us roared their approval, and their abrupt jump to their feet was too much for my drink sitting in front of me. It dumped; all OVER me! They had growing more and more obnoxious all game, but this was too much! I jumped to my feet, different than they would have, I'm sure. I was furious. My girlfriend, Becca told me, "Siri, you HAVE GOT to calm down! You know how you get when you lose it". Apparently she must have seen all the signs of my rising temper. Easy to do when you have been friends since you were little children. My red hair was not just decoration; it should be a warning sign. I had an unmatched temper, and I was done restraining it during this game. I didn't care if it was the playoffs; the guys in front of me had it coming. "Excuse ME!" I screamed, right into the ear of the guy in front of me. He had average brown hair, well, what little I could see of it under his classic golf hat with the team name emblazoned on it. But his eyes! They were an entrancing green. Not forest green, like trees, no, they were emerald green. And perhaps they wouldn't have been so startling but he had dark copper skin and it set off the rigid cheek bones and the smile he was wearing. "Umm, what can I do for you, ma'am?" he asked, respectfully. But I was already too far gone in my rant. My Karen had come out, and she was not holding back, gorgeous face or not. His friends all stopped what they were doing to gawk at us, well, me if we are being truthful. "Yeah, you dumped my drink, you jerks, when you jumped out your seats! You really should care more about the people behind you and not just the silly game going on", I said it sulkily, not really expecting him to retort, or retaliate. I misjudged him. A LOT! "Well, Miss Stick in the Mud, my buddy here is having one of his last real good days, and we are all enjoying the sun and the game. Maybe if you try real hard, you could sit down and appreciate the game too? You don't have to be so uptight. I mean, I'm sorry that happened, and yeah, we all owe you a drink, but there is no reason to get all upset!" he said. "Uptight? UPTIGHT?!" I shouted, escalating the situation from local to just about every eye in our area of the stands turning to see what the situation was. My friend tried to restrain me, she tried to shut me up, but it was no use. I was HOT! Yeah, the drink was drying but he called me a stick in the mud!! Why did I have to calm down? Later I would flush at how crazy I must have looked to observers and the man alike, but at the time, I was just angry. My boyfriend had just walked out on me the night before, and I was tired of being labeled a hothead everywhere I went. Even if it WAS true. I tossed my red hair, and huffed, but I did see the looks security was throwing our way. Resolute in trying to de-escalate the situation, I sat down and tried to gather up the remnants of a great night. We had been having a wonderful time prior to this. Becca looked at me, and shook her head. "Traci, don't you ever just take things gracefully? I know you are the baby of like 10 kids, but you gotta just take it as it comes sometimes". She cast a smirk over at me, and then leaned in to whisper; "besides, he is hot. Maybe you could actually get a date and forget about Robert with him. Eh?" I looked at her like she was crazy. Because she is. Why would I bother with him? The crowd roared again as the running back scored, pulling our home team in the lead. If we won this game, we were going to the Super Bowl. And that had not happened since about 20 years ago. This was turning into an epic game. Maybe I should have focused more on that, but I just could not get over my mess of a life. Becca side eyed me because I wasn't willing to start a conversation with the guy, and she was already talking to his friends, eagerly planning on going to pub across the street after the game to get to know them better. I looked up to see what Green Eyes was doing and was startled that while I had been reflecting on my horrible week, he had been studying my face. "I can't help but think you should have gotten my eyes in the genetic lottery", he said, smiling. "The name is Mike. What's yours?" Well now I'm obligated to respond. But he was cute, and I was single. "It's Siri, you know, like the phone lady's name," I said, a little breathlessly. Looking at him fully, he was very handsome, and articulate. He told me that he worked for Verizon, and interestingly enough, I worked a block away from him. We had never met, and while it was a big city, it was one of those cities that is big but really has a small town feel. Our team continued to outperform itself on the field. McCormick, the quarterback, took the ball 49 yards for a game winning touchdown! Holy Crap! We were going to the Super Bowl! This was a history making game! Caught up in the excitement, I jumped on Mike, and wrapped my legs around his waist like a koala bear. He was a great hugger, and I had no intentions of letting go anytime soon. Far as I was concerned, he could carry me down the stadium stairs to the refreshments in the pub across the way. Man, I hope it wasn't wall to wall people there. As the crowds thinned, we spent the next half hour just talking to each other, learning about the guys, and they learned we were roommates and besties. Yeah, Becca had been there for me for years, prompting me to always believe that nothing could separate us but death. Though that wasn't coming for either of us any time soon. We had too much to do, and too much life left. Speaking of life, I was ready to live mine. The mood changes inside had me reeling. I went from detesting Mike to wanting to get to know him better like real quickly, but he had a bomb personality, and some of the prettiest eyes I had ever seen. He was also extremely talented, working as one of the executives at Verizon. As we walked down the block with the guys to O'Marleys, we all talked about how much we loved their food and craft beer. I preferred a light craft, while Mike liked the darker versions. And we both loved reuben sandwiches with some dip and fries. We were ready to chow! The game had been awesome and our company was even better. Mike and the guys picked up the tab before we could even order our food, telling the waitresses that it was on their dime, and we sat in the back of the pub, chowing down and drinking, really getting to know the guys and watching the ending of the other games to find out who the Mavericks would play in the Super Bowl. And then we split an apple pie. Yeah, in a pub. Pub food is the best. Speaking of best, Mike highjacked my phone and put his number in as Mr Green Eyes while I laughed that he put me in his phone as Dynamite Red. Men always loved to remark on my hair, most thinking it was dyed but I came out with this red hair that was ACTUALLY red, not the orange that so many have naturally. I had the light skin and freckles, but instead of blue or green eyes, ended up with "plain ole brown eyes". He declared them the most beautiful he had ever seen. What went from a day from hell to an amazing first date was all because of a Super Bowl playoff. It was even more awesome because the tickets had been from a gift from someone at work who at the last minute couldn't go. It was crazy to think that we walk the same streets and might never have met without the interference of a stranger spilling my drink. And I was mad?! Maybe I shouldn't channel Karen so much, huh? I think I'll just stay in the line of being Siri. The real one, not the phone voice, and enjoy this crazy ride of a relationship with my new friend, Mike. I didn't even register his friends' or their names. I was so busy laughing and joking and yeah, flirting with Mike that it was night by the time we left the pub. Our friends had already left, Becca giving me the universal "you better call me with details" gesture when she went. We got up slowly, reluctantly, as the restaurant was about to close. Mike walked me all four blocks to my house, and he hugged me. I wondered if we would kiss, but seeing as I did not really like to kiss on a first meeting, I was glad he didn't push for it, but by the time he saw me into my house, I had a text from him. "I enjoyed tonight. Even if you almost killed me over your drink, lol". I smiled, and I wondered where would this possibly lead. I smiled and I replied, "Ditto".

i2zv32

I am you and you are me

I realized this morning that I have this unsatisfiable need to see myself in new mirrors often enough that it makes me feel uncomfortable about myself. The new mirrors at new places that I go to, the mirrors I cannot lie to. I am getting older, my body is changing and I am not the pro tennis player anymore. Now I am an artist. My body is getting soft, as maybe I am too, and though I look somewhat thirty, I can feel the forty in my bones, especially upon waking. I can feel the effects of the dreadful medicine I have been taking for the last six years, but above and beyond anything I can feel my laziness which piled up on my superbly designed body. My hair is turning gray, which I love, my skin is getting a bit dull, which I highly dislike, and at certain angles in these new mirrors I don’t really like myself. But did I ever? Life is happening all around me, as I sit on a bench and with great anticipation wait for the cafe in front of the hotel to open, because I am addicted again… to coffee. A young Georgian woman wearing jeans, a light brown tank top and high black hills is stirring up the calm of the morning energy. She walks to the street and back to the cafe with a fuss and a fasson of a busy woman. I watch her coming and going in front of me and I examine her, examine - not judge, and at this very moment I finally know and am in peace with the idea that I will never be like her, although at some point in my life I tried and for some unjustified reason wanted to be “her” and not myself. I am nothing like her, wearing my famously black plane “uniform” which I wear in an attempt to disguise my strong presence and casually wearing my recently acquired black designer crocs, to which I am now shamelessly very attached to. Although I have not become “her” and remained myself, “the myself” with crocs or without, is yet needed to be found and established, at 40. There is a grandmother with her grandchild on the bench to my right, feeding a banana to the child. The child munching mindlessly on the banana forced into her mouth keeps looking at me with wide blue eyes curiously examining every inch of me and my every move. I suddenly feel very responsible under her gaze and for her subconscious recollection of me in the future, so I smile at her, then look back down at my pen and paper and keep my back straight and my movements graceful. The street to my left is steadily getting busier and noisier. I am calm in my very core, and the slight wind is playing with my hair which makes me feel beautiful. I wonder if God intended it like that, to make soft wind, to play with women’s hair to make us feel beautiful. I am sitting next to a building, the same building I set by years ago after my car got towed from a wrong parking spot when I stopped for coffee in the heart of Tbilisi, the capital of Georgia. This was the trip during which I wore my white linen dress and every single police officer on the highway pulled me over while I drove from Yerevan to Dilijan, then to Tbilisi and off to Gudauri and ended up at a beautiful hotel on top of the village called Kazbeki. “I will never return to Georgia again” were my last thoughts on my way back home, sitting exactly here on this bench, in despair, feeling uncomfortable and extremely lonely and a bit angry at myself for coming, against all odds and mysterious signs that I shouldn’t have. Lately I have started to notice that I rarely feel lonely anymore, if ever. After a lifetime of feeling lonely it was alarming to suddenly notice that the feeling of loneliness is gone. The absence of a feeling that although slightly frightens me, is also courageous and a triumph. I learned to accept life, not life as it is, or my life as I have built it to be, but life in whole. Life as the existence that is around me that completely includes me and omittes me from it at the same time, the life that I am part of and the life that I am not part of at all. This life - I am at peace with it. I was supposed to give an interview today, which was then going to turn into a little beautiful movie about me. And I think it was high time I did something like that because the world is forgetting about me while I am finding acceptance hiding in my shell and black plain uniforms. But still I decided to pause and try to listen to the middle of my chest today, and although being responsible has always been “my thing”, today I decided to hear what life inside my chest wanted from me. So I canceled the interview. I fled to Georgia with the excuse that I have a rash on my face, the excuse that tied me to my past insecure self and the irrational decision that drove me towards the new me which I need to still build more confidently. I wish I was already the person who would just call and say “I don’t want to do the interview today, let’s reschedule” and not come up with an excuse of an imaginary rash or feel guilty. The idea of driving through our Armenian mountains in full blossom and ending up at a place where there are new mirrors and new smells and new tastes and new views was too appealing to me today. I wanted to leave so that I would want to return again. I wanted to miss everything that I love so that I can come back to it, to them. I wanted to write in a place where I have no responsibilities, where I just can exist and feel it fully. So I canceled the interview and left with a friend who called me an hour before her departure: “Fully financially covered trip, you just need to come” she said. So I went. Now she is deep asleep in the last and sweetest hour of the mandatory nightly eight hours, while I am skipping it and writing instead. Lingering in the air is the hotel breakfast smell, hotel breakfasts that I finally know that I truly dislike and would rather skip. I can hear the unfamiliar noises all around me and I already have met with the mirror that did not know me. With the sun rising I stood and looked at the river Qur that flows through the city, and I felt it, the calling, the calling I love, the calling of home.

kuumgv

The Anti-Villain

“Honey… they’ve busted 2 of my tutors on immigration, which means I’ll be running at a loss this month, again… I ermmm… I know why it’s not a good idea… but…” Mina started I was just 13 the first time I killed a “man”. “Look you f*&king Dumb*ss your idiocy is the reason our ecology teacher gives the same lesson over and over and can’t get on to anything interesting” I said to Walter smashing his head into the locker. His friends started to advance on me but remembered what I did when outnumbered in elementary school. I don’t remember how many times I did things like this… but eventually Walter challenged me to a one on one fight. You’d expect someone with one lung to give up when they’re knocked down and their opponent is able to put pressure on their chest preventing them from breathing. You’d be wrong, as I was, because neither of us understood that Walter really had been doing his best to do well in school and make his parents proud. And I was regularly hitting him at his most vulnerable place, earning the sort of hatred child abuse victims bear for their parents without the elements of love and gratitude that make those relationships complex. Walter was determined to fight to the death; and he succeeded. After his heart stopped I had to spend 5 minutes doing CPR on him before the paramedics arrived with an EKG machine to restart it… I took a swig of strong (10%) beer before replying “I’m already working 50 hr weeks on average. If I volunteer for Saturday special collections I can get another 4 to 6 hours at time and a half. But it means you’d need to do pretty much ALL the housework” I slurped down several more sips of strong beer awaiting her response. “.Can we please stop pretending you are just a garbageman?” The man who first killed at 13 glared at her. She knew that man, I knew it was part of what attracted her to me… I just didn’t want to believe it was most of it.”Just a garbageman?, during the pandemic I was the first and last line of defense between civilization and horrors; Garbage men are the first symbol of state power children learn to identify with; and when things to fall apart for the last time it will be the last garbage man disposing of the corpses of the dead who will sing civilizations swan song. As a garbageman I am part of a community of Heroes. If you ever disrespect garbagemen again I swear no one will ever ID your body” Sometimes fooling a very intelligent person is easy. If they really really want to believe the story you are telling they will use their very high IQ to look for ways to fill in the holes, just as Star-Trek fans look for ways it’s ‘Science’ could maybe be true. As an 18 year old who is desperately lonely, in part because I was superior to everyone around me ,I was very eager to believe a young woman whose family connections raise her to my level and says she loves me. So when I met Manuela online and she claimed she was 15 and old enough to date me, I explained away every bit of ignorance or immaturity she displayed. It wasn’t too hard. She was after all better informed and more mature than many 15 year olds in my old highschool. She was 12 when they first had cyber-sex. She was 13 when we broke up because (unbeknownst to me) she was losing track of reality because the most emotionally significant parts of her life were when she was living a lie. After she confused a servant by talking about things that were in her pretend life as though they were real, her parents had an intervention and convinced her to end our relationship. It was the early 21th century and I was enrolled in a biotechnology program at a local university. So building a transgenic virus was actually easier than buying a plane ticket to her hometown to confront her after she dumped me… It took alcohol and a girl who liked being treated by mud, to get me to abandon the doomsday virus. The dumbass school administrators thought it must have been Islamic terrorists who stole the lab equipment and were prepared to send a muslim student to Gitmo. The islamic student they chose was one of the few friends I had. I confessed and convinced them I was trying to make steroids illegally rather than commit mass murder. Like I said, they were dumbasses. I was one of the best students, so they gave me the chance to finish my Bsc so long as I paid for the used up reagents (which I ironically did by actually making and selling illegal steroids), but made it clear I wouldn’t be welcome to study with them any further. Thus I ended up joining the army. I puffed on my THC vape as she went on. “The man I fell in love with, would look at my problem with sober eyes and find a solution!” she screamed “Did you fall in love with me?” I replied genuinely curious. Like every newly minted Lieutenant for my first month in Afghanistan I was relying on my sergeants to teach me how to do my job. I taught myself basic Pashtun back in America so they weren’t the only ones teaching me, I also did my best to learn from the locals myself. Manuela taught me a valuable lesson. I was careful to not believe anything simply because I wanted to but to look from every angle and find the real truth. What I found was that the average Afghan man didn’t understand much about secular liberalism and didn’t like a big chunk of what he did understand. Democracy had a bit of appeal in a “I guess it’s better than civil war” kind of way; but a democratically elected theocracy is not what America wanted. If America wanted to win the peace we’d need to take a lesson from the communist (or feudalist) book and create an armed elite out of people who were loyal to our core values. Creating an armed liberal feminist nationalist elite in a traditional muslim country actually shouldn’t be that hard. Offer free university to women who marry war heroes from different tribes. You suddenly have thousands of combat veterans married to doctors or engineers who see protecting women's rights and the central government as extensions of protecting their family. At first my superiors ignored my suggestions because they thought secular democracy was natural and just needed a bit of money and security to develop. I wasn’t yet sure they were wrong and I am a patriot so sought opportunities to acquire the money to buy the security… There were some things US soldiers couldn’t legally be ordered to do… oh they would do them if they had to… but sometimes it would cause problems. I am a very good organic chemist. It wasn’t hard for me to figure out how heroin could be mixed with gasoline or diesel and recovered after. No one ever chemically tests the fuel in vehicles being transported around the world for heroin. It’s possible the tests don’t exist yet. Making friends among the drug dealers and vehicle techs in America and Afghanistan who I’d need to build the smuggling route was significantly more difficult. For me the hardest part of becoming a warlord was figuring out how to act nice to people; “fortunately” the war was still going on so I had people I could legally kill with my own hands in order to work off the stress. By the time I was a Captain Wiggins, by day, I was “the Jinn” by night the mysterious partner of Ikhair Bin Abdul. Sergeant Schultz couldn’t be happy without a woman and being with a woman leads to children, I helped him keep his little local family a secret and safe, and he helped me keep my double life secret and functional. The rest of the men helped me when I needed them to because they knew I was keeping them alive… but I didn’t demand too much off the book work from any of them, lest their moral flexibility was pushed to its breaking point. How do you terrify people who believe they’ll go to paradise if they die fighting you? Their were a number of options, ranging from pumping their stomachs full of bacon and beer before injecting them with viagra and having a man rape them to death, to targeting their families for collective punishment. Ikhair invested my share of the heroin money into employing locals who demonstrated a talent for this sort of work to assist in peacekeeping. My district thus had less Taliban activity than any of its neighbors, with almost no US government money spent on bribes. Ikhair felt safe sending his daughters to school and he was far from the only one. I was promoted to major, in part as I neither died nor demanded to be transferred anywhere else. I don’t think I am morally responsible for Major Wongs death. She got this paranoid idea that everything I told her was a lie, so I simply told her the truth about where the old landmines were buried and let her do her thing. “I saw you as my hero. Either you truly were, or I was blinded by love.” “You were blinded by love” I replied, sucking back on my vape.. A tear was leaking out though because I wanted to believe she wasn’t. Afghanistan grew richer, Some afghans came to like us for the peace and prosperity we were providing. But all that peace and prosperity was built on American money and American blood that would someday stop flowing. This encouraged too many politicians and generals to believe they didn’t need to worry about creating a system that could survive without us. So as Bush left office and Obama took it America drew no closer to real victory. At first I thought Col Blain would be receptive to my ideas, he talked about how feminism was the key to Ultimate victory. He was an intelligent man. Maybe as intelligent as me. But his attention was focused elsewhere. He saw victory in terms of keeping the blood and money flowing to Afghanistan. His version of feminism was to publish stories of women who were free to get jobs and live as spinsters because of the American presence. This earned the hatred of 100% of afghan men and over 50% of the Afghan women. But it made feminists vote for increased military and foreign aid spending. In some ways a long war in afghanistan wasn’t so bad, America could afford it and as I said earlier some of the Afghans were getting rich off it. But it wasn’t sustainable… sooner or later it would need to end and I couldn’t look away from that reality. Schultz and I met with Ikhair, to discuss the problem. “He’s not as stupid as Wong. We can’t convince him to suicide”I said. “There’s no way we can get a US soldier to assassinate him, fragging doesn’t happen to popular officers”Schultz added “So you’re saying my specialists are needed for this.” Ikhair replied. “Yeah… I think it would be best if we made it look like a Taliban attack… maybe get a Taliban deserter or two involved in it?” I said “I don’t like this. If the Taliban kill a US colonel, you’ll need to blame someone. Best case scenario, you shoot the men I hired and parade their corpses around, then everyone in my organization will think I sold them out and be paranoid. Worst case you capture them alive, they turn on me and I get shot.” “What if I promise you it will remain an unsolved case?” “How am I supposed to trust you when the stakes are this high? Dynastic marriage like kings of old?” “... if it comes to that… would you like to introduce me to your daughters?… maybe I’ll click with one.” Mina had a passion for math that could become a real talent with training. When I talked to her I didn’t always feel like I was trying to bully a dog into playing chess. Schultz gave me advice on how to please Afghan women; A third of the advice seemed to be “women like money to buy food and stuff” but phrased romantically . Our “honeymoon” was Schultz and Ikhair covering for me in different parts of my life so I could get to know my new bride. Meeting with my new father in law after Blaine was dealt with was different… it was a family dinner party with Schultz bringing along his wife and child as well. But we still got down to business eventually. “I did as you asked and reached out to some known Taliban sympathizers to conduct the attack… I think I sold them on your idea of a family friendly feminism for veterans (like themselves) They were willing to work incredibly cheap… one was surprised to be paid at all… They will definitely help you if you want any more attacks on americans or corrupt government officials” Ikhair said Schultz did a double take “sir.. It looks like you’re now the local Taliban commander… It looks like the war is now a game, a game of murder solitaire … It looks like… I’m going to teach the kids an English song now…” he said, getting up to leave the men’s table. Listening to a choir of woman and children sing “So this is Eid now, so what have you done” and focus on the chorus “War is over; if you want it” would have been gratifying… if it wasn’t a lie. Yes, in one corner of Afghanistan I was playing my game of full contact murder solitaire but to truly end the war with American victory I had to reform Afghan society which I couldn’t do without changing the policies of the American army set by the politicians. I used the services of my Taliban a few more times. I was killing more incompetent officers and corrupt politicians than islamic extremists for a while… but it was never enough. The only hope of victory was if I took over the American government… I was considering options, Kidnapping Obama’s children to pressure him into passing the policies I wanted seemed like the only solution that wasn’t a cure worse than the disease, but pulling it off would be a suicide mission for hundreds of loyal Taliban and american soldiers which I did not yet have… Ikhair, Schultz, and Mina arranged an intervention for me before I risked all our lives working on that plan. “Take the opium” Ikhair said “I don’t smoke” “It’s medicinal” “Please honey… you’re scaring us” Mina pleaded. And so I smoked and talked, about how everyone was so stupid and it was so frustrating, so I felt I had to be responsible for everything which angered me even more. I smoked and talked about it a few more times until I could accept that America would lose the war and I couldn’t realistically prevent it. While intoxicated… maybe I am slow and stupid. But I’m not angry. I don’t need to control everything.. It’s nice; and so am I. I resigned and arranged for Ikhair and Schultz to continue the heroin transportation as a purely economic business with no more political element. As a civilian I married Mina legally before returning to America with her. She wanted to study math and live the American dream. I wanted to be happy even if it meant being as stupid as everyone else. “I really don’t want to go back to what I used to be… I’m happy being a regular guy” I whined. “I’m pregnant. Will your kid be happy with the world a regular dad will leave for her?” And so I stopped drinking and doing drugs for my daughter, which seems like a pretty regular thing… not super villainy at all… just a regular blue collar bro thing… All the electronics being thrown in the garbage contain trace amounts of precious metals, It wasn’t that hard to figure out how to mcgyver a reclamation system… just a blue collar bro running a side business. F*&king government regulaters are getting in the way; HOW F*&KING DARE THESE INFERIOR MINDS INTERFERE WITH MY FAMILY'S FUTURE!!!

qk1xtn

As Easy as Lighting Wet Wood with a Candle

"I won't have it," Lady Nimmo said with her hands on her hips. "There has to be another way." The mighty victor over shadow elves and dragons sought an edge in this argument but found none. "But there isn't," Trungen said without emotion. "I will hammer the cork into place. You three will sail to the fleet." "I won't leave you behind, and I'm not leaving the stumpers." Battle scenes flashed through her mind. Dragons shooting fire-bolts. Stumpers on fire. A shadow elf slicing her father's face with a knife. "The stumpers and I will be fine." "With those dragons?" Lady Nimmo shook her head. "I don't think so." Jor and Captain Arrow stood quietly while the ladies fought. Jor knew changing his daughter's mind would be as easy as lighting wet wood with a candle, but he butted in any way. "Alright, ladies, that's enough. We can't do anything about the stumpers. We would need several ships, and those dragons aren't going to let that happen." The ladies remained silent. "I will place the cork. It's my duty as your father and captain of the Duchess's Guard." Lady Nimmo stared at her father. He stared back - neither giving an inch. She teared up and immediately felt angry with herself for her weakness. Jor teared up, unable to remain stern. Her tears always broke him. "Excuse me," Captain Arrow said. "I know I'm the new guy, but I have an idea." The staring contest pushed everything from their minds, including recent pirate friends. Both contestants' facial expressions said, "Who are you?" "Ok, hear me out," he cleared his throat. "We'll tie a rope to the underwater boat and attach the other end to a long plank. I'll hammer in the cork. You all row out, and I'll ride the plank." He grinned and beamed, "Not too shabby for a two-legged pirate." "The dragons will see you and blow your two-legged butt out of the water," Jor said. "Uh, yes. I did forget about them. Let's see. Maybe I could hold my breath and ride under the plank." The argument circled, going nowhere. As the impasse grew, frustration rose, and a compromise appeared hopeless. A couple of dragons holding white sheets flew overhead, landing just outside bowshot range, adding a few hundred yards to be safe. Waving the sheets, they cried parley. The argument stopped when they noticed the dragons overhead. However, they could not hear them. The dragons shouted again. This time, they heard and shouted back their agreement. They marched with stumpers flanking each side. The delegates faced each other. The dragons congratulated Lady Nimmo on her recent victory over them. She bowed and accepted the somewhat awkward praise. The dragons wasted no time getting to the reason for their parley. They proposed an alliance similar to the one made with the shadow elves: their protection for treasure. "I would agree, but unfortunately, I don't have any," Lady Nimmo said. She remained stone-faced, unwilling to let the dragons see her excitement. This could be the answer: a way for everyone to leave together. The dragons clawed the ground, disappointment written on their faces. They needed a reason to ally with Lady Nimmo. The tension between the Wa-Gi and the Fa-To clans has grown to an all-time high. The Wa-Gi wanted nothing to do with the shadow elves, but the Fa-To coerced them into it, costing them several of their own. The cusp of war approached, and allying with Lady Nimmo could tip the scale in their favor. "That's not entirely accurate," Captain Arrow said. "Which part?" Lady Nimmo asked. "The treasure part. You see, I have a few chests up there," he pointed to a mountain. "And I will give them to you." "We can't let you." Lady Nimmo didn't want to owe political favors to anyone. Or, at least, that's what she told herself. "It's yours, you simply can't." Captain Arrow grinned, "You're right, it is mine. So, I can give it to whomever I want. And I want to give it to you." He looked at Lady Nimmo; her knees, legs, and arms went weak. She could no longer convince herself it had anything to do with politics. He turned to the dragons, "I had a smoke-dragon friend help me last time. Will you guys help me get it down?" "Not just us. Our entire clan will help." "Wonderful. Then we have a deal?" The pair of dragons nodded. "But we are obligated to inform you. The Fa-To clan is not part of this alliance." "The Fa-foo-who?" "We broke from them after you defeated us. Your alliance is with the Wa-Gi." "Well, I'm glad you mentioned that," Captain Arrow said. He turned back to the others, asking what they should do. The party agreed half the dragons were better than none. "Alright. Let's plan on meeting in an hour." They nodded and flew off. The four stood dumbfounded. They could not have come up with a better plan. They might have a chance of getting off this island together. Well, assuming the Fa-To clan doesn't interfere. Everyone helped extract the treasure. The dragons flew Captain Arrow and some stumpers to the small cave entrance. They pulled out the chests. The dragons carried the chests down. The stumpers on the ground counted the loot. The process went smoothly until all hades broke loose. The Fa-To clan flew in hot with mouths blazing, strafing the stumpers on the ground. Trungen reacted like lightning. Spinning her staff so quickly that it looked like a shield, she deflected several fire bolts into the attacking dragons. Lady Nimmo fired arrow after arrow, hitting wings and tails. Despite Jor's injured shoulder, the magic inside took over. His sword glowed red, and his eyes caught fire. The pain in his shoulder disappeared. A Fa-To landed, clawing stumpers, sending them flying with his tail and spitting fire bolts. One hit a stumper at point-blank range, and he exploded into a pile of burnt splinters. Jor rushed the dragon. The dragon faced him and smiled. He fired several bolts. Jor swung his sword and disintegrated each one. He closed the distance, ducked claws, and spun with a backhand swing. The fiery blade sliced off the head of the beast. A dogfight between the clans filled the air. Fire-bolts lit the sky. Dragons were diving, rolling, slicing, attempting to shake the pursuer or to stay on his tail. Captain Arrow stood helpless at the cave entrance. He ventured out over the ledge, searching for a way to get to Lady Nimmo. A Fa-To saw him and attacked. Fire bolts exploded around him, pulverizing rocks and sending dust clouds around him. "Not good! Not good!" Captain Arrow dropped to all fours, blinded by the dust. The stumpers ran onto the ledge and pulled him back into the cave. The battle moved to the air. The ground troops could do nothing but watch. "If the Fa-To win, be ready," Jor said. He told Trungen to signal the stumpers to form squares. Lady Nimmo couldn't stop staring at Jor's eyes, "I know this isn't the time, but we are going to talk about those eyes." The aerial battle raged, and dragons fell from the sky. The ground force couldn't tell one clan from another, so they refrained from shooting arrows. One of the Wa-Gi negotiators landed and raised his arms in peace. "No one shoot! He's one of ours!" Jor said. "How goes the battle?" "We need your help," the Wa-Gi struggled to regain his breath. "We're going to move the battle back. I'll fain a retreat, and we'll fly over your heads, appearing to escape. When they pursue, we'll turn and light them up after we pass. You all join with your arrows. Together, we'll crush them." The stumpers positioned themselves into three waves as they watched the nearing battle, Lady Nimmo standing with them. The Wa-Gi yelled retreat, and the entire clan flew straight down and pulled up only feet from the ground. The Fa-To chased. When the Wa-Gi passed over the stumpers, they immediately turned around and fired. The stumpers released their arrows. The Fa-To stared at a wall of death, realizing too late it was a trap. Most fell wounded. A few fell dead. The lucky ones abandoned the island, never to return. Captain Arrow peeked from the cave, "Is it over? I say, can one of you help us down? Hello?" The air cleared of smoke. Lady Nimmo and her band stood side by side with Wa-Gi dragons. A moment of unease passed through everyone, but it wasn't warranted. The Wa-Gi stayed true to their word. "We intend to ask Captain Wington to bring his fleet to evacuate us. Will you let them dock?" Lady Nimmo asked. They promised not to bother the ships. They grabbed their treasure, said their goodbyes, and flew to their mountain nests. Lady Nimmo, Jor, and Trungen entered the underwater boat. Electing to wait with the stumpers, Captain Arrow hammered the cork into place. The craft entered deeper water and sank a few feet under the waves, leaving only the vertical spyglass above. They left the Eye of Duran with Captain Arrow, figuring it would motivate the Selwyn navy to return quickly. Not that they didn't trust Captain Wington, but Jor believed in helping others be trustworthy. In a week, the Selwyn navy arrived. The Wa-Gi stayed out of sight. Lady Nimmo personally attended to the loading of her stumpers. The sailors had never seen one and felt uneasy with the magical stumps. But after the stumpers insisted on rowing – work being one of their most loved activities, the sailors quickly warmed up to them. After everyone boarded, the fleet disembarked. That evening, on the deck of the White Tsunami, Lady Nimmo and Captain Arrow stood watching the sunset. The sea gently swayed, and sunbeams danced along the water. "So, what's your plans? Going pirating again?" Lady Nimmo asked as casually as possible. "No, my days of pirating are over." Lady Nimmo's heart skipped a beat or two, perhaps a dozen. "I'm leaving the sea. I was thinking I'd try a more quiet place to live. I've heard forests can be very quiet." "You're only saying that because you've never lived in one," Lady Nimmo said. "Oh, I forgot. You live in a forest. So, tell me. Does a two-legged pirate have a chance in a forest?" Both hearts pounded, but their faces remained stoic, neither wanting to reveal their desire. "Oh, I guess you'd last a few weeks." The sun dipped into the water, throwing out its last blushing-orange beams, almost like it blushed for the couple who weren't ready to blush. Well, at least in front of each other.

kuoweb

Marshall Pat Garrett Comes to Call

July 1881 McSwain Ranch House Marshall Garrett came to Maxwell Ranch on July 10, 1881, to talk to Pete Maxwell. Maxwell was well-known to Marshall Garrett due to his loyalty to the Regulators. While he had reservations about the most famous outlaw in the territory, Billy the Kid, he knew if he could get him to surrender for his most recent murder of Joe Grant. “So, you are gonna bring the Kid to justice, marshall?” Pete stroked the gristle on his chin. “Governor Lew Wallace is putting one of the biggest bounties ever on his head.” Pat checked the chambers of his Peacemaker to make sure each of them had a bullet in it. Joe Grant lost his life to the Kid, because he did not. During their heated conversation, Billy snuck Joe’s gun and removed a bullet from the first chamber.  “I’d be careful, marshall.” Maxwell warned, “He’s already gunned down quite a score.” “Well, I don’t aim to be one of them.” He held out his finger to Maxwell as if it was a pistol before exiting Pete’s home.  A couple of days later as he sat in his office in Fort Sumner, Marshall Garrett got a note sent to him from one of the Dalton gang members informing Garrett that the Kid was going to pay a visit to Pete Maxwell on July 14, 1881. He rose to his feet and told his deputy. “I had him on December 19, 1880. It was dark, but I knew the kid was riding a white speckled horse. I fired once and killed Tom O’Follard. I swear he was wearing the same outfit I saw the Kid wearing when he killed Joe Grant. This whole Billy the Kid bounty is beginning to stink like old garbage. I get the feeling them Regulators are trying to pull the wool over my eyes.” “This whole Lincoln County Feud is baffling at best. Besides, in the dark it’s easy to make those kinds of mistakes.” The deputy checked his rifle. “‘Cept, I don’t make those kinds of mistakes.” Garrett glared at his deputy. The deputy had heard about Pat Garrett’s enormous ego from some of the other hands and now he was experiencing it first hand. With his rifle now check, he was happy to leave the office in search of better company.  ********** Ten men and one woman sat in the parlor of the McSween Ranch House on the morning of July 15, 1881. The meeting was scheduled for nine in the morning, but Marshall Pat Garrett was already late as the clock in the hallway ticked off the seconds. Frank Coe yawned and checked his own pocket watch, but Mrs. McSwain just tilted her head as a silent communication to Frank and the others to be patient. Yginio Salazar smiled as he tapped his foot on the floor. Doc Surlock elbowed Billy Smith who was pretending to be patient, but for most of them gathered, patience was wearing thin.  “You don’t suppose he went to Governor Wallace to collect the reward?” Ab Saunders wondered aloud as the clock continued to tick. Known for his quick temper and impatience, Saunders was beginning to feel like a caged animal at this point. “Look, let’s just settle down.” Billy rose to his feet and glanced around the room where the tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. “Marshall Garrett will be here. We have some things that need to be straightened out first.” “Newspaper is already claiming that he killed the Kid.” Fred Waite reported as some nodded. “Well he didn’t.” Billy Smith crossed his arms across his chest and shook his head slowly. “We wouldn’t be in this fix if Sheriff Orlinger didn’t get killed.” Doc sat back in his chair and snorted. “Water under the bridge.” Billy slapped the table with his open palm. “We have to stick together on this one. You all know how Marshall Garrett is. He’s friends with Governor Wallace. Don’t matter that Sheriff Brady and the Dolan Gang gunned down George Tunstall to start this whole mess, we have to end it here before there’s any more bloodshed.” As if on cue, there was a curt knock at the door. Mrs. McSwain walked into the foyer to open the door. She cordially greeted Marshall Garrett as he walked into the parlor where everyone had gathered around the large table. With his hat in his hand, Pat Garrett walked into the room and looked around before speaking, “We have a situation here.” “Yes we do, marshall.” Doc coughed. “I have a dead man lying at Maxwell’s ranch. His sister is very distraught and no matter what is said or done, there is no way I can get the coroner to sign off on the death certificate claiming he is Billy the Kid or William McCarthy.” Marshall Garrett sat down in an empty chair at the end of the table. “If this does not take place, we are left with a dilemma.” “Which is?” Saunders leaned on his elbows on the table. “Means I will have to continue to search for Billy the Kid after the newspapers have reported I killed him last night at Maxwell’s place.” He tossed his hat in front of him on the table. “People are screaming for justice after the cold blooded murder of Bob Orlinger.” “It was an escape.” Billy snapped. “Sure, sure, but he was a lawman and you know what the penalty is for killing a lawman, right?” Garrett let the question hang in the air. “I shot Jose Mendez last night. It was dark. I thought he was he Kid coming to see his sweetheart. I had no way of knowing that Jose was there in that room warning his sister about the trap we had set for the Kid. He was afraid that she could get hurt in the crossfire. When I heard a voice call out ‘Quien es?’ I figured it was the Kid speaking to his sweetheart, so I opened fire.” There was a heavy silence that hung in the room as everyone looked at each other. Billy Smith was the only one standing with his arms folded over his chest wearing an expression of complete disdain on his face. “What I need to know is which one of you is Billy the Kid.” Marshall Garrett looked around the room to see if someone would betray themself with a quick smirk of roll of the eyes. “You know no one will fess up.” Smith shook his head as his resentment and agitation was beginning to leak through. Marshall Garrett shot Billy a quick glance as a warning not to let his famous quick temper leave the corral. “Orlinger and his deputy were murdered.” Garrett tilted his head. “Governor Wallace is demanding justice.” “And we had our share of men die in open warfare with the Dolan Gang.” Smith said in a terse voice, “Where is our justice?” Marshall Garrett picked up his hat and twirled it in his hands, “You know how things go around here.” “We do.” Smith acknowledged, “Which is why we formed the Regulators in the first place. We needed something to fall back on for protection...heck, that’s why we invented Billy the Kid.” Marshall Garrett looked up at Billy Smith as a wry smile flashed across Billy’s face. “Made up?” Garrett gasped. “Yup.” Smith nodded, but he was not the only one. As a matter of fact, most of the men seated around the table were nodding. Marshall Garrett leaned on a vacant chair as you could have heard a pin drop. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Garrett could not hide his own smile, but as he looked around the room all of them had their bandanas pulled up over their noses. He stood there in stunned silence as his eyes fell on each of them. “Yup.” Billy nodded, “Now tell me Marshall, which one of us is the Kid.” He didn’t say a word. He just shook his head, covering his smile with his right hand as he passed behind each of them as they sat at the table, some of them were giggling. Marshall Garrett looked at each of them, he saw Billy Smith was right. Everyone of them could be Billy the Kid, even Doc Surlock with fierce eyes and fair complexion. Yes, even Doc could be the famous outlaw once his face was covered. Mrs. McSween came in carrying a tray of refreshments wearing a bandana around her mouth and nose. “I could arrest you all.” Garrett shook his head, still smiling. “And hang us all?” Billy shrugged. Yginio’s eyes widened at Billy’s hard question. “That would pose a problem, now wouldn’t it?” He stood up as they all removed their kerchiefs chuckling. “So what are we going to do?” “We say you killed the Kid.” Billy suggested and each of them sitting around the table nodded in agreement. “Who’d believe it?” Garrett shrugged. “Well for one thing, the newspapers are already saying you killed the most wanted outlaw in the territory.” Billy tilted his head back. “We just tell them they’re right. Marshall Pat Garrett killed Billy the Kid at Maxwell’s Ranch on July 14, 1881. I’m sure if you make a deal with the coroner of some kind, you could get him to sign off on the death certificate.” “And everyone would be alright with that?” He pursed his lips as he thought it over. Mistakes were made, newspapers did not always get it right and still the world turned day into night without missing a single beat. Honesty was preferred, but in the absence of honesty anything close would suffice.  “It would give Jose a proper resting place.” Billy mused. “What about the war?” Marshall Garrett shot Billy a sidelong glance. “The Lincoln County War is over.” He spread his arms wide, “Billy the Kid is dead and you, Marshall Pat Garrett were the lawman who shot and killed Billy the Kid.” Some of the members around the table began to applaud. “Yes, yes, Billy the Kid is dead.” Garrett uttered. “Now if you are the smart man I know you to be, I would be on my way to Santa Fe to have a word with Governor Lew Wallace about the reward money.” Billy patted the marshall on the shoulder as he put his hat on his head. “No one will ever know about what happened here, right?” Marshall Garrett pointed his finger at Billy and then Doc. “No one. History will record your name as the man who killed Billy the Kid.” Doc Surlock assured Garrett as the marshall headed for the door. Only a handful of people showed up at the funeral for Billy the Kid a.k.a. Jose Mendez at Fort Sumner, New Mexico. The crowd gathered under the hot sun included the remaining members of the Regulators and Rosarita, Jose’s sister all to hear the minister read some standard verses from a well-worn Bible  Marshall Garrett was already on a train headed for Santa Fe where he was to meet with Governor Wallace, have his photograph in every major newspaper and collect the reward for killing Billy the Kid. “He loved you like a brother.” Rosarita put her head on Billy Smith’s shoulder as they walked from her brother’s grave with the others following. “He will rest in peace here.” He kissed her on the top of her veiled head. “And all this killing will stop?” She looked up at him with her brown eyes filled with tears. “Yes, I promise.” He nodded. “I know that will make him happy.” She said softly, “He was a peaceful man at heart.” “It’s a shame we can’t all be like that.” He helped her into the carriage that would take her back to the Maxwell Ranch where she would remain in their employ until she would peacefully pass away many years later. ************ Fort Sumner, NM In a Toyota Rental April 2002 Grady leaned back in the passenger’s seat pausing before he concluded, “That’s how he told me the story. There are not many people who know the real truth about what happened here. I feel very fortunate to be one of few who does know. When we came to this place back in Septembre 1947, there was just a small plaque that read, “Here lies Billy the Kid, one of the most notorious outlaws of the Old West, (1860-1881).” Ellis and Grady got out of the Toyota rental car and walked to the grave maker of Billy the Kid in the middle of the Fort Sumner town square. It was already sweltering hot and there was a hint of shade anywhere in sight.  Ellis leaned over the rail to read the sandstone grave marker over Billy the Kid’s grave. Scratched into the stone simply read a single word, “Pals.” Buried next to Billy were the graves of Tom O’Follard and Charlie Bowdre. Ellis pulled out his pocket camera and snapped a quick photograph.  Grady Lawton smiled and put his arm around Ellis, “I took that picture of Billy Smith when we stopped by this monument over fifty years ago now, his head bent in prayer. As we drove away, he told me the story. He never once told me to keep it a secret, but then I figured there are some things that are better left buried.”  

2hh7pj

The Time Weaver

The city of Veridian Peaks was a cacophony of movement... a symphony of hurried footsteps, blaring horns, and neon lights that painted the night sky. It was a place where time raced forward, leaving no room for pause. But Evelyn Frost was different. Evelyn had discovered her ability as a child, during a chaotic moment in the bustling marketplace. She had reached out to grab an apple, and suddenly, everything froze... the vendors mid-shout, the pigeons suspended in flight, and the raindrops hanging in the air. Time became her canvas, and she reveled in its stillness. Now as an adult, Evelyn navigated the city's chaos effortlessly. She wore a long coat that billowed like a midnight storm, concealing her secret. Her eyes, an otherworldly shade of silver, held the weight of centuries. She moved through the crowd, brushing against people who remained blissfully unaware of their frozen existence. Evelyn had her favorite spots... the hidden corners where she could pause and observe. The rooftop garden of the Chronos Café, with its overgrown vines and forgotten statues, was her sanctuary. There she would sit on the edge if a marble fountain, sipping her coffee as raindrops hung suspended around her. From her vantage point, Evelyn watched the stories unfold. A couple argued, their words frozen in mid-air... a love on pause. A street musician strummed his guitar, a melody lingering like a forgotten dream. And the city itself... the skyscrapers, the billboards, the traffic... stood frozen, waiting for her command. One evening, as Evelyn lingered on the rooftop, she noticed a man... a stranger... standing at the café's entrance. His eyes were a stormy gray, and he seemed out of place amidst the stillness. Evelyn unfroze time just enough to hear his whispered words. "Is anyone here?" he asked, glancing around. Evelyn stepped down from the fountain, her boots making ripples in the rainwater. "You're the first," she replied, her voice echoing like distant thunder. He blinked, realizing that time had resumed for him alone. "Who are you?" "Evelyn Frost," she said. "And you?" "Lucian," he answered. "I've been searching for someone like you." Lucian revealed his purpose... to find a way to reverse time, to mend a broken heart. His sister, lost in the rush of life, had vanished without a trace. Evelyn listened, her heart stirring empathy. She knew the weight of secrets, the ache of longing. Together they explored the city's frozen moments. The laughter in a crowded subway, the tears on a park bench, the whispered promises in a dimly lit alley. Lucian's hope rekindled, and Evelyn wondered if perhaps if she could weave time backward for him. But as they delved deeper, Evelyn discovered a truth... the threads of time were fragile. To alter fate was to unravel the fabric of reality itself. And so, she faced a choice: preserve the stillness or risk everything for love. Evelyn and Lucian continue to explore the city together, their footsteps echoing through the frozen streets. They visited the Veridian Museum of Lost Time, where ancient pocket watches hung on velvet-lined walls. Each watch held a story... a stole kiss, a missed train, a promise unfulfilled. Lucian traced his fingers over the glass cases, his eyes lingering on a tarnished silver watch. "Can you unlock their memories?" he asked. Evelyn hesitated. "I can glimpse fragments... the laughter, the tears... but altering them risks unraveling reality." "But what if we could change just one moment?" Lucian whispered. "Bring my sister back." Now, they stood at the edge of the city, where the river met the sky. Evelyn watched the water flow, it's rhythm unyielding. "Time is like an hourglass," she said. "Each grain falls inexorably." Lucian took her hand. "What if we could tip the hourglass? Reverse the flow?" Together, they devised a plan. Evelyn would pause time, and Lucian would step into the frozen river. He would find the moment when his sister disappeared and change it. As Evelyn held time still, Lucian waded into the river. The water clung to his boots, and he closed his eyes, searching for the rift. Memories flooded him... the day his sister laughed, the scent of her favorite flower, the warmth of her embrace. He found the fracture... a missed phone call, a choice left unmade. Lucian whispered the words he wished he'd said, and the world trembled. The river flowed backward, and Evelyn's silver eyes widened. When time resumed, Lucian stood on the riverbank, soaked but triumphant. He turned to Evelyn, hope in his eyes. "Did it work?" Evelyn's heart ached. "Look." The city had changed. The neon signs flickered differently, and the air smelled of blooming roses. But Lucian's sister remained missing. The world had shifted, but fate was stubborn. Evelyn and Lucian sought answers in the heart of Peridian Peaks... the Forgotten Clock Tower. Its ancient gears groaned, and it's chimes whispered secrets. The tower stood at the intersection of worlds. A place where time bend into magic. Inside, they climbed spiraling staircases, each step echoing with memories. Dust danced in sunbeams, and cobwebs clung to forgotten faces carved into the walls. At the top, they emerged onto a balcony overlooking the city. A breathtaking view of frozen life. Back inside, in a hidden alcove, Evelyn discovered a leather-bound journal... the Timekeeper's Journal. Its pages held ink constellations, cryptic symbols, and tales of lost souls. Lucian traced the words, his breath catching. "Read," he urged. Evelyn's silver eyes scanned the faded script. The journal spoke of a choice. The Temporal Nexus. A place where all threads converged, where past and future collided. To alter fate, one had to unravel the Nexus itself. Next, they journeyed beyond the city, into the Whispering Forest. Trees leaned close, their leaves murmuring forgotten names. Evelyn listened, her fingertips brushing bark. The wind carried echoes... the laughter of children, the vows of lovers, the regrets of kings. Lucian pressed his palm to a gnarled trunk. "Can we find the Nexus here?" Evelyn closed her eyes. "Perhaps. But beware... the forest remembers."

8rh8u7

Secrets That We Keep

Secrets That We Keep It was a hard life. No one said it was going to be easy. We chose it for ourselves. There was no going back. We made a commitment. Now we had to live up to it. At first it seemed surreal. We had heard about something, someone, that would someday come along and change our world. Could it be possible this was truly it? Is this what our ancestors have been foretelling and preparing us for our whole lives? Could it be happening in our lifetime? Most of our folks weren't sure either. They thought we were foolish youths simply trying to shirk our duties, ignoring what needed to be done at home, delaying becoming productive members of the community. Sneaking around, meeting in secret, playing like we were important keepers of ancient truths. Unwilling to share facts but alluding to some impact filled event that would shatter all formerly known beliefs. First of all we had to spend a great deal of time simply learning. It was more intense than being in a school room. We had to eat and breath and live with our leader the whole time. Give up our professions, give up our possessions, leave our families. Get along with each other no matter how diverse we were. And we were different. Even though mostly from the same linage we all had our faults and our prejudices. We came from different backgrounds and social standings. Somehow we needed to recognize we were now all in the same boat. Wealth meant nothing. We all became beggars relying on the goodness of others to provide for our basic needs. We aspired to be like our leader. He had no favorites. The ones that wanted to be held as greater than another needed to humble themselves and become the least. That was a difficult lesson to learn especially if one was used to being the oldest wisest brother in his family. Someone everyone was expected to look up to. That status didn't hold a candle to the wisdom imparted by our unassuming mentor. When we began we sought to meet in secret. Behind closed doors. Curtains drawn. Room lit only by candlelight. Or out away from the city altogether. In dells, behind groves of trees, beyond prying eyes. Time would come soon enough to share our growing knowledge. There was no doubt we needed to be careful. The oppressive government forces we lived under were always on the lookout for subversive activities. Soldiers patrolled and spies could be implanted anywhere. Even our protective local authorities who should have been supportive and understanding of our ultimate mission showed tendencies of jealousy and mistrust. Rules, rules, rules. Every which way you turned you were in danger of breaking someone's rules. Why even merely feeding one's self could be a punishable offense if not staying in the bounds of strict bylaws! Change was needed. Change was coming. We were armed with the truth. We were ready to be heard. Miraculously, when the word started leaking out people were drawn to it like bees to honey. Hungry for hope, hopeful for relief. Help and healing could be had simply for believing the best was still to come. Overwhelming floods of humanity converged on our small band of students expecting us to be the teachers. So teach we did. We taught the new rules laid out by the leader. Simple, common sense rules designed so all could live in harmony. All along the way our taskmaster taught us more. Sometimes he used riddles, little stories to make us think for ourselves to see how the lesson would apply to our daily lives and remain timeless for future generations. Sometimes it seemed he could read what was in our hearts, knew when we understood or were still struggling to grasp the concept. Sometimes he appeared to be so much more than a man yet that was hard to believe. After all I saw him get angry, I saw tears in his eyes. I knew when he was hungry or needed a rest. But he was a powerhouse. Endured so much pressure even from folks that knew him well. Once when we visited his home town he made the priest in charge angry when he pointed out a fact. We had to spirit him away for fear of his life. The townsmen even pulled out a rope they were so upset with him. After that it seemed he was always trying to prepare us for his death. Like he could predict it. Knew how it was going to come about and how we would be affected. And how it would then be up to us to carry on with his message. Later on he pulled me and a couple other fellows out of our larger group and led us up a mountain side. There the strangest thing happened. I'm not pulling your leg here. It was mind blowing and awesome. We were tired from the climb and resting up. We awoke to blinding light. It was coming from our master's face! And his clothes shone an extreme whiteness, too. Can't really describe it. Like nothing we had ever seen or can compare to. Suddenly he was talking to two other guys. They hadn't come with us so where did they come from and who were they? What did it all mean? I don't know how but it came to us these fellows were from the past. Long, long ago. Moses, who gave our people the laws we follow, and Elijah, a prophet that never died but was taken up in a cloud. I was dumbfounded. All I could think to say was something like, “It's good we are here. I wish we could stay here forever. If you want, I will put up three shelters. One for you, one for Moses, one for Elijah.” Suddenly, a loud voice came from the heavens, “This is my beloved Son in whom I am well pleased. Listen to Him.” The three of us fell with faces to the ground in awe. When Jesus touched us we looked up and saw He was alone and back to normal. But He warned us not to tell anyone else of this event until after His death. If there was ever any doubt as to whom this teacher truly was it was put to rest on that mountain side. He was indeed true man yet true God. The promised Messiah sent to save the world.

qm8icf

Fairness and Freedom

Fairness and Freedom Trigger Warning: Contains acts of war. We both stand in the clearing, staring at each other. I'm struck motionless by the suddenness of seeing him in front of me. His fear-stricken eyes mirror my shock. We recognize each other immediately—not the person, but the uniform. Neither of us has our guns at the ready. I hold mine by the stock, pointing it to the ground. He grasps his, white-knuckled, pointing it to his left, his fingers nowhere near the trigger. The slightest movement by one would send the other swinging the gun to a shooting position. The lack of movement on both our parts allows me to listen, listening for any of his fellow soldiers that may be in the forest with him or for mine trying to save me. But I hear nothing. No rustling leaves from behind him and nothing from behind me. We are both alone, facing our enemy with no reinforcement. Time seems to stop, and sound becomes a foreign concept. Not even a fly buzzes, and the birds are silent. It's as if the world is waiting with bated breath for the outcome of this chance encounter. This moment feels staged, executed for the twisted pleasure of some higher power watching two struggling individuals to see who would survive. Everybody knows that life isn’t fair, but to which of us was it being unfair—him or me? * * * * * * * * * * * * I patiently lead my eight-man combat team around the ruins of a brick building at the edge of a small, seemingly deserted village surrounded by trees. We know it's not deserted; all our intel has told us this village serves as a command post, but not a single soldier or civilian is in sight. At this late stage in the war, though, anything is possible. The countries involved are hesitant to call it a win or a loss. There are too many casualties on both sides for any government to be happy with the outcome. That tension, coupled with the intense heat and nearly 100% humidity, makes this part of the war unpredictable. This ‘tame war’ that was predicted to last only months is now in its third year. Governments, civilians, and especially soldiers are far past war-weariness. They want an end regardless of the methods used and are willing to turn a blind eye just to be done with it. I'm already stressed and tortured from my first tour at the beginning of this war, but my government decided it needed me out from behind my comfortable desk and sent me back to the frontline only two weeks after my son was born. Two weeks. Apparently, fighting in the war is more important to them than bringing people into the world. I was given a guarantee that the end was near, only a few more weeks. When I complained about it not being fair, they assured me a three-month stint overseas was a reasonable request (it wasn’t a request), and I would be home to my wife and son soon. Plus, an officer with my experience from my first tour is exactly what they needed to quicken the end. Realizing I would never get my commander to budge, I saluted him. Sometimes a salute is a sign of respect, and other times it's a soldier’s way of politely flipping off a superior. I turned from him and faced my assignment: lead an eight-man team behind enemy lines and take out an enemy command post. We position ourselves in the shadows of the first vacant building we come to in this small hamlet tucked away in the woods. This town is the last of our assignment, and when we clear it, we can call the rest of our team to occupy it. The American involvement in this war was not originally supposed to be direct contact, but over time, we did what we had to do. For every command post we took out, it made it that much easier for the others to come in and fight their own war. As team leader, I'm on point, so I'm in front of my team. I inch along the wall where the entrance waits just around the corner. I’m to scout the side of the building facing the rest of the town and ensure there’s no enemies inside. Once inside the tall building, we can have an aerial view and strategize a plan to sweep all the buildings. Their uniforms mirror our own jungle-warfare gear. Brown, green, black, and grey are hard to spot in the lush green surroundings. The uniforms allow us to blend in slightly with the vegetation, but when death is on the line, slightly invisible is better than nothing. I reach the corner of the building and slowly pull a mirror out of my backpack with practiced motion. It's a one-by-two-inch mirror attached to the end of a telescoping metal rod that I painted green. I telescope the rod out and extend it so the mirror barely crosses the plane of the corner of the building. If somebody were looking this way, even if they knew I was here, they would have trouble seeing the small device I held. Looking through the mirror, I see the coast is clear and give the hand signal to my team to advance to my position. With a trained ear, I hear all seven of my men approach behind me as I replace the mirror back into my pack and raise my rifle once again. I hear my team stop, and I feel the hand of my second-in-command gently tap my shoulder. I give them the signal to wait while I advance. I quietly make my way around the corner—separated once again from my team. When I'm assured there is no movement nor sound from any enemy inside, I signal to the next two members of my team, who are now looking around the corner at me. A Sergeant First Class and a Private, whom I’ve just met a couple of months ago, serve as cover for me. With the two men on guard, silent and frozen like two gargoyles protecting a skyscraper, I edge my way to the door. I lower my weapon and remove the mirror again. This time, instead of sticking it around a corner, I cautiously place it under the door until I can see in the room beyond. There are no enemies in the room, and I adjust it to look at the inside of the door. I scan the edges and the handle of the door, looking for any type of wire that could trigger a bomb. Seeing nothing, I turn to the men behind me to signal them to bring the rest of the group up to me. As I lift my right hand to signal, a loud explosion comes from around the corner where my team is waiting. Chaos ensues as we hear gunfire and bullets racing through the air around us, all the while feeling the blast of heat and pressure that came from the explosion. Without any cover, we sprawl on the ground and return fire at the bursts of light we see coming from the ends of our enemies’ guns in the forest and from the buildings around us that we had not cleared. They must have known we were coming, waiting until they could be assured we were contained in one area. My second in command, to my right, lets out a sickly groan just after I hear the whiz of the bullet and the ‘thump’ of the bullet slamming into his forehead. He's dead immediately. I scramble over him to regroup with the Private as we turn the corner to assess the rest of the combat team. At my nod, we dart around the corner and see that there is now a hole in the side of the building, probably from a mortar deep in the woods. Chunks of brick and wood are smoldering and scattered all over the ground. Not a single one of the five men is moving. Two of the men had been blown away from the blast, and their mangled bodies lay twenty to thirty feet from their original location. The other three are buried under the rubble, their bodies bloody and unmoving. I stare at what remains of the five men and then to the fallen man behind us. I look from lifeless man to lifeless man. Their bodies now belong to the war. They are reduced to memories that will only be cherished by loved ones and to the statistics that historians will quote for years. I’ve failed these men. The Private, the only remaining man on my team, shouts at me to get down and find cover, but I don’t. Not for a few moments anyway. I continue staring. I continue staring at the death that I had sworn to keep at bay from my men. I did my tour once and had a comfortable desk job. Had we known I would have to come out here again to risk my life, then Genevieve and I would have waited to have our baby boy. My mind races with thoughts of unfairness. It’s unfair that our eight-man team has just been sliced down to two. It is unfair that a father is fighting for his life as his innocent and helpless child waits at home. I took too many lives on the first tour and tried to amend that by having my own children. My therapy team, which stretched over the last year, agreed that I was ready to get back to living, not traumatized and resigned anymore. At the military-ripened age of twenty-six, I started my family. My reverie is cut short as I hear a familiar sound coming from the woods amidst the flurry of bullets. It's a soft yet distinct ‘thwomp.’ A mortar shell is heading our way. Statistically, the first mortar shell rarely hits its mark, but the location would be noted, and different angles factored into the next shell. The next one would be considerably closer, if not completely on target. The shell explodes the door in front of the building where I had just been standing a few minutes before. There's no time for anything but to run. I shout to the Private to follow me to the woods. I look over my shoulder and see him running in the opposite direction. He must not have heard my directive and fled to what he thought was the best position. Before he even reaches the safety of the building, his head jerks backward as his arms fly outward into the air. His forward momentum carries his body another five feet, where he lands face-first. After his feet kick up behind him in an awkward see-saw motion, he finally comes to a rest. That’s it. I am finished trying to figure out fair and unfair. My entire combat team is gone, all dead within ten minutes. I am the lone survivor, and I need to get myself out of here. I hurdle toppled stone pieces of the building strewn all around. The combat radio is still strapped to one of the dead Privates behind me, so I cannot call for air support or even an extraction. I’m truly on my own, deep in enemy territory. I plunge into the woods behind the building as gunfire continues. I hold my rifle vertically across my face to block tree limbs as I race through the trees. As I put distance from my attackers, the barrage of gunfire stops, only shouting remains. They’re most likely following me. I run in erratic patterns instead of a straight line. My careless sprint through the trees is most likely lengthening the gap between us. I can’t hesitate even for a second. The trees get denser the further I get into them. After running for a few minutes, the trees thin out, and I quickly glance behind me. I don’t see or hear anyone, so I slow to a trot to scan for a brief hiding spot. I see a thick tree, almost two feet wide, and I duck behind it, listening. After a few minutes of listening, I continue, slower and more methodical this time. I alter my route from the line where I was running earlier to throw off their tracking. I hope they have pulled back and stopped searching, but they could still be pressing on. They could be on top of me at any moment. I’ll need to orient myself to head to familiar, friendly territory. After another fifteen minutes of running, I stop and take in my surroundings. I look to the sky and find the burning sun. I know a sliver of the moon in the east is visible in the late afternoon during this time of year, but I can’t see it through the trees. I see two large, half-sunken boulders a few yards off. There is moss on one side of them, and I can generally assume that direction is north. Calculating approximately how far I’ve traveled, I quickly orientate where I am in this seemingly never-ending forest. I adjust my course and head north to where I will eventually find my unit. I must travel quickly but quietly. The trees get dense again, which slows me down, not a full-on run like before. Some rocks crop up in a denser part of the woods, and I carefully place my feet so not to twist an ankle. Alone and broken out here in the deep woods would be deadly. I slow to a walk and guide my feet warily between the rocks. As I come out on the other side, I see the trees open into a clearing. As I step into the clearing, I notice movement, and that is when I see him. He sees me. His eyes are full of fear, he is shaking. I see a young man and if he’s over eighteen, it’s not by much. After what seems like an eternity, I decide that something must be done. The first person who moves may be the first person shot, but I’ve got to do something. He may have other soldiers behind him. I lift my right foot, and his hands quickly raise his gun as a wet spot spreads over his crotch. My heart breaks for him. “No, no, no,” I say in a soft voice. I drop my weapon to hang in front of me, and slowly lift my hands. After a couple more moments of staring at each other, he also lets his rifle go limp. In broken words, he whispers, “I gir-freen home. I wan’ no die.” I reply, “I have a wife and baby at home. I don’t wanna die, either.” After a few more awkward moments, I continue, “My home is that way.” I point behind him. “I go there,” he says, pointing over my shoulder. I still have my hands in front of me, and he mirrors me. I slowly lift my foot again and sidestep to my right as he does the same. We continue like that until we’ve circled and reversed our positions. We look at each other, both seeing something different than when we first saw each other. I no longer see an enemy. I see another human. A human being with a life and loved ones. I look at his face. I can tell he is trying to grow a beard to look grown-up, but barely any hair grows. I imagine him returning to his once beautiful house that now has chunks missing from the cement casing, exposing the brick. I envision his girlfriend running to him when he returns and wrapping her arms around him as she sobs from the fear of bombs being dropped randomly around their village. I see that he is me, and I am him. Whatever our differences, we are the same. I remember the peaceful look of my son’s sleeping face when I left. He didn’t have a care in the world because he didn’t know yet what he’d been born into. Is our meaning to be peaceful like the sleeping baby or barbaric and ferocious like the wars we like to incite? Just as we have the power to bring people into this world, we also can allow others to live. We can save another’s life as easily as we can save our own. The meek shall inherit the earth. Isn’t this what meekness is? Having strength and not using it. Having the ability to take a life and consciously deciding not to. There would be fewer wars and fewer killings if everyone understood this. Why do people automatically think meek means weak? I slowly turn around and walk away. Before I start running again, I wait until I am a safe distance from him. I get a few feet, and I hear a loud ‘crack’ coming from behind me. The familiarity of the sound sends me to the ground as I cover my head. After a few moments, I get up on my hands and knees as I check my body for blood. I hear movement behind me, and I pivot on one knee and slowly turn around. I see movement, and I’m sure that I’ve been caught by the rest of his men. They have tracked me after all, but then I notice the movement is coming from men in my own uniform. And then I see three more soldiers emerge from their concealment. My team found me. The first man I saw walks to a lump on the ground, his rifle still smoking. He reaches down and grabs a handful of black hair, lifting the head of the ‘enemy’ slightly off the ground as the others give a too-loud hoot. The man I just let live is now dead. Fuck them all. Fuck fair. I'm going home.

xjtkkj

The Wicked Dance

I tugged roughly at the stiff collar around my neck threatening to suffocate me. I took the slightest step to the left, hoping to steal some cool breeze that flowed through the open window. But the gaggle of noble women with their voluminous skirts stood oblivious to others who desperately needed air in the stuffy ballroom. They chattered on, giggled, laughed shrilly, and fluttered their fans before them. Should a gentleman be so unfortunate to catch their eye they would descend upon him instantly and be devoured by lace, tulle, and silk.  My ambassador assured me that, if I was not wearing a dress to the ball, then I would at least wear other fashions. I had no idea the nobles favored the inability to breathe when I agreed. I decided against the heavy layers and structure of the dresses currently in fashion and opted instead for a silk jacket of deep green and black trousers tucked into highly polished black boots. I suddenly regret such a decision. The assassin could walk right up to the empress and slit her throat by the time I could pull my sword to stop them.  “You look uncomfortable, my Lady,”  I turned to the voice, startled by the nearness of it. It was the duchess, a lifelong friend of the empress and distant cousin. When I turned to her, she lowered her eyes and dipped into the shallowest of curtsies.  “My Lady,” I took a step back and bowed at the waist. The nobles seated by the window tittered at my attempt. Elves do not bother bowing to their leaders and I do not have much experience with human rulers. I can only imagine how clumsy it looked. “No, the party is quite lovely.”  She came to stand beside me to watch the dancers spin on the open floor, “That jacket does not become you.”  I flinched when she flicked the decorative fob hanging from the pocket of the jacket. She seemed amused at my discomfort with her nearness and smiled sweetly at me, her white teeth gleaming brightly, confirming what I already knew of her addiction.  The music stopped and the dancers slowly moved away from the open floor as the next piece was just beginning. Two lines of stiff nobles formed for the large group dance. Had it not been for their occasional movements I would have thought they were statues.  The duchess turned to face me, a hand outstretched, “Would you dance with me?”  I blanched. My ambassador had taught me the required court dances and I was quite good, for an elf. My people’s dances are far more fluid and the movements do not mesh well with the rigid steps. But, to refuse the duchess would be an insult to the court. The empress herself, if she felt so inclined. And I needed the empress on my side in the days to come.  Tentatively, I took her hand, it was soft in mine. Delicate even. The hands of a Lady who has never known the pinch of sword handle or well bucket. Years of knife training and hunting have made my fingers and palms rough and solid. I feared she would break in my grip.   I led her down the marble stairs to the dance floor amid other partygoers. I stood in the line with the rest and bowed to the duchess. I was shocked when I straightened and found her with her arms outstretched, one toward me with her palm up, the other toward the far wall. This was the stance of an old elven dance.   I felt suddenly at ease in the duchess’s presence with such a simple gesture. I had practiced for weeks to master the dances, the small talk, and the general manners to assimilate into the human high court. My body felt light with a sigh of relief at the familiar pose. I mirrored her, placing my palm lightly against hers, and on the proper count, we spun toward each other, arms tucked in behind our backs, until we reached the other’s side. She was smiling.  “Are you surprised?” She asked. Her steps were light and sure, like she had been combining elven movements with court farandole. The result looked a bit chaotic to an outside observer, but graceful to those educated in dance. “If I am honest, my Lady, yes. Elves do not readily teach outsiders our culture,” I said, hoping I was not offending.  “There was a young elf girl in our spring palace who taught me. I wanted so much to be her friend. But my father and mother explained that nobles are not friendly with staff,” the duchess said with such a nonchalant air you’d guess she was telling you about her dreary holiday to the countryside.  I bit my tongue to keep myself from automatically responding and getting the next helping of poison in my drink. At most, the little elf girl was some kind of merchant passing through. Or worse, and most probable, the girl was a slave to the spring court. Was the dance instruction voluntary? Or was she persuaded?  I may have spun the duchess a bit too harshly away from me, because when she returned to my arms, she said, “I apologize. I did not mean to offend.”  My vocal cords and tongue felt thick and tense with my response, “No offense, my Lady.”  She was quiet for a few steps, enough time for me to get my emotions under control. It was easy to forget who this woman was with her grace and poise. Her blonde hair was swept up into a knot at the back of her head, and a decorative comb with beautiful enamel flowers held it in place. Hazel eyes studied my face, my long plait of black hair that trailed down my back. The duchess’s beauty was not understated in the least.   But that pretty face was hidden behind heavy silks and lace. I stared at her, wondering why she would dance with the one elf to receive a formal invitation. There were many eligible dancers here tonight. But the duchess chose the pariah. One would think all the pomp and hoop skirts were her real mask.   They don’t know what I know about this woman. There was no mask for her, not like the others who aimed to hide motive and intention. The duchess hid nothing, and it was no secret. My blood boiled as my hand lay against the silk wrapped around her waist. My mind spun when I thought about the lives she stole just so she could have the prettiest dress for the ball. Was she even aware of how poisonous it was to make this shade of blue?  I mentally shook myself. Remember why you’re here. To do any good in this world you need the empress. And her gods-forsaken family. No matter how hideous they were.  “Why are you here?” The duchess wondered as if to herself.  I stepped and turned into the dance steps, catching her tightly cinched waist again in my hands and fought the urge to squeeze the life from her. “Pardon?”  “It’s not so difficult to see that you are not comfortable here tonight. So, I ask again. Why are you here?”  You know this. Don’t screw it up. “I came to celebrate the beauty and glory that is the seat of the empress,” I said as calmly as I could. It sounded as cold and lifeless as the marble they elegantly spun on. There was no amusement in her eyes when she spun back around to me, “Please do not lie to me. I abhor liars.”  “My Lady, I-”  “You are here to protect the empress from an assassin.”  Training. Remember your training, I reminded myself as I struggled to keep my expression neutral. The duchess nearly burst out laughing, “You should see your face. Of course, I know about the assassin. You are not the only one with a network of spies.”  I shot a glance around us, hoping no one could hear her over the music. That information came from a reliable source. No one should know about it except my closest confidantes. And I trust them with my life daily.  “Please don’t say that so loud, my Lady,” I hissed under my breath. “We do not wish to create a panic or let the assassin know we are on to him. If he knew you know about him, you could put yourself in danger.”  Her deep blue eyes widened, and her lips parted in a quiet gasp, “You know who it is?”  “No. I have people working on discovering their identity. At this point, we can only stop him should he attack.” An idea suddenly struck me. If the duchess’s people knew about the assassin, they might be able to help track him down. I leaned close to speak quietly into her ear, “If I may be bold to ask, my Lady, but could your people help?”  “I could get a message to them easily. But do you truly believe the empress is in danger?” She asked me.  That was an odd question. This assassin was targeting the empress’s court and even members of her staff. Most recently, the sorceress retained to advise on matters of magic, and the mage organization was found dead in her room. Windows and doors were locked with the only key on her body. The sorceress seemed to know there was danger and had taken precautions, though none helped to save her.  “Yes, I do believe she is in danger. She has lost three members of her court just this fortnight. For all we know, you may very well be in danger also, my Lady.” I did my best to instill a modicum of urgency in my voice to relay the seriousness of what was happening without alerting those around us.  “That’s so silly. Why would I be in danger?” Her voice was light and sing song. Was this a game to her? Was she actually enjoying this?   “Because you are close to the empress and you are aware of the assassin’s presence,”  “But look at the ones who have died. The sorceress with the shady dealings threatened this court’s very way of life. The former lover spreading lies and secrets about the empress for profit. The count and the general who conspired to start an uprising to unseat the empress. Wouldn’t you say these deaths were, at least in part, justified?”  “And the others? The ones who were poisoned at the garden party. What did they do to deserve such a fate?” I wondered.  “They were in my way.” Her breath tickled my ear as richly painted lips brushed against the sensitive skin as she said, “Just like you.”  I didn’t understand until it was too late what the duchess was saying. I gasped at the sudden pain in my abdomen, but the breath caught in my throat. The duchess was still smiling, her eyes dropped between us and when I followed her gaze I found the hilt of my dagger protruding from my torso.  My eyes felt so wide I thought they would fall from my head. The duchess is the assassin?   “Why?” Was all I could muster.  She still had a grip on the handle of the blade and still held me close even though neither of us moved with the music anymore.  “I love my cousin, my empress, more than anyone can know. She is all that is good in this world. And I will make sure she continues to do that.” The duchess nuzzled my neck in an oddly affectionate way.  “We could have worked together,” it was so hard to breathe. The demure expression changed instantly to one of intense rage. Breath was forced from me as she turned the dagger in my gut. I clasped my hands over hers to hold it in place.   “I don’t need you,”   My hands slipped as the duchess forced the rest of the blade into me and shoved me away roughly. I staggered back into another couple, clutching my wound.  “Help!” cried the duchess. “This woman tried to kill me! She’s the assassin!”  There was a rush of bodies exiting the ballroom, the screams seemed to fade in and out around me. I frantically scanned the crowd, hoping to find my ambassador and general who had accompanied me. I could see them near the doors to the vestibule. Guards immediately seized them as they fought against the sea of people. The general swung at one of them, dislodging the grip on his arm, and was met with the tip of a sword aimed at his face. My poor ambassador looked so frightened and cowered behind the general. I stumbled toward them, deperate to explain what happened. I needed to tell them...it...it was. I fell to my knees, the edge of one of the wide steps pressing painfully into one of my shins. Four guards surrounded me, two of which drew their swords. The other two grabbed my arms and yanked me to my feet. A cry of pain escaped me, and I was carried away. I blacked out. The last thing I saw was the duchess standing with the empress surrounded by personal guards. A wicked smile stretching across those beautiful lips. 

gx27ea

On Goldenrod

The most beautiful flowers tend to bloom their brightest in the gray fog of a downpour. Have you seen the dew play across the petals of the red rose or trail down the torso of the goldenrod and flush the yellow flowerlets with a kiss to the roots? The deep green, rich umber, and steely gray sound of rain resonated throughout the forest and across the brown rooftops of the hamlet of Vena. A poor young woman – whose wavy brown bangs were obscured by the sopping summer hat she wore – had finally entered the awning of one of the smaller houses. She eased the book she had been clutching to her chest into one hand and slipped the woven basket at her elbow, filled with damp fruit and the aforementioned goldenrod cuttings, into her other. Alexander did not get the door when Melissa knocked. He was busy. He was about average height for a man in his late twenties, though the waterproof boots he always seemed to be wearing often caused him to appear larger than he really was. His brown eyes had a deceptive allure, like those of a young dog, but were always darting away from the speakers as if looking for something in a game of fetch. He was one of those young men around which a number of important obligations seemed to spring up constantly. Melissa entered. “I got caught up in the storm-line,” she said as she closed the door behind her, muffling the sound of the rain. “I think I have everything ready to go,” he said. “Oh, are you sure you want to go out? It’s really pouring out there.” She caught the look he gave her through the reflection of the window as he continued chiseling at the block of wood in his hand. Melissa set the basket down at the doorstep. “Watch the bear trap,” he said. “Right.” “I’m going to head out at dusk. James said they came to him around midnight, which should give me plenty of time to prepare. I’ve already factored in the effects of the rain and have everything in its place. Eh-” Melissa had walked to embrace him from behind, slipping one of the wet blooms of goldenrod into his left-breast pocket. “Please, be safe.” “What’s this,” he asked, fingering the plant gingerly. “Just a little good luck charm” “Melissa, it’s very sweet but it’s not – I mean, that pocket had my instructions written in it. They’re completely drenched.” “They would have been drenched anyways as soon as you spent a second outside,” she said, withdrawing, “I don’t see what the fuss is about.” “I was going to review them one last time before stepping out.” “Maybe it would help if you told me your plan? I can re-write it if you like.” “No, no – I need to finish the totem and I could use some peace.” “Damn it, what is with you Alexander?” “What do you mean.” “This – all of this. This is the last time I might ever see you and you’re so cold.” “I’m just stressed.” “You’ve been stressed for months .” “It isn’t going to be the last time you see me. It should be fine.” “Like James is fine? Because I don’t call that fine.” “We’ve been losing our herd for months ,” he finally turned on his stool to look at her, “it’s time we did something about it or we’re going to be kicked out.” “I don’t care if we’re kicked out, I just want you to stop obsessing over a lunatic fairytale.” “It’s not lunatic. He came back with a bag of pure gold and powerful new legs.” “Yes, the legs of an ass and half the mind of one too. He can barely string two clauses together.” “He’s never been great with words, he probably thought it was a worthy sacrifice.” “And what are you willing to sacrifice? You know, I’ve been talking to Caroline about all this, and she says– “What? What does Caroline say?” “She says that it’s about time I break off the engagement.” “Well that’s ridiculous.” “Why? You haven’t listened to me in any part of this ‘plan making’ and every step of it is more risky than the last.” “I’m doing this plan so we can live in a place that doesn’t have mold infesting the walls and wolves picking off our only source of livelihood. I’m doing this so we can be comfortable somewhere where the fireplace hasn’t caved in and where water doesn’t freeze inside in winter. We can be rich and happy in an important city instead of suffering and poor in the middle of nowhere.” “I see it now. You’re doing this so you can make a name for yourself, screw whatever I think. What makes you think you know what’s right for us? I’m perfectly happy living here for the rest of my life. Alex," she pleaded, "why isn’t this enough?” Alexander pulled the goldenrod and the dripping square of paper out of his breast pocket and smoothed it out on his worktable. “I’m leaving tonight, and I’ll be back tomorrow morning to see you.” “I told Caroline she was wrong, you know.” He turned back towards her in time to catch the hat bobbing out, the door shutting behind her. “Wait! Where are you going?” He was out in the rain, and it was turning his dark clothes black. “Out, I can’t do this anymore.” “What, so you’re leaving?” “You and your grandiose plans, I hope when you finally break under them that you aren’t too broken to go back.” “I just want to give us something to reach for.” “And what you reach,” she was crying, “what you reach for will burn you. Please, just give this one up and we can think of something else.” “I relied on you for this. I can’t believe you would back out so close to the end.” “Here.” She stifled her tears. “Here. Take it, take it.” She threw the book at him, and the pages spilled out over the ground, drinking the mud. “I hope it’s worth it.” She turned away, hunched and holding herself, as she walked away through the rain. Alexander stood for a moment, reaching out towards her as if to speak or pull her back. “Wait.” He said, crouching down to the book to pull it out of the mud. She looked back for a moment, her weeping hat framing her round face in tired gray. She did not go back. — The book was an old grimoire with a legacy dating back over four hundred years. It had belonged to an obscure ancestor of Melissa’s, but one with enough relation that she had been able to ask it as a favor from her uncle. He had asked his cousin who in turn had requested it from the General’s private collection. Now it was weeping wet onto the worktable: Faery – Ask not for favors lest the fey irritates. Disagree not lest the faery angers. Fear lest your guard drops. A later addition was penned in the margin: In every interaction, beware of the pathos you evoke in the fairy. You are a blip in an infinite void, and the infinity may stifle you if it finds you unpleasant. Appeal to the fairy’s sympathy and hope that it is in the mood to have one. Your greatest weapon is the truth–a fairy cannot lie. His plan was simple. What had been written on the paper before the goldenrod had soaked it went something like this: Enter the dale. Set up the bear trap. Wait for the moon. Bring the knife as insurance against predators. You can do this. Pain will pass but your pride will last eternally. James’ legs were healed to the point of functionality. You can do this. That last part, he thought, had been the more important section; a reminder in case he lost his nerve. He brushed everything on the worktable into his bag. There was a tense thrumming in Alexander’s stomach as he inspected the cottage for anything he might be forgetting, though truly it was an introspective sweep. His eyes momentarily reproached Melissa’s basket of fruits with a steady gaze. He left. The trek through the forest to the base of James’ Fall, as the cliff was now known by locals, was through an obscure mist that left the “safe” route he had so carefully planned difficult to follow. It was strange to embark on the journey through the embalmed darkness which obscured even that which was at his feet, alone except the occasional accompaniment of the downy owl’s coos. He set up the bear trap. Rummaging through his bag for the totem, he encountered something wet and gripped it, crushing it between his fingers. He looked up. The light of the moon could only shiver through the thick clouds, barely promising its apex. He would have to take a risk. It was better too soon than too late anyhow. All he needed to do was step– “What are you doing?” “Ahh-” he tensed his shoulders and put his hands in the air in his surprise, spinning wildly. “Who’s there?” “What are you doing?” croaked the owl again. “I-I-” “Ah, rejected love,” it said in its deep slur, yellow eyes fixed on Alexander’s hand. “Y-yes, my fiancé has left me. I was planning- I was planning to take my life in the forest.” “What is the bear-trap for?” “I was going to step in it.” “Symbolic?” “Uh, yes.” “Well now, go on then!” “What?” “Do it!” Disagree not lest the faery angers “I am not sure I can anymore.” The owl’s feathers ruffled impatiently. “Do it.” Alexander looked at the bear trap and felt his stomach drop to the soil. The fangs of the trap were dark with a promise of pain. He took a breath. “I’ve changed my mind,” said the fairy. Alexander nearly stumbled into its jaws anyways as the fairy rumbled an eerie laugh. The fairy had changed forms. He now appeared like a young man, tall with porcelain skin and cherry-red lips. He seemed to have no weight, his laughs not even causing the branch on which he sat to quiver. His neck and wings were adorned with black starling feathers which caused his pale skin to pop out of his face like the moon. “Come,” he said as he fluttered down, “You are my date to the equinox festival.” “Oh-” The fairy sized him by the hand. Alexander went from the base of James’ fall, passing streams of leaves and ribbons of mist, skipped like some smooth pebble across a mirror lake in which the moon seemed to have been imprisoned and at such speed that the wind should have cut him but somehow instead simply pulled through his hair and clothes like a gentle caress. Vena, the dale, the trap; they were all lost somewhere behind. — Alexander and the fairy were standing in a flower field which balanced the reds of poppies and the pinks and whites of peonies against a deep, blue night and the gray, curved blade of the sickle moon. “Can you dance?” “No, I never learned.” “There is no better time than today!” And the two at once began spinning in perfect synchronization to the music of a chorus of Dryads who twisted vine-like bodies around the branches of a central oak tree. “Even the flowers know how to dance. It is one of the most natural things to do.” Ask not for favors lest the fey irritates. “If only I had had the privilege of growing up on a rich estate so that I could learn these things.” “Bah– and you probably want immortality too,” the fairy’s smile had sharp teeth, “A good dance à la campaign holds a special place in my heart.” “Surely – if this is anything to speak for it, it must in mine too,” he agreed quickly. “If that is true then you have learned all you need to know.” Alexander spun away from the fairy with increasingly clumsy steps as the fairy’s arm gracefully curved out. He stopped to catch his breath. “What do you think of the flowers?” Alexander stooped down to look and paused. He spoke slowly: “Where I come from peonies of this beauty are worth their weight in gold, as they are imported from overseas. Unfortunately, I am only a poor shepherd, and my herd has been attacked by wolves – I cannot afford any such beauties.” “They are beautiful, aren’t they? But they are worth more than their weight in gold. Look at how they dance in the shifty wind to the great wedding of day and night, rising… tipping their fragrance to the air. They are dancing partners bowing to each other.” “What a lovely idea. But the wind seems to bow them all in the same direction.” The fairy sighed, “It’s like they’re inviting the moon to a dance. You should join them.” “You do not want to accompany me?” “I wish I could.” “Well,” he said, eyes focused on the fairy’s face, “I would prefer to stay with you than to go on my own.” “You are only here for the night and will have to return to your old world sooner or later. You should enjoy yourself. There is food and flowers, music and dance, wine and romance.” “I do not look forward to returning, my world is like a living death. There is mold in the walls of my cottage, and it is too small for me to live comfortably.” “And you have lost the love of your life, a terrible tragedy.” “If only I had something I could give her to win her back… but I know of nothing in my power to give.” “I can tell that you seek something dearly. But it is not love you are wanting. Come,” he said. He beckoned Alexander towards the globed peonies, and then with a smooth, sickled motion of his hand, he cut them. He stepped through the bushes of peonies, and they withered before his gray hand. “What did you do that for?” “They’re only flowers. Ah, look! You haven’t seen the poppies yet.” “No,” he replied, staring at the empty sky where the bushes had been, “I haven't.” The poppies were arranged in neat rows with a small footpath made from rough stones stretching between the isles. Alexander picked one from the flowerbed to examine its leaves. The petals were layered like velvet, with a golden glow of pollen at the center surrounded by a halo of black hairs. A wind rippled through the rows and sent orange flares spiraling into the air. “Come,” said the fairy laughing, and he flung Alexander into the air over the red flowers, where he levitated, clutching the wind-soaked poppy to his chest and hooting with laughter. “My! This is amazing! How can you…?” “The poppies are some of my favorite flowers.” The fairy danced between the rows, spinning Alexander around until the wind died and he slowly sank back to the ground. For a moment, Alexander had forgotten why he was there. “Tell me, what is it that you really want?” “I want? Why do you ask?” “It has been a pleasure,” the fey said, smiling with his sharp teeth, “to get to spend time with you. Unfortunately, tonight must come to an end.” “So you are sending me home?” “Yes, with a gift.” Fear lest your guard drops… Your greatest weapon is the truth– “What is the catch?” “There is none, you can ask for anything within my power to give, and I will give it.” A fairy cannot lie. The wind picked up and plucked the poppy in his hand, each red arc separating and floating away, behind, towards the sickle moon. “I want – well – I want the power to make the world a better place, to leave a lasting impact.” “It is done,” the fairy said. The smell of rain-fresh dirt rose from the ground as a sudden darkness enveloped Alexander. The song of the Dryads melted into the distance. The colors and flowers sloughed away as if ink from a page in water. A single cherry-red petal followed him through, laughing and smiling. “But I can never give you back what you’ve lost,” echoed the woods. The goldenrod began to release a sweet scent of decay.

tjca19

Escape

Beams of light starch across the night sky. Howling dogs and men shouting echoes through the night. "Don't let them escape!" a man shouts, running through a grassy field, carrying a flashlight in one hand and a dog leash in the other—Hound’s barks and growls, tugging and pulling in excitement. A storm of men dressed in all black, like shadows in the night, floods the open grassy field. "Keep going! Don't look back," Star, a teenage girl of about 16 years, called out. She has black, kinky hair and brown skin. She is barefooted and wearing ripped jeans and a black T-shirt. Her clothes are dirty and stained with dust. " I'm trying, but it's too far. Let's go back; maybe it won't be so bad," a much younger girl whines, her voice filled with fear and exhaustion, trying to keep up with the much older, swifter girl. She's about ten years old, with blue eyes and long, matted blond hair, her features obscured by the layer of dry mud. She wears a white T-shirt and black jeans. " No, Moon, we can't afford to stop. You know what will happen if they find us," the older girl said, her voice urgent. The young girl stopped running. “But Star, I'm tired, and each time we've tried to escape, they catch us and punish us harder each time," Moon said. "No little sister,this time, we're getting out of this place. You'll see this place again. Star said, her voice filled with determination, grabbing her little sister by the arm. "If you're tired, I can carry you." Her words carried a glimmer of hope, a beacon in their dark reality. "No, I'm fine. I'm scared. What if we get caught again." Star kneels and looks Moon in the eyes. "Be brave, my little moon. We can do this remember we're sisters. And sisters can...." "Do anything when they work together." Moon finishes Star's sentence. The sound of approaching men and dogs interrupts their tender moment; their lights are more visible now. " Come, we have to keep moving into the Forest. " The two young girls dash into the woods. " What makes you so sure we'll make it out this time?" Moon asked. "Because I've covered all my bases. And I read over Papa's notes a dozen times. Besides, I had a little help. A bright light explodes from behind them. A massive fire consumes the facility from which they escaped. #### The ground becomes visible in the clearing. A huge beach, accompanied by the Black Sea, surrounds them. The sound of waves crashing against the shore brings the girls much-needed hope. They stand on the beach. Moon takes off her shoes and wiggles her feet in the sand. " It's more beautiful than imagined." " We have to keep moving this way." They make their way down the beach. A man walks through the burning building, utterly unfazed by the stunning storm of fire around him. He’s tall and wearing black leather boots, blue jeans, a black button-up shirt, a long trench coat, and a large sun hat. He takes a deep breath and looks around. Two men wearing black uniforms restrain another man wearing the same uniform. They force him on his knees in front of the warden. “ We caught him starting the fire." The man said. “I've provided you with everything; this is how you thank me.” His voice is low, deep, and grasp. " What you're doing here isn't right! It's inhumane!" the man shouts, trying to break off his restarts. " No, I'm a savior. They were sheep lost without a Shepherd, and I'm here to guide them and show them how to get the most out of life. But perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps I was too soft." "You no savior; you a madman!" "They are the building blocks of the new world. But now these pieces must be replaced. The guard's face turns icy cold with fear. "Take him away and put him in the black camp. Double his load.” "Wait, no, sir, please don't do this." The guard is dragged away against his will. A guard walks up and reports to the warden, " Sir, we've lost sight of them. They seem to have vanished in the woods. He said. The wonder gives a cold smile. Lost sight.... can't find vanished... No, these are words that don't fit my vocabulary. No escapes my camp and lives to talk about it. He turns to face his subordinate. The Worden slowly approaches the you man. Towering over him, he looks him directly in the eyes. His cold expression sends chills down the guard's spine. "What camp are they from?" He said in a low, calm voice. The guard shivers in fear and studders. " Green..." "I see, and I, isn't that your camp?" Yes ...sir. he whispered. "I can't hear you speak up!" “Yes, sir!" "That's much better; see, that's why I like a man that takes full responsibility. for his actions." “Thank you, sir. "Don't think me yet." He turns around. "Take him away; put him in solitary for three days.” The man drops to his knees with a shocked look on his face. A few other men drag him away. The warden reaches into his pocket and takes out a string of stones and a glowing green orb. Like a magnet, it attaches to the end of the stone link. The stones straighten, pulling and tugging in different directions. Then, the orb points in one direction. The warden looks up. " Of course, the beach, so they do plan on escaping." He clinches his fist. The black smog from the fire blocks out the moon; it blends in with storm clouds drifting. Moon and Star drift away on an old rowboat. They glance at what used to be their home: an island enfolded in black smoke and bright orange light as the fire burns. A band made of stone around Star's ankle starts to glow a bright green. " Star, they found us !" Moon cried. " Not yet. They're just trying to track us, and we're too far out of range for them to find us now." "Are you sure ?" " I’m positive, look!" She points at her ankle, and the bracelet stops glowing. "You're right!....so does this mean!" "That right where free, just like Papa always said we would be." " I can't believe it was free; we are free! Moon shouts in excellent! " Yes, finally free!" Star shouts. Both of them reach their hands up to the sky. "But where are we going? Moon looks around. All I see is miles and miles of water." "No worries, well, head north. Papa always said if we're ever lost or in doubt, head north." "But which way is North? I can't tell everything looks the same." Star stands up, optimistic and enthusiastic. " Well, use the Stars she points to the beautiful night sky. Filled with beautiful Stars." "They are so pretty! Just like you, big sister!" Star smiles, sits down, and rubs Moon's head. "Yes, but none of them light up my world like you do, moon!" Moon pulls away. I'm not a baby anymore. "I'm almost 10”.. Star smiles. " I know, but you'll always be my little bright-eyed moon!" Moon smiles, and you'll always be my big, bright, shining Star!" She jumps onto her sister's lap, embracing her. Star slowly caresses her hair. The moon drifts to sleep in the Star's arms, and the star begins to drift off to sleep. A drop of rain broke her sleep. She looked up at the night sky. Storm clouds slowly encroach over the beautiful night sky. Flashes of lightning emit from the sky. "This isn't good!" Star said, adjusting herself and laying Moon on the ground of the raft. She took down the rigged sale, covering her sister with it. The waves started to pick up. The once calm sea was now thrown into chaos. Moon Wakes up for her nap. "Star, what's going on?" “Moon, stay calm and stay down. It's just a little storm. We have to ride it out!" The sky opens, and a deluge of water pours down on them. The waves become relentless, the boat is thrown into chaos. The only glimpse of light comes in small spurts of flashes of light followed by the cracking sound of thunder. The storm suddenly subsides. "Is it over?" Moon asks. Before Star could answer, a single flash of lightning struck Without saying a word, she grabbed hold of her sister. "Hold on to me don't let go !" Star said to Moon Moon nods, closing her eyes tightly and wrapping her arms around her sister. Star does the same, closing her eyes and preparing to embrace the enviable. A massive 24-foot wave emerged before them. It come crash down on top of them. The sounds of waves crashing on the beach The sound of the crashing waves slowly rouses Star from her slumber. She slowly opens her eyes. Her body is heavy and weak. She slowly sits up, sand all over her face, body, and hair. "Where am I? What happened?" A jolt of panic rushes over her. "Moon! She jumps to her feet in a panic. She begins to run, not knowing where or what direction she's going in. She just knows she has to find her sister. In the distance, a blonde figure lies on the beach. A few crabs gather together and climb on top of the od-shaped lump on the beach. Star's eyes widen. "Moon!" She rushes over. Moon was lying on her back, unconscious. Without a second thought, she started giving Moon CPR. Moon! Come on, moon, don't you die on me! Come on! She shouts as she does chest compressions. She intensifies her chest compressions! A low voice mumbles, " Stop, Star, you're hurting me." Star stops, her eyes tearing up. Moon opens her eyes. " I was only taking a nap. Star laughs and sniffles, whipping away her tears and nose. " I'm just glad you’re ok !" " Of course I am. Are you ok?" Star smiles and stands up. " Yes, I'm fine." She looks around. A cloud of God surrounds the beach's waters, and a rainforest covers its interior. What is this place." "I'm not sure, look !" Star points to a mountain in the distance. “A mountain means fresh water. Let's get moving!" They make their way into the Forest. #### Star and Moon reach the middle of the island. They tumble across a beautiful waterfall at the base of a mountain with trees bearing all types of beautiful, colorful fruit. Tuns of bushes with colorful berries. Birds sing melodies of joy and peace. Whole monkeys chatter in the trees "It's beautiful! Moon said." "It's more than beautiful! It's our new home!" The two sisters run gleefully toward the waterfall. They undress and jump in for a swim. They laugh and play, splashing each other with water. The two sisters dash excitedly towards the majestic waterfall, their laughter echoing through the serene surroundings. With a sense of freedom, they shed their clothes and plunge into the refreshing waters, their playful antics creating ripples of joy. Amidst the splashes and giggles, their bond shines brightly, painting a picture of pure sibling bliss by the cascading waters. After they bathe they bask in the sun. Star sits up and turns to her sister. " Are you hungry?" "Yes of course I'm !" Moon shouts jumping to her feet! "Well take your pick we've got an endless supply." Star gestures towards all the trees and berries. #### Moon sits on a rock with her feet in the water, eating a handful of berries. While Star braids her hair. Moon sighs. "What's wrong, little one ?" S tar asked. " I wish we could stay here forever," Moon said. " And we will! I'll never let anyone or anything take you from this place. This is our home." She kisses her Moon on the forehead and continues to braid her hair. Suddenly, the mood shifts. The bird's song stops, and the monkeys go silent. Star takes notice. "What's wrong, Star? " "Something's wrong you don' tot feel that?" The birds stopped singing, and what happened to the monkeys!" Moon looks around “Your right!” Stars ankle bracelet Stars glowing and shaking. "No! They found us! How ....this far out, it's impossible!" Star said in a panic. On the beach, the warden and his men descend on the island. The warden holds the link of stones. It glows a bright green. It tugs and pulls. "They are close, I can feel it. They couldn't have gotten far.” The warder's men disperse, searching the beach. Moon panics" I thought you said they couldn't find us this far out! " They shouldn't have. I don't understand how they did it, but they did! Star looks down at her ankle bracelet. She sits down to try to pull it off, but it's no use; it's too tight. She looks around and grabs a stone. She slams the stone against the bracelet, but it's no use. She desperately tires but to no avail. The sound of men shouting and dogs barking echoes in the distance. They found us! Moons said. "I don't wanna go back. They can't make me !" "You're not going to go back, she stands up. You're going to stay here and grow and live free and happy. " "What do you mean they found us? They tracked us using those scary rocks." "I know, and now that they're here, they won't leave until they find me. "Star, no! I know what you're thinking. Don't even think about it!” Her eyes water up. "There's no other way besides someone having to take care of Papa." "But why does it have to be you? You can't just leave me here all by myself!" "You won't be alone. I'll be with you every night. Just look up at the night sky, and I'll be with you!" Moon grabs hold of her sister, sobbing. Star holds back her tears. "I need you to be strong and brave. Things are going to be a little difficult, but I know you'll manage. And one day, Moon, I'll come find you!" "But how we don't even know where we are !" "Where sisters Moon and sisters can do anything..." "When they set their mind to it !" Moon said, finishing her sister's sentence. "Now, there's one more thing I need for you to do for me !" She looks her sister in the eye. Be brave, my bright-eyed moon. Her eyes wallow up with tears. "Stay shining, my bright Star," the moon says, sobbing. Star picks up a much larger stone. A loud pop echoed through the rainforest. The warden stands on the beach, still waiting for his men to return. The stone starts to glow even brighter. "I've got something." The sound of wrestling leaves and something dragging comes from the bushes. Star emerges, holding a large branch under her left arm. Her right ankle is broken, and part of the bracelet is broken off. " You found me! " Star says, huffing and puffing. Took you long enough. Star, my dearest! Where have you been? I've been worried sick! You had such a bright future ahead of you, but now you Damaged goods.” "Save it!" Star snaps. We both know you don't care!" "True. Where is your sweet, darling little sister?" "She died out at sea.....the storm it....she held back tears... "She didn't make it." The warden sighs. " Well, that's a shame. Hopefully, you've learned your lesson." "Yes, I have. I'll never try to escape again. It's just not worth it." The warden nods in agreement. "That's right, one escapes and lives to tell the tale." He pulls the green rock away from the link of stones. The star bracelet stops glowing along with the link of rocks. "Well, let's not waste time; head home. Stars have a lot of work to do when we get back." He turns his back and starts to walk back to his ship. Star takes a step and falls on her face. The Warden stops and turns around. "What now?" He glances over at Star. Surprisingly, a small glimpse of empathy looms through his cold deminer. He quickly shakes it off. " Your damaged goods, Star... not only that, you're a bad influence on the others. I'll have to keep a close eye on you personally. From this day forth, you'll be my personal servant. I'll be watching your every move, Star, and next time, I won't be so mercifully. Do I make myself clear?" "Perfectly, sir. Thank you for your kindness. Star said. The warden's men help Star to her feet and carry her to the ship. Star looks over her shoulder and sees Moon hiding in the bushes. She whispers"I love you!" Moon whispers, " I love you too!" The men vanish from the beach and return to their ships, dispersing into the fog and returning to the sea. Tears run down Moon's face. She holds out a piece of Stars ankle bracelet in her hand. She drops to her knees, holding her hands close to her chest, sobbing. Five years later... Moon, 15, is strong and agile. She's at home on the island, gathering food and reminiscing about the day the last day her big sister. She sits and gazes at the night sky. Suddenly, her necklace glows and tugs in all directions. Moon rushes to the beach, her heart racing. As she reaches the forest edge and emerges onto the open beach... The night sky is illuminated with stars that sparkle like diamonds, accompanied by the bright, radiating full moon. Moon dashes onto the beach, looking around the sea. Star stood a few feet away, holding a strand of glowing stones tugg ing at Moon's necklace. She dressed similarly to the warden in big black boots, blue jeans, and a black button-up shirt with an upturned collar. " I told you I'd find you, my bright-eyed moon."

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